Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2

by Mark S. Bacon

  As they drove to a breakfast place Lyle discovered, he explained how he’d figured out that Stark killed Shaun Harris. “The Chechens were likely involved, too,” he said. “It would have taken more than one person to clean up the crime scene like that.”

  Kate took it all in with some measure of satisfaction that the guys who tormented her and Nina would be put away. But details now were immaterial. Feeling increased pressure to do something, she couldn’t relax. At the diner, they sat at a table outside--fewer people around.

  “Nina said you were still at the station when she left yesterday,” Kate said. “Henrietta Mauser arranged to get her back to the hotel. Nina got her own room last night. She was tired, too.”

  After they got coffee and ordered, Lyle pulled out a bent and worn yellow pad and put it on the table in front of him. He looked at Kate with an inquisitive smile. She wanted to answer with a smile. She looked into his deep brown eyes and imagined she was smiling.

  He held up his notepad. “I hate to start all over again. Here’s my list of suspects.”

  Each name had various notes and check marks next to it. Did her future lie somewhere on that scrawled list?

  “We don’t have to start over. I can eliminate some people right away.” Kate reached in her purse and pulled out a pen. She quickly scratched off three names. “I thought about this all night. We may have lots of people who hated him, and some of them had the opportunity to kill him. But we need to focus on people who also would have benefitted from killing Busick.”

  Lyle put down his coffee cup and started to say something.

  “Wait just a minute,” she said. “Yesterday, I had a visit with Marge Drysdale.”

  “One of the RSD board members.”

  “Right. She’s a friend of Louise Busick. We met at the Busick mansion at Tahoe.”

  “You went to see Busick’s widow?” Lyle’s voice went up an octave.

  “Don’t worry. It worked out okay. Rick’s a crappy son. He’d never called her since he went back to Vegas and then drove here. So Louise didn’t know we were plotting to get him arrested.”

  “Maybe he’s called her for help now that he’s in jail, but it won’t do any good.”

  “Poor Louise. Scumbag husband, son who ignores her, fighting cancer. Then I use her to get information.”

  Lyle started to reach a hand to Kate.

  “It’s okay. I know,” she said. “Here’s what I found out. Remember what Gale Forrester told me? Marge talked to him about Busick’s plan, the day before the murder. Well, guess who else she told. Chris Easley and Patrick Teague’s wife. She told them it was Busick’s idea, something Gale didn’t mention in his column.”

  Lyle stared at her, then spoke. “So both Teague and Easley knew about Busick’s plan to move the event.”

  “And, at least Easley said he didn’t know about it ahead of time.”

  A server brought Kate bacon and eggs and Lyle a stack of pancakes. Kate put Lyle’s list away and they looked at each other silently until the young woman had gone back inside the restaurant.

  “Okay,” Lyle said. “We look at both these guys.”

  “I don’t know about Teague, but I know a little about Chris Easley. He told me one of the reasons the board hired him was that he had lived and worked in Reno for a number of years before going back to Texas. Busick told him that knowing a community was essential for a position like his.”

  “And,” Lyle said, “if Busick moved the event to Vegas--”

  “Easley might be out of a job.”

  “He would have been. Busick had already picked someone else to run the car event in Vegas.”

  “So killing Busick would save his job. And Busick treated Chris like crap. Insulted him in public, in front of strangers, like me.”

  “Motive,” Lyle mumbled, his mouth full of pancakes.

  “And opportunity. I remember seeing Chris leave the hotel a little while before I left that evening.”

  “Why didn’t we figure all this out before?”

  “I dunno. Now what about Teague?”

  “As Larry Quick told me, Busick was their arch enemy when Teague was in the state legislature. Busick’s lobbyists shot down their proposed car dealer regulations and his campaign contributions funded dirty attack ads that defeated Teague’s reelection. Then Teague gets on the county commission and finds himself facing Busick again.” Lyle gestured to Kate with his fork. “Teague dismissed it as ‘just politics’, but do we believe him?”

  “And,” Kate said, “if Busick left town with the event--”

  “He’d take millions of dollars in county revenue with him. Teague loses again. He had to be bitter. So what do you think? Teague or Easley?”

  “It’s got to be one of them,” Lyle said. “You already talked to Easley. I haven’t met him. I’ll give him a try. See if he’ll crack. If not, then we can both surprise Teague at his county office. I’ll drop you back at the hotel, then go see Easley.”

  Chapter 68

  Kate got out of Lyle’s car and walked into the hotel. She didn’t even get as far as the elevators before she had an idea.

  The night before, at the Busicks’, she’d persuaded Mrs. Drysdale to tell her where the Teagues lived. Now, she thought, before they grilled the county commissioner, she’d have a little talk with his wife. Mrs. Teague might not be prepared to lie. She might or might not know if her husband carved up Al Busick like an anniversary cake.

  Lisa and Patrick Teague lived in a relatively new development in a northern portion of Sparks. Kate’s taxi drove to the end of a cul-de-sac that backed up to rolling hills. Black-eyed Susans, Shasta daisies, and tall hedges decorated the front of the attractive, but not lavish, home. Before she got out of the cab, Kate texted Lyle, giving him the Teagues’ address, then muted the phone so she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  She walked up a short, curving brick path to the front door and rang the bell.

  “Yes, can I help you?” said a man in his forties with a long face, square jaw, and thinning blonde hair.

  “I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Teague,” Kate said, forcing a smile. “I talked to her on the phone an hour ago.”

  “Sorry. She had to run out. What...ah...did you want? Maybe I can help you.” The man looked Kate over. Was it her height, or was he just checking her out? The gaze made her uncomfortable. “Yes?” he said with a slight note of irritation.

  I could be a local real estate agent, Kate thought. But maybe Lisa Teague told her husband what Kate wanted to talk about before she had to leave. Kate opted for the truth, nearly. “I work for Nostalgia City, the theme park. I’m looking into the murder of Alvin Busick. He implicated the park in his plan to move Rockin’s Summer Days and we’re trying to clear things up.”

  “Yes?”

  “The county regulates the event, doesn’t it, Mr. Teague, Commissioner Teague?”

  “Okay.” He paused. “You might as well come in for a moment.”

  Teague wore slacks, a striped tie, and a long-sleeve white shirt. He stepped aside and Kate noticed him glancing up at the top of her head as she walked through the door. Where’s my wheelchair?

  “Come in here.” He pointed to a small formal living room just off the entryway. A flower-patterned couch, two easy chairs, tables. Comfy, except for the strong smell of cigarette smoke. An ashtray sat on the coffee table.

  “How can I help you? I believe I talked to another private investigator working for Nostalgia City. He was...ah...kind of offensive.”

  ***

  As a Phoenix police detective, Lyle rarely wore his holster clipped to his belt behind his back. Too uncomfortable. If you sat against a chair, the gun’s grip would poke you. He wore his gun that way today, hidden behind his corduroy sport coat. When he visited Rockin’ Summer Days headquarters, he didn’t want to advertise that he was armed, but he didn’t want to walk into the office of a possible violent murderer without his semi-automatic.

  Chris Easley disarmed him immediately, with a guilele
ss smile, a handshake, and an eager, “Howdy, c’mon in.”

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Lyle found himself saying as he settled in a chair opposite Easley’s desk.

  “No trouble. RSD’s over. Got nuthin’ t’do.”

  Walls of Easley’s office were filled with pictures of custom cars, RSD posters, eight-by-ten glossy grip-and-grin photos, a poster of Stevie Nicks, and a rusting, antique oil company sign.

  “I work for Nostalgia City and I’m investigating Alvin Busick’s murder.”

  “Ah git it,” Easley said. “Police still think Kate Sorensen did it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I saw her name in the news again yesterday, ’bout that fracas you got into in the desert. Weren’t too many details.”

  “That wasn’t related to the Busick murder.”

  “Really? I thought they arrested his son.”

  “That was in the news?” Lyle said. “Unrelated. They’re still looking for Busick’s killer.”

  Lyle watched Easley’s reaction.

  “So, I guess you think I did it, huh? I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

  “Did you?”

  “Naw. A real mess in there, though. The police didn’t let us in until the body was gone and they did all the CSI stuff. But there was still blood and cake all over the place.”

  Lyle went with his main ammunition right away. “Why did you tell Ms. Sorensen you didn’t know that Busick wanted to move Rockin’ Summer Days? Marge Drysdale told you that the day before the murder.”

  Easley paused only a few seconds. “None o’ her business. That’s what I thought. Al is killed and the next day the murder suspect is here asking me questions? She’s a nice lady, don’t get me wrong. Real nice. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know but what she did it.”

  “You thought she killed him?” Lyle let a little sarcasm into his voice.

  “I don’t know. She shows up with muscle, asking a lot o’ questions.”

  “Muscle?”

  “Some big guy.”

  “Oh,” Lyle grunted. “Just Bruce. Never mind.”

  “How did you know Marge told me about Al?”

  “You got mad when she told you.”

  “Hell no, just disappointed. I felt sorry for Marge. She was a wreck.”

  “But you could have lost your job, ” Lyle said. “Did you know Al had someone in Vegas already picked out to replace you?”

  “Sounds like him. But it wasn’t an issue. Didn’t worry about it. I knew Al would never get the votes.”

  “He persuaded Marge Drysdale.”

  “Not really. Just temporarily. Mainly he scared her.” Easley leaned forward and put his arms on his desk then gestured with his hands. “After I talked to her, she went back to Busick and told him she changed her mind. Said she wouldn’t vote for it. That bastard had told her you guys from Arizona were going to steal RSD. Said he was saving it for Reno and Nevada. Pure horseshit. Marge was scared to death. Scared of Kate Sorensen--if she was the murderer--and scared that everyone in town would think she sold them out. She regretted ever talking to that reporter. I tried to reassure her. I told her Rockin’ Summer Days would not change.”

  “So Al Busick--”

  “Was a dick,” Easley said. “That’s what I thought. And I wasn’t alone. You could swing a dead cat at high noon downtown and not hit anyone who liked him.”

  “Marshall Jacques supported him.”

  “Yeah, supported him. Just because Busick blackmailed him with advertising contracts. But he was the only one. Busick was only a threat to himself, you could say.” Easley leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the way it worked out, too.”

  Lyle thanked Easley and walked out of his office thinking, if not Easley, then it must be--Lyle stuck his head back in Easley’s office. “What do you know about Busick and Patrick Teague?”

  “Teague? Al didn’t have any use for him. Always wanted me to negotiate with the county. He called Teague a crazy person.” Easley furrowed his brow and nodded his head. “Really, a nut job. Said he didn’t know how he ever got elected. ’Course I never paid any attention to Al.”

  Chapter 69

  Patrick Teague sat in a chair opposite the couch where Kate rested uneasily. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up, without asking Kate if she minded. She wrinkled her nose, but he didn’t get the hint.

  He took two deep puffs, then put the cigarette down in the ashtray. “So you’re here to ask me questions about Al Busick?”

  “Did you know him very well?” Softball question, but this guy is spooky.

  “Know him? Yes,” he said in a monotone. “Always trying to discredit me, just like the others. He had his own ideas that didn’t have anything to do with the good of the county.” As he talked, Kate noticed he rubbed the forefingers of his left hand with his thumb, like a rhythm he kept up. “But I found out about Al Busick.”

  “You knew him when you were in the legislature.” Kate thought to say more, but as she watched him rub his fingers, something told her to shut up.

  “Al Busick tried to ruin everything--” he said and stopped abruptly. “But wait. Would you like some coffee?”

  Kate thanked him but declined. “I’d like some,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Teague walked out of the room, leaving his cigarette burning in the ashtray. What now? Call Lyle? Get the hell out of there? She hated to run, but she could come back with help. She stood up.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything?” Teague said, appearing in front of the living room entryway.

  Kate shook her head.

  “Then just relax,” Teague said, smiling. He gestured for her to sit down. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Kate sat and pulled out her cell phone. If she called Lyle, Teague might hear her. She turned on the phone’s voice recorder. She started to text Lyle when she heard Teague in the hallway. She stopped and slipped the phone into the breast pocket of her jacket.

  Teague reappeared in the next moment, his smiled unchanged. He walked in with a silver tea tray in hand. When he set it on the table, Kate saw it contained a mug of coffee, a sugar bowl and spoon, a roll of duct tape, and a semi-automatic pistol.

  Kate grabbed for the pistol, but Teague expected it. His hand lingered on the tray. In a moment he had the gun pointing at Kate.

  “Kind of ironic, don’t you think?” he said. “The cops blame you for killing him when Al was really after me. Works out nicely.” Teague sat on the edge of his chair, holding the gun in his right, rubbing his fingers with his left thumb.

  Although Teague looked normal, he obviously lived on another plane of existence. “I can help you,” Kate said. “Now that Busick is out of the way, you’re free.”

  “I was, until you came back.” Teague looked down and saw his cigarette had burned out. He reached in his pocket with his left hand for his cigarette pack. He tried to figure out how he could light a cigarette while holding the gun on Kate.

  “Let me help you,” Kate said, reaching out a hand.

  “Sit back.” He raised the gun and pointed it at Kate’s head. “I’ll have a smoke in the car. We need to leave now.”

  “You don’t need that gun,” Kate said. “We can go for a drive if you like.”

  “I have to keep it because you’re my adversary now, aren’t you? Get up.”

  Kate sat still. She was scared, sure, but she wasn’t taking leave of her senses. Getting into a car with him looked like a bad idea. Lyle knew the address. If she could stall for time or just get the gun away from him--

  “Get up, now. Don’t make me drag you. It’ll be much messier.”

  Kate had a sudden thought. “Where’s your wife?” she blurted then realized she wanted to talk more softly. “She should come with us. That would be more safe.”

  He brought the gun closer to Kate’s face. “Oh, Lisa’s already safe. Let’s go.”

  She recognized it as a Glock. The pistol didn�
��t have a standard safety and, with a round chambered, Kate knew, it would take little pressure to fire. She wished she hadn’t given Lyle the revolver for police evidence.

  “Okay,” she said. “Where are we going?” She still didn’t get up, but she picked up her purse and moved to the edge of the couch.

  Teague reached down and ripped the purse out of her hands. “You won’t need this.” He tipped the purse over on the table. Kate’s wallet, keys, cosmetics, pens, and her defunct cell phone fell out. “You don’t need your phone, lady.” He sounded angry.

  Teague left Kate’s purse and its contents on the table. He grabbed her upper arm and tried to drag her off the couch. He was shorter than Kate. She might be able to knock him down or knock him out, given the chance. But the Glock was the equalizer.

  He pointed her toward the kitchen, following behind with the gun leveled on her, she supposed. As they walked into the room, Kate scanned the countertops for knives or anything she might use as a weapon. She saw only an empty coffee maker.

  “Open that door,” Teague said when they reached the other side of the kitchen. The door connected to the garage. A light-colored Ford SUV sat next to an older Buick four-door sedan. Teague ordered Kate to walk toward the Buick. She stopped in front of the car and faced Teague. “Turn around a put your hands behind your back.” Teague’s voice bounced against the bare garage walls.

  “Tell me something first. Why the frosting?”

  “Oh, the clown face? He was a clown, wasn’t he? So I made him look like one. He earned it.”

  Kate nodded at the Glock. “Is that the gun you used on him?”

  “You know the answer to that. I planned to shoot him. I didn’t mean to kill him that night. I went to the offices looking for Marge Drysdale. She told my wife that Al was moving RSD, selling me out. I wanted to know if it was true.” Teague lapsed back into a monotone. “Marge wasn’t there, but Al was. He said he was moving the event and blaming it all on you. Then he said if I tried to stop him, he’d expose my hospital treatments. He only heard rumors before--when he did those hateful political ads against me. Now, he said, he had the whole story about the mental institution. He’d been after me for years.” Teague waved the pistol at Kate. “Turn around.”