Dig Your Grave

by Steven Cooper

  He swears he can smell a sunscreen of cloying coconut.

  Then it hits him.

  Playa Caribe. Gus could see a beach. A Caribbean beach. This has to be why he’s awake—to inventory Gus’s visions; they hover over his bed, taunting him, keeping him awake with a beckoning finger. He gets up. Goes to the living room. Turns on his laptop and searches “Playa Caribe.”

  There are 499,000 results in .72 seconds. Damn.

  Apparently, “Playa Caribe” is a popular name for hotels and resorts and beaches throughout (no surprise here) the Caribbean, particularly among Spanish-speaking destinations. Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Mexico, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Panama, and so forth. Needle in a Caribbean haystack. Mills rubs his eyes. As for hotels and resorts, there is no one single chain that has appropriated the “Playa Caribe” brand name, but there are at least a few dozen individual properties and locales throughout the enormous Caribbean region that use it:

  Playa Caribe Hotel and Resort (Quintana Roo, Mexico)

  Playa Caribe Parador (Mayaguez, Puerto Rico)

  Playa Caribe Village (Guanica, Puerto Rico)

  Playa Caribe del Sol (Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica)

  Playa Caribe Hotel (La Ceiba, Honduras)

  Playa Caribe Guesthouse (Ambergris Caye, San Pedro, Belize)

  Playa Caribe, Isla Margarita, Venezuela

  Playa Caribe, Santo Domingo

  And on, and on, and it’s 2:55 a.m.

  He makes notes: Gus’s “drives” in the impound lot lasted about two hours. He hears Spanish music. He sees a woman fall. He sees the number twenty-five. Klink, Schultz, and Torento graduated from U of A twenty-five years ago. Photos on a beach, twenty-five years ago? Very likely, a Caribbean beach. Why not?

  Mills needs to get some sleep.

  He climbs back into bed. Kelly smells musky and delicious. He whispers, “I love you,” twice, half hoping to wake her, half hoping her fine whispers of breath will continue to rise and fall undisturbed.

  27

  The residuals of the press conference were likely regurgitated on the news this morning. But, again, he avoids the televised reports. He does, however, fetch the morning paper (probably one of the last souls in the neighborhood to have a hard copy delivered), and he finds the headline written for Sally Tobin’s story to be fairly optimistic.

  POLICE CLOSE IN ON GRAVEYARD KILLER

  While the press conference did not suggest as much, the headline is not technically untrue. Every day they investigate, they close in. He’ll take it. What he won’t take is the traffic jam this morning at the Starbuck’s drive-through, so he ends up with a cup of police-department-issued coffee stew and a view of Morty Myer’s double-wide behind as he’s bent over the toaster oven, preparing his Pop-Tart.

  Jan Powell intercepts the view. “Hey, I got a call from the lab,” she says, entering his office. “Seems we got hair samples in Gaffing’s fingernails. Not Gaffing’s hair. Looks like he tried to fight off his assailant.”

  “Or pull his hair out, anyway.”

  “They match hair found in the victim’s Mercedes. Longish blond hair.”

  “From what I recall, the guy on the Klink surveillance video was wearing a hat,” Mills says. “Even the footage that Myers enhanced doesn’t show the guy’s hair color.”

  He pulls up the Safeway video on his computer and turns the screen toward Powell. They watch in silence for a moment as their suspect pulls Davis Klink from the SUV, and then Mills says, “See, you can’t really tell what’s under that hat.”

  He hits “Speakerphone” and calls Roni’s extension in the lab. “You working the Gaffing Mercedes?” he asks her when she picks up.

  “No,” she replies. “But I can find out who is.”

  “Never mind,” he says. “But I’d like a full analysis of the cars you sent to impound. I’m still waiting on those reports.”

  “Sorry. I’m at least two days behind. You’ll get ’em today.”

  “Anything stand out from the minutia?”

  He hears her cluck her tongue. “Well, I don’t know if you noticed the position of the seats,” she says.

  Gus was in the cars; Mills wasn’t. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Our measurements suggest that the last person to drive the vehicles was quite a bit shorter than both men.”

  “That’s consistent with other evidence we’ve seen,” Powell tells her.

  “Hey, Jan,” Roni says. “Both seats were pulled too close to the steering wheel for either man to drive comfortably. And from what we measured, the seats were positioned at about the same distance in both cars.”

  “But no blond hairs?” Powell asks.

  “No.”

  “Fingerprints?” Mills asks.

  “We were able to match fingerprints in the Klink vehicle to Davis Klink. Likewise for Schultz in the Maserati,” she tells them. “We found some partials elsewhere in the vehicle, but no other prints on the steering wheel except from the victims. I’m guessing your killer was wearing gloves.”

  “Blood or other fluids?” Mills asks.

  “If there was blood, you would have known by now, Alex,” she says, almost chiding. “And any other substances will be documented in the report. But nothing significant.”

  “All right, thanks,” he says.

  “We did collect several pot seeds on the passenger side of the Maserati,” Roni adds.

  Carla Schultz. He shakes his head. Powell smirks.

  “Yeah,” Mills says, “and a few joints, but you smoked those, right?”

  “Goodbye, Alex. Goodbye, Jan.”

  The line goes dead, and Mills goes facedown on his desk, where he knocks his forehead a few times against the surface.

  “Careful, Alex,” Powell warns him. “Your brain isn’t functioning all that well, as it is.”

  He lifts his head and hisses at her. “I’m fucking exhausted. This case just seems to be crawling. I’m not used to going at tortoise speed.”

  As if on cue, Myers enters Mills’s office. He’s clutching a Pop-Tart in one hand, a file folder in the other. “Can I interrupt?” he asks.

  Mills gestures for him to pull up a chair. Myers places his breakfast at the edge of the desk and sits. “Joe Gaffing had cell service through Spectra Wireless,” he says. “Well, I have a good friend at Spectra Wireless. He’s been analyzing Gaffing’s account, off the grid . . . if you catch my drift.”

  “I catch it, Morty, but your friend is probably breaking the law doing that without a warrant from us.”

  “I’m not saying we procure the information as evidence,” Myers argues. “I just think when you hear what I have to say, you’ll consider it an interesting lead.”

  “Okay, I’m listening. . . .”

  “Turns out the last thing Gaffing used his phone for was to search directions on Google Maps.”

  “Directions to where, Morty? You need a drum roll?” Mills asks.

  The man takes a bite of his toaster pastry, luxuriating no doubt in the heady mix of suspense and frosting. “He searched Google Maps for the address and directions to—” Another bite.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Morty,” Powell begs.

  “A restaurant. Fiesta Taqueria,” Myers announces, all puffed up.

  “Thomas and Sixteenth?” Mills asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup,” Myers says. “It looks like Gaffing went into the alley behind the place, then parked down the block. It doesn’t look, from his signal, that he actually went inside, but it’s hard to tell. This shit ain’t easy to find. My Spectra friend spent night and day on this.”

  Mills pauses, half consciously rubs his chin, and begins to think aloud. “So, Gaffing meets his killer in the same neighborhood as Schultz and Klink,” he surmises. “Somehow, he gets separated from his cell phone because the next thing we know his car ends up in Avondale a few blocks from the cemetery.”

  Powell nods, pointing to the images on Mills’s screen.
“No different from what happened to Klink. They drove his BMW to Safeway, presumably from Thomas and Sixteenth, then walked a couple of blocks to Valley Vista.”

  “He takes away their phones so they can’t call for help,” Myers interjects.

  Mills smiles. “Yes, Morty. I get that part. But I don’t know. This doesn’t feel cohesive.”

  Powell tilts her head, twists her mouth, and says, “Cohesive? What do you mean?”

  “I mean the murders obviously look alike, but how these men came to meet their killer still seems murky to me,” he replies. “Where’s the cohesive motive on their part to walk right into the hands of a killer? Obviously they didn’t think they’d end up dead. So what kind of meeting did they think they’d be having? Regardless of where they drove to or whether or not they had their phones with them, we’re missing a bigger part of the story here.”

  Apparently, Powell and Myers don’t disagree. But they don’t say anything. They just look at him.

  “And I think the Gaffing murder makes the flight manifests worthless to us,” Mills adds. “They’re starting to trickle in from the airlines, but why bother? Gaffing’s murder means the killer didn’t leave town after killing Schultz.”

  “Unless he flew out and flew back,” Myers says.

  “You mean a frequent-flying felon?” Mills asks. “Nah, too risky.”

  “Assuming it’s one killer—and I think we continue to stick to that assumption—Alex is right,” Powell says.

  “I’ll send out the manifests as I get them. But I don’t want to waste too much time on them.”

  “So, now what?” Powell asks.

  Mills leans forward, rubbing his chin. “I want to go back to that neighborhood and look around,” he announces. “I’m not going to waste resources and bring out a bunch of patrols again. It’ll just be Powell and me.”

  “We going door-to-door?” Powell asks.

  “More or less,” Mills replies.

  “That’s a lot of doors,” Powell says.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got something in mind. I’ll let you know when we’re confirmed to go.”

  As soon as he’s alone in his office, Mills dials Gus Parker.

  Gus Parker makes a quick detour around the mountain before heading to work. He stops at the Paradise Valley police station, hoping for an update on Richard Knight.

  “I wish I had more to tell you,” says Detective Obershan. “But right now he’s evading us.”

  “If he’s left the area that would be fine with me,” Gus tells him.

  “We got his last known address from his probation officer,” Obershan says. “It’s his parents’ house in Glendale. We went. But the parents claim they haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “Does he check in regularly with his probation officer?”

  “So far.”

  “So maybe you just grab him at the next appointment.”

  “If you want to wait that long.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Obershan drifts toward the doorway. Gus takes the hint.

  “We’re doing all we can,” the detective says as they reach the parking lot.

  “Can you put out some kind of message for all law enforcement to look for this guy? Like in surrounding cities and towns?”

  “We have,” Obershan says. “Make sure you let us know if he contacts you again.”

  Gus nods and says, “I’ve been staying at my house in Phoenix.”

  “And Ms. Welch?”

  “LA.”

  The detective grazes him with uninvited sympathy.

  At some point during Gus’s visit to the PVPD, a call came in from Alex Mills. The voice mail simply says, “Call me,” so as soon as Gus is back in his car he dials. Alex wants him to go on a fishing expedition; those are his words.

  “But it will be a fun expedition,” the detective assures him. “I need you to walk a neighborhood with me and see if you come up with any vibes on my case.”

  “If that’s your idea of fun, I’m in,” Gus says. “But not today.”

  “Not today? I’m crushed, Mr. Parker.”

  “Come on, dude, I was just over at the impound lot last night taking your evidence for a test drive. I didn’t know I was on retainer,” he says. “Besides, I’m working all day. It’ll have to be mañana.”

  Alex tells him that’s fine. “Let’s meet at eight. Goldberg’s on Seventh. I’ll buy breakfast.”

  28

  The TV is on in the background. Gus is wearing boxers and brewing a cup of coffee. He has about thirty minutes before he has to meet up with Alex. All is quiet, save for CNN, in the soft unfolding of Gus’s morning. The Dow is up. So is the S&P. He doesn’t understand the S&P.

  “The US lost nearly one hundred thousand retail jobs last year as a record number of consumers turned to online shopping,” the newscaster says.

  He never drank coffee regularly until he met Billie. On singing days she sips lemon tea. Otherwise, she’ll drink coffee all day to push her through her crazy nights of musing and writing. He spoons Stevia into his cup.

  “Several small earthquakes struck areas of Oklahoma overnight. Seismologists say this most recent outbreak brings the number of measurable tremors in the state to twenty-eight so far this year.”

  He has to admit the aroma is intoxicating, that full-bodied elixir to the yearning of the puffy-eyed masses. He pours, adds some almond milk, and turns to the bedroom. But something about Mexico catches his attention.

  “. . . on a spring break trip to Cancun, Mexico, and was never found. Her disappearance, never ruled a homicide, has become one . . .”

  He hits “Rewind” on the remote.

  “Next Friday marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of the disappearance of Kimberly Harrington. The Northern Arizona University student, who hailed from Michigan, went missing on a spring break trip to Cancun, Mexico, and was never found. Her disappearance, never ruled a homicide, has become one of the coldest cases known to US law enforcement officials. For years, Kimberly’s parents have traveled . . .”

  Ivy, who’s already been walked, rises from the corner of the room and barks to the birds outside.

  He looks at the clock. He still needs to shower. He’s running late.

  By eight o’clock, the breakfast crowd at Goldberg’s has thinned. The wear and tear on the faces of the wait staff indicates it was another busy morning rush. So do the vapors of grease that swirl to the ceiling.

  Mills easily finds a booth, lets Powell slide in.

  “I hope they saved some grease for the bacon,” he says.

  She looks at her watch. “Where’s your friend?”

  “He’ll be here.”

  A waitress offers coffee. This morning Powell drinks hers black.

  “Maybe he’s just a good guesser,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “Gus Parker.”

  Mills shrugs. “Even if he is, you have to admit he does it better than anybody. It’s a gift.”

  “I’m surprised a guy like you isn’t more of a skeptic.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I know. But I’ve spent a lot of time with Gus. I’ve watched him, and there’s something, I don’t know, almost religious about how he works.”

  “Religious? I doubt that,” she says. Then she adds, “Well speak of the devil himself!”

  A passing waitress yields to Gus who arrives sporting a ponytail and facial hair. He’s in a loose-knit baggy sweater, sleeves rolled up.

  “I didn’t know Jesus was coming,” Powell says.

  “Isn’t that a common assumption?” Gus asks. He sits and tells the waitress he’d prefer a cup of tea.

  Powell snarls at him.

  “What?” Gus asks. “I already had coffee. I don’t need to be all jacked up to do my thing.”

  Mills withdraws a folder from his backpack and opens a small map of Central Phoenix. He points to the intersection of Thomas and Sixteenth. “We suspect all our victims were in this area, at or near the same gas station,” he explains. �
�We’re going to make a tight ring around the neighborhood, knock on a few doors.”

  “A few?” Gus asks.

  “Or many,” Mills replies. “That may depend on you. Maybe you get a strong vibe about a certain street or a house. We’ll start at a restaurant and then go to addresses we missed the first time around. You know, people who weren’t home, didn’t answer their doors.”

  They order breakfast. Mills and Powell both choose the All-American (a mixed platter of fat and cholesterol), and Gus predictably asks for yogurt, fruit, and granola. He runs his fingers through his newly sprouting beard.

  “You growing it out?” Mills asks.

  “I don’t know,” Gus says with a withering shrug.

  The waitress returns with coffee refills. Gus reminds her he’s drinking tea. She rests her hand on his shoulder. “Anything for you, darling,” she says and drifts away.

  Powell whistles lasciviously. “The old broad likes the hipster look.”

  “It’s not a hipster look,” Gus tells her. “And I don’t think she’d like being called an old broad.”

  “And I don’t think I like being lectured about being PC,” Powell says.

  “Uh, Jan,” Mills interjects. “Why don’t you lay off Gus for now. He’s here to help us, and he’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “I’m being stalked,” Gus says.

  “So I’ve heard,” she admits. “That must suck.”

  Gus offers a few details. The food arrives, and, as she’s chomping on a piece of rye toast, Powell says, “Amazing how Billie Welch never gets old.”

  “She never gets old to me,” Gus assures them.

  “I mean physically,” Powell says. “She looks like she stopped aging. What’s her secret?”

  Gus, intently studying the yogurt, says, “She only thinks of love and beauty. Nothing else crosses her threshold, you know, in her mind.”

  A burst of laughter from Powell. Mills and Gus look at her, say nothing else. They silently finish eating. When they’re done Mills pays the bill, letting Powell slide out. “Bladder,” she says. “Meet you two outside.”

  Gus leaves his car at Goldberg’s and gets in with Mills. Powell follows them, then parks behind them on East Glenridge, about four houses in from Sixteenth. A few high clouds scatter across the sky, no doubt chased away by the rising sun and the slight desert wind. Another month or so and it will be fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk weather.