On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  What the police report failed to address was what Gadasky was doing in the area. What made him run? Why hadn’t he bothered to report the incident to police?

  With the statement in hand, Books drove to the Gadasky home. Little had changed over the years. The property remained a wasteland of rusting metal hulks of every sort. A narrow dirt road snaked through the debris over a small rise to an old two-story clapboard house nestled in a sea of sagebrush and rock. As Books parked, a three-legged black lab raced around the side of the house, making a sound that resembled a cross between a bark and a howl.

  Ivan Gadasky climbed down from a backhoe he was using to dig fence post holes near the side of the house. Gadasky was a large man, thick through the neck, shoulders, and waist. He had a noticeable limp as he walked slowly toward Books. He mopped his brow with a blue gingham hankie he’d removed from the back pocket of his bib overalls. As he approached, Gadasky returned the hankie to his pocket and placed a Deere logo cap back on his head.

  “Gonna get damn hot today,” said Books.

  “Already is.” Gadasky extended a hand. Books shook it.

  “How have you been, Mr. Gadasky. It’s been a long time.”

  “Very long, indeed, J.D. Feeling old and a bit rundown at times, but, other than that, I’m doing fine. Think I know what brought you out here—Ronnie’s not around.”

  Despite many years in the states, Ivan Gadasky still spoke with a pronounced Eastern European accent. The family was Polish Catholic, if Books remembered correctly.

  “Where can I find him? It’s important that I talk with him as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Gadasky, “but I have no idea where he is or when he might return. When I got up this morning, he was already gone.”

  “And you have no idea where he went?”

  Gadasky sighed, “No, not really. The boy just up and disappears whenever it suits him. I think I upset him when I called the sheriff’s office last night. He didn’t want me to do that.”

  “How come?”

  “Didn’t want to get himself involved, I suspect. He’s become a pretty reclusive boy since the accident—wanders off into the wilderness whenever he gets the urge. No telling when he’s gonna go or when he might come back.”

  Books couldn’t tell if Gadasky’s tone was one of indifference, worry, or mere acceptance.

  “Does Ronnie happen to own any guns, Mr. Gadasky?”

  “He’s got an old .25 caliber pistol that he hasn’t used in years.”

  “Do you have firearms?”

  “One. It’s a 12-gauge Remington shotgun—keep it around to scare off varmints, two-legged or four.”

  “When Ronnie disappears, how does he get around?”

  “Mostly on foot, but he’s also got a dirt bike.”

  “What kind?”

  “2000 Kawasaki, 250 cc, a red one. I hope he’s not in trouble.”

  “He’s not. I just need to talk with him about what he saw on the Smokey Mountain Road last Sunday afternoon.”

  “Think he’s said about all he’s gonna say about that.”

  Books handed Gadasky his business card. “That may be true, but I’ve still got to try. What he saw might be really important—appreciate it if you’d call me when you hear from him.”

  Gadasky took the card, nodded, and then lumbered off to the back-hoe.

  Books returned to the Yukon and put out an immediate BOLO on Ronnie Gadasky and his red Kawasaki dirt bike. He also asked the dispatch office to notify State Fish and Game, the Forest Service, as well as the National Park Police. Given the vast expanse of the Grand Staircase Monument and nearby national parks, Books wasn’t holding his breath that Ronnie would turn up until he was good and ready.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Peter “the Rose” Deluca heard the telephone ring. He was in the greenhouse tending his delicate rose bushes. Reluctantly, he took off his gloves, set the scissors down, and went inside. “Yes,” he answered, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  “We have a problem.”

  “Nothing new about that. What is it this time?”

  “The job you did for us last weekend—somebody saw you.”

  Deluca sighed, “Well, I’m not surprised. I tried to tell you your plan was ill-conceived. That’s why my fee was so high. The target should have been left where I found him.”

  “Maybe, but we didn’t. Now we’ve got a problem, one I assume you can help us solve.”

  “Are you certain it’s necessary?”

  “Yes, it is. Failure to eliminate the problem could undermine everything we’ve done so far.”

  Deluca processed what he’d heard. He had never accepted a job that he hadn’t finished. He had a reputation to uphold. And besides, unfinished loose ends had a way of coming back to bite you.

  “All right, but my fee will be the same as the first time.”

  “Jesus, that’s a little steep, don’t you think, considering you’re the one who got careless and let somebody see you?”

  “Don’t waste my time. Do you want my help or not?”

  The line was silent. “All right, we’ll pay your fee, but get the job done as quickly as possible. And don’t let anyone see you this time.”

  Deluca wiped the sweat from his brow. “Think of it this way, if it makes you feel better. Much of your fee will be paid in tithe to the Catholic Church as part of my absolution for missing mass two weeks in a row. Besides, it’s a sin to labor on the Sabbath. Any good Catholic knows that.”

  “I never realized you were such a pillar of the Church, a regular St. Peter, you might say.”

  “Don’t mock me.” Deluca’s tone turned icy cold. “Father Gregory has asked me to consider studying to become a deacon in the parish.”

  “Will miracles never cease? Care to know who you’re looking for?”

  “Give me the information.” Deluca received a home address, a physical description of Ronnie Gadasky, and a short history of his troubled past.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes,” said Deluca.

  “There’s a cop running the investigation—a former Denver police detective, a real hotshot, they say.”

  “So?”

  “He’s the new BLM ranger. The local sheriff has turned the case over to him.”

  “And I should be quaking in my boots?”

  “Not necessarily, but I’m told he’s very good. He could become a problem.”

  There was a lengthy pause. “What’s his name?”

  “J.D. Books.”

  “I’ll check him out.” Deluca disconnected.

  Peter Deluca was the only son of a Chicago florist. His parents had emigrated from Italy to the U.S. in the early 1930s after the rise of Benito Mussolini. The family operated a thriving floral business on Chicago’s south side. Deluca’s love affair with flowers began at a young age in the family greenhouse at the hands of a stern but loving father. His mother, Maria, had died during childbirth. He couldn’t remember a time, other than a stint in the army, when flowers were not a part of his life.

  For a man who had spent the past several decades killing others for a living, nurturing flowers from seedling to bloom provided him with a sense of grounding, a belief that his life amounted to something other than death and destruction.

  ***

  To Books, Lillian Greenbriar seemed the quintessential English literature professor, with long brown hair pulled back into a bun, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and very little makeup. Victor Stein, on the other hand, looked like a lawyer for the stars. He could have passed for actor George Hamilton’s brother—a thick head of silver hair with streaks of black; an artificial Hollywood suntan that had to have been purchased somewhere; and a set of capped white teeth so bright they were the first thing you noticed about the man. His black pinstripe Armani suit looked out of place in Kanab, even if he was here to attend a funeral.

  They met at
noon in the sheriff’s office. After introductions, they settled down to business. Assuming a lawyer-like advocacy role, Stein began, “Perhaps, Ranger Books, you could take a moment and fill us in on the status of the investigation.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give you many specifics, but I can tell you that we now have a suspect and physical evidence linking this individual to the murder.”

  Greenbriar and Stein glanced at each other. Lillian asked, “What kind of evidence?”

  “Sorry, can’t get into that.”

  “Tell us, then, is an arrest imminent?” asked Stein.

  “Probably.”

  “That’s not exactly reassuring,” said Stein.

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” said Books.

  Books handed Lillian a list of names of David’s former colleagues. “Are any of these gentlemen going to be attending the memorial service?”

  Greenbriar glanced at the list. “Yes. Three of them plan to be here—Simpson, Gladwell, and Stone.”

  “My assistant still hasn’t been able to reach two of David’s former colleagues,” said Books. “We’d like to speak with Gladwell and Stone before they leave.”

  “In regard to what?” asked Stein.

  “I told Lillian that someone claiming to be an old colleague of David’s telephoned the EEWA office looking for him late Friday afternoon. We’re wondering whether it was one of David’s old friends or if it might have been the killer trying to determine his whereabouts.”

  “I see.” Stein pondered that bit of information.

  “Lillian, I need to ask a personal question,” said Books. “Did you and David ever attempt to have children?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” asked Lillian.

  “A fair question. I’m going to tell you something and ask that you both hold it in confidence. Agreed?”

  They both nodded.

  “Darby is pregnant and I need to know who the father is.”

  Lillian winced, obviously startled by this new information. “Well, it’s not David, I can tell you that.”

  Now it was Books turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “David was sterile. He couldn’t have children.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Absolutely sure. I can refer you to the Berkeley fertility clinic where David and I dropped several thousand dollars exploring options and being tested.”

  For a moment nobody spoke and then Lillian asked, “Do you believe this issue might be connected to David’s murder?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s possible. I’d like the fertility clinic information when it’s convenient.”

  “Okay. I’ll get it for you before we leave this afternoon.”

  “The suspect you mentioned. Could he be the father?” asked Stein.

  “Sorry, can’t answer that one.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Books stared out his office window, sorting out this new and unexpected information regarding the paternity of Darby Greenbriar’s child. If David wasn’t the father, who was? Lance Clayburn? Probably. Had Darby deliberately lied to him about the identity of the father? Did she know about David’s sterility? It was hard to imagine she didn’t.

  Was this another attempt to divert attention away from Lance Clayburn? Maybe Sutter had been right all along. Maybe they needn’t have looked any further than Clayburn to bring David Greenbriar’s killer to justice. Books had interrogated many murderers in his twelve years in Denver. Something about Lance Clayburn had left Books feeling decidedly uncertain about his guilt. The physical evidence, however, suggested something else entirely. Books knew that in Sutter’s mind this new revelation would only serve to confirm any suspicion about Clayburn’s guilt.

  Books was also concerned about leaks to the press, to local political hacks, and even to people involved with groups like the Citizens for a Free West, people who might have had a hand in the murder. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that either Sheriff Sutter or Brian Call was leaking information.

  Books hatched a plan. He dialed Brian Call’s number.

  “This is Call.”

  “Hey, Brian, I just picked up an important piece of information. I haven’t verified it yet, so keep it to yourself.”

  “No problem.”

  “David Greenbriar isn’t the father of Darby’s baby.”

  “Interesting. How’d you find that out?”

  “His ex, Lillian Greenbriar, told me. David was sterile.”

  “That means it’s gotta be Clayburn’s kid,” said Call.

  “That’s exactly what I think.” Books had set the hook. Now, would Call take the bait?

  “What else do you need me to do?” asked Call.

  “Two things. Steve Gladwell and Brad Stone are in town as part of the Berkeley contingent. Get yourself over to the memorial service and find out whether either of them called David last Friday evening.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “I want you to call the St. George Police Department. I’m sure they’d have a polygraph operator.”

  “They do.”

  “Clayburn has volunteered to take a poly, and I don’t want to give him time to reconsider. Schedule him as soon as possible, tomorrow preferably.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know about the poly. Are you going to be at the service today?”

  “Yeah. I want to see who shows up and who stays home. I also need catch up with Barry Struthers. It’s time to find out what he has to say about David’s murder.”

  After he got off the phone, Books headed to the sheriff’s office. When he walked in, Charley Sutter was sitting at his desk signing a stack of purchase requisitions.

  “Morning, Charley. Are you planning to attend Greenbriar’s memorial service this afternoon?”

  Sutter looked up. “Wasn’t planning to. Why? Should I?”

  “Not necessarily. What did you find out at Escobars?”

  “Exactly what you said I would. I spoke with the owners, Toby and Viola Gabaldon. They said Clayburn came in sometime late Sunday afternoon, three-thirty, maybe four o’clock.”

  Without looking up from his paperwork, Sutter added, “Doesn’t change anything, J.D. He still had time to commit the murder.”

  “Maybe so.” Books got up to leave.

  “See you at the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Books stopped at the office door. “What meeting?”

  “Oh, maybe I forgot to tell you. We’ve got an appointment with Virgil Bell at 11:00 a.m. in his office. We need to bring him up to speed on the investigation.”

  That meant only one thing. Sutter planned to press for criminal charges against Lance Clayburn.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Books arrived at Blanchard’s Mortuary shortly after the memorial service had begun. There was standing room only. He stood near the chapel’s entrance, next to Brian Call, where he had an unobstructed view of the room. As he scanned the chapel, Books saw Lance Clayburn sitting with Celia Foxworthy directly behind Darby Greenbriar. Although he had never met the man, Books was looking for Barry Struthers. Call pointed to a couple seated several rows behind Lillian Greenbriar and the Berkeley entourage.

  Struthers was a transplanted Californian who had earned a bundle as a Silicon Valley software engineer, so much in fact that he’d been able to retire at fifty. Initially, he and his wife had relocated to St. George, but he quickly became disillusioned with the uncontrolled real estate development and the burgeoning population. Within a year, they had settled in Kanab where Barry had immersed himself in a variety of environmental causes, including membership in the EEWA.

  The graveside ceremony following the memorial service was mercifully brief. The triple digit temperature was tempered by an afternoon breeze. Black cumulus clouds to the northwest threatened an imminent thunderstorm.

  At the conclusion of the service, Books introduced himself to Barry Struthers. He wasn’t expecting a wa
rm greeting, and Struthers didn’t offer one. He was polite but wary. Books had learned quickly that wearing a federal badge wasn’t endearing to locals, regardless of which side of the environmental chasm they were on. Struthers agreed to meet him for an interview at a nearby local restaurant.

  The distant crack of thunder rolled over the Grand Staircase as a persistent light rain turned red clay soil into a sticky mud. Books found Struthers seated in a corner booth at the Subway restaurant drinking a soda and munching on a package of Sun Chips.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” said Books.

  “No problem. I’m surprised I didn’t hear from you sooner.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s no secret that David and I didn’t see eye-to-eye when it came to running the organization.”

  “So I heard.”

  Struthers blew his nose and replaced the Kleenex in his pants pocket. “You and everybody else, it seems. So, what would you like to know, Mr. Books?”

  “In a nutshell, whether you had anything to do with David’s murder?”

  Struthers arched his eyebrows. “That’s what I like, a guy who doesn’t mince words or waste time. I don’t either.”

  “Good. So tell me what you and David disagreed so vehemently about.”

  “First of all, I wouldn’t characterize our disagreements as vehement. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye when it came to the operational activities of the EEWA, but we shared common ground when it came to identifying the threats.”

  “I’m confused,” said Books. “By threats, are you referring to the environmental issues confronting the EEWA and other Green groups?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are those threats?”