The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Computers are interesting,” Mr. Harrison said.

  “What did you really want? Were you still trying to protect your sister, as you’ve protected her all these years? Or were you just trying to get away from her for a while?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Mattie did no wrong in our mother’s eyes. My mother loved that girl, and I loved for my mother to be happy.”

  So Martin Tull got his stat and a more-or-less clean conscience. Miss Harrison got her protective older brother back, along with his Social Security checks.

  And Tess got an offer of free shoeshines for life, whenever she was passing through Penn Station. She politely declined Mr. Harrison’s gesture. After all, he had already spent forty years at the feet of a woman who didn’t know how to show gratitude.

  DETECTIVE: PANSY REYNARD

  DUST UP

  Wendy Hornsby

  THE UNDERAPPRECIATED WENDY HORNSBY (1947– ) is best known for her series of novels about documentary filmmaker Maggie MacGowen, who somehow becomes entangled in mysteries and murder as an amateur sleuth. That sounds like the makings of a nice cozy series, but no, it’s not. The author’s exploration of the dark side of ever-sunny Los Angeles has been compared to Raymond Chandler’s by more than one critic.

  Maggie first encounters violence in Telling Lies (1992) and now has ten books in the series, the most recent being Disturbing the Dark (2016).

  It is in Hornsby’s short fiction that the real darkness descends. “Nine Sons” is a disturbing, heartbreaking tale of a family that lives on the Northern Plains during the Great Depression. It won the Edgar for best short story of the year in 1992. It serves as the title story of a collection of her tales, Nine Sons Collected Mysteries (2002), a volume that also includes the masterpiece of noir “Ghost Caper.” The story in this anthology, “Dust Up,” has the kind of ending one might expect from Cormac McCarthy or Jim Thompson. The protagonist is named Pansy. Do not be fooled!

  A lifelong Southern Californian, Hornsby graduated from UCLA with a degree in history and went on to become a tenured professor at Long Beach City College.

  “Dust Up” was originally published in Murder in Vegas, edited by Michael Connelly (New York, Forge, 2005).

  Dust Up

  WENDY HORNSBY

  10:00 A.M., APRIL 20

  Red Rock Canyon, Nevada

  PANSY REYNARD lay on her belly inside a camouflaged bird blind, high-power Zeiss binoculars to her eyes, a digital sound amplifier hooked over her right ear, charting every movement and sound made by her observation target, an Aplomado falcon hatchling. As Pansy watched, the hatchling stretched his wings to their full thirty-inch span and gave them a few tentative flaps as if gathering courage to make his first foray out of the nest. He would need some courage to venture out, she thought. The ragged, abandoned nest his mother had appropriated for her use sat on a narrow rock ledge 450 vertical feet above the desert floor.

  “Go, baby,” Pansy whispered when the chick craned back his neck and flapped his wings again. This was hour fourteen of her assigned nest watch. She felt stiff and cramped, and excited all at once. There had been no reported Aplomado falcon sightings in Nevada since 1910. For a mated Aplomado falcon pair to appear in the Red Rock Canyon area less than twenty miles west of the tawdry glitz and endless noise of Las Vegas, was singular, newsworthy even. But for the pair to claim a nest and successfully hatch an egg was an event so unexpected as to be considered a miracle by any committed raptor watcher, as Pansy Reynard considered herself to be.

  The hatchling watch was uncomfortable, perhaps dangerous, because of the ruggedness of the desert canyons, the precariousness of Pansy’s rocky perch in a narrow cliff-top saddle opposite the nest, and the wild extremes of the weather. But the watch was very likely essential to the survival of this wonder child. It had been an honor, Pansy felt, to be assigned a shift to watch the nest. And then to have the great good fortune to be on site when the hatchling first emerged over the top of the nest was, well, nearly overwhelming.

  Pansy lowered her binocs to wipe moisture from her eyes, but quickly raised them again so as not to miss one single moment in the life of this sleek-winged avian infant. She had been wakened inside her camouflage shelter at dawn by the insistent chittering of the hatchling as he demanded to be fed. From seemingly nowhere, as Pansy watched, the mother had soared down to tend him, the forty-inch span of her black and white wings as artful and graceful as a beautiful Japanese silk-print kite. The sight of the mother made Pansy almost forgive Lyle for standing her up the night before.

  Almost forgive Lyle: This was supposed to be a two-man shift. Lyle, a pathologist with the Department of Fish and Game, was a fine bird-watcher and seemed to be in darned good physical shape. But he was new to the Las Vegas office and unsure about his readiness to face the desert overnight. And he was busy. Or so he said.

  Pansy had done her best to assure Lyle that he would be safe in her hands. As preparation, she had packed two entire survival kits, one for herself and one for him, and had tucked in a very good bottle of red wine to make the long chilly night pass more gently. But he hadn’t come. Hadn’t even called.

  Pansy sighed, curious to know which he had shunned, an evening in her company or the potential perils of the place. She had to admit there were actual, natural challenges to be addressed. It was only mid-April, but already the desert temperatures reached the century mark before noon. When the sun was overhead, the sheer vertical faces of the red sandstone bluffs reflected and intensified the heat until everything glowed like—and felt like—the inside of an oven. There was no shade other than the feathery shadows of spindly yucca and folds in the rock formations.

  To make conditions yet more uncomfortable, it was sandstorm season. Winds typically began to pick up around noon, and could drive an impenetrable cloud of sand at speeds surpassing eighty miles an hour until sunset. When the winds blew, there was nearly no way to escape both the heat and the pervasive, intrusive blast of sand. Even cars were useless as shelter. With windows rolled up and without the AC turned on you’d fry in a hurry. With the AC turned on, both you and the car’s engine would be breathing grit. If you could somehow navigate blind and drive like hell, you might drive clear of the storm before sand fouled the engine. But only if you could navigate blind.

  People like Pansy who knew the area well might find shelter in random hollows among the rocks, such as the niche where the hatchling sat in his nest. Or the well prepared, for instance Pansy, might hunker down inside a zip-up shelter made to military specs for desert troops, like the one that was tucked inside her survival pack. Or navigate using digital GPS via satellite—Global Positioning System.

  Not an environment for neophytes, Pansy conceded, but she’d had high hopes for Lyle, and had looked forward to an evening alone with him and the falcons under the vast blackness of the desert sky, getting acquainted.

  Pansy knew she could be a bit off-putting at first meeting. But in that place, during that season, Pansy was in her métier and at her best. Her preparations for the nest watch, she believed, were elegant in their simplicity, completeness, and flexibility: a pair of lightweight one-man camouflage all-weather shelters, plenty of water, a basic all-purpose tool, meals-ready-to-eat, a bodacious slingshot in case snakes or vultures came to visit the nest, good binocs, a two-channel sound amplifier to eavesdrop on the nest, a handheld GPS locator, and a digital palm-sized video recorder. Except for the water, each kit weighed a meager twenty-seven pounds and fit into compact, waterproof, dust-proof saddlebags she carried on her all-terrain motorcycle. The bottle of wine and two nice glasses were tucked into a quick-release pocket attached to the cycle frame. She had everything: shelter, food, water, tools, the falcon, a little wine. But no Lyle.

  Indeed, Lyle’s entire kit was still attached to the motorcycle she had stashed in a niche in the abandoned sandstone quarry below her perch.

 
A disturbing possibility occurred to Pansy as she watched the hatchling: Maybe Lyle was a little bit afraid of her. A champion triathlete and two-time Ironman medalist, Lieutenant Pansy Reynard, desert survival instructor with the Army’s SFOD-D, Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta Force, out of the Barstow military training center, admitted that she could be just a little bit intimidating.

  10:00 A.M., APRIL 20

  Downtown Las Vegas

  Mickey Togs felt like a million bucks because he knew he looked like a million bucks. New custom-made, silver-gray suit with enough silk in the fabric to give it a little sheen. Not flashy-shiny, but sharp—expensively sharp, Vegas player sharp. His shirt and tie were of the same silver-gray color, as were the butter-soft handmade shoes on his size eight, EEE feet. Checking his reflection in the shiny surface of the black Lincoln Navigator he had acquired for the day’s job, Mickey shot his cuffs, adjusted the fat Windsor knot in his silver-gray necktie, dusted some sand kicked up from yesterday’s storm off his shoes, and grinned.

  Yep, he decided as he climbed up into the driver’s seat of the massive SUV, he looked every penny like a million bucks, exactly the sort of guy who had the cojones to carry off a million-dollar job. Sure, he had to split the paycheck a few ways because he couldn’t do this particular job alone, but the splits wouldn’t be equal, meaning he would be well paid. One hundred K to Big Mango the trigger-man, one hundred to Otto the Bump for driving, another hundred to bribe a cooperative federal squint, and then various payments for various spotters and informants. Altogether, after the split, Mickey personally would take home six hundred large; damn good jack for a morning’s work.

  Mickey Togs felt deservedly cocky. Do a little morning job for the Big Guys, be back on the Vegas Strip before lunch, get a nice bite to eat, then hit the baccarat salon at the Mirage with a fat stake in his pocket. Mickey took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed some sweat from his forehead; Mickey had trained half his life for jobs like this one. Nothing to it, he said to himself, confident that all necessary preparations had been made and all contingencies covered. A simple, elegant plan.

  Mickey pulled the big Navigator into the lot of the Flower of the Desert Wedding Chapel on South Las Vegas Boulevard, parked, and slid over into the front passenger seat, the shotgun position. The chapel was in a neighborhood of cheap old motels and auto shops, not the sort of place where Mickey and his hired help would be noticed. In a town where one can choose to be married by Captain Kirk, Elvis Presley, or Marilyn Monroe, where brides and grooms might dress accordingly, wedding chapels are good places not to be noticed. Even Big Mango, an almost seven-foot-tall Samoan wearing a turquoise Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, drew hardly a glance as he crossed the lot and climbed into the backseat of the Navigator.

  Otto the Bump, a one-time welterweight boxer with cauliflower ears and a nose as gnarled as a bag full of marbles, ordinarily might draw a glance or two, except that he wore Vegas-style camouflage: black suit, starched white shirt, black tie, spit-shined black brogans, a clean shave and a stiff comb-over. He could be taken for a maitre d’, a pit boss, a father of the bride, a conventioneer, or the invisible man just by choosing where and how he stood. As he hoisted himself up into the driver’s seat of the Navigator, Otto looked every inch like a liveried chauffeur.

  “What’s the job?” Otto asked as he turned out of the lot and into traffic.

  “The Feds flipped Harry Coelho,” Mickey said. “He’s gonna spill everything to the grand jury this morning, and then he’s going into witness protection. We got one shot to stop him. Job is to grab him before he gets to the courthouse, then take him for a drive and lose him as deep as Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “A snitch is the worst kind of rat there is,” Otto groused. “Sonovabitch deserves whatever he gets.”

  “Absolutely,” Mickey agreed. Big Mango, as usual, said nothing, but Mickey could hear him assembling the tools for his part of the job.

  “How’s it going down?” Otto asked.

  “Federal marshals are gonna drive Harry from the jail over to the courthouse in a plain Crown Victoria with one follow car.”

  “Feds.” Otto shook his head. “I don’t like dealing with the Feds.”

  “Don’t worry, the fix is in,” Mickey said, sounding smug. “I’ll get a call when the cars leave the jail. The route is down Main to Bonneville, where the courthouse is. You get us to the intersection, park us on Bonneville at the corner. We’ll get a call when the cars are approaching the intersection. When they make the turn, you get us between the two cars and that’s when we grab Harry.”

  “Whatever you say.” Otto checked the rearview mirror. “But what’s the fix?”

  Mickey chuckled. “You know how federal squints are, doughnut-eating civil servants with an itch to use their guns; they get off playing cops and robbers. A simple, good follow plan just doesn’t do it for them, so they gotta throw in some complication. This is it: Harry leaves the jail in the front car. Somewhere on the route, the cars are going to switch their order so when they get to the courthouse Harry will be in the second car.”

  “How do you know they’ll make the switch?”

  “I know my business,” Mickey said, straightening his tie to show he had no worries. “I got spotters out there. If the switch doesn’t happen or the Feds decide to take a different route or slip in a decoy, I’ll know it.” He snapped his manicured fingers. “Like that.”

  Otto’s face was full of doubt. “How will you know?”

  “The phone calls?” Mickey said. “They’re coming from inside the perp car. I bought us a marshal.”

  “Yeah?” Otto grinned, obviously impressed. “You got it covered, inside and outside.”

  “Like I say, I know my business,” Mickey said, shrugging. “Here’s the plan: Otto, you get us into position on Bonneville, and we wait for the call saying they’re approaching. When the first car makes the turn off Main, you pull in tight behind it and stop fast. From then till we leave, you need to cover the first car; don’t let anyone get out. Mango, you take care of the marshals in the second car any way you want to, but if you gack the marshal riding shotgun, you can have the rest of the bribe payment I owe him.”

  “Appreciate it,” Mango said. “You want me to take out Harry, too?”

  “Not there. I’ll go in myself and get him. Otto, you stay ready to beat us the hell out when I say. We’re taking Harry for a little drive and getting him lost. Are we clear?”

  “Candy from a little baby,” Otto said. Mango, in the backseat, grunted. Could be gas, could be agreement, Mickey thought. Didn’t much matter. Mango got paid to do what he did and not for conversation. With a grace that belied his huge size, Mango rolled into the back deck of the vast SUV and began to set up his firing position at the back window. Quiet and efficient, Mickey thought, a true pro.

  The first call came. Harry Coelho left the Clark County jail riding in the backseat of a midnight blue Crown Victoria. The follow car was the same make, model, color. After two blocks, as planned, the cars switched positions, so that the follow car became the lead, and Harry Coelho’s ass was hanging out in the wind with no rear cover.

  When the second call came, the Navigator was in position on Bonneville, a half-block from the courthouse, waiting.

  The snatch went smooth, by the book exactly the way Mickey Togs wrote it, the three of them moving with synchronicity as honed as a line of chorus girls all high-kicking at the same time. The first Crown Vic made the turn. Otto slipped the massive Navigator in behind it and stopped so fast that the second Crown Vic rear-ended him; the Crown Vic’s hood pleated up under the Navigator’s rear bumper like so much paper, didn’t leave a mark on the SUV. Before the Crown Vic came to a final stop, Mango, positioned in the back deck, flipped up the rear hatch window and popped the two marshals in the front seat—fwoof, fwoof, that breezy sound the silencer makes—just as Mickey snapped open the back door and y
anked out Harry Coelho, grabbing him by the oh-so-convenient handcuffs. They were back in the Navigator and speeding away before the first carload of Feds figured out that they had a problem on their hands.

  No question, Otto was the best driver money could buy. A smooth turn onto Martin Luther King, then a hop up onto the 95 freeway going west into the posh new suburbs where a behemoth of an SUV like the Navigator became as anonymous and invisible as a dark-haired nanny pushing a blond-haired baby in a stroller.

  After some maneuvers to make sure there was no tail, Otto exited the Interstate and headed up into Red Rock Canyon.

  10:50 A.M.

  Red Rock Canyon

  The hatchling was calling out for a feeding again when Pansy Reynard heard the rumble of a powerful engine approaching. Annoyed that the racket might frighten her falcons, she peered over the edge of her perch.

  The sheer walls of the abandoned sandstone quarry below her were a natural amplifier that made the vehicle sound larger than it actually was, but it was still huge, the biggest, blackest pile of personal civilian transport ever manufactured. Lost, she thought when she saw the Navigator, and all of its computer-driven gadgets couldn’t help it get back to the freeway where it belonged.

  For a moment, Pansy considered climbing out of her camouflaged blind and offering some help. But she sensed there was something just a little hinky about the situation. Trained to listen to that quiet inner warning system, Pansy held back, focused her binoculars on the SUV, and waited.

  The front, middle, and back hatch doors opened at once and four men spilled out: two soft old guys wearing suits and dress shoes, a Pacific Islander dressed for a beach party, and a skinny little man with a hood over his head and his hands cuffed behind his back. The hood muffled the little man’s voice so that Pansy couldn’t understand his words, but she certainly understood his body language. Nothing good was happening down there. She set the lens of her palm-sized digital video recorder to zoom, and started taping the scene as it unfolded below.