Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1)

by Victor Methos

  “I’ll tell you what it’s like, it feels like you can’t know anyone. Not really. There’s always caverns in their hearts that they’ll never reveal to you, no matter how close you think you are.”

  “It’s still worth it.”

  “Yeah,” he said, exhaling loudly.

  Dixon waited a beat before saying, “Well, I’m gonna head home, I guess.”

  “We’re not done, man. We’re not done by a long shot.”

  “Done with what?”

  Baudin turned to face him. “You know what.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  “We’re not cops anymore, man.”

  “I keep telling you, there is no law. We don’t need to be cops. But it’s gonna get dirty. If you can’t handle that, I’ll do it alone.”

  Dixon rose. “Where do you wanna start?”

  46

  Baudin smoked while he sat in the driver’s seat. Sigma Mu was about fifty feet ahead of him. He and Dixon were parked at the steepest part of the incline and had to fight gravity. Looking up the hill created an odd feeling, like moving through water. Dixon seemed calm, calmer than Baudin had seen him in a while. Making up his mind about a course of action could do that.

  “He may not come out tonight,” Dixon said.

  “He’ll come.”

  “How do you know?”

  Baudin tossed the cigarette into the ashtray of the car. “I’ll show you.”

  They left the car and crossed the street to the same side as the frat house. Trudging up the hill, Baudin felt like some grunt in the Spanish Civil War, or some other long forgotten conflict in which blood was spilt and no one remembered why. Or maybe he was the deserter. It didn’t matter to him either way.

  The red Volvo was parked out front at an angle. Baudin took the gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on as Dixon did the same.

  “You sure about this?” Dixon said. “Ain’t no going back.”

  “I crossed that line a long time ago. You sure you ready for it?”

  Dixon swallowed and looked at the house. “Let’s do it.”

  Baudin ran at the car, thrust out his foot, and slammed into it, leaving a large dent. The car swayed back and forth, and the alarm sounded: a piercing, shrill cry that broke the night’s silence. The two men ducked in front of the Volvo, the alarm so loud Baudin wished he’d thought to bring earplugs.

  Orridge ran out of the house. He stood on the lawn, pressing the alarm button on his keychain. He scanned the neighborhood a moment and then slowly examined his car.

  Baudin was on him in a second. He tackled him from behind, the impact knocking the breath out of Orridge, who couldn’t even get out a cry for help. Dixon wrapped a bag around his head as they duct-taped his wrists and ankles and dragged him into the darkness of the trees next to the house. Dixon sat on his back, pushing his weight into him.

  Baudin ran back and got the car, and they threw him into the backseat. As they sped away, Baudin looked into his rearview and didn’t see a single frat boy out on the porch checking up on what was happening.

  “You see that, Dustin?” Baudin said. “You really see who your friends are when you need ’em.”

  The car raced up the service streets before getting on the interstate. Orridge tried to get up several times, and every time Dixon would tighten the bag so he couldn’t breathe. When he behaved, Dixon would loosen it.

  The industrial section of Cheyenne was a mass of manufacturing plants, warehouses, and storage units. Baudin sped up the street at double the speed limit. He hit the brakes hard, Orridge flying into the seats in front of him and the car screeching to a stop, before turning into the parking lot of a warehouse.

  The warehouse, something he’d seen on his drives through the city, was abandoned. A “For Sale or Lease” sign was mounted on the side wall, covered in graffiti.

  The two of them dragged Orridge while he kicked and swore the entire time. But the boy was too frightened to put up any real resistance. It was more like the fighting of a drowning man, lashing out at anything that was near.

  The doors were padlocked, but the windows had been broken out and someone had gone in and opened several of the loading bay doors. Probably bored youths, or the homeless who made these buildings their temporary residences until the owners caught on.

  They dragged him in through the loading bay and tossed him on the floor. Baudin went back to the door and slid it down, slamming it shut, more for effect than anything else.

  The warehouse was empty except for some abandoned shelves. Cobwebs covered everything, and in the dim light of the moon, it gave the steel walls and the concrete floors an eerie, otherworldly glow.

  Baudin removed the bag from Orridge’s head. He’d taken his gloves off on the drive over, but now he put them back on, as did Dixon.

  “Dustin,” Baudin said, “I know you’re thinking this is bullshit and that you’re not gonna give us anything. You’re gonna fight us because you think your daddy will save you. But that’s not smart, my friend. It’s not smart because no one’s coming to save you.”

  Dustin, drenched in sweat, panting, watched the detectives. “You guys are cops. You guys are cops, you can’t do this shit!”

  Baudin came close and grabbed him by his hair. “I’m a very special type of cop.”

  Baudin swung with a left that slammed into the boy’s jaw. Before he could recover, Baudin flipped him onto the ground and kicked him in the head, and then the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Dixon stood by watching.

  “I wanna know why you confessed,” Baudin said.

  “’Cause I did it.”

  Baudin kicked him again, causing the boy to nearly vomit. He dry heaved, getting up to his hands and knees, and Baudin kicked him again, sending him sprawling onto his back. Before he could do anything else, Dixon came over and stopped him. He put his arm around Baudin’s chest and pulled him away.

  “We just want to scare him, not kill him.” Dixon approached the boy. “Sorry, man. He’s… I don’t know. He gets all worked up and just loses it. But he’s right. You gotta help us. I can only control him for so long.”

  Orridge spat a gob of blood onto the pavement. “I don’t know anything.”

  The statement was more a plea than anything else, so pathetic and hopeless that Baudin nearly grinned. He turned away from the boy, staring at the cavernous black of the empty warehouse, taking in the scents of dust and mildew.

  “Why did you confess, Dustin?” Dixon said. “We both know you didn’t do it.”

  Orridge began to cry. Dixon put his hand on his shoulder and let it go on for a few moments before saying, “Why?”

  “They told me they’d take care of it.”

  “Take care of it how?”

  “They said it would be dismissed before it went to a jury. That a lot of judges and lawyers were on our side.”

  Dixon looked at Baudin.

  “The bail,” Baudin said. “It was set lower than I’ve ever seen it for a murder. That’s why he’s out right now.”

  “Which judge?” Dixon said. “The one handling your trial?”

  “I don’t know. My dad told me I had to do it. That they’d take care of me.”

  Baudin stepped close to the boy, leaning down over him and causing Orridge to recoil. “Your father was a member of Sigma Mu, wasn’t he?”

  Orridge nodded.

  Dixon softly touched the boy’s hand. “Dustin, who killed Alli? It wasn’t you. Just be honest with us. Please.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know…” he cried. “But people are saying it was probably Casey.”

  “You know Casey?” Baudin said. “That’s his real name?”

  “I don’t know him. I just know ’bout him. People talk ’bout him. He was, like, a legend at S Mu.”

  “Where can I find him?” Baudin said.

  “I don’t know, man. I swear it. He’s got this, like, house up in Valley Mills. Some of the brothers been there. But I ain’t never been.
I ain’t important enough. I ain’t shit, man. I’m just fuckin’… I do whatever they tell me to.”

  Baudin looked at Dixon. “You know where Valley Mills is?”

  “It’s a neighborhood up 200 North. Prime stuff, expensive.”

  Baudin helped the boy up. “Dustin, I’m gonna find Casey. And if you go running to Daddy or your lawyer about this, I’m gonna tell Casey who sent us to him. You hear me, boy?”

  He nodded. “I won’t tell anybody.”

  “Good. Then you’re free to leave.”

  “I need a ride.”

  The detectives looked at each other. “Fine,” Dixon said. “Get in back.”

  47

  Jessop emailed Dixon and told him he was suspended with pay for a week. Baudin thought it was because it would look too odd to fire them over just asking the police chief a question related to a homicide.

  Hillary was gone for the day, and Dixon hadn’t told her about his suspension. That would be a conversation for tonight when she got home. He’d have today to himself to lounge around, watch sports, and not do a damn thing.

  As happened whenever he had days off and wasn’t sick, boredom set in after about an hour. He began combing through the fridge for snacks and then went outside and sat in a lawn chair, staring at his backyard and debating whether they should get a dog. Then he checked his cell phone. He told himself he was checking department email so he wouldn’t have a stack waiting for him when the suspension ended, but really he was waiting for a text from Baudin. Or maybe from Jessop, if Orridge decided to report their little scuffle the other night. But no texts like that came in.

  By midday, Dixon had taken a nap, read several newspapers online, eaten about twenty snacks, and watched two movies on Netflix. He decided the only way to feel like he was being productive was to dress the part, so he showered and changed into slacks and a suit coat.

  He left the house and headed for a nearby coffee shop. Ordering a black coffee with milk, he flirted a little with the cashier and felt bad about it. She was young, maybe nineteen, and was only being friendly because he was a customer, but it still made him feel young again and desirable.

  The coffee shop had shelves of books, and he scanned them before settling on one: Of Mice and Men. It seemed to be the shortest one up there.

  Dixon sat at a table by the window and began reading as he sipped his drink. When he was almost through, evening was falling outside, and he was hungry. Hillary should be home and readying dinner. He put the book back on the shelf, used the bathroom, and headed home.

  When he walked in the house, he noticed something he wasn’t used to upon entering the house later in the day: nothing cooking. He entered the kitchen to find Hillary sitting at the table. Her arms were folded, and she was staring into space. Her eyes lifted and held his in silence.

  “What is it?” he said. “What happened?”

  “We need to talk, Kyle. Please sit down.”

  Kyle grinned. “You need a new car again? I told you, when I get bumped up to lieutenant, which shouldn’t be too long now, we can—”

  “I don’t want a new car,” she said brusquely. “I need to talk to you.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “Okay. Here I am.”

  Her mouth opened, but she didn’t get a single word out before a knock at the door stopped her. Hillary’s eyes went wide and Dixon, suddenly, wondered who was at the door at this hour. He rose and answered it.

  Baudin stood there in a leather jacket with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “Ready?”

  “One sec,” Dixon said.

  He ran to the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet. On the top shelf was a gun safe. Dixon input the numerical code—Randy’s birthday—and got out his Browning revolver. He tucked it into his waistband and then went back out to the kitchen.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, kissing Hillary on the forehead.

  “When?”

  “Few hours. We’ll talk then. I promise.”

  The city always looked different at night. Dixon had never lived in any other city, and he wondered if it was the same everywhere. He thought about cavemen and what night was like for them. A disappearing of the life-giving sun without any guarantee it would rise again in the morning.

  Orridge had been telling the truth. Baudin had called his father, and he’d clammed up immediately and told them to speak to the family’s lawyer. The lawyer and Dustin’s father were both alums of Sigma Mu, as were two judges in Laramie County District Court and the District Attorney. Dixon had no doubt that Dustin Orridge never would have gotten anywhere near a jury. It certainly would’ve halted their investigation, and once a defendant was released—say, for a legal technicality—the detectives assigned to the case were usually reluctant to spend time pursuing him again. Especially if the chief of police told them not to. Or, more likely, gave the case to other detectives who wouldn’t care about it as much.

  “How’s Heather?”

  “Good. Not great, but good. She thought she’d be doing me a favor by killing herself. Like my life would be better without her in it. I told her she was my life. That nothing else meant anything. She cried for a while… and we talked about her mother. Something we’ve never done before.”

  Dixon glanced to him. “What was her mother like?”

  “Fiery, man,” he said with a smile. “All piss and vinegar. When we were dating, that’s what attracted me to her. That confidence and assertiveness, the aggression. But those aren’t the qualities you need to be a good mom and wife. You need compassion and forgiveness, and she never learned those. She was angry at us, but it turned inward, into depression.” He paused. “I heard once that women marry men hoping they’ll change and men marry women hoping they won’t. Ain’t that the shit.”

  “Marriage isn’t an easy thing for anybody.”

  “How’s Hillary as a wife?”

  “The best a guy could ask for. I don’t know how a jackoff like me earned her.”

  Baudin was silent for a second. “That neighbor of yours—Chris. What do you know about him?”

  “Chris Hicks? He’s a good guy. Bad luck with the ladies, though. Always hoppin’ from one woman to the next. We were supposed to go on a double date but that fell through. He probably would’ve just screwed it up anyway. Why you askin’ ’bout him?”

  “I don’t trust him. And I can read people pretty quick.”

  “Oh yeah? What was your read on me?”

  He grinned. “Naïve, but with a good heart.”

  “Funny. I thought the same thing of you.”

  The drive on the interstate was quick, not much traffic. They passed the scene of an accident, a truck that had rammed a sedan from behind. A woman on a stretcher was being loaded into an ambulance.

  Valley Mills was about a hundred homes, one of the most exclusive areas in all of Wyoming. The gates entering the development were closed, and a security guard sat in a booth, his feet up on a desk and his face in a magazine. He looked up and was putting the magazine down when Baudin flashed a badge. The guard nodded and opened the gate before going back to his magazine.

  “Where’d you get that?” Dixon said.

  “You only got one badge?”

  “Yeah, I only got one badge.”

  “So what happens if it gets stolen or you lose it?”

  “I put in a request for a new one.”

  Baudin chuckled. “Man, it is different out here. You lose the gold shield with the LAPD, you better run online and see if you can get a good replica. It’s about the worst thing that could happen. The bangers there like them as trophies. They’ll wear ’em around their necks as an insult to us. No one puts in for lost badges, man. You won’t be respected.”

  “Well, that’s childish. Stuff gets lost. You telling me you never lost your badge?”

  “I have. That’s why I keep a spare.”

  Within a hundred yards of the gate, the homes grew from two or three bedrooms to palatial est
ates with lighted pools in back. Dixon could see a pool party at one, girls in bikinis and boys running after them on the deck.

  “You ever get jealous of the rich?”

  “No, man. They’re as miserable as everybody else. Life is one ridiculous thing after another, and it doesn’t matter if you’re homeless or a millionaire. You go through the cycle enough times, you start sensing the futility of it. How absurd it is that we take ourselves so seriously.”

  “Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

  Baudin parked the car at the curb. “Good a place as any, I guess.”

  “How exactly you plannin’ on finding this house?”

  He shrugged. “Just thought we’d check every house for furniture with plastic on it.”

  Dixon chuckled. “Well, we gonna be out here for a while, then.” He thought a moment. “There’s probably no one living in the house, right? So maybe we look for something that doesn’t have lights on. And then it’s unlikely they’re here right now, so probably something without cars in the driveway.”

  Baudin opened his door. “Good enough.”

  48

  It was well past midnight by the time Baudin and Dixon stood in front of a home up on the farthest hill in Valley Mills. Dixon scanned the area. The most secluded home was set apart from the others by at least thirty yards, with no lights on and no cars in the driveway.

  Dixon approached the house and stepped up onto the porch. He peeked through one of the windows but couldn’t see anything. The drapes were thick and black. As he turned to head back down the porch, he noticed the lock on the front door: thick, round, and sturdy, something that should be on a vault, not a home in this neighborhood. The door itself was reinforced, as were the windows.

  “Dollars to donuts this is it,” Dixon said.

  “Well,” Baudin said, lighting a cigarette, “only one way to find out.”

  “It might have an alarm.”

  “If it’s our house, it won’t. They wouldn’t want the cops coming out here for false trips.”