Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “Asa told me they took it. Said it was a warning from God.”

  I moved the recorder closer to Brady. “Was that an acceptable explanation?”

  He laughed. “Acceptable? I don’t get to challenge Asa’s explanations. No, I was sure he’d stolen it somehow before the Nodine brothers managed to.”

  “Explain that,” I said, even though I was sure I knew the answer.

  He pushed the palms of his hands together and forcefully rubbed them slowly against one another. The first tic he’d let slip.

  “I’d figured out setting up the ranch had about drained all of Asa’s funds, but then he showed up in that brand-new truck. I’m not sure how he paid for it.”

  “When did you discover the Nodines had been stowing it at the abandoned mill in Seneca?” I asked.

  Brady fiddled with one of Zan’s pencils. “I think I’d like another glass of water.”

  “We’re almost done here. When did you find the Ram 3500?” I repeated the question.

  “The day I put the Kel-Tec back in the safe. Early that evening I drove by the mill and noticed the Nodines’ army jeep parked along the shoulder of the road near the gate. They were backing Asa’s truck inside that teepee-looking thing.”

  “Did you talk to them?

  “Nah. I kept going before they could make out the Prius.”

  “Did you tell your father what you’d seen?” I asked.

  Brady shook his head and removed his Canada Goose parka from the back of his chair. “I thought we were almost done.”

  “Kat overheard you say you’d found your father’s stolen pickup,” I said. “But you didn’t have a key, right?”

  He turned ashen, then scarlet. “What do you mean she overheard me?”

  I shrugged. Why had that question touched a nerve?

  “I scoured the ranch house for the extra key. Asa probably tossed it after he came up with his ‘warning from God’ rationale for not going to the cops. Besides, if he’d reported it, he might’ve had to explain how he got it in the first place.”

  Brady was pretty smart for a student performing barely above average. He was either bored with school, lazy, or both.

  I switched the subject. “I saw your Prius parked at Rain’s house two nights ago, just after your father had taken away your driving privileges.”

  “If I can crack a safe, I can sneak out of the house. Do it all the time.”

  “So you went to see Rain?”

  He nodded. Confirming that Larkin hadn’t been visiting Kat on Tuesday night.

  “Do you know a man named Frank Sylvester?”

  “What? How do you know about him?”

  I shared one of my blank stares with the boy.

  “The papers I saw in the safe had something to do with some guy by that name.”

  I wanted to explain it all to Brady. That Sylvester was his grandfather, and he’d sent his toddler son Asa to live with an aunt and uncle after his wife passed away. I believed he deserved to know. But who’d died and made me the kid’s social worker? Besides, I needed to test his I don’t lie declaration one last time.

  “Where were you between five forty-five and six fifteen last Thursday evening?”

  He folded the parka across his lap, combed his fingers through his ink-black hair. “The night the Nodines were killed. Asa caught me skipping out on basketball practice. We argued. I said something about being nineteen, that I should be able to skip practice if I wanted. He gave me the usual BS and sent me to my room for the night.”

  “Your father. Is that how you got that shiner?” I asked.

  He gingerly touched the dark lump below one eye. “Yeah. After you handed me that ticket a couple of days ago.”

  “My father was really strict too,” Hollis said. Since returning with the water, he’d quietly taken in the back-and-forth between Brady and me. “I’d get so angry sometimes. But I’d usually find some way to pull one over on him, make the whole thing worth it.”

  Brady slipped on his parka. “That’s what I do while I’m supposed to be hanging out in my room, reading the Bible and praying.”

  I wanted to hear more about all of that, but it would have to wait. “So last Thursday evening, what did you do instead of read the Bible and pray?”

  Again with the tic of rubbing his palms together. “Sneaking out of the house is easy. Once I was out, I got on my fifteen-speed and rode to the highway. Stashed the bike inside the bus shelter for safekeeping and ran to the old mill.”

  He yanked up the zipper of his parka. “Dan and Joe’s jeep was parked by the open gate just like a few nights before. But this time they were inside the teepee thing.”

  My heart sped. We were getting close to something.

  “Okay, Brady. What happened once you got to the mill?”

  “I told you, I don’t lie.”

  He looked at me for acknowledgment, so I nodded.

  “I didn’t kill them. I went to barter for the truck. If I could sell it somehow, set up my own stash of money, that might be my ticket out from under Asa’s thumb. He wasn’t ever going to report the theft. Ever. And I thought there was some chance I could convince the Nodines to hand over the keys and everything would be forgotten. No more joyriding in Asa’s turbocharged crew cab pickup, but no prison time either.”

  Hollis and I sat stock still, barely breathing. I caught his glimpse. We knew we were there.

  “And how’d that go?” I asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance. They were…” The boy wept quietly.

  I slid Principal Wilson’s box of tissues closer and waited for Brady to regain his composure.

  “Joe was talking all worried on his phone. Dan was agitated, pacing back and forth, shouting for the dog to shut up. He yelled at me to get the fuck out of there.”

  “Take a breath, son,” Hollis said, his voice low, soothing.

  “The driver’s-side door was wide open, so I ran to the truck hoping to grab the key from the ignition, thinking I’d come back for it later. But one of the twins had the key. About then I noticed some old dude standing in the opening of the teepee. He had a shotgun aimed toward the Nodines. I jumped in the truck, dove through the space between the two front seats to the bench seat in the back, and dropped to the floorboard.”

  “I’ll get more water,” Hollis offered.

  “How long did you lie there, Brady?”

  He shrugged. “Until after it was all over and then some. Maybe twenty minutes or so.”

  I placed my hand on the table near him. “Let me tell you what happened next. Joseph had been on the phone with me, asking for my help. He was interrupted and clicked off after the old dude fired a couple of rounds from his shotgun, killing the twins’ Rottweiler. After that, the old dude ran back to his rig and hightailed it out of there. But not before witnessing Kat McKay speed by and park next to the gate. She’d driven out there looking for you and Rain. She ran—”

  Brady interrupted me. “Rain wasn’t there. He was probably still at basketball practice, but he wasn’t at the mill with me.”

  I nodded.

  Hollis returned with a small pitcher of water and another couple of glasses for the two of us. He filled all three.

  “Thanks,” Brady said.

  I sipped from my water glass and continued. “So, Kat ran to the wigwam burner—some people call it a teepee burner. She saw the Nodine brothers dealing with their wounded dog. All the while, you were crouched on the floor of the backseat. And after that, somebody murdered the Nodine brothers.”

  The kid exhaled. “I think there were at least two people there, yelling about some steers, ordering them to sit down. I was so freaked out, I could be wrong. Lying there in the dark, hearing all the screaming, I was losing it.”

  He wept abruptly, a loud, deep howl. “God. They were begging. I can still hear that, can’t get it out of my head.”

  The tension was breathtaking. We all stood on a ledge, waiting for a net to appear.

  Brady went on. “Pop, pop,
pop, pop! It stunk like sulfur and smoke. And then nothing but doors slamming and loud engines pulling away. I couldn’t move. It was dark and freezing, so I finally forced myself to get up and run all the way to Harden Road and bike back to the ranch.”

  Hollis broke in. “You said loud engines?”

  “Yes, two.”

  “The two loud engines pulling away, is that why you thought there were at least two people?” I asked.

  “Yeah. And it seemed like different voices—no, it was definitely different voices—threatening Dan and Joe.”

  Hollis leaned forward. “Male?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you recognize them?” I asked.

  He considered the question. “I used my parka to muffle the noise. The screams echoing from the teepee walls, I thought my ears would bleed.”

  “When you left the burner, did you notice the jeep still parked beside the gate?”

  Brady shook his head. “I didn’t notice one way or the other. Sorry.”

  “There’s one other thing I need to tell you,” I said.

  The look on his face: complete exhaustion. “Okay.”

  “Your father’s Kel-Tec 9 was the murder weapon.”

  I expected him to break down again. Instead he held his breath for a moment.

  “Then I think I might know who did it.” He pulled up his phone, opened the photo app, and scrolled through before turning it toward Hollis and me. “John and Ruben Vickers, two of Asa’s hired men.”

  Hollis and I looked at one another. I knew what he was thinking: What the fuck?

  19

  Early Afternoon, February 28

  I stepped out to the reception area, asked Mrs. Randy Buckley to order lunch for Brady, and returned to Zan’s office. “Why didn’t you talk to us about all of this before now?”

  “Would you have believed me?” Brady said.

  “We believe you now. And it might have helped us solve the murder.”

  He closed his brown eyes tightly and raked a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “I was so scared. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Again, I slid the box of tissues toward him.

  He opened his eyes and retrieved one of the tissues. “Finally I talked to Rain.”

  “You told Rain?” I asked

  Brady nodded. “Two nights ago, when I snuck out of the house.”

  “Did he suggest going to the police?” I asked.

  “To you specifically. But I didn’t.”

  “Yet here we are. It’s all out in the open. Right?”

  He sighed deeply. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Does it take some of the weight off?” Hollis asked.

  “It does.”

  “Because you’ll have to talk to the district attorney and testify at the murder trial,” Holly explained gently.

  “God,” Brady whispered.

  “I do have one other question,” I said. “Why do you think the Vickers men might have killed the Nodine brothers?”

  “Well, John’s a dick,” Brady said, looking over at me. “Sorry.”

  “I know what a dick is, son. Most of them only make other people miserable, but they don’t necessarily commit murder.”

  “He caught me opening Asa’s safe a while back. Threatened to tell Asa, knocked me around. I ended up telling him the combination.”

  Mrs. Randy Buckley tapped on the door. Hollis stood and opened it. She carried Brady’s lunch tray and placed it on the table.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Buckley,” Brady said.

  I watched the boy tackle his meal, reminded myself that he really was just a kid. “Why did you end up giving John Vickers the combination?”

  He finished chewing his large bite of fish sandwich. “Why do you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  Brady was incredulous. “Because John is capable of more than just knocking me around. He gets a kick out of shooting jackrabbits, ground squirrels, gophers, anything that wanders onto the property.”

  I didn’t want to be the one to break it to him, but that’s what a lot of folks around here called a sport.

  He opened his carton of chocolate milk and chugged half. “That mentality. That’s why Asa hired him and his dim-bulb brother in the first place.”

  “How about the other guy?”

  He took another bite of his sandwich. “Wayne Smith? He’s just somebody Asa knew from Lake Oswego. Not too smart either, but nice enough.”

  Brady drank the last of his chocolate milk, finished off the square of apple cobbler, and pushed his tray to the side. “Are we done now?”

  I shut off the recorder and handed him a statement form. “Yeah, after you sign and date this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your official statement saying you gave us this information voluntarily.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “And that it’s accurate to the best of your memory.”

  Brady skimmed over the form, signed and dated it. He retrieved his lunch tray and got up to leave.

  I stood and opened the door. “We may need to talk to you again.”

  He winced. “Again?”

  “This is a murder investigation. We’ll talk to you as many times as we have to.”

  Holly and I were both a little buzzy when we hopped in my Tahoe.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I said, smacking the steering wheel with both hands. “We’re so close I can taste it. Can’t you?”

  He massaged his temples. “That was exhausting.”

  “But exhilarating.”

  “And now we know John Vickers had access to the Kel-Tec 9.”

  “All those papers referencing Frank Sylvester, too,” I said. “And don’t you think the second loud engine Brady heard had to be Dan and Joseph’s jeep? Obviously driven away from the mill by someone who knew where they parked their camper.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Like a lot of rural folks, the Nodines probably always left the keys hanging in the ignition. Which made it handy for whoever dropped the jeep back at the campground.”

  “The jeep keys are still sitting in our evidence locker. I’ll make sure Harry Bratton takes a look at prints right away.”

  Pulling into the parking lot, I recognized the dented Volvo stationed in front. “Pete Trudeau. Maybe he’s uncovered something useful.”

  “Maybe he just enjoys your company.”

  There it was, the playful little dig aimed at Pete’s flirtatious overture yesterday.

  Inside, Taylor and Pete were having an animated chat about fly-fishing, mostly about tying their own flies, throwing around quirky terms for the different whatevers they used for catching trout. Hollis strolled to the evidence locker, Brady’s water glass in tow.

  I was eager to touch base with Al, but I paused at our service counter across from Pete.

  “Maggie, I found this in a storage unit Pops rented,” he said, referring to a large, wrapped rectangular package he’d placed on the counter.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Some painting I’ve never seen in my life. A Frederic Remington, at least by the signature.”

  I turned to Taylor. “Would you mind tracking down Detective Bach for me? Let him know it’s crucial we talk right away.”

  I ran my fingertips across the top of the covered painting. “I was an art major for about half a minute a long time ago. But I should warn you I can’t authenticate anything except my own amateur dabbles.”

  “I’m more interested in finding out where he got it and how long he’s had it. He opened that storage unit account the day before he was killed.”

  “Interesting. How’d you find out about the storage unit?”

  “Chester’s Market. I was buying a few groceries and ran into Terry Moore, one of my buddies from high school. He manages the storage rental place these days, had heard about Pops, and wondered what to do about the unit.”

  “Gotta love a small town. You were careful when you uncovered it, right?” />
  “Of course. I’m just a math teacher, but even I know that.”

  I’d inflicted a wound to the man’s ego and I wasn’t even trying.

  I put on a pair of latex gloves, untied the twine holding the packing material in place, and slowly unwrapped the painting. An Indian brave seated on a muscular gray mustang held aloft a red blanket with one arm and his rifle with the other. Clouded sky, the horse stood on a hillside that could have been one of those surrounding our little burg during the exaggerated heat of late summer, every arid stick of grass vividly golden.

  Guy Trudeau had definitely gotten his hands on a painting that was either a genuine Remington or its good facsimile, and probably not long ago, given the timing of the storage rental. And what the hell did it mean?

  “I can’t say for certain if it’s a Remington original or someone’s hand-painted reproduction.”

  “What was he doing with it?”

  I shrugged and signaled for him to follow me to my desk, where I keyed in Frederic Remington. One of his paintings, Cutting Out Pony Herds, had sold a few years ago at the Reno art auction for more than five million dollars. A copy of the same work, hand-painted on museum quality canvas, was available online for around three hundred dollars.

  I entered The Blanket Signal, the name of the piece laid out on the counter. Strangely, there were two slightly different Remington paintings with that title. The original of the one Pete brought in was painted in 1896 and worth about four million.

  “So Pops had come by an expensive masterpiece or a cheap knock-off?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “News to me. I can’t see how he could afford either one.”

  I redid the packing material and put the painting back in its box.

  “Far as I can tell, Maggie, that old man had turned into a hermit, not an art collector.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  “It’s got to be stolen, right?” Pete added. “Or maybe he found it?”

  “Nothing’s been reported missing as far as I know. We’ll do some research, see about any recent art thefts. And we’ll put out a statewide bulletin. In the meantime, I’d like to keep the painting in our evidence locker. I’ll give you a receipt for it, of course.”