by Louis Barr
The solutions to perplexing cases are somewhere in the details, and the obvious answers usually proved correct.
I needed the name of the middle-aged cowboy who’d come to my office, identifying himself as deceased Deputy Scott Davidson before he made an appearance with Shane Danning in the Laguna Stop & Save, then dropped by the supermarket alone early yesterday evening. Whatever his name might be, it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to deduce this middle-aged “dime-store cowboy,” as Hope called him, played a part in Shane Danning’s disappearance. It was the obvious answer. And probably the correct one.
I was headed to Bakersfield with some questions about Deputy Scott Davidson’s suicide. Although it was a long shot, I’d brought Mars’s sketch hoping the lead investigator of Deputy Davidson’s death might know the dime-store cowboy’s name.
I glanced at my empty coffee mug and considered making a stop for a refill at the truck plaza ahead. I barreled past the exit. I swept my right hand over my short hair.
Tuned into a throwback rock channel on satellite radio, I sang along with Jefferson Airplane’s Grace Slick.
Glancing to my right, I didn’t see Sierra sitting in the passenger’s seat, saying, “Stop…my ears…they burn,” as she used to do when I’d try to sing. Now that I was sleeping decently, my imagined sightings of Sierra and memory echoes had stopped haunting me.
Goddammit, but Grace Slick could belt out a song.
The miles rolled by.
Eventually, the traffic got heavier and slower. I signaled and changed lanes.
I glanced at the gas gauge.
The GPS babe started mouthing off.
Some tool driving a Fiat cut me off near the first exit to Bakersfield.
The nagging GPS babe told me, “In 1200 feet, take the next right.” To shut her the hell up, I didn’t miss the turn. I thought her voice acquired a dash of bitchiness whenever she needed to say she was recalculating.
I found a vacant spot in visitor parking.
Most law enforcement officers would sooner get beaten senseless than share information with a private investigator. After all, we civilians were major fuckups in most cops’ minds. I’d first turn on the charm with BPD Investigator Larry Roberts.
Roberts kept me cooling my heels in the waiting area for five minutes before showing me to his desk. I sat without flashing my badge to remind him that Captain Flynn deputized me.
A fiftysomething department lifer, Roberts sported a large gut and a big nose webbed with burst capillaries. He smiled like a hyena before it rips out its prey’s throat. “Your LAPD buddy, Captain Flynn, asked me to talk with you about Deputy Davidson’s suicide. What do you think I can add you don’t already know?”
I began by telling Roberts I’d come across the deceased deputy’s name while working another case. I pulled a copy of Mars’s sketch from my messenger bag and slid it across Roberts’s desk. “Do you recognize this man?”
He glanced at the sketch and looked up with a what-the-fuck expression all over his fat face. “I’ve never seen him before,” Roberts said. “What the hell made you think I’d know him?”
“I knew it was a long shot you might know his name. I’m guessing this unidentified man may have been a friend or acquaintance of Deputy Davidson, and may live in or around Bakersfield.”
I veered from the sketch and began with the information I’d read in Roberts’s death scene report. He answered my questions with either single words, or nods, or headshakes. Roberts wouldn’t give me his insights on the investigation, nor any personal comments about fallen deputy Davidson. But I took another run at him.
“Your report didn’t mention whether the deputy left a suicide note.”
Roberts sneered. “Why the fuck are you asking me about a suicide note? Davidson didn’t leave anything at the scene but his body, his gun, a shell casing, and his goddammed old pickup truck.” Roberts glared at me. “I didn’t think twice about not finding a note. Fact is, I would’ve thought it fucking strange if Davidson had written one.”
I tried to conceal my growing annoyance with this arrogant, condescending sack of shit. Still, disdain edged my voice. “As to the death scene, didn’t you find it fucking strange, to use your words, that Deputy Davidson shot himself in the parking lot instead of inside his pickup’s cab?”
“It’s a waste of my fucking time, and yours too, sonny, sitting here trying to second-guess the whys and why-nots of someone who offed himself.” Roberts stood, ending the interview.
I started to leave, then turned around. “I’ll ask Captain Flynn to contact your commander if I think of anything else I need answered.” I took my leave.
Returning to my car, I headed out of the city for a talk with Francis Valentine Davidson, the deceased deputy’s father.
I turned off a county road onto a rutted gravel lane bordered on both sides by weeds. Parking in front of a wood frame farmhouse in need of paint and a couple bundles of roof shingles, I made a wild-assed guess that routine maintenance had gone by the wayside since Deputy Davidson’s death.
As I stepped out of my car, a white Samoyed with dark eyes bounded down the porch steps. I didn’t freeze in fear of getting bitten. The dog trotted toward me wearing the Sammy smile.
The dog stopped, sat, tilted his head, and sized me up. In a few moments, he began to pant. I whistled. The Samoyed trotted over, allowing me petting, patting, and squeaky-voice talking time. I dropped my hand. The dog barked playfully.
“What’s wrong, Lassie?”
The Samoyed whined, then let fly a bark that became a brief howl.
“Oh no, did Timmy fall off the barn roof again?”
The dog barked.
“Shut the fuck up!”
The man’s phlegmy voice sounded way past pissed. He opened the screen door and hawked a wad onto the porch. He let the door slam shut. “Who the fuck are you?”
The Samoyed dropped his tail between his legs and cowered beside me. Crouching, I patted the dog’s head and neck, noticing that the dirty white fur had silver tips. Beneath his coat, I thought the dog felt underweight.
I stood and badged the old man. “Are you Francis Davidson?”
“Who the fuck wants to know?”
“Clint Steele. Somebody stopped by my office about two weeks ago driving a GMC registered to Scott Davidson. Did you sell your late son’s pickup or did somebody steal it?”
“Not that it’s any of your frigging business, but yeah, I sold that junk pile after Scott died. I didn’t have use for it, or nothin’ else of his.”
Francis Davidson was as big an asshole in person as he’d been when I called him about two weeks ago. And I found him about as welcoming as that fuckhead Investigator Larry Roberts. Maybe it’s something in the water, I thought. I petted the dog’s head, then climbed the two steps onto the porch, avoiding the wad of phlegm. “The truck’s registration and plates are still in your son’s name.”
“I signed over the title. I don’t give two shits what the buyer did or didn’t do after he paid me cash and hauled the pickup outta here.”
Davidson turned slightly. I saw a wheel gun in his left hand. A cigarette smoldered between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He’s a southpaw, I thought.
He’d come to the door wearing nothing but boxers. From five feet away, I could smell his body odor coated in one hundred and fifty proof sweat.
I took a step back. “Do you recall the name of the person who bought Scott’s GMC?”
“You one of the fuckin’ city or county cops?”
“I’m with the LAPD,” I said.
He sneered. “You’re a little outa your jurisdiction. Get the fuck off my property and stick your nose in someone else’s business.”
I tried another approach. “I’m not convinced your son shot himself.”
Davidson smiled maliciously. “Is that right? How well did you know Scott?”
“I never met your son. Scott’s name came up in another matter I’m investigating.”
> Davidson laughed. “Bullshit! You lie like a cheap fucking rug.” He hacked another phlegmy cough but didn’t spit this time. “I’d bet you got to know my boy real good after he pulled you over in that flashy car of yours.”
Had he suggested his son Scott had been gay or bi? It might explain Investigator Roberts’s half-assed investigation of the deputy’s death. But in the paramilitary world of law enforcement, Scott would’ve likely kept his same-sex preference so far back in the closet a cave explorer couldn’t have found it. If Scott Davidson had been gay or bi, it would be damned near impossible to verify unless a former lover stepped forward, and that wouldn’t likely happen. Davidson’s partner, if he had one, probably also worked in law enforcement.
“Give me the name of the person who bought Scott’s pickup.”
Francis Davidson let out a wheezy breath. “The buyer called himself Ray J. Johnson.”
Fuck my luck. If Francis Davidson wasn’t lying, the buyer might’ve taken his alias from the old Ray Jay Johnson shtick (JFGI).
He might’ve as well used John Smith, or John Doe, or Jesus H Christ.
“Before you ask, I don’t remember Johnson’s address or phone number, if he ever gave them to me.” Davidson scratched his balls with the gun’s barrel while simultaneously lifting the cigarette to his lips.
This one’s a real multitasker, I thought. Bet he can fart and chew gum at the same time too.
“I got paid cash for the truck and didn’t ask Johnson no questions.”
I held Mars’s sketch close to the screen. “Is this the man who bought your son’s Jimmy?”
Davidson squinted at the sketch then said, “Never saw him before.”
“Thanks for your time.” I started to leave. The Samoyed sat with puppy dog eyes at the bottom of the porch. I turned back to Davidson. “When did you last give this dog fresh water and food?”
“If you’re worried, take Scott’s fuckin’ mongrel with you before I shoot him.”
I met the old man’s rheumy eyes. “You’re joking.”
“No I ain’t,” he said.
“You need to know I won’t give the dog back if you change your mind.”
“Good, I hope the two of you are real happy together.”
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Never asked Scott, never gave two shits.” Davidson closed the door.
I walked behind the Samoyed. A male, I thought. It didn’t take Sherlock to guess Scott Davidson would’ve taken his dog to the vet’s office nearest to home. I opened the passenger side door for my newly adopted dog.
I knew the buyer of the GMC had to be the man in the sketch—the same man who’d driven to my office in the old Jimmy and identified himself as Deputy Scott Davidson.
It was the simplest answer. He had to be the same man, no two ways about it.
Francis Davidson lied when he said he didn’t know the man in the sketch. Investigator Roberts’s flip from gruff to hostile had come after I’d shown him the sketch. What the fuck was that all about?
I wondered if the man in the sketch might have shot Scott Davidson. I said aloud, “That’s nothing but conjecture. You met the man who’d bought Davidson’s pickup before he dropped by your office ostensibly looking for a full-time job.”
I paused again, and said to myself and the dog, “So why the hell did he present himself as Scott Davidson?”
I patted the dog’s head. “This case keeps falling deeper into unanswered questions, contradictions, and strange shit.”
Chapter Thirty-One
You Know Goddammed Good and Well What You Heard
Clint, The Flats, Wednesday, May 16
I got home from Bakersfield around 1830 hours, carrying a twenty-five-pound bag of kibble and pet supplies, plus a bathed and groomed Samoyed named Sammy.
I’d learned the dog’s name from his veterinarian. And I’d learned the name of Sammy’s vet the old-fashioned way. I’d looked on the back of the rabies vaccination tag clipped onto Sammy’s collar. Yup, that’s why I’m the private investigator.
I set the pet supplies in the laundry room, then unlaced and pulled off my boots. My adopted dog sat on his haunches, his tongue lolling and his bushy tail thumping the floor. I bent to pet him and got my cheek licked.
I heard the whine of Ian’s radio-controlled Mustang Shelby and the sound of flip-flops coming down the hall. The model car stopped dead. Ian ran in faded jeans, slid on his knees, stopping in front of Sammy. The wonderment in his big blue eyes made me smile. Dogs and children simply go together.
“Do we get to keep him, Daddy?”
“Yes, I adopted him. His name is Sammy.”
“He’s beautiful.” Ian hugged the dog, burying his nose in Sammy’s bathed, clipped, and combed fur. “He smells good too.”
The challenge was dead ahead, curled up and sleeping in the hall table’s ceramic bowl. The meeting of Heathcliff and Sammy started badly. Our big cat lifted his head, looked at the Samoyed, then gave me an offended glare.
Sammy had lived around feral farm cats. I imagined he’d learned to curb his attempts to herd them.
With cool, unblinking eyes, Heathcliff considered the dog with something like the look Barbara Stanwyck gave Fred MacMurray from the top of the staircase in Double Indemnity (JFGI). It’s a shame Hollywood doesn’t make film noir like that anymore, goddammit.
Heathcliff rose from the ceramic bowl and whacked the intruder on his nose. Sammy yelped and jumped back. Having affirmed his alpha male status, his highness yawned and returned to his throne.
Scooping kibble and pouring water into Sammy’s new bowls, I didn’t need to call him twice. I told Ian to let the dog alone while he ate. I turned and headed for the kitchen.
Raoul had his head in the refrigerator foraging.
“How did the screen test go?”
Raoul grabbed two beers and a plateful of leftover pizza. “Who the hell knows. I got the standard ‘We’ll be in touch.’” He snickered. “When elephants fly outta my ass.”
I imagined the screen test went far better than Raoul knew. After all, I hadn’t received an ear-piercing phone call from Aunt Vona for sending her an actor not up to her standards.
Raoul put the pizza in the microwave, sat on the stool beside me, and passed me a beer. “You look like you need at least one of these.”
I thanked him and took a long pull of beer. “Did Ian behave after Stella went home?”
“He certainly did. When I get married, I want a dozen children like Ian.” Raoul pulled the pizza out of the microwave, grabbed plates, and set one in front of me. “Mangia, mangia.”
I ate some pizza and drank some beer. Raoul’s comment about getting married and having a dozen children struck me as either a Roman Catholic Church or an LSD flashback.
“Ian once again mentioned he gets to work for me when his, and I quote, ‘penis gets big like Daddy’s.’ What’s this fixation all about?”
I told Raoul about the phallic phase of psychosexual development and Ian’s natural curiosity about male genitalia. “Not to worry, sometimes a big cigar is only a big cigar.” I left it at that.
Raoul turned at the sound of Ian’s flip-flops and Sammy’s nails on the kitchen’s hardwood floor.
“Oh, I adopted a dog,” I said.
“No shit,” Raoul said, petting the dog. Sammy licked Raoul’s chin, then looked at his uneaten pizza crust. He lunged, grabbed, chomped, and swallowed. Raoul laughed and pulled back, dodging a second tongue swipe. “Beautiful dog, but he needs some act-right training.”
“Good luck with that. He’s a Samoyed.” I turned to Ian. “Do you want some pizza?”
“Nuh-uh, Daddy. I had pizza for dinner.”
His right hand in a fist, Ian uncurled his fingers, showing me a chunk of kibble.
“Sammy must’ve thought I was hungry too. He dropped this in front of my feet. Should I eat it so I don’t hurt his feelings?”
I sighed inwardly. “No, son, you don’t eat dog food.”
“Why not?”
“It might make you sick. Throw it in the trash, then go wash your hands, please.”
Ian tossed the kibble gift into the trash can under the sink and went to the main floor bathroom to wash his hands.
Raoul chuckled.
I considered having another beer.
Returning to the kitchen, Ian dropped to the floor and petted the dog. “Can Sammy sleep in my room?”
“If he wants to.” No doubt about it, Sammy belonged to Ian.
“Awesome! Did you hear that, Sammy?”
The dog licked Ian’s cheek.
I pulled a plastic grocery bag from under the sink. “We need to take Sammy for a walk.”
The four of us took a twilight stroll. Sammy sniffed and piddled on about every bush, tree, and shrub we passed. A boy must mark his turf.
But I stopped Ian when he started to unzip his jeans. Another thread of the little boy, thinking it’s socially acceptable to whip it out on a residential street and take a piss when it’s not dark. A short time later, I covered my hand with the plastic bag I’d brought and cleaned up after Sammy.
Ian wrinkled his nose. “Ooh, that’s disgusting!”
I tied the bag. “Uh-huh, and cleaning up after your dog will soon become your job.” Yeah, right. When Pegasus soars out of my ear.
After about thirty minutes of walking, Sammy quit pulling me as if he were a sled dog mushing across the Yukon. I passed the leash to Ian a few blocks from home.
Back at the ranch, Raoul tousled Ian’s hair. He wished us good night and went to his bedroom.
I pointed Ian to the shower. He slipped into bed fifteen minutes later and read about a page aloud before setting his book aside. Sammy had made himself at home at the foot of the bed. I kissed Ian on the forehead and reached for the nightlight.
“We can leave it off, Daddy. Sammy will protect me.”
I said good night, petted Sammy, and headed for bed.
In the master bathroom, I brushed and flossed my teeth. And, yes, I didn’t see Sierra’s face in the mirror. I turned off the lights and went to bed.