Leighton Jones Mysteries Box Set

by N. M. Brown

  ‘Well.’ Leighton sighed and adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m not sure. It just kind of makes sense. For a number of years, my job involved dealing with mess.’

  ‘Mess?’ It wasn’t really how Vicki had ever considered police work.

  ‘Yeah, you know, messy lives, messy crime scenes, and messy desks. I suppose this,’ he nodded towards the overly tidy interior of the car, ‘is my small place of order.’

  He let out a wry chuckle. ‘Sometimes, when I’d get called out in the night, my mind would still be groggy by the time I arrived at the scene. I’d take a tour of the place, make all the notes I could, and then I’d go sit in my car. It was kind of like finding a quiet place in the middle of a storm. Some sort of haven, I suppose.’

  He paused for a moment, then adjusted his rear-view mirror again. ‘I reckon most people could survive just about anything if they get their own little patch of space and keep it free from the mess of the outside world.’

  ‘The Leighton Jones mess-free method,’ Vicki said resolutely and smiled at him. ‘You could sell that idea and become a millionaire.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Leighton nodded.

  Vicki watched as some unreadable emotion crossed Leighton’s face.

  ‘Do you miss it,’ Vicki asked, shifting her tone. ‘The job, I mean?’

  Leighton glanced at her for a moment, then returned his attention to the road. ‘I miss some of the people from the station, but no, I don’t miss the job in the slightest.’

  ‘But it must be a good feeling when you solve a murder.’

  Leighton said nothing, and his weighty silence was enough to let Vicki know he was unlikely to talk about the job.

  They were now heading up through the orchards fringing the freeway north-east of San Bernardino. Vicki gazed out of the window at the neat lines of the orange groves. She wondered how far exactly Laurie had travelled. Perhaps she had left the bus somewhere out here and vanished amongst the aromatic fruit trees.

  They were driving through Verdemont when Leighton smiled and adopted a formal announcer’s voice.

  ‘And if you look to your right, ladies and gentleman, you will see a lovely little Pet Cemetery…’

  ‘What, you’re kidding, right?’ Vicki sat up, and within a few minutes she discovered he had been telling the truth. A cheerful sign on the opposite side of the freeway indicated the place where beloved family pets could rest in peace. Vicki smiled at the idea of it then glanced back at the dashboard of the car.

  ‘You don’t have GPS?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve driven sixty or so miles without glancing a road sign?’

  ‘I used to work Traffic before Homicide. My job kind of gave me an internal compass. I’ve never really been a big fan of technology.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Vicki glanced at his archaic cassettes. ‘I get that.’

  She looked out of the window again at the sand-coloured hills on the horizon. It seemed like another country in comparison to her ocean view at home. Yet Vicki felt there was something about the desert landscape that seemed to mirror the sea. It seemed just as vast and unknown.

  Turning back to Leighton, Vicki found him looking wistfully to the distant horizon, and she wondered if this arid world felt like home to him.

  ‘Did you like it out here in the open country full of Joshua trees and lizards?’

  ‘I didn’t work this far outside of the city. But I liked taking a drive up here with my kid on my days off.’

  ‘Yeah? So how come you moved across to homicide from traffic?’

  Leighton sighed and shifted in his seat, but said nothing. Up ahead, a couple of motorhomes were playing leapfrog and slowing down the other vehicles.

  ‘Well?’ Vicki persisted. ‘Did you get a speeding ticket, or show up drunk for work?’

  Leighton glanced at her quickly, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘There was nothing scandalous. I just came across a bad accident on the road one rainy night.’

  ‘Ah.’ Vicki nodded. ‘A whole lot of fatalities?’

  ‘No, actually, there was just one,’ Leighton said and smiled sadly. ‘But it belonged to my seventeen-year-old daughter. You mind if I put some music on?’ His hand clambered over the cassette cases, sending some spilling onto the floor.

  ‘Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.’

  Vicki carefully gathered the cassettes up and restored the order. She slotted a tape into the mouth of the player and the sound of Booker White filled the car, eclipsing any further awkward conversation. For a while, there was nothing but warm road and the hissy old music. Eventually, the tape ended and the player spat it out in a slow, mechanical manner.

  ‘I’m sorry, Leighton,’ Vicki said in the moment of silence and looked at the floor.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Leighton said. ‘Bad things happen to people every day. I reckon that just happened to be my day. Anyway, this traffic’s not going anywhere – must be problems coming in from the Ontario freeway. You okay of we grab a coffee while it settles?’ Leighton pointed to a green roadside sign for a diner up ahead.

  ‘Sure.’ Vicki nodded too enthusiastically. ‘That sounds really good.’

  Leighton drove on to the exit ramp leading to the parking lot of a small café.

  The place was busy for a midweek morning. Inside the red brick building, truck drivers and coach passengers occupied most of the booth seats, eating oversized breakfasts of fried food. Vicki offered to pick up their coffees if Leighton agreed to secure one of the few free picnic tables outside. He accepted and made his way to the picnic area, picking up a newspaper from the rack on the way.

  There was a small grassy area at the back of the diner where a cluster of chunky wooden tables were scattered around haphazardly. Leighton selected one furthest away from the dull stench of the garbage bins and the screeching chaos of the kiddies play area.

  As he sat down, he dragged his hands over his eyes then looked to the horizon for a moment. To the north-east, he could see the impressive Marshall Peak against the hazy blue sky. He had managed to avoid driving around this area for several years, but now he was back as if summoned by his private ghosts. He wondered if he was doing the right thing, agreeing to trip back to his past, especially with a young woman. But before he could arrive at any conclusion, a shadow passed over him and the thought was gone.

  ‘Here you go.’ Vicki smiled, as she carried the brown tray of coffee and pastries to the table.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said as he stood awkwardly.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, placing the tray down. Vicki then sat and handed a crinkled paper coffee cup to Leighton.

  ‘I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I’d feel bad eating a Danish in front of you, so I got two almond croissants, oh, and two cinnamon whirls.’

  ‘Vicki, that’s very kind of you, but four?’

  ‘Yep, they were on special.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Leighton looked unconvinced, but he accepted a pastry gracefully and sipped his coffee. The girl seemed calmer than she had been during their previous encounter, but he was unsure of what was really going on behind her frequent smiles. If, as he suspected, she was desperately obsessing about the unlikely disappearance of her friend, it was probably because something was missing elsewhere in her life. God only knew how, following the loss of his daughter, Leighton had clung on to enough things himself.

  ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘about today?’

  ‘What about it?’ Vicki tore off a fluffy piece of croissant and popped it in her mouth.

  ‘Well, how are you feeling?’

  Vicki looked into the distance for a moment, then turned back to meet Leighton’s gaze.

  ‘Excited, or something close to it, I suppose.’ She exhaled. ‘Though, I don’t know if excited is the right word for this experience.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, either way I’ll get closer to knowing the truth – if we find some sign of a break-in we’ll have s
omething to go to the police with, or if we find Laurie hiding in her hometown, just trying to avoid her unstable old college buddy.’

  Leighton took a bite of his pastry, washing it down with some coffee, and then looked across at Vicki.

  ‘But you really don’t expect to find her there, do you?’ Leighton sipped his coffee again but held Vicki’s gaze.

  ‘No,’ Vicki said conclusively and turned her coffee cup around absently. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Though, you do accept it is possible?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘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.’

  ‘People have probably 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 busted, 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?’

  Leighton smiled.

  ‘Let’s consider what we have…’ He held his hands out to her, palms upturned.

  Vicki 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 ringtone 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 it 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, because 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 that, 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 curveball.

  ‘So, how do you explain the fact she hasn’t shown up for work in the last week?’

  This question 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 it was payday last Friday and she has wages to collect.’

  ‘You know that for certain?’

  Vicki nodded resolutely. ‘I called and spoke to the owner. He told me that he had already replaced her. Missing waitresses don’t clear tables.’

  Leighton sipped his coffee and smiled. ‘There could be a number of reasons for her avoiding work too, but I guess whatever the truth is, we’ll be better placed to find out when we get to Barstow.’

  Chapter Ten

  Mark Steinberg had considered the possibility that something was wrong after two or three days, but after five weeks, he was almost certain it was true. As free-spirited as she was, Jo would have been in touch. Mark 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 offered Jo some much needed 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 microphone session. Arriving with her rebel prom queen looks, she seemed 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. Having ordered a bottle of European beer, Jo took a sip, and then 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 sound of an 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, but 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 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 sty
le, 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 from a stunningly good musician.

  Once Jo had finished her set, she sat at the bar with Mark until closing time. She had explained how 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 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 store 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 homemade 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.