by Louis Barr
Shortly after turning fifteen, I knew I still wasn’t quite right. The hired hand who’d been raping me for eight years became the first person I buried on the ranch.
“Boy, it’s about time you got hair on your nuts and put an axe in that old bastard’s head,” he’d said to me after the hired hand vanished. “All I can figure is you liked getting ass-fucked.”
Maybe he’d called that one right. After all, when you know how to slaughter animals, operate a backhoe, and have a thousand acres to work with, making someone disappear forever could happen easily enough. Then again, maybe I tolerated the hired hand’s molestations because I took older-male affection any way I could get it.
After graduating high school, I attended college full-time and earned a four-year degree in fire science. I got hired as a firefighter but soon returned to lectures, labs, and textbooks to become a licensed paramedic. I never returned to the ranch until the old man died.
Crushing the cigarette’s cherry between the calluses on my thumb and forefinger, I stepped the fuck out of memory lane. After pocketing the butt, I moved ahead with the last of the sunrise chores.
I pulled the handcart to the chicken yard, pausing to watch the flock scratching and pecking in their own shit. I enjoyed slaughtering these filthy fucking birds, watching them make their short, final runs, blood spurting out of their headless necks.
Lifting the latch on the wire gate, I stepped into the poultry yard, opened the sack, and began filling the feeders. The fat hens would not leave a speck uneaten. I tossed the empty feed bag into the cart and moved on.
At the pig pen, four huge, snorting, squealing swine waited for me. I poured the slop from the stainless steel pails over the fence into the wooden trough. True eating and shitting machines, hogs never turned their snouts up at anything. Hell, I once watched a sow devour an old license plate. And, like the chickens, hogs never left a speck behind.
I returned to the barn and hosed out the slop pails, making certain all evidence of their former contents went down the floor drain. I headed for the house.
In the shower, I had a few minutes to think.
Yesterday afternoon, I’d almost gotten my ass busted by trailing the world famous Danning tramp into Steele & Whitman Investigations. I’d hoped to overhear bits of her conversation with the gumshoe.
But the silver-haired harridan behind the reception desk gave me the third degree and caught me off guard. Forced to think fast, I’d presented myself as Scott Davidson. Nobody could connect me to the deputy and his death. I was only an ordinary man wanting a few minutes of Steele’s time.
Late yesterday afternoon, I’d tailed Steele to his house in the Flats. I parked a block away. Before long, a Rock & Raoul Construction dually drove up Steele’s driveway and parked in the garage, suggesting the two men were either close friends or something else I didn’t want to know about. I drove away before someone in the ritzy-titsy neighborhood noticed my old, dented Jimmy and called the Beverly Hills blues.
Last evening at home, I did some internet research. Finding Rock & Raoul Construction’s website, I learned Raoul was Raoul Martinez. Using Google Maps, I found Raoul’s address and a clear photo of his house, including his Ram parked in front of the garage.
Next, I caught up on Steele’s cases that had made headlines. Seems he’d become one of the best at finding missing people.
After reading the articles on Steele & Whitman’s successes, and my run-in with the old bag behind the desk, I’d learned never again to underestimate Steele’s abilities and resources. He could become a serious problem. The stakes were too high for Steele to interfere with my plans for Shane Danning, and settling the score with his mother.
Now, dressed in suit and tie, I slid behind the wheel of my five-year-old Buick and headed to my other job. The commute would give me time to finalize my plans for my first move: a homicide that would rock Clint Steele’s world.
Chapter Seven
Off on a Fucking Lark
Clint, Los Angeles, Police Administration Building, Tuesday, May 1
I found Captain Harlan “Hal” Flynn at his desk, reading the Los Angeles Times. I entered his office without knocking.
Flynn lowered the paper and said in his standard bug-up-his-ass tone, “As I live and breathe, if it ain’t the big swinging of private dicks.”
“And you know it,” I said.
Flynn folded the newspaper and tossed it onto his desk.
I suppose Flynn’s blue eyes, slight brogue, dark hair, and the bad-assed cop thing he wore like a discount warehouse suit made him a definite CILF to lots of people. But I’m not one of them.
For years, Flynn and I have more or less been friends, with a more or less mutual respect for each other.
Better put, we merely tolerate each other.
I went to Flynn’s big green Lutheran church coffee percolator, found what might have been a clean cup, and helped myself. The black sludge smelled as if it had been reheated no more than two or three times. “Thanks for the Danning referral.”
“You owe me big for that favor,” Flynn said.
I sat in front of the desk and took a sip of coffee that nearly made me heave. “Diana Danning told me someone spotted her son in Laguna last night.”
“Ahh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Flynn pulled in a long breath and let it out fast. “I told her not to jump to fucking conclusions until we could verify it was her son.”
I set my coffee mug on the edge of Flynn’s shit-strewn desk. “I don’t imagine you’ll find too many guys out there who look like Shane Danning. With everything he has going for him in the body and looks departments, he could become the poster boy for spontaneous orgasms.” I jerked Flynn’s chain. “So who was spotted last night—Shane or his evil twin?”
Flynn shrugged. “The supermarket’s manager is certain she saw Shane Danning in her store around 2250 last night.”
“Do you consider the store manager a credible witness?”
“She’s a bit of a flooze, but I think she’s credible,” Flynn said. “She told me the man in question paid for his groceries with an American Express card issued to Danning. He used Shane Danning’s California driver’s license as a photo ID.”
“Can you verify the signature on the charge receipt?”
Flynn rolled closer to his desk. “The store manager swore the signature matched the handwriting on the back of the credit card. I’ll know for certain when the SID criminologists get off their lazy asses and send me a handwriting analysis.”
“Who leaked the Danning sighting to the media? It had to be one of your colleagues or one of the supermarket’s employees.”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out and lock the asshole up.”
I grinned. “If being an asshole in the City of Angels were a crime, we’d need a fifty-foot-high steel fence around the entire L.A. megalopolis.”
The right corner of Flynn’s mouth twitched. It was his version of a chuckle.
“There’s one fact I didn’t include in my report,” Flynn said, “meaning it didn’t get leaked to the media by anyone in law enforcement.”
“What fact is that?”
Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Shane Danning neither entered nor left the supermarket alone.”
“Are we talking about a male or female companion?”
“Male, dark blond, brown, glasses, six-one or two, one eighty to one ninety pounds, early to mid-forties, according to the store manager.”
I shook my head. “That’s a great description of a fargon lot of Southern California’s middle-aged male population.”
Flynn nodded.
“Laguna is Sex Central for shitloads of people. It wouldn’t surprise me if we have an actual Shane Danning sighting.”
“Ohhhh,” Flynn said, dragging out the word, “now you’re telling me Danning walked away from his airline pilot career, mother, and home for sex.”
I leaned back in my chair. “You and I know people go missing for everything from extended sexual
liaisons to mental illnesses, bad relationships, debts, or to catch a ride on the fucking rapture flying saucer. All I’m saying is Laguna seems like a place where a young, handsome, single guy might go to relax, cruise barely covered beach bodies, then drink and fuck himself stupid.”
Diana had mentioned buying Shane a new Porsche. “Did Danning drive to the Jugs & Mugs Saloon that night?”
“It appears he either walked or caught a ride to the saloon. We found his German sports car parked at his house.”
I veered. “Assuming it was Danning the store manager saw, what did he buy?”
Flynn flipped past a couple of pages in the Danning file and read aloud, “Pretzel rods, chips, four cases of Killian’s, and a bunch of shit from the deli.”
“That tells us jack,” I said.
“Bullshit, it tells me we got another rich, spoiled, west-side prince off on a fucking lark.”
“If Danning blew town for sex and to party, why would he leave behind a brand-new, six-figure sports car,” I countered.
“You know the brats of the Platinum Triangle couldn’t care a fucking fiddler’s fart less about expensive possessions.”
Flynn had a point, maybe.
“The media reported two university students thought they saw Danning getting into a van after he left the saloon. One of them called the cops reporting a possible kidnapping,” I said, then asked, “Did the responding officers find the eyewitnesses believable?”
Flynn shrugged. “They were about as believable as two drunk-off-their-asses college boys can be. The problem is they disagreed on everything they saw, or thought they saw.”
“Jesus H, how drunk were they?”
“One of the responding officers told me the two college boys couldn’t have found their own wankers with both hands in the dark.” Flynn’s eyes met mine as he added, “Someone shot out the streetlights along the block where Danning was either forced or willingly got into a van.”
The vandalized streetlights might point to a premeditated kidnapping. “What can you tell me about Danning’s ex-significant other?”
“Kristopher or Kristina Morgotti’s a bawdy little cross-dressin’ queen, but she or he looks clean. Not as much as a parking ticket to his or her name.”
“I might agree with your conclusions: no abduction, Danning either walked or hooked a ride to the saloon, found a nice piece o’ tail, and got away from it all because he could.” I absently picked up the coffee mug, caught a whiff, and set it back down. “Do you mind if I do some digging?”
“Unless something else comes into the light, I’ll close this case once we verify Danning’s Amex signature.” He shrugged. “Go ahead and earn some of that fat retainer Diana Danning gave you. And keep me in the loop.”
“Consider yourself looped,” I said.
Flynn closed Shane Danning’s missing person file and rose from his desk chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a horse.”
He made it to the door and turned to face me, his Irish eyes smiling. “Don’t you dare steal that copy of Danning’s missing person file I left on my desk.” He walked down the hall to the men’s room.
Flynn’s cooperation came as no surprise. He wanted me to do the kind of digging the LAPD was barred from doing without probable cause. I stood, slotted my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans, and checked the cubicles outside Flynn’s office. All clear. I slid the Danning file into my messenger bag and headed out.
Chapter Eight
Leave a Message…Maybe We’ll Call
Clint, Tuesday, May 1
Entering Steele & Whitman Investigations, I saw Hope cradling the phone while scribbling on a steno pad. Using shorthand, she could take dictation without dropping a single word. I considered such a skill damned impressive.
I wondered if technology had turned Gregg shorthand into a lost art. Did high schools and community colleges even teach it anymore? I waved at Hope and started for my office.
She pointed her pencil at me. I stopped dead in my army boots.
Hope ended the call. “Do we need to adopt a dress code? Yesterday you wore a suit and tie to the office. This morning, you come traipsin’ in here looking like a Section Eight rent boy.”
“I always wear the proper clothing to do the job at hand properly.” Standing at parade rest, I changed the topic. “The sour look on your lovely face suggests you heard something quite untoward on the phone.”
“Untoward indeed,” Hope said. Her hazel eyes met my dark blues. “I checked Scott Davidson’s Kern County employment reference.”
“And?”
She turned to her notes. “On the job, Deputy Sheriff Scott Valentine Davidson consistently proved to be a reliable, honest deputy, who meticulously followed orders. He was a hard”—she said “hahd”—“working, punctual deputy who was motivated, demonstrated solid problem-solving skills, worked equally well independently or on a team and—”
“Hope, I think I got it. Scott Davidson’s work ethic made him an HR director’s wet dream.” There might be something positive about Gregg shorthand becoming a lost art, I thought. “So what the hell’s the problem with the deputy?”
“The problem, Mister Grouchy smaht-ass, is Deputy Scott V. Davidson did not retire from Kern County.” She paused for impact.
I waited for her to continue. “You know, Hope, as a member of the lesbian tribe, you can sometimes turn into a real drama queen. For fuck sakes, tell me the rest of the story.”
“Deputy Scott V. Davidson died about two months ago from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” She slid her pencil into her silver-haired bouffant that sort of looked like a chrome beehive.
“Scott Davidson is dead?”
“That’s precisely what I told you.”
Given the superlatives Hope had noted on Davidson’s job performance, I wondered what might have driven him to suicide. Then it hit me: the Kern County Sheriff’s Department could’ve had two deputies named Scott Davidson.
“I can hear the wheels in your head spinning,” Hope said. “The Kern County Sheriff had only one deputy named Scott Valentine Davidson.”
“Your mind reading scares me sometimes.” I parked one butt cheek on the edge of her shipshape desk. “Would you see if you can get a photo of Deputy Davidson from the sheriff or the DMV?”
Then I brought her up to speed on the sighting of Shane Danning in Laguna.
She wrote more shorthand. “So noted.”
“What did you find on that GMC pickup I saw in the building’s parking area yesterday?”
She flipped the page on her steno pad. “The forty-year-old GMC belonged to Scott V. Davidson. The registration’s address is a two hundred acre farm”—she said “fahm”—“owned by Scott’s father, Francis Valentine Davidson.”
“And you have Francis’s phone number.” I knew she did.
She wrote the number on a Post-it and passed it to me. “Not for nothing, but the Kern County Sheriff tells me Francis Valentine Davidson has a drinking problem and can be a truly charming”—you know how she said it—“man to deal with.”
“Sarcasm noted.” I started for my desk but turned back. “Would you put together a six-pack, including Shane Danning’s photo, and get his house key out of the safe, please?”
“Done.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled a collection of young men’s photos lined up three per side in clear vinyl sleeves, as well as Danning’s house key.
“Thanks, but your mind reading does get spooky,” I said, picking up the key and the six-pack of photos.
“Don’t you know from reading John Updike’s novels that all New England broads are witches?” She mimicked Margaret Hamilton’s Wicked Witch of the West screeching laugh. (If necessary, JFGI.)
The phone warbled. Hope pulled the pencil out of her bouffant beehive and snapped up the handset.
Seated behind my desk, I found the cell phone number of the man who had presented himself as the deceased Scott Davidson. I tapped in the phone number he’d given me. Two rings,
and “This number is no longer in service. Please check the listing and try again.”
I didn’t need to try again. I wondered who in the hell would attempt to impersonate a dead man. Whoever this fuckrag dime-store cowboy was, he had to know the truth would come out with a single phone call.
And whoever this asshole was, he apparently liked playing games.
I punched in Francis Valentine Davidson’s number. I was one ring away from hanging up when a gruff male voice with a two-pack-a-day nicotine habit and a quart or so of something a hundred and fifty proof answered the phone.
“Don’t ya know what goddammed time it is?”
I considered asking him if anybody truly knew what time it is, but I thought better of it. Never go Zen when talking to a cranky alcoholic. I identified myself, then asked, “Am I speaking to Francis Davidson?”
“You with a fuckin’ collection agency?”
“No, I’m a private investigator.” I pushed the envelope. “Would you mind answering a couple of questions concerning your late son?”
Davidson didn’t speak. But I heard the old fart’s wheezy breathing. At least he hadn’t hung up.
I hung in. “Yesterday afternoon, I met with a man who identified himself as Scott Davidson. He drove away in a GMC pickup registered to your late son.” I paused, letting that much information sink into Davidson’s calcified brain. “Do you have any idea who would impersonate Scott and why?”
“Fuck no.”
Francis Valentine Davidson ended the call. I frowned at the dead connection for a moment, muttering, “Asshole.”
I thumbed through Shane Danning’s missing person file and found the statements given to the police on April twenty-fifth by Blake Walsh and Blaine Vogel, the university students who’d called 9-1-1 after witnessing a possible abduction on a Hollywood sidewalk.