I typed Jay, 1985, and Sagebrush, Colorado into the search engine, but came up with nothing. I added “murder” and started poking through results. It took a bit of hunting, but I finally found a small article that mentioned the murder of Jay Overstrom, whose body had been found in a field east of Sagebrush. I filtered my search more, using “drugs” as a term, and came across another article with a bit more detail.
Jay Overstrom had moved to Sagebrush with his wife, Paula, in the early ’80s. He was known around town as a rabble-rouser who drank too much and did drugs, much to the chagrin of Pastor Sheehan, who had been interviewed for the article. The article discussed Overstrom’s history of arrests in Denver, mostly for domestic violence and possession of drugs, and his suspected connections to a drug-smuggling ring. Overstrom had been killed in gang fashion with a bullet to the back of the head. Because of Overstrom’s history in Denver, and the manner in which he’d been shot, the authorities speculated that Overstrom might have been murdered by someone from the smuggling ring. At the time the article was written, no killer had been found.
It’s what I’d heard from Annette Gessler, but now I had a name for his wife. I set the laptop beside me, grabbed my phone, and called Detective Spillman.
“You’re calling me again so soon,” she said in a clipped tone. “This can’t be good news for me.”
“Actually, it may be. Remember those skeletal remains I was asking you about?”
“That had been found in a field near Woodrow?”
“Right. Can you do a check on Paula Overstrom? The remains may be her.”
“How do you know that?” She was genuinely curious now.
I told her about my investigation. “It’s just a guess,” I concluded.
“Not a bad one,” she said. “I’ll make a few phone calls about it. Good work, Ferguson.”
I felt my face get hot. “Thanks.”
“That really is all you need?”
“Yes.”
“I’m shocked.”
“I’m shocked myself. Two compliments from you in one conversation.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
Then she was gone.
I pocketed my phone and was about to shut down my computer when the preview to an article caught my eye. I clicked on the link. It was an article from a newspaper in Texas. It had been written in 2005, and discussed some of the ways drugs flowed into the United States. One example was of a Pastor Miguel Mendoza from a small church in Mexico who had been accused of smuggling drugs across the border. He had ties to Mexican drug lords, and he’d been suspected of working with religious groups and leaders in small towns across Texas, Oklahoma, and Colorado, to distribute the drugs. The article ended by saying Mendoza was suspected in several murders of his accomplices, including a man known as “Jay-O.”
I sat back, my mind racing. Was that why Pastor Sheehan hadn’t wanted me to know Jay’s last name? Had Sheehan been involved in a drug-smuggling operation with him?
“No,” I said aloud. “That can’t be.”
But why not? It was worth checking out.
I shut down the laptop, put it in my backpack, and headed out to pay visits to Toby Holder and Pastor Sheehan. I had a lot more questions for both of them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was almost four o’clock when I parked in front of Holder Farm Equipment. I hurried inside and glanced around. No customers were in the store, but Bill – Annette’s husband – was behind the counter. When he saw me, he held up a hand.
“Toby said I’m not to let you in.” He moved around the counter and ambled toward me.
“I want to ask him a few questions,” I said.
He simultaneously shook his head and pointed toward the door. “Toby not’s here, and you can’t wait for him. Look, I don’t want to get tough with you, mister, but you need to go, or I’ll call the sheriff.”
“Where is Toby?”
“He’s with a customer, on site. Go on, now.”
“All right, I’m going.” I turned around and went back outside.
Bill stood at the entrance, stroking his handlebar mustache as he waited while I drove out of the parking lot. He was still there when I glanced in my rearview mirror a few seconds later. I sighed. Now what? I pulled over and yanked my phone out, then found Toby’s home address. He lived a few miles outside of town. I’d wanted to check his house to make sure Marcia wasn’t there, and what better time to do so than while he was still at work. I hit the gas and sped out of town.
Toby Holder’s house was on a large lot surrounded by farmland. His property didn’t have a fancy entrance like his sister Jennifer’s ranch did, and his house wasn’t nearly the size of hers, but it was every bit as nice. It was a two-story stone structure with an immense chimney. The front of the house faced south, with large windows to take in the view of rolling fields full of maize and sunsets, and a wide porch with a white railing. A three-car garage was on one side of the house, but I didn’t see any cars around.
I got out and listened. A few mourning doves cooed, and then dead calm. A sudden vision sprung into my mind of Toby Holder standing inside the house, by a window, with a shotgun in his hand.
“Hello?” I called out in what I hoped was a cool voice.
Silence.
I took a deep, calming breath and walked slowly up a stone walkway, onto the front porch and up to a heavy wooden door. I couldn’t find a doorbell, so I knocked loudly. I waited and rapped on the door again, not surprised that no one answered.
Toby was still working, right? I hoped so.
After knocking one final time, just to be sure, I tried a fancy doorknob. As I would’ve expected in a country home miles from a big city, it was unlocked. I turned the knob and let myself into Toby’s house.
I tiptoed into an open foyer with a staircase to the left, and a living area directly in front of me. The décor was rustic, but everything was expensive, from leather couches, hardwood floors, a huge stone fireplace, and exposed beams. To the right of the foyer was an office with a large oak desk, floor-to-ceiling oak shelves with western knick knacks and some books that appeared brand new, and two paintings of cowboys on horses on one wall.
“Hello?” I called out again.
My voice echoed throughout the house. I stole through the living room and into a kitchen with shaker cabinets, black appliances, and granite countertops. It was tidy, with hardly any decorations. Around the corner was a den with a large TV, another leather couch, and two reclining chairs. Plush tan carpet had vacuum cleaner rows on it. Someone had recently cleaned. I moved to the right, down a short hallway to a storage room, then backpedaled and returned to the entryway.
I went into the office and checked out the desk. A laptop sat on it, but it was turned off. I booted it up, but it was password-protected, so I shut it off. I rummaged in the drawers. Besides the usual office supplies, I found the same article from the Denver Post that I’d read about the skeletal remains being found near Woodrow. What was Toby’s interest in that?
I was pondering that when I thought I heard something. I listened, but after a moment, I figured I’d imagined it. I quietly shut the drawer, thinking I shouldn’t waste more time. I hurried into the foyer and up the stairs. The second floor had two spare bedrooms, both with queen-sized beds, and a master suite decorated in masculine tones, with tan walls and a log bedroom set. I checked in dresser drawers and in the bathroom, but found nothing noteworthy, so I went back downstairs. I found stairs to the basement and called out. When no one answered, I quietly crept down.
If I’d expected a bogie man, I would’ve been disappointed. The basement consisted of a large TV room and a man cave. An odor of pungent smoke filled a room that held a pool table, pinball machine, and large bar. At the other end of the room was a cigar area, with more expensive furniture, and a walk-in humidor filled with a variety of what I assumed were very expensive cigars. On two of the walls in the main room, bottles of whiskey, bourbon, and tequila sat on glass shelves
. I went to the shelves and scanned the bottles. One was a Highland Park 50-year-old single malt whiskey. I whistled.
“Over fifteen grand for that one,” I muttered.
It wasn’t the only pricey liquor on the shelves. Toby must have spent over a hundred grand on his liquor supply alone.
The farm equipment business is better than good, I thought.
Near the TV room was a bathroom, and beyond that a storage area. I went back to the stairs and took one final look around. Toby was living well. But I didn’t see any signs of Marcia.
I sneaked back upstairs and found a door to the garage. Inside was a classic Corvette, two new Harleys, and an ATV. I checked them out, then peered through a window to the side of the house. Parked outside the garage was a large boat, and another newer pickup truck.
Not bad.
I didn’t see anything else to note, so I stole back through the house and out the front door. Technically, I hadn’t broken in, but I didn’t think the sheriff would care about that. It was still some kind of illegal entry.
I stepped off the porch and walked around the house. In back was a small barn, but it was empty. No animals, and no Marcia. I finally concluded she wasn’t around, and it was time to leave. I jogged back to the 4-Runner and drove away.
Once I neared the highway, I stopped and looked up Sheehan’s address. He lived in town, near Annette Gessler. I didn’t waste any time driving there, but when I arrived and knocked on the door, no one was home. I was tempted to see if Sheehan kept his door unlocked, but his neighbor was working in her flower garden. Strike illegal entry into his home. The woman eyed me as I walked back to my car.
“He’s at church,” she said in a gravelly voice.
“Thank you.” I headed for my car, then turned back to her. “Where is that?”
She leaned back on her haunches. “The church? It’s on Pine.” Her tone said that I should’ve known. I smiled, but my face must’ve looked blank, because she pointed to the west. “Two blocks that way, then go north. You can’t miss it.”
I thanked her again, got in the 4-Runner, and followed her directions. Sagebrush Bible Church was a large white building on the corner. It was an older structure, with rectangular windows and a metal cross on top. A sign in front announced a Wednesday evening service at seven, and a service at ten on Sunday mornings.
Today was Wednesday, I thought.
A dark sedan was parked in a lot on the side of the building. I went over to the car, then walked around it. Was it the car that had run me off the road the other night? I couldn’t tell.
I glanced around, then crossed a parched lawn to the church entrance and pulled open the door. The church was modest, with red carpet, hardwood pews on either side of a center aisle, and a small altar with a wooden podium. Behind it, a wooden cross dominated the wall. I spotted a door to the right of the altar and started down the aisle toward it. Then the door opened and Pastor Sheehan entered the sanctuary. He was now wearing a dark blue suit. He took a few steps and then saw me.
“What’re you doing here?” he snapped.
“Overstrom. That’s Jay’s last name.”
He gave me an appraising look. “Good for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me his name? It would’ve been so much easier.”
He shrugged. “What happened with Jay doesn’t matter now. I’d hoped if I didn’t tell you, you would give up and go home.” He surveyed me up and down. “I see that didn’t happen.”
“Don’t you care about Marcia?”
“Of course I do. I talked to the mayor, and he said she’s fine.”
I shook my head. “Holder doesn’t know that, and he could be lying.”
“Mayor Holder wouldn’t do that. And Marcia had nothing to do with Jay Overstrom.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “He wasn’t involved with her.”
“He was involved in drugs.”
“I know that.”
I stared at him. “In my search, I found an interesting article about a Mexican pastor who was smuggling drugs into Colorado. He worked with religious groups and leaders to distribute the drugs.”
“What’re you saying?”
“Why cover up Overstrom’s killing unless you have something to hide?”
He flew at me and stopped within an inch of my face, a fist raised. “Don’t you dare start spreading rumors about me or I’ll have you –” Spittle flew from his mouth.
I stepped back casually. “Such a lot of anger. Maybe enough to kill.”
His nostrils flared. Then he took a deep breath and made a show of straightening his jacket.
“I’ve worked hard in this town. People trust me, and you shouldn’t be here trying to turn everything upside down. Now leave me alone.” He stormed back toward the door and banged through it. It slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small church.
Why doesn’t he want me asking questions? I thought to myself as I walked outside. What is he hiding?
Chapter Twenty-Four
I sat in the 4-Runner for a moment, blasted the air-conditioner, and called Cal. I wanted him to check into Toby Holder’s finances, and do a quick background check on Sheehan to see if either one was hiding something. He didn’t answer, so I left a message for him to call me, and then spent the next half-hour trying to find Toby Holder.
I drove back to Holder Farm Equipment, but it was closed for the evening, and no one was around. That meant Toby might’ve gone home. I paid his house another visit, this time with no illegal intent. He didn’t answer, so I cruised through town, hoping to see him somewhere. I didn’t, but a thought occurred to me. Everyone in Sagebrush seemed to feel a need to put on airs with Pastor Sheehan. Maybe Toby would show up for services later that night. If so, I could be there to talk to him.
I stopped at the café for a bite to eat, where, by the way, I was becoming one of the “regulars,” then made it to the church with a few minutes to spare. The parking lot was full, as was the church. I slipped into a row in the back just as a man with a guitar led the congregation in a hymn. I stood up and sang as I searched the crowd for Toby. He wasn’t there, but Mayor Holder was in the front row, along with Annette Gessler and her husband.
I waited, hoping Toby would show up. The congregation sang a few more songs, and ten minutes later, we sat down, but still no Toby. Thinking I was wasting my time – at least from the standpoint of finding Toby – I was starting to slip out of the pew when Pastor Sheehan’s voice boomed throughout the small church.
“A stranger in our midst.”
I quietly sat back down and looked toward him. He was staring at me.
“My sermon tonight is about leaving the past behind.”
So what was the bit about a stranger? I thought.
I held Sheehan’s gaze and decided to stay as he continued his sermon. He talked about not dredging up things from the past, and how to ask for forgiveness for things one has done long ago. Was that specifically for certain members of his flock?
As he spoke, he kept glancing nervously at me. If he was hiding something from his own past, let him worry about this investigator in his present, I thought. I was going to find Marcia, and if it meant digging up something from 1985, so be it.
Sheehan droned on, and the service finally concluded with another hymn. As everyone stood up, Holder went to Sheehan and they had a brief conversation. Both made eye contact with me. Mayor Holder frowned, then gestured at Sheehan and they disappeared through the door near the altar.
I’ve got them nervous, I thought. I just wished I knew about what.
I waited a moment, then moseyed outside. Night had fallen. I got in the 4-Runner, not sure what to do next. Then Bogie spoke and I grabbed my phone.
“You rang?” Cal said.
“Lower your voice a bit and you’d sound like Lurch from The Addams Family.”
He laughed, but quickly grew serious. “I did a check on John Smith.”
“And?”
�
��The guy apparently came into existence in 1985. I couldn’t find anything on him before that. No birth records, schooling records, no tax returns or other documentation before that.”
“Like he created a new identity at that time.”
“Right,” he said.
“Anything odd in his background since 1985?”
“No, nothing unusual. He’s worked as an accountant, doesn’t cheat on his taxes – if anything he pays more than he should – and there’s nothing to make anyone suspicious of him.”
“Like someone who’s trying to fly under the radar.”
“Exactly. I checked his phone records, too, and there aren’t any calls to Marcia Holder or anyone in Sagebrush, either.”
“Okay, thanks. Can you run a quick check for me now on Toby Holder and Franklin Sheehan? Check their finances, and see if either one has a record.”
I heard him typing. “Spell Sheehan.”
I did, and he hummed while he worked. “Give me a few minutes, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Then he was gone.
It had been a long day, and I was ready to go back to the hotel. I took a meandering drive through town and once again passed by Holder Farm Equipment. Dim light came from the front of the store, probably a light or two left on to deter burglars. I turned the corner and noticed that a light was coming from a back office window. Typical to leave a light on in the back as well?
Curious, I did a U-turn, parked across the street, and got out. It was quiet, no sound of traffic, people, dogs, or anything else. I was about to cross the street when my cell phone rang. I swore, yanked it from my pocket, and cut Bogie off before he could complete his line.
Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5 Page 31