Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  Shepherd called me into the conference room to help him hang a white board. He had the markers out, and I wondered if the next step would be a color-coded work schedule. Seemed like overkill with only two of us in the office, three if you counted Ben.

  “Hold the board still while I check it with the level.” He talked around a mouthful of screws as he adjusted one corner a fraction of an inch, checked again. “Rory call about the dance? Said he was going to.”

  What, was Shepherd eavesdropping? I explained that Reverend Billy had beaten Rory out by a nose.

  Shepherd revved a cordless drill once, twice, then placed a screw precisely in each corner of the white board. “Billy Gerald. Are you sure? I heard that he...”

  I interrupted, not wanting Shepherd of all people to second-guess my decision. “You done? Can I stop holding this now?” I released my hold on the white board and stepped back. “I know all about him. Janny Nettle told me. He’s widowed, three kids.”

  “Yeah, right, that must be it,” Shepherd said. But his voice sounded troubled, as though there was something more he wanted to say. Instead, he stepped back to inspect his handiwork and then lined up the board markers in a precise line.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your meeting with Howard Nettle. What’d you find out?” he asked.

  “I think the whole family is covering for each other.”

  “Could be. What do we know so far?” He wrote the names on the white board as I ticked them off.

  “Darbie says Howard's not her lover.”

  Shepherd wrote Howard and Darbie in black letters, then drew a line between with a diagonal line crossing it. “What else?”

  “She says Otis was stalking her, but that Cal wasn't at her house night he died.”

  A zigzag line between Darbie and Otis signaling a conflicted relationship, another diagonal-crossed one for Cal, indicating her denial of the meeting.

  “I think she’s telling the truth about Otis,” I said. “About her relationship with father and son? I’m not sure.”

  Shepherd nodded. “Darbie seems to attract the Nettle men, and Howard might not be immune. What’s Ruby Mae’s part in this?” He wrote her name in red block letters, drew double lines to each of her relatives on the board indicating intense bonds, a zig-zag line to Darbie for a conflicted one.

  “Ruby Mae will do whatever’s needed to protect her kids. If that meant lying about Darbie’s whereabouts, she’d not hesitate,” I said.

  “Or framing Darbie for something she didn’t do. I wouldn’t put it past our Ruby Mae, either.”

  “And that’s not all,” I said. “I know you like Ethan, but he’s right in the middle of this, too. He lost the big brother he idolized. If Cal had something to do with eldest son Lucas’s death, Ethan becomes a prime suspect for the murder of their father. And don’t forget he got in a fight with his father over the dog’s mistreatment.”

  “I still think Ethan’s innocent,” Shepherd said. But he added Ethan’s name in tan marker, with a cartoon picture of a coonhound next to it.

  “Howard, on the other hand, would do anything to get back into the family. He had every right to blame Cal for his exile. If Darbie pressed him hard enough, maybe he’d act.” He drew a big circle around Howard’s name.

  “And then there’s Janny, the peacekeeper.” I picked up a marker and added her name to the confused tangle of relationships growing on the board.

  Shepherd reviewed the artwork. “What's the weakest link?”

  I drew a heart next to Janny’s name with an “A” in the center of it. “Aurora, but she's mute, not saying anything. At least she's not lying.”

  “You might want to talk to that counselor buddy of yours about her. Been recently?”

  Shepherd was a worse nag than HT. “I’m scheduled this week. I'll ask her what she thinks.” Smart lady like that should have some ideas. I chunked the marker in the tray.

  Shepherd nudged it into line with the others. “Any word on the whereabouts of Otis?”

  “None. The BOLO’s out. I’ve put a notice on the Post Office bulletin board and talked to his buddies at the biker bar. Nobody’s seen him. He’s totally vanished. Maybe gone back to Tennessee?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shepherd said. “Ruby Mae's protected him all these years—her brother is family. And the Verde Valley is home now, not some place back east. Keep turning over rocks. Something will slither out, sooner or later.”

  I wished I had his patience. I liked this family. After all the tragedy they'd experienced, they at least deserved closure on Cal's murder. “What about those two guys at the wake? I got a partial on the license plate, anyway.”

  “Go for it. See what you find out.” Shepherd wandered back to his office.

  I ran the plate and got three possibles for the red Nissan. Two were local to our Verde Valley, but the third was registered to Nigglieri Shipping and Export in Phoenix. That had to be the Aldo Nigglieri the two men at the funeral had mentioned.

  I poked my nose in Shepherd’s door. “In the mood for a road trip?”

  Shepherd pointed to his leg elevated on a footstool. “Doc doesn't want me sitting in a car too long. But I'll drive you to the motor pool on the way home and you can check out some wheels.”

  I called the Nigglieri Company and made an appointment for the next morning. A half-hour later Shepherd drove me over to Camp Verde and I checked out an unmarked for the Phoenix drive. I wanted this trip to be low-key, without the official announcement that the Sheriff’s department SUV would make. Besides, Shepherd needed the SUV himself. He told me so.

  I put his comments about Reverend Billy out of my mind along with Rory's Plan B. Little did I know that both men would return to haunt me on All Hallows Eve.

  ***

  AS I TRAVELED the two hours from Mingus to the Valley of the Sun, I dropped four thousand feet in elevation and the temperatures outside rose another thirty degrees. This time of year, the annual rye grass sprouted tiny green shoots on the Phoenix golf courses, and the winter inversion layer of smog hadn't settled in yet. It was the best time of year in Phoenix, the reason why millions of people lived there and millions more visited.

  When I stopped for a break at Sunset Rest Stop on I-17 before heading into the city, I shed my winter jacket and rolled up my sleeves. The last time I’d been to Phoenix, I’d been investigating the death of a young drifter and it had been blazing hot. Now, although it was October, the sun was still warm. I lowered a window to enjoy the balmy desert weather as I drove down Black Canyon and from there onto the widening freeways of the metropolitan area.

  I checked my watch. Did I have time for a quick stop before I took care of cop business? Usually this time of year an ad hoc Halloween costume store set up shop on the north side of the city.

  I was in luck. About five minutes later, I saw a billboard sign of a vampire and a zombie superimposed with the words, “Halloween costumes.” I took the next exit and backtracked along the frontage road to the store. Maybe they had something that would fit me.

  I realized when I walked in the door that I should have changed into civvies. The young woman behind the counter hastily sprayed some breath freshener in her mouth, and a stock boy jerked upright, staring in my direction.

  I tried to set them at ease. “Looking for costumes is all. Anything for someone my size?”

  “How tall?” The clerk wore chalk-white makeup and black lipstick. She had a spider-web tattoo streaking down one forearm. Halloween could be a year-long holiday for her.

  “Six feet,” I said. “No Statue of Liberty costumes, no Hulk.”

  “Got it. What about a princess? You'd make a great princess.”

  I shuddered and she took the hint. “Come with me and let's see what we can do.”

  We walked to the back of the store and she scraped hangers along a factory-pipe clothes rack. She blitzed past the usual—barmaid, pirate queen, Hillary Clinton. Finally, she stopped and reached for shiny blue stretch pants covered with star
s. A red sequined T-shirt. Even had the gold cuffs.

  “That'll do,” I said. “Got a gold star for my hair?”

  “In the jewelry counter.”

  We walked to the front where I picked out something shiny.

  Rory Stevens was all raw energy, earthy and sexy. Billy? Formal, spiritual, and tall. I was attracted to both and wished that I could combine the best traits of each—meld Rory’s lust for adventure with Billy’s height and presence. Yes, that would do it—the perfect man.

  I smiled with anticipation as I left the store, ready for action on Saturday night. Reverend Billy might have no idea who he was dealing with. But I did.

  ***

  I HIT THE USUAL midweek jam entering the outskirts of the Phoenix metropolitan area. Traffic dragged to a standstill at Union Hills on the I-17 and crept along in blocked lanes for twenty minutes until we passed a wrecker clearing off a fender-bender. Then cars speeded up to seventy-five only to slow to thirty again as they reached the Stack interchange. Freeway hydraulics at work.

  Railroad tracks used to divide towns into residential and business districts. Now freeways served the same purpose. Beyond the Buckeye curve on the south I-10, the freeway passed through a collection of industrial parks. If a person was looking for a pallet of Kraft boxes, a supplier of specialty hardwoods, or a wholesale outlet for patio furniture, they could find it on the South Side.

  The Nigglieri firm listed an address off Broadway. I signaled for the exit lane there and drove farther south into the industrial area. South Mountain with its forest of electronic communication towers formed a distant jagged horizon as I reached my final destination.

  When I pulled into the parking lot for the Nigglieri Export Company, a reserved spot for Aldo Nigglieri, Company President, marked the front entrance. And situated right across the street was Big Al's Used Car Lot, home of the famous ostrich. There was even a plywood cut-out of the giant bird propped at the entrance. The lot was empty of customers—maybe the ostrich was on vacation.

  No wonder Howard felt obliged to return and mollify his wife and his father-in-law. Happy my last name wasn’t Nettle. Glad I didn’t have to work for somebody named Big Al.

  The reception area was furnished in cheap carpet, fake wood paneling, and no-nonsense metal desks. Two security cameras focused on the counter and the front door. A red light on each indicated it was connected to electricity.

  I didn't make any assumptions about something actually happening behind the lenses. Companies often put up dummy mounts as a deterrent to crime. But part of me wondered exactly what it was that they exported or imported. Security cameras usually protected valuables, not a cheaply furnished office like this one.

  Giving my name to the receptionist, I sat down to wait for Aldo Nigglieri. When he strode through the half-door to the side of the counter, I stood.

  “Morning, officer. What can we do for you?”

  Aldo Nigglieri was stocky, with a square face and thinning gray hair, maybe early sixties. His white long-sleeved shirt was rolled to the elbows exposing black forearm hair a gorilla could take pride in. Aldo’s bone-shaking grip crushed my fingers.

  He reopened the half-door behind the receptionist and escorted me into his inner sanctum. There, he waved me to a chair and sat down behind another metal desk, not much larger than the receptionist’s.

  Nigglieri puffed on a thick black cigar and blew acrid smoke my direction. “You don't mind if I smoke.”

  It wasn't a question. The man was just checking to see if intimidation worked. It didn't.

  I showed him my badge. “Deputy Peg Quincy, from Mingus, up north. What sort of business do you do here, Mr. Nigglieri?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.” His voice was deep and gravelly.

  “You own the car lot across the street?”

  “I do. You in the market for a used car?” He took another puff and set the cigar down in an expensive cut-glass ashtray at odds with the cheap furnishings of the office.

  His dark eyes were still. Something stirred behind the mask of civility, intelligent, yet implacable. Something I wouldn’t want to encounter late at night on a deserted street.

  “Who's your manager over there?” I pointed at the lot across the street.

  “Howard Nettle. Up in your neck of the woods right now.” He waited and his quiet stare said, but you know that.

  I let the silence intermingle with the cigar smoke for a moment.

  He broke the stalemate. “I'm a busy man. What can I do for you this morning, Peg Quincy? Is that Miss or Mrs.?”

  I ignored the implied question. “Make that Officer Quincy. Who else works for you?”

  “From the Verde Valley?” He lifted a hand and counted off on stubby fingers. “Otis Stroud. Ethan Nettle once in a while. Probably a few others that I can't remember. Used to deal with Cal Nettle. Understand he's not around anymore.”

  “Two of your men were at the funeral.”

  He nodded. “Wanted to be sure Nettle was actually dead. Slippery bastard.”

  “You don't sound sad that he's gone.”

  “Should I? Man didn't meet his obligations. Now his family owes.” He lifted the cigar, rotated it between his fingers examining it.

  “Owes what?”

  “That’s between them and me. Not a police matter.”

  “Is, if it breaks the law.”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Look around you. I'm an honest business man, trying to earn a living. Don't need any police harassment, especially from out-of-town cops.” He tilted his weight in the chair and it squealed in protest. “Got a warrant?”

  “I can get one.”

  “Not without probable, and you got bupkis on me. Look Officer...” He leaned toward me and stared at my chest, ostensibly reading my name tag. “...Quincy, my advice is to drive back to that little town of yours. And when you get there, tell my good-for-nothing son-in-law Howard Nettle to get his skinny ass back here where it belongs. My Pietra, crying her eyes out.”

  He stood and held out his hand. I didn't take it.

  “Next time, call first,” he said, dropping his arm. “Need a guard dog for this place. Keep out the riff-raff.”

  “We'll be in touch.” I didn't bother to leave a card. I knew he knew where to find me. He knew I knew.

  I wrote down the license numbers of the cars in the parking lot, just to have the final say. Nigglieri watched out his office window and gave me a salute when I looked up.

  I got back in the unmarked and headed to the freeway. I rolled down all the windows, trying to rid my uniform of the stench of Nigglieri's cigar. I’d just met my first mob boss, and his dead eyes scared the hell out of me.

  Whatever Cal Nettle had been meddling in wasn't finished.

  Halloween Dance

  22

  MINGUS HAD BEEN MAKING Halloween preparations for weeks. The store windows held enough dangling skeletons to double the town's population. Isabel had been out to the town cemetery cleaning the graves in anticipation of the Day of the Dead Festival on November first. Many of the Hispanic miners had been part of her extended family.

  But the images of death also held a somber message for me. Sometimes when I walked the streets, I sensed the presence of unquiet spirits in the miles of abandoned mining tunnels honeycombing the mountain beneath my feet. Too many explosions and cave-ins occurred down there, bodies never recovered.

  I had my own unquiet ghost, the man I had killed. Most of the time the memory of that shooting lurked below the surface, but the Halloween symbols brought his death to the forefront again. I wondered if that haunting image would ever leave me. I’d have to ask the shrink.

  The morning of Halloween dawned angry, with the horizon clouds tinged with red. The weather bureau predicted sleety rain and possible snow by midnight. Our little town was located in a hollow of the mountain that collected fog—Sometimes we got socked in so bad you couldn't see across the street. The goblins and ghosts, both young and ancient, wou
ld be happy tonight.

  That afternoon in the station our phones were silent, perhaps in anticipation of the chaos we'd be chasing later. Even the javelinas, our “wild pigs,” would join the ruckus, gobbling down the pumpkins that teenagers smashed to the ground. This evening also held the Halloween Dance—would Wonder Woman be ready?

  Shepherd, bundled in a heavy parka with his cane leaned against his folding chair, sat outside the station door with a huge bowl of candy, greeting the early trick-or-treaters. I wandered out to snag some chocolate.

  “Here, take a piece of licorice.” He offered one.

  “I hate licorice.” He just wanted to get rid of the stuff—the kids hated it, too. Brushing his hand aside, I dug down for some Hershey’s miniatures.

  I had a system for Halloween candy. Always buy what I wanted to eat. That way, if the kids were scarce that year, I had a feast.

  When I was a kid, the best candy appeared on rainy nights when folks felt sorry for me. Most of the good stuff didn’t make it home, and in the morning I had a huge chocolate hangover. Nevertheless, I hoped the storm would hold off until the little kids made their rounds. They didn’t need to feel the cold like I had.

  Janny and Aurora stopped by to show off the little girl’s costume. She was dressed as an angel, with a fuzzy halo and gauzy wings that bounced as she skipped up the sidewalk toward us. Halting in front of Shepherd’s large frame, she carefully picked a red lollipop from his offerings.

  “Momma's keeping her tonight,” Janny said, “so I can go to the dance.” She unwrapped a Tootsie-roll and popped it in her mouth. “You be there?” she asked Shepherd.

  “Wouldn't miss it,” he said, sneaking another lollipop in Aurora's trick-or-treat pillowcase. “Even Peg is coming. She’s got a date with the Reverend Billy.”

  Janny looked at me and her eyebrow lifted. Then her attention flew to Aurora, several stores up the hill. “See you then,” Janny said, giving me a wave as she rushed to catch up with her little girl at the next shop. The kid was going to make a haul. Good thing she had a big bag to hold her loot.