Defiled: The Sequel to Nailed Featuring John Tall Wolf (A Ron Ketchum Mystery Book 2)

by Joseph Flynn

  He didn’t want anyone to think he was playing a prank.

  Glynnis Crowther learned about rich people from her mother who had been the chief housekeeper of a Fifth Avenue brownstone for the heirs of an industrialist who also maintained homes in Newport, Rhode Island and Palm Beach, Florida.

  It had been made crystal clear to Glynnis that the wealthy, with rare exceptions, were as miserable as anyone else. Often more so, as they had more money with which to indulge their character defects. Fewer constraints on their bad behavior. Access to temptations that were beyond imagining for normal people. And law firms on retainer to make sure they remained at liberty to repeat their cycles of depravity.

  Bearing all that in mind, becoming the domestic help to such creatures was not without its benefits. Free room and board were among the usual perquisites. Decent if not extravagant salaries were the norm. Beyond the mundane, though, was the opportunity to gather the kinds of personal and business secrets for which the tabloids and business rivals would have killed.

  To achieve access to such information, one had to become trusted.

  With trust came the gift of invisibility — and the ability to snoop discreetly.

  Some foolish household help tried to go for the big kill, inevitably bungling situations in which they stuck out like sore thumbs. If you were the only chauffeur in the world to suddenly plunk down your life savings to acquire shares of Company A just before Company B made an offer to buy it, driving the shares to new highs, people might notice. Especially your boss, the president of Company A, and the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  What looked like a good idea at the time might end in dismissal at best and federal prison time at worst. Mother had made all that plain to Glynnis.

  Play the long game, she said, work the margins and no one will ever know.

  By the time you’re ready to pack it in, you’ll be well set.

  Mother certainly was. She’d moved to West Palm Beach. Had a lovely house.

  And her own cleaning lady.

  Glynnis had been told not to expect an inheritance.

  Instead, she was given glowing referrals to several good families so that she might make her own way. She’d not only picked the best of the lot, she’d performed so well that she’d been poached by Hale Tibbot, earning a signing bonus that had turned mother emerald green with envy. Glynnis had made a point of pass on her good news.

  Everything was going swimmingly, with Glynnis having learned a great deal about investing in real estate, until she arrived at work on that early June morning and found Hale Tibbot dead.

  At first, she’d thought he was simply staring out the window.

  His eyes were open, but his pallor verged on the ghostly.

  “Mr. Tibbot?” she called. “Sir?”

  He was gone, but he looked so normal.

  Except for his lack of color. Then Glynnis noticed the small spot of red on his neck. Without touching her employer, she leaned in close. How could such a small wound be fatal, she wondered. If it had been, where had all the blood gone?

  For just a moment, she had an unworthy thought.

  Was there anything she might take that would go unnoticed?

  At the back of her mind she could hear Mother laughing.

  Glynnis thought of Mother coming to visit her in prison.

  Warning enough. Besides that, Mr. Tibbot had been good to her.

  She took out her cell phone and tapped in 911.

  Her call was answered on the first ring. “What’s your emergency, please?”

  Glynnis said, “My employer is dead. I’m not sure, but he may have been murdered.”

  Chapter 2

  Ron Ketchum ran the thirty-foot lake patrol launch out onto Lake Adeline at full speed with the lights and siren going. By now, there were a few recreational boaters on the water. Over the whine of the siren and roar of his motor, Ron used a loudspeaker to command the operators of the other watercraft, “Clear the lake. Return to your marina.”

  When some of them hesitated, he barked, “Do it now, goddamnit!”

  He didn’t have time to veer from his course and enforce the order.

  He could only hope people would hear the urgency in his voice.

  Christ, he hoped he would survive the morning. By the time he got the word about the bomb from Sergeant Casimir Stanley, the cop who kept the Goldstrike PD running smoothly, he’d had precious little time to grab a tool kit, refuse help from any other member of his department and get underway.

  Based on the timeline Roger Sutherland had provided, the bomb might go off just as he arrived at the boat in which it floated. Assuming the boat hadn’t drifted to a point more distant. If that were the case, he might hear the explosion and be the first person to get a snootful of whatever radioactive poison was dispersed into the air.

  It was not only the fact that he was a single man in the second half of his life without a wife or children that had sent Ron out alone to deal as best as he could with the bomb. Every other cop in the department was cruising the town, scaring the shit out of the populace by warning them to get indoors and stay there until further notice.

  That and looking for any other bomb that might have made its way to Goldstrike.

  A shiver ran through Ron. Not at the thought of his own mortality. But the idea of what would have happened if Oliver Gosden hadn’t decided to leave town so early. There would have been no keeping the deputy chief out of the patrol boat. Then the two of them might have died.

  And Lauren and Danny might have had far more to mourn than the prospect of living in Arizona.

  Running full out in a powerboat didn’t make for the most stable field of vision. The mind took a beat or two to sort out the input as the eyes bounced from one point of view to the next. But Ron thought he spotted the boat the Sutherlands had seen. It appeared to be empty. No one aboard, that was. Ron couldn’t tell yet if the craft carried a deadly cargo.

  He wanted more speed from the patrol boat but it was already redlining.

  For lack of anything else to do, he leaned forward against the wheel.

  “Come on, goddamnit!” he yelled.

  He glanced at his watch. Oh, God, it was going to be close.

  Even if he arrived in time, he didn’t know the first thing about disarming a bomb.

  “Please help me,” he beseeched any higher power that might be listening.

  Meaning, if he did get there in time, let any guess he made about what to do be the right one.

  Ron amazed himself by bringing the patrol boat alongside the little motor boat without either hitting it or leaving a large gap between the two vessels. He saw at a glance there was what appeared to be a bomb in the other boat. He’d decided he would be willing to cut the Sutherlands a break, after giving Roger a sound thumping, if the whole thing had been a prank.

  But the damn thing was right there, the radiation warning symbol glaring up at him and the digital display counter showing — Jesus Christ! He had ten seconds left. Ron grabbed his tool case and jumped from the patrol boat into the other craft. He landed awkwardly.

  Almost tipped the smaller boat over.

  Almost did a header into the water.

  He dropped the tool box and free of its weight was able to recover his balance without falling overboard or swamping the boat. He glanced at the digital display. Six seconds. Ron knew he’d never have enough time. He was going to die. He’d been taught in the army that when you were under fire and didn’t stand a chance of surviving there were two ways you could go out.

  You could die in place or die in motion. Fighting back.

  Ron chose to die in motion. He reached for the tool box and popped the lid. Grabbed a pair of wire cutters, sure it would be the last thing he ever did. But it wasn’t. He turned in time to see the countdown display reach three seconds.

  He’d moved far faster than he’d thought.

  Now, if he could only —

  The display blinked on three again instead of reaching two.


  Ron lurched forward. Saw there were wires connecting the counting device — it must have housed the detonating charge, too — to the block of off-white putty-looking goop. He did the only thing he could think of; he cut the wires.

  But not before he saw the display blink on three one more time.

  With the wires cut Ron threw the display panel over the side. Even a small charge could kill you, he thought, if you were holding it at arm’s length. He watched the device, still stuck on three, descend dreamily through the crystal clear lake water.

  Once it sank out of sight without going off, he sat and looked at the block of plastic explosive and the stainless steel container with the radiation symbol. Damn thing looked sealed up tight. No sign that anything was leaking out.

  Ron’s shoulders sagged and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

  He leaned his head back and addressed the flawless blue sky.

  “Thank you.”

  He thought that not only might he have been killed, the damn bomb might also have killed Lake Adeline. Made Goldstrike uninhabitable. Some sonofabitch was going to —

  Ron’s cell phone sounded. “I Fought the Law.”

  He answered and said hoarsely, “Yeah.”

  “Chief?” It was Sergeant Stanley calling.

  Ron cleared his throat. “It’s me, Sarge.”

  “Was there a bomb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But?”

  “We all got real lucky.”

  “You okay, Chief?” Sergeant Stanley asked.

  Simple question, but it made Ron search for the correct answer.

  He thought he’d better take a look around.

  He turned and saw the patrol boat he’d piloted onto the lake had drifted away, was a good thirty feet distant. He wasn’t about to go swimming in cold water that was twelve hundred feet deep. He also wasn’t going to attempt to turn the little boat’s motor on. Who knew if the damn thing was booby-trapped?

  He told Sergeant Stanley, “I’m going to need a ride. Send someone out to get me.”

  Ron pulled up his GPS coordinates on his phone.

  He passed them along to the sergeant. Said to send an extra cop to bring in the boat he’d misplaced. Sergeant Stanley chuckled and said, “Will do.”

  Alone with his thoughts, staring at the payload of the defective bomb, he returned to his earlier thought.

  Someone was going to pay for this.

  Mayor Clay Steadman had the idea that he wanted to do a movie told from the point of view of a racist cop nearing retirement. With that thought in mind, he decided he couldn’t do better than to pick the brain of Ron Ketchum’s father, Walt. The elder Ketchum had lived the life Clay wanted to explore. Walt had had a twenty-five year career with the LAPD. He’d won dozens of commendations for valor. But he’d also had scores of complaints for the use of excessive force filed against him.

  Added to that, Walt Ketchum had killed two men and a woman in the line of duty.

  If that wasn’t enough, he’d also had three corruption charges brought against him. The D.A. had dropped all of them before they got to court, and Walt had won five hundred thousand dollars in a defamation judgment against the city in the final case. The money almost covered his late wife’s medical expenses for the treatment of the cancer that killed her.

  It amazed Clay that someone hadn’t already made a biopic of Walt’s life.

  Then, again, if someone had wanted to do that and Walt hadn’t said okay, it’d have taken a pair of big brass balls to go ahead without his permission. Weren’t many of those in Hollywood or anywhere else.

  Even Clay wasn’t planning to do an on-the-nose story of Walt’s life. He’d called Walt and told him he wanted to do a movie based on Walt’s experiences and attitudes. Walt had laughed and said, “About time someone was interested in getting things right. Turn my head with enough dough, you got yourself a deal.”

  The upfront money Clay forked over was more than Walt had ever seen at one time, including the judgment he’d won against the city. What was really sweet, Clay was cutting him in for twenty percent of the gross.

  Ron Ketchum had been less than pleased when Clay had told him of his plans.

  “Why in God’s name would you want to glorify that old bastard?” the chief asked.

  Clay said, “Glorification is the last thing I have in mind. I gave you a second chance, when I brought you up here. Are you telling me your father deserves any less?”

  Ron couldn’t say that. Truth was, he’d mended his strained relationship with his father to a degree he found surprising. But he didn’t think the old man deserved to have Clay Steadman play the lead role in his life’s story. And Ron was sure that was exactly what Clay had in mind.

  Whether the mayor denied it or not, having an icon like him reenact the life and times of Walt Ketchum would convey a degree of absolution to the old bigot that Ron felt he didn’t deserve. Tough shit for Ron. He didn’t have any say in the matter.

  “It’s your town and your life,” Ron said.

  “You’re not going to quit your job, are you?” Clay asked.

  “You want to get rid of me, you’ll have to fire me.”

  Clay gave Ron one of his famous icy smiles.

  Giving Ron the feeling he’d just fallen into a trap the mayor had set.

  Helios “Sonny” Sideris stepped up to the desk of Marjorie Fitzroy, the day shift concierge at the Renaissance Hotel. The lady was on the phone but she was someone who kept her eyes open, saw him coming the moment he stepped off the elevator. Sonny noticed things like that, people being heads up. He liked the pretty smile Marjorie gave him and the graceful gesture she made asking for just a moment’s patience while she took care of her call.

  Always a pleasure to see a pro at work, Sonny thought.

  If she’d been ten years younger, he’d have taken a personal interest.

  Even so, it was good to see some women could age well.

  When he got older, he didn’t want to be a cradle robber. He’d look for someone at least in the area code of his own age. Long as she kept her looks and a sense of style. He’d provide the cash and the comfort.

  Marjorie finished her call, made a note and looked up, still smiling.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Sonny said, “Hope so. What I’m looking for is a place in town where I can start a banking relationship. I’m looking for a full-service place that’s discreet. Maybe you could give me a list of three or four places so I can do a little comparison shopping.”

  She read him exactly the way he wanted.

  Telling her he wanted discreet banking service meant she shouldn’t ask questions either. Marjorie composed a list of four banks off the top of her head. She took out a map of town and placed X’s where the banks were located. She handed the list and the map to Sonny.

  Woman kept her fingernails nice, too, he saw. Done classy not flashy.

  Marjorie said, “It’s a lovely morning for walking but —”

  The blare of a loudspeaker cut Marjorie off. “This is the Goldstrike Police Department. We need to have everyone go indoors immediately. Remain inside until further notice.”

  Sonny and Marjorie saw that the patrol unit making the announcement was parked just outside the hotel’s main entrance. People who’d been waiting outside for the shuttle to the Reno airport rumbled into the hotel, angry about the possibility of missing their flights. But the cops were not fooling around.

  As a member of the local hospitality industry, Marjorie felt compelled to apologize for the incomprehensible behavior of the police. Short of an invasion by space aliens, she could think of no good excuse for such rude demands.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Marjorie told Sonny. “I have no idea what this might mean.”

  “Means the hotel restaurant will be full for breakfast,” Sonny told her with a smile.

  He didn’t know what the cops were up to either.

  But his banking could wait. For a
little while.

  Clay Steadman had simplified things for himself, and complicated life for Ron Ketchum, by inviting Walt Ketchum to come live at his house in Goldstrike while the two of them worked on the script for Clay’s new movie. Walt had recovered well enough from the stroke he’d suffered three years earlier to be self-sufficient. Esther Gadwell, the African-American LPN who’d seen Walt through the worst days after his cerebrovascular accident, had told him she had no desire to live up in the mountains with a bunch of rich, white people. She told Walt it got cold enough up there to frost her backside white.

  She also said, “You have someone let me know if you die up in the mountains. I’ll decide if I want to come dance on your grave.”

  Walt said if he died he’d have his ashes shipped to her.

  She could use them to finally add some spice to her cooking.

  A relationship that had begun as strictly professional and highly adversarial had evolved into a friendship. Not that either party would ever admit it. That would have spoiled all the fun.

  On his own for the first time since his stroke, Walt had let slide some of the good health habits his doctor had ordered and Esther had enforced. He’d resumed salting his food. Not as much as he used to, but enough to add flavor to what he ate. He didn’t eat as much as he used to; he’d come to like not having his gut overhang his belt. But he did revisit his sweet tooth with Hershey bars. Told himself that was okay because he got the kind with almonds, and everybody knew nuts were both protein and roughage.

  He didn’t go back to the smokes, but any time he was downwind of someone who had lit up, he inhaled deeply. He allowed himself one glass of either beer or wine a day. No hard stuff. Sometimes he took his evening drink at Clay’s house; sometimes he went out. He always left a nice tip for the barkeep, especially if she was pretty.

  He hadn’t had sex since Nora died and, sick as she’d been, for quite a while before that. It surprised him one night when the old dog in his drawers had stood up on its hind legs. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. He wasn’t interested in finding either a hooker or a gold-digger. There was a funny thought. Being flush enough that a woman might want to marry him for his money.