On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  Books nodded. “What does Neil want you to do?”

  “Get an abortion—he wants me to abort the child—says he’ll cover all the expenses.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I wouldn’t abort the child. I can’t do that.”

  “Absent an abortion, what’s Neil want you to do?”

  “He says he’ll pay my medical bills and provide financial support for the child so long as he’s never identified as the father.”

  “Gee, that’s kind of him. Have you agreed to do that?”

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “Tell me something, Darby. Are you in love with Neil Eddins?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m in love with Lance.”

  Books didn’t ask her why. He didn’t want or need to know.

  After Darby regained her composure, Books asked if she had ever heard of Nevada Mining & Manufacturing or Valley Public Relations and Marketing. She hadn’t. She had also never heard of Victor or Michael Calenti.

  “What’s this about, anyway?”

  Books ignored her question. “Are you familiar with a man named Randall Orton?”

  She paused. “I think he’s a lobbyist David introduced to me one time.”

  “Where did you meet him and what can you tell me about him?”

  “I met him once at a restaurant in downtown Salt Lake City. It was during this year’s legislative session, late January I think. As I recall, Mr. Orton was attempting to convince David that the EEWA should assume a more conciliatory approach on the issue of road expansion in wilderness areas in southern Utah.”

  “And why would the EEWA want to do that?”

  “The EEWA won’t support increased roads in wilderness areas. Mr. Orton tried to make the case for local control—that many of these roads existed long before the federal government and the Congress began carving up the southwest into large tracts of protected land. He also pointed to the high unemployment rate in rural Utah and that new roads would lead to increased employment and prosperity for everybody.”

  “And was David buying?”

  “No. David was convinced that more roads would permanently destroy sensitive eco systems and that whatever economic development resulted wouldn’t be worth the price.”

  “And Orton accepted that?”

  “He wasn’t happy about it. But what choice did he have?”

  “None really, I suppose.”

  The edge had returned to her voice. “Why are you asking me these questions? Do you think this has something to do with David’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.”

  “Well, let me know if you do. I can tell you one thing. You’re making a big mistake by arresting Lance.”

  “Try telling it to the sheriff. I’m afraid it’s not my call.”

  Back in the Yukon, Books received a message from dispatch. The sheriff wanted to see him as soon as possible, and Books knew why. The two men met in Sutter’s office.

  “I just got back from the DA’s office. We wanted you to take a look at our affidavit and see if you think anything’s missing.” He reached across the desk and handed Books the paperwork.

  Books read the PC statement and passed it back. “I think you got it all.”

  “Pretty damned convincing, isn’t it?” said Sutter.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But you’re still not sure, are you?”

  “No, Charley, I’m not.”

  Books then laid out what he’d learned about Nevada Mining & Manufacturing, Valley Public Relations and Marketing, and the connections to Chief Deputy Brian Call and lobbyist Randy Orton. When he finished, Sutter leaned back in his office chair and planted his boots on the desk. He folded his hands across his distended belly.

  “So what’s it all mean, J.D.?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, if you’re not, nobody else will be either. Frankly, I don’t see what it has to do with the murder of David Greenbriar, or the possible involvement of Lance Clayburn in his death.”

  Sutter might be right. Still, Books had one card left to play. And now was the time to play it. “Charley, you would agree, in part, that the case against Clayburn is strengthened by his affair with Darby, and the fact that she’s pregnant with his child.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “So what would you think if I told you that the father of Darby’s baby isn’t Lance Clayburn?”

  “Oh, come on, J.D.,” said Sutter. “What the hell are you talking about? We know that her dead husband isn’t the father.”

  “Yes, we do.” Books said.

  Sutter was starting to look concerned. “Cut the theatrics—who is it then, for crissake?”

  “The father is Neil Eddins.”

  Sutter’s feet came off the desk and he leaned forward staring hard at Books. His contorted face made him look like a guy suffering from a bad case of gas.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Darby did. I was just with her.”

  “Horseshit. I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, I do. And if you could have seen her making that painful confession, you would too. She was in agony. This lady has had her hands full. She wants whoever is responsible for killing her husband brought to justice, and at the same time, she’s managed to convince herself that the two men she’s been having affairs with had nothing to do with it. Go figure.”

  “Has she confronted Neil?”

  “Yup. He wants her to have an abortion and keep it all hush-hush.”

  Sutter wasn’t dumb. He had to be considering what it might mean to him politically if Darby was telling the truth. What if it became public knowledge that one of the most revered and powerful members of the community had had an affair with a well known environmentalist whose husband had just been murdered? Not a pretty picture.

  “If the press hears about this,” said Sutter, “assuming she’s telling the truth, the shit’s going to hit the fan. But even if it is the truth, it still doesn’t mean that Clayburn didn’t kill Greenbriar.”

  “That’s true,” said Books, “but it sure weakens the case and opens the door for an astute defense attorney to point an accusing finger in the direction of Neil Eddins. The defense is probably going to argue that somebody besides Lance Clayburn had a motive to commit murder.”

  “Shit,” muttered Sutter. “What a clusterfuck.”

  “Yes, it is, Charley. It might explain some of the pressure Neil has put on us to get on with prosecuting Lance. He figures if we stop digging and Lance takes the fall, this whole thing might go away. And nobody ever finds out that he fathered Darby’s baby.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. What do you think we should do?”

  “Hold off on the warrant. We need to confront Neil with this information. And I’d like a little more time to explore Call’s connection to these folks at Nevada Mining & Manufacturing.”

  “Jesus, Books, you don’t simply confront somebody like Neil Eddins. This could ruin him, and he isn’t going to take it without putting up a fight. As it is, I’ve got the commissioners up my ass. I met with them earlier today. I all but promised we’d have this thing wrapped up in the next day or two.”

  “Then let’s give it a couple of more days. Don’t get the warrant tonight. Wait until Monday morning. If we haven’t put a wrap on it by then, by all means, go get your warrant. Clayburn isn’t going anywhere.”

  Sutter thought about that before he answered. “Okay, you’ve got until Monday morning, J.D. But if you don’t get it resolved, I’ll be in Judge McIntyre’s courtroom at eight o’clock Monday morning. Agreed?”

  Books nodded.

  Books needed Charley Sutter’s help with something else. He wanted to see the telephone records from Call’s home number as well as his cell phone, and he didn’t have a contact at the phone company in Salt Lake City to access those records. Sutter, however, did. />
  “How far back do you want to go?”

  “Three months ought to be enough,” said Books.

  “His home phone records are going to take some time to get. I can’t even make the request until Monday morning,” said Sutter. “But his cell phone, that’s a different story. The county provides and pays for his cell phone. Those records are kept in the administrative services office in the county courthouse. We can get those right away.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  Books was surprised Sutter hadn’t balked at the request. Until now, Sutter had been defensive anytime anything had come up regarding his chief deputy. Perhaps now he had begun to rethink that proposition.

  By the time their meeting ended, the DA’s office was closed. Sutter and Books drove to the home of district attorney Virgil Bell. They brought Bell up to speed on the latest developments and got his approval to place everything on hold until Monday.

  Before they parted, Books and Sutter agreed to meet early Saturday morning and pay a visit to Neil Eddins. Sutter wasn’t happy about the idea, but he didn’t see an alternative that made any sense.

  Books stopped at the town market and selected a bouquet of fresh cut flowers for his mother’s grave. On the way home, he stopped at the cemetery. The flowers he had left the previous week had been replaced with fresh ones. If his sister, Maggie, wasn’t caring for the grave, who was? Bernie? He didn’t think so. Ned Hunsaker? That made more sense. He wanted to talk to the old man anyway, so he made a mental note to ask him about the grave site.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was late evening by the time Deluca made it back to Kanab. He parked the Explorer in the Cattle Baron parking lot and went inside. He ordered a pitcher of draft beer and took a seat in a rear booth facing the front door.

  For the next hour, Deluca munched pretzels and downed several glasses of beer. He was a big man, and the beer did little to take the edge off. Rarely prone to melancholy, Deluca began to ponder how his life had ended up as it had.

  As a teenager in Chicago, he’d been a rebellious kid who’d stretched to the max whatever boundaries his widowed father had set for him. He was in and out of trouble with the police, and by sixteen, over the objections of his father, had quit high school. Deluca was certain his father, although outwardly angry, was relieved he no longer had to pay the hefty tuition to send him to St. Benedict’s Catholic High School. During the ensuing months, his encounters with the police intensified. Finally, with a nudge from his father, he enlisted for three years in the army. The Vietnam War was hot, and Deluca thought it sounded like an exciting adventure.

  They sent him to Ford Ord, California, for basic training. After basic, he was assigned to Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. At Bragg, he was selected for specialized training that would alter the course of his life in ways he never would have imagined. Deluca was asked whether he was interested in attending sniper school. He liked the idea. During weeks of intensive training, it became clear to his army superiors that he was a young man with a unique skill set. He became highly proficient at his new job.

  By the fall of 1973, he was back on the streets of Chicago with little to show for his two tours in Nam with the exception of a string of ribbons and a large number of confirmed enemy kills.

  His father had put him to work in the family floral business, but that didn’t last long. He soon reconnected with some of his former cronies from the old neighborhood. An acquaintance introduced him to an area loan shark who had direct ties to the Chicago Outfit. Deluca became an enforcer for the loan shark. In time, he developed a reputation as reliable, efficient, and ruthless. Eventually, the employer asked him to eliminate a witness who was about to testify before a federal grand jury against the loan sharking operation. The hit came off without a hitch, and Deluca suddenly found himself with a new and prosperous career.

  Over the next thirty years, he had killed more than two dozen men. The police had questioned him in a handful of the murders, but he’d never been charged. He attributed his success to meticulous planning and endless patience. He never moved against a mark until he was ready—until he knew his intended victims’ every move and habit. Because of his army training, Deluca preferred to kill from long range using one of several rifles from his small arsenal. But he prided himself on his versatility. He had killed at close range using small caliber firearms, and he had also strangled a few targets.

  In his personal life, Deluca chose to live simply and without extravagance. He had a long string of girlfriends, but he never married. He considered it incompatible with his career. When his father died, he inherited the old house in which he was raised. He kept it until he moved to Las Vegas five years ago. The home he purchased was a modest one located in an established middle class neighborhood in suburban Henderson. The fenced back yard was large enough to accommodate a greenhouse, where he nurtured his roses, and the cocker spaniels who had become his children. There had been three such dogs, Rosie I, Rosie II, and Rosie III.

  His out-of-town business trips had become increasingly hard, not only for Rosie but for himself as well. His physical skills had diminished despite a serious weight-training and aerobics program. Retirement from the life seemed like the best option. In the sunset of his years, Deluca longed only for the simple pleasures—a life filled with service to his church, to his beloved Rosie, and to his flowers.

  ***

  Deluca left the bar and crossed Kanab Creek to the west side of town. He drove the poorly lit streets until he found the home of Rebecca Eddins. He retrieved the pictures he’d taken from Ronnie Gadasky’s bedroom. This was it, no doubt about it. The million-dollar question was whether the little perv would make an appearance, given his newfound celebrity status and the fact that every cop on the planet was looking for him. There was no way to know. He drove up and down several adjacent streets hoping he might spot the kid’s red dirt bike. He didn’t.

  Deluca reached for his cell and dialed the Gadasky home. A man answered. “Hello.”

  “Is Ronnie there, please?”

  “No, he isn’t. Who’s this?”

  He disconnected.

  Deluca felt discouraged and frustrated. At some point, the kid had to surface. The question was when and where? He couldn’t be in two places at once. Given the circumstances, he concluded that his best bet was to plant himself outside the Gadasky home and hope for the best. He was certain of one thing: by morning, the authorities would begin mounting a search for George Gadasky. They would find his truck without too much difficulty, but it would probably take longer to locate the body.

  Deluca returned to his motel room just long enough to change into his camouflage fatigues, select his weapons, and pick out a pair of night vision goggles. He returned to the Gadasky home and parked in a concealed location near the spot he’d parked the previous evening.

  Since he couldn’t see the home clearly from the highway, Deluca left the Explorer for a brief reconnaissance of the property. His original plan had been to catch the kid away from home, but time had become a factor. Deluca figured by Monday morning he needed to be out of Kanab and back in Vegas, so he hoped to find Ronnie’s dirt bike parked at the house. If it was there, he would break in, kill the kid, and anybody else in the house.

  He looked around the property for several minutes, checking the area near the house as well as a couple of out-buildings close by. Deluca cursed under his breath. Nothing. No sign of the little shit. He backtracked to the Explorer and settled in for what he suspected might be a long wait.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  It was almost dark when Books arrived home. Seeing the lights on inside Ned’s place, he parked by the trailer and walked the short distance to the house. The screen door was locked, but the front door stood wide open. He could hear the sound of a television set, the volume cranked way up. Maybe the old man had lost some hearing. His mother had gotten like that late in her life. He’d walk into a room and realize tha
t a conversation was impossible until he got the volume on the television turned down.

  Books knocked on the screen door but got no answer. He rapped again, this time louder. Still no answer. He rapped a third time and shouted, “Hello, Ned, anybody home?”

  After a moment, the old man stumbled to the front door. His eyes were glassy and he reeked of booze. He gave J.D. a weak smile. “Come on in, J.D. Can I get you something?”

  Books stared at him. “I guess I’ll have whatever you’re having, Ned.”

  The old man looked away dropping his gaze to the floor. “Guess I kinda fell off the wagon.”

  “I guess you kinda did. Are you all right?”

  Hunsaker shrugged, motioning Books to follow him into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted the cap off, and handed it to Books. Books followed him into the living room. Both men sat, neither speaking for more than a minute. Finally, Hunsaker broke the silence. “I hope you won’t mention this to my daughter and son-in-law. It’ll just get them all upset.”

  “I’m sure it would. I won’t say anything to anybody, Ned.”

  The old man nodded. “Thanks.”

  “That doesn’t mean that I approve or that I’m not concerned about you. Is anything wrong?”

  Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down the craggy face, deeply lined by sun, wind, and the passage of time. “I don’t really know. Sometimes, I just feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.”

  Books waited.

  Hunsaker paused as though carefully gauging what he was about to say. “I guess I never imagined that my life would end up like this.”

  “Afraid I don’t understand, Ned. You’re a well liked and well respected man in this community. You always have been.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that the two women I loved most in my life died before me. It shouldn’t have been like that. I’m older. I should have gone first.”

  Books considered that. “Maybe so. It’s just not something we get to choose.”