Turkey Ranch Road Rage (30 page)

Jerry straightened himself in the seat and started the car. “Do you know how to get in touch with him? Does Lucille?

“No. Mother said she threw his card away, but I don’t know if she really did or not.”

“Right. That would be my guess too.” Jerry grabbed his phone from the case at his waist and called Fritz. After a typical merry-go-round of nonsense with Lucille, she eventually admitted to having kept Saide’s card for evidence, and finally gave Jerry the phone number. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the forensic work is finished at your mother’s house. She can go home anytime.”

And thus, so could I. “But you’re not telling her?”

“I think she’s better off staying with Fritz for a couple of days. Makes it a lot easier on all concerned.”

One would hope.

Jerry dialed the number Lucille had given him, listened for about fifteen seconds and hung up. “Message machine. I wish we still had Saide in custody.”

“Yeah, too bad that charge of failing to provide my mother with a moving target didn’t stick.”

Jerry ignored my clever remark, which was probably just as well. The claim of self-defense even seemed almost reasonable at the moment. Geez, what had made me start thinking these crazy things were all perfectly normal?

Jerry dialed again. “A white compact with bullet holes in it is pretty easy to spot though.” He made several calls, including one to his office and one to Perez.

When he’d finished putting out an alert for the car and the weasel, I said, “Now, about Sarah... Mother said she was supposed to leave today. At least I think that’s what she said. Do you know anything about that?”

Jerry caught up with my abrupt shift in topics. “I understood that she was heading to Dallas yesterday to try to change her ticket. She should already be back in Denver.”

“There is no changing that kind of a ticket, Jerry. Either you’re on the flight you picked or you pay for another ticket, and I highly doubt that occurred.” I grabbed my phone and tried her dorm room. Not surprisingly, there was no answer. I tried her cell phone. After about six rings it went to voicemail. I tried again and she picked up.

“Mom! What’s up?” She was out of breath and a little nervous-sounding. “Everything okay down there?”

“Well, relatively speaking, I guess. Have you made it back yet?”

“No, still traveling,” she said, still a bit shaky on the tone and breathing. “But I should be there before long.”

I listened astutely for any background noise that might tell me where she actually was. I’ve honestly never been a snoopy mother, but facts are facts and Little Miss Sarah had been hanging out with the wrong crowd lately, namely her grandmother. I had plenty of questions for her and pinning her down on her whereabouts wasn’t going to help me get other more important answers. “You know Tiger is dead, right?”

“Who?” Oh, she tried to sound oblivious, but it was half-hearted at best.

“You know, the man who was staying in your room at the motel. You know, the room your grandmother rented for you at the New Falls Motel.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Well, I really don’t know anything about any of that.”

The obvious follow-up question was “why not?” But why bother? I already knew she hadn’t been staying there. She’d been at the Hilton. We’d get to that later. What we did know was that Lucille had rented the room, either directly or indirectly, for Tiger and Company—we just didn’t know why. And Lucille Junior obviously wasn’t going to tell me. She wasn’t going to answer my next question either but I was going to ask it anyway. “Now, tell me again why you were in Kickapoo.”

“I just wanted to visit, and Gram needed support with all the trouble she was having. She has Merline and Agnes, of course, but we’re her only family and we all live seven hundred miles away. I was able to get away so I did. She really appreciated it,” Sarah said, running every sentence together as fast as she could, having had a good week of training at such things from the master.

“You know, I actually stayed across the highway from the motel where the dead guy was found. I was at the Hilton last night. What a coincidence, huh?”

There was a long silence punctuated by a few heavy breaths into the phone. “Oh, wow, look at the time. Sorry, Mom, but I have to go. I’m going to be late. Love you. Bye.”

Much like her father, it was what she hadn’t said that was telling. Dodging any direct response to fact statements was crucial since when caught, it could be said that no direct lies had been told. That paternal genetic defect, along with her grandmother’s obvious ones, had combined to create a latent tendency for stupidity that apparently struck at age 20. I tossed the phone into the seat. “My daughter is neither in Boulder nor headed in that direction. She’s right here. She didn’t leave, Jerry, I know she didn’t.”

“She was supposed to change the ticket,” he muttered.

“She probably said she’d try to. There is a distinct difference.”

He kind of growled, reality dawning on him. “I should have known better.”

The man was making an obvious inference to the girl’s lineage and not just her grandmother or her father either. He was wrong, of course. Insanity skips a generation. I was not in charge of either my daughter or my mother’s behavior, and yet, I felt responsible, guilty even, like I should apologize to Jerry for both of them. My scarred little psyche is a nest of such ten-headed snakes which prompt me to suck up self-help books faster than Dr. Phil can say “How’s that working out for you?” But back to the point, which was now my lying daughter—a not so refreshing change of pace from my lying mother. And you wonder why I need therapy.

He frowned. “You really think she’d do that? Not get on the plane?”

I just shook my head. The man knew the truth. He was just in denial. I know the place well, spend a lot time there myself. “I repeat. She is Lucille Jackson’s granddaughter.”

Jerry turned toward me, an air of seriousness dropping over him. “Jo, there’s something I have to tell you. I should have already told you—”

“Hey, I’m getting a call. Maybe she’s calling back to confess.” I grabbed the phone and a tingle of fear shot through me as I looked at the number. “Caller ID blocked.” I showed the screen to Jerry and he nodded for me to answer. “Hello.”

“Miz Jackson, this is Damon Saide.”

The little weasel’s voice was easy to confirm. And, just hearing it conjured up a vision of the little twerp. “Well, Mr. Saide, what can I do for you?”

“You seem to be reasonable and I was hoping we could talk about the proposal I have for your mother’s property.”

He sounded awfully eager and I wondered exactly how he’d gotten my phone number. It made me wary, to say the least, although I certainly wanted to meet with him. I doubted Jerry would be quite as enthusiastic. “Hold on a minute.”

I pushed the mute button and gave Jerry the details.

He gritted his teeth and his nostrils flared, but after a few long seconds he nodded okay. “Give us an hour.”

I unmuted the phone. “Mr. Saide, I’m in Redwater right now—”

“Great. There’s a Settler’s Restaurant on the north end of town by the new expressway, Fourteenth Street, I believe. I’ll buy you a late lunch. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Shit. I wanted more time but I also didn’t want to miss the chance to get the weasel in front of me. “Lunch won’t be necessary, but that will be fine. Give me a number where I can call you back in case something happens and I can’t make it after all.”

“Well, my phone doesn’t work very well down here sometimes. If you aren’t there, I’ll call you. Looking forward to meeting with you.” Click.

And with that, he hung up. I looked at Jerry. “Settler’s in thirty minutes.”

Jerry said nothing, just glanced at his watch and picked up his own phone. Predictably, he called Perez. Only he couldn’t reach Perez. From the sound of things, the personnel options they offered Jerry for surreptitiously presiding over my meeting with the weasel were not options at all. That meant it was just me and the weasel, with Jerry close by.

“We’d better hurry,” Jerry said, turning to get us headed in the right direction. “We’ll have to park somewhere else and walk over to the restaurant separately. I’ll go first and get settled at a table. You sit as close as you can.”

“At least you’re not wearing a uniform to scare him off.”

“Don’t count on him not noticing me,” Jerry said. “Just because he plays dumb, doesn’t mean he is.”

He had a point. Still, we’d be in a public place. How scary could it be?

Chapter
Nineteen

Apparently it would be very scary, according to the dissertation I got from Sheriff Parker on the drive over. Jerry’s coaching me on what to do, what not to do and what could happen if I screwed up, combined with the large glass of strong iced tea I’d just chugged down, had me about to jump out of my skin. That Jerry was seated at one booth across and down from me, watching me, did not reduce my nervousness.

My original take on Damon Saide was that he was too wimpy to be a killer. Jerry had nixed that delusion with entirely too many colorful examples of timid-looking homicidal maniacs, and now that the beady-eyed guy was heading toward my table, I was convinced that he had planted fields of bodies across the country just after they signed the appropriate property transfer papers. I bet he hated puppies and kittens too.

Let me start over. You know how some people just creep you out? Damon Saide was the poster boy for creepy. Nothing you could really put your finger on, just a weird vibe. His looks weren’t abnormal, he wasn’t even really ugly. He didn’t drool or chew his fingers that I could tell, but there was just something about him that made me want to be far, far away.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Saide,” I said politely, although I did not offer my hand or stand up. I pegged him to have a limp grasp and I was already squeamish enough. “Please have a seat.”

He slid into the booth across from me. “Well, Jolene, I’m certainly glad to have this chance to talk to you alone. I’ve had quite the time with your mother. Apparently she misinterpreted my proposal and I’ve been unable to sit down with her and explain the actual details.”

Mother didn’t have any official papers from Damon Saide, other than a business card, since she’d thrown them all in his face when she kicked him out of her house, or something like that. “I’d like to see your original written proposal, Mr. Saide. It was upsetting to her and I’d like to understand why.”

Mr. Weasel fiddled with a cheap black briefcase in the booth beside him and popped open the latches. I couldn’t see what was in there, but after a few seconds he pulled out a file folder and set it on the table. “A simple purchase offer, really. The offer is generous. Fifty thousand.” He slid out the tax assessor’s form and tapped his finger on the figure. “As you can see, the county has it listed at only thirty-eight thousand two hundred. We’re willing to offer more to compensate for the inconvenience.”

“It doesn’t matter what the county has a house valued at. It would bring fifty thousand on the open market without even trying, so your offer isn’t ‘generous’ by any stretch.”

“That may have been true a few years ago, but property values across the country have dropped dramatically, as you must certainly be aware.”

The property value fluctuations were dramatic in some parts of the country, yes, but this area had never inflated so I doubted there’d been a drop at all. “Why is it again that you need my mother’s property when you’ve got two thousand acres of nothing behind it to plant concrete pads on?”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “As I explained to your mother—”

The waitress stopped at our booth with a glass of water for Damon Saide and her order pad ready. “Tea,” he said. “Unsweet.”

“I’m fine for now,” I said to the waitress, keeping my attention on Saide. “You were saying that my mother’s property was essential because…”

“Yes, of course. The property would give us westerly access as well as additional housing for staff or a secondary headquarters.”

Even if we agreed to believe the park was legit, it didn’t make sense to buy a residential property for any of the reasons he cited. And why hers and not one of the others down the street? And what about the Little house? Was that not part of the deal too? “Let me see the contract and maybe I can help.” I did not say help with what.

“We hoped the situation would be a win-win for both of us,” he continued, ignoring my request. “Your mother is getting on in years, and it would be easier for her to sell to us than on the open market. She could get an apartment and not be bothered with any potential traffic from the park.”

I didn’t say a word, but my look seemed to adequately relay my “save the bullshit” message.

The waitress returned with the weasel’s tea and he immediately grabbed some little pink packets and started pouring them in.

I took a sip of my own tea and watched him stir the white powder into his drink, thinking that he was as fake as the crap he was using for sugar. I didn’t like him or what he was up to. I also had a very personal bone to pick with him about his knowledge of duct tape and gas, but that would have to wait. “I’m not even going to pretend that I believe access plays any role in what you’re up to. So, Mr. Saide, what is it that’s really motivating you?”