Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1)

by Victor Methos

  She found some Oreos and put a few on a plate. Carefully, she took out each cookie and spread them on the plate evenly. Seeing her like this, in the kitchen, felt like a weight bearing down on Baudin’s chest. An ache he neither acknowledged nor denied.

  “Molly’s coming over to babysit tonight,” he said, pulling an ashtray close.

  “Who’s Molly?”

  “My cousin. You’ve met her. You were just young.”

  “Why’s she coming to babysit?”

  He tapped the ash off his cigarette and took only one more drag, knowing how much it annoyed Heather when he smoked in front of her. “I have to go out for a minute. Won’t be long.” He rose and kissed her forehead. “I love you, baby.”

  As he was leaving, she said, “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like it here. Are we ever gonna go back home?”

  He hesitated. “This is our home now, baby. For better or worse.”

  When night had fallen, Baudin dressed in jeans and a tank top, exposing the myriad tattoos that sleeved his arms. He tucked his badge away in his pocket and put on the ankle holster with its Smith & Wesson before pulling the jeans over.

  Molly pulled up just then and limped across the yard to the front door. He answered before she rang the doorbell.

  “What’s wrong?” Baudin asked.

  “Damn gout,” she said, brushing past him and sitting down on the couch. “They call it rich man’s disease, but I got it without the riches.”

  “You sure you okay to do this?”

  She waved him off. “Fine. Just get me the clicker.”

  He handed her the remote to the television. “She’s watching TV in her room. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. Make sure she does her homework.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “To make some friends.”

  She guffawed. “Shit. Since when do you need friends?”

  “Since I moved to a new city and the only person I know is my crippled-ass cousin.”

  She cackled and looked at him. “Stay outta trouble, Ethan. This ain’t LA. The people in charge here ain’t scared of the common folk like over there.”

  “I will. Thanks for doing this.”

  The night air was warm and stuck to the skin. He pulled out his cigarettes again and lit a fresh one, letting it dangle in his mouth as he got into his Mustang and pulled away.

  The city was small but spread out to make it appear larger than it was. Like any other city, night was when the real inhabitants came out. The ones who were all smiles and goodness when the sun was out but who changed when darkness came.

  Some of the research he’d done at the precinct was related to the prostitutes in Cheyenne. Going on to some local forums, he had discovered that the best place to find them was a Motel 6 intersection in the heart of the city.

  Up until the 1960s, prostitution had been legal in Cheyenne. The locals were long-haul truckers, ranchers, miners, and laborers, with few women residing there back then. The powers that be had decided the men needed their release, and prostitutes from all over had flooded the city only to find the population was, by and large, broke. Slowly, the prostitutes left, and eventually the practice was technically outlawed, though Baudin doubted the law was ever enforced.

  Back in Los Angeles, he’d had a network of contacts. The three most valuable types were crime reporters, drug dealers, and prostitutes. The prostitutes were the best of the three. They were always on the streets with their ears to the ground, always knew what was going on in their neighborhoods.

  The Motel 6 looked shabby and rundown. Up the street was a group of half a dozen women. A few were wearing little more than lingerie. He put his hands in his pockets and approached them.

  “You lookin’ for company?” one of them said as he walked by.

  He stopped and looked them over. Some were grizzled veterans with vacant eyes, and some were fresh out of the box, looking as though they’d just woken up in a dream but didn’t know they were dreaming. A girl in white clothing leaned against a lamppost, her long blond hair past her shoulders, her arms folded. A little gold purse dangled from her fingers.

  Baudin brushed past the others and went to her. She watched him with blue eyes, a blue he could clearly see in the dim light of the street lamp.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She stared at him a moment. “Whether we’re fuckin’ or drinkin’, it’ll cost you the same.”

  He grinned. “There someplace close we can go?”

  She hesitated before looking over at someone, a woman sitting in a car. “Down here.”

  They strolled along the sidewalk to a bar with a neon sign out front. She didn’t speak a word to him until they were inside and sitting down.

  The bar was barely lit, and the bang of pool balls echoed behind them. Baudin ordered two beers, and the bartender set them down over napkins. He took an ice-cold sip that made his teeth hurt.

  “So you just looking for a party?” she asked.

  He lit a cigarette, offered her one, and lit that as well. “No, not exactly. I’m a cop. I’m surprised you didn’t make me.”

  “Everyone’s odd here, honey. That don’t mean nothin’.” She exhaled a puff of smoke through her nostrils. “I ain’t broke no laws.”

  “Even if you had, that’s not what I’m interested in.”

  “What you interested in, then?”

  He inhaled the smoke softly, letting the tobacco flavor whirl around in his mouth. He’d been trying to quit for the better part of six months, but when he moved out here, he’d quietly started again and didn’t know why. “Information, from time to time.”

  “What kind?”

  “Nothin’ that’ll get you in trouble. There’ll be cases where I’ll need to know what’s being said on the street.”

  “The street, huh?” she said with a grin. “You talk like you on a TV show. You don’t talk like no cop from around here. And I know all the cops around here. They my best customers.”

  “I bet.” He took a long drink of beer then went back to his cigarette. “I’m from LA.”

  “California?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I been tryin’ to get to California for a long time. Leave this place and just go somewhere where the sun don’t stop shinin’.”

  “Whatever problems you got here, they’ll follow you there, too. Movin’ don’t solve ’em.”

  “Then why’d you move?”

  “This ain’t about me. You interested?”

  “I don’t know. What do I get for what’s bein’ said on the street?”

  “I’ll help you out whenever you call me. Nothing too serious. You get busted dealing dope, you’re on your own. But solicitation, possessing pot, DUIs, violent johns, things like that, you call me.”

  She nodded, holding the cigarette up and staring at the tip. “Had this trick once that burned me with these. Burned me all up and down my back. He was just laughin’ like it weren’t nothin’.”

  “Now that’s exactly the type of thing you call me for. I’ll make sure he never does something like that again. What’s your name?”

  “Candi.”

  “Your real name.”

  “That is my real name. Candi-Jean Carlson.”

  “Candi-Jean. I like that.” He held out his hand, leaving the cigarette between his lips. “Ethan Baudin. Pleasure.”

  She shook, a smile on her face. “No, you definitely ain’t like the cops out here.”

  “No, I definitely am not.”

  4

  The church had nearly emptied. Kyle Dixon chatted with a few other volunteers. After serving the food, he’d decided to stay and help them clean up. The homeless in Cheyenne weren’t numerous, but they were needy. The city had no shelters since the Comea House closed, or food kitchens, so the local churches were the only way they got fed.

  Dixon took off his apron and walked back to the altar. He k
nelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed for his family and friends and the homeless who froze in the winter and starved in the summer. When he was through, he rose and left the church without looking back.

  About halfway to his neighborhood he had to flip on his headlights. His home sat in the middle of a partially finished development. The developer had run out of money and was in bankruptcy proceedings.

  He parked in the garage and got out. A child’s bike, still in the box, leaned against the wall. He’d bought it last Christmas. His wife, Hillary, had told him they shouldn’t buy anything for the baby at only four months, but he couldn’t help it. The bike spoke to him when he saw it.

  Inside, he was met by the smell of cooking meat. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the dining table. Hillary had a pot and two pans going on the stove. He quietly came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. Her neck smelled like lotion, something fruity, and he kissed it and nibbled on her ear.

  “Oh, mister, please stop. My husband will be home soon.”

  “Well, he’s got a fight on his hands then, ’cause I ain’t lettin’ go.”

  She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck. “How was work?”

  “Good, I guess,” he said, kissing her then pulling away and going to the fridge. “Got a new partner.”

  She turned back to the food. “Yeah? Who?”

  “Ethan something. He used to be LAPD, and now he’s out here.”

  “Oh, that sounds interesting. You two hit it off?”

  He popped the top on an apple juice and took a long pull. “More or less. Where is he?”

  “He’s sleeping. Don’t wake him up.”

  “I just wanna see him.”

  Dixon rounded a corner and crossed the hallway. He came to a bedroom and poked his head in. His son, Randy, was wrapped up tight and lying on his back in a crib. Dixon had built the crib from scratch. It had taken him three months to do it because he didn’t want any imperfections. He enjoyed the fact that his boy slept in something made with his own two hands.

  He crossed the room and peered down at his boy, with his cherubic face—chubby cheeks and little nose. Dixon kissed his own finger and then placed it on the boy’s forehead before leaving the room.

  Hillary was setting the table when he got back to the kitchen. He leaned against the wall and watched her. She hadn’t changed much since college. Same figure, similar clothes, but her hairstyle had completely changed. He watched her until she noticed and smiled.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  He kissed her again and sat down at the table. As he sat, he caught a reflection of himself in the balcony’s sliding glass doors. Though she looked the same, he looked older and tired. She sat across from him and served the food.

  “Ain’t we forgettin’ something?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Grace.”

  “Oh,” she said with a grin. “Yeah.”

  They both bowed their heads, and Dixon said a quick prayer thanking the Lord for the food. He then took up his fork and dug into the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes.

  “What’d you do today?” he said.

  “Nothing much. Went shopping with Brianne, cleaned the house… nothing worth talking about. Do you have any new cases?”

  He shook his head and lifted a piece of steak to his lips. “Not really. Been slow the past couple of weeks.”

  “That must be nice.”

  He chewed a moment before saying, “Well, it has—”

  The home phone cut him off. He looked over at it, waiting to see if it would ring again. When it did, he laid his silverware and napkin on the table and rose. The phone—which they only had because their alarm system, installed by the only company that served the area, required a home phone—never rang. He answered.

  “Hello?”

  Silence on the other end.

  Dixon waited a moment. “I can hear you breathing. Just tell me what you want… hello? Hello? I can hear your damn breathing.”

  The line clicked. He pushed star six nine, but the digital voice said that the last incoming call was a blocked number.

  “Third time this week,” he said.

  Hillary was staring down at her plate. He sat back down and watched her a moment.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s just weird.”

  “Just some pervert hoping you’ll answer. If we could get any other alarm company out here, I’d toss that damn phone. Maybe just don’t answer it anymore. No one we wanna talk to calls on that line anyway.”

  She nodded, sipping her water, not meeting his eyes.

  5

  In the morning, Dixon rolled over and put his arm around his wife. She was wearing a see-through nightie, and her breasts were plump with pink nipples. He placed his hand over one and kissed her neck. She smiled but kept her eyes closed. He pushed his hips against her backside and ground into her… and the baby started crying.

  His head drooped against her shoulder, and he said, “Any way we can ignore that for, like, five minutes?”

  “Not a chance,” she said, throwing off the covers.

  He pulled away and rolled onto his back. “Didn’t think so.”

  A painting of Christ on the cross hung on the wall over their bed. He didn’t remember where he’d got it, a garage sale or swap meet, something like that, but he remembered thinking that Christ’s face looked… it wasn’t pained, not really; it was more apathetic. As though he’d accepted that this was his fate.

  Dixon swung his feet over the bed and rose to shower. Cold showers prevented him from lingering when he was in a hurry. When he was finished, he dressed in slacks and a sports coat and polished his wedding ring with a handkerchief before slipping it back on.

  Breakfast was toast and coffee and a quick kiss for Hillary and Randy. He got all the way to the door before he turned back and picked up his boy. He held the infant against his chest and rocked him, laying kisses on his bald head. He handed him back to Hillary and then reluctantly left the house.

  His house was his castle, his refuge from the world and the job. He’d seen a lot of cops eaten up by the job, and he guessed it was because they didn’t have a place like this where the outside world couldn’t penetrate. People needed a place to feel as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  The drive to the precinct was quick, and he only got to listen to a few songs. He parked in the officer parking in back and stepped out. A few uniforms lingered by the door, eating bagels and sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups. He nodded hello and went inside.

  Rhonda, the receptionist for the detective’s division, was eating a slice of pie and reading a trashy celebrity gossip website.

  “When’s the next barbeque?” she asked without looking up.

  “Any time you and the boys want to come over, just ask. Give Hillary a call and set it up. Oh, hey, did Jonathan Fillion call? He’s that DV case, said his wife beat him up.”

  “Nope.”

  “If he calls for me, just set up a time for him to come in. He refused to fill out a witness statement last time, and I want him recorded.”

  “Will do.”

  Dixon crossed the bullpen to his own desk. Baudin was already seated across from him, his face buried in a book. Dixon took off his sports coat and slung it on the back of his chair before sitting down. He hit the power button on his computer. It would take another five minutes to boot up.

  The five minutes passed without a word between them. The only sound Baudin made was flipping pages, and Dixon tried not to look at him but couldn’t help it. He had this intense look of concentration on his face, and it didn’t seem that he’d even notice if Dixon spoke directly to him.

  Dixon rose. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Baudin said softly.

  The coffee maker was in the break room, and getting coffee gave Dixon a chance to be alone. He poured a cup, leaned against the fridge, and took a couple
of sips before going back to his desk. Baudin still had his face buried in the book. Dixon glanced at the title: The Poetry of Baudelaire.

  “Kyle, Ethan, get your asses in my office,” Jessop bellowed through his open door.

  The men glanced at each other and stood.

  Jessop’s bland and windowless office didn’t have any photos up anywhere, and the only decoration was a fake plant in the corner. Jessop sat behind the old gray desk, and a man in a gray suit with cowboy boots sat on the couch against the wall, a white Stetson on the cushion next to him. He seemed preoccupied with a toothpick that was darting in and out of his mouth.

  “You two caught a case the sheriff’s handing off to us. I want you to get out there. We got forensics and the sheriff’s people on the scene. They haven’t removed the body yet.”

  “What is it?” Dixon said, sitting down.

  “Young female, about twenty or so. Cut up pretty bad. That’s all I know.”

  Dixon looked at Baudin, who seemed focused on a large nick on Jessop’s desk.

  “I want this handled delicately,” Jessop said. “Work it straight and clean. The chief himself offered to take this from the sheriff’s office. They don’t have the experience with homicides that we do. So don’t shit all over it.”

  Dixon was quiet a moment. Jessop had never called him into the office to hand him a case. This was a show for the man on the couch. Dixon looked at him. The toothpick was now hanging from his lip as he stared at the two detectives.

  Dixon rose. “Where’s the body?”

  The long drive took them through vacant desert. Baudin drove, and Dixon relaxed in the leather seat. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a colorful snake, wood with red, white, green and black paint.

  “What’s that?” Dixon asked.

  “Spirit snake. The Navajo think we all have a snake in the spirit world, and if we connect to it, it’s good luck.”

  “You believe that?”

  “No. No such thing as luck.”

  A long silence followed. Baudin didn’t turn on the stereo, and Dixon didn’t attempt to, either. He kept his eyes out the passenger window, on the mounds of dry dirt and tumbleweeds, the bushes and trees that looked as if they’d survived a fire.