Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “Works for me.” He gave me a little peck on the cheek.

  “About Rain, how did he seem when you drove him home?”

  “Worried about why you took Brady into custody.”

  “Brady went home with his father. Dad will pay his ticket, and everything will be fine.”

  “He said you found something in the back of the car?”

  I leaned closer and kissed him. “Maybe a late supper after making love isn’t a good time for work talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We finished our meal, cleared the dishes, and nestled together on the settee. I was beginning to like all the domesticity more than I probably should. I wondered if he felt the same.

  “I need to take off soon,” he said.

  “Before you go, there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you about,” I said.

  “Is it all right if I don’t want to answer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then ask away.”

  “What happened between you and your wife?” That hadn’t quite come out as I’d hoped, but it was too late now.

  “Slippery slope there, Maggie. If I answer, you’ll have to do the same.”

  “About the second one too?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a deal.” One that made me nervous as hell, but I was the person who’d started all of this.

  “She liked messing around with other women. For a long time I tried to make room for that, but after a while I didn’t see much difference between messing around with other women and messing around with other men. I might’ve kept it up if we’d had kids. That was never going to happen, though.” He paused for a moment. “Your turn.”

  “Hubby number one and I adored each other. That might be a fantasy, but I don’t think so. We had a lot of fun. A little house in Salem. Plans. We wanted kids. All that. And we’re still close.”

  “What happened?”

  “Interesting that your wife liked women.”

  “Preferred women.”

  “Morgan finally understood he was gay. And even though I always fancied myself as having good intuition, I hadn’t seen it coming. Anyway, that was that. Marriage over.”

  “But you’re still friends?”

  “We were married for ten years. Happily, I think. So yeah, we’re still friends.”

  “Casey and I were married for fifteen years. Let’s just say we’re not friends, but I wish we were. That’s a long time to be with someone and never see or speak to them again.”

  “With Morgan, I was devastated. I just couldn’t believe it. And I was pregnant.”

  I might have lost it altogether, the conversation having strayed to treacherous terrain, but Duncan put his arm around me and pulled me close.

  “That’s enough past history for tonight,” he said.

  “Way more than enough.”

  15

  Morning, February 27

  In the pale light, Louie eyed me from across the room. I lay in bed listening to his deep-throated purr, the low tick of my alarm clock, and Dorie’s vacuum cleaner laboring away downstairs in her thrift store.

  Duncan had stayed until eleven thirty last night. Once he left, I slept deeply despite our parting conversation. He could’ve taken it further, all the way to my heart’s dark core of regret and sorrow. Instead, I told myself, he’d sensed that was a place I wasn’t ready to go.

  I sat up slowly and studied my reflection in the retro mirror anchored above the settee. For a moment I saw the old Maggie Blackthorne staring back, the one who felt safe giving over to passion, love even. I liked seeing that gal again.

  “You look tired, Sarge,” Holly said before I’d even hung up my coat and hat.

  I yawned. “Yeah, the long days are getting to me.” Late-night nookie didn’t help either.

  Hollis filled my mug with coffee, brought it to my desk, and took the chair Asa Larkin had sat in yesterday afternoon. “You’ll want to hear my news bulletin of the day. Frank Sylvester. His first wife died of some kind of cancer, leaving him to raise their young child on his own. The child, a boy, was adopted by the wife’s sister and her husband when he was two years old.”

  I felt a chill rise up the back of my neck. “This story is beginning to sound familiar.”

  “The boy’s name was Asa Sylvester.”

  “And he was called Asa Wakefield after the adoption?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Jesus, Holly. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  “I just started with what he told us on Sunday, that Larkin was the maiden name of his mother and his aunt. Then I turned over a few more rocks. But I can’t figure out why he goes by Larkin and not Sylvester.”

  “My suspicion about Larkin being Sylvester’s guardian and having conservatorship over his money, business, and land holdings? Maybe it’s more than a suspicion, and maybe he doesn’t want to raise red flags by using the same last name,” I said.

  “As Sylvester’s son,” Hollis began, “couldn’t he still be appointed his guardian and conservator?”

  “Yeah. But he’d more likely avoid raising red flags if he continued going by Wakefield.”

  “Like I said, switching his name to Larkin doesn’t make sense.”

  Hollis went into processing mode, jiggling one leg and tapping a pen on my desk. I turned pensive and anxious for the jolt of caffeine to hit me.

  “Unless switching names has something to do with the stepsister. A way to avoid spotlighting his personal link to Sylvester Trucking’s bookkeeper?” I finally said.

  “Well, it wasn’t that hard to figure out Sylvester is actually Asa Larkin’s father. Or that Sylvester had adopted him out to the Wakefield couple. Or that the stepsister is Sarah Wakefield Anderson, for that matter.”

  “For you it wasn’t difficult, Holly. But most cops or anyone else investigating Larkin’s dealings don’t have your smarts, or they don’t have your access to data. Or don’t have either the smarts or the access.”

  He cleared his throat. “Just don’t ask me for too many details, all right?”

  I pretended not to hear that, walked to the alcove, and stood in front of the murder boards. Jumble of facts, feasibilities, tangled abstractions. The dross of three dead men. I blew air through my pursed lips.

  “Maggie?” Hollis had joined me.

  I nodded toward the lists that made up our murder boards. “What are the similarities between the two murder cases?”

  “Similarities?”

  “Commonalities? Like circumstances?”

  “Beef cattle. Frank Sylvester, at least his trucking company. Jess, the female truck driver. Location.”

  “Location?”

  “Near Seneca.” Hollis stepped to the map and measured with a ruler. “Here’s the deserted mill right outside of Seneca. Here’s Big T, around sixteen miles away.”

  “How far away is Larkin’s cattle company from each crime site?”

  Again, he marked the distance using the ruler and referred to the map legend. “Six miles or so to the wigwam burner. About twenty to Big T.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose that means Larkin’s place is relatively close to both the mill and Trudeau’s ranch, but so what?”

  Hollis sighed. “I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  “Another shiny object?”

  “Yeah. I have to watch out for those all the time.”

  “Speaking of shiny objects, what about the sign on Larkin’s gate and the bumper stickers on his livestock trailer and that old green Bronco?”

  I pointed to the catchphrase we’d listed on the Nodines’ murder board, Jesus loves grass-fed beef. “I’ve never gone online to check it out. Have you?”

  “Not until now,” he said, and we moved to his desk.

  I stood behind Hollis as he googled Larkin’s adopted motto. The first site listed was an outfit called Sonshine Sustenance Group. It was a mix of evangelical philosophy and cheesy advertising for their organically grown fruits and
vegetables, raw milk, and the consortium of ranches supplying the free-range chicken and grass-fed pork, beef, and lamb offered for sale. Products could be purchased online or at the general store they operated on their property along the Snake River.

  In addition to hawking wholesome dietary offerings, Sonshine Sustenance Group welcomed all-comers to their annual heavenly host prayer and music festival. And families interested in having their children educated in a Christian environment were invited to check out the Glorious Lord Academy. Hollis took us to the Academy page, where smiling, beatific kiddies and teens engaged in instructional games, Bible-story theater, and the milking of stout dairy cows.

  “Isn’t that Larkin’s kid, only a little younger?” He pointed to the dark-haired boy in a photo captioned “Brady W. plays Mathaliscious.”

  I moved closer to the screen. “That’s him all right. Click on the link to the consortium of ranches.”

  Five large spreads in Oregon, Washington, and Idaho supplied the beef. Larkin’s Bear Valley Cattle Company wasn’t one of them. But we did find those bumper stickers and metal signs touting Jesus as a lover of grass-fed beef, along with other kitschy paraphernalia, all of it priced cheap to make spreading the word more consumer-friendly.

  “How would you characterize this place if you had to?” Hollis asked.

  “Part hippie, part holy roller, and part huckster?”

  “What might it have to do with Larkin, other than his kid attending school there?”

  “Maybe his aim is to join the Sonshine brotherhood.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the brotherhood type. Conservative Christian, maybe. Certainly conservative.”

  “I meant he might want to be part of that consortium raising grass-fed beef. So at the risk of meandering down another dead end, I’m going to call the Sonshine Sustenance Group and see what I can find out.” I picked up the receiver on Holly’s phone and dialed the number on their homepage.

  “What are you looking for, Sarge?”

  “What they might know about Larkin and his ranch.”

  It turned out the owners were a chatty and effusive married couple, and with the exception of a proclivity to praise God or Jesus at the end of nearly every sentence, their take on religion reminded me of Dorie’s. Plus they were good witnesses, in the secular sense: open, candid, and more than willing to help an officer of the law.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I said after hanging up.

  “Sounds like they know all about Bear Valley Cattle Company,” Hollis said.

  I nodded. “The husband and wife who founded the place put me on speakerphone, told me it was unfortunate but they hadn’t welcomed Asa Larkin into the Sonshine fold, or rather their ranch consortium. Guess his approach to raising animals doesn’t meet their standards because he supplements with grain until his calves are yearlings. Only after that does he move strictly to pasture and hay.”

  “Not purely grass-fed, then.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, Larkin was apparently pissed as hell when they told him his cattle and methodology weren’t acceptable. Even after praying about it all together.”

  “He’s not much of a businessman, I take it,” Holly ventured.

  “He argued they owed him their allegiance.”

  “Let me guess. He’s spent a pretty penny on tuition and board, plus he’s been a big contributor to their cause?”

  “Yep. My working theory is Larkin sent his son to an isolated compound along the Snake River because he wanted the boy to grow up having the kind of country life he’d missed out on,” I said.

  “So why isn’t his kid doing senior year at the Glorious Lord Academy instead of Grant Union High School?”

  “That’s just how angry Larkin was. Yanked his kid out, and his money with it.” Which might explain Brady’s general bad attitude, not to mention the icy covenant between father and son.

  “Interesting gossip, but how does that help us?” Hollis asked.

  “Good question.”

  The blinking light on my desk phone indicated I had voicemail waiting. I could see from the number that flashed on the screen that I’d missed another call from Jeremy T. Lake. I’d forgotten to get back to the bastard first thing.

  “Sergeant Blackthorne.” J.T.’s voice dark and cutting. “I’ll follow up with an email, even though Corporal Macintyre would prefer I speak to you directly. But since you can’t be bothered to return my calls, the email will have to do.”

  I opened my inbox and read the subject line of J.T.’s email: Senior Trooper Hollis Jones. “I’ve recommended Jones be promoted, and Corporal Macintyre agreed. He’ll be contacting Jones in the near future, but he wanted me to let you know ahead of time.”

  “Fucker,” I whispered.

  Mostly to piss me off, J.T. had always been dismissive and condescending when it came to Hollis. And now my asshole ex-husband had managed to do the one thing he could ever do to hurt me.

  A promotion would mean Holly’s transfer for certain. The loss of my police partner and one true pal out here. Which was why I hadn’t made the recommendation myself. One of my most selfish dick-moves ever.

  I needed some air. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  The idea of Holly’s promotion depressed me more than the cluttered murder boards we’d cobbled together. Even though I was sick to death of driving all over the county looking for answers and finding only more questions, I needed to get out of the office.

  Since finding the Nodines’ bodies, I’d passed by the Seneca mill site several times without stopping to check the scene, something that was six days overdue. It was close to noon when I arrived, and the temperature had bumped to a balmy thirty-eight degrees, despite the mass of gray overhead. A steady wind whipped across the frozen plateau of sagebrush, lashing against the metal siding of the rusty wigwam burner. Inside the precarious structure, someone was busy scanning the expansive wall with a flashlight.

  “Hello!” I called out, making my way toward the burner.

  Ariel Pritchett slipped from the shadowy interior. “Maggie?”

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “I wanted to see where it happened.”

  “Dammit, Ariel, this is a crime scene. As the tape across the entrance clearly says.”

  She swept the windblown hair from her face. “I know I shouldn’t have gone inside, but I was careful not to disturb nothin’. Someday I’d like to put up a little memorial out here, unless that’s illegal or something.”

  For Christ’s sake, this wasn’t the scene of a fatal car accident.

  I moved closer. “You have to stay off this property until I say otherwise.”

  “All right, I got the picture.” She zipped up her hoodie. “I was gonna stop by your office after this.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need to get somethin’ off my chest.”

  “Something you neglected to tell me?”

  She nodded.

  I pointed to the Tahoe. “Let’s talk in my SUV.”

  Once inside, she fixed her gaze through the front windshield and watched the junkyard grasses wafting in the breeze.

  “What did you want to tell me, Ariel?”

  “I knew about that red truck. Joey even took me for a ride in it.”

  Shit. Another goddamn note to stick up on the murder board.

  “Why’d you think you needed to lie to me twice about it?”

  She shrugged. “Afraid I’d be in trouble, I guess.”

  “Why? Were you there when they stole it?”

  Ariel shook her head. “That ain’t what happened. It was part of that deal I told you about.”

  “Who was the deal with?”

  “Wish I knew. Don’t know what they had to do in exchange for it neither.”

  “How long had they had the truck?”

  “About a month, I think,” she said.

  “Did you know they stored it here?” I indicated the wigwam burner.

  “Inside that thing?”

&nbs
p; “It was found parked near their bodies.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They must have figured they could keep it hidden here. Until they had to skip town, that is.”

  Her expression was grave. “Skip town? What are you sayin’?”

  “They left a note for Lynn. Told her they had to get out of the state for a while.”

  “But Joey and me was gettin’ married, Maggie, I swear.”

  “I believe you, but something must have come up suddenly. I know they were afraid of somebody. They even called and asked me to meet them here. But it was too late. They were dead before I arrived.”

  Ariel pitched forward abruptly as if she were about to vomit on the floor of my police vehicle. Instead, she sobbed violently.

  I lifted a packet of tissues from the center console and placed it on the dashboard. “In the note the twins left for Lynn, Joseph asked her to let you know they were leaving. Sounded like they planned to come back, though.”

  That seemed to calm her some, and she was able to whisper a question. “You asked me about some guy the other day?”

  “Yes, Frank Sylvester.”

  “Nah. That ain’t the name. It’s some rancher.”

  “Mr. Sylvester lives out in the country south of Burns, but he’s not a rancher.”

  “I overheard Danny and Joey once. Whatever the deal over the red truck was about, it had somethin to do with a cattle rancher. Somebody I’d never heard of. And I’ve racked my brain tryin’ to remember his name.”

  I started to suggest Larkin but stopped myself. I needed Ariel to recall the name on her own. “Think on it for a day or two.”

  She nodded.

  I thought of another question. “Last Thursday when I brought you the news about the killings, you said you hadn’t seen Joseph since the previous morning. Was that unusual?”

  “Yeah, we’d been together every night since about the time we decided to get married.”

  “And you assumed he’d be there when you got home from work on Wednesday?”

  She became teary once more. “I did. Why’re you asking?”

  “Just trying to nail down a timeline.”

  If I believed what Ariel was telling me, and I did, the last time she saw Joseph was last Wednesday morning. Did something happen that day to prompt the Nodines to get ready to skip town? Something besides poaching a deer that evening.