by R. P. Dahlke
“He didn’t flinch or shy away at her deformity, and she saw through his awkwardness around women. So naturally when she had phone connection problems, Abel offered to help. But when he tested her phone line he came across something odd. Bethany had two lines; one went directly to an answering service, the kind that won’t confirm anything but a phone number. Abel, being the curious type, waited until he was off work and then called the number again. When he asked to leave a message, the service said that if he wished to be connected to Collette they would need his credit card number.”
Pearlie jerked upright. “Phone sex?”
“Make that live-on-the-Internet-sex and you have it.”
“But why? If she didn’t make enough as an artist, surely her rich daddy would pick up the slack.”
“Think, Pearlie. What has everyone said about Bethany? That she was so full of life, so vital, always upbeat and smiling, and in spite of her facial deformity, she was pretty. So what would a young woman like Bethany, who had little interaction with people outside of the art compound, be missing?”
“Love,” Pearlie sighed. “Or something close enough so she could at least feel like a woman, wanted and desirable.”
“And the men who paid for the on-line experience wouldn’t think anything of a mask—she could say it was to hide her real identity.”
“We should add a mask to the list of missing items from what Homicide removed from her house. And Homicide doesn’t know about her secret job? What about Reina? Do you think she knew?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt her father did.”
“This could be why she was murdered.”
“Well, Abel may never have had a real date, but he knew all about women willing to have a ‘date’ on the internet.”
“Abel, did he—?”
“He says he had too much respect for her.”
“What else?” Pearlie asked, her excitement growing. “Does he know who killed Bethany?”
“He has an idea, but that’s where it gets sticky. The day Bethany was murdered, he overheard the police chief bragging about having a date with his hot new girlfriend.”
Her eyes lit as she put it together. “Oh, I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. Bethany. He was on his way to see his new girlfriend. Wait. Reina admitted to making that 9-1-1 call, but not to seeing the chief. Think she was lying about that, too?”
“Maybe. But if she admits that she and Julio were there, the D.A. will pressure her to testify against her boyfriend on a murder charge.”
Pearlie held up the fingers on her good hand to count off the evidence.
“Okay, so by the time Reina made that 9-1-1 call, the chief was either dead, or on his way to it. How did the police chief find out where Bethany lived?”
“The chief could get a judge and a warrant for the message center, tell them it was part of an ongoing investigation.”
“And when he found her, he must’ve been dumbstruck. She certainly wasn’t as advertised.”
“Exactly. Now what would a wife-beating misogynist like the chief do in a situation like that?”
“His ego wouldn’t tolerate the idea that he’d been having phone sex with a freak,” Pearlie said. “The chief’s history of beating on his wife says he’d be likely to eventually murder someone. She’d made a fool out of him, so he kills her. That accounts for one murder. Then who killed the chief?”
“Homicide,” I said, “is satisfied that the chief was simply the second victim of an intruder and it’s going to stay that way unless we can come up with the connection between the two.”
“We have to find the laptop. It will confirm if the chief was a client of hers and give Homicide a suspect for Bethany’s murder besides Julio Castillo.”
“You mean, I have to find the laptop,” I said. “You’re staying put until the doctors say so.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pearlie said, examining herself in her compact mirror.
“So is your doctor cute?”
“Short, with a little bald spot on the back of his head, but I think he’s sweet on me.”
“He’s not married?”
“Divorced. No kids, just moved here from Minneapolis and glad for a change of weather.”
I shook my head in admiration. Who else could turn a rattlesnake bite into a date but my cousin?
“There’s still the issue of who killed the chief. It had to be someone who knew he was supposed to be on a fishing trip,” I said. “He would be familiar with the area and know all the best places to dump a body. It would have to be a man big enough to haul a grown man down the stairs and ….”
The words dried up in my mouth. There was one person who fit that description perfectly. One person who was connected with both Bethany and the chief, and who had no trouble charging uphill with my cousin over his shoulder, and who could’ve just as easily carted the police chief’s body downstairs, out of the house, and knew a convenient place to dump a body. Mac Coker held the lien on the Dick property and the deputy had no way of paying off the back taxes. Or maybe Mac Coker had offered Able a deal he couldn’t refuse.
“Deputy Dick,” I said, regret and disappointment echoing my words. “Damn it. And he knew all about the mapped mine pits in Cochise County.”
“First he’s a hero and now he’s dirty? Make up your mind, will you?”
“I-I’m not sure.” Was he also Mac Coker’s stooley?
“You’re the one who said he wasn’t as dumb as he looked.”
“I did, didn’t I?” If Abel killed the chief, at least Julio Castillo won’t be indicted for murder.
“Okay,” Pearlie said, warming to the subject. “The Chief killed Bethany, and Deputy Dumb, sorry, Abel, killed the chief, swept up any evidence that might smear Bethany’s good name and dumped the chief in the nearest mine pit. It’s going be up to you to find out if Abel is responsible for killing the police chief. Think you can handle it by yourself?”
“Of course I can,” I said, hoping I was wrong. And to think I was actually starting to warm up to Abel Dick and his gun-toting granddad. I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock.
“Damn. I completely forgot Reina and she’s probably been released by now.”
“Don’t worry about it. Mac Coker called earlier wanting to know how we were doing on the case, and I assured him we were still on the job, but I did have to tell him I was in the hospital on a count of me being snakebit and all. He said not to worry about Reina, he’d take care of her.”
An uneasy feeling ran through me. Why would Mac Coker be willing to help Reina now, when earlier he’d been ready to kick her off the property?
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said.
“Why not? He was real nice about it, me being under the weather and all.”
“Because he could be the one who’s moving drugs in and out of his daughter’s property.”
“Mac? They arrested Julio Castillo, and you heard Mac, he and Bethany wouldn’t stand for it.”
“No, Pearlie. He said Bethany wouldn’t have tolerated it. Mac Coker still has ties with the Chicago mob, and Abel says he’s bought the tax liens on several properties along Red Mountain Road, including the Dick property.”
“Maybe he wants it for a residential development,” she said with a shrug.
“Don’t defend him just because he hired us to find his daughter’s killer.”
I was beginning to think that Caleb had it right. Who in their right mind would hire Pearlie and me as private investigators? Maybe Mac Coker hired us to get inside information and he’d either pay us off, or finish us off. Ohmygod. I couldn’t, shouldn’t go there, at least not without proof.
Luckily, my dad and Caleb appeared at the door and distracted me from my escalating suspicions.
Pearlie smiled at the men and whispered, “Let’s leave Mac Coker out of it for now, shall we?”
I had to agree with her. But the first chance I got I intended to let Caleb in on the whole story; the tax liens bought up by Mac Coker, the possibil
ity that the police chief had murdered Bethany, and last but not least, that Abel Dick might’ve killed the chief in an attempt to save Bethany’s reputation.
While my dad laid a bouquet on the bedside table and asked how she was doing, Caleb pulled me out of the room.
“We have to go,” he said.
“Okay, but I’ve got something very important to tell you.”
“Can it wait? We have a problem at home.”
Looking glum, my dad joined us in the hall.
“He’s right, Lalla. We sort of set a trap to keep thieves away from the Bugatti and—”
“A trap? What kind of a trap?” I asked.
Dad reached up and scratched his head. “Well, now, that’s the thing. We think Uncle Ed had plans to rig the light switch to electrocute any unauthorized entry. There was this sign next to the door that said, Danger with lightning a bolt across the words.”
“In German,” Caleb added.
“Who puts up a sign in German?” I asked.
“Your great-uncle Ed,” the men chorused.
“If it’s nothing more than an electrical shock, why are you so worried?” I asked.
“Well now,” Caleb said. “That’s the problem. We got to thinking, with a valuable race car in the barn it should be more than just a shock.”
“Yeah,” Caleb said. “We found some fertilizer soaking in diesel fuel, and a small detonator wired in series with a battery, and since it was all just sitting there, we attached it to the light switch on the door. I put it on a three minute time delay so we could disarm it, but—”
“Three minute timer?” I asked, fear skittering down my neck at the potential disaster.
“We had every intention of disarming the thing,” Caleb said, “but your dad was tired of waiting for you girls, so he called the Jeep dealership about a loaner, and they called back to tell us someone was bringing us a car about the same time you called about Pearlie and we completely forgot about disconnecting the whole thing.”
“I guess we got distracted,” Dad said. “By the time we dropped off the driver at the Chrysler dealership the security alarm started beeping.”
Caleb held up the little gizmo with a blinking red light.
My eyes widened with horror. “The Bugatti could be toast by the time we get there!”
“Not to mention trying to explain a dead thief to the sheriff’s department,” Caleb said.
“Maybe not,” Dad said. “We just can’t remember if we attached the light switch to the bomb.”
I didn’t have to voice what we were all thinking: Would we find a burned out barn with the hulk of an expensive race car and a dead thief in the ashes, or was it a false alarm?
I ducked into Pearlie’s room to explain, saw that her head was down and her eyes closed, so I backed out of the room and motioned to Caleb and my dad that we could leave.
Caleb drove the new loaner and kept to the speed limit until we turned off the highway, and then floored it. We bounced over potholes and ate dust for the next mile, but when we arrived at our property, the security lights were on. Someone had been here. The good news was that there was no fire or smoke coming from the barn.
Caleb swung the wheel over and parked.
“Still intact,” he said, pointing to the chain and lock. “That’s a good sign.”
He and Dad got out and did a quick sweep of the property.
I was twitching my fingers on the dash, waiting for the guys to give me the all clear sign when Caleb opened my door.
“Your dad’s new dog must’ve triggered the alarm. We left the porch light on so why don’t you go inside, Lalla. Noah and I will keep checking.”
A false alarm? And they had it rigged to blow up? I was relieved and furious. Selling the Bugatti was going to be my nest egg for retirement. Obviously, these boys needed something to occupy their time besides building a makeshift protection against thieves.
I unlocked the door to the house, stepped inside, switched on the light and laid Pearlie’s purse on the entry table.
Something didn’t feel right. I tried to shake off my apprehension, but I couldn’t quite get over the eerie feeling that I was being watched.
Oh get over it, Lalla. It’s just that you’ve never come into this house alone at night.
As I reached up to brush a strand of hair from my forehead, I noticed movement on the far side of the room.
I froze, then stealthily reached into the side pocket of Pearlie’s bag and withdrew her gun. Holding it between both hands, I croaked, “Come out where I can see you!”
The shadowed figure halted, a glint of metal in his hand.
With my heart threatening to leap out of my chest, I crouched and pulled back the hammer.
“Drop it, or I’ll shoot!” I yelled.
But instead of doing as I ordered, he pointed his weapon at me.
I fired and dove for cover behind the nearest couch.
I waited, expecting to hear him fire back, or shout, or run out the door.
Nothing.
Was he dead? Or was he waiting for me to come out from behind the couch? Before I could decide, the front door slammed open and Caleb shouted, “Lalla!”
“Get down,” I hissed.
He threw himself on the floor next to me. “What happened?”
“A gunman. I-I think I shot him.”
“Where?”
“On the other side of the living room.”
“By the French doors?”
“Yeah,” I said, breathless and panting.
In spite of my warning, he peeked around the side of the couch, then flicked on his flashlight and scoured the dark interior.
“No one’s there,” he said, standing. “Let’s turn on some lights.”
I got up, my legs shaking from the adrenaline rush.
With the lights on, I scanned the room. Where’d he go?
Glancing at the French doors, I gasped and brought up my gun again. “There he is!”
Caleb hit my forearm, forcing the barrel down. “Don’t shoot! It’s your dad.”
Dad quietly slipped through the door, a shovel in his hand. “What’s all the ruckus?”
“You didn’t see him?” I asked, my voice an octave higher.
“Who?” Dad asked, looking around.
“There was a man with a gun standing right where you are, Dad. If the French doors were open, then he escaped the way he came in.”
My dad looked behind him. “I didn’t see anyone.”
My voice quaked and my hands shook. “He-he could still be out there.”
Caleb gently pried my fingers off the Lady Smith. “Noah, close the French doors and come over here, will you?”
When my dad was standing next to us, Caleb turned off the table lamp and said, “Lalla. Tell me—what do you see?”
I looked across the dark room. This time, three people looked back. Caleb waved. The tallest figure waved back.
“Oh, but ….” My explanation trailed off into embarrassment. I’d come into a dark house, turned on an overhead light and seen my own reflection.
“Then,” I asked, annoyed at my own idiocy, “who left the French doors unlocked? And you set the alarm, right? Oh, crap. I didn’t even notice the alarm wasn’t set.”
“The French doors were locked and the house was alarmed,” Caleb said. “Someone was in the house.”
My dad reached over and turned on the table lamp. “Gol-durn thieves. What else did they steal?”
“What do you mean? They didn’t take the Bugatti, did they?”
I looked at their hangdog expressions and knew without asking. “The lock on the barn door—?”
“Yeah, well,” my dad said. “I guess if he could figure out our alarm code, he could pick a simple lock and disarm our makeshift security system. If I get my hands on that sonofabitch, I’ll shoot him myself.”
“That may have to wait,” Caleb said. “Let’s turn on all the lights and look around—just don’t touch anything.”
Whe
n we were finished, we gathered in the living room.
“Everything is as we left it,” Caleb said. “No drawers opened, and our closets appear undisturbed.”
“That quart of coffee ice cream in the freezer is gone,” Dad growled.
“You polished off that carton after dinner last night,” I replied. “There’s nothing out of place, but still ….”
“Yeah,” Caleb said, looking around. “Someone was here. But for what purpose?”
“They were quick about it,” Dad said. “Maybe there were two of them.”
“One to steal the Bugatti,” Caleb said, his voice thoughtful. “The other came in to see if there was anything worth stealing in the house.”
“I put a bullet hole in the glass for nothing,” I added. “You did set the alarm before you left, right?”
“Of course,” Dad said, heading for the fridge. “Why wouldn’t we?”
He seemed oddly nonchalant about our security system, but then my dad also thought a shotgun was the best deterrent for thieves.
Caleb cleared his throat. “We were so busy creating our bomb that we didn’t set a new code for the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“We set the code at 1-2-3-4 and left.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Who’s going to call the sheriff’s department?”
Caleb scrubbed a hand over his crew cut. “I’ll do it.”
“Don’t hurry or anything. They only stole an antique race car worth over million dollars.”
“Yes, I know that, sweetheart,” he said, reaching for his cell phone.
Furious that my retirement fund had been stolen, I forgot how this call would play out; we’d be up half the night while deputies tramped all over our property, when in all probability the thief was enough of a pro not to leave any clues. The Bugatti would be smuggled across the border and in some rich Mexican drug lord’s garage by sunrise.
I looked over at my dad. In spite of his assertion that he was fine, my father was still on heart medications and needed his sleep. All my righteous indignation would be for nothing if he had to endure another go-round with the sheriff’s department. At least we didn’t walk in on these guys. Hang the Bugatti. I had what really mattered right here in the house.
I put a hand over Caleb’s. “Wait.”