On Deadly Ground (19 page)

And when they left Eddins sitting alone at that restaurant table, the only feeling Books had for him was utter contempt.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Books and Sutter returned to the Yukon. “Well, what do you make of that little tête-à-tête?” asked Sutter.

“A brief fling, it wasn't,” said Books, “but I don't think he's our trigger man.”

“Me, neither. His alibi'll check out, wait and see. That doesn't mean he didn't pay somebody else to kill Greenbriar.”

“Possible, I guess, but I doubt it. No, Charley, I think we're going to find the answer to this puzzle lies with Brian Call and his friends in Las Vegas. I can smell it.”

“I don't know whether to hope you're right or hope you're wrong.”

***

They had barely cleared the Parry Lodge when Books received a call from dispatch. The dispatcher relayed a message from Brian Call asking Charley Sutter to call him immediately.

Sutter reached for his cell, punched in Call's number, and then hit the speaker button so Books could listen in. “Let's hope he's calling in with some good news on George Gadasky.”

Call answered on the first ring.

“Got your message, Brian. What's up?”

“It's nothin good, I can tell you that. I'm at Grosvenor Arch. The boys found George Gadasky's old pickup parked here about seven this morning.”

“Any sign of George?”

“Not at first, not until Laray Bingham showed up with one of his coon hounds.”

“And.”

“It took that old hound about ten minutes to find the body.” His voice broke.

“Get a hold of yourself, Brian. Tell me what happened?”

“Somebody shot the dumb-ass kid in the head, that's what happened.”

“Ah, Jesus,” said Sutter. He glanced at Books shaking his head. “Where did you find him?”

“His body had either fallen or been pushed into a shallow ravine a couple of hundred yards from the parking lot.”

“And the murder weapon?”

“We're searching for it now, but so far nothing.”

“What about brass?” said Books.

“None,” said Call.

“What kind of weapon?” asked Sutter.

“Not sure, but it looks like some kind of small caliber handgun. There's a small entry wound behind his left ear. No exit wound that I could see.”

“Sounds like a .22 or maybe a .25 caliber,” Books whispered.

Sutter nodded. “Sit tight, Brian, and secure the scene. We'll notify the medical examiner's office and get a CSI unit rolling right away. I'll be along shortly unless I decide to send Books.”

Sutter used his cell and called the dispatch center. He told them to call for a CSI team and to notify the ME. “This one's going to be a logistical nightmare,” said Sutter.

“Afraid so,” replied Books. “That crime scene is out in the middle of bum-fuck, and I'd say you'll be lucky to get support people to him inside five hours. And that's assuming they don't get lost trying to find the place.”

“I don't want to risk that. I'll have somebody guide them from Kanab.”

When they arrived at the sheriff's office, Books said, “We'd better sit down in your office and see if we can start to make sense out of this. Besides, I think we need a plan.”

Sutter heaved a sigh. “I think we do.”

***

Deluca got up early. He wiped the room down as thoroughly as possible and checked out of the motel. He drove ten miles north of Kanab to the small town of Mt. Carmel. He rented a room for one night at a Best Western motel using a different set of false identification. As always, he paid with cash.

His decision to change motels was purely a precaution. He'd survived for nearly three decades by carefully planning each and every move. He'd learned to live by what he called the two C's rule: Caution and common sense. Kanab was a small town, and while he didn't think he had done anything to arouse suspicion, he saw no reason to take a chance. Once the body of George Gadasky was discovered, the cops would invariably start taking a careful look at anyone in town who wasn't a local.

Deluca carefully unpacked his things. He placed his underwear, socks, and pajamas inside one of the dressers. Then he neatly laid out his toiletries on the bathroom counter. He hung his remaining clothes in the small closet. He was a fanatic about neatness, a habit he'd developed in the military.

After he finished, he laid his two-hundred twenty pound frame on the queen-size bed and dialed the Las Vegas phone number of the pet spa caring for his beloved Rosie. The answering attendant informed him that Rosie had eaten breakfast, gone on a play date with several other like-minded canines, and was now sequestered in a quiet room where she was receiving a massage. Deluca thanked the pleasant sounding attendant and disconnected. He smiled to himself thinking that Rosie was receiving such cushy treatment she might have second thoughts about wanting to come home.

Deluca gathered his things and prepared to return to Kanab. No camouflage fatigues today. He dressed to look as much like a tourist as possible. His ability to blend into a place was directly proportional to its size, and Kanab was a damned small place.

Deluca had begun to get that uneasy feeling that things were not going as expected. He was running out of time and ideas for finding Ronnie Gadasky. Every hour he spent in Kanab increased his risk of discovery. Never in his career had Deluca failed to fulfill a contract, but, for the first time, he was forced to consider just such a plan. He wouldn't exercise that option until he'd played his final cards.

Deluca parked the Explorer in front of the Ranch Inn & Café, and took a seat at the counter. He ordered a short stack of pancakes, sausage, and coffee. He figured this was as good a place as any to pick up on the local gossip. He hoped he might hear whatever scuttlebutt was going around about the whereabouts of Ronnie Gadasky. He was confident that it was too soon for any information to have surfaced about the missing and dearly departed George Gadasky. As it turned out, he was wrong about that.

Deluca guessed the man behind the counter was about his age. He had a ruddy complexion, thinning gray hair, and a droopy mustache. He also had information he was readily sharing with two men seated across the counter from him. Like everything else at this stage of his life, Deluca had lost some hearing. He strained to hear the conversation but managed to catch only bits and pieces. From what he gathered, George Gadasky had been reported missing, and the locals had mounted a search. He didn't hear anything about a body being discovered. Deluca decided to take a chance and enter the conversation.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” he said, “but I've been visiting the area for the last week and keep hearing stories about somebody being killed, and some kid who saw it all, and now he's disappeared. Is that what you're talking about?”

Rusty Steed looked at Deluca and shook his head. “No, it's not the kid who supposedly witnessed the crime. He's still missing. It's the witness' brother who's gone missing.”

“What happened to him?” said Deluca.

“Details are a little sketchy, but evidently he went looking for his brother in the monument and never came back.”

“That's a shame,” said Deluca, shaking his head.

“Sure is.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Deluca said, “Did this kid actually see the murder?”

“Apparently,” said the stranger seated on the stool next to him. “If he didn't, I can't imagine why the cops would be spending all this time trying to find him.”

“That makes sense,” said Deluca, “but maybe the youngster doesn't want to get involved. You know how kids are these days.”

“Maybe so,” said Steed. “Hard to say. He's a strange boy, anyway.”

You don't know the half of it, thought Deluca.

“Seems like I heard they haven't caught the killer yet,” said Deluca.

Rusty Steed stared at Deluca for a minute before answering. The stare didn't go unnoticed. “Not yet, but the police got their eyes fixed on somebody.”

“That must be the young fellow who had his picture in the paper,” said Deluca. “I think his name was Lance……something-or-other.”

“That's right,” said Steed. “Lance Clayburn. You seem to have a real interest in this case, mister. I'm Rusty Steed, by the way. I own this place. What's your name, anyway?”

Deluca reached across the counter and shook Steed's hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Rusty. My name's Curry, Del Curry.”

“Nice to meet you, too. You said you were vacationing here. Where are you from?”

Deluca reached for his wallet. “Chicago.”

“You're a long way from home. What brings you to these parts?”

Deluca was becoming annoyed. Rusty Steed was a nosy old fart. Perhaps his questions had made the old man suspicious. “Visiting the national parks, mostly. My sister and brother-in-law live in Salt Lake City. I'll stop and see them, then fly home from Salt Lake.”

Steed nodded.

Deluca was pushing his luck but decided to try one more tack. “Sometimes people on the run hide out with friends or family—even turn themselves into a lawyer. I wonder if the police have considered that possibility.”

Steed glanced at him again but didn't answer. The stranger seated next to him did. “Never knowed Ronnie to have any friends—boy's always been a loner. Family wouldn't hide him out, neither. Don't know nothin' about no lawyer though.”

Steed had overheard the exchange. “Ronnie's got himself a lawyer, but I imagine if he contacted her, she'd turn him in.”

Rebecca Eddins, thought Deluca.

Deluca finished his breakfast and left cash on the counter to pay the bill. Rusty Steed had disappeared. He got into the Explorer and drove down the street to a pay phone at the local supermarket.

Rusty Steed stood in the lobby of the Ranch Inn & Café and watched as Deluca left the restaurant and drove away in a late model Ford Explorer.

Chapter Forty

At the sheriff's office, Books and Sutter hammered out the semblance of a plan. Sutter would respond to Grosvenor Arch to assist Brian Call at the murder scene. He would also stop at the Gadasky home and deliver the tragic news of George's murder to the boy's father. That would free Books to sort through the complex web of lies and deceit surrounding the death of David Greenbriar.

Books found himself with a new and growing sense of respect for Charley Sutter. He respected the way the sheriff had handled Neal Eddins at the Parry Lodge. That, along with his decision to deliver the worst possible news to Ivan Gadasky, reflected strength and courage. Books had delivered more than his fair share of death notifications to family members when he worked robbery/homicide in Denver. It never got easier.

Books drove to BLM headquarters. Since it was Sunday, the parking lot was mostly empty. Alexis Runyon's Toyota Highlander was parked behind the building. That was good. He had something he needed to ask her.

Runyon was busy in front of her computer when Books tapped on her office door. She glanced up, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Come in, J.D. Just trying to catch up on my email. Give me another second and I'll be done.”

When she finished, Runyon leaned back in her office chair, munching on a piece of dried fruit. “Any news?”

“Yeah, there is, and I'm sorry to say, it's not good.”

Her smile gave way to a look of concern. “What's happened?”

Books told her about the discovery of George Gadasky body at Grosvenor Arch and about the unknown subject who had passed himself off as a Las Vegas newspaper reporter trying to locate Ronnie Gadasky for an interview.

“You think this person took George into the monument and then killed him?”

“It looks that way, but it's too soon to know for sure,” said Books.

“But why would he do that?”

“Good question. I think whoever did this wasn't about to leave a witness behind who might identify him later. And George probably thought he knew where to find Ronnie.”

“And when George couldn't, the guy killed him?”

“It's possible.”

“Jesus,” said Runyon. “Charley must be beside himself right about now.”

“You might be surprised. He's actually holding up pretty well.” Books told her about the paternity issue and the subsequent encounter with Neil Eddins.

Runyon's jaw dropped with this revelation. “You're kidding me. This thing's turning into flippin' soap opera. I appreciate your keeping me informed.”

“No problem.”

“With a second murder, I wouldn't be surprised if a team of agents showed up from the regional BLM office in Salt Lake City.”

“Maybe the FBI, too,” said Books.

“Has word of George's murder gotten around town?”

“Not yet, but it won't take long. It's not exactly the kind of thing you can sit on for any length of time,” said Books. “Since you're here, I need your help with something else.”

“Name it.”

“How difficult would it be to find out who holds mining rights in the Grand Staircase?”

“Any place in particular?”

“The Kaiparowits Plateau.”

“Let's take a look.” She slid back in front of her computer.

Several key strokes later, Books had his answer.

“How about a company called Nevada Mining & Manufacturing,” said Runyon.

***

Deluca left the Ranch Inn & Café feeling uneasy. He had pressed too hard for information, and the old man, Rusty Steed, had become suspicious. That was obvious. But what the hell was he supposed to do. This was no time to be cautious. He had to find that kid and fast.

He drove across Kanab Creek past the home of Rebecca Eddins. Nothing. No lights on in the house. No vehicle parked out front. Deluca returned to town and drove past Eddins' law office. Hallelujah. There was an SUV parked in the lot and the lights inside the office were on. The place actually looked like it was open for business. Odd for a Sunday, he thought. He slowly circled the block looking for Ronnie Gadasky's dirt bike. He couldn't find it, but that didn't mean the kid wasn't in the law office. The bike could have been stashed anywhere.

Deluca found a pay phone in the lobby of a motel that provided a modicum of privacy and a refuge from the noisy sounds of the street. He dialed Eddins' law office number and waited. Moments later, a pleasant sounding woman answered, “Law office. This is Becky Eddins. How can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Eddins. My name is Elliott Sanders and I'm a newspaper reporter from the
Las Vegas Sun Times
. I'm in town covering the murder investigation of the local environmental activist, David Greenbriar.”

“And what does that have to do with me, Mr. Sanders?”

“A fair question. My paper would like to interview a young man whose name has surfaced in the case as a possible witness. His name is Ronnie Gadasky.”

“I still don't see what that has to do with me.” Eddins' voice had a new steely edge.

Snippy little bitch, thought Deluca.

“I was just getting to that,” said Deluca. “Our own investigation led us to you. It seems that you have acted as Mr. Gadasky's attorney in the past. The paper would like to interview Ronnie, and we were hoping you might know how to contact him. And of course, the paper would be happy to compensate you for your time.”

“Two points, Mr.…I'm sorry, what was your name again?”

“Sanders, Elliott Sanders.”

“Two points Mr. Sanders. First, I haven't heard from Ronnie Gadasky, and I have no reason to believe that I'm going to. Second, if I did hear from Ronnie, I would encourage him to surrender to the police. I would not sit him down with you or anybody else from the news media.”

“I understand,” said Deluca. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.”

“It's no bother Mr. Sanders, but tell me something. Isn't this a bit unusual? I mean a newspaper reporter trying to interview a material witness in a murder case even before the police have an opportunity to talk with him.”

“Maybe so, but this is an extremely competitive business we're in, Ms. Eddins. My newspaper is simply trying to land the big story ahead of our competitors.”

“I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Sanders. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks.” Deluca disconnected.

When he got back into the Explorer, Deluca glanced at his cell phone on the seat next to him. The message light was blinking. He listened to a brief message, deleted it, and then returned the call.

“This is Michael.”

“You called.”

“We have another problem.”

“Tell somebody else. I've got enough of my own.”

“You need to hear about this one.”

“Why?”

“It came from our local contact in Kane County. He's threatening to expose us if we don't back off right now—seems the little rat bastard freaked out when he heard about your recent, how shall I say it, ‘encounter' with one of the locals.”

Deluca paused. “Actually, he might be giving you pretty good advice.” He explained the difficulty he was having trying to find Ronnie Gadasky. “Maybe it's time to cut our losses and get out while we still can.”

“This doesn't sound like the man who never failed to fulfill a contract,” said Calenti. “It sounds more like a man who's gotten too old and too soft around the middle to get the job done. Perhaps you ought to consider retirement on some Florida beach where you can sip Pina Coladas, look at pussy, and dream about the good old days.”

“Listen to me you snotty little cokehead. I was taking care of business when you were still running around in diapers, so don't talk to me about not getting the job done. I warned you from the beginning that this job was ill-conceived, but you didn't want to listen, did you, you little faggot?”

Michael Calenti was shocked. Nobody talked to him like this, particularly not some cranky, aging, two-bit gangster like Deluca. Yet there was something cold and sinister about the old man. Assuming a conciliatory tone was prudent, at least for the time being.

“Look, I was only trying to light a little fire under you, that's all,” said Calenti. “Don't take everything so personal.”

“Is that right, Michael? Isn't it a shame that neither you nor Vic Jr. have got the business savvy or balls your old man had? If you did, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

Calenti didn't take the bait. “I'm just telling you that if this guy goes off on us like he's threatened to, we could all end up in a world of hurt.”

“It's not my problem, Michael. This guy doesn't know me. I don't know him. I've never seen him or spoken to him. Besides, I don't kill cops—too much heat. He's your problem, Michael. You fix it.”

“I don't think you're listening, Mr. Deluca. If these murders end up on our doorstep, we're not going down alone. Don't you understand? You'll end up being the one with a needle in your arm.”

“You'd rat me out. Is that it, Michael? Is that what you're telling me?”

Michael cleared his throat. “All I can tell you is a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

“Okay, Michael. Give me all the particulars and I'll fix your problem. But let me tell you something. If these loose ends aren't resolved within twenty-four hours, I'm out of here. And then whatever happens happens. Understand?”

Calenti didn't answer.

“Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

After the call, Michael Calenti leaned low over the marble coffee table and snorted a line of cocaine. He walked outside his high-rise condo onto an expansive deck that overlooked the Las Vegas strip from thirty floors above. Through a cocaine induced fog, he reflected on what Deluca had just said. The two-bit thug had threatened him and he didn't like it. He didn't like it because it scared him, and nobody threatened Michael Calenti and got away with it.