On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Eddins. My name is Elliott Sanders and I’m a newspaper reporter from the Las Vegas Sun Times. I’m in town covering the murder investigation of the local environmental activist, David Greenbriar.”

  “And what does that have to do with me, Mr. Sanders?”

  “A fair question. My paper would like to interview a young man whose name has surfaced in the case as a possible witness. His name is Ronnie Gadasky.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with me.” Eddins’ voice had a new steely edge.

  Snippy little bitch, thought Deluca.

  “I was just getting to that,” said Deluca. “Our own investigation led us to you. It seems that you have acted as Mr. Gadasky’s attorney in the past. The paper would like to interview Ronnie, and we were hoping you might know how to contact him. And of course, the paper would be happy to compensate you for your time.”

  “Two points, Mr.…I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

  “Sanders, Elliott Sanders.”

  “Two points Mr. Sanders. First, I haven’t heard from Ronnie Gadasky, and I have no reason to believe that I’m going to. Second, if I did hear from Ronnie, I would encourage him to surrender to the police. I would not sit him down with you or anybody else from the news media.”

  “I understand,” said Deluca. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “It’s no bother Mr. Sanders, but tell me something. Isn’t this a bit unusual? I mean a newspaper reporter trying to interview a material witness in a murder case even before the police have an opportunity to talk with him.”

  “Maybe so, but this is an extremely competitive business we’re in, Ms. Eddins. My newspaper is simply trying to land the big story ahead of our competitors.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Sanders. Best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks.” Deluca disconnected.

  When he got back into the Explorer, Deluca glanced at his cell phone on the seat next to him. The message light was blinking. He listened to a brief message, deleted it, and then returned the call.

  “This is Michael.”

  “You called.”

  “We have another problem.”

  “Tell somebody else. I’ve got enough of my own.”

  “You need to hear about this one.”

  “Why?”

  “It came from our local contact in Kane County. He’s threatening to expose us if we don’t back off right now—seems the little rat bastard freaked out when he heard about your recent, how shall I say it, ‘encounter’ with one of the locals.”

  Deluca paused. “Actually, he might be giving you pretty good advice.” He explained the difficulty he was having trying to find Ronnie Gadasky. “Maybe it’s time to cut our losses and get out while we still can.”

  “This doesn’t sound like the man who never failed to fulfill a contract,” said Calenti. “It sounds more like a man who’s gotten too old and too soft around the middle to get the job done. Perhaps you ought to consider retirement on some Florida beach where you can sip Pina Coladas, look at pussy, and dream about the good old days.”

  “Listen to me you snotty little cokehead. I was taking care of business when you were still running around in diapers, so don’t talk to me about not getting the job done. I warned you from the beginning that this job was ill-conceived, but you didn’t want to listen, did you, you little faggot?”

  Michael Calenti was shocked. Nobody talked to him like this, particularly not some cranky, aging, two-bit gangster like Deluca. Yet there was something cold and sinister about the old man. Assuming a conciliatory tone was prudent, at least for the time being.

  “Look, I was only trying to light a little fire under you, that’s all,” said Calenti. “Don’t take everything so personal.”

  “Is that right, Michael? Isn’t it a shame that neither you nor Vic Jr. have got the business savvy or balls your old man had? If you did, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Calenti didn’t take the bait. “I’m just telling you that if this guy goes off on us like he’s threatened to, we could all end up in a world of hurt.”

  “It’s not my problem, Michael. This guy doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him or spoken to him. Besides, I don’t kill cops—too much heat. He’s your problem, Michael. You fix it.”

  “I don’t think you’re listening, Mr. Deluca. If these murders end up on our doorstep, we’re not going down alone. Don’t you understand? You’ll end up being the one with a needle in your arm.”

  “You’d rat me out. Is that it, Michael? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “All I can tell you is a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  “Okay, Michael. Give me all the particulars and I’ll fix your problem. But let me tell you something. If these loose ends aren’t resolved within twenty-four hours, I’m out of here. And then whatever happens happens. Understand?”

  Calenti didn’t answer.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  After the call, Michael Calenti leaned low over the marble coffee table and snorted a line of cocaine. He walked outside his high-rise condo onto an expansive deck that overlooked the Las Vegas strip from thirty floors above. Through a cocaine induced fog, he reflected on what Deluca had just said. The two-bit thug had threatened him and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it because it scared him, and nobody threatened Michael Calenti and got away with it.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Books left BLM headquarters and drove the short distance to the Ranch Inn & Café. He had almost an hour to kill before meeting Roberta Weekly, a supervisor in the Kane County Administrative Services Department. Sutter had arranged for her to meet him to pick up Brian Call’s monthly cell phone records.

  Books scanned the restaurant as he took his customary seat at the counter. Trees McClain was seated in a corner booth with a guy Books didn’t know. If McClain saw him enter the restaurant, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Rusty Steed walked over and dropped a menu in front of him. “Get you something to drink, J.D.?”

  “Iced tea.”

  Steed nodded and shuffled off.

  When he returned with the iced tea, Steed said, “Any word on George Gadasky?”

  Books nodded. “Bad news, I’m afraid, Rusty. Search and Rescue found his body early this morning near Grosvenor Arch. He’d been shot in the head.”

  “What?” Steed was obviously shocked.

  “Looks like somebody killed him at close range with a small caliber handgun.”

  “Jesus, J.D. What’s going on in this town?”

  “Wish I knew, Rusty. There is something you can do to help, though.

  “Name it.”

  “You’re in a place that gets a lot of traffic. I’d appreciate a call if you see or hear anything or anyone who seems unusual or suspicious,”

  “Funny you should mention that. There was a fella in here not more than two hours ago. He seemed unusually interested in any information about the Gadasky brothers.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he claim to be a newspaper reporter from Las Vegas?”

  “No, said he was a tourist here visiting the parks. He was driving a white Ford Explorer with Nevada plates.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Watched him drive away.”

  Books left the restaurant with a description of the inquisitive stranger as well as the SUV he was driving. Could this be the same man who was hunting Ronnie Gadasky and who had killed his brother, George? It was a long shot, but definitely worth looking into.

  ***

  Books hadn’t seen Roberta Weekly since he’d left Kanab more than a dozen years ago. She had been a teacher’s aide at Kanab Elementary when Books was in the fourth grade, patiently tutoring him in an attempt to bring his below-average reading sk
ills up to grade level.

  She and Books chatted amicably, mostly about family, while she manually searched through a large, shoulder-high filing cabinet. She removed a thick file folder.

  “How far back would like me to go?”

  “How far back do your records go?”

  “We archive records annually, so I should have everything since January 1of this year.”

  “In that case, I’ll take everything you’ve got.”

  Weekly disappeared with the file and returned minutes later with copies of Brian Call’s cell phone records for 2009. “Sorry, J.D., I don’t have the August statements yet, but this is everything else.” She didn’t ask why he wanted the records and he didn’t offer an explanation.

  Books thanked her and left. Minutes later, he was back in his office perusing the records for Las Vegas calls. He moved sequentially, month by month, starting with January. He found nothing from January through April. He was beginning to believe he was chasing his own tail; however, when he reached mid-May, Las Vegas numbers began to appear. At first, they were infrequent, but as he moved through the June and July statements the frequency increased. Some were sent calls and others were calls he’d received. In the end, Books came away with four different Las Vegas numbers. He needed to find out who they belonged to.

  He dialed the first number. It was no longer in service. The second number was answered by a pleasant sounding female who said, “Arcadia Outcall Massage. How may I help you?” Books hung up. The third number was a recorded message, “You have reached the offices of Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. We are currently closed. Our office hours are…” The fourth number, the one with the most sent and received calls also went into voicemail. The message said, “This is Michael. Please leave a message.” Again, Books disconnected.

  Could Michael be Michael Calenti from Nevada Mining and Manufacturing? Was Arcadia Outcall Massage part of the prostitution enterprise allegedly run by Calenti? Books wondered. The information from the Las Vegas numbers added to his suspicion that Call was mixed up with some shady and possibly dangerous people—people who would have the motive and means to have killed David Greenbriar.

  Books called Charley Sutter with the news about Brian Call as well as the information he had received from Rusty Steed. Sutter and Call were still at Grosvenor Arch where a CSI team and the medical examiner were combing the crime scene.

  “I’m so disappointed to hear that I can hardly stand it,” said Sutter. “It makes me sick to my stomach to think somebody on my own staff, somebody in a position of trust, would involve himself in something like this. I still want to believe you’re wrong, Books, but it’s getting harder and harder to do that. What do you wanna do next?”

  “A couple of things. We need to sit down with Call right away and challenge him the same way we did Neil Eddins. If Call is mixed up in a murder-for-hire scheme, we’ve got to find out what’s going on and right away. If I’m right, we’ve got a killer loose in this community who won’t hesitate to kill again.”

  “All right,” said Sutter. “See if you can get hold of Virgil Bell. I’d like to have him involved in Call’s interrogation.”

  “I’ll do it. Also, I’ll see if we can do the interview at the DA’s office. We need to get Call out of his comfort zone.”

  “That makes sense. What’s the second thing?”

  “I’ll get a BOLO out on the Ford Explorer Rusty Steed told me about. And I think if anybody spots it, they should follow, but not initiate a stop without backup. Whoever this is, I don’t think he’d hesitate to kill a lone officer in a traffic stop.”

  “Right,” said Sutter. “Tell the dispatch supervisor to be sure to notify the Highway Patrol, state Game & Fish, and the National Park Service. I don’t want anyone caught unaware.”

  “Will do.”

  The BOLO went out for a white late-model Ford Explorer with Nevada license plates. Books enlisted the help of the Kanab City police to search every restaurant and motel parking lot in town. If the killer was someone from out of the area, as Books suspected, he had to be staying someplace. Books was to be notified immediately if the vehicle was discovered.

  Books dialed Grant Weatherby’s cell number in Las Vegas. He told Weatherby about George Gadasky’s murder and the apparent connection between Brian Call and Nevada Mining & Manufacturing.

  “Well, this has been an interesting case from the start, and it gets more interesting all the time. That said, how can we help you from this end?”

  “I need a couple of things, Grant.”

  “You’re about to ruin the rest of my Sunday, aren’t you?”

  “Probably. Would you see what you can find out about a company called Arcadia Outcall Massage? Brian Call dialed their number several times in recent months. Could that business be part of Michael Calenti’s prostitution operation?”

  “We’ll find out. What else?”

  “I’d like you to check a phone number for me,” said Books. “When I dialed the number, somebody named Michael had recorded the greeting. I’d like to know whether the Michael on the recording is actually Michael Calenti.”

  “I can do that, and it shouldn’t take long. Give me the number.”

  ***

  Books called District Attorney Virgil Bell at home. Bell was astounded when Books told him about the murder of George Gadasky and the possible involvement of Brian Call in a murder for hire scheme.

  Bell sounded worried. “This puts things in a whole different perspective. You realize you’re going to be walking a tightrope when you interrogate Call.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “In a nutshell, I don’t see any proof that Brian Call has committed a crime. Yeah, he apparently has associations from his Las Vegas days with some criminal types. And yes, those same criminal associates hold mineral rights in the Kaiparowits Plateau. Could be a coincidence though, couldn’t it?”

  “Possible, I guess,” replied Books, “but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Based on what you said, you don’t have any evidence directly linking this Las Vegas Corporation to the murder of David Greenbriar or George Gadasky. The evidence against Lance Clayburn still remains uncontroverted.”

  Bell was right. “We at least have the makings of a circumstantial case, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but you’re still gonna need more to sustain any kind of prosecution. You either need Brian Call’s help, or you need to catch the mysterious character you think killed George Gadasky. Without that, you don’t have much.”

  Bell agreed to participate in the interrogation of Brian Call. Books promised to call him as soon as Sutter and Call returned to Kanab.

  Chapter Forty-two

  After his phone call to Rebecca Eddins, Deluca returned to his motel room in Mt. Carmel. He was surprised that searchers had discovered George Gadasky’s body so quickly. He needed the extra time, and now he didn’t have it. News of the second murder would heighten community anxiety and put everybody on high alert—especially the cops. He needed to lay low until after dark.

  Deluca sat at a small table next to the bed studying the information Calenti had given him about the local contact, Brian Call. He had Call’s home address and cell phone number. It sounded like the stupid-assed cop had gotten himself mixed up with Victor and Michael Calenti without having any idea just how ruthless they could be. Then he made the mistake of threatening to expose the entire operation because Deluca had found it necessary to eliminate George Gadasky.

  Deluca considered Call, like Gadasky, little more than collateral damage, with one major exception—Call was a police officer, and killing cops, even deserving ones, always brought unrelenting heat from other cops. These cases always remained perpetually active, never going into cold-case files like other unsolved homicides. Only once in his thirty-year career had Deluca killed a police officer, and he’d sworn to himself never to do it again.

  Deluca carefully considered what story he could concoct tha
t would convince Brian Call that a face-to-face meeting was imperative. He decided to schedule the meeting in the city park at 11:00 p.m. The park was isolated and poorly lit. By eleven o’clock, it would be completely dark and likely empty.

  Deluca dialed Call’s cell number. It rang several times and then kicked into voicemail. He waited ten minutes and dialed again.

  This time he answered on the first ring. “Call.”

  “Deputy Call. This is Arthur Tate. I work for Victor and Michael Calenti.”

  “Hold on,” said Call. The line was so full of static that it was hard to hear anything. Deluca figured he must still be out in the middle of bumfuck where searchers had discovered George Gadasky’s body.

  Call came back on the line. “Listen, Mr. Tate, or whoever the hell you are, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? This wasn’t part of the deal. You think you can just come in here and kill anydamnbody you please? Well, you can’t. It doesn’t work like that around here.”

  Call sounded like he was whispering. With that and the static on the line, Deluca could barely hear him. “Listen to me carefully, Brian. I think we may have come up with a way out of this mess that doesn’t involve harming Ronnie Gadasky,” he lied, “but we can’t discuss it on the phone. For this plan to work, I may need your help with something. We need to meet.”

  “Look, asshole, we don’t need to meet. You just need to get your sorry ass out of town, and right now.”

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do that until this situation gets resolved. I suppose I don’t need to remind you that if this mess blows up in our faces, you’re going down right along with everybody else. So it’s very important that we all keep our cool until we get over this little bump in the road.”

  “That’s what you call this, a little bump in the road!”

  “Hey, friend, I’m just doin’ my job same as you. All I can tell you is we need to hang together a little longer, and then we can put this nasty business behind us. And if that’s not enough, I’ve got a little present for you, courtesy of Michael. He sent it up this afternoon.”

  That piqued Call’s interest. “Yeah, what is it?”