First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery

by Robert Roy Britt

  He bound the man’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, wrapped his mouth with duct tape, and drove out of Pleasant.

  As he pulled up to the house, dust kicked up across the mesa, racing left to right. The wind pulled the driver’s door open with a slam. A tumbleweed rolled across the driveway. The clouds to the north were darkening, moving closer, obliterating the sun. Flash lightning lit the darkest cloud, thunder crackling a few seconds later.

  He got out, put a key in the padlock and opened the door of the storage shed, an old, empty, simple wooden structure from Home Depot. He went back to the van, slid the side door open, and hoisted the man over his shoulder. The man stirred, but with his mouth taped, hands and feet bound, he was harmless. Back in the shed, he dropped the man on the plywood floor. The man looked up, his eyes wide with fear.

  The tall man pulled his cap down over his eyes, closed the door, locked the shed and went over to the house. He’d wait until dark to take the man out to the desert, kill him same as the last one. Sheriff’s helicopters had been flying around Cave Creek and out over the mesa the past couple days. And his father was making him nervous. The old man, hearing and sight failing, didn’t get out of his chair much. But he’d caught his father watching him from the window a couple times. The tall man had killed several men over the years, but no matter how estranged he felt from his father, down inside he loved him and would never hurt him.

  One day his father would die, and the tall man would inherit the ranch. He’d sell it then, make enough to retire on. But his father wouldn’t sell now, so they were both dirt poor and the bills were piling up. He was doing what he had to do.

  He went into the small, dark living room where his father was watching a soap opera on the old RCA, rabbit ears with foil providing fuzzy reception. Once this deal was done, he’d have a little spending money. He’d buy his father a new TV. Maybe not 4K, but at least something bigger, wall-mount, see about getting a satellite dish.

  He thought about the other man that was asking questions, wondered if there’d be a third one to kill. Then he settled in to watch the soap.

  Chapter 21

  Cliven T. Walker had been a Marine corporal, honorably discharged with a Purple Heart thirteen years ago. While in Fallujah, Iraq, his unit came under attack. Walker killed two men in hand-to-hand combat, then was shot in the arm, but still managed to pull an injured Marine back to their bunker. Tough SOB. As he went out for a second wounded man, a grenade exploded and knocked him unconscious.

  I learned all that on Military.com. Meanwhile, the coffee maker sputtered and coughed. I got out of my incredibly comfortable office chair, walked over to the counter and poured a cup. Solo, curled up on his dog bed in the corner, yawned wide, then opened one eye, made sure there was no food in the picture, and closed it. On the high, open-beam wood ceiling, footsteps clacked from the hair studio above. My refurbished office, rented from Aahna Chaudhari, was still new to me and I hadn’t gotten used to the clacking. But I liked the open space and the mismatched furniture I’d mashed together. The new album from the Buena Vista Social Club played softly on the Bluetooth speaker next to the coffee pot.

  Coffee never tasted as good in the afternoon as it did in the morning, but it was just as necessary. And it helped me think. I paced the ten feet from the coffee maker to my desk and back. There was nobody else in my office, which I’d opened only a few weeks back. No other clients beating a path to my door. I chose to see this as a glass-half-full thing, a lack of interruption that allowed me to focus.

  Here’s what came to mind: Joe Mack had been missing five days—too long to logically be anything but kidnapped or killed. It was easy to assume Clive Walker had something to do with the mystery, but there were plenty of unconnected dots. My suspect list still included Jimmy Mendoza, Bo Rollins and Joanne Mack.

  There hadn’t been any ransom request, so a kidnapping was gradually ruling itself out. There were other possibilities—maybe Joe did run off with someone and kiss his family and business goodbye, or maybe he went for a mid-day drive into the mountains and accidentally went off a cliff—but given everything else that had happened, including the clubbing of my head with a baseball bat and the disappearance of Bo Rollins, I put the odds of murder at ninety percent, leaving open the slight possibility that he was alive, maybe tied up or locked away somewhere, for reasons I couldn’t imagine.

  I rubbed my neck, still sore, sipped some coffee, then sat back down. I put my coffee on the desk, pulled my laptop to my lap, propped my running shoes up on the desk and went back to researching.

  Clive Walker, hero, returned to a world that probably seemed as foreign as the one he’d been shipped off to. There was a ceremony at the statehouse in Phoenix, then Walker was cast back into society. In 2005, less than a year after his return, he served six months in jail for knifing a man to near-death over a bet on a billiard game in a bar. A year later he was implicated in a murder—a prominent businessman in Scottsdale had his throat slit—but never charged. He held a series of odd jobs—none more than a few months—until 2008, when he began renting a joint in Cave Creek from Bo Rollins and opened the Buffalo Hide. He was arrested and released twice for assaulting customers, and picked up one DUI and served a week for resisting arrest. It appeared he’d stayed on the right side of the law the past twelve months. Appearances can be deceiving.

  Clive had almost no family. His mother and sister had died in a car accident when he was a teen. His father, Thomas, would be in his eighties. Clive had never married. None of that meant much. Then the county tax records yielded a genuine clue. Walker’s father owned ten acres in the desert out beyond Cave Creek, smack in the middle of Joe Mack’s cone of possibility.

  ***

  Just as I was closing my laptop, Solo stood up and moved between me and the office door. Then the bells on the door clanged.

  Madison burst through the door with Jimmy Mendoza’s wife, the redheaded Rachael, who was dressed much more practically than the last time I’d seen her. Or to put it bluntly, she was dressed.

  Madison was out of breath, hair a mess, suit wrinkled. The strap of her small purse had nearly swung off her shoulder and she readjusted it. She looked a couple years older than she did two days ago. Rachael’s eyes were red-rimmed and wet. Solo went back to his dog bed and curled up. He knew when he was needed, when there was nothing he could do.

  “We can’t find Jimmy,” Madison said.

  Of all the things she might’ve said, that wasn’t on my most-likely list. I tried to process the development. It didn’t make any sense. I blinked, ran my fingers through my hair and laced them behind my head.

  “Well?” Madison said.

  “What do you mean, can’t find?” I asked.

  Rachael wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Madison did the talking. “Rachael was supposed to meet him for lunch. He didn’t show. She called and texted him. Nothing. So she called me.”

  Rachael finally spoke up. “Jimmy didn’t do anything. Madison knows him. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. He’d tried to hurt me. Just didn’t succeed. Jimmy was a hothead. No doubt about that. But so far he hadn’t done anything to make himself out as a kidnapper or a killer. But I had a firm rule that had served me well over the years: remain skeptical until there’s proof otherwise.

  “I tried calling him,” Madison said. “It went straight to voice mail. I went to his office. His car was in the parking lot behind the building, where he usually parks. Secretary said he’d left an hour ago.”

  “He leave with someone?”

  “She said he was by himself, thought he’d taken his car,” Madison said. “She was surprised when I told her it was still in the parking lot.”

  I looked at Rachael. Tears were starting to spill. “Jimmy usually good about calling or texting you?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Always,” she said.

  I took a deep breath and pondered that.

  “I know what you think about our life
style, Mr. Quinn. But Jimmy and I are in love. He would never run off on me. He’s a good man.”

  I nodded. I even believed her. But I still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

  “Well?” Madison said again. “Are you just going to sit there?”

  I stood. It was the best I could do while I thought. I rubbed my neck and put on my best thinking-hard face by looking up into the corner of my brain. All I knew for sure was that my third case had become much more than the mess I feared stepping in. If Jimmy Mendoza really was missing, and it seemed logical to assume for the moment that he was, then either he got nervous and bolted like an accused man would, or the suspect list in the disappearance of Joe Mack had just gotten shorter and the victim list longer. But that didn’t bring the case any closer to resolution. The only clear next step was to find Clive Walker.

  “I had the posse keeping an eye on you,” I said to Madison, as I moved out from behind my desk. “I assume one of them is outside somewhere. Lock the door and don’t let anyone but him in.”

  “I lost him when we left Jimmy’s place,” Madison said. “Figured it was you put him up to it. You think I’m really in danger?”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on. But people keep disappearing. There’s one guy who looks to be in the middle of all this. I’m gonna go find him.”

  “And find my father,” Madison said. She crossed her arms.

  I stared at her. Nothing to say to that. Her lips twitched, just once. She knew what I was thinking. Neither of us needed to say it. I nodded once.

  “You going to tell me who this one guy is?”

  “No,” I said. If I knew one thing about investigations, it was to tell people only what they needed to know, when they needed to know it. Madison had a temper, and I didn’t need to fuel it. She’d shaken a tail, she packed a gun. I’d learned something about her: She got things done. Right now, I didn’t want her doing anything. “Information can be dangerous,” I said.

  “What if I insist?” she asked. “You are working for me.”

  “I’d refuse. Now we can stand here and argue, or I can go do what you’re paying me to do.”

  “OK.” She sighed. “But I don’t need protection.” She patted her purse.

  I nodded. “You know how to use it?”

  “Of course. You still think I’m an idiot?”

  I hadn’t thought that, not even at the outset. And once we’d gotten past her initial lie, I’d found her to be far from idiocy. Savvy would be how I’d describe her. And maybe a little frosty.

  “Not one bit,” I said.

  Chapter 22

  We rolled into Cave Creek fifteen minutes later. The heat and humidity were suffocating. Thunderheads roiled, their white cotton tops impossibly high, swelling and merging and darkening the sky beyond the town. Lightning flashed and flickered far off. Wind kicked up in gusts. I thought of putting the Jeep top up but didn’t want to waste any time. We passed through town and headed out the other side.

  The cloud bottoms ahead turned from gray to eerie green. A bolt split the sky in two and snaked into the mountains, the rumble of thunder arriving a few seconds later. The air began to smell of rain.

  It took another fifteen minutes to get beyond the town, out the dirt road and close to Thomas Walker’s ten-acre spread. There were only a few houses the past mile, nothing but desert ahead.

  The first giant raindrop slapped my forehead like a wet cockroach, followed by a handful that thwacked the hood and windshield. The landscape rose gradually, then more abruptly, over a small ridge and then the bumpy road meandered for a quarter mile down into a dry wash. I muscled the Jeep as quickly as I could through a rutted gully at the bottom, then up the other side. The road was passable in a car, so long as it had good clearance. And so long as it was dry.

  Cresting the bank on the other side, the dilapidated ranch house came into view a half-mile beyond. The rain picked up. The road was washboarded, making the Jeep, with its short wheel base, hop like popcorn if we moved too fast. We neared the house, a 1950s-looking wooden structure, tin roof, one lone green-trunked palo verde on the south side, slapping the eaves as the wind intensified.

  The maroon Ford Econoline van sat in front of the house. I parked next to it and stepped out. A bolt of lightning struck the mesa, beyond the house but close now, thunder arriving just a second later. Rain fell steady in giant drops, soaking my t-shirt through. A palo verde branch screeched across the tin roof.

  Solo followed me to the front door. I knocked. No answer. I knocked harder and waited. I pounded again and finally an old man in overalls, no shirt, opened the door, scowling. The wind blew back his white hair like a wispy cirrus cloud.

  “Gonna break my door down,” he said. “What the hell.”

  “Thomas Walker?”

  “What?” We were only five feet apart but he squinted over his reading glasses to get a good look at me.

  I spoke louder. “You Thomas Walker?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Eli Quinn,” I said. “Looking for your son.”

  “Not here,” the old man said. He pulled himself upright in an attempt to sound convincing.

  I pushed the door open and walked past him. The living room was small and dark. An old color TV, perched on an end table, played a soap opera.

  “Where’s Clive?”

  “What?”

  “Clive,” I shouted. “Where is he?”

  “Don’t know. He’s a grown man, I don’t keep track of him.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was rough up an 80-year-old man. I didn’t have to. I heard the van start up.

  Solo was first out the door. The van sped away. The rain was at full throttle now. The wind bent a palo verde branch to the ground. The dust was turning to mud. We sprinted to the Jeep.

  Solo made the back seat in one leap. I jumped in and turned the key. A branch on the palo verde snapped and crashed to the ground as we pulled away. I huddled over the steering wheel, using the windshield to block the rain. It didn’t work. I could barely see the van through the rain.

  The van was heading out the way we came in, and getting smaller as it receded. I pushed the Jeep as hard as I could, the washboard road bucking the Wrangler. Our short wheelbase was a disadvantage, and the van pulled away.

  We crested the rise ahead of the arroyo just as the van got stuck in the mud at the bottom. His door flung open. Clive Walker jumped out. He glanced our way, his long hair whipping around, then he scrambled up the other side. In less than half a minute we were at the bottom of the wash. Water had pooled around the van’s tires and a small stream had developed at the deepest point, running under the van. The Jeep could handle the mud and a small stream, but the van blocked the only navigable path. Boulders upstream and a short but steep dropoff below. I backed up to higher ground in case the water rose, pocketed the keys, and we jumped out.

  Clive might’ve escaped if he’d made it through the wash in the van. On foot, I knew we had him. He might have a gun, but I figured if he did, he’d have used it by now. That was a calculated risk we’d have to take. Solo didn’t argue.

  The muck was deep at the bottom of the arroyo. When Solo and I emerged above the bank on the other side, Clive was a good two-hundred yards out. He ran slowly, arms swinging inefficiently. He wouldn’t last long. And I could run for miles, even in these conditions. So could Solo. We slogged through the muck for a minute and closed the gap. This is what Solo was trained for, so I gave him the command and he sprinted ahead.

  I slowed to a jog, shoes soaked and heavy. If all went according to his training, Solo would get close, bark once. Clive Walker would know he was caught, would be terrified of the dog, and would stop running. Solo, using only as much force as necessary to subdue, would bare his teeth and growl until I got there. If Clive tried anything else, Solo would go to Plan B, which was never pretty.

  Except none of that happened. A flash of lightning glinted off a blade, maybe four inches long. Clive Walker lu
nged with the knife and Solo fell to the ground.

  Chapter 23

  Dogs have incredible tolerance for pain, or maybe they just don’t know how to express it. Either way, there was no way to know how bad Solo was. As I approached, he hauled himself up and balanced on three legs. He tried to come to me but stumbled into the mud and landed on his right side. I reached him, gently rolled him over. His right shoulder was caked in blood.

  My throat swelled, tears filled my eyes. “No, Solo. Not now. Not here.”

  I took a deep breath to get my emotions under control, spread his fur and found the stab wound. Solo, eyes open, didn’t blink, didn’t shudder. He was stronger than I was. The rain began to wash the mud out. We waited. I looked down the road. The rain fell in sheets and the wind howled. Clive Walker was jogging away.

  Solo’s wound was clean, narrow and maybe an inch long, probably deep, still bleeding. I pulled my t-shirt off and pressed it against the wound. His breathing was rapid but even.

  I could still catch Clive. If I waited too long, he’d be over the next rise and then, a few minutes later, could slip into a house, maybe steal a car, or disappear on foot. I watched him while pressing the wound with one hand, scratched Solo behind the ears with the other.

  Nearly a minute later, Clive approached the rise. Decision time. I didn’t want to leave Solo. But I couldn’t let Clive get away.

  “You OK, pal?”

  He let his tongue slide out, gave me the winning Solo smile. I looked at Clive. Solo looked at him, too. Then he barked once. I nodded.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “You stay here.”

  I held the t-shirt on the wound a moment longer, then I was up and running.

  My trail-running shoes were soaked through but sturdy, laced up tight. Better than the boots Clive Walker wore. I struck a pace I’d used many times on six-mile runs. Fair bet there’d be a fight at the end of the run, so I didn’t want to be winded when I caught him. That was the extent of my plan. I had to trust my training, my lethal hands and feet, to improvise.