by Lakota Grace
A large muck bin, bungeed to a hand truck, sat in front of one empty stall. I sneezed as hay from a forkful hit the bottom of the big plastic container. The girl was intent on her actions, unaware that I was there. She hummed in that off-key way people do when listening to music only they can hear.
I touched her shoulder. “Amanda, I need to talk to you.”
She jerked, startled, and pulled out her earbuds.
“I didn't hear you come in.” She leaned the pick-rake against the wall and stepped around the muck bucket.
“I'd shake hands, but...” She waved her gloved hands in the air.
I didn't argue with her. No telling what yucky stuff lived in that debris she was shoveling.
I pulled the diagram from my pocket. Amanda shucked the gloves and studied the diagram.
“The picture would fit. Five stalls on a side, plus the tack room and the office. This square with an X could be one of the middle stalls. You think something was hidden there? You can't hide a horse—they're too big.” She chuckled at her own joke.
I hate it when people do that.
“The new barn was built on the foundation of the old one,” I said. “Have you seen anything like a trapdoor in the floor?”
Amanda shook her head. “I was still recovering from the shock of Gil's death, so I wasn't paying attention. Raven was down here a lot. Maybe he saw something.”
“And Raven is where this morning?”
“Visiting his mother.”
That meant I couldn’t talk to him this trip. My list of people to re-interview was getting smaller and smaller.
I returned to my original mission. “Any chance we could take a look at that stall, since you’re cleaning them, anyway?”
Amanda looked doubtful.
“It’s not that simple. We put down wood chips and sawdust we get from the Camp Verde sawmill. But under that is the rubber pad the horses stand on.”
She raked back some chips and showed me a thick rubber mat that looked like the flooring in the gym I never attended.
I bought a membership when I first moved to the Verde Valley and had visited twice. Once to pick up the free towel they offered, and once on my way to get coffee when I stopped to pick up a schedule of classes—figured one of these days I'd try some TRX or maybe do some CrossFit stuff. One of these days.
“It would all have to come up.” Amanda frowned.
Undeterred, I pursued my plan. “Can't we just rake all the stuffing out into the aisle? Then you can help me pull up the mat in the center stall.”
Amanda was incensed. “Those chips are expensive! Who’s going to pay for that?”
I could just see Shepherd's face when he saw a line item for horse litter in the investigation budget.
“Hey, it'll be fun. I'll help you put it back.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
“Even if we do it, there's another problem.”
“Which is?”
She grabbed the diagram and turned it one way. “Depending on which way you turn it, this could be this stall...” She reversed the paper. “Or this one.” She gestured toward the stall on the other side of the aisle.
“So we try both. Which first?”
“Well, if it’s a choice between Black Onyx and Panther Baby, you don't want to muck out Onyx’s stall. He does his thing and then tap dances all over it, spreading the joy. Panther Baby is our neat horse. Let’s start there.”
She looked doubtfully at my shoes. “There’s an extra pair of rubber boots in the tack room. Bring another muck rake, too.”
I shook my head as I donned the boots. This had to fit under that category in my job description called “other duties as assigned.” I deserved hazardous duty pay.
I was awkward with the rake and Amanda repositioned my hands.
“Keep your fork low and jiggle it a little. That'll let the chips sift out. And pick up that matted hay, too. It's been contaminated, stomped on.”
“Here, watch me.” She tossed the shavings and their contents up against the stall wall in an easy underhanded motion, so certain items rolled to the bottom of the hill of shavings. Then she scooped a forkful of the heavier stuff and heaved it into the bungeed container.
I tried again, but in Amanda's judgment, I gathered too much bedding with my pitchfork full.
“Haven't you been around horses before? This isn't hard. Just concentrate.”
Finally, she admitted defeat and handed me a water bucket to clean instead. “Scrub brush is in the tack room, water faucet outside. Think you can handle that?”
Whew! The bucket smelled like an algae-slimed fish tank. I took the handle gingerly in my fingers and walked toward the tack room to dump it in the sink.
Then I took the bucket and the scrub brush into the sunshine and scrubbed at the bits of hay and clumps of grain. I rinsed the bucket, refilled it, and lugged it back to Amanda. She took it without comment and hung it on the stall hook.
Amanda was fast. The muck bin was soon full. She rolled the hand truck to the outside to where a dumpster stood. Together we grabbed the rope handles of the container and heaved the muck into the dumpster.
“Gil used to move this dumpster with the forklift when it got full. Now I don't know who will do it. I know horses, but equipment?” Amanda had tears in her eyes, and they weren't from the acrid ammonia smell that clung to the container.
She returned to the barn and I followed. She picked up a broom and swept the remaining wood chips into the aisle, leaving the black flooring mat. If what we searched for wasn't here, that meant tackling Black Onyx’s stall across the aisle. No telling what we'd find over there. I kept my fingers crossed.
Together we heaved the horse mat to a vertical position and peered at the cement flooring underneath. In the center of the floor was a flanged metal door, about two by three feet. Together we opened the door and laid it flat on the cement. I peered into the blackness.
A large metal safe box filled the cavity. Together we hauled it out. A metal padlock dangled from the latch. I pulled out the key I’d gotten in Gil Streicker’s safe deposit box. It fit smoothly into the lock and I clicked it open.
I gestured to Amanda. “You want to do the honors?”
She raised the lid with hesitant fingers. A torn corner of a hundred dollar bill and two paper currency bind strips lay on the bottom of the box. That was all.
“There was money here?” Amanda asked.
“Lots of money it looks like. Our suspicion is that Gil might have been a drug dealer or possibly a blackmailer.”
“That's ridiculous.” Amanda’s face reddened and she clenched her fists.
“If Gil had lots of money, he wouldn't need to deal in drugs. He’s not the type, anyway.” She dismissed my assertions with a weird sort of logic.
“Whatever.” Nothing would shake her faith in the dead man, even though the key from Gil's safe deposit box fit the padlock. But the next question was, however he had acquired it, if this had been Gil Streicker’s stash, who had the money now?
Amanda and I replaced the empty cash box in the hole and closed the metal door covering. Together we heaved the rubber mat back over the hole. Amanda raked chips back into the stall with jerky, vigorous actions, and I returned to the tack room.
I hung my rake on the wall and deposited two smelly rubber boots under it. A farmer smell hung to the air, speaking of old barns and satisfied livestock with clean stalls.
I said goodbye to Amanda. Next on my agenda was Dr. Theo, Marguerite’s estranged husband. I wondered if the good doctor would mind my stench and didn't much care. If he had murdered Gil Streicker, he deserved no better.
Nevertheless, I opened the windows to air out the car. No need to breathe in the aroma myself.
Chapter 25
The afternoon steamed with humidity, and the thunderheads were already building when I drove over the bridge at Red Tank Draw on my way to Dr. Theo’s trailer. Little over twenty-four hours after the flash flood, the waters had receded. Now only muddy red b
anks and braids of tire tracks marked where the torrent of water roared through.
I slowed as I crossed the bridge. At a far bend of the wash, the silhouette of the blue Toyota rose from a swale of mud. They'd bring a crane down to extract it soon. The car was totaled, but at least the passengers survived. I wondered if the little girl would remember this experience in her young life. Long enough to hesitate at water running over a road, I hoped, when she was old enough to drive.
When I reached Dr. Theo’s trailer, I yanked the parking brake on the Jetta and opened the door. The creek level was back to normal, the stream clear again. A Costa’s hummingbird swooped over the water to catch a gnat, its violet throat flashing in the sun. The cicadas’ racket lent counterpoint to the water’s run.
Dr. Theo was creek side, a bamboo pole in his hand, a red-and-white plastic bobber bouncing in the current. He waved.
“They biting?” I asked.
He laughed. “Not with this fishing get-up. The guys at sporting goods shop said I'd need a fly rod to catch the rainbows, but this is how I learned to fish. I’ll stick with my own way.”
He pulled the bobber from the creek and wrapped the line around the pole. Then he stuck the end in the soft mud and walked over to me. “What can I do for you, Miss Peg?”
“Got some more questions, Dr. Theo.”
“Sure, no problem. Calls for some iced tea, do you think? Wait here.”
In a few moments, he emerged from his trailer, bearing two frosted glasses of tea.
“Let's sit in the chairs under the sycamore. Love those big green leaves in summer.”
Dr. Theo kicked off his sandals and wriggled his toes in the rain-freshened meadow grass.
I hated to break into his peaceful mood, but no way to come at it except directly. “Someone at the ranch says you're addicted to Oxycodone,” I said.
“Figured that would come out, sooner or later.” He pulled a brown plastic prescription bottle from his shirt pocket.
“Every morning I wake up and wish this pill bottle was filled to the top. I'd take every last pill.”
He shook it like a reformed cigarette smoker with an empty pack. No rattle.
The closest I'd come to addiction was biting my fingernails. I did that until I was twelve, then quit. And I still go back to it when I get under stress. But drugs? Never took that route. My mother called me a strange duck. Called me worse when I refused to buy her the booze that supported her own lifestyle.
“What do you know about Oxycodone addiction?” Dr. Theo asked.
“Enlighten me.”
“Believe it or not, back in my day I was quite a skier. One winter I had a bad fall and self-prescribed the Oxy to cut the pain. It felt so good I kept writing scripts for more. Someone reported me to the Medical Board and they put me on suspension. I lost the practice, all of our savings, too. We had to start over out here.” Tears started at the corners of his eyes.
“I can't blame Marguerite for deciding to leave me. I've done terrible things in support of that habit.” He stopped speaking, his face in a twisted expression.
He set the tea glass down with a jolt and some of the liquid spilled on the table. He scooped the liquid off with an abrupt gesture.
“Oh, you can have me tested. I'm clean—haven’t used for over a year.” His voice held both regret and pride.
“Did Gil Streicker ever mention drugs?” I asked.
He nodded. “Maybe a dealer can sense a victim, a potential user. He came to me once, offered to set me up if I was interested. Sure I was interested—not a day goes by I don’t crave the stuff. But pay for it with what?”
It answered one question for me but raised another. I chose my words carefully. “Where were you the night Gil Streicker died?”
He hesitated, then said, “Right here, where I am every night.”
“Anybody can verify that?”
“I was alone, as I am most nights.” His eyes blinked rapidly.
Was this also a lie? I pushed a little. “Think back. Are you sure you weren’t at the ranch, maybe for a few moments that night? Someone I talked to…”
I let my voice drift off, hoping he’d pick up the narrative. He did, but not in the way I had expected.
“No, no one could have seen me because…”
“Because what?” My voice hardened. “Dr. Theo, where were you the night that Gil Streicker died?”
“I knew somebody would find out, sooner or later.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with one big hand and huffed a breath.
“Okay, here’s what happened, God’s truth. Fancy Morgan told me how Gil had treated Marguerite and how he was after Amanda, too. I couldn't let that happen. I had to do something.”
“Yeah?”
“Gil had to be stopped. I called him and told him I'd changed my mind, wanted to buy some drugs after all. I asked him to meet me at the barn.”
“That’s when you killed him!”
Dr. Theo shook his head. “I just wanted to talk some sense into Streicker, tell him to stay away from my family. But he was already dead when I got to the barn.”
“Are you sure?”
He snorted. “I'm a doctor. I can tell if a man is dead or not.”
“What happened then?”
“I panicked. I thought if somebody saw me, I'd be blamed for the man’s murder. To make it seem like an accident, I nicked the wires, got a spark, and added some hay. It wasn't hard.”
“But the horses?”
“It was a warm summer night. Most were out in the pasture. I opened the stall doors for the others. And then I ran. I'm a coward, Peg. Always have been.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Marguerite was right to leave me. I'm a loser. She deserves better.”
“What’d you use to cut the wire at the barn?”
“Scalpel.”
“You still have it?”
Dr. Theo nodded and pulled a slim metal instrument in a leather sleeve out of his pants pocket. He offered it to me.
“Can I get it back? Means a lot to me, reminds me of better days.”
“It's evidence right now.” I stuck it in my pocket for safekeeping. “Burning the barn was a stupid thing to do. You could be charged with obstructing justice or insurance fraud. And that’s just for starters.”
“I'm sorry, I just didn't think.”
“Do you know that because of your actions, you could be charged with Gil Streicker's murder?”
Dr. Theo put his head in his hands and cried with harsh, racking sobs.
I ignored his reactions and went for the information I needed. “Tell me the rest. What else happened?”
“The ranch was quiet. Amanda and Marguerite had gone to the movies in town. They asked me to come along. Now I wish I had.” He clenched one fist and pounded it into his other palm.
I sensed both truth and falsehood in his statement. “You see anyone else there when you set fire to the barn?”
“No!”
His curt denial was strong, perhaps too emphatic. Who was Dr. Theo protecting? Was it Amanda? Or Marguerite?
“Wait,” he said slowly, “there was someone…”
“What’d they look like?”
“Couldn’t tell. They ran behind the barn as I got close. I just caught a glimpse.”
He had replaced his vehement denial with a deliberately vague statement. That was convenient.
“Male or female?”
“It was too dark to tell.”
I had the sense Dr. Theo was about to shut down on me, that I’d get no more today. But it was a start.
“You stay close,” I ordered. “We’ll need to talk to you again.”
He shrugged. “Where else would I go? Everything precious to me is right here in the Verde Valley.”
On the way back to my office, I thought about what Dr. Theo had said, and what he had not said. Did he speak the truth about Gil being dead when he got there? Or had he set a fire to finish killing a man who was still alive?
And more importantly,
did I have enough to charge him? Not yet, but he knew more than he was telling. I’d be back.
When I returned to the station, I told Shepherd about Dr. Theo’s confession.
“You think he did it?” I asked.
“Too soon to tell. Send the scalpel to forensics for evaluation and let’s keep digging. We’ll either get enough to bring him in, or find out who he saw out there. We’re getting close.”
Chapter 26
The next morning, Shepherd called the Spine Ranch and set up a meeting with Heinrich Spine. My partner suggested I ride along and interview Ray Morales at the same time. That suited me. Much as I tried to keep an open mind, I liked Ray. I’d just as soon cross him off the suspect list.
Our police SUV was in for service, so we drove my Jetta to the sheriff’s department carpool in Camp Verde to pick up a patrol car.
The head mechanic met us at the door. “Sorry. Everything is out. You shoulda come by earlier this morning.”
Shepherd waited, silently staring at the man. Shepherd was good at these mind games.
The mechanic fidgeted. Finally, “You going to be gone long?”
Shepherd shook his head back and forth. Just once, like checking for traffic. Said nothing.
“Okay, I shouldn't do this, but seeing as how it's you, Shepherd...the sheriff's new car arrived this morning. Just finished checking it out. Sweet honey of a drive. I can let you have it for a coupla hours, but you gotta return it by shift's end. If it's not here when the sheriff comes back from Phoenix tomorrow, my job is on the line.”
We walked to the end of the garage lot, and Shepherd tossed the keys to me. “Time you got in some road time.”
The patrol car was a big-boned Crown Vic. It had a souped-up engine geared for high speeds, an alternator that cranked out 130 amps to handle the lights and siren, and the latest of techno gear. Eighty-nine total miles on the odometer instead of the two-hundred-thousand on my twelve-year-old Jetta. I breathed in the new-car smell as I settled on the leather seat.
