by Gary Parker
“5301 Black Canyon Drive.”
“That’s Justin Longley’s place. No more than sixteen miles up the road. Just keep straight and look for a bit of white fence on your left. Turn there, that’s Black Canyon Drive. The road sort of winds down there, a bit of a dip in the desert. You can’t miss it. Justin’s the only guy out there with any white fence. His house is about a quarter mile into the dip.”
Though confused, Connie didn’t show it. “You know Justin Longley?”
“Sure, not but about two thousand people in this whole town. I know most all of them, I expect.”
Connie considered her next move. Could Longley be the elderly man in the picture she found at Morrison’s? Unsure, she hesitated, wondering if she should press the clerk for more details. Did a woman named Sandra live with Longley? Was Longley her husband? If so, what about the name difference?
Would the clerk know? Would he answer her if he did? She decided to leave matters alone, not arouse suspicion. She would find out soon enough. She turned to leave.
“Tell Justin I hope he feels better,” said the clerk.
Connie faced him again. “He’s sick?”
“Sure, don’t you know? He’s on his last legs. But don’t tell him I said that. He’s liable to come in here and whack me one with that cane he carries all the time.”
Connie smiled. “I’ll keep it our secret. Thanks.”
Driving slowly through the darkness on the unfamiliar road, it took her over thirty minutes to drive the sixteen miles to Longley’s “bit of fence.” No more than twenty feet long, the fence stood unconnected to anything on either side, a distinguishing landmark on the bleak road. A mailbox stood to the right of the white fence, the word Justin painted in a fire-engine red. Connie turned left, and the rental dipped with the road.
Though not more than a few feet, the descent in the road felt like a steep grade as she drove the quarter mile to the house. Connie understood now why they called it “Canyon Drive,” though the “Black” part still escaped her.
She spotted the frame house on her right, no more than a stone’s throw from the narrow road. Standing all alone, the forlorn-looking structure sagged toward the sand. A windmill flipped its propellers just behind the house and a three-wheel motorcycle of an indistinguishable color sat to the right of the windmill. Lights in every room lit up the shabby house and a couple of rocking chairs rested on the front porch that ran across the entire front.
Calmer than she expected, Connie slowed the car to a stop, then pulled to the side of the road. Educated by her experience at Morrison’s, she left the car running and stepped out. A minute later, she eased onto the porch and knocked on the door.
No one answered. She knocked again. Again no answer. A sense of déjà vu washed over her. Morrison’s house all over again?
She felt her face flush. It couldn’t happen twice, could it?
She knocked one more time. No response. For several moments, she stood and waited, wondering what to do. She just couldn’t go inside this time. The notion of finding another body petrified her. But could she just leave the place? Leave the place Sandra Richards listed as her address?
Connie knocked once more. The lights in the house flickered, then switched off completely. The desert shut down on her, its darkness a blanket of black over her eyes.
Connie panicked. A shriek ripped from her throat, the shrill sound of a woman in danger. Powered by her fears, she jumped off the porch and stumbled toward the car, her knees scraping the sandy ground as she fell. From behind, she heard footsteps.
Her breath choking out in ragged gashes, she jerked herself up and sprinted toward the car, pushing her legs faster and faster, willing them to move, move, move. She heard the car idling and prayed she would reach it before her pursuer reached her.
A roll of perspiration fell into her eyes and blinded her for a second as it flooded her contact lenses. She felt the ground drop beneath her feet, and her right shoe banged into a rock; she tumbled face forward onto the ground. Desert grit dug into her chin. Pushing up, she heard the car engine again; it gave her courage, and she churned toward it.
Someone grabbed her left ankle. She kicked out with her right foot and connected. A man grunted, and Connie screamed.
The grip on her ankle tightened, a vise of power like nothing she had ever felt. She kicked again with her right foot, but this time hit nothing. Pain ripped through her left leg as her pursuer yanked her backward.
A second hand grabbed her right ankle, too, and clamped down on it. A man yelled her name. “Connie Brandon!” The grip on her ankles lessened a notch.
“Connie, it’s me!”
She twisted her body a hundred and eighty degrees and almost fainted. A bear of a man held her ankles and stared back at her, a look of deep concern etched across his bearded face.
“Luke?”
Luke released his grip, and she scurried away from him toward the car, her suspicions unsatisfied.
“Hold it, Connie!” Luke yelled, gliding across the desert sand. “I’m here to help you.”
Connie reached the car and positioned herself on the opposite side from Luke. “But how did you get here? . . . What are you—?”
Luke stopped and held up his hands like a cowboy trying to calm a skittish colt. “I’m a detective, remember?”
“But you said you were shutting down the investigation.”
“Sure, that’s still where it is, officially at least. But I decided to dig a bit on my own time. No harm in that.”
“But how did you find this place?”
“Not that hard since I already had the woman’s name. A few computer checks . . . a bit of background searching . . . She’s listed as Richards. Lunsford is either an alias or a married name she doesn’t use. I found an address. One advantage of being a cop. Some things you can get fairly easily.” He took a couple of steps toward her.
“Stay still!” she shouted. “Just stay still for a minute. How do I know . . . how do I know you’re not here to . . . to—”
“To hurt you?”
Connie’s voice faltered as she tried to answer. “Yes, to . . . to . . . ”
Luke softened his tone. “If I wanted to hurt you, why did I let you go?”
Connie shuddered but knew he made sense. He had her by the ankles, could have snapped them in his bare hands, she had no doubt. Luke Tyler could have broken her ankles, then her neck, as easily as a boy snaps a twig in the backyard. But he didn’t. Luke had released her ankles and let her go.
Cautiously, she eased around the hood of the car. “Why did you turn out the house lights?” she asked.
“Old police trick. When you don’t know what you’re dealing with, you put things in the dark. I was inside, heard a knock on the door. Didn’t know who knocked, or how many. Darkness confuses things. I hit a breaker, heard you jump off the porch.
Of course, I didn’t know it was you. I came running.” He stepped closer.
She coiled to run again, but then Luke stopped.
“How did you get here?”
“I parked around back.”
Though afraid to ask, she couldn’t avoid her next question.
“Did you find anything . . . anyone?”
Luke took a deep breath. “Somebody tore the place apart.
Everything is scattered.”
“Any sign of the woman?”
“Not a bit. Nobody there.”
Connie’s shoulders sagged. “What about a man, a guy named Justin Longley?”
“Who’s he?”
Connie shrugged. “Not sure. Husband maybe. Or brother, father, grandfather, or friend. Don’t know.”
“No sign of him either. Nobody there. Clothes tossed and furniture tipped over and cabinets wide open, but no sign of a human being. You want to take a look?”
Connie considered the offer. Why not? Luke didn’t know everything she knew. Maybe he missed something.
“Is that . . . legal?”
Luke smiled slightly. �
��No, not really. But if you move fast, I won’t tell.”
“You think it’s safe?”
“I think so. Whoever tossed the place left already. I don’t think they’ll come back anytime soon. You game?”
To answer, Connie opened the door of the rental car, switched off the engine, and marched toward the house, her shoulders set. Luke followed, his big body a comfort against the shadows of the desert. On the porch, she waited while he stepped inside and flipped on the breaker again, flooding the place with light. A couple of seconds later, Luke led her inside.
Her eyes adjusted to the glare. She scanned the first room past the door—a living area decorated only with a brown cloth sofa, a couple of rocking chairs like those on the porch, and a fireplace complete with a stone hearth and a dark wood mantle. Whoever lived here had never heard of Martha Stewart.
Carefully, Connie picked her way through the litter on the wood floor—a hat tree, three sofa cushions, several small indoor plants. Nothing broken, just tossed.
“It’s got two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom,” said Luke. “That’s about it. All pretty much in the same shape.”
Connie moved from the living room to the two bedrooms.
Luke followed her, his quiet presence more than welcome. The mattresses in the bedrooms lay on the floors, and the dressers, identical pieces of plain wood furniture in both bedrooms, had been ransacked. Bits and pieces of old clothing lay like molted skins all over the place. No pictures decorated the walls. Each room contained a small closet. Connie stuck her head into each closet and found them empty. It looked as if someone had snatched the closets clean, swept them of any sign of human occupancy. Without warning, she thought of Jack’s closet.
Though not quite as empty as these, it wasn’t far from it. Just enough to get by and just enough to snatch away and run if . . . it suddenly dawned on her . . . if someone came searching for you. The similarities scared her, and she shuddered. Then, trying to think of something else, she turned to Luke.
“This place is a bit spare, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Didn’t keep much extra around, that’s for sure.”
“You’d never know a woman lived here,” she said, moving to the bathroom. “No sign of a feminine touch.”
Luke rolled a toothpick from his shirt pocket and followed her. “Maybe Richards didn’t live here.”
“Then why is this listed as her address?”
“You got me.”
Connie found the bathroom as bare as the other rooms and quickly walked out. The kitchen told the same tale. Pots and pans thrown here and there, but no clues to anything. Puzzled, Connie left the house and stepped onto the front porch. There, she stared into the darkness and weighed the possibilities. Luke stood beside her, his toothpick working.
“You’re right,” she said. “Richards didn’t live here, at least not recently.”
“So who did?”
“Justin Longley, whoever that is.”
Luke nibbled his toothpick. “Wonder if she came and got him?”
Connie stepped toward Luke. “Or they came and got him . . . or him and her.“ Her voice sounded as a whisper in the desert stillness.
Luke’s gray eyes widened. “Who got them?” he asked.
Connie shook her head. “I don’t know who they are. But . . . but I saw them . . . saw them in Las Vegas last Wednesday.”
“You went to Vegas?”
Connie almost smiled at the irony. It did sound crazy. A small-town, tiny woman like herself flying in and out of Las Vegas, searching for . . . well . . . searching for some conclusion to the tragedy that had invaded her life.
“Yeah, I went to Vegas. And . . . when I did . . . I found a man named Reed Morrison . . . found him . . . dead. That’s when I saw them, two men in a black Mercedes. I can’t prove a thing, but I know . . . I know, somehow, they’re tied up in all this. If we can find them . . . well, if we find them, we’ll know who killed Jack.”
“You’ve been a busy girl,” said Luke, a hint of admiration in his words.
“I had no choice. You closed down the investigation.”
“Johnson Mack closed it down.”
Connie started to speak, then hesitated.
Luke asked, “What next?”
“You tell me.”
“Back to Jefferson City, I think. I want you to search through some mug books. You think you’d recognize the men you saw in Las Vegas?”
“One of them for sure, a blond one.”
Luke nodded toward her rental. “I’ll follow you to the airport.” Connie stepped off the porch.
“By the way,” said Luke. “Who’s Reed Morrison?”
Connie pivoted back to him. “I’ll tell you on the plane.”
She hustled to the car, climbed in, started it, and shifted into gear. A minute later, Luke pulled up behind her, and the two of them moved back down Black Canyon Road, up the dip to the highway, and back toward the interstate. Driving by the convenience store, Connie flicked her eyes toward the clerk who gave her directions to Longley’s place. Through the glass of the well-lit building, she spotted him behind the counter, talking to a man standing next to a magazine rack. Her eyes on the clerk, Connie failed to see the silver Lexus parked in the shadows by the side of the store. If she had seen the Lexus and the blond man with a ponytail behind its wheel, she would surely have screamed.
CHAPTER
23
Looking at the mug shots at Luke’s office the next afternoon produced nothing—no leads, no names, no possibilities, a big zero. Connie raised her eyes from the last page of the final book and shook her head.
“They’re not in here,” she said to Luke.
Luke, his broad back nestled in his chair, nodded and twisted a toothpick in his teeth. “Okay, it was a long shot anyway. We don’t have a huge collection of pictures here in Jefferson City. Maybe the computer will pick up something later.”
“You think the description I gave will do any good?”
“It’s possible. We’ll get a sketch artist from K.C. or St. Louis to make a drawing. I’ll enter that in the computer, then pass it around in a few spots. See if it stirs up anything.”
Connie breathed deeply and looked at Luke. Worn out from last night’s trip, she rubbed her eyes and wondered what to do next. So far, her best efforts had led to nothing. She had no proof of anything she suspected, and the police had no real reason to reconsider their verdict of suicide. Yes, the disappearance of Sandra Richards and the trashing of Longley’s house caused some concern. But a trashed house provided no evidence of anything worse than a prank. With nothing more to offer, Luke hadn’t even bothered to call the authorities in Black Canyon.
Frustrated by the dead end, Connie’s energy plunged.
When she spoke, her voice was frail. “We’ve done all we can, haven’t we?”
“I think so, for now at least. But that doesn’t mean we give up. I’ll keep nosing around, see if I can find out what happened to Richards.”
Connie slumped. She felt so weak. “The insurance won’t pay in the case of a suicide,” she said.
Luke stayed quiet.
“It’s for a million dollars,” she said. “If Jack killed himself, it won’t pay. I’ll have to sell the store.”
“Johnson Mack wants it.” Luke said it matter-of-factly.
Connie’s eyes widened. “You know that?”
“Sure, I’m a detective, remember. It’s not like it’s a secret.
He’s buying up half the town.”
“That gives him motive for murder.”
“Sure it does. But motive doesn’t mean proof. I’ve nosed around some on Mack, but he comes up clean so far. Nothing except motive connects him to Jack’s death.”
Connie sighed. She understood how it worked. The law.
The law she loved and would soon embrace as her career. Even with the sale of the store, she would still have to get a job, probably full-time. The investment of the money from the sale of the st
ore would earn a tidy sum but not enough to get two children through school and on into college.
“I don’t know if I can stay in Jefferson City,” she said. “Too many people with too much gossip.”
“People here care about you,” said Luke.
“I know, but not all of them. I don’t want the kids growing up in a town where half the people think their daddy killed himself. A clean start might do us all some good.”
Luke rolled his toothpick in his mouth. “I know you’ll make the right decision,” he said. “But, I want you to know . . . well . . . I want you to know I hope . . . hope you’ll stay.”
Connie noted the care in his tone. “Thanks, Luke . . . you’ve been a big help . . . I’m glad you’re here to keep an eye out in case anything turns up.”
“Glad to do it,” he said. “Just call me if you need anything.”
She stood to leave. Luke stood too, walked around his desk, and reached out to shake her hand. She extended hers, and he took it, his huge fingers swallowing her whole hand. His hand was gentle, warm. She noticed his breathing, so soft and soothing. Luke placed his left hand on her elbow, a gesture of kindness and protection. Connie’s face suddenly flushed. This was more than a handshake to Luke! It was a touch of affection, of . . . attraction!
Stunned, she jerked her hand from his and twisted away.
A feeling of shame ran through her. Had she done anything to encourage this? Had she, so soon after Jack’s death, given off any signals that invited Luke Tyler to care for her? Though not sure, she felt certain she hadn’t.
She sputtered as she spoke. “I . . . need . . . need to go . . . to get home . . . to—”
“Let me know if I can help in any way,” insisted Luke, his tone relaxed, apparently unaware of her confusion.
“Yes, I’ll . . . I’ll call if . . . if anything . . . ” She fled the room and rushed through the building back to her van. In the front seat, she gulped in huge mouthfuls of air and began to cry. She loved Jack more than anything in the world. To have another man consider her attractive seemed like such a betrayal. No matter what she thought, she must have done something to make Luke see her that way. But that wouldn’t do! She had to stay away from Luke. Give him no occasion to mistake her friendship for anything more. Whatever happened in the next few months, she wouldn’t go back to Luke. To do so might make him think thoughts he simply shouldn’t think. So determined, Connie bit her lip and started her van. No matter what, she would avoid Luke Tyler like the plague.