• • •
Chapter Thirty-Three
A call to Allie told her all the haboob survivors were back in their respective homes. Without questions, Allie picked her up where she waited outside Wagner’s house and then drove her home in mutual silence.
Kim tended to Zayd while she thought about what she had just learned from Wagner. More than angry, she was furious. Furious at Lon. But he was at work now. She respected him and herself too much to interrupt his day with a confrontation so she used her anger-fueled energy to get through the usual day-off chores in half the usual time.
She skipped dinner and went for a run with her dog. By the time she returned different emotions had risen to moderate her fury and more questions troubled her mind. Sara’s words and her own thoughts from early in the day repeated and repeated. Her mood moderated from anger to pensiveness and the plan to barge into Lon’s home to confront him seemed less desirable.
As her usual bed time approached she wondered how she could avoid calling him tonight for their routine check-in. She hated the thought of speaking to him. But she had promised. She dialed the number. When he answered she said, “I’m okay but I’m in a bad mood and I don’t want to talk right now. Later.” She hung up.
After the ten o’clock news she decided to go to bed and try to sleep it off, deal with it tomorrow. At two a.m. she knew it hadn’t worked. She got out of bed, showered, dressed and drove to Lon’s house near Yuma’s Smucker Park.
No light illumined his porch and she couldn’t see a door bell. She knocked. No answer. A quick look into the peep hole in the door revealed a shadow approaching. The door swung open. Lon, wearing navy blue boxer shorts and nothing else, pulled her inside with his left hand and kicked the door closed. Only then she saw the gun in his right hand. He dead-bolted the door, put his gun on safety and placed it on an end-table before he spoke.
“Kim, what happened?”
She shook her head, unable to sort and express a flood of differing emotions. Finally she said, “Damn, I don’t know where to start. Too much happened.”
Lon waited.
“Why did you have Wagner following me?”
“Wagner! Wagner followed you? What did he do? You look okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m asking the questions now. Wagner said he was following Sara, not me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lon shook his head. “Let’s sit down. This could be a long conversation.” He pulled her over to the sofa in the living room. “First, I want you to know that having Wagner come anywhere near you was not something I imagined when I initiated the tail on Sara. He didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m hurt, but he didn’t hurt me.”
“I will break every bone. . .”
“I handled it!”
“Okay, I’m good with that. You need to know that we finally got a confirmation on Wagner’s whereabouts the night some cowardly scum tried to kill you. He made cell phone calls that night. All pinged from a tower near his house, and a neighbor said she saw him take out the garbage around the time of the attack.”
“I wish I had known that yesterday.”
“Then let me go back. Kim, last week at Lute’s you asked me how I could find someone who might not exist, this Michael friend of Sara’s. I decided the best way to find any real person she was associating with would be to follow her. I put it through as a routine duty assignment, the kind that Wagner never does. I’m guessing that someone on the roster couldn’t make it today – yesterday – and roped Wagner into it. So were you with her, with Sara?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know. . .”
“I had never met her until Allie asked me to take her to the place we found her daughter’s body. So she could say goodbye.”
“You hiked into the Kofa with Sara? Good God! You weren’t caught in the sand storm?” She didn’t have to answer; he knew. He bolted to his feet, walked around the coffee table, and began to pace back and forth in front of her, seemingly undisturbed by his lack of clothing. She had never seen him like this, this mature, composed and pragmatic man. It alarmed her but she refused to let him see it.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lon, don’t be so melodramatic. I survived. We all survived nicely, as a matter of fact.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”
“I . . .didn’t want you to worry about me.”
He stopped pacing. His face softened until she thought he would cry. “Yes, I do worry because I care about you, Kim. And no matter what happens between us, I will always, always care about you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, copious tears she couldn’t restrain. They rolled down her cheeks unchecked, the anger inside her draining away with them. The dark, malignant mass of emotional debris that had tried to smother her soul receded, replaced by a feeling of expansion and openness she had never known. She rose and went to him. She embraced him. She pressed her cheek against the stubble on his face. She whispered, “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I trust you.”
“I’m sorry, too. I should have told you.” He pulled her tighter into a long embrace then kissed her. The feeling of connection and sharing of lips and tongues and breath and skin overwhelmed her. She felt her knees go weak. Throbs of desire shot through her pelvis, up through her body, hardening her nipples and raising goose bumps on her skin.
Together, they stumbled back to the sofa and he sat down hard, still holding onto her hands. His hardened penis slipped out of the opening in his briefs. He reached to adjust himself, but her hand stopped him. She looked at his nakedness and felt no trace of fear or revulsion. She unzipped her shorts and removed them while he watched. She pulled off her shirt; she was not wearing a bra. She slipped her panties down, stepped our of them and approached him. Placing her knees on the sofa, she straddled him. His head fell back, his eyes closed, breath coming faster. She kissed the throbbing pulse in his neck and put her hands between her legs to feel the moisture, slick and copious. She rubbed her erect clitoris with wet fingers then held his penis and guided him into her. A brief feeling of resistance, an instant of mingled pain and pleasure. Then she lowered herself onto him completely, without restraint, and engulfed him to the hilt.
• • •
Chapter Thirty-Four
Winston Verbale got into his car, carefully arranged the two Styrofoam cups of hot coffee in the holders and prepared to start the engine. Unexpectedly, he felt the sensations returning, unbidden by the usual memories and pictures in his head. The feelings started in his hands. They flexed sensually, as if imbued with the memory of the soft throat they had pressed into and crushed. Tingling sensations rushed up his arms, moved through his shoulders and shot down the front of his torso in a current of heat. Teasing, they curved around his scrotum like a warm hand, penetrated his rectum with a jolt. His penis jerked erect. He felt his power then, his daring.
His eyes closed and he mentally reproached himself, this is a work day. He banished the memories, squeezed his thighs together and allowed the erection to deflate. Yes, he was powerful and daring and also clever. Never mind that the ploy of the “heads” poem had failed. How could he have known the red-haired bitch’s mother had been tossed in the loony-bin? He started the car and continued his drive to the office.
Sara Cameron. She had occupied his thoughts every day since he read the newspapers about the Smith murder and learned Sara Cameron was not in the detention center or in the psych hospital. Evidently they had turned her loose again, a fool who wasted her time writing poems. Why set the whole legal process in motion to deal with someone like her?
But now back to business. He turned off the motor of the Mercedes, collected the two cups of Starbucks coffee from the holders and entered the office building through the side door.
He entered Allie’s office without knocking, placed one of the cups on her desk and sat down in the faux-leather chair.
“Win, I wish you wouldn’t, really.” She put the phone down and leaned
forward in her chair.
“No you don’t. You love to start the day with a caramel macchiato and a chat with me.” Recently he had been cultivating his relationship with her. He had decided Allie presented no threat to him and could actually be useful. He knew she had counseled Cindy’s mother but she had no idea that he knew. And, she had friended the Apache woman who was more than best friends with the detective. The price of a coffee every morning, if it put her at ease enough to talk, was well worth the intel he gathered.
Allie sipped her coffee. “About five hundred calories here, you know.” She wiped a bit of foam from her upper lip. “I do enjoy talking to you, Win, but it occurred to me that maybe this doesn’t look right to the others. You know how office gossip makes the rounds, even if it’s nonsense. One day I’ll just buy my own caramel macchiato and lock you out of my office.”
He laughed. “That will be the day. You forget I have a master key.”
He had started the relationship repair with her by clearing up the issue of the lie he had told about Cindy going back East to care for her mother. He was sure Allie bought his story that Cindy lied. He told her Cindy had actually planned to go back East for breast implant surgery, which he had strongly opposed. Cindy had convinced him to cover for her. That action exposed him to the risk of being fired from his job so Allie must never tell anyone. He had also convinced Allie that he had no idea why Cindy had been at Kofa the day she was killed.
Later, he tried to keep their talks office-related or ask for Allie’s opinion about current events, even though such chit-chat made his stomach roil with impatience and boredom. He hated the persistent cheeriness of the social worker/psychotherapist and the willful optimism sweetening her opinions.
Today, at last he found the right time and the right opening to ask the questions he wanted to ask. “So, what have you heard about the investigation of Cindy’s murder? You know, I don’t think I’ll ever be at peace until they get the guy.”
“I haven’t heard anything – well, not anything more than you have, but. . .”
“But what? Don’t play with my feelings like that, Allie.”
“Win, I have no intention of playing with your feelings. I’m sure it’s nothing, which is why I didn’t want to talk about it, but I know some people close to the investigation and lately they both look so happy and upbeat. I asked them if they have new leads on the case, but they won’t say. We can only hope it’s because the case is warming up. I guess Cindy’s mother has been talking with the detective.”
“She can’t be much help to them, can she?”
“Actually, from what they say, they’re very involved with her. I hope she helps them close the case. It’s long overdue. It’s been more than three months. Now I really have to get to work. Thanks again for the coffee.”
Verbale walked back to his office alternately congratulating himself for getting valuable information and questioning what he would do next. Find out what the mother knows that she might have told the detective? How? And what will I do if it’s something or if it’s nothing? Alternate courses of action marched through his mind, eager to be vetted and decided on. When he turned the corner of the corridor, he saw a woman employee standing outside his locked door, a sour expression marring her face. Inwardly furious at the interruption of his thoughts, he greeted her with a smile. He opened the office door for her. With slow and grudging effort he redirected himself to deal with the tedium of day-to-day activities.
• • •
Verbale sat back in his chair at his home office, relishing the plan he had decided on and the steps he had taken to launch it. Earlier that day he waited until Allie went to the restroom, walked into her office, picked up the smart phone on her desk and pulled up the contact file. Finding Sara’s name and number was easy. One minute. In and out with the info. It was tough having to wait until he got home in the early evening to call her, but he needed the privacy of his home office for this little act of deception.
“Mrs. Cameron, it’s so nice to be able to talk with you and tell you how sorry I am about your daughter.”
“Why, did you know her?”
“Yes, of course. My name is Larry Hebo. I’m the head chef at The Diner, you know the four-star restaurant downtown, and I met Cindy more than a year ago. We became. . . close. Very close.”
“I guess that means you were her lover. How nice for you, Sinner. Now I’ll hang up because I have things to do.”
“Wait! Mrs. Cameron, I’m only calling you because Cindy talked about you so much. She wrote you a letter that she said would make things better between you, but she didn’t know where to send it. After she died I got it from her desk.”
“A letter. Did you read it?”
“No, it was in an envelope, sealed. I’d like to give it to you, and talk to you about her. Ever since she. . .she died, I’ve been praying that they catch the person who did it, and praying for her soul, too. She hadn’t accepted Christ as her savior but she was such a good person.”
“A good person. Yes. Are you a good person?”
“I pray to the good Lord every day with gratitude for what I am and the wisdom to become better, Mrs. Cameron. You know, I think it would be so good for both of us to meet and talk about her. Would you come to my house to get the letter, Mrs. Cameron?”
“I think we should meet somewhere.”
“Oh. I understand. Well, there’s a little chapel on a dirt road just off of Highway 95. We could meet there. Tomorrow morning at five-thirty.”
“Been there. It’s no bigger than a medium sized room. Why there? And why so early?”
“It’s on my way to work, and I have to be to work at six. I do a double shift tomorrow, so I won’t be available any later. Besides, it’s a holy place. What better place to talk about Cindy and say a prayer for her soul?”
“Does seem fitting. But so early.”
“Do you like to sleep in, Mrs. Cameron?”
“No, of course not. I’m an early riser. I’ll be there.”
“Good. I want us to have a few minutes to talk. As I said, in addition to the letter, there are things Cindy told me about – about her relationship with you – that I think would be comforting for you to hear.”
“Okay then. Thank you. Tomorrow.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
Verbale smiled to himself. When he keyed in her number he had already decided he would give her the name of the chef at an upscale restaurant called The Diner. When he adlibbed by saying he had a letter written by her daughter it was a last minute flash of genius that would make this particular winning gamble one for the books.
• • •
Chapter Thirty-Five
At five a.m. on a weekday in July there was little traffic on the highway. Verbale felt sure that people in the few cars he passed would have no reason to notice and remember him. By the time he reached the turnoff to the chapel the sky revealed the reluctant grey-blue glow that precedes the dawn of another sun-scorched day, air stifling as a wool blanket.
He pulled off onto the dirt road and brought the Mercedes to a crawl to prevent a plume of dust. He wanted nothing that would draw attention. He eased the Mercedes into a spot he had selected on an earlier trip. Parked between an apparently unused barn and an empty packing shed the car was virtually invisible from the highway as well as from the field to the north, where agricultural workers might be getting an early start.
He had dressed in overalls with a tan shirt and work boots to make anyone who might notice him think he was just another field hand. He left the car and walked toward the tiny white chapel.
On the other side of the highway green produce with roots in irrigated and fertilized soil basked in the early morning sun for a mile or more in three directions. Behind the tiny church lay a dirt road built for tractors, and an empty field. Far across the field, a farmer’s hacienda with a red tile roof. Ahead, nothing but the land in its natural state: flat, dry, hard-packed and strewn with rocks. To the left a winding trail of small tree
s revealed the presence of underground water, a river bed spanned by the McPhaul Bridge, an eight hundred foot suspension bridge that had fallen into disrepair. Part had collapsed, leaving only a narrow path of metal reaching from bank to bank over the dry sand twenty feet below.
In front of the chapel a sign read “Pause Rest Worship.” The neat border of flowers around the building’s base, the steeple topped by a cross and three stained glass windows under the eaves gave the Lilliputian structure a look of authenticity.
He pictured the chapel’s interior, six pews and a tiny altar holding a guest book for signatures and comments by visitors. All the privacy and all the room he needed. It would be warm but not oven-hot and airless this early in the day. As he neared it, he felt a surge of power that seemed to rise from the dry soil underfoot but was reminiscent of another day and another encounter with a woman who had interfered with his goals. He had no plan to harm this old woman but perhaps some intimidation and hints of retribution for cooperating with the investigation were in order. He felt his heart beat quicken and the dew of excitement emerge on his forehead and upper lip.
The narrow chapel door was little more than six feet high. The nob turned easily and the door opened without a sound. He stepped inside. The room bore the scent of dust, drying wood and holiness, an ambiance that revolted him. He waited.
“God isn’t in there, and neither am I.”
The muffled voice seemed to come from nowhere. One step took him to the door. He jerked it open, stepped outside and saw her. The woman, this Sara Cameron, was small, plain, aging and poorly dressed. He looked more closely and decided she was a nondescript nobody with a blank face that said nothing but eyes that appeared to know everything.
Fatal Refuge: a Mystery/Thriller (The Arizona Thriller Trilogy Book 2) Page 19