Blind Vigil

by Matt Coyle

  An irritated laugh.

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “No.”

  “You couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours without asking for my help again.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I could see.”

  “Maybe not about whatever it is you’re going to ask me now, but there’d be something else you’d need even if you could see.”

  “You’re right.” I leaned my elbow onto the kitchen table and pressed the phone harder to my ear. “You get the short end of our friendship nine times out of ten.”

  “Ten out of ten.”

  “Why do you put up with it?”

  “If this is a reverse psychology ploy to get me to help you, it’s not working the way you planned.”

  “Only partially.” Six years later, I still wasn’t sure why Moira befriended me. “You’d probably be better off never having met me, but I don’t know where I’d be without you. Most likely dead.”

  “You’re laying it on pretty thick.” Her voice was soft and didn’t match her words.

  “A rare moment of truth from the man who claims to always be pursuing it,” I said.

  “I’m stuck with you, Cahill. Somewhere along the line of helping you with cases and keeping you out of jail, you became my responsibility. And I take my responsibilities seriously. But that doesn’t mean I have to help you with every bonehead scheme you come up with.”

  “How about I tell you what the bonehead scheme is first and then you can tell me what you think?”

  A sigh. “Go ahead.”

  I told her about Shay growing up on a ranch and Keenan Powell’s teenage years as a ranch hand in the same state.

  And that Shay was pregnant with Turk’s child.

  “Oh, God.” The pain of Shay’s murder and the Donnelly murder-suicide thick in her voice. “A baby.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything to stop it.”

  “Only if Turk is innocent. The pregnancy gives him another motive. If the baby was someone else’s.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Is there DNA yet?”

  “No. But I believe Turk. I know Turk. He’s still the man I used to know. Flawed, but decent. I know he’s innocent.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced. Where does the favor come in?”

  “I need you to fly with me to Boise, Idaho.”

  “What?”

  “At seven thirty tomorrow morning. And then drive me two hours from Boise to Bellevue. The good news is there’s a direct flight back the next day.”

  “What do you expect to find in Bellevue?”

  “I can’t be sure until I get there, but Bellevue is the key.”

  “How so?” Irritated.

  “When Kris asked Shay what she did the night she and her boyfriend saw her with Keenan Powell in Nine-Ten, she said she met a friend of her father’s. Her father’s been dead for twenty-three years. Any friends he had who would know about Shay have to go all the way back to Bellevue and the ranch. And like I told you, Powell worked on a ranch as a teenager.”

  “You think there’s only one ranch in Idaho? And who’s to say Shay wasn’t lying about who Powell was? We know she lied. A lot.” Emphasis on the last two words.

  “But why a friend of her father’s? Why not a friend of her mother’s, which would make much more sense since she only died three years ago.”

  “Who knows why liars lie?”

  “The answers are in Bellevue. I feel it in my gut.”

  “How many times has your gut been wrong?” Like she was counting the misses in her head.

  “A few, but it’s right about this one.”

  “Why do you need me? Why not just hire a driver out there?”

  “Secondly, because I did the math and it probably costs about the same to buy your plane tickets and rent a car as it does to go alone and rent a driver.”

  “Secondly?” An arched eyebrow I couldn’t see now, but had many times before. “What’s firstly?”

  “I need your eyes, your brain, and your instincts.”

  “My instincts tell me that this is a fool’s errand.”

  “I only need them when we get there. Not before.”

  “Why isn’t Ellis Fenton going with you?”

  “I didn’t tell him I’m going.”

  “Why not?” Agitated.

  “He hasn’t caught up to me yet. He’s preparing to go to trial. I’m trying to find the real killer and avoid a trial. You know how this works. The trial date probably won’t be for a year. I don’t want Turk to spend another day in jail for something he didn’t do.”

  “Something he didn’t do.” She made it sound like something that shouldn’t be spoken out loud. “But what if he did do it? What if you find evidence that proves Turk killed Shay Sommers? Would you continue to defend him and be used by Fenton as Turk’s personal Statue of Liberty in front of the press?”

  “No, not if I was certain.”

  “And you’re willing to look at the existing evidence and any new evidence with an open mind? Guilt or innocence depending upon the facts?”

  “Yep. Are you?”

  “Buy the tickets. I’ll pick you up at five thirty tomorrow morning.” The natural rapid cadence that I hadn’t heard in a while.

  “Roger. We’re flying Southwest, so no first class, but flying with a blind guy will get you bumped up to pre-boarding. I’ll be sure to stumble at the gate for the sympathy vote.”

  “Asshole.”

  I bought the tickets through the voice function on my computer, the first time I’d ever done that. I was pretty sure I got everything right and we were flying to Boise. Thank God the closest airport to Bellevue wasn’t in Moscow, Idaho.

  Two hours later, I packed a backpack with a pair of socks, underwear, and a collared shirt. It didn’t matter what color the shirt was. All my collared shirts were dark and went well with the pair of jeans I’d wear.

  Midnight growled and scuttled out of the bedroom and downstairs after I rolled up the shirt and put it in my backpack. A couple seconds later, someone knocked on the door. Hard. I grabbed my cane and went downstairs. Another couple hard knocks and Midnight growl by the time I hit the foyer.

  “Quiet.” To Midnight.

  Someone outside was agitated and wanted to talk to me. The police? Maybe Detective Denton had decided to arrest me for impersonating a police officer on the phone. Doubted it. She had her man behind bars. That would be petty even for her.

  Someone mad over a case? No. I hadn’t officially worked one in almost a year.

  If it was someone who wanted to hurt me for some other reason, they weren’t being very stealthy about it hammering on my door at five thirty in the afternoon.

  I put on my sunglasses and opened the door.

  “Who the hell said you could visit Turk and talk about the case in the public visitors area in jail?” Elk Fenton angrier than I’d ever heard him.

  “Who told you I did that?” Had Turk ratted me out when I asked him not to?

  “A sheriff’s deputy, but that’s not the point.” I thought I could actually see a red tinge to the outline of his face. “You could have jeopardized the whole case! You know those conversations are recorded.”

  “Do you want to come inside so we can calmly discuss this?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Did Turk tell you what we talked about?”

  “Only after I convinced him the deputy told me you’d been there.” He shook his head and blew out a loud breath. “He’s as loyal to you as you are to him. Two stubborn idiots.”

  “If anyone listens to our conversation, they’ll hear a man who is grieving the death of his girlfriend and his unborn child. Nothing he said made him sound guilty. Just the opposite.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re not a lawyer. And even if you’re right, it’s the principle. You should have checked with me first.”

  “You would have told me not to go.” Defiant, even though I knew he was right. In principle. “Plus, Turk
told me something about Shay I didn’t know about her. Did you know that she grew up on a ranch in Idaho?”

  “Of course. Turk is my client.”

  “Idaho is where Keenan Powell grew up and worked on a ranch as a teenager.” My face heated up. “Idaho’s the key. Why aren’t you sending Coyote out there?”

  “I’m not going to have this argument with you again. In fact, I’m not going to have any more arguments with you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re a loose cannon, Rick. That’s dangerous in a murder trial.” Calm now. Almost remorseful. “I don’t trust your judgment and, quite frankly, I don’t trust you. I can’t risk having you a part of the team anymore. I’m going to pay you for the time you would have spent at the EDC, but you won’t be there. Or at any other court dates.”

  “How did Turk look to you today?” Calm, myself.

  “You’re not going to change my mind.”

  “I’m not trying to. I don’t care about being on the team. I was a cardboard cutout, anyway. But you know, as well as I do, that jail is a lot harder on the innocent than it is on the guilty. How do you think Turk is going to look a year from now when the trial starts?”

  “You think I want my clients languishing in jail while I try to get them bail and prepare for their trials?”

  I wasn’t going to get Turk out of jail if I worked through the system. That was the problem with me agreeing to help in the first place.

  “There might be exculpatory evidence in Idaho and you should be there looking for it.”

  “You’ll get a check next week.” Elk turned sideways, then stopped. “You can’t play by your own rules anymore, Rick. It’s too dangerous.”

  He walked away and disappeared.

  My own rules were the only ones I had.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THE FLIGHT TO Boise the next morning took four hours with a layover in Las Vegas. Being first in and first off the plane made flying a little less painful. Anything that can lessen the tedium of air travel nowadays had to be cherished. Along with the tiny pretzels. And, if you’re lucky, tiny Lorna Doones.

  I didn’t tell Moira about Fenton booting me from the team. It didn’t change anything. The Boise trip wasn’t sanctioned by him even before he fired me. If we found anything exculpatory, I’d give it to Fenton. That hadn’t changed. I was here for Turk, not a paycheck or a pat on the back.

  The Boise air had a snap to it that we might get a couple days every few years in San Diego. Probably low- to mid-thirties. What we call freezing in Southern California. I wore my bomber jacket, jeans, and boots. Not cowboy boots, Galls cop duty boots. No gloves. Real cowboys don’t wear gloves unless their breath freezes and falls to the ground when they exhale. Or if they don’t own a pair.

  Moira rented a Nissan Pathfinder on my credit card because she wanted something with four-wheel drive in case we hit snow or ice. I gave her the address to Smokey Mountain Ranch, just south of Bellevue. It had taken me over an hour of searching real estate and people finder websites last night to locate the ranch that June Sommers sold to the owners of the adjacent property twenty-five years ago before Colton Benson ran off with the money. The best I could tell, Smokey Mountain Ranch was still owned by the original buyers, Jake and Jim Hunter.

  We got onto Interstate 84 going southeast. My limited vision told me that the terrain was mostly flat. After about an hour, I sensed some dark breaking landscape to the left side of the windshield. Mountains.

  “What’s your plan?” Moira broke the silence that had settled between us since we got on the road. “Do the owners of the ranch even know we’re coming?”

  “Yes. I left them a message on their voicemail last night and Jake Hunter left me one this morning while we were in the air. He’d be happy to meet us.”

  “Why did you tell him we were coming by?”

  “I told him the truth. Mostly.” My usual practice as a private investigator. It didn’t take long to backslide into my bad habits. “That we were detectives from San Diego investigating a homicide and have a few questions regarding some people from Bellevue.”

  “Detectives?”

  “Yes.” Feigning obliviousness to her concern.

  “Not private detectives?”

  “I might have left that part out, but I didn’t say police.”

  “When was the last time you referred to yourself as a detective instead of a private investigator?”

  “Last night on Smokey Mountain Ranch’s voicemail.”

  “You may have just wasted a lot of money and my time to come all the way out here for nothing.” The heavy rumble of a big rig filled the inside of the car then receded into the background. “I’m not going to impersonate a police officer. And what if the Hunters don’t want to talk to a private detective?”

  “I’m not asking you to impersonate a cop and I’m not going to either. Let me handle it. We’ll be fine.”

  Neither of us spoke again for over an hour. Finally, Moira broke the silence.

  “GPS says we’re eight miles out. We’re in a valley between some mountains. It’s beautiful out here.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Although I did get the sense of rolling terrain on each side of the highway.

  After a few more minutes, Moira spoke again. “The entrance to the ranch is just up ahead.”

  The Pathfinder slowed, then turned left, and the road went from asphalt to gravel crunching under the tires. The sound and the texture signaled real country living. We crept along for almost a minute until Moira pulled to a stop.

  “Large wood and stone modern ranch house with a peaked roof and a huge covered wooden porch. Gorgeous.” Awe in Moira’s voice. “There’s even a whipping post out front.”

  “A whipping post?”

  “You know, where they tie up horses after they ride them.”

  “That’s called a hitching post.”

  “Whatever.” Dismissive, like a millennial. “There’s a pickup truck parked in front of it instead of a horse. There’s also a guest house back to the left next to a massive barn.”

  “Bunkhouse for the hands.”

  “Aren’t you the cowboy?”

  “I used to watch Westerns back when I was a kid.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I got out of the heated SUV and an icy wind slapped me in the face. The smell of pine trees and dry grass swirled around me.

  The gravel crunched under my duty boots as I put my hand on the Pathfinder and walked around the front of it to meet Moira. I could see the dark form of the ranch house. Even the area in front of the porch that was a small staircase. I just couldn’t tell how many stairs there were. I took the cane out of my pocket and snapped it to its full length.

  “You okay with the stairs?” Moira, a few feet ahead of me.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” My ankle was still a bit sore from twisting it the other night. But, workable.

  Moira waited while I caught up to her and tapped up the three wooden steps first. I knocked on the wooden front door.

  “I didn’t see any cows when we drove up along their property.” Moira.

  “Cattle. I think you call them cows when you milk them and cattle when you slaughter them.”

  “Blind or sighted, you’re still an asshole.”

  The door opened after a few seconds, replaced by the outline of a human. A woman.

  “May I help you?” Fifties or sixties by the tenor of her voice.

  “Yes.” I tried my friendly smile under my sunglasses and broken nose. “I’m Rick Cahill and this is Moira MacFarlane and we’re here to see Jake Hunter.”

  “The detectives from San Diego?”

  “Yes.” I answered before Moira could give a more specific answer.

  “I’m Claire Hunter, Jake’s wife. Please follow me.” Her body moved away from the door, then stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like me to lead you?”

  “Thanks, but I can see just enough to be able to follow you.”

  W
e followed her down a hall. The click of what must have been her cowboy boots on a hardwood floor led us into a large open space on the left. The living room. Light came in from the back of the room through two huge windows.

  “What a beautiful view,” Moira said.

  “Thank you. Those are the Smokey Mountains, and most of the land you see in front of them is part of the ranch.”

  “But where are all your cows?”

  “Cattle,” I said.

  “Shut up, Rick.”

  “They’re grazing down near Mountain Home. We get too much snow in the winter for them to feed here. We’ve had mild weather the last couple weeks, but there’s a storm on the way,” Claire Hunter explained. “Have a seat, but watch out for the coffee table right in front of the couch.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Moira and I found a large dark sofa behind a knee-high flat platform object. The coffee table. By the sound it made when we sat down, the sofa was leather.

  “I wouldn’t mind waking up to that view every day.” Moira, ready to trade in her flip-flops for a pair of cowboy boots.

  “I’ve been waking up to it for thirty-three years and it never gets old. I’ll go get Jake.” A rustle and footsteps on hardwood echoing away.

  Deference in her voice. Jake was the boss. Moira sat quietly on the couch, so I did too.

  A minute or so later, two sets of footsteps approached. One heavier than Claire Hunter’s. Two figures entered the room. Claire and a considerably larger male. Square torso and head. Maybe a flat-top haircut.

  Moira stood up and I followed.

  “I’m Jake Hunter.” A baritone that filled the large room. He stopped in front of Moira and it looked like they shook hands.

  “Moira MacFarlane and this is Rick Cahill.”

  The figure moved in front of me and an arm came out. I found his hand and shook it.

  “Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” I said.

  “Please sit down.” He waited until we sat, then descended into a large object that sounded a crinkle of leather.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Claire. “Some iced tea? Fresh-squeezed strawberry lemonade? We grow the strawberries right here on the ranch.”

  I usually forgo perfunctory hospitality offerings, but Claire Hunter was so genuine that I took her up on the lemonade. So did Moira. Claire left, presumably to the kitchen.