Zeb Hanks Mystery Box Set 1

by Mark Reps

  The redness in Maxine’s eyes and face disappeared as she unloaded her long-shouldered burden. She took a sip of her iced tea and addressed the sheriff tersely.

  “Now I know I should have reported him for assault or attempted rape or something like that. But at the time I didn’t have enough confidence in myself to think anyone would believe me. And everyone knows the cops never believe the victim anyway.”

  “I know this is upsetting,” said Zeb. “But do you mind answering a few more questions. It could be very important.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Did he ever mistreat you after that?”

  “He called me the next day and told me he’d kill me if I ever told anyone what happened. He said he had a gun and would shoot me. He told me I’d never even see it coming. I figured it was just crazy talk to keep me from talking about the attack. I never really thought he’d do it. I never talked to him after that, but it was right about that time that his dad ran off. Since his mom and dad were divorced, Michael moved away to live with her. Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say.”

  “It’s terrible that you ever had to go through anything like that, hon’. Things like that shouldn’t happen to no one,” said Doreen.

  “You know something,” said Maxine. “I had put it way out of my mind. I hadn’t even thought about it for years, until today when you said his name.”

  “Were you aware that Michael Parrish moved back to the area?” asked Zeb.

  A look of horror came over Maxine’s face.

  “No, no, no,” she shrieked

  “Take it easy,” said Zeb. “He’s not going to hurt you. We’ll see to that.”

  “You can’t,” cried Maxine. “You don’t understand. You can’t protect me from him. He’s evil.”

  22

  Zeb and Jake headed for the sheriff’s office. As Zeb held the office door open for Jake he glanced down the street and noticed Eskadi’s truck parked nearby. Jake headed directly to Helen’s desk with a pair of blueberry muffins.

  “Helen, let me have a look at you. You are a sight for sore eyes,” said Jake.

  The normally reserved secretary scooted out from behind her desk, threw her arms around her former boss and gave him a big bear hug. After a moment, she stepped back, eyed him up and down and sighed deeply before embracing him a second time.

  There was no mistaking the alcohol-induced, spider-web pattern of broken blood vessels around Jake’s nose. But the wrinkles in his weathered skin smoothed as he grinned, and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes revealed the same old handsome countenance. Jake Dablo still carried the unmistakable, magical spark of a true western man.

  “Jake, I’ve been praying for this day for a long time,” said Helen.

  “Well don’t quit your praying now. I can still use the help. Damn likely more than ever.”

  Jake and Helen separated from the embrace, stood back and looked at each other in a way that only old, trusting friends can.

  “Enough of the mutual admiration society,” said Zeb. “We’re still running a sheriff’s office here, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, yes. I nearly forgot,” said Helen. “Mr. Jimmy Song Bird and Mr. Eskadi Black Robes are waiting for you in your office. They said you would be expecting them and you told them to wait in your office.”

  In the sheriff’s private office, the tribal chairman and the Medicine Man stood by the window.

  “What have you found out about Michael Parrish?” asked Song Bird.

  Having not seen Eskadi re-enter the restaurant, Zeb looked at the Medicine Man wondering if like Big Bear, the ancient Apache from his youth, he possessed some sort of second sight.

  Zeb gave the details of what he’d learned about Michael Parrish. The buzzing of the intercom interrupted him.

  “Yes, Helen,” said the sheriff, “what is it?”

  “Detective Jensen is here. He wants to talk with you.”

  “Tell him to wait.”

  “He says it’s very important and, considering what you’re talking about…”

  Sheriff Hanks eyed the slightly ajar door. Helen’s ears must have been on fire.

  “What’s he want?”

  “It’s about Michael Doerry, aka Red Parrish Junior. He’s been standing out here right beside me nearly the whole time you’ve been talking. He’s heard every word you said.”

  “Send him in.”

  The private detective’s swollen left eye and bloodied shirt spoke for him.

  “What the hell happened to you?” asked Zeb.

  “Red Parrish must have thought I was a Mormon missionary.”

  Eskadi’s chuckle broke the tension. The sheriff introduced everyone.

  “I heard what you were saying about Red Parrish, Senior. But you’re wrong about one thing. He didn’t run away. He’s dead,” said Jensen.

  “Red Junior tell you that?” asked Zeb.

  “Not exactly.”

  Private Investigator Jensen reached into his pocket and pulled out a Polaroid of a headstone. Zeb examined it briefly before handing it to Jake. Jake glanced at it and handed it back to Zeb.

  “Where’d you get this?” asked Jake.

  “Junior had it on his desk in that office he keeps behind the Roadhouse.”

  “He let you in there to look around?” asked Zeb.

  “The door was open, so I let myself in,” said the detective. “I knocked first.”

  “See anything else of interest?”

  “I didn’t have a whole lot of time before I had company. All I noticed was a bunch of old mattresses stacked up in a corner.”

  Red’s mattress factory, thought Zeb. Hookers rented the beds for five bucks a pop when they took their johns from the bar to the shed.

  “There were some miscellaneous papers, some file cabinets and a box full of child pornography magazines.”

  “That sick bastard,” growled Zeb. “Anything else in sight?”

  “An old car in pretty good shape, except for a busted taillight and a slightly bent frame. It was a Ford Mustang.”

  Zeb looked at the Antelope Flats file case that sat on his desk. Next to it was the piece of colored plastic he had found on the road near where Amanda Song Bird had been kidnapped. Zeb slipped the small piece into his shirt pocket.

  “What bought you the bloody nose and the shiner?” asked Jake.

  “Strictly my fault. He thought I was trespassing. An honest mistake. Any of you know where this head stone might be located?” asked the detective.

  A shocked expression came over Zeb’s face as he examined the photo closely.

  “Hell yes,” said Zeb. “It’s the Veteran’s Memorial Cemetery in Morenci. I recognize the War Memorial in the distant background. But there’s something even more interesting than the fact that it’s Red Senior’s grave. Jake, Song Bird, take a look at the death date.”

  Both men put on their glasses, scrunched up their noses and squinted at the small photo. October 18, 1991. No one said a word until Jake stood up and excused himself.

  “Where are you headed, Jake?”

  “To the grave of Red Parrish. To find some answers,” he said. “Maybe the dead man will speak to me.”

  “Hold on,” said Zeb. “We’re all going with you.”

  Song Bird sat in the front seat of Jake’s truck, Eskadi and Zeb hopped in the back. The detective followed solo in his car. Inside the west entrance of the cemetery, next to a grave marked by a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the men parked and fanned out in search of the final resting place of Red Parrish.

  “Over here,” shouted Zeb.

  Five rows from the back, near the south end of the cemetery, lay the remains of Robert Parrish. The men gathered around the granite marker that read:

  ROBERT HORATIO PARRISH

  ‘RED’

  Born January 21, 1941—Died October 18, 1991

  Devoted Father

  Sheriff Hanks stared at the gravestone. Song Bird and Jake exchanged a hard, meaningful glance. />
  “October eighteenth,” said Zeb. “October eighteenth.”

  The men all stared at the marker.

  Song Bird knelt on both knees near the grave of Robert Parrish. Thinking the Medicine Man was about to pray, Zeb bowed his head to join him. Zeb’s eyes, half-squinted shut in prayer, eyed Song Bird as he leaned forward and put his hands into a patch of desert grass near the marker.

  The sheriff’s eyes opened wide when Song Bird, digging in the soil with his bare hands, pulled out something that glittered just beneath the surface. The Medicine Man’s lower lip quivered involuntarily as he held the shining object over his heart. A full five minutes passed before anyone moved. Song Bird stood slowly, clutching the item in his hand.

  “This was the sacred traditional family gift that was given to my granddaughter.”

  Song Bird held the necklace in the air.

  “When it was given to my granddaughter, she said she would never take it off. She was wearing it when she was killed. Only the murderer could have carried it to this spot.”

  His statement penetrated the other men as only the truth can. Jake Dablo turned abruptly, walked back to his car, opened the trunk and removed a metal detector. Toying with the adjustment knobs, he walked back towards the graves where he methodically ran the guide plate around the edges of the grave of Robert Parrish. When no response registered on the machine’s readout meter, he covered the same territory again, this time holding it directly against the rim of the tombstone. The indicator siren screeched loudly this time. Leaning the metal detector against an adjoining grave, Jake bent over and began to carefully remove the sand, dirt and grass with a pocketknife. Moments later, he pulled something from the soil, a small locket. Inside was the photo of a young girl, not older than twelve or thirteen. Jake rubbed the dirt and sand off the glass covering and handed it to the detective.

  “Is this the girl you’re looking for?”

  Investigator Jensen examined it in the bright of the sunshine and then handed it to Sheriff Hanks.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid it is.”

  “I’m afraid our killer may have struck again,” said Zeb.

  “There’s something else you should know,” said Jensen. “The man buried in that grave, Red Parrish, had a professional relationship with my client.”

  “How’s that?” asked the sheriff.

  “I suppose I should have told you earlier. My client defended Red against a rape charge in Phoenix about twenty-five years ago. He lost the case, and Red did five years in the state pen. When he got out, he made continual threats against my client’s family. But since he’s six feet under, he isn’t much of a suspect.”

  “Which points the finger directly at his son,” said Jake.

  “Wait a second,” said Zeb. “How do we know Red is actually buried here? After all, he was reported missing, not dead. It wouldn’t take ten minutes to make a phone call and see if there’s an official certificate of death. I’ll call Helen on the two-way and have her call the state. She might even be able to look up official death records on the computer.”

  Fifteen minutes passed before Helen called to inform them there was no official record of Red Parrish Senior’s death with either the state or the Social Security Administration.

  “The cemetery must have a manager or an overseer,” said Zeb. “He’d have a record of when the headstone was placed here.”

  A secretary at city hall directed them to Ivan Goetz. The old man appeared befuddled when the five men knocked on his door until they explained what they were looking for.

  “Nope, ain’t no body in that grave. Just a memorial marker,” he said.

  “How long has it been there?” asked the sheriff.

  The old man scratched his thinning, white hair and spit a slag of slimy tobacco on the ground.

  “About a year. Maybe a bit more. I can look it up if you need an exact date. Why do you want to know? Is this official business?”

  “Yes, it is,” said the sheriff. “Do you know who had the marker put there?”

  “His kid, I believe. He was a nasty fella with a tuft of red hair that stuck straight up like a banty rooster. Ornery young man. A real punk.”

  “Did you have a run in with him?” asked Jake.

  “More than once,” the man replied, taking the opportunity to spit some more chaw on the ground.

  “Recently, by any chance?” asked Zeb.

  “Sure enough. Just yesterday as a matter of fact. He was kneelin’ by the marker, prayin’ it looked like. I took off my hat, respectful like, and waited ‘til he was done. When he stood up, I went on over and asked him if the site looked okay or if he needed something special done. I was just doin’ my job. He told me to get the hell away and to stay away from his old man’s marker. Usually folks are pretty nice when they’re visitin’ the dead ones. But not him. He done somethin’?”

  “He might have,” said Zeb.

  “You want me to give you a call if he shows up again?”

  Zeb handed the man his business card. The old man stared at it.

  “He might have killed someone. Be careful around him. We consider him to be armed and dangerous.”

  “I can handle myself. I own a dozen guns. I fought in the big one at Iwo Jima. I ain’t about to take no crap from some young whippersnapper.”

  “Please just call me,” said the sheriff. “Don’t confront him.”

  The old man hurtled a chaw of tobacco spit near the sheriff’s foot.

  “Bah. Country’s goin’ to hell in a hand basket. The good guys can’t even take care of the bad ones no more without gettin’ in a heap of trouble. It’s a damn shame, is what it is. I can take care of myself and that little bastard.”

  The old man hurled one final spit of tobacco juice and slammed the door.

  “Sheriff, you think Red Senior is dead?” asked the detective. “Or alive and seeking revenge on those who have wronged him?”

  Song Bird and Jake remained mute and emotionless.

  “I know old man Parrish knew both Jenny and Maya,” said Zeb. “From what the detective tells us, he also had a direct link with his client and he’d threatened him. If Red is alive and kidnapped Attorney Winchester’s daughter, it gives us a pretty clear indication of his modus operandi.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Eskadi.

  “If Red had a vendetta against the attorney and kidnapped his daughter, maybe he also had a vendetta against Maya and Jenny and took it out on their kids.”

  “Or maybe he had an old score to settle with Jake and Song Bird,” said Eskadi. “Jake, you said you knew Red. What about it?”

  Jake’s only response was the exchange of a dour, grim glance with Song Bird.

  23

  “Sheriff, my client’s daughter is still missing,” said the detective. “There has got to be enough circumstantial evidence for you to go up there and have a look. With his record, isn’t the presence of child porn magazines good enough reason to investigate further?”

  “You’ll need a search warrant,” said Jake. “Otherwise, anything you find could get suppressed as evidence if this thing ever goes to trial.”

  “How about it, Sheriff?” asked the detective. “There’s still a small chance Sara Winchester could be alive.”

  “It will take me a couple of hours to get a hold of Judge Frank. I’ll have to disrupt his day and convince him of the necessity for a search.”

  “Sara Winchester’s life might depend on it,” said the detective. “The last thing this county needs is another dead child on its hands.”

  “Eskadi,” said Zeb. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Why?” asked Eskadi.

  “Things might get a little rough. The Parrish Family is known for violence. I can’t risk a civilian getting hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself,” replied Eskadi.

  “I know you can,” said Zeb. “But this is not the place for you to be. End of discussion.”

  More than once ove
r the years, the sheriff and tribal chief had not seen eye to eye. This time, something told Eskadi that Zeb had something other than Eskadi’s safety on his mind. This was not reservation turf and not his business.

  “Okay. I guess I’m out of here,” said Eskadi. “But if you end up one man short, don’t come crying to me.”

  Jake chuckled at that.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t,” replied Zeb.

  Two hours later Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Kate Steele and Benjamin Jensen knocked loudly on the locked front door of Red’s Roadhouse. When no one answered, they made their way behind the Roadhouse to the shed that doubled as an office and whorehouse. It was unlocked.

  Zeb was familiar with the layout of the building from his younger days. His eyes fell on the stack of moldy mattresses. It was on one of those mattresses that Zeb had given up his virginity to Jenny Dablo. At the time, it was scary and exciting. But now, in the dingy, run-down shed, he felt ashamed.

  “Here’s the car I was telling you about,” said the detective. “Sixty-five Mustang Pony, bent frame, busted taillight.”

  Zeb stuck his head in the open window of the car. Sitting on the passenger’s seat floor was a green Coleman cooler. Zeb started to walk around the car to have a look at the broken tail light. He pulled the fragment of plastic from his pocket and held it against the back of the car. It was a perfect match.