by David Bishop
“How did my name come up?”
“He had read the paper, the story of your husband being killed. They always mention the widow.”
Paige grimaced a bit at the word, widow.
“May I change the subject?” Maddie asked. Paige made a hand gesture of invitation. “Did Sam ever meet Bennie Gibbons any of the times he was over at Carla’s house? Oh, Gibbons is Bennie’s real last name, not Gibson.”
“Oh. I may have heard his name wrong or perhaps remembered it incorrectly. But, no … well, wait a minute. I saw Sam out the window one day, coming back from picking up the Sunday paper out on the driveway. Right then Bennie came out Carla’s front door. Sam had stepped over to Carla’s driveway to look at Bennie’s Harley. They talked for a good while.”
“What did Sam have to say about that?”
“Not much. That Bennie seemed like a good guy. Not a typical biker type. That he’d been in the Special Forces. Sam noticed a tattoo on his forearm and asked him about it. Some military tat I guess. Why are you interested in Carla’s old boyfriend?”
“You know us cop types. We get curious about everything when most everything means nothing. So, Bennie is now formally Carla’s old boyfriend?”
“Bennie just dropped off the face of the earth is how Carla put it. She told me she has another guy interested. She always has another guy interested. She’s a man shopper.”
“Do I detect some envy in that voice?”
“Carla’s real honest about it. I think that’s refreshing, but her style wouldn’t look good on me, I’m afraid.” Paige chuckled while shaking her head. Then she raised her eyebrows. “Then again, if our mutual friend Mr. Ryan Testler were to stop to help me with another flat, I might give it a try.”
* * *
On the way to the station, Sue called. “The registered owner is—”
“Russell Mueller, right?”
“Yeah. You sure know how to take the wind out of a girl’s sails. How’d you know?”
“Stopped to see Paige Crawford. Russell Mueller is Paige’s uncle. Mueller is her mother’s maiden name.”
“You said you picked up the plate number at the gun range?”
“Yeah. He met his sister there. I had been with Barbara Davis, at her home. She told me she planned a lazy day. I hung around on a whim and followed her when she left right away. That’s how I got to the gun club. Then I stopped to see Paige Davis to find out if she’d seen Bennie Gibbons with Carla.”
“And?”
“Nope. Paige told me that Carla said Bennie is now officially her ex-boyfriend. Then she mentioned that her uncle, Russell, had won a bronze medal in rifle shooting in the ‘64 Olympics.”
“This is getting interesting,” Sue said. “We started with no suspects and now we’ve got ourselves a passel of shooters. Did we fall into the Twilight Zone and come out in the old west?”
“We just need to pick one—the right one. Then there’s Paige too, she said she used to shoot when she was a little girl, family tradition and all that. She won a sharpshooter medal as a nine-year-old.”
“But Sergeant, Paige was home when her husband was shot.”
“According to her.”
“And according to Carla Roth.”
“And Carla Roth.”
“You headin’ this way now?”
“Uh-huh. I’m no more than ten minutes from your desk. I just pulled off I-10 at Central. We haven’t spent much time together on this case lately, have we?”
“Not much boss, but that’s cool. We double-teamed everybody on the Suns season-ticket case.”
“Is that what it’s being called around the station?”
“Sho’nuff. Boys will be boys.”
“The visits I’ve been doing these last couple days with Paige and her mother, these can often be more effective when done one on one.”
“Girl to girl, I understand. Just don’t make it a habit, Sergeant.”
“What am I doing explaining myself to you? I’m the sergeant here.” They shared a laugh. “I want you to get right on checking into this Russell Mueller some more, any priors, etc., you know the drill.”
“Already done, it’s waiting for you. Right now I’m trying to wrap up some background on the death of Rodger Davis, Paige’s daddy. Should have it cornered and squared by the time we’re ready to punch out tonight.”
“Good. Barbara Davis and I discussed the death of her husband. Let’s see how close what she told me tracks what you find out.”
“You want to fill me in on what she said?”
“No. Fly blind. Then we’ll match up.”
Ten minutes later, Maddie was sitting in her office going over Sue’s notes on Russell, Rusty, Mueller. He was clean. No priors. No involvement with the police on any level. Not even any parking tickets. Credit report showed no credit other than a couple cards. He rented his home which was located in an upper-middle class neighborhood. Sue had not found any kind of work record for the man, neither a profession nor any employers.
Chapter 19
“Everything about Russell Mueller is routine,” Sue reported after walking in to join Maddie. “The man’s a bore. He never served in the military, had a medical deferment. He pays income tax. His state report shows he gets money from winning shooting contests and for doing private exhibitions for various people around the country. The man’s a devoted bachelor. He may be gay, or not. Can’t find any job for him, but I’m not done with that yet. As for the sexual angle, I can spend more time on that if you decide it’s important.”
Maddie shook her head. “Not now, if and when. What about Rodger Davis, Paige’s papa?”
“Pretty much what I found before. A long-distance sniper shot in Paris. Right out of the blue, like Sam Crawford in that respect. The public reports assumed he was a victim of spy activity. There really wasn’t a great deal of those kinds of killings. Neither side wanted the other knocking off their agents. Part of that whole cold war scene. Too many killings would have turned it hot. Still, they happened. Rodger Davis was considered to be one of the it-happened- sometimes killings. Never solved. No suspects. Hey, you think your FBI friend could find out anything further?”
“I could try,” Maddie said. “Linc’s FBI, Rodger Davis was CIA. The bureau and the agency aren’t exactly kissing cousins, despite the public claims post-911 that they are cooperating under presidential order.”
“Curious,” Sue said, “Sam Crawford is shot out of the blue and fifteen years before his father-in-law died very similarly.”
“Both men had relatives who were marksmen. Both Sam Crawford and Rodger Davis cheated on their wives.”
“You figure a connection?”
“The connection’s there,” Maddie said. “But does it mean anything? This is what makes our work so much fun, Detective Martin. It’s not so much the facts we have, but which ones are meaningful and in what way.”
* * *
Ryan Testler had decided to wait a while longer before again tightening the screws on Maxwell Norbert. Tonight he would focus on finding Bennie Gibbons. Gibby had been a biker ever since he joined Special Forces, from which he resigned with strong encouragement to do so. Gibby was a tough guy, but his specialty was shooting, not strong-arm work. Still, Ryan had to be careful; Gibby was no slouch in close.
Ryan drank a beer at The Hideaway Grill in the Cave Creek area north of Phoenix and came up with nothing. Over the next little while, he had a couple more beers in a couple other biker spots in that general vicinity of the greater metropolitan area. After that, Ryan found himself at the Dirty Dog Saloon in Scottsdale. So far no one he had asked knew Gibby, or at least admitted to knowing him. Ryan wasn’t sure what kind of hog Gibby had these days, he hadn’t seen him in several years. For that matter, Ryan wasn’t even sure the man was still riding and not driving. Nonetheless, biker bars were the best lead at the moment. It was a reasonable bet that even if Gibby had traded in his two-wheeler for a four-wheeler, he could be located through biker bars where he some
times found friends. Some of his biker buddies were just plain thugs, some muled drugs around the country, and a small number, like Gibby, worked as mercenaries and guns for hire.
Next, Matt visited a bar where a good portion of the tables were eating as well as drinking. He figured some food would do him some good. He’d had enough to drink, at least for a while. He sat at the bar and ordered a burger and fries. After having had several beers at several bars, he ordered a soda with his sandwich. About halfway through his burger and a refilled soda from the bar’s handheld dispenser, he felt a nearing presence. He turned to see two guys standing to his right. The one closest to him had his hand tight around the handle on a mug of beer, holding it not like a drink, but like a weapon. His eyes and nose those of a peregrine. A further glance revealed two more bikers standing almost behind these two, four in total.
Dogs run in packs.
“Understand you’ve been asking around about a friend of ours.”
“Could be.” Ryan slid off his stool. “Who’s you friend?”
“Let’s just say a friend,” the biker doing the talking said.
“My guess would be that you don’t have any friends, so I couldn’t be asking about them.”
When Ryan turned back toward his burger, putting his hand on the bar rail, the close one with the mug weapon swung it at Ryan’s head. Ryan kept a firm hold on the rail, using it for leverage to lean forward and over to avoid the blow. At the same time he hooked his right forearm inside the man's forearm while simultaneously slamming his left palm, open, against the outside of the man's elbow. Ryan heard a snap that the other bikers had to have also heard. Then he came off his barstool and pushed that guy against the other bikers. As the one he pushed turned, Ryan could read the gang name on the back of his denim jacket: ROAD DOGS.
I was right, dogs run in packs.
The one who had been standing next to the lead talker came at him. Ryan turned sideways, braced himself against the bar and kicked his leg out, leading with the sole of his shoe, driving his foot into the kneecap of the one coming on hard. He went down the same way—hard, on top of the one still holding his elbow. With elbow-man and knee-man both on the ground, the other two were forced to move forward, mostly to save face because Ryan guessed their hearts weren’t in it after they had just seen their two leaders end up on the floor, each facing surgery. As they came at him, Ryan drove his open palm into the chest of the closer of the two, right at his heart. The last of the four took the edge of Ryan’s hand in the throat. Ryan then punched him the stomach, coming in from the side left open when the man raised a hand to his throat. After that Ryan went to each downed man and removed a handgun or knife, whichever they had, along with their wallets.
Ryan motioned the bartender over. I want these weapons to remain on the bar until the cops get here, then he flipped open his cell phone.
“Hey, man,” the bartender said, “the fucking cops come here too often. I’d like to avoid it. They’re bad for business. Can ya work with me? You’re not hurt. How ‘bout closing the phone? Your tabs on the house. Cool?”
Ryan led the bartender down to the end of the bar. “Here,” Ryan said after going through the wallets of the bikers. “Here’s something over five hundred for the damages, a couple chairs, two mugs, the plate I was using. This was assault and battery. I’m guessing the cops will find some connection between these weapons and cases they’re carrying open. Still, the cops aren’t exactly friends of mine. I came in looking for Bennie Gibbons, goes by Gibby. Give me good information on where I can find him and I walk out of here right now. If the information is bad, I come back for you. Your call.”
“Look. You didn’t hear it here, okay?” Ryan nodded. “Gibby used to hang here a lot, now he mostly hangs out at a bar out Apache Junction way, place called Johnny’s. He chases a skirt out there by the name of Peg. Word is she works there some.” When Ryan asked for her last name, the bartender said, “I don’t know that, man. God’s truth, I don’t know. She’s a straight gal by day, but loves the bad boys at night. That’s all I heard. I get enough of all that working here. I don’t hang out at similar places on my nights off. I just pick shit up by listening to what gets said along the bar. Bits and pieces, ya know. I don’t ask no questions.”
“Hand me a clean mug.” The bartender looked quizzical but did it. Ryan turned to the biker leader who had his good arm on the back of a chair and was trying to get his feet under him. Ryan hit him over the head with the mug, and then tossed the handle of the mug onto the bar. “Take it out the five hundred.”
“Do you know who that guy is?” Ryan shrugged. “He’s the top man in the Dogs. He got there by kicking the shit out of the guy who had been the leader. He’s a hard man. The other three are his main enforcers.”
Ryan shrugged again. “He looks pretty soft now, even with his enforcers. Don’t you think?” The bartender grinned.
“I don’t want to come back. Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
“Gibby has a place not far from here, or he did. I don’t know the address. If you find Peg, she’ll know. I hear she’s at Johnny’s most nights. Works some, drinks some. The story is she can’t get enough of the bikers. I don’t know why. Don’t know if she knows.”
“Where’s this Johnny’s in Apache Junction?”
“I’ve never been there. From what I hear, it’s in far end of the East Valley. Give me a minute.”
“Give me two more clean mugs while I wait.” The bartender did.
The bartender came back with a scrap of paper. “Here’s the address and phone for Johnny’s. I see you didn’t need the two mugs?”
Ryan nodded and shook his head. “The one with the bad knee will be up first. He’s faking being out still. We’ve talked low enough that no one else knows you told me about Johnny’s and no one knows I plan to go to Johnny’s, just you and me. When I get there, I’ll know if anyone called ahead of my arrival. Like I said, I don’t want to come back here. You might tell the leader when he does get up, quietly so the others don’t hear, to let it go. No one wins them all. His win this time is not being buried.”
After the food, no more alcohol, and the action, Ryan’s head had cleared. He’d push on and visit Johnny’s in the East Valley before the story of his visit made the rounds and reached Gibby.
* * *
Ryan had no difficulty finding Johnny’s. He pushed through the door, approached the bar and slid onto a stool near the end where the bartender loitered when he had no calls for drinks. He ordered a beer and made small talk for a minute or two with the bartender. He looked around. After five minutes, he concluded Gibby wasn’t there, even if he had at first been in the john. Two stools sat empty between Ryan and a reasonably clean-cut woman in a cowboy hat, pointy-toed boots with heavy stencil work, and a vest over a white shirt. The kind of shirt that had snaps rather than buttons.
Within the next few minutes the place got pretty busy. After another minute or two, clean-cut eased off her stool and delivered a couple of pitchers of beer to a few tables. She came back before her stool had time to turn cold. When the bartender passed by her, he said, “Thanks Peg.”
Peg nodded. When the bartender got control of the workload again he looked at Ryan with the raised eyebrows. “Want another?” Ryan pursed his lips, jigged his head back and forth and then nodded. He pointed toward Peg and raised two fingers. Then he dropped a twenty on the bar to cover his two beers and Peg’s one.
There’s a whole other language for talking with a barkeep, a language with few words, lots of gestures, and clear communication almost irrespective of how much a patron had drunk.
There was no ring on Peg’s fourth finger. When the barkeep slid a fresh mug with a bright head on it in front of her, he gave her the nonverbal message that said, “From the guy down there,” the message delivered with his head. Bartenders talk all the time, they just don’t say much.
Peg moved on down two stools and began warming the one beside Ryan. She gave him a “Mwah,�
�� a kiss thrown over in thanks for her beer. Then she put her open hand on his forearm. Her hand was warm despite having spent time caressing a beer mug. She smiled and nodded. The nonverbal talk had become infectious.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” he said, breaking the silent mode.
“Hi, yourself,” Peg said, showing she could go both ways, verbal or nonverbal communication, that is. Beyond that explanation, Ryan had no opinion, at least not as yet.
“You work here?”
“Sometimes,” she said, “three or four nights a week, it’s a moonlighting gig. Purse and shoe money. Been doing it almost four years. Tonight I’m a patron. I like the place. Jason, the one behind the bar tonight, is good people. When he gets rushed, I come off my stool to ease the load. Generally, I pick up enough tips this way to pay for my own. Boss won’t let the help drink on the cuff. You from around here, um, Ryan, right?”
“Mm-hmm. I’m from out of town. I came in looking for a friend. Gibby. Oh, Bennie Gibbons. I got a fat job set up. I need a helper. Bennie would fit nicely. We’ve worked together before. Last time I visited we rode his hog and hung out at a biker bar. I can’t remember the name of the place for the life of me. He’s changed his cell. He does that all too often, or so it seems. I’m about to give up if I don’t find him tonight. Truth is I’m tired of looking. I like his talents, but he’s not the only dude with ‘em. So what’d’you do in your day job? You said this here’s a moonlight gig.”
“I work as an escrow agent,” she said. “Would you believe that?”
Ryan smiled like he didn’t know whether or not she was shining him.
“No, that’s the truth,” she said, apparently reading his uncertainty. “I’m real uptown during the day. Respectable clothes, don’t say fuck, wear pantyhose. Real lady by day. Catwoman by night.” She laughed, the kind of laugh that uses snorts to get breath back. Then she raised her beer to her mouth. When she put the glass back on the bar, except for the dregs draining to the bottom, it was empty.
Ryan motioned to Jason to bring her another, and dropped a second twenty on the bar to cover this order with a promise of more to come. When Jason picked up the twenty Ryan pointed to the lighted glass box on the back bar that held big doughy pretzels kept warm by a light. He looked at Peg, inclining his head toward her. She shook him off so Jason, who had understood the sign language exchange, brought two beers and one pretzel. It felt warm. Ryan took a bite, sending it down to soak up some of the beer.
