On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  Call stared at the floor, unblinking, like he had entered into a catatonic state.

  “Come on, Brian. We’re wasting time,” said Books. “You need to tell us what’s going on before this guy kills somebody else. And he will kill again. We have to assume he’s still looking for Ronnie Gadasky—that he killed George because he either couldn’t or wouldn’t lead him to Ronnie.”

  “Suppose, just suppose I do know something,” said Call. “What’s in it for me if I agree to cooperate?”

  Books looked from Sutter to Virgil Bell. “Gentlemen…..”

  “It’s the DA’s call,” said Sutter.

  “All right,” said Bell. “If you come clean, and I mean completely clean right now, I promise you that I’ll take the death penalty and life in prison off the table. You turn state’s evidence, testify against these guys, if necessary, you’ll do some time, but you’ll get out of prison with some good years still in front of you.”

  “You’ll guarantee it—put it in writing?”

  “I’ll do it tonight, but only if you cooperate fully and tell us the complete truth. If I find out later you lied about anything, the deal’s off the table. Understood?”

  Call took a deep breath. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Forty-four

  The most pressing need was to find the killer before he killed again. Everything else had to take a back seat to that. “Tell us, Brian, who is this guy, and how did you meet him?” asked Books.

  “That’s just it. I’ve never met him. I’ve never even seen him. Everything I did went through Michael or Victor; Michael mostly.”

  “Any idea how we’re going to find him, then?” asked Books.

  Call glanced at his watch. “Yeah. I’m supposed to meet him in about three hours.”

  Books and Sutter glanced at each other. “Tell us about that. When and where are you supposed to meet?”

  “This is what happened. This morning at the crime scene I get this call from a guy who introduces himself as Arthur Tate. He apologizes for killing George and claims he’s got a plan that will make it so he doesn’t need to go after Ronnie. Problem is, he needs my help to do it, or so he says.”

  “What does he want you to do?”

  “He wouldn’t discuss it over the phone—said we needed to meet face-to-face, tonight at eleven o’clock at the city park.”

  “Why the city park?” asked Sutter.

  “How should I know—probably because it offers privacy and little chance that anybody would see us.”

  Books considered that. Arthur Tate and Elliot Sanders had to be one and the same. But why would he agree to meet Brian Call when he had gone to some lengths to avoid just such a meeting? Books wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was the invitation created an opportunity to bring this guy down, if Call was willing to help.

  “How about you help us nab this guy tonight?” said Books. “We’ll wire you up, stake out the park, and catch this bastard before he can hurt anybody else.”

  Virgil Bell chimed in. “At some point, Brian, you’re going to end up standing in front of a judge pleading for leniency. I can help you only so far. If you do this for us, it’ll show the court you cooperated and did your part to stop this monster.”

  Call mulled over the implications of their request. “This could be downright dangerous, couldn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” said Books.

  “All right. I’ve gone this far, I might as well go all the way. Let’s do it.”

  Books looked at his watch. At a few minutes after eight, they had less than three hours to mobilize personnel, create a plan, and get everyone in position. If Books was right, this guy was a pro, and a pro would be cautious, leaving nothing to chance. He would probably scout the area well ahead of the scheduled meeting time. If anything looked out of place, he’d be a no-show.

  Books and Bell continued to question Call. Sutter left the interrogation to begin mobilizing equipment and personnel.

  “Explain to us how incriminating evidence implicating Lance Clayburn managed to end up at the crime scene,” said Books.

  Call sighed. “It was actually the easiest part of the whole deal. One night a few months ago, I drove past Clayburn’s house the night before garbage pickup. His garbage can was out on the street, and I picked up a couple of bags. I took them back to my place, sorted through them until I found what I needed.”

  “What did you do with the evidence then?”

  “I drove it to Las Vegas and gave it to Michael Calenti.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I can’t remember—about two months ago, I’d guess.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Michael’s condo.”

  “And what did Michael do with the evidence?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I assume he passed it along to the guy you’re looking for.”

  “So you had nothing to do with planting the evidence at the crime scene. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about Clayburn’s hunting rifle. Did you steal it?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  “I broke in and stole it out of his house. I knew he had a .30-06 and figured if it disappeared, he’d look even more guilty.”

  “What did you do with the rifle after you stole it?”

  ”I got rid of it at the county landfill.”

  “When was that?”

  “I can’t remember dates, man—six, seven weeks ago, maybe.”

  Books shook his head and sighed. “Why did you get mixed up in this, Brian—afraid I just don’t get it?”

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself that very question since Greenbriar was killed. I guess I really don’t know—habit, I suppose. I’d been doing favors for the Calentis for years. Michael would set me up with some of his girls from time to time, and I got some money, not a lot, but some.”

  “What about the Calentis? Besides the roads issue, what, if anything, were they trying to accomplish?”

  “The Calentis figured that eliminating Greenbriar would have a quieting effect on the environmental movement all over the West. There’s a lot at stake.”

  “Like what?” Bell asked.

  “Not only was Greenbriar causing problems with road expansion, he was also pressing various Congressional committees to raise grazing fees, which would cripple the livestock business. The Calenits didn’t care about that, but they damned sure cared about Greenbriar’s recommendation that companies like Nevada Mining & Manufacturing start paying royalty fees for mining on federal lands. Victor told me once that if Greenbriar got his way, companies like his could end up paying an 8% royalty plus the true costs of land reclamation. He figured it would cost the company millions.”

  ***

  After the interrogation, Books and Bell escorted Call to the Kanab Police Department. Call was fitted with a wire enabling officers parked in a nondescript surveillance van near Kanab City Park to monitor his conversation with the suspected killer.

  Sutter had managed to assemble a ten-person rag-tag team of sheriff’s deputies, city police officers, and two members of the CSI unit from St. George who had just spent the day processing the crime scene at Grosvenor Arch to take part in the sting. Sutter also dispatched two members to prepare a sketch of the park and select the best positions around its perimeter to place officers. Everyone would assemble in the police department’s training room at nine-thirty and be in place an hour before the scheduled rendezvous.

  Books caught up with the sheriff in the police department’s lunch room where Sutter was scarfing down a Hostess Twinkee and a can of diet Pepsi. “That shit’ll kill you, Charley.”

  “Tastes good, though,” he said, around a mouthful of Twinkee.

  “Anything from the fingerprint examiner?” asked Books.

  “Good news. After dusting the card, she found several identifi
able latents. When she eliminated Jimmy’s from the mix, she was left with a partial index finger and a thumb print. All we’re waiting on now is a response from IAFIS.”

  “Boy, I hope we get an IAFIS hit. It sure would be nice to know who we’re up against out there tonight.”

  “Sure would. How’d it go with Call?”

  “Once he made the decision to cooperate, he never wavered. He gave us everything he knows.”

  “That’s what we needed,” said Sutter. “I’ve known the man for a lot of years, and I think he’s wracked with guilt over this thing, particularly George’s murder.”

  “Well, he ought to be. He was up to his eyeballs in it.”

  “Better late than never, I guess,” replied the sheriff.

  The two went over the logistics of the night’s operation. Getting everyone in position an hour ahead of time was essential. “I think we’re dealing with a pretty savvy killer. This guy knows what he’s doing. I think he’s smart and doesn’t make mistakes. He’ll sniff around out there early to see if anything looks out of the ordinary.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Sutter. “I’m damned uneasy about sending Call into that park after dark. We won’t be able to see a thing once he goes in.”

  “The wire has to serve as both our eyes and ears. And don’t forget, he’ll be wearing a vest.”

  “That’s true, J.D., but we don’t have much experience with this high tech equipment—almost no call for it out here. I’ll bet we’ve only had that stuff out of the box once or twice in five years.”

  “First time for everything, Charley. Here’s a thought. If Call is wired up and ready to go, send him home and have the surveillance van follow him and park nearby. It’s a good way to test the equipment. Assuming everything’s working fine, have the van take up its position near the park. Brian can follow from his house right before eleven. This guy may have decided to follow Brian from his house to the park. That way he gets a chance to see if everything looks okay.”

  Sutter liked that idea. He huddled with Call and the two officers assigned to drive the surveillance van and operate the monitoring equipment before he sent them out the door. It was almost nine-thirty. Officers began to gather in the training room for the briefing and to receive their respective assignments.

  As Books and Call were about to start, the fingerprint examiner hurried into the training room. “We’ve got a match. We’ve got him identified.”

  Books and Sutter stared at a grainy black and white photograph of a much younger Peter Deluca. “He’s got a criminal history, and he also served in the U.S. Army.”

  Neither man spoke as they read the biographical information in the report. Finally, Books said, “A lot younger, but this looks like our boy, Charley. Mr. Deluca matches the description Jimmy Johnson gave us of the guest from the motel.”

  “Sure seems to.”

  Books continued. “He’s a white, male, age…..let’s see, I’d make him fifty-eight years old, six feet-four inches, two-hundred-fifteen pounds. He’s got three misdemeanor arrests in Chicago in the late sixties. Arrested again in Chicago, 1994, suspicion of murder, charges dismissed—insufficient evidence. That’s it on the criminal history.

  “Enlisted U.S. Army, 1969, honorably discharged as a sergeant in 1973, after serving three years. This guy was an army sniper and served two tours in ’Nam. Can’t say I like that. It looks like he spent much of the next twenty-five years working as muscle for the Chicago Outfit. He moved to Las Vegas four, maybe five years ago.”

  “Geez,” said Sutter. “He’s gettin a little long in the tooth for this kind of work, don’t you think?”

  “You’d think.”

  ***

  Sutter conducted the briefing. The information on Deluca was disseminated to everyone. Officers were assigned to work in pairs. Each team was assigned a geographical area around the perimeter of the park. When he was finished, Sutter turned to Books. “Can you think of anything else, J.D.?”

  “Just a word of caution. The park’s closed, so we don’t anticipate civilians being out there. But you can never be sure. If it becomes necessary to shoot, be damned certain you’ve got a target. And for crissake sake, don’t be shooting at each other. If we end up on the move, it’s possible that we could catch each other in a cross fire. Be careful and know what you’re shooting at.”

  The briefing ended at 9:45. Eight officers, excluding Books, took up positions around Kanab City Park.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Deluca slept until early evening, knowing the approaching darkness would provide him with a much-needed veil of anonymity. He planned to be on the move by nine o’clock.

  Regardless of tonight’s outcome, Deluca would return to Vegas by early morning in time for a steak and eggs breakfast at DiJulio’s, followed by a trip to Pampered Pooches to collect his beloved Rosie. She would be paw-stomping mad because he had left town without her. He, in turn, would become the victim of an elaborate dog extortion scam in which Rosie would demand increased attention, more treats, and longer walks at the local dog park. Then there was the green house and the delicate roses that required tender nurturing and constant vigilance.

  Deluca spent the evening packing and preparing his weapons. Unsure exactly what he would need, he selected a .308 caliber Remington Model 700 rifle with a night vision scope and a silenced .22 caliber Colt for close range work. He cleaned both weapons, leaving a residue of gun oil on each.

  Deluca ate a late meal at a diner within walking distance of the motel. Afterward, he went back to his room, loaded the Explorer, and returned to Kanab. When he reached the north end of town, he turned off Center Street and meandered along side streets rather than the main thoroughfare, coming out on State Highway 89 next to the cemetery.

  It was a little after nine o’clock when he turned off the highway into the shallow turnout near Ronnie Gadasky’s home. He pulled the Colt from under a nylon windbreaker on the front passenger seat, got out of the Explorer, and jogged down the dirt driveway until the home came into view. He could hardly believe his good fortune. After all this time and effort, there it was: the red Kawasaki dirt bike parked right in front of the house.

  He crept along the driveway, staying in the shadows as much as possible. Out here in the middle of bumfuck, the full moon made him feel like he was moving under flood lights. In Vegas, a city known for its overstated glitzy neon, a full moon went largely unnoticed. As he neared the house, Deluca was on high alert for the three-legged lab. He tapped a zippered pocket of the windbreaker to make certain he hadn’t forgotten the dog treats. An old army sergeant from his Vietnam days had regularly reminded his subordinates that lack of prior planning always made for piss-poor performance. Deluca had never forgotten the advice.

  The dog was nowhere in sight. The lights were on all over the main level of the house, and the blinds were open. On the second floor, the light in Ronnie’s bedroom was turned on but the blind was closed. Deluca crept to a side window with a view into the living room. He saw the kid’s father sitting on the couch with a pillow in his lap and an open bottle of Smirnoff vodka on the coffee table in front of him. The old man looked like he was asleep or passed out. Ronnie wasn’t there. He was probably upstairs in his bedroom. That meant Deluca would have to go inside, something he didn’t relish.

  He moved to the back of the house, nearly tripping over a shovel lying in his path. The back door was unlocked. Deluca stepped inside and closed the door. He waited for several seconds, listening for any sound, but heard nothing. He tiptoed through the kitchen to a stairwell that led to the second floor. The old man hadn’t moved. His head was tipped forward, his chin touching his chest.

  As Deluca started up the stairs, Ivan Gadasky looked up and spoke. “I thought you might come. He’s not here. You killed George, but you won’t kill my youngest, my Ronnie. In fact, your killing days are over.”

  Deluca frowned and walked slowly into the living room. His eyes never left Ga
dasky. The room stunk of BO and vomit. The old man had thrown up on the pillow in his lap. “Look old man, I’m sorry about your son, but business is business. I came for Ronnie. Where is he?”

  A faint smile played at the corners of Gadasky’s mouth. His bloodshot eyes filled with tears—the tears of a grieving man. “He’s somewhere safe, someplace an evil man like you can’t hurt him.”

  Deluca smiled back. Before he could say anything else, Gadasky’s right hand came out from under the pillow brandishing a gun. The old man squeezed off two wild shots. One of them struck Deluca’s upper left arm. Deluca spun to one side and fired twice. Both shots entered Ivan Gadasky’s chest. His third shot, carefully aimed, struck Gadasky in the forehead right between the eyes. The old man let out one long breath and then his head rolled to the side where it rested against the back of the couch. His vacant eyes stared at nothing.

  Deluca cursed but managed to choke back the pain long enough to race upstairs and kick down Ronnie’s bedroom door. The kid wasn’t there. The old man had set him up. Shit!

  He found a linen closet in the hallway where he grabbed a hand towel and a wash cloth. He soaked the wound in warm water as he surveyed the damage. He’d been lucky. The bullet had struck the soft, fleshy part of his upper arm and exited out the back. The wound bled freely, but it wasn’t life-threatening. Using the towel as a compress, he hurried back to the SUV for a first aid kit he carried as a precaution but had never had to use. He cleaned the wound as best he could, using an antiseptic liquid that burned like a bitch and made his eyes water. He wrapped the arm with a sterile pad and taped it using narrow strips of adhesive.

  Back in Vegas there was someone, who, for the right price, would treat the wound without asking questions. In the meantime, he would change the dressing as needed and continue to apply the antiseptic. Deluca had always kept a supply of prescription pain killers in the first aid kit, but he opted instead for a handful of Tylenol. He had to keep his mind clear.

  ***

  Deluca turned off the highway a couple of miles east of Kanab onto an unmarked, unlit dirt road. Scattered sagebrush and juniper pine dotted the moonlit landscape. The road led into a sparsely populated, ramshackle neighborhood of modest single-family houses, mobile homes, and even some trailers. Brian Call lived here, and Deluca had come like the Grim Reaper to pay his last respects.