by Rich Curtin
Rivera returned to Shirley’s house and rang the doorbell. Shirley answered, her eyes red and swollen.
“Shirley, did Iggy pay you some rent money recently?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He paid me eight-hundred dollars a couple of days ago. He was three months in arrears on his rent. He paid the six hundred he owed and another two hundred for next month. He’d been late with his rent payments before, but he always came through, so I wasn’t too worried about it.”
“I’m just checking on some details. Did he say anything to you about buying a new motorhome?”
“No. That’s something I would have remembered.”
“Did he say anything about coming into some money?”
She shook her head. “No, definitely not.”
“Okay, thanks very much.”
Rivera returned to the motorhome, climbed inside, and sat in the chair. He slowly rotated it several times, looking for a storage space he might have missed, finally satisfying himself that he’d checked every nook and cranny in the vehicle.
His stomach began to growl. It was one-thirty, and lunch was long overdue. Two granola bars were all he had eaten, and his hunger was affecting his ability to concentrate. Now all he could think about was a cheeseburger, fries, and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper. He pictured himself sitting at a table in Wendy’s with the meal spread before him and began salivating. He decided to take a break and drive into town.
He descended the steps of the motorhome and abruptly stopped. The image of ice cubes floating in a glass of Dr. Pepper triggered a thought. He had inspected each item in Webb’s refrigerator carefully, but he wasn’t sure he had done a thorough job of checking the items stored in the freezer compartment. Besides an ice tray, he remembered seeing stacks of food packages in there, but he hadn’t inspected them because they were frozen solid and covered with frost. Maybe he should have taken a closer look.
He climbed back into the motorhome and extracted the packages from the freezer. There were six hamburger patties packaged individually in clear plastic wrap and placed in a stack. He pried them apart with a kitchen knife and inspected each one. Nothing but meat. He did the same thing with a stack of frozen pork chops. Hidden in the middle of the stack was a frost-encrusted package filled with one-hundred-dollar bills. The money was enclosed in the same kind of plastic wrap used for the meat.
He scraped off the frost, removed the bills from the package, and counted the money. It totaled $4,200. He compared that to the amounts listed on the note paper. Five thousand minus $800 for rent left $4,200. The money must have been what the shooter was looking for. Rivera had found the first piece of the puzzle. He knew there were many more pieces that needed to be discovered before a complete picture of the crime emerged, but this was a beginning.
Now all he had to do was figure out where the money had come from, and who else knew of its existence. He locked the motorhome, fastened crime-scene tape across the door, and headed into town for a bite to eat.
5
AFTER LUNCH, RIVERA drove to the office. Pulling open the front door and entering the sheriff’s building seemed a little strange to him since he hadn’t been there in over a week. He waved to the receptionist/secretary at the front desk and a couple of deputies who were standing nearby talking. The secretary smiled and welcomed him back. From the deputies, he received the usual good-natured needling about goofing off while they did his work.
He walked down the hallway to the break room and poured himself a mug of coffee. As he headed for his office, a county councilman he recognized was emerging from Sheriff Louise Anderson’s office. He was a middle-aged man serving his first term on the council. His expression was grim. He stopped, turned back to the sheriff, and pointed a finger at her.
“I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, Louise.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing, Ralph.”
The councilman raised his voice. “I don’t think you do. I think you’ve screwed up big time.” He turned and marched out of the building.
Rivera took note of the expression on the sheriff’s face. She looked perturbed and worried. He wondered what was going on. She was new on the job, and it appeared she had already provoked the displeasure of one of the county’s top politicians. That was somewhat unusual in Moab political circles, so there had to be something serious afoot.
Rivera entered his office and closed the door. Politics was none of his business. The farther he stayed away from it, the better. He’d been approached about running for sheriff on more than one occasion, but he had always demurred. Sitting behind a desk, shuffling papers, managing personnel, and schmoozing with so-called important people held no appeal for him. He’d rather be working on a case, trying to unearth and untangle facts, sorting out the chronology, zeroing in on the motivations, applying inferences and logic, and solving the crime. He loved the challenge of a difficult case.
He realized as he settled into his chair that the total physical and mental relaxation he’d felt during his time with Gloria was fading fast. He was back in the world of law enforcement and the stress that came with it. For the next several days or longer, he would be consumed with the Iggy Webb case. He knew he wouldn’t be able to relax until he figured out who killed the rockhound and why.
The first order of business was to run a background check on Ignatius M. Webb. He took a sip of coffee, hit a series of keystrokes on his computer, and accessed the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. He typed in Webb’s information and waited. A few seconds later, the results of his inquiry appeared on his monitor. Ignatius Milam Webb had a lengthy arrest record. There were two counts of manslaughter, both dismissed on technicalities; one count of assault with a deadly weapon for which he spent three years in the Western Correctional Institution, a maximum security prison in Maryland; two counts of assault and battery, one dropped and the other resulting in six months probation; two counts of selling illegal substances, one dismissed and one resulting in an eighteen month prison sentence; and one count of reckless driving for which he received a $300 fine. All of the crimes had taken place in or around Baltimore where Webb had grown up. He was from a broken home and dropped out of high school after his sophomore year.
Rivera sat back, put his feet on his desk, and clasped his hands behind his head. He stared out his office window at the LaSal Mountains as he often did while he was thinking. He had a clear view of the light green band of aspens with new leaves, the dark green band of conifers just above it, and the gray, scree-covered peaks at the top with scattered patches of snow. He reflected on Iggy Webb’s life, trying to imagine how he’d gone about making the transition from his previous life to the one he’d found in Moab. Shirley Miller said he had once told her he came to Moab to start over. He must have been in search of a different kind of life, one within the bounds of civility and the law. Something had motivated him to change his ways. There was no way he could have done that in Baltimore—it would have been impossible for him to escape his history there.
Rivera wondered if Webb had been afraid for his life when he came to Moab. Perhaps he’d gotten crossways with the wrong people and felt he was in danger. Or maybe he’d just grown weary of looking over his shoulder all the time. Most crooks didn’t transition gracefully into old age.
Somehow Webb had learned about the red rock canyon country and was drawn here to start over. Perhaps he’d read something about it in a magazine. Shirley said he’d been in Moab for six years, so he’d decided to change his life at age forty-two. There weren’t a lot of opportunities for an ex-criminal with no real-world skills to make a living in Moab, but Webb had found a way. Collecting rocks and fossils in the backcountry and selling them to tourists wasn’t hugely profitable, but at least he’d been able to make ends meet. Perhaps his three rockhound friends had helped him make the transition.
Webb’s new occupation had also allowed him to explore the gorgeous backcountry of the Four Corners area and breathe its fresh, clean air. That must have
been a pleasant change from his life in the big city. He’d parked his motorhome in Shirley Miller’s driveway and transformed his existence into a simpler, less risky, and happier one. Then something went terribly wrong.
Rivera called the RV dealer in Grand Junction to inquire about the motorhome quotation. After speaking with the manager, he was connected to Russ, the salesman who had dealt with Webb and prepared the quote.
Rivera introduced himself. “I’m following up on some details of an investigation we’re conducting. Did you talk to a man named Iggy Webb recently about buying a motorhome?”
“Sure did. Nice fellow. I showed him seven or eight models. He seemed real interested in buying a used Winnebago Brave we had on the lot, so I gave him a quote, but I haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“When was that?”
There was a pause. Rivera could hear some pages turning. “According to my calendar, that would have been four days ago. He said he’d get back to me in a few days. I remember telling him he’d better not wait too long to make up his mind because several other people had looked at that motorhome and were considering buying it. A deal like that wouldn’t last long.”
Typical salesman talk, Rivera thought to himself. “What did he say to that?”
“He told me not to worry, that I’d hear back from him real soon.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“I asked him if he needed financing. He said no, that he’d be paying with cash. That struck me as odd.”
“Why odd?”
“Because when I asked him for a phone number, he said he didn’t own a phone. Someone who can pay that amount of money in cash usually owns a phone.”
“Did he mention where all that cash was coming from?”
“No, and I didn’t ask.” He laughed. “I don’t care where the money comes from, as long as it gets here.”
Rivera thanked him and hung up. He decided he’d better bring the sheriff up to date on his investigation.
To Rivera, Sheriff Anderson was a vast improvement over her predecessor, Sheriff Denny Campbell, a man Rivera disliked so intensely that he’d once come close to slugging him. Campbell was a retired street cop from Detroit who was an incompetent blowhard. He cared about no one but himself. He was elected in an unopposed contest after Sheriff Leroy Bradshaw, Rivera’s mentor and all-time favorite boss, had dropped out of the race soon after his wife had succumbed to cancer. Too many memories here, Bradshaw had said, and moved to New Mexico. Fortunately, Campbell lost his bid for reelection, defeated by Anderson.
Despite Anderson’s residual military bearing, she seemed to be a caring and competent boss. The deputies weren’t crazy about being referred to as “the troops,” nor did they appreciate her occasional criticisms concerning the imperfections in their uniform attire, but all-in-all she had the support of the staff. To Rivera, she was a bit of an enigma because he hadn’t interfaced with her much on his investigative work. Since she was elected, he’d spent part of his time on loan to Sheriff Zilic in San Juan County working on a murder case involving an elderly couple dressed like hippies who were found murdered in the remote backcountry. Rivera was looking forward to getting to know her better.
He sat in the padded chair in front of her large walnut desk. The desk was clear except for a single file folder, a pen, an intercom, and a telephone. The walls of the office were covered with military photographs, framed medals and insignia, and a degree from West Point. Rivera figured her military mementos were the only things she had to decorate the walls. She needed some photographs of Grand County, its people, and the staff to round out the collection. Maybe he would find a way to help her with that.
“What have you got on the Webb case so far, Deputy?” Anderson was in her mid-fifties, tall and slender, with short brown hair and sharp features. Her uniform was impeccable, and her intense brown eyes studied Rivera through rose-rimmed designer glasses. She was divorced from an Army lieutenant colonel and had no children. Rivera had gotten used to her addressing him as “Deputy” or “Rivera,” and wondered if she would ever call him by his first name. He briefed her on the call from Shirley Miller, the victim’s history, the Medical Examiner’s preliminary findings, the crumpled note in the wastebasket, the quotation on the motorhome, and the money in the freezer.
“He made his living as a rockhound, selling rocks and fossils to tourists,” Rivera said in conclusion.
“That’s an unusual way to make a living.”
“And not very profitable. He barely got by financially.”
“So why did he do it?”
“It looks to me like he came to Moab to start a new life, leave his criminal ways behind, and start over. I’m guessing he was unable to find a job in Moab—outside the criminal world, he probably had no marketable skills. Somewhere along the way, he developed an interest in rocks and minerals and was able to leverage that into a business. His friends were rockhounds, according to his landlady.”
“What about the money in his freezer?”
“I’m not sure about that yet, but I’ve got a hunch that’s what got him killed.”
“Any idea where it came from?”
“No. That’s something I need to find out.”
“Okay. Keep digging. And keep me posted. That is all. Dismissed.”
Rivera had to suppress a smile. Anderson talked like she was still in the Army. “Will do, Sheriff. On another subject, I understand there was some excitement around here while I was gone.”
“That’s right. We had another shooting. And since you weren’t here, I handled it myself. It wasn’t very complicated. Arthur Atkinson, the local real estate developer, went to Frank Upton’s home late one night and shot him in the back of the head. Twice. Evidently, there was a lot of bad blood between the two of them. Unfortunately for Atkinson, the victim kept a diary in which he recounted several instances where Atkinson had threatened him with a handgun he kept in his Jeep. Atkinson had been trying to get the County Council to approve a new subdivision on some land he owned out in Spanish Valley, and Upton was organizing demonstrations against it. He was putting up anti-Atkinson posters all over town and stirring up the environmentalists and other locals who think Moab has already grown too much. After we found the diary and read through it, we confiscated Atkinson’s handgun and ran a ballistics test on it. It was a match for the bullets that killed the victim. And, of course, Atkinson’s fingerprints were all over the weapon. The case was open and shut, but unfortunately Arthur Atkinson is buddies with a couple of our county councilmen, and they’ve been hounding me ever since I arrested him. They claim Atkinson is no killer and should be released from jail immediately.” She shrugged. “So that’s what happened while you were gone.”
Rivera shook his head. “Two shootings in one week. What’s happening to our little town?”
“Maybe Upton was right. Maybe we’re growing too fast. Visitors are coming here in droves. Traffic jams on Main Street have become commonplace. Seems like every couple of years we add a new traffic light. Even the sidewalks are crowded. When I ran for sheriff, I thought this would be a low-stress job, at least compared to the Army. Boy was I wrong.” She frowned and shook her head. “I’ve got an election coming up in November. Having those two councilmen criticizing me because I arrested Atkinson is certain to cost me a lot of votes.”
Rivera returned to his office, shut the door, and fell heavily into his chair. He could almost feel his stress level rising. He took a deep breath and let it out. Two nights ago, he was lying on a blanket with Gloria on the rooftop of her adobe home in Abiquiu, snuggling with her, inhaling her intoxicating scent, and looking at a bright Milky Way bisecting a dark New Mexico sky. They spent time searching the heavens and pointing out constellations to one another. They saw shooting stars streaking across the sky, the blinking lights of distant aircraft, and a few satellites which appeared like small stars passing slowly overhead in perfectly straight lines. Two people in love, enjoying being with each other, and taking in th
e grand sights that nature provided. He shook his head and chuckled. How quickly things change.
He took a sip of coffee. He’d always loved his job, but he didn’t like the idea of having to adjust to a new boss every few years. He hoped Sheriff Anderson hadn’t mishandled her investigation. Arresting a high-profile citizen for a crime he didn’t commit could easily cost her the election and end her career. And if she lost the election, he’d have to adjust to yet another new boss.
Rivera forced his thinking back to the Webb case. He needed to learn more about the victim’s life, his day-to-day activities, his friends, and his background. Since the old motorhome wasn’t a sensible target for a random robbery, the shooter must have been someone Webb knew. And since the motorhome had been searched, the shooter must have known Webb had come into a large sum of money, and he’d come to the motorhome to take it from him. After killing Webb, the shooter searched for the money but was unable to find it. To Rivera, that was the only scenario that seemed to make sense.
Rivera pursued that scenario a step further. If it were true that the killer knew Webb had come into the money, then Rivera should focus on learning where the money had come from in the first place. That might reveal who, besides Webb, knew of its existence. And that might lead to identifying the killer.
Shirley had talked about Webb’s three rockhounding friends. Perhaps they could shed some light on the victim and his associates. Even better, perhaps Webb had mentioned the source of the money to one of them. Unfortunately, all Rivera had were their first names. He’d have to do some asking around.
