Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1)

by Lala Corriere

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Sandra said.

  “I’m a busy woman. I get calls.”

  The waiter came by to collect their orders. Sandra shooed him away with a flip of her hand. “Not yet. But bring me another vodka, heavy on the pour.”

  She turned back to look Jessica straight in the eyes. “I don’t need to know one more thing about you, so bring it on. What do you want from me?”

  “I thought maybe we could make a truce, beginning with a gentler cadence in communication.”

  “Peace between you and me and the triangle you’ve created?”

  The fresh drink arrived and Sandra grabbed it.

  “You seem like a strong and confident woman. Why do you feel this need to be a stalker, Sandra?” Jessica asked.

  “My name is pronounced Sondra.”

  “Oh, my apologies. My cousin is named Sondra but it’s spelled with an O. It’s on her birth certificate. It’s in the spelling, you know.

  “I’m no stalker, and I don’t give a damn about the alphabet.”

  “I guess I care more about proper grammar and pronunciation. A force of habit, based on my career.”

  Another slug of vodka. “You’re invitation amused me, so here I am. But I have a full calendar. Probably more full than yours. Move on.”

  “Why are you stalking us, Sandy?” Jessica blurted out.

  “I am not a Sandy, you goddamn slut. Never call me that, messy Jessie!”

  Sandra, or Sondra, obviously couldn’t stand being called Sandy. She got up, spilled the remains of her vodka across the bread basket and stormed away from the table.

  Jessica sent a quick text. Even though Sandra Vickery had left the table earlier than anticipated, everything was in place. The county processor would be waiting for her at the valet station to serve the restraining orders. She was not to come within one hundred feet of Jaxon’s residence, real estate offices or the country club where she was no longer a member. She was also ordered to stay away from Jessica Silva’s home and the television station. If she accidentally ran into either of them out in public, she was mandated to turn around and vacate the premises.

  Jessica ordered two crab salads, both heavy on the teeth-staining fresh beets.

  When Jaxon arrived at her table, Jessica couldn’t help herself. “She’s very beautiful in a stoic sort of way. She’s elegant. Tall and slim. Maybe even fragile. I’m sorry, but that’s certainly not how you described her.”

  Jaxon chortled as he poured himself the red wine into the stem Jessica had waiting for him.

  “Seriously. I’ve never seen her up close,” Jessica added.

  “Don’t let that fool you. She works out every day. She can heave two forty-pound bags of pool salt, one on each shoulder, as if they were a short stack of pancakes.”

  “True. Tough. And mean. She exuded hatred the moment I offered her a glass of red wine.”

  “Oh, yeah. She won’t consume anything darker than pink champagne. But I bet she would drink blood,” Jaxon said.

  Chapter Six

  I CHOSE THE BOOTH in the corner of the best dive in town for authentic Mexican dishes with sides of three salsas, warm tortilla chips and a melt-in-your mouth adobada pork. David Manning wasn’t five minutes behind me and I was already licking the salt off the rim of my margarita glass.

  “Must be nice. Drinking while on duty, Cassidy,” Manning said.

  “I have no on-duty days and it keeps me nice. Or at least nicer,” I retorted.

  “You have something for me, Cassidy?”

  “I will after Schlep arrives and we order some food.”

  “What’s up with this sidekick of yours?” Manning asked, while ordering an iced tea with a look on his face as sour as the lemon he requested.

  “You don’t get him. He never fit in on the force because you idiots didn’t recognize his brilliance. You used him as a freakin’ errand boy.”

  Ignoring my comment, Manning announced to nobody but me, “I’m ordering a hamburger.”

  “I’m waiting for Schlep,” I said, still nursing the alcohol-infused lime juice.

  We snacked from the basket of hot tortilla chips and salsa, talking about anything but the cases at hand. Schlep arrived a few seconds before Manning gave up and was going to order. “Shepherd Brown. Glad you could finally join us,” Manning said.

  “Heck. You can call me Schlep. I think I’ve earned that name.”

  I laughed, patting the place on the fake red leather booth seat next to me. I could read Schlep like a polished book of fine poetry. He had something brewing in that boy-genius mind of his.

  He always wore his own uniform which consisted of khaki pants with a belt and a tucked in long-sleeved dress shirt. Short and with a very slight build, he’s also pulled the shirt out from his abdomen. I think he was trying to give the appearance that he was a bit more buff. The thick crepe-soled shoes gave him a bit of extra height. His shirts were always crisply starched, in opposition to his shaggy brown hair that was more fitting in the seventies. I called him a walking hippy yuppie.

  Manning and I ordered but Schlep declined. He wanted to talk.

  “Sir,” he stammered, “you understand that the reason you’ve asked us to work with you on these cases is because we can devote a lot more time than you can.”

  Manning nodded with a slight yawn. Looking at him, I was itching to straighten his crooked tie and drop it down about two inches.

  Schlep continued, “Law enforcement responds reactively, looking for signs of foul play. The PI approach is different. We tend to be more proactive. For example, when your department interviews family, friends and any eye witnesses, your goal is to find out where these women are, correct?”

  “Damn right.”

  “While that’s all good and true, sometimes it helps to dig deeper. We determine not only where these women were prior to their disappearance, not to mention their patterns, but we attempt to determine where they wanted to go. We all know these women had high aspirations for their future, but where would they be going the next day? The next week? Their immediate plans on their calendars?”

  I took over, “Basically, we may not look precisely for the missing person. We look for their plans. Most of these women had aspirations or goals, or were already glowing in the limelight. We’re able to dig deeper into their financial records. Past. Present. And forecasted. Records that maybe you don’t have access to.”

  I think I saw Manning’s head tilt with a happy, if not devilish, smile. I absolutely saw his raised eyebrows pitched like fuzzy teepees. He knew we were tapping into sources and exploring avenues that could be deemed illegal in his world.

  Manning retorted, “We’ve looked at all of their computers.”

  Cursory, I thought.

  Schlep responded, “There’s no reliable methodology to determine the nature of a missing adult person, which is a fact in itself. There are conflicting reports. Best estimates are that hundreds of thousands of people go missing in the United States every year. If any of our cases are related, it wouldn’t be so odd that they’re all over the age of eighteen. Beautiful women and not one of them underage. As we know, in this country an adult has the right to disappear. Depending on which study you look at, about ten to thirty percent of missing adults leave on their own accord. Maybe more.”

  Nodding his head in agreement, Manning said, “That’s why I need you. You can feed me all of the statistics you want but it’s about the law. I can’t spend man hours looking for adult missing persons of sound mind with no signs of foul play and no bodies. Hell, even if it’s a cult using extreme coercion methods to join them, it’s still all about free will until I can prove otherwise.”

  Schlep answered, “We loosely follow the works of Turvey to come up with an abstract of the missing person’s personality. Define who might be at risk or an adult that simply wanted to disappear. Without bodies, we conduct what is known as a psychological autopsy.”

  “Give yourself credit, Schlep, and explain it to
both of us,” I said.

  Manning stopped dipping the fries into his pool of catsup and leaned forward.

  Schlep continued, “We try to sort out the most salient of findings because the trails lead us all over the map. I have visited four of the six families of your reported missing adults. It’s urgent that we get the families engaged in any search efforts as soon as possible. So far they’ve seen the police come and go with only a report. We’ve collected names of more obscure, old friends and perhaps an enemy here or there. I’ve been able to quickly deduce there are no known pre-disappearing acts for any of these women. There are no signs of mental illness, drug use or prostitution, and none appear to have been in an abusive relationship. One thing we must consider is that these crimes, if there ever were any crimes, could have been those of opportunity.”

  Manning went back to his French fries.

  “We may not be able to connect the dots because there are no dots,” I added. “But hear me out. Just because these women are beautiful doesn’t mean they are vulnerable. They had their wits about them.”

  “The hardest part will be explaining to the families that they need to register their loved one’s names with NamUs. And this needs to go public, Chief,” Schlep interjected.

  “Fine. These families want to do anything they can. What’s so hard?” Manning asked.

  “Chief, it’s time you go to the media involved.” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  “NamUs is a site that matches DNA with John and Jane Does. These families have all collected DNA samples. Hair. Clothing with perspiration. Anything and everything. They submitted them to NamUs. Now we need to explain, more definitively, as to the why”, Schlep explained.

  Now I was surprised. I flinched, “And?”

  “So far, with only five Jane Does, there’s no match. But the data needs to be in the system. A painful but important step.”

  That stung at my heart. Five Jane Does. With no one to claim them. Who were they? Surely there was someone who loved them.

  “There’s no correlation to time of day, seasons, holidays or any given data on time relevance as to when the missing persons were reported. All of the disappearances were reported quickly. They all had loved ones. Much different from the Jane Doe’s we get at the morgue.”

  Shit. Schlep addressed my feelings without being aware of how I felt.

  “What about the theory that these women might be being held in captivity?” Manning inquired.

  Schlep leaned forward over the veneer wood table to make direct contact with Manning’s eyes. “It’s a working theory. What is still fresh on everyone’s mind is the three Richter sisters being held captive by the parents right here in Tucson. That was in November of 2013. As far as a trafficking situation, these women, although quite beautiful, are probably too old. These perverts want them young. Even underage.

  “Cleveland resident Ariel Castro surprised his closest neighbors in 2013 when police finally discovered the three young women he held captive for years.

  “And the Houston incident, June of 2013. Eight people.

  “That’s a lot of recent incidents that could perpetuate more criminal activity.”

  Through with his report, Schlep took a deep breath of air.

  “What about keeping them for breeding purposes?” Manning asked.

  “Not likely. Once pregnant, they’d need a medically trained person. Hiding a baby isn’t easy, not that it doesn’t happen. Castro allegedly impregnated one of his captives five times but starved and beat her until she miscarried. Our hairdresser is forty-nine, and the congresswoman’s hysterectomy was well-known because she went on to write and support several women’s healthcare bills. Not that the un-sub would know this, but the waitress is unable to conceive,” Schlep rattled on.

  “We have another theory that perhaps our un-sub, our unidentified suspect, is wolf-dog ugly and this is the way he can collect and be around beautiful women,” I said. “We may not be looking for a logical motive. More like a psychological thrill. And although it’s a wild theory, we can’t forget all of the young women that were abducted in the Middle East. The theory is out there that those young women were taken to breed. Given what Schlep just said, I’m going with a guy wolf-dog ugly.”

  “Maybe revenge stalking and killing?” Manning asked.

  “Perhaps. The likelihood of rape or captivity becomes a valid theory,” Schlep said. “Mind if I order some food? I’m starving.”

  After several gulps of the club soda in front of him, Schlep added, “Chief, with the disappearance of the congresswoman the public is going to start connecting the dots. There are hundreds of fliers littering Tucson with photos and names of missing persons.”

  “So many that people don’t even notice them anymore,” Manning added.

  Chapter Seven

  JAXON GILES HAD LEARNED the findings from the vet, confirming what he already knew. A stomach full of arsenic killed Gecko.

  The hired security man, going by the name of Marcus, was ushered into Jaxon Giles office. Jaxon stood to shake his hand.

  The man, nondescript in black trousers and a tan camp shirt with shades as dark as sheets of black obsidian, sat down across from Jaxon in a chair too small for his build.

  “You’re keeping me on the job, and I appreciate the business, but I’m not a slacker. I need to know what the hell I’m looking for besides a license plate and a fake blonde.”

  Jaxon gestured to Marcus with palms up. “Let’s move over to some more comfortable seating,” he suggested.

  “I’ll tell you anything you need to know. Do you have a notepad?”

  “Yep. My mind. A steel trap.”

  Jaxon scratched at his ear, tightening his in thought, confident he had the right guy.

  “Fair enough. Here’s the rundown. My ex-wife of over two years is stalking me and causing harm. It’s not enough for the police so I need to deliver proof. That’s your job.”

  “I will, but tell me what I’m delivering. It will make my fees more cost effective for you.”

  Sitting in the comfortable deep-seating lounge chairs adjacent to Jaxon’s desk, sipping Costa Rican coffees, Jaxon began explaining the saga of his stormy relationship with Sandra Vickery.

  “Right after the divorce the gifts started arriving. My favorite Chinese dishes would be paid for and delivered. Only I didn’t order any of it. Boxes of my favorite cigars arrived, several from Cuba before the ban was lifted. And the only golf balls I play? Mailed to me with no card. Disturbing.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Marcus said, smiling. “Free favorites”

  Jaxon didn’t miss a beat. “After about two months, the tide of niceties turned. First, my dry cleaning went missing. Paid for by my wife. But I had no wife. Three suits, plenty of shirts and a pair of slacks were gone. Two weeks after that all four of my tires were slashed in the parking lot of a resort. No one saw anything, including the valets. A week later my Jag was keyed outside of my office and it’s not like we have cameras out there. But we also don’t have undesirables wandering around real estate offices.”

  “Damning, but—”

  “My dog was poisoned in my own backyard. He had enough arsenic in his system to kill a horse, two-fold. I know it was her. I saw her exiting my property at the time. But the local authorities need proof.”

  “Do you have any other enemies besides your ex?”

  Jaxon tossed his head back and let out a quick chuckle. “If you’ve been in my business long enough you’re going to make a few enemies. Commercial real estate. You’re likely going to gain some adversaries. Hell, a couple of the guys and gals around here have been sued more than once.”

  “Real estate deals gone bad?” Marcus asked.

  “Big commercial deals. When there’s lots of money on the table, there’s lots of tension.”

  “Maybe someone had a deal go south and blames you,” Marcus said.

  Crossing his arms with both eyebrows raised, Jaxon signaled resistance to this idea. �
�I’ve been squeaky clean. No hint of any lawsuits.”

  “I’m just saying, how can you be so sure it was Mrs. Giles? I mean, you’re asking me to stop watching Ms. Silva so I can tail your ex. What if she’s not the problem?

  Jaxon leaned forward on the coffee table, nearly knocking over his mug, his face flushed. “First, she goes by her maiden name, Vickery. The woman is sulfurous. She has singlehandedly evicted me from my own life. I firmly believe she is a bona-fide psychopath. If I could, I would love to be a bubble in one of her damn champagne glasses. Just rising up and watching her every move. That’s where I need you.”

  Marcus glanced around the room uneasily, running his fingers through thinning hair. His sunglasses remained in place, obscuring his eyes.

  “I don’t know. It would be hard not to recognize the woman’s name. She’s been in the news a lot lately about making big donations. Seems she’s moved on and—”

  Jaxon interrupted, “Big donations. Not big-hearted. It’s a false front her money buys her and she’s smart. It won’t take her long to realize you’re following her. Then you’ll come face-to-face with her evil twin sister.”

  “I can do the job. And do it right. But you’ll have to wait forty-eight hours.”

  “What the hell?”

  “You hired me to keep your girlfriend safe. When she was at the studio, she was safe. I had time to do my other jobs. I deliver what I promise which is why you want me, but I have another commitment. Now you’ve changed the playing field and want me on 24-7. Give me forty-eight hours and I’m there.”

  Jaxon held up his hands. “Okay. Just remember, don’t let her smile and grace fool you. You’re dealing with something wicked.”

  Chapter Eight

  MANNING ARRANGED THE meeting with me. Why he chose my house, I had no idea, but he arrived in time for my bitter coffee and stale cinnamon bread. My Yorkies, Finnigan and Phoebe, did their guard-dog thing, yapping their heads off upon his arrival. The cat, Daphne, scampered off under my guest bed.