Joy agreed, “Let’s find Gunner’s last C.O. Maybe he knows a reason someone would want to kill Gunner.”
While Max and Joy waited for Angelo to finish, Max called the station and spoke to Steele. “Hey, Steele. Pick up Valerie Valdez for questioning. She fled from the scene of Gunner Cruz’s murder. Stick her in an interrogation room and let her sweat until we get there. And have someone track down Gunner’s last commanding officer. Have him call me.”
“I’ll pick up Valerie Valdez and get someone else to do your research.”
“Thanks, man.” The line went dead.
Joy called out, “Hey, Max!”
Max stepped into the master bathroom.
With gloved hands, Joy had opened the medicine chest. She pointed. “Zoloft is probably for his PTSD. He’s still got Oxycontin—a brand name for oxycodone—although from the date and the number of pills, it does look like he had stopped taking them. And Xanax.”
“Angelo found two of those in Jared’s system. Why all three? Isn’t that a bit much for one person—tempting an overdose?”
“They have different uses. Oxy is for pain—severe pain. Given the dates on the other containers, I think he switched to Xanax and Zoloft. Xanax is an instant anti-anxiety drug—like for a sudden panic attack, and Zoloft is a long-term medication for PTSD. Gunner wouldn’t take them all at once. He could take the Zoloft daily and Xanax on occasion if he had a panic attack. But then, he should toss the oxy—that can’t be mixed with Zoloft, as I recall.”
“Gunner said Jared was scared to death. Of what? Or whom?”
“And what if that ‘whom’ thought Jared had confided in Gunner?” asked Joy.
Max interjected, “But Jared didn’t talk to him.”
“The ‘whom’ wouldn’t know that.”
Max scratched his head. “That points to Val. Val, Alizon, and Gregor stayed sober at the Ayahuasca ceremony. Val wasn’t supposed to be sober. She admitted she did it to find a time to kill Jared. Maybe Jared told Gunner about Val. Maybe she killed Jared, and Gunner figured it out.”
Joy added, “She could have gotten into Gunner’s medicine chest and stolen a couple of pills.”
Max and Joy inspected Gunner’s bedroom, careful to stay out of the forensic technicians’ way. Max opened a bedside table. He pulled out some pictures of Gunner’s time in Afghanistan. One showed Gunner in his army utility uniform, arm over arm with a fellow soldier, as if celebrating a victory or camaraderie. “This must be Brandon.” Max handed it to Joy.
“So young. They’re not even our ages. They look like best friends. Those are big smiles.”
“Here’s another one.” Max passed her a picture. “Jared, Gunner, and Ruby.”
Joy took the picture. “They look tight too. Gunner’s in the middle. They all seem happy.”
Max flipped through several more of Gunner with his troop in Afghanistan. Max eyed one more of Gunner and another man. On the back, Gunner had written “Captain Knight.”
Joy took the last one. “These remind me of the F.B.I. When you train together for a few months, you get tight with the group.”
“I imagine that it makes it all the harder to lose a partner or a good friend. They served together, faced danger together, maybe almost died a time or two.”
Max’s phone rang. “Detective King.”
“Captain Knight here, detective. I had an urgent message to call you. How can I help?”
“Captain Knight. Thanks for getting back to me so fast. Gunner Cruz was found murdered in Vinoville, California. What can you tell me about him?”
Captain Knight let out an audible sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that. Gunner served well, bravely, until a vehicle-born IED struck his convoy, killed his best friend, and left him with a back injury. It’s hard for the best-trained soldier to move on after that, but we do. It was the last convoy for both Gunner and Brandon before being discharged.”
“Would there be a reason that anyone in his unit would want Gunner dead? It’s just a routine question.”
Captain Knight hesitated as if giving it some thought. “None that I know of. Our mission was logistics, to supply the troops and restock posts. Food, fuel, ammunition, spare parts, whatever they needed.”
“Then he moved around a lot. Did Gunner have a drug problem? Could he have been moving drugs or other contraband?”
“It’s not the sixties anymore, Detective King. The counterculture and readily available drugs in Vietnam led to a disaster. And the military experimented too, handing out stimulants and anti-anxiety meds to soldiers to improve performance—an experiment which failed and left our soldiers strung out and dependent. In 1982, a zero-tolerance policy for drugs came into effect for defense personnel, accompanied by random drug testing. Today, the military has higher records of sobriety for illicit drug use than civilians by a long shot. But pain meds and alcohol are still a fight. Gunner had a clean record at discharge. Is it possible logistics personnel slipped through some contraband? I can’t say it’s impossible. We do our best to make sure it’s not happening. That’s not Gunner’s style. Did you find drugs?”
“No. In fact, Gunner had weaned himself off his pain meds. I’m just trying to dig into reasons why someone would want him dead. Covering every angle. Can I speak to Gunner’s friends? Is that possible?”
“His closest friend, Brandon, died.”
“It’s really important or I wouldn’t ask. Gunner’s military father raised him. When he was killed, Gunner ended up in foster care. At eighteen, he enlisted. He told me he ‘had nowhere else to go,’ but you said it best—he served well. I got to know him a little bit, and I believe he was an honorable man.”
“I would vouch the same. Let me look into it. I can’t promise results.”
“Thank you, Captain Knight. Sometimes, the best we can do is try.”
“You ever serve in the military?”
“No, sir,” said Max. “But I admire those who do, like you and Gunner. I serve in my own way, like my father, who became a police officer so he could keep the people of Wine Valley safe. He became the chief of police here in town. He passed recently.”
“We’re all on the same side, son.” The line went dead.
Max and Joy stepped outside and approached Gregor. Max asked, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but, besides having seen Valerie, do you think Crystal is stable?”
Gregor’s eyes arched in amazement. “No one is stable anymore! If anyone knows that, it’s you two. That’s why the pharmaceutical companies flourish, therapists flourish, and I flourish! Is Crystal capable of killing, I don’t think so! Is she angry, hurt, confused? Absolutely! I’ve only known her for a few months. She’s one of the reasons I do what I do. I had to help myself before I could help others. She’s learning that.”
“You’ve not seen her anger flare?” asked Joy.
“No more than mine, and I didn’t slash Gunner’s throat. Oh, the blood!” Gregor turned and vomited into the well of the young tree.
“You can go,” said Max.
Joy added, “After you…you know.”
On the way back to the station, Max’s phone rang. “Hi, Sophia. Find anything?”
“No marriage record. But I dug into the only non-Summerfields on the ranch, Hiram and Phillis Washington. Hiram worked as a ranch-hand and cook and Phillis as the Summerfields’ cook and house help.”
“Right. They quit after Mercy died.”
“It turns out that there’s a living descendant. Otis Washington. He lives here in town.”
“You are a bloodhound extraordinaire!”
Sophia’s voice took on a humbled tone. “I read up on Mercy Summerfield. There’s not much on her, but I found old picture on Jaxon Summerfield’s Facebook page. She was a beautiful young woman, and if someone took her life, I want to help.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“You’d better. Happy hunting.”
Max filled Joy in. “Phillis has a living relative. Otis Washington.”
; “When are we going to tell Belle, Max? You haven’t mentioned it.”
Max pursed his lips. “I’ve been putting it off. I’d hoped we had more to give her to go with the DNA results.”
“I’d want to know—but then, that’s my female brain. Like I had to know about you.”
Max sighed. “And you were right about that. First stop in the morning—Belle. Then Otis Washington.”
“You’re right too, Max. I’d want more information if you had it. Let’s swing by Otis’s place now, if you’re up for it. Valerie can wait.”
“My bloodhound nose is already twitching.”
“Are you wagging your tail too?”
“Sure. When I get a belly rub.”
“You’re so bad!”
“Hey, at the core, we’re animals. It’s in the genes.”
“You got the happy-go-lucky puppy genes. I got the other stuff.”
Max shot Joy a grin of disagreement. “I think Gregor is right—we’re all a mix of both, capable of swinging between good and evil.”
17
Max rapped on Otis Washington’s door. He lived on a hill, more of a glorified hump of golden grass—not a posh hill, but a deserted hill—in a house with no neighbors. The house sat there long before a major road ran north-south past it. It sat alone, as if a homesteader had staked the claim so long ago that developers had no way to build around it, nor did the homeowner have any intention of selling. The single-story pale yellow house had aged. It sat like an old man rocking on a porch and watching the youngsters run back and forth in a hurry to be somewhere in the bustling city that had left it behind.
A tall, slender black man in his eighties opened the door. Max flashed his badge. “Mr. Washington, I’m Detective Max King and this is Dr. Joy Burton. May we speak with you?”
“What’s this about?”
“Mercy Summerfield,” said Joy.
“We have some information that might interest you.” Max had essentially dangled a carrot—would Otis want to receive information—instead of posing their presence as an interrogation to get information.
Otis opened the screen door. “Come on in. Place is a mess. I don’t get visitors.”
Max stepped into a living room that had been transformed into a workshop. Bright florescent lights lit a long table, strewn with leather pieces, pairs of shoes in boxes, and tools. Next to the window, a single recliner faced a television on a stand.
Otis led them to his small kitchen, where he fell into one of four chairs surrounding a wooden table. The kitchen had a modern white refrigerator, an old white stove, and an old vinyl floor.
Max and Joy sat down.
Joy said, “You probably heard that Mercy Summerfield’s crypt was vandalized.”
“That family is no concern of mine.”
Max leaned in. “What if we told you that Mercy died of arsenic poisoning and that she was pregnant?”
“I’ll be damned.” Otis slapped the table. His lips formed a smile. “You sure?”
Joy said, “Science doesn’t lie.”
Otis tapped his fingers on the table. “No, but people do. The Summerfields—they do.”
Max eyed Joy. “What did they lie about?”
Otis sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “My father passed the story along to me like his father had passed it along to him, and his father, my great-grandfather Hiram Washington, told it first. I’m eighty-three. No children. My wife passed a decade ago. I was sure the story would die with me—ain’t got nobody to tell it to, no one who would listen, and no one who would believe me.”
Joy encouraged him. “We’ll listen. And we’ll believe you.”
“Let me get you some iced tea.” Otis didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed off on the table, rose to his feet, opened the cupboard, and pulled down three glasses. He filled each glass with ice from the automatic ice-maker. “Of all of the inventions, I like my ice-maker best. You probably don’t remember the days when you filled trays to make ice, but I do.”
“I do,” said Max. “My father kept them in the freezer in case of a summertime power outage. Or—more likely—for when the ice machine was empty, because he had turned it off and forgot to turn it back on.”
Otis opened the fridge, pulled out a pitcher of amber liquid, and filled each glass.
“What do you make—in your workshop?” asked Joy.
“Hiram, my great-grandfather, worked as a ranch-hand for James Summerfield. He made his own leather gear, as many did back then. He passed his skills down the line. I own a shoe and leather repair shop in Grape Gulch. Tiny place, but it’s my own.”
“I know your shop!” shouted Max. “My dad took all of his shoes to you. David King.”
Otis grinned from ear-to-ear. “I wondered when you introduced yourself if you were David’s boy. I miss that man. He came by now and again to check up on me. We’d have an iced tea. I saw him just before he passed. He hooped and hollered and complained that you’d gotten yourself a stupid haircut, buzzed at the sides, long on top, but it looks like you’re growing it out.” Otis set the glasses on the table and sank into his seat. He took a large gulp of tea.
“I am. I did it for the wrong reasons.” Max sipped his tea.
Otis grinned. “Well, now. Young folks do what they want, like Mercy Summerfield.” Otis gulped back more tea. “Don’t be in a hurry. My old brain might forget something.”
Joy encouraged him. “Take your time, Mr. Washington.”
“I ain’t Mr. Washington to no one. Otis.”
Joy sipped her tea. “Otis. This is good tea.”
“Brew it myself. Now you can buy bottled tea—not for me. No, ma’am. The day I can’t boil water and stick the tea bags in it to steep and pour it in a pitcher is the day I set myself down in the chair and I don’t get back up. I just sit and wait for the Lord to take me.”
Otis settled back in his chair. He paused as if reaching back in time. “Hiram and Phillis worked for the Summerfield family before Old Man Summerfield gambled away the money. But they stayed on to help James, even if all they got was food and a roof over their heads. James always promised he’d do right by them. And he did. When he married Clara and came into money again, he paid them back wages. They bought this property. Phillis worked as the cook—she cooked for the family and helped Hiram cook for the boys if the bunkhouse was full. Phillis doted on Clara while she was bedridden and pregnant with Mercy. And she cared for James Jr. too. Hiram worked the ranch. You may not know this, but from 1860 to the 1880s, thousands of former slaves came out west after the end of the Civil War—some say about a quarter of the cowboys were black, like Hiram.” Otis paused to sip his tea.
Max and Joy sipped their teas too.
Max could hardly contain his knotted stomach, full of as much hope as doubt that anything Otis said could help them solve who had poisoned Mercy.
“Then the storm hit. Mercy fell in love with Little Wolf, a ranch-hand.” Otis shook his head. “Two stupid kids with love in their hearts and no sense in their heads.”
“Love isn’t usually sensible, is it?” asked Joy.
“Not this time,” said Otis. “Little Wolf had convinced a local priest who ministered to the Indians to marry them. For the sake of the child, the priest married them, but he also feared for them. He suggested that they saddle up and ride to Mexico, where Little Wolf could keep working as a cowboy.”
“What went wrong?” asked Max.
“Mercy couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to her brother. She confided in James Jr. that she and Little Wolf were running away. James Jr. told his father. Phillis heard the fight. Mercy’s father slapped the girl so hard, she hit the floor. Clara ran to Mercy’s side. And that’s when Mercy spilled the beans that she was with child. Clara grew as cold as ice to her own daughter. She wanted Mercy to stay somewhere else, like with the priest, until the baby came, and then the priest could give it away.”
“Did Mercy agree?” asked Joy.
Otis sipped his tea. “That
spitfire! Not a chance. She spouted off that the priest had married them. And she would not give up her child. James and James Jr. dragged Mercy to her room and locked her in. They told her she’d have the baby at home. They’d have the marriage annulled. They’d give the baby away. James fired Little Wolf.”
“Who poisoned her?” asked Max.
“I don’t know,” said Otis. He pounded back the rest of his tea.
Max finished his tea too. “That’s not the way I had hoped this story would end.”
Joy nodded. “Me neither. Otis, thanks for filling us in. You sure remembered a lot of detail.”
“Don’t have to remember it. Phillis wrote it down.” Otis laughed. “Want to see what Little Wolf looked like?”
Max and Joy shot glances at each other.
“You bet,” said Max.
“Please.” Joy sipped her tea.
Otis rummaged around in his living room. He came back with a sealed plastic bag. He opened the bag and slid out an old diary covered in dark blue fabric but with a black spine and black corner reinforcements. Otis slowly opened the book, turning the discolored pages one by one, careful that loose pages, barely holding on to the spine, stayed in place. The pages had writing—elegant ink script—and drawings. Otis reached a page where Mercy rested her head against Little Wolf’s shoulder. Their eyes were closed, their heads touching, as if caught in a blissful moment.
Little Wolf had a bare chest and long hair held in place by a headband with a single feather that draped down beside his face. Mercy’s curly hair draped over his chest. She wore a high-necked cotton nightshirt with a wide collar.
Otis closed the book. “Phillis was a good artist, don’t you think?”
“Unbelievably good,” said Max. “I expected them to open their eyes.”
Joy asked, “Otis, would you trust me to hold on to that and read it through? I might find something useful. You’re the only lead we have.”
Otis pondered for a minute. “That’s all I got left of my family. Well, that and this old house, which I’ve rebuilt with my own two hands year after year. People don’t fix things no more. But I’ll be dead one day. Maybe it’s time for someone else to see what’s in there.” Otis slid the plastic bag across the table.
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