by N. M. Brown
‘I guess so.’ Vicki shrugged.
‘You see, I think, in life, it’s better to assume the simplest explanation, until you are presented with evidence to the contrary.’
‘But, I have evidence to the contrary.’ It was Vicki’s turn to hold Leighton’s gaze.
‘You have what a court would consider circumstantial evidence.’
‘But, people have gone to jail based on less,’ Vicki responded, her tone more challenging.
‘That’s true.’ Leighton nodded. ‘But, most don’t.’
‘I showed you the phone records. Why would someone suddenly stop using their phone?’
‘Because it was broken, or lost, or stolen - any number of reasons.’
‘Jeez, I hope I never drop off the radar, and have to rely on Oceanside Police to locate my body.’
Leighton chuckled and took another drink.
‘Oceanside PD does a fine job,’ he said. ‘Part of which is discerning whether or not a crime has actually been committed.’
‘Well, Detective - sorry, former Detective - what is your professional opinion, based on the evidence, circumstantial, or otherwise?’
‘Let’s consider what we have…’ He held his hands out to her, palms upturned.
Vick nodded encouragingly.
‘There was once this girl, who, out of the blue, received an invitation from an old college friend, which she apparently accepted.’
‘Okay,’ Vicki agreed in grudging approval.
‘And - assuming she actually did accept the invitation - maybe this girl went as far as taking the bus trip down to meet her old friend. Only, at some point, she realised she couldn’t really afford the trip, or maybe, an old boyfriend or a different friend called up and gave her a better offer. So, feeling embarrassed, she stupidly gets off the bus, before it ever reaches the bus station, probably somewhere like this.’
‘But, I heard her phone ring in the station.’
‘Or - more specifically - you heard a phone ring. Even if it was exactly the same ring tone as your friend had, that is hardly beyond coincidence.’
‘So, how do you explain the fact it was picked up by the cell phone tower in Oceanside?’
Leighton looked at Vicki, gauging how to explain the possible events, without hurting her feelings. ‘It is quite possible she left on the bus intentionally, to avoid any difficult conversation. You did say it didn’t register any more calls.’
‘She'd deliberately lose her own phone?’ Vicki looked at him, incredulous.
‘Yes, that way, if she finally does get back in touch with you, she can justify her silence - the lost phone. That would explain why she missed your calls and lost your number. If you accept that, isn’t it also possible after Laurie got off the bus, somebody picked up her shiny phone?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Therefore,’ Leighton said sagely, ‘even if you did hear it at the bus depot, it is not necessarily evidence of anything suspicious.’
The former detective took a drink of coffee, then arched his hands together in front of his face. He felt confident he had addressed Vicki’s concerns, but then, she threw him a curve-ball.
‘So, how do you explain the fact she hasn’t shown up for work in the last week?’
This seemed to catch Leighton off-guard. His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth opened just a fraction, but he quickly regained his composure.
‘Maybe she planned to stay with you longer, and so left work with no definite plan to return.’
‘She took two weeks of annual holiday – that’s all she was entitled to – and she hasn’t been back, even though she has wages to collect.’
‘You know that for certain?’
Vicki nodded resolutely.
Leighton drunk his coffee and smiled. ‘There could be a number of reasons for that, too, but I guess whatever the truth is, we’ll be better placed to find out when we get to Barstow.’
10
Mark Steinberg had suspected something was wrong after two or three days, but after six weeks, he was certain. As free spirited as she was, Jo would have been in touch. He had told her several times he would accompany her down to Santa Cruz, if she would just hang on for a few more weeks. He had some holiday time due from work, but Jo was unable to hang around; she simply wanted to get playing some gigs, and The Black Cat club in Santa Cruz seemed like the perfect venue. And even though it hurt Mark to admit it, Santa Cruz probably also represented freedom.
The previous December, he had been working at the Sundowner Bar in Laughlin – it was a grubby little bar, on the edge of town. It had been in a slow decline for years, until Mark and another barman organised regular live music evenings. Initially, it had been a relatively slow burn, but by the third month, and having slashed beer prices during any performance, the bar began to gain a reputation as a credible little venue.
Jo had shown up for a Sunday night open mic session. With her rebel prom queen looks, she seemed like out of place, as she dragged her battered guitar case through the door. She approached the counter and confidently parked herself on a stool facing the tiny raised stage. She ordered a bottle of European beer, and, as she drank it, she tucked her hair behind one ear. This action revealed a neatly scripted tattoo beneath her ear which read: Sorry is so easy to tell, yet so hard to express.
Mark, who had been working behind the bar on the night she came in, had been down in the cramped cellar changing a barrel of Anchor Steam. He had volunteered to go down to escape the earnest teenager, who was murdering a selection of Simon and Garfunkel songs. When he climbed back up through the hatch in the floor, and saw Jo at the bar, he forgot all about the terrible music. She looked like she had been transported from a time when beauty was natural, and fashion was simple. He straightened his faded Ramones t-shirt, and, picking up a bar towel, moved over to where she sat.
‘Hey, is this your first time in here?’ he said, trying to sound casual, as he wiped the counter.
‘Yep,’ she said, as she kept her eyes on the singer.
'So, what do you think?' he persisted.
‘Seems an okay place.’ Jo said, and drank her beer.
‘Just okay?’ He assumed an expression of mock indignation.
‘Yep,’
‘Ah well, hey, listen, the entertainment is usually better than this.’
‘He’s not so bad,’ she said, without turning around.
‘Really?’
Mark waggled his eyebrows, causing Jo to giggle.
‘Well, I’ve heard worse.’ She glanced at Mark. ‘… but only rarely.’
‘You play and sing?’ Mark nodded towards the guitar case.
‘Yep, when I unpack this bad baby,’ she patted the guitar case, ‘I’ll knock your socks off.’
Jo had not been lying, either. That night she had patiently waited until the local singers had performed their tired sets, before she unpacked her guitar, and stepped up on to the stage.
‘Hi,’ she said, into the grubby microphone, ‘this is a lovely Marianne Faithful song for the lovely barman.’
While Mark watched in appreciative silence, Jo played a powerful version of “Ruby Tuesday.” She strummed and picked the strings with skill and style, her head tilted to the single spotlight, as she sang her heart out. The first song was followed by a couple of Cat Stevens and Lou Reed numbers. For the first time in months, the entire audience of the small venue were wholly engrossed in the performance of a stunningly good musician.
Once Jo had finished her set, she sat at the bar with Mark until closing time. She had explained she was originally from Boulder City, and after quitting her job in a dead-end shoe shop, had decided to gig her way down to the West Coast. The idea of hopping from bus to bus, and busking down to San Diego, appealed to her sense of connection with the romantic past.
Mark, who shared her fascination with the music of the past, felt he had found a kindred spirit, especially when Jo’s face lit up in discovering he spent daylight hours working in a retro record s
tore over on the east side of the city.
After the bar closed that night, Mark walked Jo back to her motel. He had carried her guitar, and she had held on to his arm - like Suze Rotolo - as they made their way through the deserted town. After raiding the mini bar of its only two drinks, they had sat on the balcony, and raised two miniature bottles of Jim Beam bourbon in a toast to the bright stars above them. Then, they had slept together on the soft bed, where their lips and hands had moved over each other in the warm darkness.
That had been the start of three and a half blissful months. During the day, Mark worked in RPM Records, and Jo wrote new songs on her battered guitar. At lunchtime, she would show up at the shop with paper bags of home-made sandwiches and clinking bottles of root beer. They would have a daily picnic on the floor of the stock room, surrounded by stacks of vinyl albums, where they would debate Dylan’s move from acoustic to electric guitar, or the decline in modern lyrics.
In the evening, they would spend their time in the bar, gradually building up the quality and reputation of the music nights.
Eventually, inevitably, Jo grew restless to continue her journey. She would talk about the West Coast more often - usually in terms of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’ she would get there. She had been digging around on the internet, and wanted to play in a popular music venue called The Black Cat bar.
It had been tough for Mark, who had found everything he ever wanted in Jo, to know she was still looking for something more. But, he was wise enough to know she was like a wild bird - stuck in a cage, and dreaming of wide blue skies. She talked as if getting down to the Coast would be a visit, but they both suspected otherwise.
As the lay together in bed one night, with Jo facing the bedroom window, Mark asked the difficult question.
‘Do you want me to drive you down, just from a safety point of view, I mean? I have some time off coming up. No strings.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said softly.
‘I don’t mean in a stalker “take me with you” way. I just meant to save you taking the bus.’
‘It’s okay.’ Jo half turned and smiled. ‘I kind of like the old bone shaker buses, plus I got a really cheap ticket - all the way to San Diego for fifty bucks. Leaves tomorrow night’
‘Oh.’ Mark took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think you’d booked already. Are things here that bad?’
He sat up in bed, took a cigarette from the night stand, and lit it.
‘Mark, I’m not trying to get away from you,’ Jo said, as she turned fully around, and placed a hand on his arm, touching the edge of a spiralling tattoo. ‘I’m just trying to find my place.’
‘I know,’ he said, blowing out a cone of smoke. He knew this was true. ‘Look, Jo, I’m not trying to be some ball and chain. Whatever you need to do is cool. But, I’m not naïve - you have the heart of a poet, the voice of an angel, so I’m guessing you might not be showing up here again too soon.'
‘Never say never.’ She shrugged. ‘Plus, you could always come down, too.’
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to be your baggage.’
‘Then, how about a weekend trip?’
‘Maybe once you’re settled, eh?’
‘Yeah, that would be nice.’
She turned away and Mark switched of the night light. The sound of The Blue Oyster Cult was drifting through from the living room. Somehow, the darkness made it seem louder.
As he pressed against her back, Mark slipped a hand on to Jo's warm stomach, and closed his eyes.
‘I do love you,’ he said, his mouth against her warm soft, shoulder, but she was already away.
That had been the last night he ever spent with her.
The following evening, Mark drove Jo to a bus stop on the outskirts of town. They had sat and waited in the car, until the silence was unbearable for both of them. Then, they had stood uncomfortably apart by the roadside, until the silver coloured bus had arrived. The driver - a large, friendly guy in a Hawaiian shirt - loaded Jo’s guitar case into the luggage compartment, as Mark gave her a quick hug, and said his brief goodbye. He watched the tail lights of the coach shrink into the darkening horizon, feeling like he had been robbed.
Now, six weeks later, he sat alone in his apartment, and rubbed his hands over his unshaven face. If she had been in touch, then, he had been prepared to move down to the Coast for a few weeks. They could see how things went, and simply chill out for a while. But, as time passed, Jo had not contacted him - no phone call, no email - just a void. It seemed to Mark she was either sending him a message she was happy without him, or something had gone badly wrong.
Despite the pain it caused him, Mark hoped the reason was the former, but somewhere at the back of his mind, a small alarm bell was ringing.
11
The town of Barstow was slightly larger than Vicki had expected. The way Laurie had spoken about it made it sound like one dusty street in the middle of the desert. Instead, it was a cross of intersecting roads, which formed a basic grid of functional homes and single storey businesses.
Leighton turned the car into the parking lot of Barstow Station. ‘Okay, this is the town,’ he said, ‘so what’s the address?’
‘4 Vineyard Drive,’ Vicki said. She was holding a home printed map in her hand, but didn’t need to consult it.
‘If you drive through the main, keep going until you leave the built-up section, you’ll reach Burke’s End, then turn right, then left - it’s the fourth house along.’
‘I thought you said you had never been here?’ Leighton said, as he put the car in gear, and began driving back out on to the street.
‘I haven’t,’ Vicki confirmed. ‘I checked out the town online a few times. I must’ve just learned it by osmosis.’
Leighton shot her a sceptical glance. ‘Maybe you should consider a career with the CHP,’ he said wryly.
‘I doubt I’d be very good,’ Vicki said softly.
‘You couldn’t be any worse than I was.’ Leighton’s words could have been taken as a joke, but there was no humour in his voice.
It took no more than a few minutes for Vicki and Leighton to travel along the dusty road leading through the Burke’s End area to Laurie’s home.
As the car pulled into the roadside, Vicki suddenly felt a sick feeling form in the depth of her stomach. Up until that moment, she had somehow managed to push the reality of the situation to some dark area of her mind. But, now, she was forced to confront the painful truth.
Looking at the single level, misshapen bungalow, with peeling rust coloured paint and colourless felt roof, made her guiltily aware of the extreme contrast between her own Oceanside accommodation and Laurie’s humble home. This sad fact seemed to solidify Vicki’s commitment to finding her friend.
‘You coming?’ Leighton smiled briefly, and unclipped his seatbelt, but his tone had become business like. Crime scenes - if this was indeed one - were as familiar to him as his own home.
‘Sure.’ Vicki nodded, as if to motivate herself, ‘Let’s go.’
Vicki opened the creaking car door, and stepped out into the dry heat. Laurie’s house sat on an empty stretch of desert road. Directly across the street from the small home was a weed-covered pile of sandstone rubble, which may once have been a similar house, but other than that, there were no other buildings for half a kilometre in either direction. The area was nothing but flat, dusty fields filled with needle grass and giant cardons poking up like prickly scarecrows.
Even to Leighton, it looked like a lifeless and lonely place to live.
Vicki imagined what it must have been like for Laurie, who had dreamed of leaving college to take photographs in Europe, to have found herself stuck in a shack on the edge of a desert town.
The front garden of the grubby house was little more than four square metres of dead grass ringed by a waist-high fence of sun-bleached wood. Leighton lifted the loop of green garden wire, which held the small wooden gate shut, and pushed it open.
‘After you,’
he said, and stepped aside to allow Vicki to approach the house first.
Vicki stepped cautiously towards the hazy screen door at the side of the building. She almost tripped over a swollen bag of trash, which sat surrounded by a scattering of crushed cigarette stubs. A cluster of house flies buzzed in the air around the garbage, as if to protect their territory. Vicki wondered how many of their wriggling offspring were feasting inside the plastic bag.
Turning her head back, she found Leighton was peering intently at the rust coloured soil beneath the windows.
‘Should I try the door?’ she called.
‘Sure,’ he responded, without looking up.
Vicki reached towards the steel door handle then hesitated. ‘Hey, what if they need to, you know…’
‘What?’ Leighton called.
‘I don’t know.’ She searched for the right words. ‘Maybe check for prints later?’
‘They can discount yours,’ said Leighton, who was crouched near the ground, peering at the garden gate. ‘I’ll vouch for you.’
‘Okay,’ Vicki nodded, ‘sure.’
As she reached for the handle again, Vicki closed her eyes, and silently wished for the impossible. She wished the door would open easily, and inside, she would find Laurie sipping a glass of iced tea, and wearing one of her trademark outfits, listening to classic rock. Her mouth would fall open at seeing her friend. She would laugh, rush to hug Vicki, and explain she had somehow gotten all mixed up. Perhaps she would even invite the strange old detective inside to have a drink with them, and share in the joke. But, that was not going to happen, because when Vicki opened her eyes and held the handle, she found that the door was locked.
‘Any luck?’ Leighton said from directly behind her, making her jump.
‘Shit!’ Vicki let out a deep sigh.
‘Sorry, I thought you heard me talking to you as I came along.’
‘No, it’s okay, but I never heard you.’
‘I was saying there’s no sign of a break-in at the front of the place.’