Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  "We had the idea of making money from the intelligence I'd found. You'd be surprised how much it could bring in. But Beth got cold feet, and I haven't put it into action yet. "

  "Oh right, you're the master blackmailer now." Kayla had been in the same year in high school as Matt. While she had consistently received good grades, Matt had struggled. Talented, but lazy was the most common phrase on his report cards. His introversion and nerdy appearance made him a favorite target for bullies. Kayla remembered the time they left him behind the science block with his hands and feet bound with just enough slack for him to free himself. He'd arrived at class a half hour late and was sent to the principal's office to await his parents, something quite familiar to Matt.

  Outside of school, Matt spent most of his free time hunched over an old IBM PC exchanging files with nefarious people he'd met online, and barely graduated. However, he absorbed anything related to computers like a sponge, which earned him a job working for a local electronics company. Matt flourished, and five years later he got a job in IT support at The Examiner, where he reconnected with Kayla who'd graduated from a state college with a degree in journalism.

  "I told you I haven't done anything yet." he insisted in a tone that sounded like a child responding to a parent.

  "What else was she working on which could have attracted attention?"

  "She was a journalist. Everything she wrote attracted attention," Matt said in a disparaging tone.

  "Why won't you tell me?

  "Remember Jack Bennett, the real estate developer who was found dead almost a year ago? She discovered his death was not suicide like the police said." Matt's voice had dropped to a whisper.

  "Is this another of your conspiracy theories?"

  "Not at all. If you remember, Bennett had a gunshot wound to the head, but it didn't kill him right away, and he was rushed to a hospital. A nurse who was a friend of Beth worked on him in the ER."

  "Beth had sources all over town."

  "This nurse was adamant he didn't have the typical powder burns you get from a close shot when you kill yourself, but the police ignored her. Plus, they never discovered where the gun beside his body came from. The police report mentioned Bennett saw a stripper. She could have killed him, or maybe it was his pal, Joey Sands."

  "How on earth do you know things like that?"

  "It pays for me to know what's going on in the town. Leave it there."

  "So why then was Ashley killed?"

  "It's a puzzle. But right now, I'm keeping my head down; working at The Examiner; fixing a few computers for friends. In case anything happens to me, I want you to remember what I told you about the USB flash drive buried in the Spotted Owl's garden. I have dirt on several influential people, and they deserve to be exposed. I said the same thing to Beth."

  "Now you're scaring me. I cannot believe that something Beth had in her possession, got both women killed."

  "Their house was ransacked. What other explanation is there?"

  Kayla fell silent and toyed with the remains of her Danish. Life was too short for her friend to be in fear like this. He'd lived for the adrenalin rush until recent events overwhelmed him. Now he looked like a human car wreck, but what could she do? She downed the rest of her latte and said:

  "I have to get back to work, or Max will be on my case." Kayla put her phone in her purse and zipped it.

  "I'll walk with you. I'm going to my apartment, and I may drop into the Spotted Owl for a drink on the way."

  Kayla considered herself a loner. As a child, she'd had few close friends, and not running with the popular girls didn't bother her. Later, she shunned the millennial hookup culture. For her, institutionalized companionship was not a priority, and she mostly indulged in no-strings-attached casual liaisons when the mood took her. But right then, despite Matt's quirks, she was very appreciative of his company.

  KENT BRICKMAN HAD SAT in the Bluebird Cafe for the last hour babying his coffee and pretending to look at his phone while waiting for the opportunity to catch Matt Baker alone. In his experience, he'd only have to apply the right amount of physical and mental coercion for the kid to see the error of his ways; to give daddy the location of all copies of the data he'd stolen from Lewis and the hospital. And Brickman was sure the scoundrel would quickly give up any other participants in the extortion scheme. Baker had been talking to that stupid oriental reporter chick for too long. He could have brought equipment to listen to their conversation if he'd had more time to plan, but his boss had impressed the urgency of the situation upon him. Brickman was hoping she was involved because he had a few thoughts of what he'd like to do with her. Maybe it didn't matter if she was in on it—he could call her collateral damage either way. He'd dealt with stupid little know-it-all bitches like her before, with their fancy hair and makeup. It was time she learned how a real man could satisfy her.

  Finally, Matt Baker and the reporter had stood and walked out of the Bluebird together, turning left onto Broad Street. Brickman took a couple of beats to drain his cup before picking up his tool carryall and following them out of the cafe. Before his New York private detective days, Brickman had been a member of special forces in the first Gulf War, working behind enemy lines and had shown no quarter to Iraqi troops. His wanton brutality and bloodlust had made his most hardened comrades wary of him. Today, Matt Baker was another enemy combatant undeserving of any mercy.

  He followed the pair as they sauntered and window-shopped at the few places that hadn't succumbed to big box stores. Most sold bric-a-brac and souvenirs, although Stockbridge wasn't renowned for its tourism.

  The construction site in the next block was boarded up with plywood to shield it from view. A poster displayed an artist's sketch of the new shopping center, and peepholes let you see what was going on, though nothing had changed in the four years since fire consumed the entire block. There was no sidewalk, so Matt and Kayla stepped into the roadway and walked past a patchwork of fliers and graffiti.

  Traffic was light, and few people were out walking.

  Only Brickman saw the black Explorer drive past on the opposite side of the street, then make a U-turn behind them. The vehicle sounded like it was slowing for the lights at Pine Street, but it braked sharply to a halt alongside Matt.

  It took only seconds for a figure clothed in black to jump out of the vehicle, press a pistol to Matt's head, and bundle him into the back seat.

  Brickman stared in disbelief, as the black Explorer sped away. The reporter didn't appear to have been hurt in the melee, but her shrieks were piercing his ears. He knew that the people who abducted Matt weren't working for Lewis, so the kid must have screwed with someone else. He was out of service for now and wouldn't be disseminating the stolen data, or demanding money from Lewis anytime soon. But Brickman's only remaining hope of quickly containing the situation was to find Baker's computers and destroy them.

  Before the kidnappers or anyone else got their hands on them.

  CHAPTER 20

  CHIEF CRIME SCENE TECH Chris Andrews' car was already parked in front of the Fremont Avenue branch of the West Coast Bank when I arrived. It was a single-story brick-built affair, at the end of a strip mall parking lot. An overhanging roof on the side of the building sheltered customers using the ATM cash dispensers from the elements. I'd received an alert from the manager saying someone had tried to withdraw money from one of the machines, using Ashley Logan's debit card. I'd continued to keep it active as bait after taking the case from Detective Turner.

  The mugger who stole Ashley's bag five days before she was killed could be connected to her murderer. I was half hoping they were the same person, or else that one would lead me to the other.

  No one was using the cash machines when I parked, but I hadn't expected the thief to stick around. Andrews had agreed to meet me and help copy their surveillance footage.

  As I neared the entrance, I flashed back to another bank, two blocks from there, and four months earlier.

  Two shotgun
blasts, Jake surprised, falling, blood everywhere, so much blood, the kick of my pistol firing, Kidd Hildegard motionless, dead. . . .

  "Help my partner . . . someone . . . please . . . help Jake . . ."

  Watching the paramedics work on him as the ambulance weaves through the streets. Knowing it's over . . . so over.

  I closed my eyes and willed the vision away.

  A sigh of relief escaped from my lips as the images slowly faded, and I pushed through the glass doors. At least I didn't bawl out loud.

  The bank interior was tiny, with three teller windows. A bored-looking twenty-something woman staffed the only open one. The customer area was empty save for Andrews and a man in a business suit who I took to be the manager. They broke off their conversation when I approached, and the man introduced himself as Jason Clark.

  I said, "Well Jason—"

  "My friends call me Jayce," he interrupted. "And you must too. I expected to see Detective Turner."

  "He was called away to another case. We need to look at your security footage to try to identify the man who used Ashley Logan's card."

  "A woman attempted to use the same plastic right after I phoned you about the man."

  Clark's eyes were wandering, checking me out. He took us back to his office. The only furniture was a chair and a desk, empty but for a computer monitor. He sat, slid out a keyboard drawer, and typed. When the video appeared, Andrews and I stood either side of Clark and leaned toward the screen. I didn't move when Jayce adjusted his position, and his shoulder "accidentally" pressed lightly against my breasts. But my radar went on high alert.

  A Caucasian man with a mustache, sporting oversized sunglasses and a hood pulled over his head appeared on the screen. The disguise worked well. He could have been anywhere from his twenties to early fifties. When the man left, Jason fast-forwarded the video. This time a woman wearing a dark black wig covering her forehead and her cheeks, tried her luck. I couldn't determine her age or description any better than I could the man.

  "Did they get the PIN number right?" I asked

  "The man took four attempts to enter the correct one," Clark replied. "He must have told the woman because she got it the first time. We can't see either the PIN numbers he tried or the correct one. Ms. Logan likely used something obvious like the last four digits of her social, or her house number."

  "How long between the attempts by the man and the woman?"

  "About two minutes. I can only give you the video of those two customers. Bank policy."

  "So, he had just enough time to go back to his car and ask the woman to try the card. I don't see the point of that, but felons aren't always the sharpest knives in the drawer." I was ready to take a copy of the video and leave when Andrews said:

  "Play the part showing the man again."

  Clark typed on the keyboard. I watched the man in the hoodie try to use the ATM, but I saw nothing more than the first time.

  "Can you repeat it once more in slow motion, starting when he first arrives."

  As the subject's arms moved slowly around the ATM like a mime's, Andrews shouted, "Stop there. See—his left hand is resting on the display. I need to get out there before anyone smudges the prints." He picked up his aluminum case of tools and hurried from the room.

  Clark had been stealing furtive glances, undressing me with his eyes since I arrived there. I thanked him when he handed me the USB flash drive, but he followed me to the entrance, giving me a look. "Are you free for a drink tonight?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry, no."

  "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

  "Not anytime soon. I'm in a relationship," I fibbed. "But thank you again for your cooperation today."

  I made a quick escape before he could say anything more. The man was attractive, but I was on duty. Four months after Jake's death, Jayce was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Andrews was at the side of the building, dusting an ATM display screen with a brush. "We have a clean set of prints to work with," he said. "Let's hope our guy is in the system."

  BARELY AN HOUR AFTER leaving the bank, I was standing with Sergeant Patterson and his SWAT team at the front door of the house Phil Wolfson shared with his girlfriend, Lori Draper. It had taken no time to identify him as the owner of the ATM prints. Both had served time for burglary and shoplifting, but neither had any crimes of violence on their record. It made me doubt whether either of the voices we could hear inside belonged to the cold-blooded killer who'd slit the throats of two women.

  City records showed Wolfson recently inherited the old miner's cottage from his father, who had bought it thirty-five years earlier. It didn't appear that either of them had ever given the place a lick of paint. In the front yard, an old refrigerator and a water heater leaned crookedly, and the tall, tinder-dry grass warranted a call to the city fire marshal. But the centerpiece was the rusting shell of a Dodge Ram pickup. Its hood was raised, and the wheels and the glass were long gone.

  Patterson dispatched two men to the rear, and another to the side of the house facing an open field. He shouted, "Police!" as he rapped on the door. Moments later an officer hit it with a battering ram splintering it open, and the men charged inside.

  It took less than a minute for the SWAT team leader to reappear, and call, "Clear!"

  An overpowering smell of garbage assailed my nostrils as I entered the small kitchen-living room. It was like stepping back in time. Apart from the television, which blared some mindless daytime soap, I could see nothing purchased in the last two decades. The sofa, two chairs, and the table were at least that old. The place was cluttered and disgustingly filthy. Unwashed dishes and utensils were piled on the countertop and filled the sink. The carpet bore signs of rodent infestation.

  "Someone shut that noise off," I ordered.

  Andrews unplugged the television from the wall.

  Officers Smith and McAdams brought Wolfson and Draper back into the room. He swaggered, eyeing each of us defiantly, while the woman was sullen, her eyes downcast. Once they were seated on the dirty sofa, I arrested the pair and read them their rights. Draper was quiet, but Wolfson had plenty to say about the damage to his door and the injustices we'd wrought upon him. Over the man's protests, I informed them I didn't need a warrant to conduct a search of any area under their control at the time of their arrest.

  The SWAT team left, leaving Smith and McAdams to guard the couple, while I searched the grimy house with Andrews and Mason.

  The techs quickly turned up a quantity of pills and white powder. It didn't interest me beyond using them as a bargaining chip. Minutes later, Andrews came into the room holding a red leather tote bag smeared with dirt. It matched the description Ashley's parents had provided. He said:

  "Logan's wallet and driver's license are still inside."

  I held it in Wolfson's face and asked, "Care to explain how you have a murdered woman's bag in your possession?"

  "I don't know nothing about any murder." Wolfson glowered.

  "You assaulted a woman and took the bag. You needed her keys to gain access to her home."

  "I found the bag. There were no keys inside; just the wallet."

  "Where exactly did you find it?"

  "I want an attorney." Wolfson was no stranger to police questioning.

  Draper, who had kept her lips tightly sealed as if afraid of what she might say, echoed, "I want an attorney too."

  "Take them in," I said to Smith and McAdams. "And put them in separate interview rooms."

  When they'd gone, I headed back to the station, leaving Andrews and Mason to finish searching for the murder weapon.

  CHAPTER 21

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THE Spotted Owl depressed reporter Kayla Ellis, from the mismatched bar stools to the torn fabric on the pool table. The air was stale and dusty cobwebs hung from the Tiffany shades over the bar where she sat, forcing Kayla to move her beer and whiskey chaser lest anything fall in. Brent the barman, was friendly she thought, but old enough to be her father.

  S
he'd come with the sole purpose of steadying her nerves, ahead of retrieving Matt's USB flash drive and feeding Marmalade, his cat. He had told Kayla the drive held a collection of dirt he'd uncovered in the course of hacking local dignitaries and business people. Compromising information, he wanted her to publish in the event of something happening to him. Kayla thought Matt's kidnapping at gunpoint certainly qualified.

  But right now, Kayla was mostly thinking of her mother, a Vietnamese war bride brought to the U.S. by Danny Ellis in 1972. They had married in Saigon in a civil ceremony to avoid the red tape discouraging unions between GIs and local girls. Mai's family had been killed in a raid. She was just sixteen years old and pregnant for which he could have been court-martialed had the Army found out.

  After his discharge, Danny stayed in Saigon until his son was born, then flew to the US. In a matter of days, he raised the $2,000 needed to bring his new bride to California. Kayla could remember her mother saying she cried the whole time he was away, knowing GI's seldom came back. But Danny did return with approval to bring Mai Stateside. The general lack of documentation in Vietnam made it easy to falsify her age.

  Shortly before they were due to fly to the US, their son was taken ill with meningitis, and the primitive medical conditions existing in the war-torn country couldn't save him. Mai was devastated, and it would be another year before she was well enough to make the journey. They settled in San Francisco. Danny took a job in construction, saving money to rent a better apartment. Adjusting to her new life was difficult for Mai, and learning English took much longer than she expected. Eleven years passed before they felt settled enough to try for another child, and Kayla was born.

  Mai died in a tragic accident crossing the street to her daughter some twelve years later. The trauma left Kayla with no recollection of that day. Instead, Kayla had countless happy memories of her mother. Whenever she felt stressed, and compelled to count as she did then, it helped to picture her mother's smiling face.