On a Quiet Street

by J. L. Doucette

  The first show went on at nine o’clock. He locked the car and headed for the front entrance. The night had turned cold and he shivered—another goose on his grave. His head ached from the effort of containing the day’s sorrow. He longed to crash into oblivion before it started all over again.

  On the far side of the smoke-filled room, at a table in a dark corner, he spotted Val Campion. A handsome man with a full head of silver hair, he was tall with a rangy build that made him look younger than the sixty years listed on his Wyoming driver’s license. Black designer clothing and expensive Italian loafers set him apart from his customers. Antelope recognized the brand. He had the same shoes at home in his closet. A large diamond flashed in the stage light when Campion lifted a Cuban cigar to his mouth.

  Muscles rippled in Antelope’s back as adrenaline coursed through his body, a hot liquid sensation. He lived for the hunt of big game. In Rock Springs, Val Campion was the equivalent of a trophy elephant. Campion knew something about the murder; Antelope felt it in his bones and soul.

  As he approached the table, Campion watched him, still as a predator. Antelope stood in front of him and blocked his view of the room. Campion stood and repositioned himself to retain his view. The message was clear: he owned the joint.

  “Your men came already,” Campion said. “Deputy Garcia questioned me.”

  “I’m looking for Jack Swailes.”

  “I don’t keep track of Jack. He’s his own man.”

  He was lying. Campion ran a tight ship.

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “Ask my human resources manager. I don’t deal with those things. Jack handles the painting end of the business, among other things. He can give you an estimate if you’re looking to spruce up your old place.”

  “What jobs has he been working?”

  “Besides the one for the prosecutor?” Campion shrugged. “I can’t say. They kept him busy over there. Why do you want to talk to my nephew?”

  “He found the body.”

  “So I understand. He gave a statement this morning. What more do you want with him?”

  “He was involved with the victim, so he had motive and opportunity.”

  “It was a job. Jack has lots of women. He can take his pick. No reason to lose his head over tits and ass.”

  “Did you see Jack today?”

  “You guys don’t talk to each other? I told Garcia, no.”

  “Where would he go if he wanted to get out of town?”

  “If I had a clue, why would I tell you?”

  “This is a homicide investigation. You could be charged with obstruction of justice if you withhold information.”

  “You can’t prove anything.” Campion narrowed his eyes. “I know this game, just like you. I haven’t caught a case in years. You think I’m a small-town businessman in a business you don’t like. You underestimate me, Detective.”

  The disco band started a new set to a round of weak applause. Patrons didn’t come for the music. The laugher and conversation died down; the dancer would come on soon. Whistles and catcalls began when Star Bright stepped onto the stage in a white costume covered in sequins and feathers. She flashed a smile and pranced around the stage in silver spike heels, blew kisses into the crowd.

  An artful dancer, Star Bright moved on the pole with a touch of class and a touch of evil. The last time Antelope and his ex hooked up, they’d gotten drunk and come out to the Astro together. There wasn’t another woman dancing in Rock Springs who could hold a candle to Star Bright.

  Antelope had recognized the Native touches in her dance: jingle dances learned on the reservation. With one phone call, he’d found her: Sharnelle Brightwood, birthplace Riverton, Wyoming; Shoshone, nineteen years old. Some lonely nights he replayed her dances in his head.

  Campion’s eyes followed the fluid sway of Star’s narrow hips, as transfixed as his paying customers. Antelope knew he exploited women who took their clothes off for money they needed and never had. He put men who used their power to get sex through intimidation in the same category as rapists who used physical force. In his book, sex required consent between partners of equal status; otherwise, it was wrong.

  He didn’t judge the dancers. Everyone did what they had to do to survive. No stranger to bad circumstances and bad choices, he recognized parts of himself in the people he arrested.

  Campion stood beside him, so close their shoulders touched. He smelled of cognac, cigar smoke, and cheap cologne.

  “You have fine taste, Detective,” he said. “She’s yours if you want her. It’s on me. Star likes powerful men.”

  Antelope pulled out his business card and stuck it in Campion’s suit pocket. “When you talk to Jack, tell him we’ll find him.” He didn’t wait for an answer before heading for the door.

  As he walked the perimeter of the crowded room, a man jumped in front of him and lunged for the white feather boa that had just been tossed into the crowd. He turned to see Star Bright wave to her audience as she exited the stage.

  In that brief moment, he noticed the change. Every shining thing about her was gone, like a light had been turned off. Something had happened in the six months since his last visit to the Astro Lounge. Her spirit was broken.

  In the long hallway to the exit, he found a gallery of black-and-white portraits of the dancers. Campion had a discerning eye and chose the talent well. The photographs captured each woman’s unique brand of sexiness.

  He noticed one woman in particular. With his cell phone, he snapped several pictures to study later in a better light. He recognized the pixie-faced dancer with raven hair and pale eyes, who went by the stage name Kitty Irish, as the woman he’d met earlier: the murder victim’s friend, Kelly Ryan.

  CHAPTER 12

  It rained on and off all day, a disappointing start to summer. The average annual sunny days in Rock Springs, Wyoming number 238. Cambridge, Massachusetts, gets only 201—one of the reasons I’d chosen Wyoming’s high desert for my home. But there was no sun today, no clear blue sky or endless-summer-freedom feelings.

  I’d planned to spend my day writing up notes and reviewing test results for the psychological evaluations due in court soon, but Stacey Hart’s murder consumed my thoughts, leaving little brain space to get work done. After starting on one project that didn’t hold my interest, I felt frustrated and moved on to something else equally uninspiring. More frustration.

  I gave up on work. I caught up on some reading, looked at some travel sites and tried to decide where I wanted to go for vacation. I lived in a part of the world I considered vacation paradise, which made it difficult to plan. Things would change when winter hit the high desert, along with high winds, sub-zero temperatures, and black ice.

  I called Beau Antelope and told him I was willing to sign a contract. It wasn’t a difficult decision; from the moment I heard about Stacey Hart’s murder, I’d wanted the chance to contribute to solving the crime.

  I’d been reluctant to become involved with the last murder case I’d helped him with, which involved the disappearance and murder of one of my patients. After what had happened in my personal life, I’d thought I would never want to work a case involving a homicide again. Since then, however, I’d done some soul searching, and I’d realized that I’d felt more alive while I was working that case with Antelope than I had since before my husband, Zeke, was killed.

  Violence and evil, the things most normal people run from, excited me; my adrenaline flowed, my analytical skills became sharp and focused. I had officially turned into a ghoul. What I considered perverse professional interests, the county valued and was willing to pay well to retain.

  When I got home I checked my phone and found four missed calls from Max Hart. His sister’s death was an enormous loss; I imagined it would take months of intense therapy to process. I called him back, and we scheduled an appointment for first thing Monday morning.

  After hanging up with Max, I turned on the evening news. Stacey’s murder was the
top story, and it was grisly and unnerving.

  I wondered if my role as consultant to the sheriff’s department would impact my ability to treat Max in psychotherapy. My first responsibility was to patient care and treatment. In case of a conflict, my work as a police consultant would have to be secondary.

  I’d find a way to make it work, even if it killed me.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kelly watched from backstage as Detective Antelope approached Val Campion’s table. She was scheduled to be second up after the opening set, but she couldn’t go on now, couldn’t let him see her here.

  What was he doing in the Astro Lounge?

  In the bathroom, she forced herself to vomit, loud enough so the other dancers could hear. She told the stage manager she was too sick and weak to dance. It was true. After the detective left, she’d thrown up the pint of Ben and Jerry’s she’d consumed. She should have stayed home.

  What kind of person goes on with life when her best friend just got murdered? But she’d gotten ready for work without thinking. With her family away, the house loomed too big and too quiet.

  She walked out of the club into the dying light of the cool evening. The door slammed shut behind her and silenced the pulsing disco music, the wild sound of raw need.

  In the car she blasted the air conditioner, created another layer of soundproofing and insulation from the club’s claim on her. She pulled sweatpants and a T-shirt from her gym bag and threw them on over her black sequin dance outfit. She kicked off the killing stilettos and eased her sore feet into her favorite flip-flops. Because of her crazy schedule she carried extra clothing, makeup, and toiletries at all times. No need to go home. She carried everything she needed.

  The fear she’d felt earlier was gone; she was free.

  She cruised up Elk Street in the Saturday night traffic. In every vehicle, she saw a couple on their way out for a fun evening. Ever since her brother died, loneliness had followed her like a dark shadow. She kept busy to keep it at bay.

  When it caught up with her, there was only one person she wanted to see, one person who could chase away the demons.

  She drove north—out of town, beyond the business district and into the open miles before Reliance. Her mind cleared; ideas broke into simple black and white. She drove through the darkness, aware of the desert around her, eyes on the white stripe down the center of the two-lane road.

  The emptiness of the surrounding land, the infinity of the stars, filled her with dread. A chill came over her, goose bumps rose on her arms and legs, her whole body trembled.

  With a sudden clarity, she knew where she wanted to be.

  Freezing, she shut off the air conditioner and opened the windows. The night was cool but felt warm in comparison, and the wind coming in made her feel alive.

  She made a U-turn and headed back to town.

  If he’d made other plans, they could be changed.

  CHAPTER 14

  When the band started the next set and another dancer appeared in Kelly’s place, Val forced himself to stay seated and watch until the buxom blonde finished. The crowd went wild for her as she danced—obvious, lascivious moves too crude for his taste. He liked subtlety and grace, though the patrons of his club were more into the crude seduction of the woman on stage.

  His right hand gripped his glass, his only thought, What the hell happened to Kelly?

  With the sheriffs all over his spot, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down—nothing but business as usual. He wanted to keep an eye on the girl. Jack hooked up with her before moving on to her friend Stacey. The boy sure made a mess of things and Val wasn’t going to let that come back on him.

  He walked backstage, careful to maintain a look of disinterest as he made his way to Olga. She would be expecting him to ask about the switch-up in dancers. Everyone who worked for him knew about his need for control. It made things easy. No one who wanted to stay employed opposed him.

  Olga counted the cash tips the dancers handed over when they walked off stage. She sat between the dressing room and the back exit. The pistol on her lap emphasized that she meant business.

  Olga looked at him and spoke before he asked: “She got sick all of a sudden, a woman thing, so I sent her home.”

  He wasn’t in the mood to push it. He took her at her word and went back to the bar. He didn’t want Olga to know Kelly walking off got to him; he had a reputation to protect. Whiskey would help.

  After sitting through the next set, he decided he’d let enough time pass and could leave without raising any suspicion.

  If Kelly thought she could keep secrets that meant she underestimated him. The way things were between them, she owed him the truth and loyalty, and tonight she’d proven to him that she was giving him neither. Things would be different from now on. He knew how to handle his women. He would train this one the way he’d trained all the others.

  CHAPTER 15

  In the quiet outside the Astro, Antelope heard the blood thump in his temples. Only two things under the sun could shut down the pain: a long sleep or a shot of Honey Jack Whiskey.

  He checked the time on his phone and saw a text from Toni Atwell: Meet at the Saddle Lite.

  Three blocks and ten minutes put him in bed. If he hit it now, he’d clock eight hours. In the cup holder between the bucket seats, he found a quarter. He gave it quick toss and slapped it down. Heads up put him on his way to the Saddle Lite Lounge.

  As he drove to the bar, he realized he didn’t know much more than he had before going into the Astro. Val Campion, the kind of man who never showed his hand to law enforcement, had given him nothing. He would lay off for a few days; let Campion begin to think they were done with him.

  The parking lot at the Saddle Lite Saloon was packed, so Antelope drove around back, onto the main road of the trailer park where his Aunt Estella and cousin Diego lived, and parked near the bank of tilting mail boxes.

  The moon, a giant white globe high in the sky, lit up the town like it was a football stadium. He didn’t want to go inside the smoky, crowded bar when the first night of summer felt so clean and new.

  He scanned the parking lot before stepping inside and didn’t recognize any vehicles, which suited him tonight; he had no time to spare.

  Inside, a country band played dance music. At the pool table, Toni Atwell bent over to lay up a shot. The former nun was dressed like a rock star: white jeans, silver sandals, platinum blonde hair buzzed short and spiked on top.

  He scanned the room for the sheriff but didn’t see him. Toni was concentrating on the game. From what he’d heard, she played like a pro. There would be serious money on the table.

  He paid for two double shots of Honey Jack and found an empty corner table. As he waited for Toni to wrap up her game, he took a drink and waited for the whiskey to work its magic. As soon as it hit his brain, the warm liquid opened blood vessels and massaged away the tension.

  The game ended when Toni cleared the table. She shook hands with the loser and tucked the winnings in her vest. Antelope stood up and caught her eye, and she joined him at the table.

  “Hello, Detective. Carlton said you wanted to talk to me about Stacey.”

  “I planned to pay you a visit in the morning. He said you’d be out with him tonight.”

  “He brought me home early so I could get some sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Stacey. So I came back out, bad girl that I am. Is one of those for me?”

  He handed her one of the shots he’d intended to drink himself. “There’s more where those came from.”

  She downed the shot and her eyes filled up.

  “He didn’t want to join you?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “You want to do this now? It’s your call. It can wait until the morning.”

  “No better time. You never know what tomorrow will bring. Stacey getting killed brought that home to all of us. It might help me to talk about her. What do you want to know?”

  “Just tell me about her.”


  “You mean who she was behind the polished public relations spin, the whole sweetness and light thing? You came to me to hear about the real woman, right? Don’t get me wrong, Stacey was solid to the core. But anyone worth knowing has a dark side.”

  “Tell me about hers.”

  “I could use another one of these.” She flicked her glass across the small table.

  A barrel-chested man in red suspenders approached with a pool cue in his hand. Toni held up her palm. He stopped in his tracks like a dog halted by an electronic fence, bewildered and still.

  “I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” Toni said. “I’m not at the top of my game tonight.”

  The man shrugged and walked away. Antelope waved away the twenty-dollar bill Toni offered for the drinks and went to the bar for another round.

  When he got back to the table and passed Toni her shot, she raised her glass. “To Stacey.”

  “And her dark side,” Antelope said. He downed the shot. As soon as it hit, he knew he couldn’t drink any more if he wanted to remember anything Toni told him.

  Toni slapped her empty shot glass on the table. “Ready when you are, Antelope. What’s your question?”

  “Any chance she could have been cheating on Connor?”

  “That’s pretty damn straight to the point. What makes you ask? She planned to marry him next month.”

  “Her fiancé suspects that she had something going with Jack Swailes, the contractor on the house.”

  “Connor’s on the jealous side. Stacey was always checking in with him and letting him know where she was. I would have felt like I was on a leash.” Toni made a face. “As for Connor’s suspicions, I can say Stacey was on the phone with Jack all the time. She made all the decisions on the renovations at the house, so it made sense they’d have a lot to talk about. I only heard one side of their conversations. I could tell she liked him—always friendly and upbeat, lots of laughing on her end, that’s how she was. I didn’t sense anything more going on, but I’m not an expert on male/female relationships.”