Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  At the station, I had an argument with Prentiss about the relevance of Jack Bennett's death to the current investigation. Granted, I had no proof—just a tickle at the back of my brain.

  Prentiss had arrived late, parked himself at his desk, and stared into space, drinking mug after mug of black coffee, leaving me in no doubt how he'd spent the night with Ananda. Luckily for him, Townsend was nowhere to be seen. Prentiss was dismissive of everything I had learned from Mark about Bennett's death, though I didn't disclose my source. His voice was clipped and angry:

  "Everything you've said is pure speculation and another example of your willingness to embrace conspiracy theories. Haven't you heard that ninety-nine percent of the time the simplest answer is the right one?"

  "I have never found that to be true," I replied. "And while we're speaking frankly: you know the woman you're screwing is a witness in the current investigation."

  "Just because Beth Gervais phoned her? Ananda lost a child to cancer, and she was to be the subject of an article. And how do you know whether I'm having sex with Ananda?" Prentiss could look pouty when he felt someone had wronged him.

  "How long have you known about the article? When we're certain that something to do with Beth being a journalist got her killed. The cancer article may not be responsible for her death, but it could lead us to something that was. And get some sleep. You look like shit."

  I walked out of the room before he had time to respond.

  Doctor Walker had mentioned a cancer article, but I wasn't about to let Prentiss off the hook. Sometimes I could be passive-aggressive.

  I HAD LEARNED Buddy Olsen's construction company was building new offices for the DMV. As I turned in through the temporary chain-link fence ringing the site, I saw an impressive wood-framed two-story structure, with more gables and roof angles than was typical in commercial construction. Two workmen were attaching plywood sheathing to the second-floor walls; above them, another was loading sheets onto the roof trusses.

  My 4Runner bounced down the heavily rutted dirt access road, and I parked in front of a trailer, emblazoned with the sign 'Olsen and Sands Construction Inc.' I was anxious for Olsen to tell me the nature of his phone conversations with Beth.

  My phone rang as I turned off the engine. I answered without looking at the caller ID.

  "Townsend just gave me another case," Prentiss grumbled.

  "You're investigating three cases now? Have we run out of detectives? What are Turner and Chaplin working on?" I exclaimed.

  "The victim, in my home invasion case, Patrick Whitehead, is the ex-husband of the mayor. She's riding Townsend for a quick arrest. It's a bizarre case. The intruder tied up Whitehead and his girlfriend. I think her name is Sophia something. But all he took was an old laptop. Tens of thousands of dollars' worth of cash and diamonds were in the house for the taking, but the intruder never touched them."

  "How are you getting on with the Matt Baker abduction?"

  "The witnesses can't give me a description of either the man who grabbed Baker or the driver. They remember a dark SUV, possibly an Explorer, but no distinguishing features, not even a partial on the license plate. Kayla Ellis, the reporter, was with the victim when it happened."

  "The kidnapping is connected to the murders. You need to stay on top of it, whatever Townsend says. You can tell him I said that. Meanwhile, I've got to go and interview a witness." I disconnected and saw a familiar-looking dark-haired man wearing a green Raider's shirt leave the trailer.

  It couldn't be, could it? Pascoe?

  His pictures were on station notice boards after his disappearance. By the time I'd pulled up his photo on my laptop, the man had vanished inside the DMV building. There was a strong resemblance. Were my conversations with Mark Davies, and my lack of sleep making me see things?

  I stepped inside the trailer and found Olsen shouting expletives into a phone about the late delivery of some lumber. He gave me a fleeting glance and only increased the ferocity of his expletive-laden tirade. When he finished, he went over to a pile of plans on a drafting table, ignoring me.

  "I'm Detective Riley, and I need to ask you some questions about the murders of Beth Gervais and Ashley Logan," I told him.

  "I know who you are, honey. As I've told you previously, I don't know either girl." Olsen was looking my way but still not making eye contact. Maybe he had woman issues.

  "We have a record of three calls between you and Gervais. One lasted three minutes."

  Olsen fixed his gaze on me. "Ah yes, the pain-in-the-ass reporter who wouldn't stop calling me."

  "What did she want?"

  "Something about an article on the new DMV building. I don't have time for her kind."

  "Gay women, or just any women?"

  "If you like."

  "Where were you last Monday?"

  Olsen laughed. "I'm not going to dignify that question with a response."

  "A man walked out of here as I arrived. Who was he?"

  "One of the construction workers. I don't remember everyone's name."

  "Is it me, or do you have a problem with women in general, Mr. Olsen?"

  "Maybe both. Is it a crime now?" He laughed again.

  "We'll need to talk to you some more."

  "Can't wait," he hollered as I stepped out of the trailer into the bright sunlight. I could see Olsen enjoyed being an asshole just for the sport.

  Using my hand as a shield from the sun, I squinted at the half-finished structure but didn't see the Pascoe lookalike. Pulling up pictures from his sentencing on my phone, I was convinced of what I'd seen. I followed the same path as the man had taken earlier—along the front of the building and inside through a gap in a wall which looked like it would eventually become the main entrance. I had to pause and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The only light came from the unfinished window and door openings.

  "Hey lady. You can't go in there," a voice called from behind, but I ignored it and scanned the area. I wasn't leaving without investigating further. Squinting into the gloom, I could make out someone working on pipes sticking up from the cement floor. It was Pascoe, wearing the green Raider's shirt.

  As soon as he saw me, he picked up an adjustable wrench and took off running. It was a challenge to keep up, as I chased him through part-finished cinderblock walls, and around tarp-covered supplies, and stacks of lumber. No doubt, he knew the layout, but twice my legs scraped painfully on rebar sticking out of concrete support columns. I was gaining on him when he vaulted through one of the window openings. I jumped through seconds later, but when I looked around, he'd vanished.

  A seven or eight foot high chain link fence lay in front of me. Pascoe didn't have time to climb over in the moments before I reached it, so he must have turned either left or right. I mentally flipped a coin, turned right, and ran alongside the structure's rear wall.

  As I rounded the end of the building, a crippling pain shot from my head to my spine and radiated throughout my body. My vision blurred, my legs buckled, and blackness enveloped me.

  IT FELT LIKE I WAS FLOATING in the ocean close to a sandy beach. There was no pain or worries. Just a deep feeling of calm. I had no sense of time, as trees and the landscape floated past me, just distant mumbling like the howling of the wind through leaves. The trees slowly turned into people, and the whistling into voices, becoming insistent, intruding. A blurred face hovering over me spoke:

  "Take it easy, ma'am, you've had a nasty accident."

  "Where am I?" I heard myself say. I tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through my head.

  "Hang tight. You've had a knock on your head. We're going to transport you to the hospital for some tests." The young man wore a green paramedic's uniform.

  That wasn't going to work. It would be the perfect excuse for Townsend to put Turner or Chaplin on the case. They would never uncover who had killed Beth.

  A more distant face came into focus. Buddy Olsen was grinning. "Accidents happen when you go where you're not su
pposed to," he smirked. "A piece of plywood fell from the roof and hit your head. Fortunately for you, it was just a small scrap, or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  My vision cleared enough to see I was on a gurney just outside the open doors of an ambulance. An oxygen mask covered my mouth and nose. I remembered chasing Pascoe around the building. Then someone hit my head.

  Hard.

  How long had I been out?

  I wiggled my fingers and toes and checked I still had my weapon and phone. When I touched the top of my head, I could feel a bandage, and my hand came away with blood on it. The two paramedics were arguing with their backs to me. I swung my legs over the side of the gurney and sat up. I felt a little woozy but better than I imagined when I first came to.

  "Hey lady, you need to stay lying down. We think your head injury may not have been an accident. We should call the police." The paramedic was back in my face.

  "I am the police, so you don't need to call them."

  "That may be the case, but you still need to lie down and let us transport you to the hospital so a doctor can check you over. There could be serious repercussions from the blow to your head."

  "That won't be necessary. Just give me a release to sign, and you can be on your way." I needed to get to my house and a bottle of codeine I had secreted away after a root canal.

  "Call ahead, if you want to look around the site again." Olsen was in my face, smirking. I could smell his hot beer breath. "We'll give you a hard hat and protective clothing to wear. We don't want anything happening to you, darling."

  After I signed the release, the paramedics had me sit on the gurney for a while and then walk around until they were convinced, I was fit to drive. As I got into my 4Runner and started the engine, I was sure either Pascoe or one of Olsen's men had attacked me.

  But how would I ever prove it?

  CHAPTER 29

  I DROVE HOME FROM the construction site in a blur. But after a generous dose of codeine and a shower to wash the dried blood out of my hair, I looked and felt reasonably presentable. The knock on my head was no accident, but I didn't have the proof to open an investigation. The cut hadn't opened again, though it was where I usually gathered my hair into a bun while on duty, so I had to settle for a more casual look to hide the damage.

  At midday, I was sheltering from the sun under the flipped-up side of the coffee truck in the station parking lot. A syrupy brew and a bear claw Danish were doing wonders for my missed breakfast. All I'd learned for my troubles earlier, was that Pascoe was still alive and working for Olsen, who was even more of an arrogant prick than I'd heard. Those facts didn't move the needle of my investigation.

  I'd scheduled an afternoon interview with Joey Sands, so there was no time to stay home and nurse my injured head and damaged pride. I carried my improvised meal into the station and up to my desk. I was reviewing my messages when Prentiss came over.

  "How's the head?" An unusual question from Prentiss who wasn't usually given to empathy. I'd expected some blowback. The attack on me was the kind of news that spread through a police department like wildfire.

  "It was just a minor scrape," I replied.

  "You're not going to pursue whoever did it?

  "It would emerge that I had no right to be in the structure. Olsen's guys would swear a cut-off piece of wood fell on me because I wasn't wearing a hard hat. I don't want to give Townsend the pleasure of gloating."

  "I just interviewed Sophia, the gal who was attacked with Patrick Whitehead in the home invasion. She claims she's eighteen but looks underage to me. The perp left no prints or trace evidence of any kind. He brought his own zip ties but used the victim's duct tape to tie them up. I'm told sticky tape often picks up trace evidence. The attacker knew that, so all the fibers are from Whitehead's house. It was a more professional home invasion than we usually see, and there's no apparent motive behind the attack. It could be drug-related, but there's no evidence Whitehead was anything more than a user."

  "I'm not making any headway either. Unless Joey Sands rolls over and confesses when I interview him, it will be another day without progress. Townsend gives us all the tough cases, while Turner and Chaplin work shoplifting and vehicle theft. We're seriously understaffed."

  AFTER THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT, the interview room was even more dingy than usual. Developer and Brockway Apartments landlord, Joey Sands, was already seated next to Andrew Schwartz, the attorney I'd met at The Examiner. Sands' open neck Hawaiian shirt and mussed blond hair contrasted sharply with Schwartz's suit and groomed appearance.

  "You have no right to interrogate my client without some evidence linking him to the murders," Schwartz said, as soon as I'd taken a seat across from them.

  "Patience, Mr. Schwartz. We're not accusing your client of anything. He was in contact with Beth Gervais right before her death, and we just want to know what that was about."

  Schwartz leaned back in his chair, and I wondered why Sands thought he needed a lawyer with him.

  "What is your business relationship with Buddy Olsen?" I asked him

  "We're partners," Sands replied.

  "Since the death of Jack Bennett?"

  "Our construction businesses are synergistic. Jack and I shared equipment, people, and resources with Buddy for many years. After Jack's passing, we pooled our assets and created a partnership."

  "You're a landlord. Is that in partnership with Buddy?"

  "No—I keep the apartment rental side of the business separate."

  "Weren't you at school together?"

  "We were, but how is it relevant?"

  "Are you a Freemason?"

  "Detective. I don't understand this line of questioning and how it relates to your investigation," Schwartz interjected.

  "I'm trying to get some background information about your client. We need to know what Beth Gervais was writing about before her death. We believe she found something incriminating and was murdered to keep it quiet."

  "My client had nothing to do with anything illegal, and you have no proof he did."

  'That may be true, but I still need some help with what the reporter was involved with. Mr. Sands, what did you discuss with Beth Gervais when you spoke on the phone in the days before her death?"

  "She has written articles about my properties in the past, none of them flattering. Gotcha articles if you will. I take any opportunity to correct misconceptions," said Sands.

  "And what misconceptions were you correcting recently?"

  "She told me she was working on an article about the Brockway Apartments. They need renovating, and work is about to start. I was trying to forestall any negative press until the work is complete."

  "It must have been irritating to have someone like Beth Gervais printing lies about your properties."

  "It was very annoying, but not something to commit murder over. Anyway, I thought the killings were sex crimes."

  "Why do you think that?'

  "I read it in the paper," Sands said. I knew for a fact it was never in the paper. Townsend must have given him the sex crime line.

  "When did you last see her in person?"

  "A couple of months ago."

  "Do you know, or have you spoken to Ashley Logan?"

  "I know she was the Mayor's assistant, but I never had any dealings with her, beyond replying to her meeting notices."

  "Do you know of Marcus Pascoe's whereabouts?"

  "Don't you people ever give up? Pascoe was a bald-faced liar. His statements to the police about me bribing the Mayor are something he made up to stay out of jail." Sand's voice was cracked and raw. "I don't care if he's dead. But if he is, I'll be disappointed I didn't kill him myself."

  "We're done here, Detective." Schwartz stood, and Sands followed suit. "My client has been patient and answered your questions, even the ones that have no bearing on your case. We're leaving." He held the interview room door open for Sands as he walked out.

  I stayed seated, thinking of how the interview could have g
one better when Chief Kane put his head in the room and said, "A word, Detective."

  I followed Kane up the stairs to his office, where he stood behind his desk to address me. "I'm afraid I just received some rather troubling news. Dirk Hildegard has escaped. He was mistakenly put on work-release with a monitoring band and sent to work on the new DMV center. Olsen rather generously agrees to let jail trusties work there. No one saw him drop the ankle band, and deputies didn't arrive there in time."

  "What?!" My voice felt hoarse, my throat constricted.

  "I've spoken with the sheriff, and he sends his apologies for the oversight."

  "This is more than an oversight, sir. He's vowed to kill me."

  "Tsk, detective. There's a team of deputies out looking for him, and I have every confidence they'll apprehend him quickly. You should go about your business as usual, but I thought it only fair to warn you."

  Kane's office spun around me as I searched for words, but nothing would come. Pictures and certificates covering the walls flashed before my eyes. A desert photograph of ten people wearing combat uniforms in front of an armored vehicle caught my eye. It was probably from the first Gulf war. Kane was standing in the back row, Sands and Olsen were squatting in front.

  I barely managed, "Thank you for letting me know," before I turned and hurried downstairs, stunned by what the Chief told me. Once out in the fresh air, I put my hands on my knees and took deep breaths. My heart was beating as if I had just run five miles, and I waited for it to steady. It wasn't a coincidence that Hildegard had fled from Olsen's construction site, but the Chief seemed unperturbed by the events. And what did the photograph on his wall mean? Could I continue to trust him?

  CHAPTER 30

  OFFICERS MICHAEL SMITH AND EMMA MCADAMS, known around the station as Micky and Minny, were familiar with the dilapidated house on the corner of Pine and Fifth. Before the city boarded it up, it was a favorite hangout for junkies and the homeless. Smith didn't know why someone didn't simply demolish it and spare the expense of repairs whenever the boards covering the entrance were pulled away, as they were today.