by Lakota Grace
“How's your work as a Family Liaison Officer going? The department keeping you busy?”
“Rory’s throwing a little FLO business my way.”
“And the rent-a-cop gig at RRSP?”
“Not there anymore. I was terminated yesterday.” There was a lump in my throat and it wasn’t the deli ham.
Shepherd stopped rocking and gave me a keen-eyed look. “You okay?”
I nodded like I was and changed the subject.
“How about you?” I asked. “How’s your work going? Lots of new clients?”
I picked at the lettuce in my sandwich, trying to figure out how to start my own delicate negotiations.
Shepherd finished the last of his and tossed a crust to Reckless, who caught it with one expert coonhound snap.
“It’s slow getting started, but I’m working on it. I may have consulting work for you, from time to time, if you’re interested.”
I knew he was just trying to cheer me up with his offer, but it helped. I didn’t feel quite so alone. With that uncomfortable sharing behind me, I told him about meeting Beatrix Fisher to notify her of her husband Andy's death.
“Rory's completely cowed by Chas Doon,” I complained.
“It'll work out. Rory’s new in the homicide division, wants to make a good impression. He’s just following orders.”
“But Chas already declared the death a suicide.”
“He can't do that,” Shepherd said. “Has to wait for the medical examiner's report.”
“I told Rory that, but he thinks Chas Doon walks on water. In fact, I disagree. I happen to think it wasn't a suicide.”
“And you're out to prove Rory’s partner wrong.”
There was judgment and caution in his voice, but I didn’t care. Shepherd’s words had given me the opening I needed.
“It’s not that, exactly.” I explained my pie-making dilemma. “Would you help me?”
He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.
“Might be fun. I haven't tackled one of those in years.”
He started ticking off ingredients. “We'll need shortening; that stuff comes in those blue and white cans, top shelf of the baking section. Fresh lemons—you have a few of those around?”
My refrigerator held the remainder of today's lunch preparation and something green and slimy in the bottom bin.
“Yeah, sure, got those. What else?”
“Sugar, cornstarch, flour.”
“That's all?” I asked.
“Ain't making a sacher torte, here, just a simple pie. I'll donate the pie pan. You own a rolling pin?” He looked at me over his glasses. “Thought not. I have a pin you can use. But you need to buy one if you’re getting in the pie-making business.”
Not likely! I’d complete this deal and then I was done with the kitchen routine.
“When?” Shepherd asked.
“Tonight? Your house about seven-ish?” That would give me time to make another trip to the grocery in Cottonwood, down the hill from Mingus.
We shook on it.
After he left, I dumped my jar of spare change on the bed and divided the quarters from the dimes and pennies. If I went generic on the ingredients, I had just enough hard cash there to make the supply run. I plunked the mound of change into a plastic bag and stuck it in my purse.
Then I scritched Reckless's red ears
“Wish me luck, old buddy.”
As I opened the door to leave, he dove for freedom.
“Reckless,” I hollered, but he took that as an invitation to play.
I jogged along the dirt path from the cabin, trying to entice the dog to return. Of course, that route led me straight past the excavation guy who was taking a break under a tall mesquite tree.
I shot a glance at him. Still a hunk. He caught me looking and tipped his baseball hat. Reckless lifted a leg against the Ditch Witch.
“Hey!” the guy protested.
Reckless galloped toward him and I held my breath, not sure how the encounter would go. Usually, my hound was the mellowest of dogs, but this guy was invading his territory.
I needn’t have worried. Dog and man rolled on the ground, Reckless giving him slobbery hound-dog kisses. The guy laughed and roughed the dog’s burnt red coat in the tussle.
They both looked up as I approached. The man rose and dusted off his baseball cap that Reckless had knocked into the dirt. Red Maple Leaf on the brim. A hockey fan?
He held out a hand. “I'm Wolf Brandeis.”
“Peg Quincy.”
Our hands dropped, and I took a half step back to take his measure. He was six-one, six-two. Nice.
“Wolf your real name?”
“Weelll, I could tell you my given name is Wilfred. That means 'peace' in German.”
“So which is it? Peaceful, or part of the pack?”
His initial smile faded, and he looked at me directly with steel-blue eyes.
“I've never been part of anything. But up to you to decide when you know me better.”
An invitation there that I wasn't ready to acknowledge yet.
Wolf half-shifted and gave Reckless one more stroke on his head.
“Back you go now. Up to the cabin.”
My dog turned and loped easily to the house. Plopped in the shade on the front porch.
I was amazed that Reckless understood him but irritated that the hound would take orders from a stranger.
“Animals always obey you?” I asked.
“Mostly. I talk to them in their own language.”
Sounded like he was speaking English to me. Maybe not. I assessed the big hole he’d created in my yard.
“How's it going?”
“We'll drop the tank liner in this afternoon and hook up the leach field pipes tomorrow. The day after, you should have an inside privy.”
He smiled that wry smile at me again. Here we were discussing toilets, and I was getting turned on.
Maybe he was talking to me in a language I could understand. I'd had a long dry spell between boyfriends. Between friends-with-benefits, even, since Rory had gotten his promotion. I blushed at what I was thinking.
Wolf looked at me. “I’ve got an idea. You want to watch the moon rise with me?”
“What?”
“Moonrise,” he repeated. “From your porch. Should be a good view. About eight-thirty or so tonight?”
Mentally I was calculating how long it took to bake a pie. I’d told Shepherd I’d be there at seven. Maybe I could call and ask him to start earlier.
“Uh, okay,” I managed.
I corralled Reckless into the cabin, brushed my red hair into a knot at the back of my head, and headed out to get supplies for the pie bake. Suddenly, this day had taken a turn for the better.
The Red Stone Rescue
~ 11 ~
Rory
Rory Stevens watched across the double desk as his partner Chas Doon ate half a roll in one bite and washed it down with a slug of coffee, spilling some on the desk. The man swept the liquid off the desk with the side of his hand and Rory grimaced.
Chas was his supervisor and had his unquestioned loyalty, but the man was a pig. A contrast to the way he used to be before he was promoted to detective. Then he was spit-shined like a Marine corporal. Rory shook his head. Not sure which aspect of Chas Doon was worse.
Rory’s phone rang and he picked it up, welcoming the diversion.
“Stevens, here.”
It was the tech from the forensic lab.
“Got the report on your dead body from the park. The syringe tested positive for phenobarbital, ditto for the traces we found in his blood. Levels high enough to knock out an elephant. That's what killed him.”
“Where would he acquire that?” Rory asked.
“They use it for assisted suicide up in Washington, Oregon,” the tech said. “Or ask a local veterinarian. They put down livestock with it. Or, for the savvy user, any street corner, or even online for that matter. It's a changing world out there.”
&n
bsp; “Don't you know it,” Rory said. “Any prints on the syringe?”
“Just the deceased's. No sign of violence to the body other than drug use. But there were older needle marks. Looks like this dude was a devoted junkie at some point.”
The tech coughed into the phone, and Rory held it away from his ear. Could you catch germs over the phone?
“Anything else you want us to do before we release the body?” the man asked.
Rory relayed the findings and the question to Chas. Chas shook his head.
“Nah, go ahead and release it.” Rory hung up.
“You better call the widow, too,” Chas ordered. “Let her know the deceased is free for funeral pickup. Unless you'd like the FLO to do your job for you.”
His voice held a thinly disguised disdain.
“And when you're done with that,” he continued, “you need to finish the paperwork to close out the case. Time to move on.”
“What if this isn't finished? Could be somebody killed this guy and made it appear a suicide,” Rory protested.
Chas adopted a patronizing air. “Andy Fisher was a despondent Vet. I saw dozens of these when I worked in San Francisco. The man leaves a note and offs himself. End of story. I know you're eager for your first homicide, but this isn't the one, kid.”
Rory yawned to clear the tension in his clenched jaw. Chas was the primary. His call. He dialed Beatrix Fisher. Got the name of the funeral home she wanted to use.
“Was your husband a drug user by any chance?” He couldn't resist asking.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, “What do you mean?”
“The way he died. Phenobarbital, heavy dosage.”
There was a gasp. “I didn't know. He'd been depressed, but that?”
“Had he used drugs in the past?”
“He told me he did when he was on deployment in Afghanistan. That was a hard time for both of us. But nothing since, I swear.”
Rory felt the familiar tightening in his stomach. Strong emotion, any kind, made him tense. Usually, he could repress the stress, but it had gotten worse after his promotion. It would be simpler if Chas Doon wasn't always second-guessing his every move. He rose.
“Going for coffee? Get me some, too. This sludge is cold.” Chas tossed the half-empty paper cup in the trash. “Thanks, partner.”
Rory took his time. First to the restroom, then into the break room. He poured the dregs of one pot into a cup for Chas. Then he dumped the grounds and started a fresh brew.
Forcing his stomach knots to untighten, he grabbed the Arizona Republic front section from the lunch table and stood perusing the headlines: business squabbles, crooked politicians—the usual daily news.
When the pot was a quarter-full, he poured it into his cup with one easy action, listening to the spit of the coffee on the hot plate. Then he replaced the pot and returned to the squad room holding both cups.
He set the stale one in front of Chas, who took one sip, made a sour face, but said nothing.
Rory had started on the case-closing paperwork when his phone rang again. It was Peg.
“What the hell did you do to Beatrix? She was hysterical when she called me.”
“Easy, now.” Rory sneaked a look at Chas across the desk, but the man was staring at his computer screen. Rory covered his mouth and spoke into the phone in a low voice.
“Were you able to, uh, pick up that item for me?”
“You mean at Henry Fisher's house? Yes, I picked up the notebook that you forgot and left behind. While I was at it, I quizzed him regarding his discussions with Andy, the night he died. Did you even know about that? Do you even care? While I'm doing your job, you're busy asking your partner how high you can jump.”
“Now, Peg—”
At this point, Chas's head swiveled toward the sound.
“Look,” Rory began, trying to be reasonable, “the case was determined to be a suicide. It's time for both of us to move on.”
“Well, you can do what you want to,” Peg said, “but my official capacity with the sheriff's office is as a Family Liaison Officer. I'm doing my job. And what about the pay authorization? You are going to remember to do that. When you aren't kowtowing to that miserable piece of shit who is looking at you right now. I know he is.”
“Gotta go.”
Rory hung up and Chas gave a knowing chuckle.
Rory ducked his head and scribbled furiously on the form in front of him. Count on Peg to embarrass him at the worst moment. He hesitated when the phone rang again, but Chas had left his desk, so he picked it up.
There was the mechanical whir of helicopter blades in the background. It was his buddy from Prescott.
“You said you wanted experience with Search and Rescue. You still up for that?”
Rory had been part of the volunteer Underwater Recovery team, but not much business lately. He missed the adrenaline rush. And here was the chance to sweeten the bitter crush of working under Chas Doon’s thumb.
“What? Where?” he asked.
“Kid was rock climbing, fell off a cliff at Courthouse Butte. We need guys in there to pack him out to level ground so we can pick him up, airlift him to the hospital in Flagstaff. You game for it?”
“I’m leaving right now.”
Rory got the GPS coordinates, scribbled a hasty note to Chas, and headed to the parking lot. It was near the end of the workday. He'd head home to Prescott in his Hummer after the rescue. Be a good workout for the four-wheel beast out in the red rock country.
Rory turned off Interstate 17 and ten miles later passed through the Village of Oak Creek. To the north, two red rock sentinels guarded the entrance to Red Rock Country, Bell Rock and Courthouse Butte.
One of the endearing qualities of this part of the Verde Valley was the arbitrary naming of the rock formations. Some, like Lizard Rock and Rabbit Ears, looked like their namesake. Others, like Courthouse Butte, signaled someone’s nod to history. Bell Rock seemed to be a combination of both, Bell for the Liberty Bell, which it looked like if you squinted hard enough.
It rose 500 feet above the red sandy soil that was dotted here and there with pinon pine and creosote bush. Farther to the east, Courthouse Butte rose even higher.
The parking lot was crowded with the vehicles of hikers and mountain bikers. From there, visitors could hike the main trail to Bell Rock or another longer trail that circled both Courthouse Butte and Bell Rock.
Rory pulled in and double-parked. He flashed his badge at the volunteer directing traffic.
“I’m part of the rescue team. Where’s the command post?”
“Straight ahead.”
The man gestured and then halted an inquisitive tourist car tucked in behind Rory’s Hummer.
“Go back. You can’t hike here this afternoon, sorry. Rescue in progress.”
Rory circled the loop of the parking lot with his Hummer and parked at the closest point to exit onto Highway 179. Once done here he'd have a straight shot up Copper Canyon to the Cherry exit and home. Much as he was looking forward to the action ahead, a hot shower beckoned even more. It had been a long day.
It looked like the kid had tackled Courthouse Butte instead of the easier assent up Bell Rock. The helicopters whirred overhead—Rory craned his neck to see. There was the sheriff's copter plus a news chopper from Phoenix.
They'd have to hurry to rescue the kid before nightfall. With temperatures dropping, leaving him there at night might prove fatal, especially if he was wounded. Rory changed out of his uniform shoes into a pair of Adidas stained with the iron-red dust of the Verde Valley. He grabbed his daypack, shoved a couple of water containers inside and joined the officers clustered at the outskirts of the lot.
“Stevens, here. I'm part of the sheriff's Search and Rescue from Prescott. Where do you need me?”
“We’ve already got a team up on the rock.” The man pointed to the top of Courthouse Butte where a knot of men appeared as small as insects. Ropes dangled from the cliff.
“Got it.”
Rory jogged up the hill. The first part of the trail was a bonafide road, with a post-and-wire fence on each side, but once through a steep wash, the path narrowed and started to climb uphill. In a quarter mile it split, with the one path circling right around Courthouse Butte.
The mountain bikers hated that one because part of it was designated wilderness area, not accessible to cyclists. That meant they had to take the crowded trail to Bell Rock and then detour right past Baby Bell Rock before they could get to the single track on Llama Trail beyond.
Casual walkers, on the other hand, loved the Bell Rock Trail and swarmed it by the dozens when the weather was sunny, as it was today. Rory greeted the tourist groups ambling along wearing flip-flops, most carrying no water.
Some were sunburned, with no hats to protect against the high desert sun. Other folks, overweight and out of shape, panted at the higher altitude. Rory shook his head—a heart attack waiting to happen. As he met each group of hikers, he showed his ID and gave the message.
“We've got a rescue underway. You need to get back to your car and move it. Now!”
As Rory passed the final turn leading to the famous Bell Rock landmark, he looked at the rock and groaned. Lines of tourists ringed the ledges of the red sandstone. There was a vortex, supposedly somewhere up on the east side of the rock formation and that seemed to be the point of destination for many of the hikers.
Streams of water from an earlier shower trickled down the formation, making the sandstone treacherous and crumbly. Halfway up were the remnants of an ancient landslide, filling channels with gravel and loose rock. Rory paused to catch his breath and pulled out his binoculars.
Five hundred feet up the second large formation, Courthouse Butte, erosion carved a goblet-shaped depression. It was deep enough to contain several twisted junipers. There the injured kid had gotten stuck, not able to move. Rory watched through his binoculars as rescue crews repelled from the top of the butte on long ropes.
