by Allen Kent
“That would also mean the Springdale people may be tied up in this somehow,” Grace ventured.
“Hmm. Not necessarily. I can see old Rufus sending his man up to see if he could locate the coins without his son knowing about it.” We rode for a few miles in silence, wondering if the old man would have Nettie killed without involving the rest of his family.
“Then again,” Grace said, “it might be Calvin Latty. Officer Joseph would definitely want to keep that secret until you talked. Nettie’s brother would be complicit and would be gone in a flash if he got wind we were on to him. And with Galen talking to LJ every day, the Greaves might have had a hand in it with them.”
I couldn’t stifle a laugh. “What we’re saying is, we’re pretty sure it isn’t Brenda. Aside from that, we have no idea.”
She smiled grimly, straightening in the seat. “Unless Brenda knew she was about to be cut out of Nettie’s will and made some kind of a devil’s bargain with Nettie’s brother—or the Greaves.”
“Okay,” I conceded, the laugh fading. “I guess Brenda’s back in.”
33
Much to Marti’s relief, we beat Joseph to the office.
“The woman is so . . . so ‘official’ about everything,” she complained. “I don’t know what I would have done with her if she’d come in before you got here.”
“Made her sit and wait,” I chuckled.
Marti sniffed. “She’s not the ‘sit and wait’ type. And if she knows something important to this case, why couldn’t she trust me to pass it along to you? Does she think I just sit here on my phone and gossip with people around town about what we’re doing?”
Joseph had shown a basic mistrust for our office security. But I’d assured her she didn’t need to worry about Marti. Rocky was our gossip. He swore it wasn’t true, but when I needed to leak something into the community, a casual sharing with Rocky did the job. After one such breach, Grace had encouraged me to fire the man. But I’d pointed out that there were times when we wanted company secrets to get out, and every office needed someone you could count on to be a reliable “you didn’t hear this from me” kind of source. Rocky was ours. When we truly needed to keep something confidential, it never made it to Rocky’s ears.
“I’d decided if she got here before you did, I would send her over to the courthouse to pick up a record,” Marti said. “Judge Werner’s office called. Able’s legal aide found a file copy of an old will from Nettie’s parents and took it over to the courthouse. It left the farm to her.”
“Who knows about it?” I asked. Able’s office would be tight-lipped. But if Marjorie, the court secretary, had called it over, the word might be out. She was just what Joseph worried about.
“The judge called himself. He knows his office. But I don’t know who else knows.”
“Would you run over and get a copy? I need to get this report filed.”
I’d barely had time to open the screen on my desktop and Marti to grab her jacket when Joseph swept into the outer office, gave Marti a quick nod that didn’t look distrustful, and pushed through my door with a perfunctory knock. She closed it behind her, but chose to remain standing by the door. Marti stayed where she was beside the coatrack, watching us through the glass.
Joseph leaned against the frame. “You got my message?”
I refused to look anxious and sat back casually in the chair. “I was told you had a positive on our mystery print but didn’t feel that you could share it over the phone.”
She grinned broadly. “I was just being dramatic. And selfish. I didn’t want you moving on this without me being here to be part of it.”
“Are we headed to Springdale?”
She looked momentarily confused, then shook her head dismissively. “No. Not the Pogues. And not your friend Miguel. The prints belonged to Calvin Latty. You sent us a very clear and complete set.”
I reached for the phone.
“I’ve already called the Bartlesville police. They picked him up about an hour ago. That’s why I’m a little late getting here. They wanted to know what we want done with him.”
I got up from the desk and walked back into the outer office. “Grace, you want to come in here and be part of this?” She was sitting tight-jawed at her desk, but quickly grabbed a pad and followed me back into my sanctuary. I didn’t look at Joseph to see if she approved. Grace took the chair by the window.
“Calvin Latty,” I announced as she sat. “Calvin was in Nettie’s trailer.” Grace just lifted a brow as though she’d expected it all along. I waved for Joseph to get the weight off and take the other chair. “So we need to go pick up Galen. He had to either be with Calvin or be a willing accessory.”
Joseph nodded. “Another reason I’m late. You’d given me Calvin’s phone number earlier and I got one of our officers to check with his carrier about outgoing calls. He called Galen Suskey within minutes of the time you left his apartment. They talked for almost twenty minutes. But even if he’s around, will he be at the motel at two in the afternoon?”
“Maybe not. But we’ll know if he’s still checked in. Have you got any better ideas about where to start looking?”
“Your case, Sheriff,” she said, which meant “no.”
I again rose from the desk. “I wonder if Latty called because he was suspicious or wanted to reassure Suskey we were following other leads? We’ll probably find out when we get to the Super 8. If he’s checked out, I’d guess he’s running.”
The desk clerk was the daughter of one of the Syrian families I helped with school conferences. A pretty girl named Raca who had adopted the dress of her new country so completely that, until she spoke, she could easily have been taken for any of the girls who grew up in Crayton. She had worked hard on losing her accent, but still spoke with the clipped English of someone who had grown up speaking Arabic. She told us Suskey was still checked in, but had walked past her half an hour earlier.
“Which direction?”
“Going out.”
“Was he carrying his bags?”
“No. No bags.
“Can we take a quick look in his room?” I knew the girl was grateful for the help I gave her family and probably didn’t know the first thing about warrants and room searches.
“Of course.” She took a master key card from a drawer and led us down to 115. The room looked like the first Galen Suskey we had met: contained chaos with clothes and towels scattered across the floor and thrown loosely over a duffle that sat on the bag rack. Grace pulled on a pair of thin gloves and picked through the clutter while Joseph inspected the bathroom. I turned my attention to the closet. The sports jacket we had seen during his second visit to the office hung beside his one dress shirt.
“He wasn’t dressed up when he left?” I asked Raca who watched curiously from the doorway.
“No, Sir. He was wearing very old clothes. And tennis shoes.”
“Did you see which way he went when he left the lot?”
“I believe he was going into the town,” she guessed.
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“A very old truck,” she remembered. “It was red and gray.”
I slid the closet door to the half-closed position I had found it in. “I think I may know where we can find him,” I said. “Joseph, if you lose us, meet us at Nettie’s place.”
We parked at the top of the hill and walked as silently as the grassy verge allowed down to Nettie’s trailer. The battered Ford F-150 stood in front, doors locked, but the passenger’s window rolled down. I reached in, released the lock, and pulled the seat forward. A Marlin 336 lay on the floorboards below the rear window. Slipping on the gloves from my hip pocket, I lifted the weapon out and tossed it out of sight beneath the truck’s bed, not certain who else might show up while we were down there.
Joseph knew where I was going and signaled that she would cut through the woods and circle the bend in the creek. I nodded and waved Grace to follow me.
Galen Suskey was so intent o
n keeping his footing on the mossy shelf and gripping the rock face that he didn’t hear us step out onto the opposite bank just as Joseph appeared beyond the tangle of honeysuckle.
“You looking for something, Mr. Suskey?” I called loudly enough to freeze him against the bluff but not startle him backward into the pool.
He locked in place, knee-deep in the creek and clinging to a shallow recess in the ledge, his face pressed tightly against the cliff. His chest heaved a few times, then calmed.
“You’re on my property,” he called back. “And I’m just lookin’ for what’s mine, less’un you stole it from me.”
“This isn’t your property, Galen. The court found a copy of your parent’s will. It left this all to Nettie. Did they call you about it?”
“They may have left the land to her, but that doesn’t mean she got everything that might ha’ been hid on it.” The strain of gripping the rock and craning his neck showed in his voice.
“And what makes you think something might have been hid over there, Galen?”
“Maybe I talked to Nettie before she died. And maybe she told me something might be hid here.”
“How long before she died, Galen? Just a few minutes? We just came back from talking to your friend Calvin. It seems he was over here talking to her also. What was that all about?” I thought fleetingly of letting him shuffle back off the ledge into shallow water, but decided the pressure of hanging on might loosen his tongue. He turned his face slowly across the rock slab in front of him, gazing downstream in Joseph’s direction.
“Don’t think about falling back into the pool,” I warned. “It’s over your head there and as you can see, the woman you shot at is waiting to haul you out down there.”
He pressed his cheek more tightly against the cliff face and sputtered. “What the hell you talkin’ about? I ain’t shot at nobody. And Calvin don’t even know about Nettie.”
“Calvin’s prints were in the house, Galen. He got picked up by the Bartlesville police after he called you this morning. That’s not the story he’s telling them. And when I match a shell casing we found up on the ridge road with that Marlin behind the seat in your truck, I think we might be able to make a case you tried to kill Officer Joseph. What kind of deal did you make with Calvin, Galen? Did you promise him half of the treasure you knew was hidden here somewhere?”
He trapped his eyes hard shut and locked his jaw. As I reached for the buckle of my gun belt, he threw himself backward into the pool, counting on my assurance that it was over his head. Before my weapon hit the ground, I was in the creek, splashing downstream into the pool.
I’d always thought that one of the worst possible ways of leaving this earth would be drowning, feeling that screaming in my lungs for air and the terror of knowing I couldn’t hold out any longer. Galen Suskey didn’t wait for that moment. In the clear pool, I could see him force out a breath and suck his lungs full of water. I dove forward, grabbed the man about his fleshy stomach and chest, and forced us both to the surface, squeezing as hard as I could. His head broke the surface and water sprayed like vomit from his lungs. I felt another pair of arms grab the man, and Grace struggled beside me as we waded and paddled to where Joseph reached from the bank for the limp figure.
We pushed him out of the creek as she dragged. I scrambled after him, straddling the still form and pushing hard again against the man’s chest. I flipped to the side, making a quick swipe of his mouth to clear his tongue, then blew three breaths into his gaping mouth. Grace struggled to the other side and began to pump his chest. After the second sequence of breaths, he coughed up another stream of water and fought his way onto his side where he sputtered and shook the rest of the fluid from his lungs.
“You should have let me go,” he gasped finally, glaring through red, swollen eyes.
I grabbed one shoulder and Joseph the other, hauling him to his feet.
“I need you to testify against Calvin,” I said. “And for him to look you in the eye when he tells the court you talked him into killing your sister.”
34
Galen had known the story of the Confederate treasure since he was a kid, but never believed it. Then, in a conspiratorial conversation with LJ Greaves about how he might be able to get part of the sale proceeds from the farm, his old pal mentioned that Nettie seemed to have found a way to live off practically nothing. Somehow, Greaves told him, the old woman had gained access to a sizable number of hundred dollar bills.
Calvin Latty, who had injured his back in the oil fields, initially found relief in opioids until his physician and insurance company cut off his supply. He quickly learned that street drugs were cheaper and easier to get, but still at a cost Calvin couldn’t afford. When his old roustabout buddy, the only relationship the two were willing to admit to, promised him half a fortune if he would drive over into Missouri, smother an old woman who was probably close to death anyway, and see if he could find her source of income, Calvin’s cravings answered for him. He’d killed Nettie Suskey with a plastic bag over her head, straddling her in her chair with his massive bulk so she couldn’t get her arms up to tear the bag away. But then there had been no treasure and no sign of where it was.
Galen had been on his way to search the property when he saw us easing along the side of the pool. He watched until we began to struggle with the rock slab and couldn’t imagine any reason to do that unless we knew where the treasure was hidden. His second trip to the creek had been prompted by a call from Judge Werner’s office, notifying him that his parents had left their estate to Nettie. He saw one last chance to find the gold before he disappeared permanently.
The little man swore in court that the shot he had taken at Officer Joseph was just to scare us off before we discovered the gold before he could get to it.
“I wouldn’t shoot nobody,” he told a jury of twelve already skeptical citizens from across the county. “Especially no state trooper. And if I’d shot to kill her, I’d a hit her.” A superimposed image of Officer Joseph standing on the rock shelf with the bullet crater visible through her transparent silhouette showed that he would have hit her squarely in the head had she not fallen.
Calvin Latty was found guilty of murder. Galen Suskey of attempted murder and as an accessory to murder. Both, I hear, are not faring well in the state penitentiary.
Brenda Castoe, it turns out, is as decent a human being as I’d first imagined. She inherited Nettie’s estate, discovered that the old woman had been working through the Pogues to sell her dollars, and worked out the same arrangement to market what were left. They managed to keep the number of remaining coins out of the news, leaving Mazatlán Numismatics free to announce each year that perhaps the last of the 1861-D Indian Princess dollars had come to light and would be auctioned to the highest bidder. When Joseph told Brenda that it really was true that Nettie had given serious thought to leaving her money to the local CASA chapter, Brenda committed half of Ezra Suskey’s booty to the advocacy group for foster kids. The other half she committed to seeing the world she had always dreamed about visiting.
Joseph’s transfer to St. Louis didn’t come through. She came down to Crayton for the Suskey trial at which Calvin appeared as a state’s witness in exchange for life rather than the death sentence. She hung around the office the afternoon after the verdict, filling us in on her conversations with Brenda and seeing if we had any reason to prosecute the Greaves.
“Old Darnell was right,” she laughed as I walked her to her car in the late afternoon. “Not a single spit of human kindness between the two of them.”
“I’m afraid we got nothing on them this time,” I confessed. “Galen took the Marlin from the house when both of them were gone. But I suspect there will be a next time. Do you want in?”
She smiled in such a way that I couldn’t help but suggest that she didn’t need to drive home so late. “And I could whip up some of my special pasta in no time.”
“I don’t think so, Tate.” The smile didn’t leave her lips. �
�But I’ve been thinking I didn’t see the best of Mazatlán during my two-day visit. I might take a week sometime in the next few months and really get to know the old city. Should I give you a call?”
I shrugged uncertainly. “With molcajete and tres leche cake?”
“Every meal, if you like,” she promised.
other books by allen kent
Unit 1 International Thrillers
The Shield of Darius
The Weavers of Meanchey
The Wager
The Marburg Mutation
Straits of the Between
The Whitlock Trilogy (historical fiction)
River of Light and Shadow
Wild Whistling Blackbirds
Suzanna’s Song
The Colby Tate Mysteries
Murder One
Mystery/Thrillers
Backwater
Guardians of the Second Son
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allen Kent is the “USA Today” and Amazon bestselling author of the popular Unit 1 thriller series, the Colby Tate Mystery Series, and the celebrated Whitlock Trilogy in historical fiction. His books, with summaries, can be found at his website,
https://allenkentbooks.com.