by John Turney
“I’m gonna grab a few hours of sleep and come into HQ,” she said. She didn’t look at Rye, but stared at Iona. “I’m not ashamed of what happened between us.”
“But I thought nothing …”
“That’s right. Nothing happened, so I have nothing to be ashamed of.” She saluted and scuffled away, shoulders slumped.
Rye risked a glance at Iona. She stared straight ahead, eyes cold.
“Hurricane’s coming,” Rye said, hoping to break the ice.
She wheeled upon him. “Did you sleep with her?”
Rye sat back, straighter. “No. Heilo? No.” He shook his head and laughed nervously. “No. Didn’t you just hear?”
“You better not have.” She turned to stare straight ahead. “You’re still married.”
She shoved the gearshift into drive and lead-footed away from the curb. Minutes later, she pulled into the back parking lot of the twins’ apartment and pulled alongside Rye’s Tahoe.
“Thanks, Iona … I …”
“Get out. I might talk to you later.”
She pulled away and left Rye staring down at his feet. There were days he just didn’t understand women. Iona had made him feel guilty, and he hadn’t even done anything to feel guilty.
After driving back to HQ, Rye stopped at the Pre-Booking Room and swept off his western hat. Yellow police tape blocked the door. He stared at the chaos.
“Soooo,” he said, tapping his hat against his leg, “what exactly are we dealing with here? What happened, who caused this, why, and how?”
“What happened,” Reese said, coming down the hallway, “is that we lost a prisoner. I spent over two hours processing Pre-Book and Lockup. Lots of blood in the cell, but I think it’s all from our guest. I took several samples. Got beaucoup photos. How the unsub got to him, I don’t have an answer.”
“This case just keeps getting better and better. The victim wanted a lawyer to do his will,” Rye said. “Did he talk to anyone?”
Zach scratched his head. “I don’t think so. But I’ll check on it. I was headed to the museum. I’m chasing down a thought.”
“Good, just keep me in the loop. And be careful of your eye. Don’t push things …”
Zach waved a hand to say he didn’t want to hear any more about his eye and disappeared into the Patrol Office.
Rye’s cell phone rang. “Dawlsen here.”
“What the … what’s going on there?”
“Good morning, Mayor List,” Rye said with a phony sweetness. “How may I help you?”
Curses exploded over the phone. “Don’t jerk me around, Dawlsen.”
Rye smiled, imagining the mayor’s face turning beet red. “Fine. Last night we had a shooting incident in town involving several Mexicans. Drug cartel I suspect. Our prisoner was killed in his cell. That would be your buddy you wanted to spring and, no, I’m not releasing details at this time. The Visser twins are missing and presumed dead. And finally, the Yuma ME was gunned down when he showed up to investigate a crime scene. I got very little sleep, and I need more freaking coffee. How’s that for an update?”
“Listen, Dawlsen, if you can’t control my town, then I’m going to remove you from office and place my own man back in there.”
Rye barked a laugh. “You’re joking, right? You’re going to put your flunky Jilt back in as chief of police? Don’t be a bonehead, Dick.” He ran that together to make it sound more like an insult. “After all the corruption under Jilt’s stint as Chief of WPD, he has a snowball’s chance on the Palomas Plain of running this department.”
“At least he didn’t have gun battles in the street.”
“That’s because the bad guys were in his office downing Mexican beers and smoking Mexican weed.” Rye felt his gut tighten, and he squeezed the phone until his hand shook. “Mayor, I am getting off the phone before one of us says something we’ll regret later. And, Dick …”
“What is it, Dawlsen?”
“Don’t ever. Threaten. My job. Again. You got that?” And he jabbed the disconnect button.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye hovered behind Zach, both staring at a folder on his computer.
“These are pictures I took at the museum,” Zach said. He clicked open the folder. A dozen pictures were lined up on the monitor. “This is the newspaper article Ms. Haulke wrote about the exhibit.” Another click opened a PDF file. Zach opened a third file. “Here’s close-ups of the two photos she published.”
“Okay, what do you have?” Rye’s vision roamed over the various files and nothing jumped out at him.
“It took me a while, but I kept looking at these pictures. Here, this one is from the opening of the exhibit. See all the people standing for the photo? There’s the Arches.” He pointed to a smiling Helen and a frowning Terrance. “Here and here are the Visser twins.” His finger pointed to the two of them partially hidden by the crowd. “In the back row, we have the mayor and Jilt.”
Then Rye saw it. The man in black stood behind Jilt.
“I believe,” Zach said, his finger touching a face in the monitor, “that is our person of interest.”
“You’re on to something here. Can you zoom in?”
“I can. But wait … there’s more.” Zach panned to the other photo from the exhibit. “This is a photo of the Skinwalker exhibit taken the day the exhibit opened. Here,” Zach again pointed, “we have something like a Sioux ghost dance outfit. But it’s not Sioux. According to the plaque under the photo, it’s a Skinwalker shirt meant to resemble a wolf.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“Me neither, but that’s what the blurb said. Who knows? Now,” Zach said, dramatically dragging out the word, “look at this photo. I took this one the day after the break-in.”
“Yeah. I saw the Skinwalker shadowbox. The shirt had been replaced by the wall mounted exhibit of a Mexican Skinwalker.” Rye paused. “And the man in the photo is the spitting image of our mysterious man in black.”
Zach turned his chair and looked up at Rye. “That shirt is missing. It’s not on any list in any museum report I read. I mean they had to store it someplace, right?”
“Okay, Sherlock, I can tell you’ve got something you’re wanting to spill.”
“This is in my report, but one of the people I interviewed for the Arches’ murder reported seeing a wolf.” Zach pointed at the monitor. “Perhaps what they saw was a man wearing that.”
Rye ran a hand across his chin. “Okay. Go back and interview those people again. See if you can get Iona to go with you.”
“You want me to do what?” Hands on hips, Iona stood in the doorway.
Rye gave her a wary look. “You up for some field work? I need someone to assist Zach, if you can spare an hour or two. He can explain on the way.”
She returned his gaze. “Sure, why not. I only have a newspaper to run and a book deadline to meet. Besides, riding around with virile young men …” she said, a smile gracing her lips, “is my idea of a good afternoon.”
CHAPTER 14
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
Rye drove East on I-8, the knobby tires of his Tahoe droning on the pavement. Sunlight bounced off his outside mirror, and he slipped on reflective sunglasses to keep the glare out of his eyes. The AC, at war with the outside temps, blasted into his face.
He passed miles of baked land dotted with creosote bush and cactus, cut by the occasional dry creek beds and intruded upon by desert-bleached towns. Tall hills and mountainous backdrops relieved this realm of thorns and colorless sand.
Country music from the satellite radio filled his loneliness. He crooned off-key when he knew a song and tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel when he didn’t. Just then, the song Drinking My Baby Goodbye by Charlie Daniels came on the radio.
The song sparked a night he wished never to recall. It started drunk and ended worse. It was the night Dee left him.
The sudden blare of a truck’s air horn shattered Rye’s retrospection. While daydreaming, he had dr
ifted to the wrong side of the road. He jerked the steering wheel to the right. The semi whistled past like a wall of white rock. The SUV shook. For a minute, Rye’s heart pounded in his chest while he castigated himself for letting his mind wander.
A few miles down the road, he spotted a green road sign warning of his exit coming up in two miles.
Rye shook his head. He hadn’t been there for Manny for many years. Or for Dee. Then she took drastic measures and had left him.
And what had he done in the intervening months? His answer tasted like bile: nothing. He had just let her go. In the end, he’d run from her just as she ran from him.
He came to his exit and headed north. Just another dusty desert highway. A wasteland.
Just like my life.
Although he preferred one of the small cheaper hotels on the outskirts of Phoenix, he figured he’d splurge this one time and got a room at the Wyndham close to Manny’s tournament. Besides, he only planned to stay for two nights.
Tomorrow, he’d be with Dee watching their son at his chosen sport. Manny’s progress at his karate lessons made Rye’s heart swell with pride. When he talked to him on the phone, the kid sounded … what … more self-assured. More confident. It seemed to be doing the boy some good.
At a light, a blue Ford F-150 pickup truck pulled up next to him. The driver, of Hispanic descent, looked vaguely familiar. The man pulled his Cardinal’s ball cap low.
Rye turned to face forward. The man’s actions raised his suspicion flag. Rye frowned. Now where have I seen …?
The light turned green, and he went to the next block before turning left. The blue F-150 went straight. Rye waited for the truck to pass to get its license plate number. But the mud plastered on it only gave him a partial. He’d check it out when he got home.
The fleeting glance of the truck driver’s face gnawed at Rye’s memory. The man was wanted for something, and Rye swore he’d find what that was.
Driving through downtown and admiring all the high-rise buildings, Rye found the Wyndham with its half circular balconies resembling a giant beehive.
He pulled into valet parking, fetched his overnight bag from the trunk, and headed into the hotel. A pretty girl with dark hair and tanned skin smiled as he approached the front desk. Behind her, copper squares mounted on the wall burnished in the lights.
“I have a room registered under the name of Dawlsen. Rye Dawlsen,” he told her.
While she brought up his registration on the computer, he studied the bar. Dark paneling separated by built-in glass shelves. Several tables of black wood and leather seats. Some occupied. The bartender talked with two forty-ish women dressed in stylish business suits. Several men at one table broke out in drunken laughter. One glanced at him then averted his eyes. Like he didn’t want me to know he was watching.
Rye stared at the bottles behind the bar as if he were considering a drink before heading to his room. This gave him opportunity to scrutinize the men. Though they were well dressed, Rye noticed one man had a gang tattoo almost hidden by the sleeve of his suit.
“Mr. Dawlsen …” the girl called him back to finish the registration.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m tired from the drive.”
She smiled in faux sympathy.
He took his keycard with a word of thanks and cut a circular path around the lobby’s pillars. He passed the table of men, who turned silent at Rye’s approach. They glowered at him. Whistling a tune, he headed to the elevators. At the sixth floor, he got off and went in search of his room. Rye found it at the end of the hallway, unlocked the door, and went in. A clean scent dusted the air.
After dumping his stuff on the bed, he gazed out the balcony window. In the street below, traffic inched along and people scurried in and out of buildings. After adjusting the air conditioning to his liking, he sat on the bed and got his cell phone.
“Whiskey 911,” said Gabby. “What’s your emergency?”
“Hey, girl. Dawlsen here. Anything up?”
“Chief,” Gabby answered with a joyous tone, “it’s good to hear from you. Did the trip go okay? Of course it did, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling and asking if anything happened. But since you’ve left, things have been good here. At least, no more bodies … yet.” She took a breath, and Rye attempted to say something, but Gabby interrupted him. “Whitewolf’s called in. He’s investigating the deputy’s murder. Claims there’s a connection between that and the other homicides. But he didn’t provide any details. Least ways, he didn’t share any with me.”
“Uh, Gabby?” Rye tried to pry in a word. What was Noah up to? Let the Sheriff’s Department investigate that.
She hurried on. “Zach’s busy doing something with Iona at the museum. Again, he didn’t tell me nothing, so I have nothing to report there. Except that he is doing something, I just don’t know what it is. Heilo is at the shooting range, practicing her gunmanship—as if she needed to improve. She’s already the best shooter in the state. And Batty called, but won’t leave me with any details except to say someone killed all his sheep last night and that a strange truck stopped by the mailboxes this morning. So basically, everybody is busy, and I’m in the dark.”
“Gabby,” Rye cut her off with a sharp tone, “come up for air. Did Batts give any details about the truck at the mailboxes?”
“Just that he saw two men and a Ford pickup. But other than that he was sketchy on details. I didn’t know it was important or I’d’ve push him for more info.”
“No, you did good.” Rye motioned with his palm outward. “I’ll give him a call. You hold down the fort, and I’ll talk to you when I get back. Later.”
Rye dropped the cell next to him and remained seated on the bed. A murderer had settled into his town. They had no concrete evidence or even a solid lead. Yet the man in black intrigued him. Rye had not seen him around town until the day he and Zach arrested Valdez at the Drivin’ Diner.
Then, there was Batts with his erratic behavior. He’d been spotted in the proximity of the Arches’ murder. But then, he did report the Ford F-150 sighting. Could it be the one he had seen a little bit ago?
And what about those three bloody letters at the Arches? Did they implicate his uncle? Hopefully, Chee would have an alibi. Rye checked his watch. An hour to go before meeting Uncle Chee. He needed to either prove or clear his uncle of causing the Skinwalker problems. He’d look into Chee’s eyes and ask him point-blank. Then he’d know one way or the other.
Perhaps he should get downstairs early and look around. Rye slipped into his shoulder holster, checked his Glock and its magazine, then re-holstered the weapon. Despite the heat, he slipped on his jacket. Wanted to look good for Chee and his mystery guest. He put on his Stetson and left.
The elevator dinged, and stepping inside, he pushed the button to the parking garage.
The elevator opened and the smell of hot metal and asphalt blew into his face. A car door slammed nearby, and Rye caught up to the Mexican valet, who pointed the direction to Rye’s vehicle.
Rye anticipated meeting Dee tomorrow. Did she still wear a trace of that perfume—what’s it called—Ralph Lauren Blue? Or did she wear something new? He imagined Manny’s smiling face as the boy raced into his arms.
He had just reached his car when a yell exploded close by. In the far corner of the lot, two males in their mid to late thirties argued nose to nose. One sported a ball cap, and the other appeared to be the valet. Ball Cap pushed the other man away. The valet threw a weak punch into the Ball Cap’s gut, causing him to bend over double. The valet stood over him with his fists raised in a menacing gesture. He yelled something, but the noise echoed off the cement walls, and Rye couldn’t tell what was said.
Rye fished out his badge and held it up. Pulling out his Glock, he walked toward the two, his handgun pointed downwards.
“Hey!” Rye shouted. “What’s going on?”
The two ignored him.
“Police!” Rye shouted. “Freeze!”
Moving clo
ser, Rye thought the two sounded drunk. He hated angry drunks. The situation never turned out well for anyone.
“PO-LICE” Rye bellowed. He passed one of the thick cement columns. A warning surged through Rye’s mind. Something didn’t look right.
At that moment, Ball Cap stood upright and unfazed. Rye recognized the man. He faced the driver of the blue Ford F150 truck.
“Got you, po-po,” a familiar voice said behind him. A hard object crashed down on his head, sending a shower of white sparks whirling through his vision. He felt the cool cement against his cheek and realized he had fallen. A hand rolled him over and grabbed the front of his shirt. Someone raised him off the cement. A familiar face swam into view. Yet, the owner’s name refused to surface in his vertigo world. A fist shot like a rocket towards his face. In the next breath, his world went black.
CHAPTER 15
FRIDAY NIGHT
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rye cracked open an eye. Lights overhead.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Rye? You awake?”
A familiar voice.
“Rye.” The voice came into his vision, an indistinct shape. “This is your uncle.”
“Chee?” Rye licked his lips. One side felt … enlarged. Tasted of blood. “Where …”
“You’re in a hospital. You got beat up pretty bad.”
He heard another familiar voice. A woman’s. But from a distant memory. Who’s that?
Rye opened his eyes, or tried to open both. One eye refused. The other eye found Chee, a worried smile worn on his wind-aged face. Rye couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking into the face of a killer. Time for that discussion later. Like when he could talk without pain oozing from his pores.
“We,” a shallow breath and a wince, “need to,” another shallow breath, “talk.”