Authors: Sarah Andrews
Dead Dry (26 page)
RAY RAYMOND HAD BEEN NURSING A BAD FEELING IN the pit of his stomach all morning, a sense of being pushed or crowded. By noon, it was beginning to tear at him, driving him to take action. He stalked through the police station in search of Eddie and found him in the locker room where he was putting on his uniform over black Jockey shorts and a black T-shirt that read 82ND AIRBORNE DIVISION and DEATH FROM ABOVE. Between the two lines of print a white skull bulged over Eddie’s gut. The slogan sliced into Ray’s consciousness, making a new cut along a well-worn path that always left him uncertain of his stature as a man. He had never served in the armed forces.
Eddie looked up from the bench where he was sitting. “Ray. Wassup?”
“I was wondering if your rumor mill had anything new on … Michele.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow in appraisal. “Giving her some thought, are you?”
“No, I am … You got anything or not?”
“Don’t get testy, man. Yeah, she went back to Colorado.”
Ray waited, his jaws tight. When Eddie offered nothing further, he said, “And Em?”
“Yeah, Em’s with her.” He studied Ray with the eyes of a feral dog, evaluating his reaction.
Ray forced himself to breathe.
Eddie said, “They got backup there. It ain’t like Colorado’s got no boys in blue.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
“Welcome to criminal justice, Ray. We don’t put people in jail because they’re behavin’ like model citizens.”
Eddie’s words were lost on Ray. He was already heading out the door, trying to think of a plan, searching mentally for the shortest route to his goal.
Eddie called after him. “Let Fritz take care of this, why don’t you?”
Ray stopped. “And where might I find him?”
“At his house, most likely. I just played a game of tennis with him. If you hurry—” Eddie let his sentence hang. The door had swung shut behind his departing comrade.
Ray hurried into a squad car and drove quickly up the hill to the east, into the Avenues, where he’d seen the man named Fritz running. Time seemed to turn to jelly, impeding his progress. As he came down the block toward his house, Ray spotted Fritz coming out the door carrying a boxy black attaché, his hair still wet from his post-exercise shower. He was dressed in a pilot’s uniform—all sharp creases and epaulets and aviator-framed sunglasses—and it gave him an air of crisp command that had lain hidden under his workout sweats.
Ray parked the police cruiser behind Fritz’s SUV and got out. Then, having gotten this far, he couldn’t get his mouth to work. His old reticence locked his jaws together, and he could not speak.
The pilot calmly put his case into his vehicle, then took off his sunglasses and turned to look at Ray. And waited for him to say something, the glasses dangling loosely in
his left hand. In his gaze Ray found neither a challenge nor a welcome, but simply a quiet, alert openness.
his left hand. In his gaze Ray found neither a challenge nor a welcome, but simply a quiet, alert openness.
“We haven’t met, formally,” Ray said.
Fritz extended a hand. “Fritz Calder. You’re Ray …”
“Tom Raymond. Ray is a nickname.”
“What can I do for you, Ray?” Now Fritz hooked his sunglasses into an epaulet and put his hands in his pockets, assuming a posture that spoke of elaborate ease.
Ray found this intimidating but knew that coming up to the man in his cruiser would provoke a move like this if the man was worth anything. Ray glanced at the pavement a moment to clear his head. “I’m worried about Em,” he said.
“Now you have my undivided attention,” Fritz said. “Is there news from inside the law enforcement community you need me to know?”
Ray met his gaze. “Yes. You know she’s in Colorado.”
“She was last Friday and Saturday, yes.”
“She’s there again now.”
Fritz’s eyelids flared wide and then tightened. “When did she go?”
“Last night. I can see you share my concern for her. She—”
“She flew commercially?”
“By public carrier? Yes. No, she didn’t fly herself, if that’s what you mean.”
“She’s with Michele?”
Ray let out his breath and only then realized that he’d been holding it. He needed to communicate the precise nature of his concern but could not isolate it from the chaos that suffused his being. Something was wrong, very wrong, that was all he knew for certain. “Michele is good, but she’s green, and departmental politics are going against her. Hopefully they’ve made contact with the sheriff on the Colorado end, but knowing Em—”
Fritz’s face had gone dark with anxiety.
Ray simultaneously relaxed and tensed. It was good that
this man understood this complicated woman, but having his own anxiety mirrored back only increased it. “And you heard what I had to say about the nature of the case when I came to get her Friday morning.”
this man understood this complicated woman, but having his own anxiety mirrored back only increased it. “And you heard what I had to say about the nature of the case when I came to get her Friday morning.”
“You said it was bad.”
“It is. Whoever murdered Afton McWain was both violent and ruthless. And smart. The killer had thought it through. He took pains to confuse the identification and … well, it was ugly.”
“How ugly, Ray? Come on, tell me.”
Ray threw caution to the winds. “The FBI’s already been alerted to the case because it’s connected to some possible money-laundering schemes that could go straight to a drug cartel. The Feds say these guys hire professional hits when someone gets in their way.”
Fritz now stood ramrod straight. “I’m on my way to Denver right now, if I can get through. The weather’s bad. My client is a nervous flier, so he may scrub.” He glanced at his black bag. “But if he doesn’t go, that doesn’t mean I can’t. I’ll find her.”
Ray said, “May I offer you some advice?”
“Certainly.”
Ray weighed his words. “Em is a …”
“Difficult woman. But a fine one. In her case, difficult is a pleasure.”
Ray gave him the slight smile of sad agreement. “I couldn’t have said it better. So you understand.”
“If I challenge her, it can go the wrong way.”
“You got it.”
Suddenly Fritz laughed, a short, joyous burst. “Officer Raymond, sir, you and I might just become the best of friends.”
Ray grinned as he tasted a swift, sweet moment of relief. “That’s
Detective
Raymond, and I read you loud and clear and copy that.”
Detective
Raymond, and I read you loud and clear and copy that.”
MARY ANN NETTLETON TOLD US THE SAD STORY OF her water well as her sister drove us to town and dropped us at the motel. Once there, I phoned around and found a cheap spare that would fit on the Jeep. Thus armed, I picked up my rental car and all but dragged Julia back toward Sedalia.
Julia insisted on stopping at a place called Bud’s to get cheeseburgers. As a first bit of luck since leaving Salt Lake City the night before, I finally reached Michele just as she was heading out to the ranch and got her to join us.
I regaled Michele with the various upsets of our morning, emphasizing the confrontation with Johnson and Upton, while Julia swigged a beer and piled fresh cubes of ice into the plastic Ziploc bag the clerk at the hotel had supplied for chilling her injured knee. Michele took detailed notes. “Upton threatened to press charges against Julia for assault,” I said, “but I think he was just trying to get us to leave. Fast. He wanted us out of there in a big way, but I can’t believe it’s because he’s afraid of a punch in the nose. He didn’t even flinch until he saw me. What is there about
me
that scares him when Julia McWain in full fury doesn’t even make him blink?”
me
that scares him when Julia McWain in full fury doesn’t even make him blink?”
Julia winced as she rearranged her leg. “Hey, he’s a congenital idiot. I’m glad we caught you before you drove up there, Michele. You shouldn’t be going up there alone, and especially not now with this storm about to break.”
“Why shouldn’t I be going up there alone?”
“Because whoever killed Afton isn’t working alone.”
“‘Isn’t working’?” Michele said. “You don’t mean, ‘didn’t work’?”
I said, “Julia’s right. I don’t think it’s safe to think the last drop of blood has been shed over this business. The one you like best for the killing isn’t even here, but the shit’s still hitting the fan. Every last one on your hot list had a reason to commit murder, if he or she is that brave or that stupid.”
“Yeah,” said Julia. “And if they’d kill Afton for those reasons, then they’d kill you as well.”
“You have to be extra stupid to kill a cop,” Michele said.
“Murder’s never smart,” I countered. “The people we’re dealing with use brute force where the smarts run out. And it seems that half of this county wanted Dr. McWain out of their lives.”
Julia took a particularly long drag on her beer and said, “Developers don’t take kindly to hearing that they’re running out of water. What’s considered a well-founded opinion in the world of science and a fact in the world of engineering is seen as a threat to those who want to keep doing things the good ol’ use-it-and-abuse-it way. Try getting them interested in building your house out of straw bales or rammed-earth construction while you live without running water in a glorified tent, why don’t you?”
“You’re talking about Dr. McWain,” Michele said.
“Afton and I were divorced, but that doesn’t mean I disagreed with his science. And I was aware of whom he was dealing with. They hated him.”
“Turn this case over to the feds, Michele,” I said. “The more I think about this, the more I think we’re over our
heads here. I’m just one borrowed analyst borrowing an SEM. The FBI has a whole lab in Virginia and at least three geologist-forensic examiners on staff full time.”
heads here. I’m just one borrowed analyst borrowing an SEM. The FBI has a whole lab in Virginia and at least three geologist-forensic examiners on staff full time.”
Michele ignored my entreaty. To Julia she said, “Tell us about these people I don’t want to mess with.”
“Em just saw Upton in action. Johnson wants to cash in his ranch for a beachfront estate in Maui, and he ‘don’t take kindly to no hippy tellin’ him he cain’t do that.’ And Attabury? If he can’t develop Johnson’s ranch, he’s back to selling second-hand double-wides.”
“And Gilda?” I prompted.
“Gilda will be on the treadmill at the spa trying to get in shape for her next sugar daddy,” Julia said bitterly.
Michele said, “Her next?”
Julia snorted derisively. “You think I didn’t do a little research on her when I found out why Afton wasn’t coming home? She’s got a regular business going, that girl. She marries and divorces like some women change their shoes.”
“But Afton didn’t marry her,” I pointed out.
“Nobody ever said he was stupid,” said Julia. “Just horny, I guess.”
I shifted uncomfortably at Julia’s bluntness. I was used to her, but Michele was not. I glanced at the detective out of the corner of my eye. She had her game face on.
Julia muttered, “Hey, he was a good enough lay.”
Michele said, “Tell me about the political end of things. Not all the county commissioners are all that fond of his citizens’ group’s proposed rezoning, and there’s that curious matter of his association with Senator White.”
“Oh, that,” said Julia. “Yeah, White has to look after the business of getting reelected. She can’t sound too anti-development or she’ll be cutting off her revenue stream. And as for the county Mounties, not too many people are keen on changing the thirty-five-acre zoning to eighty, and Afton thought even that would result in mining.”
Michele said, “Mining?”
“Taking water out of the ground faster than it can
recharge. That’s mining.” When Michele still looked puzzled, she said, “Think of water as a resource, which is exactly what it is. An Earth resource. Just like oil or gold or copper. If you take water away faster than it’s accumulating, that’s called mining.”
recharge. That’s mining.” When Michele still looked puzzled, she said, “Think of water as a resource, which is exactly what it is. An Earth resource. Just like oil or gold or copper. If you take water away faster than it’s accumulating, that’s called mining.”
Michele said, “What about the wells people drill? Doesn’t the state regulate that?”
Julia shook her head. “Water rights are governed by the state, but for well permits you go to the county. And they don’t talk to each other a whole lot. Then you get a crooked county commissioner or two, or one that just can’t understand this kind of stuff or won’t take the trouble to learn it, and you’re back to square one. It’s as if people think it’s an act of God whether there’s water in their well or not.”
I said, “That poor lady who gave us the ride into town sure got her education the hard way.” I relayed Mary Ann’s story to Michele, then asked Julia, “What do you think will become of her and her property?”
“Heaven knows,” Julia answered. “She’s not an isolated case. Every last house out that way has the same problem, and what if the Johnson ranch is turned into a resort? The developers will drive a well clear down to the bottom of the aquifer and show that he can flow nine hundred gallons of water per minute into a community water line, but then he’ll be gone when the last buyer has moved in and the last drop of vintage water has been drunk.”
Michele said, “Who was the Realtor when you two bought the ranch? And who’s carrying the mortgage?”
Julia replied, “We bought it directly from the owner, Bart Johnson’s brother, and he carried the paper.”
“Wouldn’t Bart’s brother have made more money selling it to a developer?” I asked.
“Yeah, but he didn’t want it developed. He thought a crazy cuss like Afton would love it the way he had, and every last elk and deer and wild plum tree on it.”
I asked, “Can this brother call in the note now that Afton’s dead?”
Julia shook her head. “The heirs have the right to assume the mortgage.”
“So that’s why Upton has his lawyerly hand on Gilda’s thigh. But how could she make the payments?”
Julia grumbled, “Those boys would be only too pleased to help her out.”
Michele was making notes. “Anything else we should know about these people?” she asked.
Julia let out her breath like a tired horse. “Upton cooked that will. He had to.”
“How do you know that for sure?”
“Because it was part of the divorce decree that the kids inherit the ranch, or the value thereof. If it was to be sold, it was going to the Nature Conservancy or equivalent organization.”
“Then Upton’s bluffing,” Michele said.
“Or the glorious Gilda is bluffing Upton,” Julia replied.
Michele leaned back and stretched, her lack of sleep beginning to show. She said, “I haven’t been able to locate Gilda. And the one I was looking for is still gone, too,” she added, giving it to me without names so she wouldn’t tip her hand to Julia. “And the others of interest are not answering phones. But at least now I know where to find Mr. Upton.”
Julia stared into the neck of her beer bottle for several long moments, examining the suds that lingered in the bottom of the bottle. “I guess that’s all I’ve got for you,” she said. “I wanted to kick Afton’s ass through his eye sockets, but I didn’t want him dead.”
“I believe you, for what that’s worth,” Michele said. She looked at her watch. “I’ll meet you back at the motel at five, and we’ll continue to check in before then.”
“Continue?” I said. “I hadn’t heard from you all morning.”
“Sorry.”
Julia began to droop.
Michele stuffed a last bite of burger into her mouth, dropped two twenties on the table, said, “Tip twenty percent and save me the receipt,” and stood up to leave.
The waiter arrived. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” he inquired.
Julia said, “You got any Guinness? In a glass?”
“Sure.” He looked at me.
I said, “We ought to get going. Get out there before it rains.”
“Just one more,” said Julia.
I waved my hand in a What-the-hell gesture. “Cup of coffee. Black.”
The man picked up Michele’s plate and glass and left.
I leaned back in exasperation. Up on Wildcat Mountain, Julia had been trying to hurry me, but now she seemed to be dragging her feet. I wondered if she was worried about her run-in with Todd Upton. If he pressed charges for assault, it could add serious complications if Gilda persisted in her claim against the ranch. I wondered if Julia was stalling, waiting until she saw Upton drive past the café, so that she would know that it was safe to go up toward the ranch.
The waiter came back to the table with Julia’s beer and my coffee.
Julia lifted the beer to her lips.
The minutes ticked past. “We should get going,” I said.
Julia stared at me over her glass with gimlet eyes. She said, “Three men walk into a bar, an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scot. They each order a pint. Just as they are served, three flies fly up and one drops into the foam on each beer.”
I said, “The Englishman pushes his beer away in disgust. The Irishman plucks the fly out of his beer and drinks it down. And the Scot—”
“Grabs his fly by the wings, holds it above the glass, and cries, ‘Spit it out! Spit it out, ye thieving bastard!’ Okay, that’s an old one.”
Julia glared at me. She was in a darkening mood, and short-sheeting her joke had been a strategic error.
I had seen Julia in her moods before, but this one portended to be a corker. I wasn’t sure that I could stand it. My nerves had begun to fry from lack of sleep and too many heavy issues bearing down on me. I itched to complete my tasks and turn my nose toward the airport and Salt Lake City. I decided that I would stop in at the sheriff’s department offices in Castle Rock first and make damned sure they meant to back up Michele’s movements, and then I’d be off. I said, “You sure you want to drink that? It may be raining by the time you get onto the highway. We still have to change your tire and get your Jeep back onto the road. That’s going to take an hour at least.”
“Then I’ll take the old road. Eighty-five is such a scenic drive next to the construction on I-25.”
“That could be worse. Watch out as you go under the trestle up by Littleton. It floods.”
Julia said, “Three Scottish lassies are walking home from a celebration. They come across a lad who has passed oot in the ditch.”
I heaved a sigh. “Okay …”
“The wind has blown leaves across the lad, so they canna tell who he is. You know what they do?”
“I can only guess,” I said heavily.
“The first lassie picks up a stick and raises the hem of the laddie’s kilt. And she says, ‘Ach, that’s not
my
husband!’”
my
husband!’”
“Okay …”
“Well, the second lassie, she then takes the stick, and does the same; lifts the laddie’s kilt. And she says, ‘Ye’re right, that isn’t yer husband.’”
The irony of her tale was not lost on me. “That’s pretty good, Julia,” I said, wishing I had heard it on a kinder day.
“And that’s not all! The third lassie, she takes the stick and raises yon kilt and says, ‘And neither is it any other lad from our village.’”
I wondered how Julia could even tell a story like that after
losing her husband to a woman like lassie number three and knowing that she had been lassie number two. I downed my coffee and took a squint at Julia’s beer. She appeared to be nursing it. “Bottoms up,” I said.
losing her husband to a woman like lassie number three and knowing that she had been lassie number two. I downed my coffee and took a squint at Julia’s beer. She appeared to be nursing it. “Bottoms up,” I said.
She said, “A man walks into a bar with an octopus and says, ‘I’ll bet fifty quid this octopus can play any instrument in the house to virtuoso capacity.’ And first the saxophonist—”
I cut her off. “And the octopus says about the bagpipe, ‘Play her, hell! Soon as I can get her knickers off, I’m gonna have me way with her.’ I told you that one, Julia.”
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