Murder in the Clear Zone

by Lakes, Lynde

  A wave of humid August heat blasted him as he left the protection of the air-conditioned building. It heightened his foul mood. With no shade in front of the building, the midget-sized, white Dodge Omni assigned to him would be an oven. He unlocked the door, rolled down the window, and slid into the griddle hot vinyl seat.

  Minutes later, steaming inside and out, he pushed the car’s accelerator all the way to the floorboard. He held it down until he skidded to a stop atop the hillside overlooking the conglomerate of homes, apartments, and commercial buildings he had to clear.

  He grabbed his binoculars from the passenger seat, uncurled himself from the Omni, and walked to the edge of the cliff. In spite of the mixed development of the land that sprawled below him and its location just outside the back gate of an Norton Air Force Base, about a third of the improved properties, like Paula’s house, were quality constructed, well-maintained, and landscaped.

  Now, midway through the project, half of the homes were vacant and boarded up, waiting for auctions and removal from the site. The Corps had hired another independent contractor, Les Cardel, to move the houses, and Les rode his back constantly, complaining that every day’s delay in relocating the remaining people cost him money.

  What had, at first seemed to be a straightforward project, turned out to have more obstacles than any other Bard had worked on. Certainly, murder had never been a factor before.

  This might be the job that would get him fired—or killed. Working in an area that vandals had turned into combat zone forced him to buy a gun. He didn’t like guns, but he couldn’t ignore the need to carry one. He kept it close by in a leather holster hidden in his briefcase. He balled his hands into fists. Going to work every morning shouldn’t feel like going to war. If finding that body in the dry river bed was any indication, things would get worse before they got better.

  Last week, Mr. Ortega rammed his Ford truck into Bard’s unoccupied Omni and pushed it from in front of the Ortega house, shouting, “I don’t want no county vehicle in front of my property!” Two days before, Mr. Popp had chased him off his porch with a shotgun. When it came to a man’s home, even a reasonable man could turn irrational.

  Bard frowned down at the two-acre property giving him the most trouble. A stream of people were gathering in Paula Lord’s front yard to plot against the project. A black truck pulled up in front of her house. A parking space had been reserved for it. Must be someone important. He needed to check that out.

  He glanced at his watch. 1:55 P.M. Paula’s meeting was about to begin. She’d proven to be a great little organizer. He could use her on his team. Cory’s accusations spun in his head. How could Paula Lord be the ringleader behind the thefts, the destruction of government property, and murder? From what he’d seen, she only wanted two things, to stay and to protect her neighbors. Les Cordel suggested her activism might be a clever cover. Cory called her Widow Orphan Annie, and Gordon called her Black Widow Spider. When he sized her up, he saw her differently. To him, she epitomized a caring, passionate woman.

  He focused his binoculars on her, trying not to dwell on that passion. She stood on what looked like a wooden orange crate, gesturing as she spoke to the neighbors crowded around her. He’d give a month’s pay to know what she was saying.

  He jumped in his Omni, sped down the hill, and parked several houses down from Paula’s place. He got out of his car and glanced at the black truck as he passed it. The small dent in the right rear fender barely registered.

  Bard could hear Paula speaking. Drawn by the strength and fervor in her voice, his pace quickened.

  “If we stick together,” she said, “the relocation people can’t force us out until we’re ready. Don’t let them intimidate you. This handbook from Cal-trans explains our rights.”

  Although she was five-foot-two at the most, she had the group captivated with her no-nonsense authority. Group shouts of “right-on” and “we’re with you” demonstrated her power. Clearly, she was a champion in her neighbor’s eyes.

  When she finished speaking, Paula handed out booklets. A bear-like, bearded man in a leather vest shoved past Bard to get closer to her. He had long, black, mop-like hair and the word Evil tattooed on his biceps. With a hug, she welcomed the big guy. Paula’s colorful friends didn’t support her air of innocence. Could he be wrong about her?

  A potato-nosed man in overalls frowned at Bard then whispered something in her ear. Bard had the feeling the old guy was telling her the enemy had arrived.

  ****

  Paula glanced up. Not Mr. Establishment again, she thought. In the glare of sunlight, Bard Nichols’s hair was a deep, glistening brown. His green eyes blazed. He’d squared his shoulders, broad enough to be impressive, for battle.

  He must have heard her speech. Good. Maybe he’d leave her alone.

  His stride was strong, and the tension about him warned her that he was about to swoop down on her. Come on, Hawk Man. You’ll soon learn that I’m not a defenseless sparrow.

  Resentment and curiosity joined forces to unnerve her, followed by a third emotion she couldn’t define. Damn. Just looking at him stirred such fierce feelings that she was actually trembling. Why didn’t he stay away and keep his slender, well-formed nose out of her business? She lifted her chin and tried to affect a relaxed stance of indifference.

  ****

  Neighbors moved away en masse, briefly making a human barrier between Bard and Paula. He frowned. Why did he always feel at a disadvantage around her? “Mrs. Lord,” he called out.

  She stared past him. He glanced around self-consciously and stuck a finger inside his tight collar to loosen it.

  Most of the crowd had cleared out of the yard. Some walked down the center of the street toward their homes. An engine roared to life behind him. Without looking, he knew it was the bearded man driving away in the black truck with the dented fender.

  Bard stepped directly in front of Paula and blocked her path. “Mrs. Lord, we need to talk.” His words sounded, dry, hoarse.

  “So talk.” He expected softness and got steel. She handed a leaflet to a straggler then met his gaze with huge, luminous blue eyes that he had trouble believing were anything but honest and direct.

  He swallowed. “If I could come inside, it’s important.” He didn’t want to give her the notice in public.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  He shifted his weight and waited. Finally, she exhaled and gestured with her head for him to follow. Why hadn’t he seen it before? This woman was tough. She held the remaining leaflets against her breasts with her right hand while she opened the front door with her left. Her royal blue shirt made those wide eyes bluer, darker. Could she really be a killer? He’d always prided himself on being a good judge of character, but if any of what Cory said was true, he’d missed it by a long shot with her.

  Paula moved aside for him to go ahead. Bard stepped into the entry hall. In a frantic flapping of wings, a gray and red blur flew past his face.

  “What the hell?” He flinched, and his hands went up to protect his eyes. A parrot, the size of a cat and looking as if it weighed at least twelve pounds, landed on Paula’s shoulder.

  “This is Ivanhoe, my African Gray.” She smiled up at the parrot and smoothed his glossy, ruffled feathers.

  Bard stared at the bird, still wary. “More like a missile with a beak.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Like me, he’s harmless unless agitated.”

  The warning in her steady eyes immediately erased any comfort he might have gained from the slight upward curvature of her lips.

  “He ought to be caged.”

  “This is his home. You invaded his space.” Showing no regret about the start her parrot had caused, Paula dropped the remaining leaflets on a small antique table as she passed through the entry hall. “We can talk in the kitchen, Mr. Nichols. I want to stick some baked apples in the microwave.”

  Her grandfather clock struck the half-hour. The chime sounded friendly and familiar like his grandpare
nts’ old clock. Had Paula inherited this one from her murdered grandmother-in-law? From what Bard could see from the entryway, all the furniture looked old-fashioned.

  Bard followed Paula into the spotless kitchen and waited. The parrot flew from Paula’s shoulder to a giant ring on a chain in front of a double-hung window. Bard tried to ignore the hostile ruffle of the bird’s feathers and its beady-eyed stare.

  Paula motioned to a straight-backed wooden chair beside the table. “Sit, if you like. I’ll be with you in a sec.” She removed a cover from a square Pyrex dish and spooned juice over the prepared apples inside then replaced the cover and shoved the dish into the microwave. “Okay,” she said, turning. “What’s up, Mr. Nichols?”

  Chapter Three

  Bard frowned. The spunky little widow hadn’t invited him to sit down. It didn’t matter, didn’t plan to stay that long. He put his briefcase on the table and opened it. “I hate to do this, Mrs. Lord, but it’s been over six months.” He handed her a final thirty-day notice.

  She slammed it down on the table, her eyes flashing. “You can’t force me to go.”

  “I’ve been patient. More than patient. Saintly. You haven’t even glanced at the lists of prospective replacement housing I provided for you.”

  “None of them fit my needs.”

  “How do you know;you haven’t even looked at them? You have to, at least, check them out.”

  She hit the notice with the flat of her hand. “Who says? Big Brother?”

  Bard hated the Big Brother concept himself and understood her anger. But that wasn’t the issue. “It’s not safe here. If you’d read the literature I gave you, you’d know that living under this flight path can kill you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “There’s lots of ways to die, Mr. Nichols.”

  The scar in her eyebrow pulsated. She folded back a newspaper that lay at the end of the table, exposing a gun and an open box of bullets. Bard’s gut tightened, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open. He clutched the back of the chair. Aromas of cinnamon and apples wafted around him. He cleared his throat and gestured to the pistol “Do you have a permit for that, Mrs. Lord?”

  “Are you in charge of gun permits, too, Mr. Nichols?” She wiped her hands on her jeans then picked up one of the bullets and dropped it into a cylinder.

  Bard froze. Another irrational homeowner;only this one was young and quite possibly reckless. “You don’t want to get in any trouble,” he said evenly.

  “I’m tired of you and Les Cardel and whoever else is trying to get rid of me by pushing me around. This is my home, and until I find an acceptable replacement I’m not moving. Period.”

  She didn’t point the weapon at him, but a gun in anyone’s hand made him nervous. Her parrot let out a loud squawk. Bard flinched. Then he cursed under his breath. Her ally ruffled his feathers and fixed his beady eyes on him. Bard inhaled deeply. “Thieves are coming in here and hurting people, Mrs. Lord.” He kept his voice steady. “Every minute you stay, the danger to you grows.”

  “Danger can go two ways.” She stared unflinchingly into his eyes. Her irises lightened to a flinty blue.

  He could take the gun away from her. Probably. But someone could get hurt. “You’re not looking at the situation logically.”

  “I’m very logical. I want police protection, not relocation.”

  She had a point. The people living here deserved the best security the corp and county could provide. But with three entities involved, the red tape was a tangled mess. “I’m trying to get protection for you and your neighbors.”

  She laughed without humor. “Yeah, right. How long does a phone call take?”

  “It’s not that simple. In the meantime, this place won’t mean much if you’re dead.”

  “Me, dead?” She lifted the scarred eyebrow. “Who’s holding the gun, Mr. Nichols?”

  “Stop it. This isn’t a damned game. You live in a neighborhood that’s over fifty percent boarded up. With breakins, attacks on residents, and murders, it’s not safe for you to live here alone.”

  “I don’t live alone. But if I did, do I look like I can’t protect myself?”

  “I won’t take the gun away from you to prove I can, but—”

  “Don’t try it,” she snapped. She got very still.

  Damn. He shouldn’t have challenged her. His job was to keep people calm, not exacerbate the situation, but the man in him wanted to prove he could handle this wisp of a woman. He clenched his fists. “Look, there must be family or friends you could stay with while you look for another place? Somewhere safer.”

  “I won’t leave my birds.” Determination smoldered in her eyes. “Moving seventy-five birds takes special handling, and aviary cages have to be waiting to re-house them. And I haven’t found a mover who can properly transport them.”

  “Two movers on the list I gave you were willing to include the birds.”

  “Neither would guarantee their safety.”

  At the sound of a car, Bard glanced out the window. Cory’s unmarked black Mustang pulled into the driveway. What was his cop roommate doing here? “Seems you have company. Maybe he’ll be interested in that gun.”

  Paula came close, stirring the air with her light fragrance. She stood on her tiptoes and looked out.

  She opened a drawer, carefully placed the .38 inside, locked the drawer, and shoved the key into her jeans pocket. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, politely, as if there had been no gun, no implied threat. Then she went to the front door.

  Bard shook his head and slowly exhaled. He rarely drank, but at this rare moment he could use a double shot of straight bourbon. He should compliment Cory on his good timing.

  Paula wasn’t the first homeowner in the area to threaten him with a weapon. They did it as an act of frustration. He reminded himself that part of his job included dealing with it with steely calm.

  The parrot let out a big squawk. Bard gritted his teeth and refused to flinch; still he glanced at it warily. The bird busied itself preening its now smooth feathers. Bard wanted to step away, but he held his ground.

  He heard Paula say, “What do you want?” Her tone wasn’t friendly.

  Then he heard Cory say, “It’s official.”

  Paula returned, followed by Cory in his swaggering gait, cocky as always. His styled brown hair looked just combed. In spite of the heat, he managed to keep his white shirt crisp and his jacket and tie free of wrinkles or stains. Believing in that adage the clothes make the man, Cory dressed for promotion, and to attract the eyes of every female he met. He wore boots, always shiny as glass, claiming he needed them to support a weak ankle. Bard would bet it was to make him taller. Cory held his chin high and puffed out his chest like a strutting peacock. Bard wished the parrot would buzz his roommate and shake him up a bit.

  “Mr. Nichols,” Paula said, “this is Detective Morrison.”

  Bard shifted his weight. “Hi, Cory.”

  “Nichols and I know each other, Mrs. Lord,” Cory said, nodding at Bard. His liquid blue eyes sized up the situation with cop-like efficiency. “I see you’re busy here, so I’ll get to the point. I need the name of the drifter who was helping out around here.”

  Paula paced. Cory watched her like a tiger watches its prey. Something intensified in his eyes. What was going on here? Cory believed Paula was a killer, yet there was an undercurrent between them that screamed of a past relationship deeper than just cop and suspect. Had she been one of his playmates?

  “He’s not a drifter, Detective.” Paula wrinkled her brow. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  Cory’s mouth thinned to a harsh line. “I’ll ask the questions, Mrs. Lord.”

  Paula stiffened and glared at him. The hair on the back of Bard’s neck prickled. He wanted to go to her but held himself in check.

  Cory leveled a look at Paula. “Know his name or not?” He snapped his words out like a whip.

  “It’s Charlie Borden.”

  Coldness hardened in Cory’s ey
es. “He was murdered.”

  Paula backed toward the table, her hand trembling as she reached out and gripped the ladder-backed chair. Her skin went ghostly white. “You must be mistaken.”

  She swayed as if she might faint. Ignoring the inner voice that told Bard to stay out of it, he went to her side and clutched her elbow to support her. Surprise shot through him when she didn’t shrink away. Maybe she didn’t even know he was there.

  “Do you know who killed him, Mrs. Lord?” Cory asked, while watching her closely, probably trying to read her reactions.

  “Charlie’s dead? He’s dead?” Her voice trailed away. A glint of moisture sprang to her eyes. “He was gone all night, but I thought…I made him baked apples, his favorite.”

  Her babbling touched Bard. He gripped her arm tighter, trying to send some of his own strength to her. Paula was trouble and maybe worse, but Cory could’ve broken this to her more gently.

  Pain filled Paula’s eyes. She looked like a child who’d been whipped and didn’t know why. She sagged against Bard. Her skin was as cold as death, her sorrow penetrating through his flesh, to his very soul.

  Suddenly, she went completely limp. He caught her before she slipped to the floor and lifted her into his arms. “Damn you, Cory! Is this how you do all of your investigations?”

  Bard carried Paula to the living room, leaving Cory standing alone in the middle of the kitchen. Bard gently lowered Paula to the couch then went in search of a wet cloth to put on her brow.

  “Dammit!” Cory shouted from the kitchen. “Tell her to put a leash on that parrot.”

  Good job, Ivanhoe, Bard cheered under his breath.

  When he returned to the living room, Cory was standing over the unconscious Paula, his face beet red. He glanced at Bard. “That parrot is vicious.” Cory sucked his hand, trying to stop the trickle of blood. Bard edged him out of the way and bent to place the damp cloth on Paula’s forehead.