by Carolina Mac
“Ready to begin, gentlemen?” asked the pathologist on duty. Doctor Mort Simon started his recorder, pulled on his face mask and made the cut. After two hours, nothing had come to light except the cause of death—almost identical to Doctor McIntyre’s method of demise. Rock to the head, then pushed into the river.
On the way to the truck Farrell asked, “Which one do you think Fisher did first, bro?”
“I think he did the homeless guy first and McIntyre saw him do it. McIntyre says the wrong thing and wham, he’s dead too.”
“What do you think McIntyre said to Fisher?” asked Farrell. “According to McIntyre, he and Fisher got along great—like best buds—to hear the doc tell it.”
Blaine raised a black brow. “But you have to remember, Fisher was certifiable. He was nuts. That means his thought process wasn’t rational. McIntyre says one wrong word, like ‘you shouldn’t have done that, Zach. Now I have to call the cops’ and Fisher just reacts. He clobbers the doc… with the same rock.”
“I guess it could have played out that way,” said Farrell. “How many has Fisher knocked off since he left the hospital?” Farrell answered his own question as he jumped into Blaine’s truck and ticked the victims off on his fingers. “Five that we know of.”
“Five more murders added to his original three, plus arson—even though he torched his own house. Let’s see if Misty will do her thing and tell us where the hell he is.”
“Yeah, lets. I’ve always wanted to watch her get the messages.”
Blaine smiled. “Nothing to see. They just come into her head.”
“Does her head spin around or anything cool like that?”
Blaine chuckled. “Nope.”
Hoodoo barked when the two of them stepped onto Misty’s porch.
“Her car is here,” said Farrell. “She’s home.”
“Means nothing,” said Blaine. “She hardly ever drives it. I’m surprised it even starts.”
“Why doesn’t she drive it?” Farrell eyed the blue Prius.
“Good question.”
Misty didn’t answer the door, and Blaine used his key to let them in. Hoodoo bounced and whined a greeting, but Misty didn’t show.
“Misty, where are you?” hollered Blaine.
“In the laundry room. Be right out.”
“Did you see Fisher’s shirt?” asked Farrell, “I left it in there on the floor.” Farrell headed that way and met Misty on the way out.
“What did you say, Farrell?”
“I left Fisher’s shirt on the floor in there yesterday. Did you see it?”
“I guess I forgot about it with all the traffic I’ve had through here.”
“Did you accept the offer?” asked Blaine.
“Uh huh, I signed it and now I have to be moved out in sixty days. Have you thought any more about me moving next door into your house?”
Farrell gave Blaine a questioning look but didn’t comment.
Blaine hedged. “Jesse had a heart attack yesterday, and I haven’t thought about a damn thing.”
“Oh, no,” said Misty. “Was it bad?”
“Very bad,” said Farrell. “He’s in a cardiac unit.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Misty gave Blaine the stink-eye, then turned to the stove. “I have coffee. Are you guys here for a reason, or just for free coffee?”
“Coffee break and those muffins—the apple cinnamon ones,” said Farrell.
“Don’t have any, but I could whip up a batch and bake them, if you’re staying for an hour or so.”
“We’re not staying,” said Blaine. “We have to work, but I was wondering if you were in the mood to touch Fisher’s shirt and see if you get anything from it.”
“Oh, that’s why y’all are here. I mistakenly thought you wanted to see me.” Another glare at Blaine. “Okay, let me find it.”
“Is she pissed at you?” Farrell asked in a whisper.
Blaine shrugged. “Most people are most of the time.”
Misty retrieved the dirty shirt from the laundry room and carried it with two fingers by one of the sleeves. “Let me sit quietly by the window and see if anything happens.”
“Sure,” said Blaine. He added cream to his coffee and sat down opposite Farrell at the kitchen table.
Farrell kept a sharp eye on Misty in case he missed something incredible.
She sat down, closed her eyes and inhaled a few deep breaths, putting herself into a relaxed mode. Then she reached for the shirt and held it in both hands.
She shuddered and made a little groaning noise.
Farrell rolled his eyes at Blaine and Blaine held a finger to his lips. He watched Misty as she held the shirt farther away from her body as if it she didn’t want it near her.
She began talking in that low gravelly voice that sounded nothing like her. “She gave him cookies and took the money.”
Blaine was on his feet and strode across the room. “Was he at the store?”
She shook her blonde curls. “No.”
“Can you see where he is?”
Misty’s eyes remained closed. “Seven boxes.”
Farrell mouthed the words back to Blaine and Blaine shrugged.
“Thirty-five dollars.”
Blaine was staring down at her when she opened her bright blue eyes. “Nothing else. Sorry.”
“Somebody gave him cookies?” asked Blaine.
Misty nodded. “A little girl.”
“A little girl?” Farrell tried to make sense of it. “Did she think he was homeless?”
“She was selling them.”
“Selling cookies?” asked Farrell. “Who in hell sells cookies?”
“Girl Guides,” said Misty. “They do.”
Blaine and Farrell hashed it over on the way to DPS. “If a Girl Guide sold Fisher cookies, he has to be somewhere it would be safe for a little girl to go,” said Farrell. “Her parents wouldn’t let her sell cookies in the ghetto or under overpasses where she might get hurt.”
“If she was young, her parents could have been driving her and waiting down the block, keeping an eye on her.”
“Uh huh. That could be it.”
“Wonder if there’s a Girl Guide cookie headquarters where they keep track of sales?” asked Blaine. “Not too many people would buy seven boxes at once.”
“The Chief might know,” said Farrell. “He has girls.”
Blaine set the tray of Starbucks containers on the Chief’s desk and sat down.
“You boys looked hyped about something. Hope it’s something damn good. I’m sick of corpses piling up and nothing but dead ends. And I’m sick of calls from every fuckin TV station in Austin and the rest of Texas asking me if we nabbed him yet.”
“Might be something,” said Blaine. “I don’t like to depend on iffy clues, but right now it’s the only clue I have.”
The Chief took the lid off his coffee and blew on it. “Uh huh, did your girlfriend do the voodoo stuff?”
“I didn’t want to ask her,” Blaine winced at the thought of trusting in anything but facts and hard evidence, “but we’ve lost Fisher and I feel stuck. I hate waiting for another body to surface. That’s not the ideal way to get closer.”
“Not ideal at all.” The Chief took a long drink of his coffee to fortify himself, then smiled. “I think I’m ready. Tell me what she came up with.”
“He bought Girl Guide cookies from a little girl,” said Blaine.
“Seven boxes,” said Farrell.”
The Chief frowned as he mulled it over. “And this is helping us… how?”
“We thought your girls might have sold cookies and there might be like a cookie central where they keep track of sales and shit like that,” said Farrell.
“My girls did sell cookies years ago when they were Girl Guides. Let me call my wife.”
The Chief used the landline on the corner of his desk. “I’m going to ask you a question and I need a sensible answer, sweetheart. No laughing at me.” The Chief winked at the boys then tol
d her what he wanted to know. “Uh huh. Yes, that makes sense. Thanks.”
“It’s going to take some tracking, but there is a way and my wife is going to handle it. I forgot that she used to be a leader when the girls were Guides, and she still knows people.”
“Fantastic,” said Blaine. “I’ll buy her something nice.”
“From Victoria’s Secret?” asked the Chief.
THE CLARKE COUNTY MORGUE, a long, low white building with a couple of chubby palms out front, was bathed in Nevada sunshine when Travis and Jack arrived. Detective Padgett from Las Vegas homicide, a stocky cop nearing retirement age, leaned against his unmarked in the parking lot talking on his cell. He ended the call as Travis and Jack approached and flashed them a smile.
“Morning guys, the shine wearing off our city yet?”
“A little,” said Travis, “I’m ready to go home.”
“We got better weather than Texas,” said Padgett, “but anything would be better than my home state. I froze my ass off growing up in Minnesota.” He held the door open.
The pathologist was ready to begin as they arrived. Padgett introduced Travis and Jack and the three of them stood to the side.
Lance Ogilvie, his body stretched out on the table, appeared to be older and thinner than Travis remembered.
Guess he doesn’t care what he looks like anymore.
Two hours later, after all was said and done, the cause of death was unknown—identical to the other victims who’d played poker the night before, then died mysteriously in their beds.
What were they using to kill these guys? Something that mimicked a coronary but was untraceable?
Kristal Ducharme was their best suspect. She had been with Lance the night before he died, and everybody had seen them together. She’d never been questioned in any of the other deaths. Nothing to connect her to the murders, but she was connected to Nick Valadero.
Travis had obtained a copy of her statement from Lieutenant Zystra, and Kristal claimed she never went with Lance back to the Gold Mine after the game. She said they parted ways in Caesar’s lobby and according to her story, she waited at the cab stand and the last time she saw Lance Ogilvie, he was standing at the valet station waiting for his car. After giving her statement, she professed to know nothing more. She refused to answer more questions and called her attorney. Homicide had nothing to charge her with and had to let her go.
“Let’s check out her address,” said Travis as he and Jack left the morgue. “I would have bet fifty, good old Kristal was shacked up with her partner, Nick.”
“Maybe that would be too obvious in an operation like this,” said Jack. “One—she and Nick don’t want to look like a team—she’s supposed to be the bait and that wouldn’t work if she had a boyfriend. Two—she’s dating all kinds of influential men with big bankrolls and she needs a place to entertain them as she gains their confidence. Once they trust her, she’s got them.”
“You could be right about that,” said Travis. “Do you think she was screwing all the victims?”
“Damn right, I do,” said Jack. “According to her jacket, she used to be a pro in Chicago and old habits are hard to break.”
Travis made a face. “Might have been her last stand with Ogilvie. She’s looking well-used.” He punched Kristal’s address into the GPS on the rental Jeep and the map maven directed them south on I-15 towards Henderson.
“I’ve never seen Hoover Dam,” said Jack as they passed one of the signs. “I want to see it while I’m here.”
“They have tours,” said Travis. “Annie wanted to take me last time we were here.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You and Miss Annie got something going on?”
“That’s a tough one. It’s always going on for me and not too often for her, if you know what I mean.”
Jack laughed. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Travis flicked on the signal and turned off Boulder Highway onto a residential street. Another turn and they drove down a cul-de-sac. At the end of the turning circle sat a low ranch house with a drought resistant garden out front. Gravel, boulders and cacti.
“Here we are,” said Jack. “No car in the drive.”
“Wish it was dark,” said Travis.
ANNIE HOPPED out of the cab in front of the Harley store on Las Vegas Boulevard. She hurried inside, anxious to get what she came for and relive some old memories that had been haunting her since she had come to town. Vegas was never a happy place for her, after Jackson Traynor had been killed on their wedding day, and years later, Race had gone bonkers and tried his level best to kill Travis.
But there were good parts, and one of them was Red Rock Canyon, where she’d ridden her Softail with lovers and friends, and spent many happy hours with the wind in her face.
After the past couple of months—the worst in her life—ruining her marriage to the man she loved, and alienating her beloved son, Blaine, she needed to clear her head and find peace in some small way before she went back to her ranch in Texas and tried to start over.
“Help you, ma’am?” A young man in a Harley shirt approached her as she hoisted one leather-clad leg in the air ready to straddle a denim Softail Classic. She had the same one in her dealership in Austin, but that was miles away and she needed a ride now—right this minute.
Annie looked up at him and smiled. “Sure thing, sugar. Can you get this road-ready for me in the next twenty minutes? I need to get out to the canyon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Be happy to help you. Sure you don’t want to try out a few models before you decide?”
“No, I’m good. I have a lot of bikes at home, most of them custom, but I need one today and I’m not in Texas, I’m here.”
“I know the feeling. When you need to ride, it’s now. It ain’t tomorrow.”
The clerk rolled the bike out back to the garage to get the mechanics started, then returned and escorted Annie to the cash. “You seem to know about riding through the canyon, Miss. Have you spent time in Vegas?”
Annie pulled out her debit card and placed it on the counter. “I used to live here a few years ago.”
“And you had biker friends?”
A smile played around her lips and she didn’t know whether to lay it on this young kid or not.
What the hell.
“One special friend.” She lowered her voice. “Race Ogilvie.”
The kid’s eyes widened as he kept his head down and processed her debit card. “Uh huh. Interesting.”
Annie giggled. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“Gospel.”
“Heard he had a gorgeous woman, but you know how rumors get around.” He passed her the receipt for the bike.
“I do.”
“I heard he was shot in Texas, ma’am. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It’s been harder on our son, losing his father.”
The young man turned his head and said. “Let me check on the boys in the back. Should be just about ready for you.”
“Thanks.” Annie leaned on the front counter while she waited, and it wasn’t long before the kid waved her to come through the back of the store to the garage.
“All set. You have a nice ride, hear me?”
Annie smiled at him as she threw her leg over the bike and squeezed the gas to make the rumble louder. She gave a little wave as she sailed out the door onto the side street behind the store.
Twenty minutes later she was heading into Red Rock Canyon and she let the wind take all her worries.
BLAINE FINISHED his coffee and was thinking about going home and catching up on work when Mrs. Calhoun called her husband back.
The Chief listened to his wife, nodded his head a couple of times and glanced at his computer screen. He cradled the receiver between his chin and shoulder, hit a couple of keys and then tilted his head towards the printer in the corner.
Several sheets of paper spewed out and Farrell retrieved them. He politely set them d
own in front of the Chief without pausing to read them.
Chief Calhoun hung up and picked up the print-outs. “Okay, this is what we’ve got. Several girls sold six boxes at a time to grandparents or whatever, but only one girl sold seven to a single person on her route.”
“Do they give the addresses?” asked Blaine.
“No. The closest we get is each girl’s route. As she goes from house to house she marks down how many boxes sold from her allotment.”
“Okay, so each girl has so many boxes to sell—like how many each?” asked Farrell.
“Two cases of twelve,” said the Chief. “Two dozen boxes each.”
“What area was the girl in who sold the seven?”
“East Cesar Chavez.”
Farrell leaned forward in his chair. “The last time Fisher was on Carlton—the street running off East Cesar—he was killing drug dealers and stashing them in the closet. Think he’s still hanging around there?”
“Only one way to find out,” said the Chief. “Go check it out.”
ZACH STOOD with the fridge door open and stared at the empty shelves. All that was left was a jar of pickles with one dill floating near the bottom, a half-empty tub of margarine, two eggs and a jar of mustard. He needed more groceries. Almost everything he’d bought on his first trip to Kroger’s was gone. He enjoyed living on his own, cooking and taking care of himself. It was like a new adventure every day, and he’d never felt more alive. The past dozen years in the State hospital had turned into a zombie-like existence. He followed the rest of the loony population and did what they did. Zombie sheep—that’s what they were—fuckin Zombie sheep.
In passing the hall closet, he heard buzzing. Loud buzzing, like the whole closet might be infested with flies. Opening the door to look was not an option. What if he let them out and they swarmed all over the house? He shuddered thinking about it. When he went to the store he’d buy a fly swatter.
