by Lisa Jackson
“Sin City,” he said, eyeing the flashing lights of the casinos and the throngs of people on the street, with an envious eye. He rolled down the window and took a big lungful of air. “Ahh. The smell of money. You know, I could retire here, get myself a sweet penthouse on the Strip, play poker for walking-around money.”
“What happened to the condo in Cabo?”
“Oh, that’s in the budget, too.” He stroked his goatee as they drove away from the Strip, with its mega-storied hotels and casinos, and onto streets flanked by low-lying buildings. “Margaritas in Cabo and straight shots here, in Vegas.”
“Your wife and kids, they’re into this?”
“Oh, yeaaaah.”
“I’ve met Maria, remember?” Maria Martinez was a schoolteacher who aspired to be an administrator in the district where her kids went to school. “I don’t see her in this scenario. Don’t think she wants to uproot your kids.”
“She’s on board,” Martinez insisted as Settler threaded her way through the traffic, while keeping Davis’s car in sight. “You gotta admit that this weather, it’s better than what we got.”
“Today,” she said, eyeing the blue sky that stretched forever. A few clouds were visible, along with a jet trail, but the sun was shining, as opposed to the gray day they’d left in the Bay Area.
“All damned winter.”
“Okay, okay, but you’ve got a few years until retirement.”
“You hope,” he said. “Who else would partner up with you and always be saving your sorry ass?” As they turned a final corner onto Pinto Lane, she spotted Davis’s vehicle turning into a lot, sunlight reflecting off the windows of her car.
“A man can dream, can’t he?” he asked.
“No harm in that.” She eased into the large parking area, a wide stretch of asphalt surrounded by a landscape of rock, sand, and some well-placed desert-friendly plants, cacti and other succulents. Settler located a spot near Davis’s vehicle. The Las Vegas detective was already out of her car and lighting a cigarette.
“Ready to meet Didi?” Settler asked Martinez as she parked and pocketed the keys.
“Can’t wait.” He was already out of the car.
As they approached, Davis exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I’m down to two a day,” she said, as if she had to explain herself. She slipped her lighter into her jacket pocket and started walking them toward the long, low building that housed the Clark County Coroner’s Office. “My kids are all over me to stop completely, even want me to use the patch or e-cigs, because vaping is supposed to be so much healthier, you know, but when I’m working . . .”
“I hear ya.” Martinez nodded. “I quit fifteen years ago, when my wife was pregnant with the first one. She accused me of fouling the air for her and the babies, so eventually I quit.”
“And you still have the craving?” Davis sighed dispiritedly.
“It’s not so bad now,” he said.
Pausing near the entrance, she took a final drag on the filter-tip, then quashed the butt into the sand of an ashcan set not far from the main doors. “Let’s go.” She led them inside, where the air-conditioning had cooled things down.
Davis knew her way around. She found an officer who was working the case and guided them to an even colder room, where three toe-tagged bodies covered in tarps were stretched out on gurneys.
“Over here,” the officer said, and they entered a smaller examination room where a single stretcher was waiting. It, too, was covered by a plastic sheet.
“Let’s do this,” Davis said.
“Okay.” The officer pulled off the tarp of the single body lying face up.
Settler wasn’t squeamish, but she always braced herself.
“Jesus,” Martinez said and crossed himself, as he always did upon first viewing a dead person.
The body on the table was little more than a skeleton, bones hung with bits of leathery flesh, eye sockets dark holes, ribs covering a chest devoid of internal organs. A few tufts of hair were still attached to the skull, but for the most part, twenty years of being buried in the desert hadn’t preserved the body as much as Settler had hoped. It seemed completely decomposed.
“This is Didi Storm?” Settler asked.
“ID isn’t a hundred percent. There’s a chance someone else was dressed in her things, with her purse, in her car, but unlikely.” She met Settler’s gaze. “And the bullet hole, you see that?”
“Uh-uh.” Through an eye socket, past the empty brain cavity and hole in the back of the skull, the top of the gurney was visible.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Settler said, “but I’ll need pictures of the body, the car, and all of her personal belongings, her purse and what was in it, and the baby carrier, although I’m not certain that Didi’s daughter will be satisfied with pictures. She may want to view the body herself, not that she could identify these bones, but I can’t say.”
“We’ve got Didi Storm’s dental records on file, ordered out when she went missing. We’ll check, but it’s a pretty done deal.”
Settler nodded.
“Let me show you what we have,” Davis suggested.
The other officer brought all of the personal items that were discovered with the corpse in the buried Cadillac. The items were bagged and tagged, but Dani viewed them through the plastic and was convinced that, yes, they’d found Didi Storm. The wig, dusty and dull, had been short and blond and was labeled with thick black ink that had faded but had been written in Didi’s distinctive hand.
They drove to the police station and found a private room. Over cups of black coffee, Davis said, “We’ve already done some preliminary work, just since the car was discovered, strictly by chance, by the construction firm. Wellsley Construction is totally legit, good company, building a subdivision on the property for R&D Homes, a company that also checks out. R&D stands for Richard and Diana Duvall. They’re divorced but still run the company together. It’s a strong business, no money problems. They’ve done several large projects in the city. R&D bought the property about three years ago and started working to develop it, but because of their other projects, and the time it takes to draw up plans, take care of all the environmental impact stuff, get approval and the permits to build, they didn’t get started on the site until about three months ago.”
“Who’d they buy the property from?”
“A company by the name of Morgan Investments, which is under the umbrella of a larger company, OH Industries, a California-based business located near L.A. OH had done some work on the site back in the day. They’d planned to develop it as well, years ago, but all that happened after the permits were received was that a ravine was filled.”
Settler asked, “The ravine where they found the car?”
“Bingo.”
“So why did Morgan Investments and OH Industries abandon their project?”
“Still looking for answers. Should know something soon. We’d better,” she admitted, glancing toward a window with a view of the parking lot. “The press is already all over this. All the interest in the book, then the suicide, and now the murder of the author of I’m Not Me. Reporters have been calling me day and night.”
Martinez said, “We’re getting them, too. The Public Information Officer is inundated, and the last I checked, the book is already hitting some of the best-seller lists.”
Davis nodded. “The publisher admitted they’re going into more printings.”
“Wait until the public finds out that Didi’s been found,” Settler thought aloud.
“They’ll want all the gruesome details,” said Davis. “Just watch, there will be a film or made-for-TV movie in the works.”
Settler was already way ahead of her. If the scenario they were discussing played out, whoever owned the rights to the book stood to make a small fortune. She thought of Karen Upgarde and the increased buzz that began after her suicide leap dressed as Didi Storm.
They ended the meeting with each department promising to keep the other infor
med. Then Settler and Martinez drove to the airport to meet Stinson and fly back to San Francisco.
On the way to the airport, Martinez was on his iPad looking for information on OH Industries, while Settler thought over what they’d learned. First, she wondered about Didi Storm’s infant son and daughter. The baby carrier discovered in the Cadillac convinced her that Remmi Storm had been telling the truth, at least in part—that Didi Storm had given birth to at least one child and had been trying to barter it off to its father, trying to scam him.
And because of it, Didi had paid the ultimate price—with her life.
Assuming Remmi was credible and there were two children, where were they? Had they survived? Were they together, or had they been separated, perhaps raised by different families? Did either of them, assuming they were alive, have any inkling about their biological mother, their own history? Unlikely, since neither of them had ever come forward, and especially now, with all the publicity about the book.
The questions churned in her mind, and she expelled a breath of air in frustration.
“What?” Martinez asked, looking up, just as she saw a sign for the airport.
“Nothing. Just thinking.” She turned on her blinker and changed lanes.
During the investigation, they’d discussed the money trail, and once again, she ran through it.
Who would profit most from Karen Upgarde’s death?
The obvious answer was Trudie Crenshaw, now dead.
Next in line? Her husband, Ned. But he was hanging onto life by a thread and might not recover. Who would benefit from his demise?
One answer: Vera Hutchinson Gibbs, sister of the deceased Edwina, “Edie,” aka Didi Storm. Vera was a known contributor to the book. Legally, the succession of rights and money wasn’t clear to Settler, not yet, but she sensed she was on the right track with Vera.
She thought about the photographs of the hotel window and elevator car, of the blond man in the Mariners baseball cap. Could “he” have been a “she?” It didn’t seem so, by all accounts from Al Benson, the janitor, and Robb Quade, the frightened bellhop. Or had Vera hired someone else? A proven assassin who’d then knocked off Trudie Crenshaw and tried to kill Ned, the only people Settler knew of who stood between Vera Hutchinson Gibbs and a fortune? Or had Vera set her husband or brother or one of her kids up for the job? Who had been in that room with Karen Upgarde in her final moments? Did Vera know what had happened to her sister and the babies?
Was there someone else in the wings?
The airport tower loomed closer, and Settler drove to the rental car lot where they were meeting Stinson. His promised dinner would have to wait as she had to get back to the city.
First, she’d give Remmi Storm the bad news in person.
Then Settler planned to drive to Walnut Creek for a tête-à-tête with Mrs. Vera Gibbs.
As she wheeled into the parking lot for the rental car company, her cell phone blasted. Martinez picked up the phone. “Sacramento P.D.”
“Answer. Put it on speaker phone.”
He punched the appropriate buttons.
“This is Detective Settler,” she said, loud enough for the phone to pick up her voice as she parked and took the cell from Martinez’s outstretched hand.
“It’s Ladlow.” The ex-jock detective from Sacramento. “Hey, look, I’m gonna cut right to the chase.”
A premonition of dread slid through Settler’s brain. She knew what was coming and exchanged looks with Martinez, who’d stopped working on his tablet and was listening in. “Okay.”
“It’s Ned Crenshaw,” Ladlow said. “He died about an hour ago. Never woke up. Just lost the fight.” A pause. “It’s a real pisser, but he had a poor chance, being shot at close range like that. I’ll send you the autopsy report once we get it.”
Settler stared out the window to the row of cars being checked in, suitcases and bags and strollers and laptops hauled out of vehicles, paperwork exchanged with attendants. For a second, the scene seemed a little surreal, just as it always did when a person died. Reality shifted. What was important and what was trivial were almost indefinable.
She gave a slight shake of her head, and the world righted itself, as it always did. It was up to her to make certain Crenshaw’s killer came to justice.
* * *
On the saggy bed of his room at the Bayside, the Marksman stared at his computer screen and swore under his breath. He was going over the path recorded by the GPS locator he’d planted beneath the bumper of Remmi Storm’s Subaru. From the map on his screen, it was obvious Remmi had driven all the way to Walnut Creek and the very street where she’d lived.
He knew the address. No doubt, Remmi had made a visit to dear old Aunt Vera. It had been inevitable, he supposed, wishing he’d taken out Didi’s daughter earlier. The fact that she was talking to Vera was worrisome; that woman didn’t know how to keep her damned mouth shut. What was worse was the fact that after visiting Vera, she hadn’t left Walnut Creek.
Agitated, he shifted on the bed, feeling a painful twinge in his thigh where the wire clippers had ravaged his flesh. He should never have let that happen; the pain was an impediment. One he’d have to overcome. At least mentally.
He slid the laptop onto the bedside stand, stood, and found he could walk without too much difficulty. The pain, though, was a problem. He couldn’t allow himself to limp, couldn’t draw attention to himself.
Already naked, he hobbled to the bathroom and twisted on the shower jets, then located a strip of gauze from his first-aid kit and, using the flimsy little shower cap to cover the patch on his leg, anchored it with the gauze and tape. Then he stepped under the not-quite-hot-enough spray.
Weak as the shower was, it helped loosen his muscles, and once he’d stepped out and toweled off, he found he could walk almost normally, although his stride was a bit shorter.
With his towel, he took a swipe at the moisture collected on the mirror, then glowered at his image. The tines of the pitchfork had done their job, no doubt about it. His face was black and blue, the deep scratches clear, but with the weather being as cold as it was, he could cover most of his face with a scarf and hat, even use the fake hair, he supposed.
He surveyed his chest and swore mightily. He considered shaving the whole area and slathering his pecs and abdomen with antiseptic again. The wounds were deep, but, for now, they would have to wait. He’d clean them later.
His body felt as if he’d been thrown from a high building, then run over with a bulldozer. He was used to a certain amount of pain. Had learned mental toughness over the course of his life. He’d get the job done. For now, he couldn’t risk a trip to the hospital, and he knew that as soon as this part of his job was finished, he’d be able to have a nurse tend to him. A private nurse.
He turned on the TV and located a cable news station, hoping to hear that Ned Crenshaw had let go of life, but he couldn’t find any update confirming the rancher’s death. He then looked online, Googled Crenshaw’s name.
And there it was.
A gift from heaven.
Ned Crenshaw had expired in the last few hours.
Hallelujah.
The Marksman smiled. Looked like Ned hadn’t woken from his coma to shoot off his mouth.
Praise the Lord.
Even tough-as-old-leather Crenshaw hadn’t been able to survive the point-blank attack.
Now, he could concentrate on Remmi. He checked on the GPS and saw that finally it appeared that she was nearing that monster of a home owned by the old lady, the shingled house on the hill.
At least she was back in the city.
Good. He’d already checked out the old house where she lived and had come up with a plan to get rid of her.
A damned good one.
Stretching his bad leg again, he walked from the bathroom to the bed and back again. Yeah, it would hold him.
Tonight, Didi Storm’s nosy daughter would die.
CHAPTER 30
Even if she felt a little like a v
oyeur in the corner booth at the Bellwether, Remmi was mesmerized. The camera hidden on Vera’s mantel worked a little like a baby monitor, only with a clearer picture and a wider range of vision. She and Noah had kept their eyes on it for several hours, switching from coffee to soda and water, replacing the scones with a small pizza they’d picked out.
Vera had come and gone through the rooms without incident, following what was probably her normal routine. Nothing of import happened until after Jensen headed out. Then Vera checked the front room windows, as if to make certain she was alone, put the baby onto the floor with some toys, and made a phone call. Both Remmi and Noah focused sharply on the screen.
The conversation was one-sided, but chilling.
“She was here, damn it,” Vera said when someone answered. “Who? Who do you think? Remmi. And she was with that boy she knew back in high school. Noah Scott . . . Remember Ike Baxter, the mechanic? His stepson . . . yeah, that’s him, and guess what? He’s a P.I. now . . . what? . . . No, no . . . you heard me right, a private investigator. They know that I helped Trudie with the book . . . Huh? . . . I told you we should never have gotten Karen involved! That was your idea, and it backfired . . . yeah, yeah, I know . . . but you’d better fix it. We can’t be linked to her, you know . . . Why? . . . Are you crazy? She jumped off that ledge and brought all the spotlight on us!” Vera was on her feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other, from the dining room and archway to the kitchen to the window to peer outside, then back again.
Noah and Remmi exchanged glances. So, Vera knew Karen Upgarde but seemed confused as to why she jumped.
“Now I’m going to have the police at the door! If Remmi figured it out, how much longer before the cops are here?” She glanced over at her grandson. “I know, I know. That girl has always been an ingrate. After all I did for her! She was no picnic, after being raised by that slut.”
Remmi bristled. She’d known her aunt had always resented her, had done her Christian duty, but had wrapped it all in a blanket of martyrdom.
