by Diane Capri
“Sadly, no. But I saw photos.”
Oh, yes. The photos. Laura smiled and thanked him.
From the look of his apartment, Sean Perrin seemed to be living on a very frayed edge. Most of the other residents were college students living in their first home away from home. The place dated to the seventies, hanging on by its fingernails to the forgotten part of town, several blocks from the Strip. The area was a jumble of pawn stores, dollar stores, and auto repair shops.
His place was neat but worn. There were the photos the sister claimed were from Huffpo, in cheap frames. He did have a nice TV and sound system, and a queen-sized bed. The carpet was not shag exactly but it was old-fashioned and cheap. If you were going to name it, the color would be “Dirty Tan”.
It was hard to believe, but his papers were neatly kept in files. Unfortunately, it was all run-of-the-mill stuff-—rent, cable, Internet, etcetera. The laptop LVMP had taken was still awaiting its turn at Forensics. The whole apartment was generic and had the look and feel of an old motel room. Even the bedspread was in motel colors—floral print, the teal and green variety, with a matching bolster. Again—circa 1970s Best Western.
They went through everything, although there wasn’t much of it.
“I wish to God we had his phone,” Laura muttered.
“No shit. This place looks like Mannix lived here.”
Whatever inner life Sean Perrin had, he’d shared with people in terms of lies and exaggerations and stories. But he hadn’t bothered to lie to himself.
“If this was a Sherlock Holmes novel,” Laura muttered, “It would be called, The Strange Case of the Generic Man.”
Anthony stared at the white popcorn ceiling. “Poor son-of-a-bitch. You see it all the time in this town. What a downward spiral. Even his ‘bottom girl’ was on a race to the bottom.”
“Someone came after him, though. He was running from something.”
The answer, she thought, wasn’t at work. And it appeared he had not known Aurora Johnson for very long. Whether it was chivalry or a need to impress someone, he’d gone off on a jaunt with Aurora Johnson, and she’d ended up dead of an overdose.
But who would follow him all the way to Arizona just to take his life?
And who would do such a bang-up job of it?
That hit showed real talent.
Anthony said, “Maybe it was a gambling debt.”
“If it was,” Laura said, “It would have to be a big one.”
They spent the next day and a half showing his picture to the croupiers and bouncers and managers of the casinos.
Many knew him to look at, but as a gambler he didn’t ring any bells. One floor man remembered him working the quarter slot machines.
“High roller,” Anthony muttered as they walked out of the air-conditioned but shabby Sultan Casino and into the blasting heat of a May afternoon in Vegas. The casino was one of the last remaining stragglers from the seventies.
“So what do we have?” Laura asked.
“What it looks like is he met Johnson somehow—maybe she turned tricks on the side, who knows?—and she asked him for help.”
“You mean, help me skip town, honey, the mafia is after me.”
Anthony shrugged. “He fancied himself a player. Swashbuckling was right up his alley.”
Laura covered her eyes and squinted against the lowering sun. As usual, Vegas was teeming with tourists. “So he tries to help the damsel, and when he goes out for a walk in the wee hours of the morning, she’s doing God knows what.”
“Yeah, only God does know what. PCP and Ketamine.”
“So he thinks what she told him was true—that her boss was after her, that she really was his bottom girl and he knew how that went—”
“Only this time, it wasn’t like that. ‘Cause she wasn’t a bottom girl, just a low-rent accountant like him—”
“Two liars.”
“Yeah, they were made for each other.”
They drove back to Tucson, both of them too tired and deflated to talk much. Laura checked her phone. No messages. No silver bullet that would solve this case.
“Now I know how those oil men felt in the olden days,” Anthony said as if reading her mind. “Drill drill drill, and all we get is a dry hole.”
“True,” Laura said. “Mr. Big Shot wasn’t big—all he was, was shot.”
The shooting didn’t make sense. Why was he shot execution-style? Who was he meeting at the trailhead?
It was impossible to say whether or not he closed his eyes out of terror or maybe just to enjoy the cool mountain air in his little piece of paradise. His face looked relaxed, there had been just the hint of a smile on his face. Laura had studied the crime scene photos and again came back to that small smile.
Technically, forensically, it didn’t mean a thing.
Everything stopped immediately when the bullet entered his brain. The point of entry made sure of that, even though the bullet itself would have ricocheted all over.
As they drove in silence, Laura tried to put herself in Sean Perrin’s position. He was sitting in his car somewhere between eight and eleven at night—their best estimate. Was he sitting there just enjoying the night, or was he meeting someone? And if he was meeting someone, who would that be?
“He must have heard them walking up to the car,” Laura said to Anthony. “Unless he was just closing his eyes and taking it all in, and they sneaked up on him. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“If he was meeting someone, what might he be meeting them for?”
“A lot of things. Maybe he was going for a moonlight hike. Maybe he was meeting someone to buy drugs. But maybe he was just hanging out enjoying the evening and someone just walked up and popped him.”
“What? For fun?”
He shrugged.
“Or it was a pro.”
“It sure looked like it. But these days, you can learn anything on the Internet. Where to kill someone, what the best weapon is. Seems to me everybody on God’s Green Earth knows that contract killers like a .22. After CSI and NCIS and all those shows you could ask the man on the street and he’d tell you all about how those small caliber bullets ricochet all over inside the skull.”
“And no shell casings.”
“Yeah, one shot, perfectly-placed. Easy to pick up. Or maybe go whole hog and use a revolver.”
“His eyes were closed.”
“You know with the shock, his eyes could have closed when he was hit.”
She said, “I think he was meeting someone.”
“Which means it was either someone followed him to Tucson, met him there or was waiting for him. Maybe he pissed off someone in Madera Canyon.”
“Could be.”
“Or there was bad blood with his sister.”
“Could be.”
“Yeah,” Anthony said. “We are inundated with ‘could-be’s.’”
It was late at night by the time Anthony dropped her off in the DPS parking lot and she headed home. It had been a long drive, and she was tired. The trip to Winslow and Las Vegas was a wild goose chase. They’d thrown snake eyes.
Perrin had lied about everything, and it all amounted to nothing.
She aimed her car down the freeway in the direction of the Rincon Mountains. The moon was full, hanging in the sky over the black hump of mountain range. She turned onto Houghton Road, hit the dirt road leading to the few scattered houses in the foothills, and parked outside.
Matt came outside to greet her.
She was hot, tired, her back—which was long—ached, and she felt soiled and shopworn. But Matt pulled her into his arms and for a moment everything was forgotten. All the failures, all the near-misses, all the disappointment. She felt tears come to her eyes. She felt such gratitude she had this man to come home to.
So happy.
He didn’t care that she was dirty. He kissed her as if she were Sleeping Beauty in the bower of roses, stroked her wind-snarled hair with love, kissed her deeply and in such a way s
he couldn’t wait for them to reach the bedroom.
The next morning they got up early and went for a ride. It was still cool, before sunup, and there was a light wind as they rode up onto the ridge. The sky warmed to peach and then deep blue, the mesquite and saguaros snaring the rocks in shadow.
They sat still in their shadows on the ridge and watched the sunlight steal across the Tucson valley below.
“You’re no closer?” Matt asked.
“Nope.”
“Nothing in Winslow? In Vegas? Nothing you’re missing?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“I can’t imagine what it would be. The whole trip was a dead end.”
“So the woman told your guy she was on the run and people were after her, and that’s why he took her along?”
“About the size of it.”
“What about the boyfriend? The one she wanted to meet with?”
“We don’t know for sure, but he might have met her there after Perrin went out for a walk.”
“He must have walked a long time.”
“Yes. At least a couple of hours.” She thought about it. “Maybe he saw something.”
“Saw something? Like a criminal act?”
“Maybe. Or had a run-in with someone.”
“In Winslow?”
“I know, it’s a stretch. But it’s possible.”
“Enough so whoever it was would follow him all the way to Madera Canyon?”
Laura shook her head. “That does seem far-fetched.”
Still, when they got back, she called the Winslow PD and left a message for Detective Greg Wyland. She doubted anything would come of it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Legwork
Laura drove directly to Madera Canyon. Time for another round of interviews.
Anthony would be in court today, testifying in another homicide case. The autopsy results would be coming today, too. He promised to email them to her phone.
Which meant she’d have to drive down to the mouth of the canyon to get them.
She was feeling in a lousy mood. They were no closer to finding out who shot Sean Perrin than they were a week ago. Time had a way of getting away from you. If an arrest wasn’t made within two days, it became much more of an uphill climb. They’d spent four full days in Winslow and Las Vegas, and now it was time to concentrate on the people in the canyon.
She started with Barbara Sheehey.
She followed Barbara as she went to make beds in a cabin after the people checked out.
“Did Mr. Perrin give you the impression he was scared of anything?”
“Scared? Him? He was too busy using the soft soap on everybody to do that. Would you hold that side?” she added, nodding to the sheet.
Laura did, stretching the corner over the mattress.
“So he didn’t seem to have anything on his mind? Nothing he was worried about?”
“Nope. Although he said his father was dying, and that’s why he came out here. I mentioned that, didn’t I?”
Laura felt something inside her go still. She tried to remember what the sister, Ruby Ballantine said, but couldn’t.
She thought Ruby said he wasn’t going to bother to come. Or he didn’t reply. Something like that. “Was he close to his father?”
“I don’t think he liked him very much. Just the impression I got, like he felt it was his duty as a son to come out and see him before he died.”
“Did he go see him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to leave this canyon from the moment he got here.” She added hastily, “Of course I wouldn’t know, since I don’t keep track of my guests’ comings and goings.”
“Did he mention his sister?”
“I don’t think so. Mostly he was talking about how rich his father was. Of course with him, it couldn’t just be that he was well-off. His dad had to be in the Forbes Top 100.”
“Did he say how his father made his money?” Laura asked.
“He said, venture capitalist. I don’t know what that is, do you?”
Laura knew, vaguely. “I think it’s someone with capital who will help a promising business get its start. Or infuse money into a business that’s not doing well.”
“Oh, yeah. And then they fire a bunch of people and put the company in bankruptcy?”
“Could be.”
“Sounds like the father was as big a liar as his son. Doing something like that where working people are involved.” She launched into a story about her uncle’s job in Wisconsin, and how the company first busted the union and then closed the plant.
Laura thought about the plain woman who ran the tiny shop on 4th Avenue. The place had been little bigger than a closet. Her clothes weren’t fashionable, either. But then you couldn’t pigeonhole what rich looked like.
“He told me his father owned a baseball team.”
“Can you remember which one?”
“Nope. I didn’t believe a word of it. Said he had a private jet, too.”
Laura thought that Sean Perrin could have taken advantage of that private jet when he was on the run with Aurora Johnson.
Even though apparently, Aurora wasn’t on the run at all.
Laura was getting frustrated. She tried to keep it out of her voice. “Was there anything he said that you believed?”
Barbara Sheehey folded her arms. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Laura found Cody washing down the wooden deck. He seemed a little brighter today—a little more used to the idea that his friend Sean Perrin was gone.
“So did you track down the guy who killed him?” Cody asked.
“Not yet. I could still use your help.”
“Is the guy who killed him, like, an untouchable? One of those gangsters who have the fix in with the police? I hear they can buy off anybody. Those Las Vegas criminals.”
“Did Sean tell you that?”
He turned off the hose and grabbed a push broom to push the excess water off the planks and into the little ravine down below. “He didn’t have to tell me that. That’s the way it is with the mob. Everyone knows that. He just got in with the wrong people.”
“He said that?”
“Uh-huh.” He shoved the broom hard and the water flew.
“Other than his sister, did he mention his family at all?”
“Yeah. He said they’re rich. His father owned a piece of the San Diego Padres. But his father didn’t want anything to do with him—he disowned him. Which is sad. You should’ve seen his house.”
“His house?”
“Yeah. He showed me a picture of it, in Tucson. It’s like this mansion on a hill.”
“You saw it?”
“Yeah, on his phone.”
And of course his phone was gone. “What did it look like?”
Cody described it, in depth. A desert hill with a road winding up it (“like those pictures you see of a mountain with the road going up to a dragon’s lair”) to a large house.
Laura had seen photos like that; a few houses in the Tucson Mountains would fit that description. Houses owned by people who thought they were King of the Hill. He could have swiped it off Google Images.
It suddenly occurred to her—how could she have missed it?—that Sean Perrin was exactly the kind of guy who would love Facebook. He could be anything he wanted to be, and tell as many stories as he wanted to. “Did Sean have a Facebook page?”
Cody stopped sweeping and leaned on the broomstick. “I don’t know. My Mom doesn’t want me to be on Facebook. Plus, as you can see, the Internet capability sucks around here.”
Terry Delmonte drove in just as Laura was leaving. Laura backed up and rolled her window down. “Terry, you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”
Terry parked and they took a walk. Terry said she was early so she had a little time.
But Laura heard nothing new. Yes, Sean had bragged about his wealthy father, and showed her the photo of the house on the hill. The only thing n
ew she learned was one thing Sean had mentioned to her the first day they’d met. She’d asked him what brought him to Madera Canyon and he’d told her how he used to go there as a kid. He said when he got the call about his father, he decided that he might as well stay in Madera and drive in to town to see him.
“Did he go see him?”
“I don’t know.” She took a drag of her cigarette and blew out the smoke. “That was the plan, though.”
“You say he got a call to come down here?”
“Uh-huh. Said his dad was ‘on his last legs.’”
Laura drove out of the canyon and called Anthony. He answered on the first ring. “Do you remember when we interviewed Ruby Ballantine?” She looked down at her notes from that day. “She said she never asked Sean to come down here.”
“That’s what she said.”
“I talked to Terry Delmonte and she said he told her he got a call to come down here, that his dad was ‘on his last legs.’”
Silence on Anthony’s end.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Anthony said, “Ruby was surprised when we said he was here.”
“She seemed surprised.” Laura thought back to their interview. “Ruby did say she told him once about her father—a while ago—and he never replied.”
“A while ago,” Anthony said. “What do you think? She summoned him?”
“That’s what he told Terry Delmonte.”
“Yeah, but can we believe anything he said?”
Laura thought about it. “We have to at least factor it in. Terry said his father was a wealthy man.” She almost winced when she said it. “According to Terry, he lives like a king on one of those hills outside Tucson.”
“And Terry heard this from … ?”
“Sean Perrin.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, you find out where the father lives when he’s not on a breathing tube in the hospital, and I’ll wrap up on the Decker case. Call me if he lives in a mansion on a hill, okay?”
It was lunchtime so Laura headed into Continental in the valley and found a place for lunch. The wide spot in the road at the edge of a pecan orchard she remembered from years ago had morphed into a medical center. Lots of housing complexes and townhouses for the elderly, and plenty of specialists to provide services.