Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  I tried to shake off the intrusive memories as I hurried up the stairs to the second floor of the pediatric building. The air was heavy with the odor of antiseptic. Room 247 was an empty waiting room decorated like every other in America except for the colorful children's books and toys. I announced my presence to a rotund nurse with an ID tag labeled Anna, seated behind a sliding glass window. The mention of my name only seemed to intensify her scowl. After about five minutes, a man in a white coat, late forties, cleanshaven entered the room. He said:

  'I'm Dr. Walker. How can I help?" He flashed a well-practiced smile and proffered his hand.

  "I'm Detective Riley." His handshake was firm. "Thank you for seeing me. I'm investigating the death of Beth Gervais. I believe she had an appointment with you last Monday."

  Walker folded his arms across his green scrub top. His forced smile revealed orthodontically perfect teeth. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. "Let's see . . . it was at 10 a.m. on Monday morning. She didn't show, and I was so busy with patients that I barely noticed. I read about what happened to her. So tragic." His voice was soft, reassuring. If I were a parent with a sick kid, I'd feel confident Dr. Paul Walker would give them the best possible treatment. But as a detective, I'd learned to treat witnesses like Walker with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  "What was the purpose of the meeting?"

  "She told me she was writing an article on local children who'd died from cancer. That's my specialty. I said I couldn't comment on specific cases, but it seemed she wanted to learn about mortality rates and causes we knew of. I said I could give her ten minutes."

  "Do you know if she was meeting anyone else for her article?"

  "I understand she had some bereaved parents lined up, but we never discussed names. That would have been unethical."

  "Did you ever meet Ms. Gervais?"

  "Not that I remember. You must understand, every year I meet thousands of people in the course of my work at the hospital—relatives, teachers, and yes, reporters, but rarely police." His smile widened a couple of notches.

  "Do you know how she found you?"

  "She probably Googled pediatric cancer doctors." There was an unspoken 'duh' in his tone.

  "And can you account for your movements after say 6.30 a.m. that morning?"

  His smile narrowed. "I started work at 6 a.m. and didn't finish until late afternoon. Dozens of people saw me here."

  "Lastly, did you tell anyone about your proposed meeting with Ms. Gervais before Monday?"

  "Just Anna, the lady you threatened to arrest when you spoke to her on the phone." Walker chuckled to himself. "And Hospital Security, of course."

  "Security?"

  "We have to report contacts with the press to them. I spoke to Kent Brickman, the Head of Security, as it happens."

  "Thank you for your time, doctor. I may need to contact you again."

  I didn't buy Walker's concern, or that Beth was writing a purely human-interest article. I wondered about her real angle. I'd just read some of her pieces, and they were nothing if not hard-hitting. Medical malpractice was more in her bailiwick, but without any facts to go on, I filed it away for the time being.

  On the way to my car, I received two related calls. The Sheriff's Office told me the only person to visit Dirk Hildegard recently was a Jennifer Dean, whom they considered to be his live-in girlfriend. She was known to the police for petty thieving; mostly shoplifting items of clothing, a habit she didn't seem able to kick. They gave me an address for Dean in North Highlands, a suburb of Sacramento. I had just ended the call when another one came in, this one from Chris Andrews. He reported they'd lifted partial prints off the threatening letter and matched them to Dean. I thanked the Gods of synergy and figured a talk with her was in order before it got too late in the day.

  CHAPTER 26

  INTERSTATE 80 LAY AHEAD of me straight as a ruler, a black ribbon cleaving the landscape in two as far as I could see. The pine forests of the foothills had given way to scattered oaks and fields as my 4Runner descended into California's central valley. I had mixed feelings about my afternoon's mission as I drove to North Highlands. The anxiety I'd felt when I received the threatening letter was replaced by burning anger. Not just at Hildegard's girlfriend who'd sent it, but at a system which would never adequately investigate the intimidation.

  I'd told everyone I was going for a medical procedure, something female I'd said, so no one would ask for details. Well, Townsend was crass enough to, but no one had seen him today. He was probably on the green with his golfing buddies.

  A few minutes looking at Facebook had told me that Jennifer Dean went by Jen, worked at the Old Brewery Saloon, and would be there that afternoon. I didn't use social media, but I kept an account for times like this and was rarely disappointed. Dean's photos showed her to be a brassy blond who looked ten years older than her age of 29. I thought criminals and their associates should stay off Facebook. I'd confided my plan to Mark Davies in a phone call. His advice was to not leave any evidence or witnesses to what I had in mind. He agreed to give me an alibi, though I no more wanted people to know I'd been talking to him, than confronting Jen Dean.

  The Old Brewery Saloon was sandwiched between a smoke shop and a gun store. A tattered red awning hung above the cracked front window with a flickering neon sign. Someone had sprayed the words 'no pigs' on the shingle siding facade. I pulled into a nearby parking lot sporting every make and vintage of pickup truck and left my 4Runner next to an older two-tone F150. The bar's dark interior was thick with smoke as Willie Nelson wailed 'On the road again' to a line of baseball caps at the bar.

  I took a seat at a glass-topped table in a corner. Jen Dean was shorter and plumper than I had expected. She wore cheap-looking jeans and a sleeveless top that showed her sagging breasts. I had her serve me a beer, while I contemplated my next move. For my plan to work, I needed her alone. But after nursing my drink for a half hour, she hadn't been outside or near the restroom. I went into the women's room and busied myself washing my hands. After checking it was deserted, I waited several moments then poked my head out the half-open door and called her over.

  "Can you get me some TP? There's none in the stall." I asked, pantomiming a look of desperation.

  She gave me a look of annoyance, before fetching a new roll from behind the bar. As she tried to thrust it into my hand, I grabbed her outstretched arm and pulled her inside. Dean wasn't as weak as she looked, but I was quicker and fitter and slammed her against the cubicles. I put my forearm under her chin and looked into her eyes, which were fidgeting back and forth with fear. Her hot breath smelled of whiskey and peppermints.

  "What the fuck?" she said. I flashed my shield in her face. "That badge isn't worth shit here, and you know it."

  She offered little resistance as I turned her toward the wall and cuffed her hands before pulling her back to face me. I patted her down then picked up her bag which had fallen to the floor.

  "You just lost your job, bitch. I know who you are, so don't put on your fancy airs with me."

  I rummaged through the bag and pulled out a bag of pills which looked like ecstasy.

  "You planted those. I saw you, bitch."

  "Then you won't mind if I flush them away." I reached into the cubicle and dangled the pills over the toilet water.

  "Hey, give me those back." Dean's eyes flashed with hatred.

  "Did you send me a letter?"

  "That doesn't matter."

  I lowered the pills closer to the water, watching her eyes.

  "Okay, maybe I did. Maybe Dirk told me to. But he has a plan for you."

  "A plan? So, what, he's going to shout at me from his jail cell?"

  "He has friends who are cops. People who will crush you like the vermin you are."

  The restroom door opened, and an elderly lady who didn't look like she belonged in the Old Brewery started to enter.

  "Police business, get the fuck out," I yelled. She walked backward, letting the door s
wing closed.

  "Who? Give me names," My face was inches from hers.

  "Dirk never gave me any names, but he said they'll make sure you regret shooting his brother."

  I dropped the bag of pills into the water and loosened my grip on her as I flushed them away.

  "What did you go and do that for?" Dean's face was bright red, incensed.

  She tried to head butt me, but I dodged, and her forehead hit the door instead. She screamed and yelled:

  "Fuck you."

  I waited until Dean was calmer before I removed the cuffs, but she still came for me with both fists, catching me on the jaw with a right hook, and sending stars across my vision. She wouldn't stop flailing at me, so I punched her in the gut—nowhere near as hard as I could because I didn't want to do any permanent damage—and she doubled over.

  "You take that message to Dirk from me," I hollered.

  "Shit. What is wrong with you, bitch?" she gasped, bent over, holding on to a washbasin.

  I opened the restroom door to leave, but two men blocked my path. The shorter man's broad shoulders and muscular build spoke of long hours spent at the gym. Judging from the taller man's drooping frame and beer belly he'd never seen the inside of one. Both had full sleeve tattoos, and each was big enough to do me considerable damage. Damn, I should have confronted Dean at home, but I didn't know if she had kids. I put my hand on my pistol and showed the badge on my belt, but they didn't budge.

  "That means nothing to us," said beer belly.

  "We hate pigs," added broad shoulders.

  Dean appeared beside me, rubbing her wrists and said, "Let her go, boys. She won't have to wait long to get what's coming to her."

  The men parted slightly. As I pushed my way between them, they snickered, and I felt hands grope my breasts and butt. I continued straight out of the bar into the sunlight without looking back.

  As I opened my 4Runner's door, I noticed a camera, high on the gun store, pointing my way. Should Jen Dean make a complaint, there would be video evidence proving I was there on the date and time she said. But I didn't expect to hear from her.

  CHAPTER 27

  ON THE WAY BACK from North Highlands, I mulled over what retired detective Mark Davies had told me, but I only came up with more questions. I texted him after I pulled into my driveway and heard right back. He was already at the bar of Wright's Grill and would enjoy the company. I had only eaten snacks since breakfast, and I could get something there. The restaurant was pricey, but the bar food was affordable. I backed out of the driveway and drove straight over.

  At Wright's, you walk through the restaurant to reach the bar. I stopped short. Townsend was at a table not ten feet away, having dinner with two guys. Fortunately, they were seated with their backs to me. I put my head down and found Mark alone at the bar.

  "You could have warned me," I said, perching on a stool next to him.

  "I only just saw them myself." Mark was looking even more dapper than usual.

  "Who's he with? I couldn't see."

  "Joey Sands and Buddy Olsen. Don't they look a happy trio?"

  "They're suspects. Beth Gervais spoke to both men several times in the days leading up to her death. I have yet to interview and eliminate them. Townsend knows that and shouldn't be socializing with them. Maybe they're connected to Bennett's death too. We can't stay here—nothing personal but I don't want them to see me with you." I winked at Mark.

  "Where would you like to go?" He shot me a smile.

  "How about Mick's? I'm starving."

  Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at the bar at Dirty Mick's Tavern. I ordered a Napa burger, which came slathered with their delicious onion jam and a pile of garlic fries.

  "How was your trip down to the smoke? Is that a bruise on your jaw?" Mark asked.

  "Talking to Hildegard's girlfriend was predictable, I suppose, but I should have watched out for her right hook." I related the afternoon encounter with Jen Dean in the women's room. How dropping her drug stash into the toilet had gotten her talking; her threats that someone senior in the police force would enact revenge on me.

  "I don't think you'll need an alibi from me," he ventured.

  "What is Townsend's connection to Sands and Olsen?"

  "I didn't want to prejudice you against your Lieutenant the last time we spoke. I don't believe he's bent—just terminally stupid. The three of them go all the way back to high school. They've stayed in contact since, as far as I know; joined the local Mason's Lodge together. Remember I told you Pascoe was going to grass on the suspected pay-to-play arrangement between Sands and the mayor? It was Townsend who was tasked with keeping an eye on him when he disappeared. He claimed he was tailing Pascoe but got cut off at the lights. I know for a fact he was nowhere near at the time."

  "Was it laziness or is Townsend a party to whatever happened to Pascoe?" I wondered out loud.

  "It was problematic enough for me to want to question his other cases—like his investigation of Jack Bennett's death. Suicide my ass. Just read the report."

  "Joey Sands' old business partner. Why do I think you haven't told me everything you know about Bennett? Were you concerned I'd start re-investigating his death?"

  "Well wouldn't you, if you thought Townsend was involved in something hinky?"

  "My plate is full with the murders of the reporter and her girlfriend. Now one of their friends has gone missing, a guy by the name of Matt Baker. But I'd like to know more about the Bennett case. One of my victims, Beth, was in contact with Sands and Olsen."

  "Obstinate, aren't you? Okay, the only other thing I know is Bennett had a falling out with Olsen right before his death. There's a rumor Bennett had threatened to blow the whistle on something, but it was never investigated. I have no idea what about, but his widow, Angie, may know. Just be careful if you speak to her. I don't know where her allegiances lie."

  "If there's a link to my case, I'll find it. They had all better watch out."

  Mark gave me a look and drained his beer. "I'm sorry I have to go. Just be careful."

  My food arrived as Mark was leaving. I munched in silence while I considered the implications of what he'd told me. What if there was a connection between my current case and Bennett's death ten months earlier? Beth had called Bennett's associates numerous times in the days before she died. Could she have discovered it wasn't suicide and been silenced by his murderer? Sands or Olsen could have inadvertently told his killer. How would I prove or disprove any of this without Beth or Ashley's notes? Whoever looted their apartment had done a first-rate clean up job. Anything they missed would have been destroyed in the fire. It felt as if nothing was falling into place on this case.

  "How is your burger?" The barman's black curly hair framed a face with a narrow tapering chin and thoughtful brown eyes.

  "Never better," I replied.

  "Would you like another beer?"

  "One is my limit today."

  "That's a pretty strict limit, and now you're all alone."

  "It looks that way."

  "Who's the guy you were talking with?'

  "He's a work associate."

  "And a lot older than you, to be doing the same work."

  "He's retired now, but I get advice from him."

  "What kind of work do you do?'

  "Public relations for a big company." It was never my first response to tell people I was a cop.

  "I'm Juan." He proffered his hand. It felt warm and firm as I shook it.

  "Megan." It was too difficult to keep track of false names. Who knew if I might meet him professionally at some juncture?

  "I get off in an hour. We could meet up." Juan fixed his eyes on mine.

  "I have to be up very early in the morning," I fibbed.

  "Some other time, then?"

  "Yeah, maybe."

  I worked on my meal while Juan busied himself sorting bottles in the fridge. I tried to imagine myself having sex with him as I watched the movement of his broad, muscular shoulders and
narrow hips. But an image of Jake kept intruding, filling me with profound sadness. Would I ever be over him, or would he continue to play in my mind like an actor in some Greek tragedy?

  I downed the last fry, swilled down the dregs of my beer, and slid off the stool to leave. Across the room, I spotted Scott Prentiss, his arm around a dusky complexioned woman. Her dark black hair was tied back in a ponytail. From the palpable chemistry between them, they were in a relationship. He hadn't seen me, but, driven by curiosity, I went over to the table where they were sitting.

  "Hi, Prentiss." I turned to his date. "I'm Megan Riley. I work with your friend."

  She rose to greet me and said, "Hi, Ananda Willis, pleased to meet you." Was this the Ananda Willis who Beth had phoned repeatedly? One of the people I needed to speak to?

  "Ananda works in the ER at Abbey Mount Hospital. Townsend missed you this afternoon—how are you after your visit to the doctor?" Prentiss was Mr. Tact as always.

  "I'm fine. It was just an office procedure," I fibbed.

  "What happened to your chin?"

  "I hit myself with the car door. Clumsy as usual. Nice to meet you, Ananda." As I walked to my car, I made a mental note to speak with him about the problems of socializing with a witness.

  I was still parked at Wright's Grill, but there was no sign of Townsend or his car. Once inside my 4Runner, I left a voice message for Mrs. Fisher at my Mom's nursing home, telling her I was ready to sign the power of attorney papers. I asked her to see if she could set something up with Mr. Pilkin and the notary for the following afternoon. It was time to behave more responsibly about my mother's situation.

  CHAPTER 28

  I HADN'T SLEPT WELL and awoke to the loud rattle of a motorcycle engine. A neighbor who looked like he collected them, must have been working on one—but who does that at 5 a.m.? I set off on my morning run as soon as it began to get light. It would be foolhardy to race along the path beside the canyon in the dark. The last mile back to my cottage was uphill. Today it was a struggle.