I thought that Joe Banning was not directly involved in the murder, but the sheriff still considered him a suspect. In any case, he’d assaulted both a deputy and the department’s Chief of Criminal Investigation. The sheriff was certain he would do some substantial time in the state prison. Sheriff Taylor thought that the difficulty in apprehending him was that he had too damn many cousins. Old Flagstaff clans tend to be loyal to relatives in trouble. By now, he might be on his way to Alaska or Canada to pursue the career he loved.
When I got to my office, there was a voice mail from Kay Sumter. “I received a report from my army contact in Dover. He believes that Zackary Cantor was hit by a shot fired from at least 200 meters. He referred to it as a sniper’s kill shot. The accuracy was phenomenal. Mike, this was not just a lucky shot; you found the elk was hit with similar accuracy. You should look for an expert marksman.”
A major problem with Mathew Andrews as a suspect was that he probably could not have make those two perfect shots from 200 meters under difficult conditions. It was not something an occasional hunter could do. Things still pointed to a professional assassin, and that seemed likely to be connected to the drugs.
I began calling the list of hunters who’d been north of the Peaks on Sunday. I was looking for anyone who saw Mathew Andrews’ new white pickup with paper temporary tags. First, I called two hunters that had used the Weatherford Trailhead like Dr. Cantor. One seemed certain that there was no white truck parked at the trailhead when he arrived, but the other thought he might have seen a white truck pulled off the road a quarter mile before the trailhead. I spent the rest of the afternoon calling hunters without anything conclusive. Even the sighting a quarter mile from the Weatherford Trail became doubtful when one of the hunters said he had parked his tan truck there.
I ended the day frustrated, and headed home about six. The drive was painful because my back seemed worse, and the winding road put more stress on it. It was a relief to get home. Margaret joined me in the hot tub while dinner cooked in the oven. I told her the whole story of my day. I wasn’t certain how she would react to the details of the Cantors’ personal life, but she just grinned. I think she had figured it out already.
“You never really know about people,” she said with an easy laugh. “Mike, you seemed disturbed by their sex life. You’re usually very tolerant of other people’s peculiarities. Why does this especially bother you?”
I thought that over for a minute. “I can’t understand the lack of jealousy if they really loved each other. Also the idea of having another man in bed grosses me out.”
“But the idea of two women doesn’t?” she asked.
“OK you win. I admit that a lot of guys have that fantasy, but the one woman I already have is more than I can handle, especially tonight with my back acting up.”
“What you need is a roasted chicken dinner followed by a little expert massage. I’ll bet I can make you forget that pain for awhile.”
And she did.
I slept restlessly and used the hot tub again as soon as I got up at 4:30. I stayed in it until my skin was beginning to look like a pickle. At breakfast about 6:30, Margaret brought up the case again. “What is the young man’s name who is going with Amanda Brandt, the premature one?”
“Trevor Joyce. I haven’t met him, but I saw him with Amanda at a Starbucks before my meetings at the clinic. He looked like a soldier, cautious and alert; he reminded me of my first six months being in combat. Why do you ask?”
“Well the drug thing bothers me. The only reason I can see for Dr. Cantor getting involved is blackmail. Amanda and Trevor knew about the Cantors’ unusual preference in sexual activity. Probably, other people did too.”
“The blackmail idea is worth investigating. I need to talk to Mrs. Cantor again about any other partners who might have blackmailed Dr. Cantor into the drug scam. The drug people might have wanted to cover their tracks when the DEA began to investigate.”
“You said that Trevor was just out of the army, and almost thirty. He must have spent quite a few years in the service. Perhaps you can find out what he did in the army.”
“I’ll check him out. This morning, I’m driving down to Phoenix to pick up Mathew Andrews and execute the search warrant for his house.”
“You should fill that pain killer prescription. You’ll be very uncomfortable with that much time in a car today. You really need to take tomorrow off and recuperate.”
As usual, Margaret was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I got to the Law Enforcement Building at 7:45 after an uncomfortable drive to Flagstaff. It’s about twenty-five miles from my house in Sedona to my office. On the way, I picked up painkillers at the Walgreen’s on Milton Road; however, I didn’t take any because the pharmacist warned that it caused drowsiness. I had a lot of driving to do today; I assumed that Sean would be on medication and not be able to drive.
I went to June Rosetta’s cubicle on the way to my office. I was surprised to see that many people present early on a Saturday morning. All of the water cooler chatting stopped when I entered the clerical area. I enjoy discussing the latest TV episode or sports score as much as the next guy, but the staff in Flagstaff had treated me with both deference and remoteness. I still hadn’t been able to convince them I’m a regular guy.
June came over to the door and said, “May I help you sir?” She did not look me in the face; her eyes were focused eight inches below my chin.
“I’d like you to research a young man named Trevor Joyce. He’s recently out of the army and back from somewhere in the Middle East. He lives with a nurse who works at the Scottsdale Cosmetic Surgery Clinic, named Amanda Brandt, and you should see what you can find on her also. I was told Trevor is unemployed and looking for work. I’m especially interested in what job he did while he was in the service. Find out if he has any arrests, especially drug related. Check his records while he was a minor if you can.”
She had that same fearful manner as if she thought I might assault her at any moment. She was not that apprehensive around anyone else, even Sheriff Taylor. I could not imagine what I’d done to scare her.
“Yes sir. I’ll bring it to your office this morning.”
“I’ll be on my way to Scottsdale by 8:15. You can call my cell, 928 555-1315, if you find anything interesting.” She had already retreated to the nearest wall as if putting some distance between us.
Sean came to my office promptly at 8:00, walking in cowboy manner as if he just finished the Cimarron Trail cattle drive. I managed to suppress my grin at his awkward gait.
“Sorry, I let Banning surprise me. I wasn’t much use as a backup for you Captain.”
“No Sean, it was my fault. I should have brought him in to the office for questioning, and please call me Mike. This is not the army.”
“Yes sir,” he said, and then stuttered, “Yes sir, Mike.”
It would have been hilarious to anyone who observed us getting into my Explorer. I was treating my back gingerly and gradually lowered myself into the seat while Sean tried to get into the passenger seat without ever bringing his legs together. We were the lame and infirmed, but we had brought our vests and shotguns as well as our pistols. I didn’t think Mathew Andrews would resist, but I was taking no chances, four Scottsdale police officers would assist in this arrest.
During the drive, I updated Sean on the case, only omitting the Cantors’ sexual tastes. At this point, he had no need to know that information. He agreed with me that Joe Banning was not the murderer; he seemed too sincerely concerned about losing his hunting guide career rather than a potential murder charge.
“Do you think they’ll arrest him today?” I asked.
“He’s long gone by now, Mike. I don’t expect to ever see him again, but if I do he’ll regret it.” Sean was a hundred pounds lighter than Joe Banning but lean and muscular. I thought he was a guy who could take care of himself. He’d been surprised in Banning’s cabin, as had I.
About 10:00, J
une called with a report on Trevor Joyce. I took it on the cell phone speaker so Sean could hear.
“I’m sorry sir; I have hit a dead end on your question about Staff Sergeant Trevor William Joyce’s responsibilities in the army. He was honorably discharged and received two bronze stars for valor, a silver star, and a purple heart. He was an Army Ranger, but everything else is classified. They told me to submit a written request; I should expect an answer in fifteen months to two years, but even if we received his records, most of the details will be redacted.” She sounded close to tears at her failure.
“Did you get anything else?” I said in as gentle a voice as possible.
“A little, he lists a house belonging to Amanda Peabody Brandt as his residence for purposes of receiving unemployment benefits. He doesn’t have a valid Arizona driver’s license, and he has no outstanding credit of any kind. I couldn’t find a bank account in Arizona in his name.”
“Any arrests?” I asked.
“No sir, unless they were service connected. I was told that I couldn’t have that information. I’ve done other research on ex-servicemen and never had this much difficulty. I assume his job was especially sensitive. Maybe I’ll do better on a weekday; I’ll try again on Monday. I’m very sorry, Sir.”
“What did you find on Amanda Brandt?”
“Good credit, no arrests, owns her Scottsdale condo with a $182,000 mortgage balance, no other debt except the normal credit cards. Do you want me to check further? I could call some neighbors or business associates.”
I thanked her, and said that was enough for now.
A few minutes later, Sean said, “June seemed upset when she called.”
“For some reason, she seems intimidated by me. I’ve tried to reassure her that I’m not an ogre.”
“Do you know her background?” he asked.
“No.”
“She was married at thirteen as the sixth wife of one of the religious leaders at Colorado City. She ran away with her two children at sixteen, hitchhiked to Flagstaff, and hid for six years working as a maid in a lawyer’s house, getting her GED and going to NAU. Earlier this year, she got a job at the Sheriff’s Department because it was one of the few places that she felt safe. Another wife who escaped from Colorado City was found hanging from a cottonwood tree in Camp Verde about five years ago. Those rogue Jack Mormons don’t like wives leaving with their kids. She keeps those boys completely out of sight and doesn’t tell anyone where she lives.”
“She seems OK around other people. It’s me that she is shying away from,” I explained. I understood more of her timidity; it was a tough way to start your teenage years. The county had made a number of attempts to sort things out at Colorado City, but the court cases failed for lack of witnesses.
“It’s simple, Mike. You look a lot like her ex-husband, same muscular built, same square jaw, and same intense eyes. You’re about the same age too. Naturally, she’s uncomfortable around you.”
“Thanks for explaining it. I thought I’d done something to her.”
It took about two hours to reach our rendezvous location with the Scottsdale police. Mathew Andrews lived in a neighborhood east of Scottsdale Road and north of McDonald, and we met the local cops in the parking lot of a nearby resort. They had been watching the house since receiving notice of the impending arrest last night.
The officer-in-charge explained that Mathew was at home alone, perhaps still asleep. He had been out until 2:30 in the morning. We agreed that the four police officers would station themselves around the house and block Mathew’s vehicle by parking in front of it. They had seen it earlier that morning parked in his carport. Sean and I would go to the front door and knock. If he answered, we would show the warrant and inform him that he was under arrest. It seemed simple enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When we reached the proper address, Sean said, “I hope this goes better than yesterday’s arrest.”
“There are six of us this time, and Mathew is no Joe Banning. Mathew Andrews is a clothing model. He would never take a chance on getting his face messed up in a fight.” I was very confident this time.
Mathew’s home was pinkish stucco on a palm-lined street. His truck was parked in the carport as predicted. The local police had surrounded the house before Sean and I drove up to deliver the warrant; their vehicles blocked the driveway. When I rang the bell, Mathew pulled back a curtain and looked through the glass panel next to the door. He nodded a greeting and smiled. He was dressed only in his boxer shorts; his hair was matted from sleep. He disappeared from view as the curtain dropped to cover the glass, but the door didn’t open. I assumed he had gone to put on some pants before letting us in. It was my first mistake of the day.
After about thirty seconds, I began knocking forcefully to hurry Mathew along. Within a minute, I heard shouts from the backyard. I had Sean remain at the front door while I ran around to the back. Three houses west of Mathew’s, two police officers were chasing the fleeing suspect as he vaulted over a wall. Several dogs were barking and two elderly neighbors were standing in their backyard next door watching the chase.
I rushed back to my vehicle, and Sean and I drove in the direction of the chase while one police officer remained to secure the house.
The neighborhood was a confusing array of cul-de-sacs, and I lost track of Mathew and his pursuers. The local cops had called for backup, and six police cars were circling the area. After fifteen minutes of fruitless driving, Sean and I went back to Mathew’s house to begin searching it.
Because he had fled though the sliding glass door in the back, we had no need to break in. I put the search warrant on the kitchen table, and we began our search for his Winchester or other evidence of murder. The local cop assisted in the search and represented the local jurisdiction.
“We’ll have trouble living this down – two lost suspects in two days.” I said to Sean when we were out of earshot of the local cops.
“At least we’re both still standing this time,” Sean said.
I grinned. I liked the fact that he felt comfortable enough to kid about it.
Mathew’s rented house contained very little furniture. A universal gym occupied the dining area and a large projection TV and two ratty chairs were all that was in the living room. He had a receiver for Direct TV and a Korean DVD player. There was a small collection of action/adventure DVD’s.
The kitchen was full of health food but showed no sign that Mathew had ever cooked anything. There was a teapot for his herbal tea, but not a single pan.
His bedroom had a queen size mattress on the floor and a smaller TV also resting on the floor. The bedding looked like it might have been stolen from a cheap motel. Cardboard boxes held neatly folded clothes, and the closet was jammed with expensive shirts and slacks.
A second bedroom held his modeling photos. There was an elaborate leather portfolio that I assumed he used in job hunting. It seemed he had retained a copy of every modeling job he’d done in his ten-year career. There were many catalogues with post-it notes on pages showing underwear. Most of the photos didn’t show Mathew’s face, but one catalogue showed him modeling running clothes with a full view. I could see some differences between these young, pre-surgery facial photos and Mathew’s current look. His chin is more prominent now and has a dimple. His ears lay closer to his head. Somehow his cheeks were shallower, more like a starving refugee than his original look.
The more recent assignments included an exercise demonstration for Men’s Health, a Polo ad in the New York Times Sunday Magazine, and a designer suit ad in Esquire. He was featured in ads for an Italian casual wear designer in a number of monthly magazines including GQ. There was correspondence with an agent in Los Angeles about an upcoming photo shoot in Antigua.
In one corner, there was a stout metal box of about a square foot. When I picked the lock, I found the modeling jobs that Mathew didn’t want seen by any casual visitors. They were nudes or near nudes in many issues of four gay audience
magazines. None of it was hard-core, but it was not subtle. There was also a hardback book, an “art” photo study of young men, which had a five-page layout of Mathew at a nude beach.
It was easy to see the chronology of Mathew’s career. He had started as a teenage underwear model and then fallen on hard times in his early twenties. Since he had dropped out of high school to model underwear, he had no other career options to fall back on. The nudes began about five years ago and stopped abruptly two years ago. His cosmetic surgery was an attempt to return to mainstream modeling. He had succeeded in getting more standard work in the past two years, but he was not living like a man who was successful.
The third bedroom held a cheap computer desk with a Dell laptop and photo quality printer. The walls were decorated with several dozen letter-size photos of Mathew Andrews’ face. Each showed different stages of his medical transformation including some taken very soon after surgeries. A digital camera was attached to a tripod. It pointed at a blank section of wall where the self-portraits had been taken.
It was in the closet of that third bedroom that we found a shotgun in a leather case. In the desk, I found at least forty photos of Dr. Zackary Cantor. Most were taken through a telephoto lens without the physician showing any sign he knew he was being photographed. Some seemed to have been taken through the window of his bedroom and bathroom. They showed the physician in various stages of undress. There were four revealing photos of Dr. Cantor and Mrs. Cantor in their hot tub. Half a dozen showed him playing golf at Forest Highlands.
It was ample proof of Mathew’s obsession, and if I could prove any were taken after the court order, they would land Mathew in jail. However, none of this evidence was proof of a murder in Coconino County.
The house was rather small and uncluttered except for the photos; we’d completed the search of the inside within an hour. We’d also searched the small backyard, but found nothing interesting. Mathew had no concern for gardening, and the space was empty except for dirt and dead grass. The outdoor storage in the carport was all that was left to check.
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 10
