Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “Followed by dinner tonight?”

  “Way too much going on right now.”

  “Maybe another time, then?”

  “Aren’t you married or something?”

  “More like ‘or something.’”

  Taylor came to my rescue. “Detective Bach on line one.”

  “Thanks.” I pointed to the package. “We’re storing this here for a while. Write out a receipt so Mr. Trudeau can be on his way. Then send out a bulletin looking for the possible owner of a lost Remington painting.”

  Taylor picked up the package. “Sure thing. Follow me, Mr. Trudeau.”

  Pete trudged after Taylor toward the service counter. “Nice to see you again, Maggie.”

  I ignored that last remark and lifted the receiver. “Afternoon, Al.”

  He was still on the road making his way to Paisley, the usual highway noise in the background. I ticked off the main points of our long interview with Brady Wakefield.

  “I take it you and Hollis found the boy’s explanation plausible.”

  “I think so. And he also corroborated parts of Kat McKay’s story. Right now Hollis is busy digging up background on the Vickers men.”

  “It’s significant that one of them had the combination to Larkin’s gun safe.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “Has Larkin made bail yet?

  “Typically bail hearings are set for later in the afternoon.”

  From his desk, Hollis waved two eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch pages he’d retrieved from the printer.

  “Hold on a sec, Al. Hollis is trying to tell me something.”

  Holly handed me the printouts.

  “Rap sheets for John and Ruben Vickers.” I scanned through the pages. “A couple of charmers. Assault and battery, auto theft, bilking homeowners through faulty roof repairs, theft of antiquities, the list goes on.”

  “Any serious violence?” Bach asked.

  “The worst’s an Assault II. And they were charged together in every incident.”

  “Any prison time?”

  “A year in 2011. Eighteen months in 2014.”

  “Given how all three men greeted us last night, I assume they carry weapons.”

  “Definitely.”

  “You could pull the Vickers men in for that, but hold off if you can. I’d feel better if I was there when you confront them. I hope to have this mess in Paisley cleared up by end of day and be back up your way tomorrow. In the end, though, it’s up to you.”

  “Got it.”

  “What about the other hired man? Did the boy say anything about him?”

  “Name’s Wayne Smith. Brady thought he was okay, but Hollis is running the name through LEDS.” I went on to share the story of Pete Trudeau discovering the Remington painting in his father’s rented locker. “Could be worth a lot of money.”

  “My wife and I own a replica of Against the Sunset. It’s a favorite of mine.” In the background, regional dispatch called for him over the radio. “I’ll check in with you later this afternoon.”

  The office was quiet except for Hollis querying LEDS and printing out the results. Pete had skedaddled, and Taylor was out somewhere. It was already two o’clock, and I was starving.

  “Holly, I’m headed to Prairie Maid. You want anything?”

  He held a ten-dollar bill aloft. “BLT, with a salad. No red onions. Ranch dressing on the side. And one of their huckleberry milkshakes.”

  I repeated his order back to him, and he nodded.

  “Did you find anything on Larkin’s other hired hand?”

  “Not yet. A name like Wayne Smith makes sleuthing a little harder. Nothing on the fingerprints either.”

  “Speaking of fingerprints. The keys to the Nodines’ jeep?”

  “Mark volunteered to take them to Harry Bratton. Also the water glasses from this morning.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Holly’s little nudge telling me to be nicer to Taylor.

  I called in our lunch orders and drove to Prairie Maid, Tedeschi Trucks’ bluesy rock blasting from the speakers. I parked and sat listening to “Midnight in Harlem,” scrolling through the Blue Mountain Eagle online. No news was good news? Except maybe word of the local mule deer count, lower than the year before, which had been the lowest in a decade. Song over, I stepped out to the order pickup window, paid for Holly’s BLT, salad, and milkshake and my quarter-pounder cheeseburger cooked rare.

  The new owner, a woman from Helix or Heppner or some other H town in the rural depths of Oregon, handed me the bags and tall drink cup, along with my change. “You have a nice day, officer,” she said as I put a few bills in the tip jar.

  She started to close the window but changed her mind. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Lunch, mine especially, smelled lovely. “Sure.”

  “If I saw something, but don’t really know what it means, would it be worth telling you about? In case it has something to do with one of those killings last week?”

  I searched for a name tag. “Of course, Ms.…?”

  “Angie. Angie Dennis.”

  It was hard to get a real look at the woman, but I could see she was dressed like a normal person: jeans and a plain T-shirt.

  “What do you think you might have seen, Ms. Dennis?” I placed the bags and shake on the small counter in front of the pickup window.

  She made certain other customers weren’t pulling into her parking lot. “That Mr. Trudeau. He was a regular, always ordered a small burger and a cola, no fries. He stopped by right after I opened up—so around eleven—on the day the police found him.”

  “My partner and I.”

  “I thought so. Your partner’s the African American officer, right?” she said and indicated the tall, lidded cup. “He likes the huckleberry shakes.”

  My damn cheeseburger was getting cold. “What do you think you saw the other day?”

  “When Mr. Trudeau drove away, a silver SUV followed him out of my parking lot. No one from the SUV had come to the window to order or pick up. I think they might’ve been waiting for him.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “Tinted windows. I couldn’t see anybody or whether there were passengers.”

  “Besides the color, did you notice anything else about the SUV? License plate? Make and model?”

  “I didn’t pay attention to the license plate, and I know squat about makes and models. But their bumper sticker caught my eye, even wrote it down.” She removed a blank order slip tacked to a bulletin board next to the pickup window and slid it my way. On the back, in perfect D’Nealian cursive, she’d written, “Jesus loves grass-fed beef.”

  “Why didn’t you come talk to us about all this before?”

  “I guess ’cause I’m not a gossip, and I didn’t think much about it at first.”

  “But you wrote down the message from the bumper sticker?”

  She giggled. “Oh, that’s to remind myself to figure out where I can buy it online. For my brother. He’s a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  There was nothing conclusive about Angie Dennis noticing the SUV following Guy Trudeau out of her parking lot. Also nothing conclusive in her spotting Larkin’s adopted motto. Still, I asked her to come to the office and make a formal statement. Her survival depended on a so-called lunch crowd plus Grant Union students stopping in after school for treats, but she agreed to drop by our office between four thirty and five.

  Driving back with our lunches, my starving gut sent word. If that silver SUV did trail Trudeau out of Angie’s parking lot, it had something to do with Larkin or his men.

  The huckleberry milkshake had nearly melted to overflowing by the time I placed it on Holly’s desk. My cheeseburger was in need of a heat-up in the micro, but that would’ve only turned the bun rock hard and overcooked the meat. I was too famished to care one way or another, so I sat at my desk and scarfed my cold meal.

  “Here.” He passed me the red onions Angie had neglected to o
mit from his salad.

  “No, thanks. We still have people to talk to this afternoon.”

  While we ate, I told him about the silver SUV that had followed old man Trudeau from the Prairie Maid.

  “That bumper sticker. It’s like Larkin’s calling card.”

  I nodded. “Angie Dennis is coming in sometime between four thirty and five to make her statement.”

  Hollis sucked on the remainder of his shake, sat the empty cup on his desk, and turned back to his computer.

  “Take a break first. Go home and see your wife and kid.”

  “After I finish here.”

  “Some might find your refusal to follow my instructions insubordinate.”

  He wiped his hands with tiny white napkins. “Some might think you’re full of it.”

  No doubt about that, but Holly saying it only made me smile. “The silver SUV, without a plate number or even the make and model, can the owner be ID’d?”

  Hollis tossed his trash in the garbage can. “I’ll start with Larkin and his crew.”

  “I need to pick up my dry cleaning. Back in half an hour.” I cleared my desk of lunch mess, grabbed my jacket off the coat hook, and opened the door. Light poured in, brightening the dull of our workspace.

  “Damn, Holly. The sun’s out and it’s warm. You really should take a breather and step outside for a while.”

  “When you or Mark get back,” he said and clattered away on his keyboard.

  I drove through town past the dry cleaners and headed for McKay’s Feed and Tack. I hadn’t answered his messages from last night, forcing myself to wait and see what would come of our interview with Kat.

  The place was hopping when I arrived. All the parking spaces were full, and inside, a line of customers waited to check out.

  I pulled to the curb and sent a text. “The store’s crowded?? What’s up with that?”

  He replied as I parked back at the station. “Don’t effing know. Dinner at my place?”

  “I might be late,” I wrote back.

  “It’s never too late for tacos and beer”

  “Si”

  “Didn’t you just leave?” Hollis said.

  “Long line at the dry cleaners. You should take that break since both Taylor and I are here now.”

  He ignored me. “I was about to call you. Wayne Smith owns a silver 2012 Nissan Pathfinder.”

  “This is our Wayne Smith for sure? Larkin’s ranch hand, henchman, whatever?”

  “Yep. Address matches. He’s got a pretty clean driving record and no rap sheet.”

  I shuffled back and forth across the crowded space between my desk and Holly’s. “The Vickers brothers and maybe this Smith dude. Might they all be involved in the Nodine killing and Trudeau’s murder?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re asking me, I’d say it’s possible. Especially since John Vickers was able to strong-arm the safe combination out of Brady. But if you’re telling me one or all of those men are involved, I need a few more dots connected.”

  I continued to pace. “I’d like to interview the lot of them right now.”

  “Bach wants to be there, right?”

  “Yes. I wish to hell he hadn’t been called back to Paisley.”

  “I know, but I say we wait and see if he makes it back tomorrow before we drive out and question them.”

  “He left it up to me to decide.”

  “And I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

  “Except take your break.”

  Hollis passed me one of his special smirks.

  “Okay, tomorrow, then. With or without Bach.” The desk phone startled me. “Al?”

  “No. This is Sergeant Brown from Burns.”

  “Of course, Dave. What can I do for you?

  “I just saw your bulletin about the Remington painting. It might belong to that guy out in Wagontire you asked us to check on.”

  “Frank Sylvester?”

  “Yeah, I guess he’s a collector. Or was, anyway.”

  Were some goddamn wayward strands finally falling into place?

  “Interesting. That might help solve a conundrum in one of our homicides.”

  “Glad I got right back to you, then.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one, Dave.”

  “You’re welcome, Maggie. Tell Hollis I said howdy.”

  “Will do.” I hung up and went back to roaming our bit of floor space. “Dave Brown says howdy.”

  “What’s the news from Burns?”

  “Here’s another dot to connect. Frank Sylvester’s an art collector.”

  “Ah, the Remington painting. And there’s one other dot I forgot to share with you. The fingerprints on the Kel-Tec 9. Just as we thought. Larkin, of course, but Harry also matched Kat McKay and Brady from those water glasses.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Harry’s just that good.”

  “How about the jeep key?”

  “He’s still working on it.”

  20

  Late Afternoon, February 28

  Taylor peeked over the bank of file cabinets where Hollis and I sat at our desks. “Whitey Kern is in the waiting area, Maggie. He’d like to have a word.”

  “Send him on back,” I said.

  He pointed to the blinking light on my desk phone. “And Mr. Larkin called from the courthouse while you were out. Left you a message.”

  “Okay.”

  Whitey ambled toward me and stood with his cap in hand. “Afternoon, Maggie.”

  I indicated the extra chair beside my desk. “Have a seat.”

  A short fellow, Whitey sat his thin rear on the front edge of the chair. “The other day you asked me whether I’d noticed anything out of place recently. You know, while I was out in my tow truck.”

  I didn’t recall that exactly, but I nodded just the same.

  “The day before the Nodine boys…the day before they passed away, I was called out to rescue a guy stuck just off Logan Valley Highway.”

  “What was so out of place about this rescue?”

  “The guy had slipped down one of them nasty gullies. And he was driving Chet Harden’s green Bronco. I know ’cause I must’ve towed that thing a dozen times.”

  “This guy have a name?”

  He pulled a receipt from his shirt pocket, laid it on my desk, and worked to decipher the signature. “Well, I can’t read it exactly.”

  Whitey had the nervous habit of smacking his lips together where they met on the left side of his mouth. Twice. The sound of two little kisses randomly punctuated his delivery as he spoke. It was a quirk I’d always found peculiar but charming.

  “Let me have a look.”

  I lifted the receipt. Although the signature was sloppy, I could see someone had signed the thing Asa Larkin.

  I wanted to know it was Larkin for a fact. “Can you describe what the driver looked like? Tall? Slim? Overweight? Short?”

  “He had dark hair, I think. But it was more’n a week ago, and I don’t remember skinny or fat, tall or short. You see, I was already tired from making too many runs that day. Olive was out with all-day morning sickness. She’s expecting my first grandkid.”

  “How old would you say the guy was?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Try harder, Whitey.”

  He squirmed in his seat. “I should’ve brought this to you sooner. He stole Chet’s green Bronco, didn’t he?”

  “No, but you’re certain it was the same rig Chet Harden used to drive?”

  “That’s why I come in, Maggie. I had Olive look back through our records. License plate’s the same.”

  I stood. “Mind if I make a copy of the receipt?”

  He indicated he didn’t mind, but I was already on my way to the copier.

  “Here you are.” I handed him the original.

  “You’re sure the Bronco wasn’t stolen from ol’ Chet?”

  Hollis had confirmed Asa
Larkin owned the Bronco after taking photos of it in the parking lot of Erna’s Café last Sunday. “I know for certain it’s registered to the rancher who bought Chet’s place.”

  He nodded and stood to leave. “Well, whoever slid down that gully was pretty unfriendly, if that helps.”

  “Wait a sec. I’ve got a couple of photos for you to look at.”

  I snared the Nodine binder out of Holly’s in-basket and placed the mug shots of Larkin, the Vickers men, and the DMV printout of Wayne Smith’s driver’s license photo on my desk. For good measure, I threw in the blurry newspaper photo of Brady playing basketball.

  “I know you were tired, but might one of these be the guy?”

  Whitey took a few minutes to size up the photos. His hands shook slightly, hovering above the table. He placed his index finger on one of the shots of Larkin taken yesterday at the county jail. “Him, I think.”

  “This is all really helpful. Thanks for coming in.”

  “If I think of anything else, I’ll let ya know,” he said and wended his way to our front door.

  His story might be worth bupkis, but Whitey and his tow truck rescued drivers from all kinds of isolated places where all kinds of backwater illicit shit could be going on. It wouldn’t do for him to curl up inside his protective shell again and never pass on another speck of information, useful or not.

  I examined the receipt again and faced Hollis. “We have Larkin’s signature around here somewhere, right?”

  He nodded. “On the acknowledgment form you conjured up. The two of us are meticulous about following the procedures we invent.”

  “Just let me see the damn signature.”

  Holly chuckled and took the Nodine binder from me, found the man’s acknowledgment form I’d made up on the spot after confiscating his Kel-Tec 9, and handed it over.

  “Seems like it matches the one on Whitey’s receipt.”

  Hollis scooped up the receipt and the form. “Yeah, I’d say the signatures are the same all right, but what does that tell us?”

  I shrugged. “P-chuh? No idea yet.”

  “Your odd little noise there reminded me. Does Whitey always make that double-smack sound out of the corner of his mouth when he talks?”