by Matt Hilton
‘Personal problem.’ I just stood looking at them.
The taller man sucked his teeth, before jerking his head for me to follow him. To his friend he said, ‘Pop the trunk.’
The boot was full of junk, a toolbox, a blanket, and a spare tyre. The tall man dug around inside the toolbox, lifting out wrenches and hammers and placing them on the rolled blanket. From under the tools he pulled a bundle of rags, and even though there was a musty odour in general, I recognised the more familiar scent of gun oil. Taking a look over his shoulder, he checked that no one was spying on us. His action was the mark of an amateur, but it didn’t matter now. He unfurled the edges of the cloth and disclosed what lay within. It wasn’t a semi-auto handgun, the likes of which I usually carried, but a six-shot revolver, and a box of ammo stained dark with lubricant. It was a workhorse weapon, a Smith and Wesson, chambered for both .38 Special and .357 cartridges, and as good a gun as I could hope for. I leaned past the man and lifted the gun out of the rags, worked the cylinder, checked the piece over. ‘Is it clean?’
‘It hasn’t been used in a stick-up, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at?’
‘The serial number’s been filed off.’
‘Didn’t say it never would be.’ The guy gave me a shit-eating grin, playing the tough guy. He wasn’t the real deal. I considered taking the gun and the ammunition off him. I’d be doing a service, probably to him. During one of his highs he might shoot himself in the foot. But I was no thief. I peeled three hundred dollars off Jameson Walker’s roll. ‘That’s all I’m willing to pay. But that includes the shells.’
‘Three hundred? Damn, I’d throw the bitch in as well for that price.’
Recalling their girlfriend’s pie-dish face, her spindly legs and tottering gait, I declined politely. But that was the deal done. I wasn’t going to shake on it; they were drug-dealing arseholes, not the type I’d normally give the time of day. I took the gun, wrapped it in the cloth, stuffed the box of ammunition into my jacket pocket and then headed for the GMC.
Now that I’d prepared myself, the hunt was on. It was time to go find Jay and Nicole. Maybe I wouldn’t need the gun. But that was unlikely.
6
Some time later I came to the gas station mentioned in the news articles Jameson Walker had provided. Coming upon it in the dark, it looked different from the images on the printed sheets. It was no less stark, and if anything even more terrible in real life. The shack that had served as the teller’s booth-cum-convenience store had collapsed down on itself. Fire crews had sifted through the wreckage while recovering the corpse of the teller and much of the building now lay in mangled heaps about the original foundations. The fuel pumps had been taken by the explosion that ripped through the site, as had an awning erected to offer shade to customers as they filled up their gas tanks. The vehicles belonging to the teller and the family who were also murdered had been lifted and taken away for further forensic study. If it wasn’t for the signage at the side of the highway, you’d be hard put to guess Peachy’s gas station had ever been there.
Crime scene tape fluttered on the desert breeze, like bunting after a celebration but as a more sinister reminder to the world. Here people had died: senseless slaughter. Standing there among the damp ashes, I could picture the wraiths of the murder victims standing beyond the ring of yellow tape, staring back at me with sunken eyes. They were probably wondering why I was there. This wasn’t my battle; sadly I couldn’t help them. I could not exact retribution from their killers.
Or could I?
Perhaps I was mistaken and what had occurred here did have something to do with the missing women. I had an odd feeling that tickled the back of my brain, something I’d come to recognise over the years. Cops call it a hunch. The army I belonged to called it rapid intuitive experience or RIE. Then again, maybe it was simply wishful thinking. I was once cautioned that I couldn’t save everyone. That was infinitely apparent; a good number of people I cared for had been killed despite my best efforts. But, if the people who’d died here had done so under the guns of those responsible for taking Jay and Nicole, at least I could try to avenge them.
I heard the car coming along the road, then its tyres juddering on the rumble strip as it took the ramp to the gas station. When a Navajo County police cruiser pulled up alongside my GMC, I can’t say I was particularly surprised.
I just stood there, looking at the devastation, and waited for the officer to approach me. He was a young man, thick about the shoulders and neck, his dress shirt straining around his overdeveloped biceps. He’d doffed his Smokey Bear hat while in the car but, as he approached me warily, he jammed it over his crew-cut as a sign of officialdom. Then he laid his hand on the butt of his sidearm.
‘Excuse me, sir?’ His teeth were very white, offset by his permanent tan, and vivid against the night. ‘Can I ask what business you have out here?’
The cop had most likely been briefed to spin by the gas station regularly. It wasn’t uncommon for looters to go to a scene of destruction, or ghoulish souvenir hunters either. Family members of those murdered sometimes had to see where their loved ones had died, as a form of closure. And then, sometimes, the perpetrators of a crime also liked to return and view the aftermath of their work. By the way he studied me from head to toe he was determining which bracket I fitted into.
‘I’m just taking a look, Officer,’ I said.
He waved at the fluttering crime scene tape. ‘You see that, sir? It means keep out. You shouldn’t have come back here.’
‘It was broken when I arrived.’
‘That doesn’t make any difference, sir. It still says “Do Not Cross’’, and it’s an offence to do so.’
I paid his last comment no mind. Instead, I slowly reached for my jacket pocket, letting him see exactly where I was reaching. His fingers hovered over his service pistol, but I was posing no threat. I pulled out a folding wallet and opened it for him. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for two women who might or might not have been through here.’
The cop accepted my wallet, and studied it. It couldn’t have been easy in the darkness, but there was enough of a glow from his cruiser’s headlights to see the heading on the licence inside. ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he concluded. He didn’t clarify if he meant Florida, or if he was referring to my English accent. I didn’t take him up on it.
‘I was employed by the father of one of the women. He was sure that his daughter and her friend would have passed this way around the time the gas station was robbed.’
The cop moved closer to me, and he appeared to be checking my belt line. ‘Are you carrying?’
‘No.’
‘You mind if I check?’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, holding my arms out. ‘I’ve a folding knife in my back pocket, but that’s all you’ll find.’
I was glad that I’d left the revolver purchased from the potheads in my GMC. I hadn’t tried the weapon out yet, and wouldn’t trust it to work proficiently until I’d stripped, cleaned and test-fired it.
‘You’re licensed to carry, aren’t you, sir?’
‘Only in Florida, Officer.’
He offered a slight smile – the son of a bitch had been testing me. He neglected to continue his search and nodded me over to his cruiser. ‘You understand I’m going to have to run a check on you, sir? If you’d just walk over this way so we can get a bit of light, it’ll make things much easier for the two of us.’
Maybe if he got the full details, then he’d try to be a hero and take me in. That would’ve been unfortunate, because I’d no desire to spend a few days behind bars until things could be cleared up. Luckily I had friends in high places and much of the activity I’d been involved in on US soil had been sealed. The cop used the radio in his cruiser, and when he got back out he was frowning, snapping my wallet against his thigh. ‘Your details check out.’
‘I’m a good guy,’ I said, offering him a smile.
‘That’s debatable.’ He sta
rted to hand back my wallet, but as I went to take it he held on. ‘I think it’s best you get on your way, sir. Don’t be coming back here, OK?’
‘I have no reason to. I’ve seen what I wanted to see.’
‘I’ve had to move on a few lookie-loos,’ he said, and finally let go of my wallet, which I placed in my jacket pocket. ‘I don’t expect to tell anyone twice.’
I pulled out the photos of Jay and Nicole. ‘Have you moved these two on?’
He gave the photos a cursory inspection, shook his head. ‘I think I’d have remembered if I’d seen them. Good-looking girls. You said they’re missing, but there’s been nothing logged about them back at the station.’
‘This girl here.’ I tapped the picture of Jay. ‘Her father reported her missing but was given the brush-off by someone on the other end of the phone.’
The cop made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, and thumbed back the brim of his hat. ‘Typical,’ he said. ‘Like everywhere else, we’re short-staffed. Most of our resources have been thrown into finding the perpetrators of this crime. Whoever he spoke to will have had orders to prioritise incoming calls. If those ladies hadn’t been gone more than forty-eight hours, then I doubt their details were even noted.’
‘It’s almost three days now,’ I said. ‘How’s about I have her father call again?’
‘I’d advise it, sir. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open while I’m on patrol.’
‘Appreciate it, Officer.’ I gave him the number of my cellphone, as well as a description of the vehicle they were travelling in. ‘If you see anything, could you give me a call?’
‘Sure.’ He paused. ‘But it makes no difference, sir, you’d best get yourself outta here.’
I took a look at his badge. ‘Consider it done, Officer Lewin. But first . . . you mind if I ask you another question or two?’
‘Who’s the cop here?’
‘Who’s the investigator?’ I countered.
He grunted out a laugh, but started walking towards my car. ‘Ask away, I don’t guarantee to answer.’
‘I’m not after state secrets. Do you get many missing persons reports here?’
‘No more than anywhere else, I guess. Sometimes tourists get lost out in the desert, but we usually find them within a couple hours.’
‘I called at a truck stop a few miles back. There seemed to be quite a few missing person posters.’
‘If you’d read the details you’d have seen most of them were from outta state. People driving through slap the posters up on an off-chance, that’s all.’
‘So, you don’t have a problem with people going missing?’
Lewin eyeballed me. There was a muscle jumping on the side of his jaw. ‘If you’re suggesting we have someone abducting people, then the answer’s no. We have no more problems here than anywhere else, just like I said. There’s only . . .’
‘Only?’
‘. . . only one outstanding issue that I’m aware of. Helena Blackstock. She’s still on our books. It’s been four months since she disappeared.’
‘She’s from around here?’
‘Up nearer to Indian Wells.’ Lewin stopped, realising he’d just overstepped the mark. A woman missing four months had no bearing on the disappearance I was investigating, and was therefore none of my business. We’d reached my GMC and he gave it a cursory once-over. Then he held out his hand, directing me inside. ‘I think we’ll leave things at that, sir.’
‘Hunter,’ I reminded him. ‘That’s my name. For when you call me.’
‘If I call you. I can’t guarantee I’ll come across the women.’ With that he walked away, snatching off his hat and dashing sweat from the inner rim.
Inside my GMC, I watched him get in his cruiser, but he wasn’t going to leave before I did. I started the car, and drove down the off-ramp, before turning, not for Indian Wells, but back the way I’d come. I didn’t know much about Indian Wells, other than it was an historic site of some sort, but was only a collection of homesteads. I needed a much larger conurbation, so set out to find Holbrook, which was further along Route 66 than I’d made it earlier.
My route took me via the same truck stop I’d visited before. I pulled into the car park. There was no sign of the Camaro, for which I was glad. I walked over to the noticeboard and studied again the various missing person posters. Officer Lewin hadn’t been spinning me a PR line; all of the posters did depict people missing from various parts of Arizona and beyond. All except for Helena Blackstock. The old spider sense was tingling, and for what reason I’d no idea but I plucked the poster off the board and stuffed it in my pocket alongside the photos of Jay and Nicole.
‘I don’t think taking that’s a good idea.’
I turned to the quiet voice and found the old Navajo cleaner leaning on his brush. I hadn’t heard his approach.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Her husband won’t be a happy man. He comes in here every other day to check there’s still a poster up. Doesn’t take too kindly to when he has to post up a new one.’
‘I intend to speak to her husband. Have you any idea where I can find him?’
The old man laughed, swept grooves in the dirt by his feet. ‘Some detective you’re turning out to be. Didn’t you see the phone number on the poster before you tore it down? Why don’t you give him a call and ask him yourself?’
The thought had already gone through my mind, but I’d discarded it. My reason for returning to Holbrook had been to find an internet connection where I could check out the background story surrounding Helena’s disappearance. From there, I intended to search for an address I could snoop out prior to contacting her husband. But I had to admit the old guy had a point: why not just make a call and cut to the chase?
‘I’m about as good a detective as you are a cleaner, I guess. That brush doesn’t see too much action, does it?’
The old guy found that amusing and showed me a gap-toothed grin. ‘Why, this old thing?’ He lifted the brush and shook dust from the head. ‘I just carry it with me. Makes me look busy if nuthin’ else.’
That was something I’d learned while in the army. Always walk fast, carry something with you, and try to look like you’re on an important errand; otherwise you could bet your arse you would be soon enough.
Nearby a huge rig started with a roar and a belch of smoke and began rumbling out of the lot, heading for points north. ‘Actually . . . you sound like a man who knows his stuff.’ I tapped the poster in my jacket. ‘And I think I’ll take your advice.’
The old man slipped a hand-rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it with a match. He dumped the dead stick on the floor at his feet. Winked at me and said, ‘What do I know about anything?’
Then he moved off, brushing the matchstick ahead of him.
I watched him go, puffs of smoke marking his progress to wherever his next hidey-hole was located. The old guy had found a way of getting by, and good luck to him. I was wrong about him though; he was better at his job than I was a detective, because I didn’t seem to be getting far with my own task. I thought about telephoning Helena Blackstock’s husband there and then, but any link she had to those I was seeking was very tenuous. Instead, I elected to phone McTeer and Velasquez and check on what they’d been able to glean regarding the women’s movements.
Out here it was ‘mountain time’ and late evening, but back in Tampa it had to be approaching midnight. Nevertheless I was confident that one of Rink’s associates would be on the end of a phone. I got Velasquez.
‘We’ve searched on both girls’ credit cards, and on their bank accounts. Nothing, Joe. McTeer has been checking Joan’s Facebook and Blogger sites, but again there’s been no activity. As you know, the last time their accounts were accessed was on Tuesday morning at Gallup, but since then, nada!’
‘You have it set up to alert you if there’s a hit?’
‘Yeah. We could patch it through to your cell if you’d like? Then you’re getting the message the same
time as we do.’
‘Yes, do that for me, please. Anything on their phones?’
‘No,’ Velasquez said, ‘but Jameson Walker was in touch. Still nothing from his end. He asked when you were going to call him with an update.’
‘I’ll call him soon,’ I promised. ‘Set that alert thing up to this cell, but if you find out anything else ring me immediately, OK?’
‘Will do, Joe.’
I thanked him then rang off. I decided to head south towards the junction with Route 66 where I could strike westward for Holbrook, which was only a few miles along the way. I should book a room somewhere, get some sleep and start fresh again in the morning. Before sleeping, I’d have to call Jameson Walker with a report, and I guessed he wouldn’t be too impressed by how little progress I’d made in finding his daughter. Plus, it would do no harm to call Helena’s husband and have him agree to meet me.
Setting off, I glanced over at the cloth bundle. Inside it something else demanded my attention. I considered pulling up by the highway, marching into the desert and taking a couple trial shots, and that briefest of distractions was almost my undoing.
A pick-up truck roaring up the on-ramp almost sideswiped me, and I had to swerve out of the way to avoid a collision. The truck missed my GMC by inches, and if not for the fact it was already gone, the truck would have lost its wing mirror. As it was, the driver yelled abuse at me, but then kept speeding on into the parking lot.
I got a snapshot of the man driving the truck, and as I was wont to do, I filed the image away for later. Should I ever come across the gaunt cowboy again I’d teach him a lesson on how to be a courteous driver.
I laughed off the thought. What were the chances of coming across him again in a country with a population of hundreds of millions?
7
Jameson Walker expected more than a call to say I hadn’t found his daughter yet, but once I’d clued him in on the searches that McTeer and Velasquez were also conducting he settled down a bit. I told him to get some sleep and assured him I’d telephone him again the following morning. ‘Sleep? There’s little chance of that,’ he said. I knew how he felt.