Dead Investigation

by Charlie Price

  Gates broke in. “Do you believe it?”

  “I don’t know,” Duheen said. “Don’t know how to know. Anyway I’m running out of time. Uh, to the extent that working with you, using ESP, leaves him vulnerable to accusations of mental illness, then it’s in his self-interest, conscious or unconscious, to say as little as possible. So yes, he could be withholding or repressing some information.”

  “What do you do about that? How can I make him break through that resistance?”

  “My work is different. In psych we usually follow the patient’s lead. We tend not to dig for memories; we wait until the person is ready to retrieve them.”

  “I may not have that luxury. More people may be in harm’s way if I can’t figure this out.”

  “Okay, well, visualization sometimes prompts or opens memory.”

  “What?”

  “Like guided imagining. You help someone relax. You ask them to close their eyes and look with their mind. Maybe you set the scene a little. Maybe say, ‘You’re looking at the hill. You’re comfortable, laid-back, enjoying the warm sunshine, and you notice the trees and buildings and people around you. Look at them. What are you seeing … impressions, colors, movements?’ … That sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know if I could pull that off.”

  “Your own tone of voice is really important. And you have to be at ease. Convey safety, no pressure. Just gentle curiosity and confidence that of course the person can see what they saw before, perhaps even better this time because they’re tranquil and focused without any agenda other than seeing and describing.”

  “Would you do it?”

  “I told you. I’m full-up and will be for the next several hours.”

  “If I arrange it for after work and pick you up, will you do it?”

  “I’ll be off after five,” she said, and the line went dead.

  Was that a yes? He thought so.

  Later today he’d pick up Duheen and Kiefer. Go back to the stable one more time to picture what happened to the other bodies. If Kiefer could detect the dead, the least Gates could do was follow a hunch.

  He looked up to find Deputy Faraday standing in front of his desk. Gates barely knew her. Came from Alameda County Sheriff’s in the Bay Area. Joined Sierra’s department a month or so ago. She was late twenties, short brown hair in a mannish cut, a few inches under six feet, stocky. Gates thought her face looked Slavic but couldn’t put that together with the name Faraday.

  “You’re full-court press on this uncleared with the homeless, right?”

  Gates nodded. “Get anything on the security company uniforms, any matching?”

  “Two. My notes there, under your cup.”

  “Oh, right. I’m getting up to speed…” Gates gestured to a chair. “Sit a minute?”

  She ignored the invitation. “Elite out of Anderson has the same uniforms, no Riverton contracts, drives white SUVs. More likely, CarterGuard from here, same uniforms, mixed cruisers. A couple gray with black doors.”

  “Did you—”

  “Heavyset young man, Gary Slazak, had one out two nights ago. The hospital and community clinic on Butte Street, primary client. Secondary, office buildings along Park View.”

  “Same area.” Gates fumbled in his middle drawer for a working ballpoint. “You get a company client list?”

  “Women can’t do policework?”

  “Hey, cut me some slack.” Gates gestured again to the chair and Faraday again ignored it.

  “Second page,” she said, pointing to the notes.

  “Look. I read your reports on the missing Barker kid. Good details, good work. You’ve got a better memory. More recent course work. I got a couple of years’ experience.” He held up his hands like surrender. “What do you want me to say? I needed your help yesterday.”

  “I was busy myself. Thanks would have covered it.” She took a few steps to her desk, checked her iPhone for messages, and sat to her work. “I read your investigation logs,” she said, without looking at him. “Adequate.”

  Once she left, Gates set her notes down and picked up his desk phone. He knew a local reporter, Doni Davis, who was relentlessly, marvelously nosy.

  “Got time to help local constabulary?” He arranged a clipboard where he could write and talk at the same time.

  “Not unless you’re off traffic and onto the serious crime wave around here,” Davis answered without missing a beat.

  Gates held the phone away from his ear for a second. That was uncanny. “You got bugs in our dayroom?”

  “You got bats in your belfry?”

  “What crime?”

  “That’s most of the problem. Everybody ignores stuff that just keeps building. Another woman raped on the river trail, just last weekend. Anyway, if I have to tell you, we need to switch jobs.”

  Gates could hear noise in the background, the reporter was probably cooking something as she talked.

  “I need some intel.”

  “Fire when ready.”

  “Chuck Barker?”

  “Zilch, sorry.”

  “Uh, Roth Trask?”

  “Met him. Don’t know him. But you might be in luck. His mom’s a sweet old purple-hair who just loves an opportunity to talk. Her travels, her volunteer work, her son, she can go for hours. She’s usually at the country club around cocktail time.”

  “Which one?”

  “Old money. The Riverdale on Bechelli.”

  “So when’s cocktail time?”

  “Now, if you’re buying.”

  Gates waited.

  “For her, I’m betting eleven-thirty until she sleeps in her dinner plate and they call a cab.”

  “A lush?”

  “I’m not sure … Lonely.”

  “Hear anything about the homeless situation?”

  “I hear they’re a target.”

  “Hear from who?”

  “The woman who heads the Progressive People Thrift Store was complaining to the mayor at the last council meeting I covered.”

  “Good source. Got any others?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  A FIXTURE AT THE COUNTRY CLUB

  Gates had changed out of his uniform into an old but respectable charcoal suit with a tie his wife had bought him before she left a hundred years ago.

  No one stopped him when he waltzed into the the Riverdale Country Club like a longtime member. With the help of a bartender, he found Mrs. Trask where the reporter had suggested, sitting at a second-floor window table overlooking a practice green, enjoying a late-morning drink. She wore a light gray cashmere outfit with an A-line skirt and three-button jacket. A white satiny blouse peeked from underneath the coat and a fat string of costume pearls accented the line of her collar. There was nothing costume about her rings, at least two carats each in white gold settings. Her silver hair was softly curled and her face had a pleasant but slightly unfocused expression, like she’d been waiting quite a while for something to happen and nothing had materialized. She brightened as he slowed and stopped beside her table.

  “Aren’t you Mrs. Trask?” he said. “Didn’t we meet at one of Roth’s parties a while ago?”

  The woman looked away from her glass of white wine, her eyes searching Gates’s face for recognition. “Why, we very well might have, Mr.… uh…”

  “Gates. Roman Gates. I’m an associate of your son in another business field.”

  “Oh, Roth. He certainly gets around. He met a million people through our business and he just keeps on.”

  “He’s an amazing guy,” Gates agreed. “May I sit for a few minutes before my twelve o’clock?”

  She smiled and gestured to the chair.

  “Wasn’t he a fighter pilot?” Gates asked, and sat as she began talking.

  “Oh my goodness, those nasty things. Their name escapes me but he flew jets.”

  “Warthogs?”

  “Why, yes. Isn’t that the most awful word?” She took a sip and waited for his confirmation. “Roth alwa
ys said the men who flew them deserved the name. Cowboys, he called them.”

  “He and I went to the same high school but were a few years apart.”

  She nodded while she took one more careful sip. “He is so versatile. Good grades, debate, sports, and you know he went on to finish a double major at Chico University.”

  “You must be very proud.” Gates clasped his hands on the table in front of him and gave her his undivided attention.

  “My lord! Such a student. And of course he was on the golf team, but even then, I think his true love was flying. His first true love before Lillian.”

  “Lillian?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him.

  “After college of course the Air Force was a dream come true. Fighter pilot. His snapshots looked like … Errol Flynn! Or is that too old for you? Everybody said he was so handsome, dignified … But that war. They say nobody gets out alive. I saw changes in him when he got home … Of course, he overcame those … things. Almost immediately, and threw himself into golf.”

  “Does he golf with Chuck? Officers in the same company…”

  “You know Chuck? Of course he’s Roth’s half brother. His father’s son by that earlier marriage. Took his mother’s name after the divorce.”

  Gates hid his surprise, nodded as if this was old news.

  “I think Chuck joined that club after Roth did. But Roth worked there. He taught, you know. My games are bridge and canasta,” she said, touching her hair. “Exercise is so … uh…” She looked out at a foursome practicing putting and shook her head as if she could hardly believe the folly of it all.

  Watching her drink was making Gates thirsty. “Wasn’t Roth going pro?”

  “Well now, wasn’t that just the biggest disappointment? And him home from fighting that silly war. He was so good, and he tried and tried, and he simply didn’t get any breaks.” She took a last sip. “Would you like something?” she said, gesturing with her nearly empty goblet to a nearby waiter.

  “No, thank you. I only have another minute or so.”

  “And when they wouldn’t let him join that major … that tour I guess it was, he got so angry. I’ve never seen such a thing, more than disappointed. Furious. Enraged, I guess you’d say. It wasn’t fair. A couple of silly scores, a couple of silly tournaments, and they barred the gates. I haven’t watched a match since. Won’t.”

  “It can be hard to recover from something like that.”

  “We didn’t see him for a while. I guess he traveled. I was traveling. But maybe my Rothie just needed that setback in order to move forward. The next time I recall seeing him he knocked my hat off. Arm in arm with my husband. And no more polo shirts! Three-piece suit, four-hundred-dollar shoes. He was an executive! He told me he’d joined our company with the promise he’d be a partner in a few short years. I can tell you. He already looked the part. My husband, Charles … did you meet him?”

  Gates shook his head.

  “Charles had already hired Chuck … something about finances.”

  “Comptroller?” Gates asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention to the company.” She broke off for a swallow from her newly arrived wine.

  “Anyway, Charles made no such promise to Chuck. The company would eventually be Roth’s and Roth’s alone. Those two are so competitive—like any brothers, I suppose.”

  “Isn’t Roth married?”

  “Was. Was married.” She shook her head sadly and took another sip. “While he was still in the service, Rothie married a local girl who’d gone away to university and returned. They had a daughter, Lillian. She’s going to be eleven this year. I can hardly keep up. She’s such a beautiful girl, and I suppose in my own way, I’ve helped raise her. Well, I certainly see her more since the divorce, but you know how silly young girls can be. We hardly have anything in common. It became final when she was seven. Of course, Roth fought for custody and won. The wife, god help me, I can’t remember her name right now, just bowed out. I don’t know whether she still lives in town.” She paused for a decent swallow, dabbed her lips with the cocktail napkin.

  “Roth still goes seventy hours a week at the office, but, really, he lives for Lillian. Buys her everything, takes her everywhere. Vacations? My lord! Weren’t they just in Venice? You’d know better than I.”

  She turned her head to look out beyond the putting green toward tall trees, placid in the afternoon sun, and recommenced her soft musings as Gates said a quiet goodbye and left without her seeming to notice.

  * * *

  Driving away, Gates thought Mrs. Trask drank the way he used to gamble. Too much was never enough. Must have a liver the size of a septic tank.

  Back in the squad room, he made several phone calls gathering more info on Trask. Caught Faraday at her desk. “Got a minute for some late-breaking?”

  She set the report she’d been reading on her blotter. “More homeless?”

  “Looking at a different suspect.”

  “You were thinking Barker? Worked with Payne at Trask?”

  Gates tried not to let his surprise show. Young and savvy. “Like that,” he said, “same company, different guy.”

  Faraday uncovered a lined tablet from a stack of files. Poised to write. “Ready.”

  “Roth Trask, company’s CEO?”

  She nodded.

  “Just met with his mother. Delighted to speak about her son. A couple of liters of wine didn’t hurt.”

  Faraday tapped her pen on the tablet.

  Gates got it. Impatient. “Hang on,” he said. “A quick summary with a little research thrown in.”

  Faraday nodded but didn’t smile.

  “Roth probably came as a surprise,” Gates began. “Both parents in their forties. Probably special from day one. Big expectations. In high school good grades, good at several sports, maybe too pompous to be well-liked. Father probably always expected perfection, criticized anything less. Mother thought he could have been a politician.” Gates raised his eyebrows. “She said he surprised her with his ‘thrill-seeking.’ True love flying, later golf.”

  Faraday looked up at Gates. “I have a lot of work here.”

  “Duly noted. Think personality profile. Could a man like this kill David Payne?”

  Faraday sighed, shrugged.

  “After college, Air Force pilot. Action during the early Iraq War. Despised his peers.” Gates watched Faraday make a note.

  He continued. “Mother said the war changed him. Made him bitter and mean. Had terrible nightmares. Eventually snapped out of it and threw himself into golf.”

  “Train them to kill anything that moves and then put them back in town,” Faraday said, shaking her head.

  “Turns out Chuck Barker is Roth’s half brother. Chuck is Charles Trask’s first son by an earlier marriage, nearly twenty years older. Chuck had a serious falling-out with his father during the divorce, took his stepfather’s last name when mother remarried. Barker also plays golf but not in Roth’s league. Mom said no love lost between the two men. Competitive. Working relationship at best.”

  “Barker’s a one-trick pony. Intimidation,” Faraday said.

  Gates nodded. “Mother said Roth was livid when he failed to make the pro tour. Left home and disappeared. According to a golf buddy, Roth wound up spending time in New Orleans, Gulf Coast Louisiana and Mississippi. Tried his hand at professional gambling. Didn’t work out.”

  Gates wanted to add, it never does, but didn’t want to teach Faraday his own history if she didn’t already know it.

  “Came back, went into father’s business with a partnership and the promise he’d inherit the company. Father Charlie Trask had previously mended fences with Chuck. Hired him as financial officer but never promised him anything. Roth kept Barker on in that position after Charlie died, until Chuck finally bought stock. Looks like buying in for ten percent elevated Barker from comptroller to chief financial officer.”

  Faraday was again drumming with the pen.

&nbs
p; “Last bit,” Gates said. “While he was in the Air Force, Roth married a local girl who had his child. The daughter may be eleven or twelve now. The couple divorced a few years ago. He fought for custody and won.”

  Gates noticed Faraday doodling a circle with a star inside.

  “One more thing?”

  The woman deputy groaned.

  “Mother said he still goes seventy-hour weeks, but sounded like he’s lost his passion for the company. Thinks he only cares about his daughter.”

  “Maybe the brush with the FBI shook him?”

  “Could be.”

  Faraday looked at Gates. “So Roth’s PTSD from the air wars, maybe even misses the hunt-and-kill. People say all that firepower at your fingertips is awesome. Hard to put aside. Residual anger flares up when he’s thwarted. A workaholic narcissist, skilled with a golf club, competitive with his brother, implicated at least by association in the tax fraud. Daughter probably the only one in his life that passes muster.”

  Gates blinked. Good summation.

  “Payne’s barely in the same universe,” she said, “until maybe he threatens to cash in with his insider info.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to,” Gates said. “Think we can prove it?”

  LAKE TALK

  Murray couldn’t get comfortable on the short couch. He was too cramped, then too hot, then too cold. Didn’t seem like he’d slept at all when another nightmare, dirt clods falling like hail, left him shaken. After that, there was no getting back to sleep. He grabbed Janochek’s coat off its hook and left to visit Dearly.

  * * *

  “Hi, hon, how you doing? How’s your girlfriend?” Dearly was perky as usual.

  Did the dead ever sleep? Was that a stupid question? Murray had no idea. “Uh, haven’t seen her lately. I don’t know if she’s my girlfriend. I’m not sure how to … or what I…”

  “Guess it’s complicated, huh?”

  “I’m … not so good. Hearing more voices. I think they’re from people who’ve been killed.”

  “Like that other girl? Murdered?”

  “Yeah. Close to here. You don’t hear anything like that, right?”