Under the Killer Sun: A Death Valley Mystery

by Kirk Mithchell

  The silhouette made a slow turn, taking in the valley. Then, satisfied that he was alone, Tiffany strode over to the gate. He switched on a penlite and clenched it between his front teeth as he worked.

  “What’s he doing?” Higgins asked under his breath.

  “Picking the padlock. He’s got a number of unexpected talents.”

  It didn’t take him long. Soon, Tiffany swung the gate open and drove through. Once inside, he stopped to close it behind his truck, then headed toward the batch plant and equipment park. All of this was done blacked-out, except for when he was forced to use his brakes.

  Michael waited until the Dodge was well north of Higgins and him before springing up and hobbling the rest of the way to the gate. The shackle of the lock had been left open. After Higgins and he had squeezed through, Michael paused, thinking.

  “What?” Higgins asked.

  Michael snapped shut the lock. Now, Tiffany would have to either spend time re-picking it or ram the gate with his Dodge, leaving damage to his headlights that could be easily spotted by cops responding later. “Come on, R.J.”

  Following in the tracks of the Dodge, Michael and Higgins had to slow their pace to muffle the crunching of their shoes over the base of gravel and sand that had been spread for the concrete. It was overlain with a mesh of wire that threatened to trip them with every step.

  A crash came from the north end of the site. The same sound was repeated a few seconds later.

  “What was that?” Higgins asked.

  At first, Michael believed that the deputy had collided with some equipment in the darkness. But as he and the agent stood still, listening, a steady and workmanlike thud-thud-thud told him that Tiffany was breaking the surface of the base with a pick. Woody had mentioned the lack of wire or rebar in the track to keep the metal from interfering with electronic testing, and the deputy must have known that digging a common grave here would be fairly easy.

  Michael motioned Higgins to another halt.

  They were now no more than fifty yards from the Dodge. The pickup was parked broadside to them, and Michael could see Tiffany laboring behind the lowered tailgate. He had traded his pick for a shovel and, judging from the growing pile of gravel and sand, was making quick progress on a hole. Nearby lay two large, box-like objects. Michael guessed that Tiffany had dropped them off the back of the bed, accounting for the twin crashes he’d heard.

  With hand signals, he indicated to Higgins that, while he himself would confront Tiffany, the agent might inch around the front of the Dodge with his shotgun, placing the man in a pincer and keeping him from driving away.

  Higgins agreed with a thumbs-up and moved off.

  Michael then crept forward, his pistol in his right hand and the big-cell flashlight in his left.

  Tiffany must have heard something. All at once, he stood tall, taking in the sounds of the night.

  Without delay, Michael thumbed on the flashlight. He set it on the ground, aimed toward the man, and side-slipped away from this bullet-magnet. “Freeze, Scott!”

  Tiffany didn’t move a muscle at first. Then, slowly, he opened his fists. The shovel fell out of his grasp and rattled against a concrete tamper he’d brought along to re-pack and smooth the surface after he’d finished. Now his hands were free to go after a weapon. That was all that meant. Sweat was trickling out of his blond crew cut, and his eyes looked fierce. “Who’s there?”

  “Michael Long Shore.” He didn’t add that the FBI was with him. Keeping that a surprise for a while might be useful. “You know the drill, Scott—place your hands behind your neck and interlace your fingers.”

  The deputy shifted slightly, as if trying to locate his opponent in the glare. Then he obeyed. “I should’ve taken you out this afternoon at the airport, Long Shore, when I had the chance.”

  “Is that why you had the incident commander move me two feet to the right? So you could nail both Joanna and me with the same round?”

  “You didn’t know her,” Tiffany said vehemently.

  “Apparently. Turn around. Slow and easy. Then go to your knees.”

  Nothing happened. Michael thought he would refuse to budge, that his smoldering rage was taking over, rage that he had been forced to kill his lover because she might have spilled his name, disgust with himself for pulling the trigger. But, finally, a scraping noise followed as his SWAT boots about-faced on the gravel. He sank to his knees. No weapons were visible, but he had numerous pockets in his desert-camouflaged uniform.

  Michael glanced at the boxes. “Those the same trunks Kincannon used to store his prospecting tools in, including his rock pick?”

  “Yes,” Tiffany replied.

  “You brought them from his place above Indian Wells Joanna showed us?”

  “Yes.”

  That virtually confirmed Kincannon’s hideaway had been used as a temporary repository for the remains of the geophysicist and Carson. But Michael didn’t press the issue. Let him slip on his own noose. “How’d you two get together?” he asked innocuously.

  “Joanna and me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “False alarm up at the mansion. Joanna responded for AEI. One thing led to another.”

  Including perhaps the sleeping bag Michael had found in the otherwise empty master bedroom, he now realized.

  “Did you know that big house was supposed to be Kincannon’s wedding present to her?” Tiffany went on. “And when things fell apart between them, he just left it empty. Out of spite. That’s the kind of guy he was. Sure, she had a past, and she was tough to get along with sometimes. She had her baggage...” At this his voice cracked, and Michael sensed that he was close to tears. “Don’t we all? But there were no secrets between us. We had something special, Joanna and me. I knew all about San Francisco. How she had to make it on the streets. But Kincannon did nothing to help her back then. He just scooped her up like a stray dog and exploited her. That’s finally what got to her after all those years. The exploitation. That’s what she was fighting.”

  Michael hoped that Higgins, overhearing all this, would hang back. Tiffany was freely talking, and he didn’t want the discovery of the agent’s presence to interrupt the flow. “But she had a coach in that fight—you, Scott.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You probably had to talk her out of a lot of amateurish notions.”

  The deputy smirked. “No kidding. She was hot at first, madder than hell. She wanted to do Carl right there in Inyokern or Indian Wells. I explained that a patrol deputy like me gets excluded from crimes scenes by the dicks, so I couldn’t fix anything at the last minute. And something always needs fixing at a fresh scene. Christ, she even wanted to poison Carl or make it look like he had a heart attack. Find me something untraceable, she said. Like the medical examiner wasn’t going to look between Carl’s toes for a needle mark and have the toxicologist run every kind of test you can.”

  “But at some point the plan evolved beyond a simple homicide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, killing Carl outright would’ve played right into Dulcie’s hands—handing her AEI on a silver platter.”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany responded after a moment, “eventually Joanna cooled down and started thinking rationally, though she was still plenty pissed off.”

  “Enough to add the ironic touch that Carl was in bed with the nuclear industry? Even worse, the Iranian nuclear program?”

  The deputy’s lips tightened, briefly. “Carl Kincannon got everything he had coming, Long Shore.”

  “If you say so, Scott. What’s in the trunks, any weapons?” He had a very clear idea what was inside them, but the question was window-dressing for court later—Michael had a legal right to ask his prisoner if he was armed.

  Tiffany lowered his head, his fingers massaging his neck. The tendons looked taut. “Can’t you smell? About drove me nuts on the drive out here.”

  Michael couldn’t. A slight breeze had risen, but it was at his back. The trunk had ob
viously been in the bed of the truck, which was enclosed by the shell, but maybe Tiffany’s conscience had left him more sensitive to the stench. “Who killed Razin—Carson?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Carson, then. That makes more sense. He had to be the intermediary between the Iranian and Carl, passing out his pre-paid cell phones like candy. So poor Razin was ambushed from behind with Carl’s rock pick, then Kincannon himself was dusted when he stumbled into the pit after the fact—we won’t know how until we autopsy the body. Once dead, Carl was waltzed around the convertible like a rag doll to leave bloody prints on the hood and grille. Somebody put on his boots for the dash down to the Hummer, then later at the Lucky Boy and up in Eureka Valley. Carson wore nines, so thirteens would’ve fit him like clown shoes...” Michael paused to measure the Tiffany’s mood. Tears were finally streaking the man’s face. “Care to tell me who Carson actually was, Scott? He worked with you at Las Vegas Metro, right?”

  “Years ago.” Tiffany regarded one of the steamer trunks, fondly. “He was a stand-up guy. That’s all I’ve got to say about him. You’ll ID him soon enough, so let him rest in peace a while longer before the press drags his name through the mud. He’s already been fucked by the system once. For just doing his job, they took away his badge and made him do three years. So let him be.”

  “Where’s Carl’s Hummer?”

  “Cut up with a torch. The parts are in Mexico by now. A chop-shop took care of it for me.”

  “Easier than ditching human remains, right?”

  “Like you said when we first met, Long Shore, you’re lucky finding cadavers. Kind of spooked me. Must be the Indian in you.”

  “Must be. Why didn’t you come here first with Carl’s body, instead of messing around up in Eureka Valley?”

  “I wanted to, but there was a concrete shortage.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There’s so much building going on in China, it’s created a concrete shortage.”

  “And when you shot me near Dulcie’s place, weren’t you afraid I’d later recognize you?”

  “Didn’t you see? Must’ve been because of the sun. I had my sniper’s hood on. I wish now I’d taken my long gun with me, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I used a revolver so there’d be no shell casings left behind. Let’s get this over with. My knees are starting to hurt like a bitch. Old football injuries.”

  “Fair enough.” Michael decided it was time for the final takedown, even though the man’s ease in incriminating himself had raised a red flag. “I brought along backup, Scott. The FBI has a shotgun on you.”

  “From where?”

  “Go prone and turn your face to the right,” Michael ordered. He’d just caught hints of movement from the agent out in the dark to the left of Tiffany.

  “Where’s your backup, Long Shore? Don’t go bullshitting me now. If you’re alone, level with me. I deserve to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “I’m over here,” Higgins announced from the front of the truck.

  Tiffany lunged to the left instead of going flat. As the deputy rolled under the bed of the truck, Michael fired twice. The man grunted but vanished into the shadows beyond the throw of the flashlight, and now a hissing blotted out all other sounds.

  One of Michael’s bullets had punctured the left front tire.

  A string of gunshots erupted, like firecrackers going off. None had the deep bark of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “Jesus Christ!” a voice cried in agony. Higgins’s.

  A single shot echoed down to silence.

  Michael resisted calling out to the agent. Snatching the flashlight up off the gravel, he held it away from his body as he swept the area all around the truck, searching for Tiffany.

  No sign of him.

  Michael dropped to his belly and looked under the Dodge. Higgins was at ground-level too, gaping listlessly back at him. His shoes and socks were bloodied, which explained the string of shots. Tiffany had felled the agent by shooting his feet out from under him. The final might have been a coup de grace, although Michael could see no evidence of a head wound.

  Michael turned off the light and tucked it under his left arm as he sprang to his feet. His wounded leg buckled, and he nearly went down again. He hitched along the side of the pickup and flung open the driver’s door, bringing on the interior light. The cab was clear. Both front and rear seats. No Tiffany.

  He caught a whiff of rotting flesh, but nothing as strong as the deputy had imagined.

  Michael shut the door to kill the dome light, then rushed around the grille. He knelt over Higgins’s body. One hand twitched spasmodically, but there was no other movement from the man. He licked the back of his own hand and was holding it to the agent’s nostrils—when Higgins looked up at him and asked, “Did he get me in the face?”

  Michael jerked back. “Jesus!”

  “I saw a muzzle flash as he tried to finish me off.”

  Flicking on the light, Michael briefly ran the beam over Higgins. “He must’ve missed,” he finally said, “but he chewed your feet up pretty bad.”

  “I can’t feel them.”

  “Probably a good sign.”

  “Where’s my shotgun?”

  “Gone. He took it.” Rising, Michael recalled that Tiffany had left his key in the ignition. He opened the passenger front door, then hoisted Higgins onto the bucket seat.

  The man’s breath seized, then he said sharply, “I can feel my feet now.”

  “Probably a good sign. I’ll belt you in, so if you pass out again.”

  “Am I bleeding badly?”

  “No.” Michael went around to the other door, sat and started the engine. The flat tire made the steering sluggish, but he wrenched the steering wheel all the way to the right as he skimmed the track bed with the high beams. Tiffany had to have struck south on foot, otherwise Michael would have heard him jogging past.

  Higgins chuckled.

  Michael thought it might be a symptom of shock, but asked as he craned over the wheel, “What’s so funny?”

  “I got my hands on a copy of Kincannon’s latest known will and trust twenty-four hours ago,” he said with a grimace that was almost a smug grin. “AEI’s corporate attorney in L.A. finally folded under the weight of national security. So Carrara you, Long Shore, I knew about Wallace’s motive before you did.”

  “Why, you sneaky—get down, R.J.!”

  The windshield shattered. The buckshot punched through the safety glass and took out the rear windows. Tiffany materialized out of the darkness and sprinted alongside the truck. Higgins started to fumble for his holstered pistol, but Michael shoved him down. The second shotgun blast took out the right front tire. The third punctured the radiator and sent steam curling over the hood.

  Michael fired back through the side window—but only to make Tiffany back off. On two deflated tires now, the pickup lost speed and mired into the gravel base. Ears ringing, Michael bailed out and strained for another glimpse of the deputy, but Tiffany was nowhere to be seen on the track bed. That meant he’d faded off into the shadows of the batch plant and earth-moving equipment from which he’d just launched his attack.

  Reaching back inside the cab, Michael shut off the headlights to keep himself from being backlit. “You okay, R.J.?”

  “Yes, but I can’t hear shit. Warn me before you bust caps right next to me.”

  “I did. Anyway, it’s the end of the line for this truck. You stay inside.”

  “Take my handgun.”

  “No, keep it in case he doubles back. But give me your car keys. I’ll deal with Tiffany, then drive north ‘til I get radio reception. Can you manage by yourself?”

  “Go!”

  Michael took the keys and big flashlight once, then trotted clumsily toward a grader, believing that he’d caught a shadow flickering around it a few moments before.

  By the time Michael reached the Caterpillar, Tiffany was gone, but he noticed a dark smear on the yellow paint of the count
erweight housing. He touched his fingers to it and smelled. Blood. At the very least, he’d clipped the deputy with one of his shots.

  Michael shuffled around. He’d just heard the sound of chain-link chiming. He fired his pistol toward gate, once, blindly, to hurry Tiffany through, giving the man no time to relock it.

  The deputy was going to take his chances on the highway.

  Michael limped over to the gate, a tingling sensation telling him that his calf was on the verge of cramping up.

  Using the flashlight briefly, he saw that his bullet had been well spent: Tiffany had dropped the padlock to the ground.

  Michael halted again a few yards into the low dunes. His eyes had not yet readjusted to the starry night, and he relied more on his hearing to locate the deputy. He was sure he could hear the pounding of the man’s footfalls on the silt, but then it dawned on him that he was catching his own pulse over the now faint ringing in his ears.

  Where to go? It was a huge valley, miles and miles of rolling brush with numerous ravines and canyons leading up into the mountains.

  However, only one source of man-made lights shone into the night.

  Woody Bryant’s travel trailer.

  Michael dismissed the idea of searching for the deputy’s boot tracks. Or heading directly to the radio in Higgins’s car, which would be a false comfort. No matter, how fast backup barreled across the desert, Tiffany would slip away, unless Michael took him down in the coming half hour. Once summoned, the nearest ambulance service was at least an hour away, and the deputy’s bullets had spared any of the major arteries in Higgins’s feet.

  Michael made a bee-line for the Airstream. Tiffany would zero in on any signs of settlement, banking on finding transportation there. Meanwhile, Michael could send Woody on his motorcycle the twenty-five miles to the closest phone at Panamint Springs.

  Once more, headlights showed from the lower end of the valley. As they grew larger, Michael gritted his teeth, hoping that Tiffany had already crossed the highway.

  But the approaching vehicle began to decelerate.

  “Merda!” Michael swore. In the cone of headlights, he could make out a figure dancing in front of what appeared to be a Volkswagen van. Tiffany was waving his arms to stop it. He’d ditched Higgins’s shotgun and put away his own pistol. Something glinted in his right fist. Michael believed it to be his badge. He was about to hijack the little bus with his star.