Michael rapped his knuckles against the claim form, which Higgins had laid on the table. “Then we skip ahead to what we do know, the Lucky Boy Mine. Kincannon would remember the shaft, its isolation, and an anxious killer falls back on the familiar. Good. But here things get fuzzy again.”
“For you or him?” Higgins asked.
“Both of us. He hacks off Razin’s hands—”
“Actually, he used lopping shears.”
“Like garden shears?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d the pathologist from Salt Lake determine that?”
“He didn’t. The bureau did. We have this contract outfit that duplicates various kinds of trauma on cadavers. They also experiment with decomposition rates and larval infestation. It’s a real little shop of horrors.”
Michael set down his burrito, which he’d just picked up again. “Continuing, Kincannon takes the time to remove Razin’s hands, but then—judging from a coyote finding at least one of them—he just chucks them on the mountainside...” He drifted off into thought.
“So?” Higgins asked.
“Contradictory behaviors.”
“Explain.”
“Well, Kincannon repeatedly does things that don’t stack up against each other. He hauls the body to a mine, but one he’s tied to by legal documents. He lops off Razin’s hands to prevent fingerprint identification, but then tosses those hands away. Not to mention the teeth, which he failed to extract and you guys made the ID on.”
“We’re talking about a first-time killer here. He was bound to make mistakes, no matter how clever he is.”
“Cleverness aside, this was a man who spent most of his adult life fighting nuclear energy. Then he conspires to help a rogue state build a plant or, worse yet, weapons. That has to be the ultimate sell-out. Dr. Kincannon completely discredits himself. His enemies must be ecstatic.”
“Both of us have file cabinets full of sell-outs. People do weird shit under pressure. Anything stressful going on in Kincannon’s life right now?”
The tax battle with Inyo County, which apparently was bleeding him dry. But Michael was done with share-and-tell for the time being. “Here’s where you help. I’ve got virtually no travel budget, and the sheriff goes ballistic each time I step outside his county. You get all the resources of the bureau going on the following—Kincannon’s cellphone traffic, travel patterns, credit cards, passport and visas. Why can’t Interpol jump in? And as far as any jurisdictional issues that come up, run interference with the U.S. Attorneys in Vegas and Los Angeles so I don’t wake up one morning with my hands tied and no invitation to the party.”
“Done,” Higgins declared, wiping the dimpled corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I’m glad we came to this understanding, Michael. Aren’t you...?”
Chapter Sixteen
Michael sat waiting on the front steps of the Furnace Creek Inn, facing west into the declining sun. The hotel was shuttered until October brought back the upscale tourists who insisted on all the amenities, including tolerable weather. The swimming pool had been drained, and a scorpion had fallen in during the night. Unable to climb out, it had fried to death. Michael had noticed it while checking the area for any surprises, like the ubiquitous Mr. Carson.
Higgins was now gone two hours and Joanna Wallace five. It had been a busy Sunday following a week on the road, so busy Michael hadn’t played his phone messages until three o’clock. One, from Thursday evening while he’d been in L.A., had been left by the figure now coming over the gravel fan toward him. He scarcely seemed human as waves of mirage pulled at his image, stretching his torso far to one side while erasing his head and leaving his legs to plod along as if the rest of him had been cut off at the knees. Like a man made of molten lead. At last, as he crossed the highway a quarter mile below Michael, the restless distortions ceased and the figure reassembled into the person of Horace Dock.
In the course of their thirty-second conversation a half hour ago, Michael’s cousin had asked for a meeting in a private place off the reservation. The inn had suited Horace, although he advised Michael that he would arrive on foot—that way his pickup wouldn’t be seen parked near a sheriff’s cruiser. The man had his reputation to consider.
Horace’s leathery faced remained impassive as he climbed the steps to Michael. Halting, he glanced over the Moorish gardens, the mission-style building itself, made in part of adobe bricks fashioned by Shoshone laborers. The deserted inn appeared to amuse him, as if following some global cataclysm the white population had vanished, leaving a few Shoshone to wander among the ruins to contemplate their sudden good fortune. For a few moments, there was no sound other than the wind in the palm fronds, then Horace asked, “You ever hear how the nununuu come to name this county?”
Even though he’d heard the story many times, Michael said, “No.” His cousin was opening up to him again.
“When those first whites showed up with their wagons and their cattle,” Horace went on, “an old Indian man stood shouting at them, waving his arms. Inyo! he kept saying, Inyo, Inyo! Those nununuu figured he was telling them the name for this area. Later, they got it in their heads that Inyo meant Dwelling Place of the Great Spirit, though nobody native ever told ‘em that, I’m sure. No, that old man knew a little Spanish, though he couldn’t pronounce it so good, and he was telling those settlers Indio, Indio! He was saying, This is Indian land, stay the hell off! But people hear what they want to hear, I guess.”
Michael chuckled, and Horace grinned over at him—it felt like sunshine on a cold morning. “It’s good to see you.”
But the man didn’t rise to that bid for affection, and his expression turned unreadable again. “I heard you went over to Tehachapi and talked to Jimmy.”
So the grapevine was alive and well.
“Yes, Friday afternoon.”
Horace nodded, approvingly. “Well, I did what you asked, Michael. I checked the log book in my truck. You remember, for when I posted that warning sign on the hoist-house up at the Lucky Boy...” This was something that couldn’t have been said over the phone. So did a face-to-face meeting signal a slight thaw? “I posted it Monday morning, June thirtieth.”
That settled it—there was no way Horace could have smelled anything on that date. At least twenty-four hours would pass before Razin’s body was carried underground. Another bothersome discrepancy about the disposal of his remains had come back to Michael since talking today to Higgins: The Lucky Boy was an up-cast mine. Air entered the workings from lower on the mountain and flowed out the mouth of the shaft, turning the works into a big atomizer. The killer took pains to lug the corpse down that rickety ladder, only to have chosen a mine with a ventilation system guaranteed to broadcast the stench over a wide area. Wouldn’t Kincannon, a man who knew mining, have realized?
“You get around this country more than anybody I know, Horace.”
“I suppose.”
“Have any other tunnels or shafts been closed recently anywhere in the region?”
“Not official. If it isn’t me doing the blasting, it’s Explosive Ordnance Disposal. All the sheriffs call in the Navy to get rid of old dynamite, that sort of stuff. EOD will blow it up right underground, and sometimes that collapses the works. I talk to those guys pretty regular—they haven’t done a job round here for quite a while.”
“Have you seen a lime-green Hummer while you were out?”
“Lately?”
“Doesn’t have to be all that recent.”
Horace eased down on a step and folded calloused hands between his knees. “Like a bright green?”
“Yes.”
Michael could see his gaze turn inward, running through a mental catalogue of desert terrain.
“Once,” Horace finally said. “Except this was way up north. Outside the park, really. Nowhere near the Lucky Boy.”
Michael perked up. “Where, exactly?”
“Upper end of Eureka Valley.”
“You were working in Eureka?”
“No, I was closing a tunnel on Last Chance Mountain, still inside the park. I was taking my lunch break and looking off to the northwest when I saw a Hummer.”
“How many miles are we talking about?” Michael asked.
“Seven, maybe eight.”
“That’s pretty far. What made you sure it was a Humvee?”
“It was squat and chunky like one. I just knew. And it was the kind of green you said. It stood out against the red salt.”
“You mean there was a bacteria bloom on the Eureka playa?”
“Yeah, that’s what it must’ve been.”
Improbably, a species of bacteria thrived in the brine of some lake beds, producing a reddish pigment. Michael asked, “Any geothermal exploration going on near the park?”
“None I’ve heard of.”
“And the Hummer was parked right on the salt?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
Horace frowned. “I’d have to check my log book again. But I think it was May. There were patches of hard snow in the shade.”
“Did you see any people near the vehicle?”
“Too far to really tell. I just assumed.”
Michael could tell that his cousin was getting talked out, but he persisted. “Could you pinpoint the spot the Hummer was parked, if you had to...?” He’d left the windows down in his cruiser, and before Horace could answer the sheriff’s voice interrupted over the radio: “Independence, find out where the devil David-Four is.”
“Copy, Adam-One. David-Four, Independence, what’s your ten-twenty...?”
Michael hustled down the steps and grabbed his microphone. “Independence, I’m in Furnace Creek.”
“You’re not at your post,” the sheriff overrode dispatch, “and I know that because I’m waiting inside your office.”
“That’s affirmative, Adam-One. I’m up at the inn making a security check.”
“Stand-by, Long Shore, until I get there.”
Michael turned but Horace had gone. There was no sign of his cousin, anywhere. He had melted into the valley.
Gorman’s sedan appeared, speeding up the driveway. He parked and lumbered out into the heat, taking a minute to dab his wattles with his handkerchief before huffing up to the landing. He scarcely took notice of Michael as he checked the sun’s height, scowling as he saw that it was hours from dipping behind the Panamints.
“Come along, Long Shore,” he said, producing a clump of keys from the pocket of his seersucker jacket, “I know someplace we can have a long chat without roasting.”
The need for a spot to talk at length didn’t bode well. Nor did the fact that the sheriff had driven out to Death Valley on a Sunday afternoon.
Proving once again that he was indeed keeper of the keys to everything in the county, Gorman unlocked the front doors to the inn. They stepped into airless lobby, their feet stirring dust off the carpet. Gorman coughed. The sitting area, with its 1950s decor, seemed even more frozen in that bygone era because of the covers that had been draped over furniture when the place was shut down in mid-May. Gorman led Michael down the corridor toward the dining room, his footfalls making the floor creak. He swung through the bar long enough to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Moving on, he ordered over his shoulder, “Grab a couple of shot glasses off the shelf behind you.”
Michael did so, then trailed the man through the outer doors of the dining room onto a flagstone patio.
“Two hours ago,” the sheriff said, “I was phoned by the SAC of the L.A. field office...a female, like all of them in these enlightened times...” He was referring to the special-agent-in-charge, Higgins’s boss. “She thanked me for your efforts thus far but noted that things got off to a rocky start between you and her agent. She sounded like you’d been less than forthright with her boy...” Gorman turned over a wrought-iron chair that been stacked on a table. “I can’t believe you’d do something like that. Is it true?”
The shade of a tamarisk tree was falling across the patio, but Michael still tested the metal of his own chair with a moistened fingertip. “It’s true. With the FBI, I never give more than I receive.”
The sheriff sat and poured them each a shot. “I’ll drink to that.” He bolted down his sour mash. “It would’ve been impolitic of me to point out to a split-tail SAC that you’re a half-breed, and certain traits go along with a mixing of blood. Got to be where my granddaddy wouldn’t hire ‘breeds to work on our ranch. He said you never knew what you had—one time you were dealing with the white man, the next the Indian. But mostly, you just couldn’t tell...” He stared with frank distaste at Michael. “Our partnership with the FBI has paid us at least one dividend.”
“How’s that?”
“The SAC told me that a week ago Kincannon’s corporate credit card was used at an ATM machine.”
“Where?”
“Definitely this side of heaven—the Riviera Hotel in Havana, Cuba. The draw was the equivalent of five grand.”
Michael savored the whiskey, thinking. Whoever had used the card had to have known the PIN—that made Kincannon the likeliest candidate. And that helped explain something else. Friday, while inspecting Carl’s hermitage with Joanna and Deputy Tiffany, Michael had seen that the pages to the Caribbean in the man’s atlas had been marked with a Spanish-English dictionary. “Was it an ATM where transactions are videotaped?”
Gorman shrugged. “Unknown. The FBI isn’t exactly welcome in that socialist paradise. Though, the SAC hinted she might try to make use of other American intelligence assets in Havana to verify Kincannon is down there.”
Michael found it troubling that Higgins hadn’t told him about this development himself, something he had apparently followed up on after getting back to L.A. So much for the two of them having come to an understanding. He could feel himself being squeezed out of the investigation, so it was no surprise when Gorman drawled, “Listen, this case has grown too big for somebody in your present status...” On probation as a result of discipline, he was saying. “As soon as I get back to Independence, I’m going to put together a team to carry on in support of the FBI. The feds are the lead agency now. Your final duty related to this will be to brief our team on whatever progress you’ve made.”
Looking out across the valley, Michael tightened his lips for a moment. “I don’t think it’s a good time for me to bail on this investigation.”
“Oh, you’re not bailing on anything. You are being relieved.” The sheriff scrutinized Michael’s expressionless face. “What was the original purpose in your going over to Nye County yesterday?”
“Re-interview Kincannon’s estranged wife.”
“Have you confirmed that the marriage was even legal? It was performed in Mexico, wasn’t it?”
“I haven’t had the means. Higgins is going to do that for me now through the FBI’s legal attaché in Mexico City.”
“Did you call this supposed Ms. Kincannon prior to leaving for Nevada, or did you do so after you were already over there, rooting around without permission for any sign of Kincannon and the Persian?”
Here it was: that old pink slip fluttering in front of Michael once again. The unfortunate thing about this repeated threat was that, eventually, termination would be a relief. No dummy, Gorman had studied the department’s call and radio logs, probably checking into Higgins’s complaint passed along through his SAC that Michael had known about the relevance of Carrara, Nevada, from the get-go. Now all the sheriff had to do to close the trap on Michael was to go through the time of the calls he’d made on his department-issued cell phone. He even facetiously cupped a hand behind his ear as he waited for Michael’s reply.
“I’m not hearing anything, Long Shore. We don’t have to go on the polygraph over this, do we?”
Keep your cool, Michael told himself.
In a different outfit with a different sheriff, he wouldn’t hesitate to reveal that he was under a death threat. But, after his meeting with Jimmy, he had reason to believe
the contract had been accepted by somebody tied to the Las Vegas mob, the people for whom Gorman had been accused of turning a blind eye as they stashed their victims in Death Valley mines. Michael had to stay in the investigative loop if only for the real-time information. It was now a matter of survival.
“Long Shore...?”
“There’s something only I can follow-up on, Sheriff.”
“And what would that be?”
“In Los Angeles, I was approached by a subject who asked me to share the info I gathered about these cases.”
“Somebody with the FBI?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not?”
“He refused to ID himself, but I was fairly sure he’s a cop. He said only that he looks out for Nevada’s interests.”
“Their Investigation Division?”
“I asked that,” Michael replied. “He neither confirmed nor denied.”
“Did he give you any idea at all who his boss was?”
“Somebody powerful in the state.”
“What the hell did you discuss?”
“Dead bodies showing up in Death Valley.” Technically true, and thus polygraph-proof, even though Carson’s interest had been Kincannon, not Razin.
“Shit,” the sheriff growled.
But Michael wasn’t sure that the bait had been taken until Gorman shoved himself back from the table and came to feet. He stormed over to the balustrade at the patio’s edge and turned east, toward Las Vegas, where long ago the Clark County D.A. and now governor had mounted his unsuccessful campaign to tie Gorman to the underworld there.
Cole Gorman was far from being a hick. Born to a ranching family of means, he’d even gone to the University of California, Davis and majored in pre-law. He might have become a political force to be reckoned with in Sacramento, except that, as the sixties frolicked into the seventies, his kind of man had gone out of style. But Michael never forgot that Gorman’s intelligence made it dangerous to underestimate him.
Under the Killer Sun: A Death Valley Mystery Page 14