Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1)

by James Paddock

“Thank you,” he said and turned to head off.

  “Washburn.”

  CJ stopped and turned around to face the young officer.

  “I remember what you did for my dad. Thanks.”

  CJ nodded at her and set off at a jog, not knowing at all what she meant.

  He found Detective Payne in earnest conversation with another suit, about 30 feet from where a half dozen people, most of whom CJ knew or at least recognized, were preparing to lift the body out of a dumpster. CJ kept his distance while trying to catch Dan's eye.

  And then the body was out and on the cart, what looked to be an old blanket still wrapped around it. CJ wanted to run up and pull the blanket aside, needed to know right now who it was. Why the hell did he fall asleep? He should have been out looking for her, should have kept doing something.

  "What the hell is with you, CJ?"

  CJ didn't realize Dan had walked up to him. He looked at his friend, "I ah... who is it?" He looked back at the blanket-covered body. "Do you have an ID yet?"

  "No. You look like you slept in your clothes."

  "Stella didn't come home last night. I...."

  "Stella? Oh hell, CJ, it's not Stella, if that's what you're thinking. And what do you mean she didn't come home last night?"

  "Haven't seen her since lunch yesterday, got a strange phone call from her last night. Spent the night at her apartment. She never showed."

  "What do you mean, strange?"

  Without taking his eyes off the activity in front of them, he opened his mouth to explain Stella's cryptic words, the fact that she called him Clinton and that she said she was sorry four times. He closed his mouth without uttering a word. It sounded stupid, even inside his own head. "You sure that can't be Stella?"

  "I got a look. The victim has to be in her 50's, and she's Hispanic, not white like the 911 caller said. I don't know who she is, but I certainly know who she isn't."

  CJ turned his head to look directly at the detective. "That doesn't match the profile. The other two were call-girls, Caucasian."

  "Exactly. Other than female, no relation. The others were wrapped in quilts. This one’s in a blanket."

  "An opportunity kill?"

  Dan nodded. "Someone with refried beans for brains thinking he can get rid of the old lady and it'd be blamed on the call-girl killer. As soon as we have an ID it shouldn't be hard to come up with a suspect or two."

  "Any leads on the call-girls?"

  "Nothing. I don't know whether to be glad this wasn't another one, or not. On one hand we'd immediately get Fed help. On the other we'd have a real life serial killer, an unknown to Tucson. So, back to Stella. What about this cryptic phone call?"

  CJ Shrugged. "Probably nothing. My overactive imagination. She called in the middle of the night, didn't explain where she was, said she'd call today. That's basically it."

  "You're not husband and wife so it isn't like she has to check in with you, be accountable to you. Hell, you're not even living together... or are you?"

  "No."

  "Doesn't she have family in New Mexico, or Texas? Maybe she went there. Have you called them?"

  "Albuquerque. I was going to but it was 2:00 in the morning. I will if I don't hear from her by noon."

  "Good plan. Now go get yourself cleaned up. I've got a job for you, if you want it." He pulled a folded sheet of note paper from his pocket and handed it to CJ. "Couple from Missouri. Their daughter, U of A student, has fallen off their radar. They came to find her, arrived two days ago. No sign of her. They saw the news about the two murders and got all worked up. Since you were obviously not at your office this morning, I sent them back to their motel to wait on your call. They don't appear to be super well off, but enough that they should be able to afford your fee. My impression is she ran off with a guy. They're frantic because they can't even find that she had any friends. Any she had, I'm afraid, have likely gone home for the summer. It's going to take some digging, and luck, it appears."

  CJ stuck the note in his pocket and made his way back toward his car. He paused to say thanks to Officer Bowers again, but she was in earnest debate with the driver of the roofing tiles truck. He remembered his days as a cop and how non-routine a routine day could be, what he both liked and hated about it. And then he thought about how he had quit being a cop to save his marriage. All it did was put off the inevitable. In the end he'd walked away from his career, and his wife still walked away from him. He looked back across the parking lot, past the fire apparatus, to where he knew the action was going on, and felt a twinge in his center.

  He could go back.

  And then he remembered who Officer Bowers was. She used to be Lisa McDermott, daughter of Sgt. Dave McDermott. CJ had served briefly in the same unit with him just before 9/11. Everything changed after that and they wound up in different parts of the city. His daughter was a teenager back then.

  He thought again of her comment about remembering what he’d done for her father, something he’d totally forgotten. It was one of his first cases after hanging his PI shingle on the door of an overpriced location south of 22nd on Alvernon, before moving to his current location and hiring Stella as his secretary. McDermott had responded to a noisy college party, alone. The party goers were none too happy about his intrusion. One of the young ladies, if one could call her a lady, filed a sexual harassment charge against him, claiming that he tried to rape her. When it appeared that the powers to be were going to take her word over his, McDermott’s wife hired CJ to investigate. What he turned up was that a bunch of the party goers got together, dreamed up the charges and then talked the young girl into filing the complaint. Dave McDermott was exonerated, however he never totally recovered from the ordeal, not wanting anything more to do with a police force that wouldn’t have his back, as CJ remembered him saying. He took early retirement. And now his daughter's name was Bowers; married and a cop. She followed in her daddy's footsteps and joined the force that he resented.

  CJ wondered what her father thought of that. Was he proud, scared or pissed. Probably all three.

  Back at the car CJ pulled out his phone, hoping to see a missed call that he didn't hear come in. There was nothing. He considered, again, calling Stella's sister. After some thought he decided to wait a little longer. He dialed the number of the couple from Missouri. The call was answered by an anxious female voice before he even heard a ring.

  "Mrs. Lindendale?"

  "Yes. Is this Washburn?"

  "Yes it is, ma'am. Please call me CJ."

  "Fine. Can you meet right now?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Wherever is convenient for you."

  "We're at the Radisson. It's on.... George! What street is this?"

  "It's on Speedway, ma'am. I know where it is. I can be there in fifteen minutes. It has a nice restaurant. I'll meet you there."

  "I don't want to eat," she said.

  "No, ma'am. This time of morning we should be able to find a quiet table and you can give me your details."

  After the call CJ sat for a few minutes chiding himself for not saying an hour so he could swing by his apartment and get a shower and change of clothes. But Mrs. Lindendale would be focused on only one thing, her daughter. The fact that he had been in this same shirt for the third day and needed a shave would probably blow right by her and by her husband as well.

  CJ found the Lindendale couple sequestered at one end of the patio. Although there were other couples, it was easy to pick them out because they'd already found him. Their eyes, hopeful, tired, followed his approach. He introduced himself, shook their hands and sat. He saw they had coffee, felt the sudden desire and then pushed straight to the reason he was there.

  "Tell me your story. Bring me up to speed."

  When CJ poised to take notes, Brenda Lindendale handed him a folded sheet of paper. "It's all right here," she said. "Professors, landlord, phone numbers, everything I figured you'd need to get started."

  He opened it, did a quick scan and then nodded to Mrs. Lindendale. "Tell
me what you've done so far."

  By the time Mrs. Lindendale had recounted everything they had been through for the previous few days, CJ was sipping on a strong, black coffee, thanks to an attentive waitress. Mr. Lindendale had said very little, rather normal for a husband, CJ figured, when the wife was riled up. What CJ learned was that the daughter, Lizzi, was a third-year student at the University of Arizona, College of Optical Science. She was very independent, choosing to live off campus in an apartment by herself. She had a car, but normally walked or rode her bicycle a mile or so to the campus. Her car was currently parked outside her apartment, her bicycle inside. The landlord had granted them access. She was last seen, as far as the Lindendales could determine, on Thursday of last week. Today was Friday, day eight.

  When Mrs. Lindendale appeared to be finished, CJ scanned through the notes again and then said, "There's nothing here about a boyfriend and you didn't say anything about a relationship. I gather she doesn't have one." He had noticed that the only name listed as friend was a male lab partner in the previous semester.

  "No. She didn't have a boyfriend," she said. CJ didn't miss the change in her posture when she made the declaration. "As far as we can tell, she didn't have any friends."

  CJ nodded and then looked at Mr. Lindendale, who looked away and then over at his wife. He put his hand on hers and after a few seconds she gave a slight nod.

  "Our daughter, Lizzi, is gay, Mr. Washburn. She doesn't currently have a...." He paused, apparently looking for the right word.

  "Partner," his wife said.

  "Partner," he repeated. "She has been alone now since December."

  CJ looked down at the note. "Her previous partner isn't listed here."

  "No," Mrs. Lindendale said. "She transferred to some school in Florida, we believe."

  "Do you know what the reason for the breakup was?" CJ asked.

  She shook her head.

  "I'll need her name and anything else you know about her."

  "She's not in the picture anymore. What would she know?"

  "Probably nothing, but if it winds up being an avenue I need to explore, it's better I have the information up front instead of you paying me my hourly fee to dig it up."

  With that Mrs. Lindendale opened her phone and after scanning through her contact list, added a name and phone number to the notes. "That's all I have. Anything else?" she said, slapping the phone closed and pushing the paper back at him.

  "How long will you be here?" CJ asked.

  "As long as it takes," she replied.

  "We...." Mr. Lindendale glanced at his wife and then over to CJ. "We both have jobs to get back to."

  "George has a job to get back to," Mrs. Lindendale corrected. "I couldn't give a rat's ass about my job. My daughter comes first!"

  Properly put in his place, Mr. Lindendale bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  "Anything else I can tell you?" she asked, her voice softening a little after taking a deep breath.

  CJ started to stand and then paused to ask one more thing. "Was her sexual preference common knowledge or did she keep it quiet?"

  "What are you implying, Mr. Washburn? Do you think she might have been targeted?"

  He put his hand up. "Please. It's just a question. Violence against gays is usually directed at males, seldom against females. If anything, they might be shunned. I do need to know how she presented herself, how others saw her."

  She appeared to grind her teeth as she considered the question. "No. We don't know how she presented herself, and as you can see, she didn't have any friends. To be truthful, we never talked with her about her… love life. Not like she was ever going to give us a grandchild." She pushed her chair back and stood. "I think we're done. If you don't call me by the end of the day, I'll call you. Now if you'll please excuse me." With that, she picked up her purse and walked away.

  Her husband watched her until she turned from sight. CJ watched him.

  "You have my information," CJ said. "Not counting this meeting I'll spend one to two hours researching and talking to people. If from that I feel I can be of help, I'll present an invoice for that time at $165 per hour. Once funds have been paid I will continue until your daughter is found, you tell me to quit, or I determine that further effort would be wasted. If in that first hour or two I decide that I can't help you, I'll invoice you for a flat one hour. I will then keep the case open for thirty days in case new information comes available, at which time I will contact you."

  "That sounds very fair." The husband stood and presented his hand, which CJ accepted. "Thank you. We'll be waiting for your call."

  CJ sat back down and, while finishing his coffee, wondered and worried about Stella. He'd wait until noon, little over an hour, and then call her sister. Meanwhile, he'd go home and shower and then begin organizing his thoughts on the Lindendale case.

  Chapter 4

  CJ unlocked his apartment door, pushed it open, flipped on the light, stepped to the side and waited until the door hit the stop, a habit he developed early in his career as a cop when entering questionable premises. If there was someone hiding behind the door, he'd know immediately. Also, as he moved into the threshold, he'd be able to scan the entire apartment before setting his foot in. He'd never considered his home questionable until six years before when he opened his door and was knocked down by some guy trying to make a very fast exit. Caught off guard and in the dark, CJ, the ex-cop, was embarrassed that he'd gotten nothing for a description other than very big and very fast. He also never determined what the guy was after and if he got away with anything. Why CJ called 911, he didn't know. He was sure he was a joke around the department.

  None of the history behind his obsession crossed his mind as he followed his routine and then closed the door behind him. The apartment was just as he'd left it... cluttered; not exactly the way he liked it, but it was the way he was. Stella nagged at him about it. All he could do was agree with her but he just didn't know how to keep it neat. She had taken to coming in and cleaning, attempting at the same time to organize the clutter. Two days later it would be right back where it was, only with a little less dust.

  He sat down in front of the computer where it resided on the old dining room table, pushed aside an empty beer bottle and punched the power button. While he waited for it to boot up he thought about the Lindendales and realized he needed to get cleaned up before pursuing that, and he needed to get started on it right away. Mrs. Lindendale will be wanting an initial report from him by that evening. He needed to make phone calls, visit Lizzi Lindendale's apartment, and interview people. First, he needed a shower.

  He pushed the chair back and started stripping on the way to his bedroom.

  When CJ turned off the shower, Gummy Bear was playing from where he'd dropped the phone next to the computer. Without grabbing a towel he raced through the bedroom and snatched up the phone just as it quit. He hit speed dial to call her back but got her voicemail.

  "Damn!" He wanted to throw the phone across the room, but instead carefully set it back down on the table and then sat down to wait. "Be patient, she’s leaving a voicemail," he said to the ceiling, then looked at the computer. He rested his hand on the mouse and clicked the email shortcut Stella had made for him. He looked at the phone, knowing it would chirp as soon as Stella had finished leaving the voicemail.

  The email program opened and started checking for new mail.

  The phone chirped and he snatched it up. He debated between listening to the message or calling Stella straight off. He punched and held "2" until it indicated it was trying to connect. He scanned the incoming emails. There were three from Stella. He opened the oldest one, time stamped 2:13 the afternoon before.

  Clint,

  I tried calling but you didn't pick up. I got a call from Sara. Things are looking bad. I'm heading up there. Will call tonight, might be late.

  Stella

  "Hello?"

  "Stella? Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Why shouldn't I be?
Did you get my messages?"

  "What messages?" CJ clicked on the next email.

  "What messages! I left a voicemail yesterday on your cell phone and have sent a bunch of emails. I left you another voicemail just now. I also talked to you last night. What have you been doing?"

  "I...."

  "You didn't even look at your email, did you?"

  "I just got home."

  "Just got home? It's 11:00 in the morning. You mean since yesterday? You didn't go home last night? Where the hell have you been? Did you catch a new case?"

  "Yes.... no. I was at your place."

  "My place? Why?"

  "You disappeared and I...."

  "I didn't disappear. I called and left a voicemail, which obviously you didn't listen to, left a slew of emails, which you didn't read, and come to think of it put a note on the whole cooked chicken I picked up for you and put in your fridge. Obviously, you haven't seen that either."

  "Oh." CJ walked into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. The chicken with note attached glared back at him. A container of potato salad sat next to it.

  "What did you eat last night?"

  He considered the question for a few seconds. "I don't recall."

  "How in the hell did you survive without a woman for so long?"

  He wanted to ask if that was a rhetorical question and then thought better of it. "You called me Clinton."

  "I what?"

  "You called me Clinton last night when you called."

  "I called you Clinton? What does that have to do with anything?"

  "You never call me Clinton."

  "Well, I'm sorry. Won't happen again."

  "And you said you were sorry a bunch of times."

  "And that certainly won't happen again either."

  CJ considered mentioning how she said she was tied up, but thought better of that as well. After a long uncomfortable silence he said, "How is Sara?"

  "She's my sister but sometimes I'd like to choke the life out of her. She's as much at fault in this divorce as her crazy husband. I hate to say it but I think they're made for each other. If it wasn't for my nephew, I'd just wash my hands of it all."