“What do you make of that?”
“It tells me Call probably separated from the department involuntarily. It also tells me he probably hung around with some bad boys. The intelligence division spends a lot of time tracking associations among a broad range of unsavory characters—pimps, drug dealers, gamblers, and, of course, organized crime figures. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Deluca finished his breakfast and then drove a short distance to a convenience store with a pay phone out front. He used the phone book and tried to find a listing for Rebecca Eddins. There wasn’t one, but there was a listing for R. Eddins in Kanab. Deluca figured if she was single and living alone, she might opt for a nonpublished number or drop her first name and use an initial instead.
He jotted the phone number and address on a napkin he’d taken from the restaurant. He dialed the number and waited. After several rings the call transferred into voice mail. A pleasant, female voice said, “You have reached Rebecca Eddins, please leave a message. If you are calling about possible legal services, please call my law office at (435)649-7200.”
Deluca hung up. He made a second call to the home of Ronnie Gadasky. “Is Ronnie there, please?”
“No, he ain’t. Who’s this?”
“My name is Elliott Sanders. I’m a reporter with the Las Vegas Sun Times. I’m here covering the Greenbriar murder, and I’ve been asked to do a story on Ronnie. Do you happen to know when he might return?”
“No, mister, I don’t—can’t imagine why you want to talk to Ronnie, anyway. He’s dumber than a sack of horse poop.”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“George, George Gadasky. I’m his brother.”
“Okay, George,” said Deluca. “Would you happen to know where I might find Ronnie?”
There was a lengthy pause. “Depends. How bad you wanna find him?”
“I’m very anxious to talk with him. If you could take me to him, George, I’ll make it worth your time.”
“How much?”
“How about a hundred bucks?”
“My time’s worth more than that.”
“Well, how much would you like?”
“Oh, I’d have to have at least two hundred.”
“Consider it done. When can we leave?”
“Soon as I finish my chores. You wanna come out here?”
“No. Why don’t I meet you someplace?”
“Okay. Do you know where the turnoff is to the old Paria movie set?”
Deluca almost choked. “Yes, I do. It’s outside Kanab, off Highway 89, right?”
“That’s it,” said George. “Meet me there this afternoon at one o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
Books still had an hour until the eleven o’clock meeting with prosecuting attorney Virgil Bell, so he drove to the home of Ivan Gadasky, hoping Ronnie had returned since he last talked with the old man. Ivan wasn’t there, but the three-legged lab was, and so was Ronnie’s older brother, George.”
“Hey, J.D., how ya been?”
“Good, George. How about you? It’s been a long time.”
“Damn straight. How about fifteen years.”
His math wasn’t very good, but close enough. “About right.”
George invited him in. “What brings ya out this way, J.D.?”
“Maybe your dad didn’t mention it, but I’m trying to find Ronnie.”
“You and everybody else.”
Books frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, some reporter called lookin for him. The flakey little bastard’s become a real celebrity.”
“You mean that little weasel from the Kane County Citizen?”
“Mr. Christensen. No, it weren’t him.”
“Who was it?”
George scratched his chin. “Said his name was Elliott somethin-or-other, Sanders, I think he said.”
“Did he say who he worked for?”
“Yeah. He mentioned some newspaper in Las Vegas.”
“The Las Vegas Sun Times?”
“I think that was it,” said George.
“What did he want?”
“Said he wanted to interview Ronnie for some story he was doing about the murder.”
“What did you tell him?”
George lied. “Told him I got no idea where he’s at.”
Books handed him a business card. “If you hear from Ronnie, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him to call me. I really need to talk with him.”
George looked at the business card and said, “I’ll do it, J.D.”
***
Books arrived ten minutes late for the meeting with prosecutor Virgil Bell. His office was located in an old brick home on the north end of Kanab that had been remodeled into a law office. A receptionist escorted him to a small conference room in the rear of the house that at one time had been a bedroom.
Seated at the conference table were Charley Sutter, Brian Call, and a short, pudgy man in his early forties with a receding hairline, a bad comb-over, and pasty, yellow skin that made him look like he was suffering from jaundice. Sutter made the introduction. Books could only shake his head in frustration at Sutter’s decision to allow Call to attend the meeting. Clearly, Call was the source of leaks to the press, and to anybody else interested in hearing the local gossip. If Call’s motive was to bias the local jury pool should Lance Clayburn be brought to trial, he was doing a good job of it.
Virgil Bell had Greenbriar’s file opened on the table in front of him. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve completed my review of the file, and I believe I’m ready to make a decision.”
Glancing at Books, Bell continued. “I understand there is some disagreement about what course of action this office should take. Perhaps, Ranger Books, I could ask you to share your concerns about proceeding against the prime suspect in the case, Lance Clayburn.”
“You mean the only suspect,” said Sutter, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
Books explained the timeline problem, but when pressed by Bell, he was forced to acknowledge the possibility that Clayburn could have returned to Kanab in time to have committed the murder.
When Books finished, Bell said, “Anything else?”
“Only that David Greenbriar was a lightning rod for controversy in this community. There were plenty of people who hated the man and everything he stood for.”
“So, do you have any other suspects?” Bell asked.
Books had walked into that one leading with his chin. “Nobody that I can make a case against, at least not at the moment.”
“The evidence seems more than convincing,” said Bell. “You’ve got physical evidence—Mr. Clayburns fingerprints found at the crime scene. Then you have Clayburn calling the EEWA office trying to locate the victim on the Friday before the murder. The investigation further established that Greenbriar was killed with a .30-06 rifle, a weapon Clayburn owns, but now, conveniently, he can’t seem to find. Then you uncovered an extramarital affair between Clayburn and Darby Greenbriar. When you put it all together, it makes a pretty compelling case for a murder charge.”
Books couldn’t deny it.
Sutter added. “Plus, we just learned that Darby is pregnant and that her late husband isn’t the father.”
Bell frowned. “Who is?”
“Good question,” replied Sutter. “It’ll probably turn out to be Lance Clayburn’s kid, but at the moment, Darby insists that it’s David’s child.”
For the first time, Call spoke. “Greenbriar’s ex-wife, Lillian, maintains that David was shootin’ blanks—says she’s got medical documents that prove it.”
“Have you verified that?” asked Bell.
“Not yet,” said Sutter, “but we will.”
Looking directly at Books, Bell had one last question. “What do you see as the weaknesses in the case, assuming it goes to trial?”
“I
’m no lawyer, but if I were defending the case,” said Books, “I’d hang my hat on reasonable doubt. We were able to place Clayburn in Las Vegas midmorning on Sunday. I’d argue that the likelihood of his returning to Kane County in time to commit this murder were slim to none. Don’t forget, Clayburn had to get back to Kanab, but he also had the problem of how to find Greenbriar in the nearly two-million-acre Grand Staircase National Monument.”
Bell shrugged. “Frankly, we’ve got enough evidence linking Clayburn to the crime that we should be able to overcome the lack of opportunity defense, if that’s what they decide to try.”
“You might be right,” replied Books. Looking directly at Call, he said, “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see a defense motion seeking a change of venue.”
“What makes you say that?” said Bell.
“Because somebody’s been intentionally leaking information to anybody who’ll listen. A good defense lawyer is going to want this trial moved to a different location, preferably to a large metropolitan area where there’s at least a shot at getting an unbiased jury.”
Call’s face suddenly reddened and his body stiffened.
Bell yawned, looking somewhere between indifferent and bored. “If it happens, it happens. No sense worrying about it unless it does.”
The meeting ended exactly the way Books figured it would. Bell would file a murder one charge against Clayburn with special circumstances. That would make him eligible for the death penalty if a jury convicted him of first-degree murder. Sheriff Sutter could make the arrest just as soon as a judge signed the warrant.
Books turned to Brian Call. “What about the polygraph exam for Clayburn?”
“The detective sergeant who handles lie detector tests for St. George P.D. has been on vacation,” said Call. “I managed to get it scheduled for Monday morning at ten o’clock. That’s his first day back.”
“You probably ought to cancel the appointment. Once you arrest him, Clayburn’ll be lawyered-up before you can blink. There won’t be a poly once he’s arrested.”
“Has he agreed to take the test?” Bell asked.
“He did.”
Bell turned to Sutter. “Your call, Charley. I don’t care one way or the other, but Books has a point. Once you bust Clayburn, the poly is probably history.”
“I’d feel better with Clayburn in jail,” said Sutter. “We’ll still make the poly available to him if he’s willing to take it.”
Bell turned to Sutter. “Then it’s decided. Somebody needs to go to work on the affidavit. Once you’ve got a draft of the probable cause statement, bring it to me and I’ll look it over before it goes to the judge. In the meantime, I’ll have my paralegal prepare the charging documents. I’ll file the paperwork first thing Monday morning in district court.”
“Any problem if I schedule a news conference announcing the arrest?” asked Sutter. “That should get the press off my ass for a while.”
“Not a problem,” said Bell, “except I think it should be a joint press conference with both of us in attendance.”
Sutter agreed.
Chapter Thirty-two
Sutter and Brian Call went to work on the arrest warrant. Books realized that if he was lucky, he might have as much as twenty-fours hours before Lance Clayburn would be arrested. There was a lot to do and very little time.
Books returned to his office hoping he’d find a message from Grant Weatherby. He didn’t. While he waited, he decided to examine David Greenbriar’s day planner. Darby had given it to him days before, and he hadn’t taken the time to go through it. He discovered that the planner contained a comprehensive record of the victim’s activities from the beginning of the year until his August murder, and it did so in startling detail. Greenbriar had been a meticulous record-keeper.
Books noticed the amount of time Greenbriar spent in Salt Lake City during the state legislative session in January and February. He had testified in front of both house and senate committees on a variety of environmental bills.
Some days his appointment calendar was filled with meetings with state legislators from both sides of the aisle. He moved from legislator to legislator in fifteen- to thirty-minute intervals. There was also a detailed record of numerous lunches and dinners in which it appeared Greenbriar was schmoozing state legislators over one environmental issue or another.
At first, nothing seemed to jump off the pages. Then he noticed that one name appeared repeatedly. The man’s name was Randall Orton. Who was Orton and what was his relationship with Greenbriar? A telephone call to a public information office at the state capitol revealed that Orton was a former state senator turned lobbyist. He lived an hour north of Kanab in the small town of Panguitch. Books was given a phone number and told that Orton Associates operated from an office in Randall Orton’s home.
Books called Charley Sutter. “Yeah, J.D.”
“How’s that warrant coming?”
“Slow but steady. It’d go a lot quicker if you were here writing it.”
“I’ll drop around in a little while and take a look at it. That okay?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“What do you know about a guy named Randall Orton?”
Sutter paused. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, J.D. The Ortons are an old cattle-ranching family from southern Utah. Randy served two terms in the state senate and then figured out that there were a lot of available perks working as a lobbyist. The day his second term ended, he became a registered lobbyist.”
“Who does he typically represent?”
Sutter chuckled. “Anybody with a fat bank account. Just kidding. I don’t have any specifics, but I’m pretty sure he’s represented mining and timber interests as well as the Utah Cattleman’s Association. What makes you ask?”
“His name has come up in the Greenbriar case.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I’ll tell you as soon as I find out. All I know now is that Orton’s name appears repeatedly in Greenbriar’s planner. There wasn’t a month between January and the time of his murder when the two weren’t in touch by phone or face-to-face, sometimes both.”
“Give him a call. I’m sure he’ll tell you,” said Sutter.
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Books had to give some credit to Charley Sutter. If the sheriff was worried about him continuing to chase leads, he wasn’t saying anything about it. Books dialed Orton’s number, and a pleasant sounding woman, probably his wife, answered the phone. A minute later, Orton picked up. Books introduced himself and explained his role in the Greenbriar murder investigation.
Orton spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, carefully enunciating each syllable of every word. “I recognize your name from the newspaper and television coverage of the story. It’s a terrible crime, a real tragedy. I’m so sorry for his family. I actually met Mrs. Greenbriar once or twice. I hope you apprehend whoever is responsible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Orton. We’re doing our best. I wonder if you could tell me the nature of your relationship with David. The reason I ask is that your name appears frequently in his planner in the months leading up to his death.”
Orton took a moment to carefully measure what he was about to say. “In my lobbying practice, I am frequently retained to represent a diverse group of clients whose primary interest is in economic development—specifically companies in industries that will provide economic growth and jobs, particularly in rural parts of Utah.”
“Are those companies mostly from the mining and timber industries?”
“Yes. Those as well as farm and ranching interests,” replied Orton.
“Would it be a safe bet,” said Books, “that you typically do not carry the banner for environmental groups like the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA) or David Greenbriar’s organization, the EEWA?”
“Yes. That would be a safe bet, Mr. Books,” he chuckled.
“Then wh
y all the contact with Greenbriar in the months preceding his death?”
“In this instance, I had been hired by a Las Vegas public relations firm to try to negotiate a reasonable solution with the EEWA and SUWA to the road expansion problem in southern Utah wilderness areas.”
“You mean you were trying to get those organizations to stop engaging in activities that might hamper the road expansion plans of your clients—activities like filing law suits.”
“Precisely,” said Orton. “We were hoping that we might reach some reasonable compromise that would facilitate economic growth and job creation in southern Utah.”
“And I take it they weren’t buying.”
“That’s right. There wasn’t an ounce of compromise in SUWA or the EEWA, I’m sorry to say.”
“I’ll need the name of the Las Vegas PR company that hired you.”
“Certainly. That would be Valley Public Relations and Marketing, LLC. The individual you need to speak with is Candace Fleming. She runs the place.”
After the call, Books sat at his desk. Why would a Las Vegas PR firm retain a Utah hired gun to lobby environmental groups to promote economic development in Utah? It didn’t make sense.
Books went on-line to the Nevada state government’s official web site. With a handful of key strokes, he found himself on the home page of the Nevada Department of Business Regulation and Licensing. He plugged in the business name Orton had given him. Valley Public Relations and Marketing, LLC, listed three corporate officers: President, Candace Fleming, Vice President, Stephanie Lloyd, and Treasurer, Anthony Oliver. Books Googled all three and came up empty. Next, he entered each name into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) system and again got nothing.
Books leaned back in his chair, planted his feet on the desk, and sipped the last cold swallows of his morning coffee. He decided to ask Grant Weatherby to run the business and its corporate officers through Las Vegas P.D.’s Criminal Intelligence Division and see what they could tell him.
Books’ telephone rang. He glanced down at the number and realized it was Weatherby returning his call. Maybe now he’d get some answers.
On Deadly Ground Page 17