by Diane Capri
No doubt.
“How did he try to impress you?”
“Oh, lots of ways. Like his job.”
“What kind of job?”
“He told me about some of the missions when he was on the Las Vegas Police SWAT Team.”
“SWAT? He was on SWAT?”
“Uh-huh. The guys that wear body armor and break down doors and stuff, like that? He was telling me about breaking down the door of a known felon, some guy who was mobbed up. I’m not real clear on it except that it sounded really hairy. Violent stuff like you’d see on NCIS.”
“This was in Las Vegas? As in Las Vegas Metropolitan PD?”
“Uh-huh.”
Anthony rose to his feet and walked outside, looking at his phone. She saw his thumbs moving, so he must have bars.
“So this was some guy with organized crime?”
“He was mobbed up. A really big name. Lorenzo or something like that. Why? Do you think that’s what happened to Sean? The mob got to him?”
“We’re just at the beginning here,” Laura said. “All we’re doing right now is collecting information.” She glanced out the window at Anthony, who had his phone to his ear. He was pacing, talking.
“How long ago was this?”
“He said it was years ago. He said it was a tough job, that his wife at the time didn’t like it. And I guess, who’d blame her? He said he never knew when he left the house if he’d be coming home, and she couldn’t stand it. So at one point, he said, he just walked away. To save his marriage. I think it was after he was shot.”
“Shot? Where was he shot? What part of his body?”
“I think he said the leg. The, um, ephemeral—”
“Femoral artery?”
“Yeah, he said the bullet came that close. He said if it had nicked the-—that artery, he would have bled to death right there. You think it was the mob that killed him? Could they be after me?”
“Go after you? Why?”
“He told me he’d seen something in Vegas.”
“What did he see?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He said it was better if he didn’t bring me into it. But now I wish he had told me, so at least I’d be prepared. But I’m out of here tomorrow, anyway.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m flying out to L.A. to spend some time with a friend. You don’t think I’m in danger, do you? Maybe I should leave today.”
“You have to make your own decision about that.”
“I guess I’m paranoid. I’m going through a divorce myself and I’m half-scared my ex—well, that’s another story.”
“You worried about your ex?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how I’m feeling. I think I’m going to be all right. Especially when I get to California.”
Laura asked Madison where she was the evening before, and the girl replied that she’d gone down to “hang out” with her friend who lived in Continental. “We cooked spaghetti, drank wine, and bitched about how crappy our lives turned out to be.” She told Laura she’d had too much to drink—both of them did—so she’d elected to stay overnight and came back up here this morning.
“What time was that?”
“When you saw me come in. I had to stop for the roadblock and that was when I knew something was up.”
Laura nodded. There was only one way in and one way out of Madera Canyon, and one of the first things DPS had done was set up a roadblock to check vehicles. “May I have your friend’s phone number?”
“Sure.” Madison rattled off the number. “Her name’s Alex Williams.”
“Thanks—you’ve been very helpful.”
On the porch, Laura called Alex Williams. She got her voicemail, left a message for Alex to call her back. Then she went looking for Anthony. She found him sitting on the porch opposite, talking to Barbara Sheehey, who was in the process of filling the bird feeders on the porch.
Barbara Sheehey was less flustered, and more resigned. She was mostly worried about the affect this murder would have on her bottom line. “Thank God it happened up at the trailhead,” she was saying as Laura approached.
Anthony looked up. “We were talking about how long Perrin stayed here. A day short of two weeks.”
“He was trying for that girl across the way, Madison,” Sheehey said. “It was obvious.”
Laura said, “I get the impression it was a non-starter.”
“I don’t know if she told you, but that girl is in the middle of a nasty divorce. She came out here to hide, basically. Get away from ‘all the negativity’ as she put it.”
“Bad?” Laura asked.
“She said he beat her.”
Laura hadn’t seen anything like that, but bruises could be covered. “How long has Madison been staying here?”
“Five days? Five days and four nights. You should have seen her when she came. Always looking over her shoulder. And so sad. Now she’s more herself again.”
Madison seemed self-possessed now. “She from around here?”
“Phoenix. She has an old school friend in Continental her husband doesn’t know about, so she came here to hide out. Such a nice kid. Wholesome, like girls were back in the old days.” She shook her head. “Let me tell you, I didn’t like the way Mr. Perrin was sniffing around her. After all she’s been through.”
“So they weren’t seeing each other?”
“God, no. There’s something about him. I dunno. Maybe all that boasting.”
“But Cody liked him?” Laura said.
“Cody’s a sensitive kid. Always aims to please. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I wasn’t happy that Cody was spending so much time with him. It didn’t seem natural.”
“Natural?”
“You know, like maybe … I won’t put words to it. Cody’s too smart to get involved in something like that.”
“Just so we’re clear, Mrs. Sheehey, what were you worried about?”
“I dunno. Nothing sexual, don’t get me wrong about that—he had an eye for the ladies. Just filling Cody’s head with all those stories. Cody’s an only child and he got attached. And now look, the guy gets himself shot up at our trailhead, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Something going on there. Trying to impress that little gal, such a sweet little thing and all her problems. Predatory. That’s the word I’d have to use. The way he manipulated people.”
“Manipulated people?”
“Told stories.”
“Did he tell you he was a police officer in Las Vegas?”
“Yes. He also told us he was a mechanic when he was younger, worked for a NASCAR team. My car just died last week and we’re all the way out here and I called for a tow. He said let him have a crack at it and see if he could get it running. Such an expert.”
“Did he get it running?”
“He made it worse. All that fooling around and the engine froze up and it cost me over a thousand dollars to fix.”
She added, “The guy was bad luck all the way around.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Home
“One shot. A .22 to the head, pointblank,” Laura told Matt.
It was almost midnight and he’d waited up for her. Too tired to do anything but sit out on the terrace and watch the full moon, she enjoyed the silence.
She enjoyed lying in his arms, too, his hand negligently touching her hair, an occasional kiss to her neck. His beating heart close.
She liked that she and Matt could be silent. But now, finally, after a little bit of space from the events of the day, she wanted to talk about it.
Matt must have read her mind. “So what do you think he was doing there?”
“Meeting someone?” Laura stared at the moon rising above the dark hump of the Rincons. A beautiful spring night. “Maybe they were going to take a moonlight hike.”
“They who?”
“We may never know.”
“I’ll bet it was a woman. Moonlight hike.”
Laura had thought this herself. She immediately c
ame back to Madison Neville. Madison Neville, who had come out here to hide from her husband.
She’d seemed convincing. And the proprietor of the cabins, Barbara Sheehey, was convinced.
But Laura wasn’t so sure Madison wasn’t seeing Sean Perrin. She was young, beautiful, and she knew it. She was clearly aware of how her looks affected the men around her. Was she a magnet for Perrin? Could they have had a relationship?
Madison didn’t act as if she’d shot him pointblank with a .22. but you never knew. Laura had met a few female killers in her time. Often, they came off as likable people. But they cared about no one except themselves and their self-defined world.
Psychopaths.
Psychopaths were hard to spot because of their protective coloring. They looked and acted like everyone else, at least until they were unmasked.
Two people running away from their past lives…
If Perrin was running away at all.
Matt said, “What does ol’ Frank say?”
“How’d you know?”
“It’s just how you are.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Maybe it’s about the juice.”
“Juice.”
“A shot to the system,” Matt said. “Being around your old buddy, someone who … energizes you.”
“He hasn’t been around for a while.” She remembered the day, going on six years now, when she got the phone call from their lieutenant—her shock when she learned her partner had died of a heart attack. “You must think I’m nuts.”
“I do, but it’s a nice nuts,” Matt said, as he started kissing her neck in earnest.
“He asked me what I thought of Sean Perrin.”
“That’s as good a question as any, and I’m really interested in how you’re going to solve this case,” Matt said, capturing her hand in his. “But right now—”
“You’ve got something else on your mind,” Laura finished for him.
Turned out, what Matt had in mind was just what the doctor ordered.
Dawn. She was awakened by the smell of coffee—hazelnut, her favorite—and a noisy lapping sound. It was Jake, their black retriever, drinking.
He came in to see her, tail thumping back and forth, hitting the bed.
The window open, the sky blushing over the dark Rincons, just as the moon had looked over them last night.
Matt brought her coffee in bed.
All the assholes she’d tried to please, and here he was. Her best friend. Her lover. Her confidant. Her soul mate.
He got into bed with her and they drank coffee and read the paper. Pretty soon he’d have to head out himself—there was a load of new inventory coming in to his store on 4th Avenue. Three years ago, he and a partner—another fire fighter, bought a company called Tucson Fire Supply, which sold fire safety equipment and also held fire safety seminars.
Every second Saturday of the month 4th Avenue turned into a street fair, where people—especially kids—walked the avenue, popping in and out of the stores, restaurants, and bars, partaking from the food booths and enjoying whatever street art and street musicians who showed up. Tucson Fire Supply always did a demonstration on fire safety.
Laura hoped she’d be able to be there this weekend, but when a case was running hot and heavy, as this one was, you had only so much time to pick up the trail.
Speaking of, there was a one-column story in the Tucson & Region section of The Arizona Daily Star with the headline: MAN SHOT IN CAR IN MADERA CANYON. The paper said he was identified as Sean Perrin from Las Vegas, Nevada.
Matt looked over her shoulder. “Maybe that will bring the sister from out of the woodwork.”
“If she wants to be found.”
They didn’t even have a name for her.
Yet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Liar, Liar
Laura went straight to the crime scene in Madera Canyon. It was easy to hop on the freeway from Houghton Road. She took I-10 to I-19 and exited at Continental, once a rural area with pecan orchards and now just another stuccoed-over labyrinth of sprawl.
But soon she was on the two-lane road whizzing through grassland and on into the canyon.
First thing this morning Laura received a text from Alex Williams, Madison Neville’s friend, corroborating that Madison had indeed stayed overnight with her in Continental. Barbara Sheehey’s movements were accounted for by her son Cody, and vice-versa.
She arrived at seven-thirty a.m., glad to see there were two more cars in the lot, outside Cabin 1 and Cabin 4. Madison’s hatchback was also there.
One couple was already sitting on the porch in front of their cabin, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
The morning was still chilly, but they were a rugged pair in their khaki trousers, Madera Canyon tees, jackets, heavy socks, and hiking boots. Laura pegged them to be in their late sixties to early seventies. The aroma of coffee overwhelmed the smells of the canyon.
Lloyd and June Dickinson. Retired college professors from New England. That was what Laura knew about them going in.
They offered her coffee and they sat and talked desultorily for a while, watching the ash-gray mountain across the way take on color. Little by little the sun made inroads, like runnels of flame through the grass, like sparks torching the oak trees. The birds singing. Squirrels scampering up and down tree trunks.
Lloyd told her they made dinner, sat outside with a glass of wine or two, watched some television, then went to bed. This corroborated what Barbara Sheehey had told her about their habits. Sheehey had recalled seeing their SUV parked out front, and heard their television going.
Laura asked them if they heard any cars going in and out.
“I think so,” June said. “But cars are always going in and out around here.”
On the subject of Sean Perrin, what Laura got from Lloyd was skepticism, and from June outright hostility.
“He gave me the creeps,” she said.
“In what way?”
“Every one you can think of. Self-aggrandizing. A liar. Lied to my face. Lied to his face.” She tapped her husband’s shoulder.
Lloyd shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, June.”
“Oh, pish! He told us about a new place backside of the mountain, great birding, and we were lost half the day. And no birds! The man boasted about everything.”
Laura took notes. She did it the old-fashioned way, a small spiral notebook and a pen. She’d look at them later and half of what she’d written wouldn’t make sense. That was because, as June Dickinson said, her voice dripping with irony, Perrin was such a Renaissance Man.
“He went on and on about his life list. It was clear he didn’t know the first damn thing about birds. Oh, he was impressive, the way he spewed numbers and places and species—not that he knew the first thing about them. But if you didn’t know anything, you’d believe him. He sounded convincing. You’d think he wouldn’t try to snow us, people who know what we’re talking about, but he seemed to zero in on our weakest points, the birds and areas we haven’t concentrated on. Like he had a sixth sense how to … make up tall tales.”
“He talked a good game,” Lloyd agreed. “It was amazing watching him work. I’ve known a few liars in my time, but he was the prize pumpkin at the fair.”
Laura wrote down “Congenital liar” with a question mark.
Added, “Pathological?”
She asked them what he had told them about his stay here, if he had told them anything about his life in Las Vegas.
“He must think old is dumb, because he thought he could tell us anything he wanted and get away with it,” June said. “I didn’t believe a word he said.”
Laura ended up scribbling. She could barely read her own writing—it turned into a list.
Later, when she went to her car she looked at it again, in complete awe of the depth and breadth of the man’s accomplishments, scribbled in her cramped handwriting. She had to write fast, wished she’d learned
cursive instead of these crummy block letters.
Birder
House builder – ‘master craftsman’
Kicked out of MGM Grand (Vegas) for breaking the bank
Wife – fashion model
The mob was after him – ‘whistleblower’ - they cooked the books
On the run (If lying low, why boast?)
Stunt pilot
Yes, stunt pilot. He claimed he performed on the air show circuit until a hurricane destroyed his plane and he decided it was a sign from God.
But the kicker? He’d served in Special Forces. SEAL Team 6.
Of course.
“Did he shoot Osama bin Laden?” Laura had asked June Dickinson.
“Nope,” June said drily. “Although he might as well join the crowd.”
Laura liked the woman.
“Did you believe anything at all?”
“Somebody shot him, so I believe that.”
Laura drove down to the live spot at another campground at the mouth of the canyon and checked in with Anthony.
“I located the sister,” he said. “Ruby Ballantine. She lives in Tucson.”
“Does she know anything?”
“Haven’t made contact with her yet. Just got off the phone with LVMPD. She’s his next of kin. Apparently, her name was on a form for a car loan.”
Laura stared at the deep black asphalt of the parking lot. Heard the sound of the restroom door closing. Smelled the restroom overlaid by the bitter smell of warmed-over oak leaves.
“I’m gonna head over in another hour. You want to meet me there?”
“Where is she?”
“She has a shop on 4th Avenue in Tucson.”
CHAPTER NINE
Ruby
Ruby Ballantine’s store, All Souls Shoppe, would have been considered unusual anywhere other than on 4th Avenue. There were three shops that sold kitschy western stuff, surrealistic lamp shades, paper mache skeletons, scented candles. Laura was charmed by the spookiness-crossed-with-camp overflowing the shelves.
No customers were in the store. 4th Avenue drowsed in the sun today, waiting for night when things would pick up. Anthony and Laura had stopped by Tucson Fire Supply, Matt’s business, for a minute just to say “hi”.