Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  “How about female police chiefs?”

  “He's not my type.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Whatever it is, smart asses don’t qualify.”

  “Touché.” I took a sip of coffee. “Mr. Kohl seems pretty clued in to what goes on in your department.”

  “We cooperate with their security people.”

  “Friendly. No wonder they named the town after a transaction.”

  “These resorts saved this town, Mr. Craig. Four years ago this was a backwater, with the highest unemployment in the state. New businesses are flourishing. Three years ago this place was an old saloon. You'd have been up to your ankles in peanut shells, drinking dollar beers.”

  “This is an improvement?” Before she could bite my head off, Cheryl bustled up.

  “Need another menu?” she asked brightly.

  I passed mine over to the Chief. “She can use mine. I’ve decided.”

  “What are you having?” Masterson asked me.

  “Why do women always have to know that before they order?”

  “It tells us how you think, which you just did.” She handed the unopened menu to the waitress and gave her a big smile. “I’ll just have the number four, Cheryl. Scrambled, with the orange juice and a cup of tea. Wheat toast.”

  “Great. And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have two eggs over easy, with the corn beef hash and orange juice. No bread.”

  “Great. More coffee?”

  “Yes, decaf.”

  “Great.” She hurried off.

  “Let me guess how the food is here,” I said to Chief Masterson.

  “Great,” she mimicked, laughing.

  “Truce?”

  “Truce.”

  I took another sip of my coffee and used the opportunity to re-examine Chief Masterson. She was more than just pretty. The only help she'd tossed her natural beauty was a bit of makeup and a light lip gloss. Unfortunately, the blond ponytail had been replaced with a bun, done up with bobby pins to corral her hair under the police headgear.

  “What’s the deal with the Three Turn?” I said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The Three Turn. Back at the rink.”

  “Sorry, you shifted gears on me.”

  “I apologize. If you don’t want to talk about it.”

  She shrugged. “No big deal. I broke my wrist practicing a three turn. Now I just can’t do it on my own. It’s stupid, I know. A mental block.”

  “I have one with golf, similar to yours, except my problem is I don’t break my wrists.”

  “I don’t play golf, so I don’t get it.”

  “Good for you. One expensive, frustrating sport is enough.”

  The conversation sort of died at that point and we both spent several awkward seconds glancing around the room.

  “What is in corned beef hash, exactly?” she said, abruptly. “Besides the corned beef, I mean.”

  “Potatoes. Beyond that I feel it best not to ask questions.”

  “I see.”

  Another waitress deposited a china cup and saucer, a little silver pot of hot water, and a wooden box of teabags in front of Catherine. Then she hurried off without a word.

  “Well, how cute is that?” I said.

  “Yes, I am sure ‘cute’ is very big with you.”

  She selected English Breakfast Tea from the dozen or so varieties in the box and put it in the pot. While it steeped, she sat back and looked at me.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Well, first off, your name. Is it really Catherine?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a wary look.

  “Catherine Masterson?'

  She shook her head. “Don't go there.”

  “Are you kidding? A police chief named Cat Masterson? That is so cool.”

  “And so original. You know, I've never heard that before.”

  “Well, it's not every day you run into a guy as clever as me.”

  “Clever as I. And usually, Mr. Craig, people wait to get to know someone before they act all obnoxious and familiar.” There was no heat in her tone, just casual observation.

  “Please call me Nick. And I don't agree. Truly obnoxious people are obnoxious from the start, otherwise they're just posers.”

  “Then you are no poser.”

  “Thank you.”

  She opened the top of the tea pot and idly dunked the bag. “You know, a guy with two first names has nothing to brag about.”

  “Please, it's a grand old Irish name, from County Tyrone.”

  “Hence the corned beef.” She looked over the rim of her cup. “The name was my father's idea. He was a cop. In Chicago.”

  “How did you end up out here?”

  “After one too many shooting incidents, he pulled the pin. Got restless after two years of retirement and found a job out here as a one man police force.”

  “That explains the caps.”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” She looked at the cap. “He stole the design. I admit it.”

  “Yeah, that's the thing about the Windy City. Can't tell the cops from the cab drivers, 'til they hit you with their nightsticks.”

  “You don't like cops, Mr. Craig?”

  “Nick. And I love cops. I married one. I was one.”

  “Why'd you stop?”

  I grinned at her.

  “You're right,” she said, laughing. “Silly question. And I've only known you five minutes.”

  She poured a cup of tea from the pot. While she added sugar and cream, I leaned over the table and looked down.

  “Excuse me?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Just looking,” I said, settling back in my seat. “Wheel gun, huh?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, sipping her tea.

  “Big N frame, isn't it? A twenty-nine?”

  “No, it's a Model 28.”

  “Three fifty-seven. Good gun. Haven't made those for quite a while.”

  “It was my father's.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Ease off on the gas there, Dr. Freud. My Dad didn't trust automatics in the cold weather.”

  “Smart man. What’s he doing now?”

  She looked at her tea. “He's dead.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be. He had a long, interesting life and he went very peacefully.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  There must have been something in my tone. She looked at me sharply before returning to her tea.

  “So, Mr. Craig, how can I help you?”

  “As I said, I’m looking into the fire at The Retreat.”

  “What exactly is your interest?”

  “I'm sure you understand I am not at liberty to say without my client's permission.”

  “Is that client a person or an insurance company?”

  “Why would you ask if it was an insurance company?” I said.

  “You're asking about a fire. Seems logical.”

  “As I said, I can't confirm that.” It wouldn’t hurt to let her think I was an insurance investigator. “However, let's talk about the fire.”

  “It was an industrial accident.”

  “You investigated it?”

  She shrugged. “Not in my jurisdiction.”

  “Whose jurisdiction is it?”

  “That’s not entirely clear. Spanish Mountain is within the town limits, so it’s mine, but The Retreat and that part of the mountain are county, and the fire scene may also touch on land that is BLM’s responsibility. Our fire chief did insist on an inspection, and he examined the scene a couple of days later. He concurred with their explanation.”

  “A couple of days? They didn't fight the fire?”

  “They aren’t equipped to. It was way up the mountain. There is literally no way for our engines to get there. Verdugo has its own firefighting equipment on site for just that reason.”

  “What if it had gotten out of hand?”

  “It didn't. If it had, well, it would hav
e been fought like any wildfire, by the Forest Service.”

  “Still, it seems it was worth investigating. My understanding was witnesses reported explosions.”

  She poured a little more tea into her cup. “If you were a cop, you know as well as I do that eyewitnesses are unreliable. There is a lot of wind up there. A flare up could look like an explosion to someone down here.” She raised the cup to her lips.

  “We’ve been told some witnesses heard gunshots.”

  “Have you ever been near a forest or lumber fire, Mr. Craig?”

  “Nick. No, I can’t say I have.”

  “Wood sap boils and pockets of it explode, sounding very much like gunshots. Live trees have been known to blow up like bombs. It doesn’t surprise me that these witnesses, whoever they may be, thought they heard gunshots and explosions.”

  Just then, Cheryl arrived with our food, skillfully balanced on her left arm. She distributed the plates with the deftness of a blackjack dealer.

  “There ya go! Anything else I can get for ya?”

  “Nothing for me.” I turned to Masterson. “Cat?”

  “I’m fine,” she told Cheryl, glaring at me.

  “Great! Enjoy!” She hurried off to another table.

  The food may have been expensive, but there was lots of it and it was good. The corned beef hash was homemade, the eggs just right. The Sheriff clearly agreed. I'm no slouch at the table, but she ate like a truck driver. I wondered where she was putting it.

  After a few minutes, she slowed down a bit and looked over at me. “So, tell me why your client is so interested in our fire.”

  “We've received some credible information that the fire was arson, an act of terrorism by a fringe environmental group. Like the Vail fire some years back.”

  She sat still and stared at me for a moment. “Seems a little farfetched.”

  “So did 9/11.”

  “Can’t argue with you there.” She picked up a slice of toast and spread marmalade on it. “Why would the resort cover up a terrorist attack? Why claim it was an accident?”

  “Oh, any number of reasons,” I said, not wasting the opportunity to reinforce her insurance investigator fantasy. “They might be worried it would scare off investors. Also, insurance policies have all sorts of clauses about acts of war or terrorism, especially since 9/11. If that fire was arson, and the arsonists were officially considered terrorists by the U.S. Government, they might not be covered. An accident on the other hand…”

  She smiled in a faintly superior way. “These people are first rate, Mr. Craig. I doubt they’ve left any bases uncovered.”

  “Then maybe they’ve got something to hide.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know some of the people involved with this resort, and they’re pretty unsavory.”

  “Well, I know them, too. And I don’t know you.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ve seen this town get up off its knees because of what’s happened here.”

  “Yeah. And Mussolini made the trains run on time.”

  “What a charmer you are. Did your credible source supply names, by any chance?”

  “Yes, he did. The FBI identified the leader as a key figure in domestic terrorism incidents going back to the Vail fire. Other members of the team – we think there were at least five of them - were a 17 year old girl named Julie Nesbitt.” I paused. “And a young college student named Kenneth Boyd.”

  “Boyd?” Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “Ken Boyd? Not Jeffrey Boyd’s son?”

  “One and the same.”

  She dismissed the idea with a wave of her fork. “That's ridiculous. He’s a very nice kid.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Of course I do. His father I know quite well. He's a major stakeholder in the resort here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you talked to Ken about this?”

  “He’s unavailable. Disappeared, I am told, just before the fire.”

  She sat back and did not speak for several moments. “I see,” she said, finally. “What about these other people. Have you found any of them?”

  “Julie Nesbitt disappeared the same time as Ken and is still missing. I did find Roger.”

  “And?”

  “He told me a detailed story about the arson, and its aftermath.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’s dead. Someone shot him a few days ago.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In Vermont.”

  “Vermont? Seems to me I saw something on the news about a sixties radical being killed.”

  “Yes, the man who led the attack on the resort was killed with him.”

  “So there is no one to corroborate your story.”

  “I’m thinking that was the idea.”

  She grunted. “Have you talked to Jeffrey Boyd?”

  “I’ve tried calling him, but I haven't been able to reach him,” I said, again shading the truth just enough to avoid an actual lie.

  “He's here. At his home I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “Some detective you are. Yes, he is.” She took a dainty bite of toast. “It's almost Christmas, in case you've forgotten.”

  “Of course I haven’t. Mrs. Claus and I have a thing every year while hubby is out of town.” I scraped up some shreds of hash with my fork. “I guess I should give Boyd another call.”

  “He's probably dodging you. Perhaps your reputation precedes you.” She looked at her mannish wrist watch. “I have duties to attend to.”

  Just then, Cheryl appeared. “Can I get you folks anything else?”

  “Just the check, please,” I said.

  “Got it right here.” She laid a leatherette folder on the table. “Anytime you’re ready.”

  “Anything else you need from me?” said Catherine.

  “Just a minute more. Anything unusual happen in the past couple of months?”

  “I’d ask you to define unusual, but I am certain I don’t have time for the list.” She put her cap on and placed both hands palm down on the table, preparing to rise.

  “Any strange deaths? Unusual accidents? Murders?”

  She gave me a pitying smile. “I realize you’re from New York and all, so you might not be familiar with normal America. We’re just a nice quiet town where people come to have fun and spend money.”

  “And nobody dies?”

  She sighed. “Yes, they die, Mr. Craig.”

  “How about Patrick Madigan? Anything odd there?”

  “As you obviously know, he fell asleep at the wheel and went off the road into a gorge.”

  “Nothing suspicious?”

  “It’s winter, Mr. Craig,” she said. “In the mountains. Shit happens.”

  “You investigated?”

  “That was outside of town on a state highway. State police handled it.”

  “But, one of your people was there, an Officer Schecter.”

  “It’s just over the line. He heard the call and went to assist.” She shook her head. “Patrick owned a couple of businesses, Mr. Craig, and he wasn’t very good at either of them. He worked long hours and I’m not surprised the lack of sleep caught up with him.”

  “During the funeral his home was burglarized. His video equipment and computer were stolen.”

  “Burglars follow the obituaries, Mr. Craig. It ain’t pretty, but it’s a fact of life.” She zipped up her coat with finality. “Thanks again for the food. Maybe I’ll see you around town.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “That makes one of us.” She smiled to take the edge off the remark.

  I watched her until she left the restaurant, before pulling out my dwindling roll and peeling off some bills, including a large tip for Cheryl. The information gleaned was hardly worth the damage to my funds, but it never hurts to get a reputation as a good tipper.

  A petit woman in a white down parka entered the restaurant. Gloved hands reached up to peel back the fur-fringed hood and reveal
the expressionless face of Isabella Ricasso. Feral eyes searched the room until they spotted me. She made a beeline to my table.

  “Why Miss Ricasso, how nice to-”

  “Mr. Boyd will see you. Now.”

  She spun around and marched towards the door. I took my time getting my jacket on before following in her wake. She was standing a little ways down 2nd, by the door of a black Range Rover.

  “Get in.”

  “I have my own car, thank you.”

  “Where?”

  “In the municipal lot.”

  “We can collect it for you.” She pointed at her watch. “Tick, tock.”

  “Where is he?”

  She pointed up the mountain.

  “I’m good with that,” I said, and stepped into the Range Rover.

  25.

  This time the gates of Diablo Canyon opened for me, or rather for Ms. Ricasso, who sat stoically next to me in the back seat. A quarter mile in we stopped at another stone wall. The gate here was solid metal and looked like it could stop a tank. About fifteen feet in front of it was a fat little box set on a post, just the right height for the Range Rover. The driver pulled up next to it and ran a white card through the slot in the side. A door popped open to reveal a keypad. He punched in a code. The big green gate slid open with nary a sound, revealing even more security. K-rails lined each side of the road for about fifty feet, where there was another wall. This wall had no gate, just an open arch blocked by three bright yellow security bollards. Next to the arch was a guard shack.

  Once the gate behind us slid closed, a man walked out of the shack carrying an under vehicle inspection tool. He wore an orange parka like Günter’s and had a tactical holster strapped to his right thigh. He reached the Range Rover and peered in through the driver’s window, looking from one face to the other. Without speaking, he consulted a smart phone, clicking through a series of files. When he was satisfied the guest list was correct, he had the driver pop the lift gate. After rummaging around in the cargo area, he gave the underside of the Range Rover a complete inspection. When that was done, he waved to the shack. The three bollards sank flush with the road, and we drove on. Once we were through, the bollards rose back into place. The guard who searched our car watched us until we rounded a curve.

  We crossed a single lane bridge that spanned a thundering stream, after which the road turned to the right and wound gently upwards. An unnatural looking slope, devoid of vegetation, rose steeply on the left hand side, the snow barely hiding deep fissures in the soil. A drainage ditch at its base was choked with rocks and debris from above. Midway along this eyesore we crossed another bridge, where the stream seemed to come right out of the hillside. Looking up I glimpsed the wall of a weathered building, then we were back in virgin woods, climbing at a steeper angle.