Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  My phone rang, and it was Townsend. I waited for several beats before deciding to pick up.

  "What the hell's going on with your investigation, Detective? Why is The Examiner promising details of it?" he fumed.

  "I don't know what they think they have, but I haven't spoken to anyone at The Examiner, beyond getting witness statements." I struggled to keep my voice even.

  "A rat in the department is talking to them, and may God help you if it's anyone on your team."

  I wanted to say, maybe it's your blue-eyed boy Prentiss talking to his witness girlfriend, but I bit my tongue. Instead, I said, "She's bluffing about my current investigation because, as I just said, I haven't spoken to the press about my case or any other for that matter." I often had to repeat myself to Townsend, as if he didn't believe me the first time.

  "Where would she get that erroneous information about Bennett?"

  "Ellis was a friend of Matt Baker who is a known hacker and central to my investigation into the murders. Who knows where he broke into to get the information on Bennett?" I reckoned on the police department as the only source of the detailed information Kayla Ellis had.

  "You're to leave the Baker investigation to Prentiss. Do you hear me, Riley? Give him something to cut his teeth on." Townsend's voice was clipped.

  "Yes, sir." It was pointless to argue on the phone. Better to present him with evidence connecting the crimes.

  "The information she has about Bennett's death is misguided. Are you stirring reporters up about that case and the Pascoe debacle?"

  "I believe I said in my last report I'd seen Pascoe, but I know next to nothing about Bennett's death."

  "Well keep it that way. Those two people need to stay buried in the past. No good will come of resurrecting them." He abruptly disconnected.

  Matt was quite possibly the conduit for Kayla's information about Bennett, but someone else was leaking information about my current case. If it was pillow talk between Prentiss and Ananda, I needed to address the problem. I also needed to ask Ananda what she knew about Beth's cancer article. I didn't trust Prentiss' explanation.

  CHAPTER 34

  MAGNOLIA PARK WAS 850 ACRES of tree-studded grassland and a twenty-minute walk from the station. I'd received a message from City Manager Jill Harvey saying she and another of Ashley Logan's co-workers wanted to meet me there. The email came with strict instructions to tell no one, least of all Mayor Whitehead. I still didn't know if Ashley, her assistant, was a primary target, so anything they could tell me would be a welcome change from the Mayor's complete lack of co-operation.

  On Sundays in September, the park and its swimming pool were usually thronging with people enjoying the last weeks of warm sunshine before fall. The overcast sky and the shower threatened for later may have kept some park-goers at home, but I still couldn't think of a worse place to hold a secret meeting.

  At the park entrance, I tossed a pocketful of change into the open guitar case of a long-haired street musician. Once through the wrought-iron gates, I searched for the bandstand. Concerts were held there throughout the summer, but I hadn't been to one in a long while. The instructions said to walk past it and continue to the picnic tables under the trees. I remembered playing there as a kid of ten or eleven with Beth. The stream slowed to a trickle in the summer, but the boulders and overhanging branches were made for adventure. At that age, we were both tomboys, more into carrying a stick and climbing trees than necklaces and dresses. Nowadays, parents and kids congregated exclusively in the safer, but to my eyes more sterile, Children's Discovery Area.

  The wooded area was deserted save for Jill seated at a picnic table with a gray-haired fifty-something woman I didn't recognize. She introduced herself as Ramona DeLuca the City Clerk, and I sat next to her on the bench. I remembered that a man named Pete DeLuca discovered Matt's body. Her husband, perhaps?

  My stomach was growling, so when they plied me with sandwiches, coleslaw, and fixings from a wicker picnic basket, I dug in.

  "We have lunch here every day we can, even on weekends. That's my homemade sourdough bread." Ramona pointed to the sandwich I was eating. "We're only five minutes away from City Hall, and this area is always deserted. Ashley used to join us . . ." Her voice trailed off.

  Jill poured me a glass of homemade lemonade. "I overheard your meeting with the Mayor and was frankly disgusted by the way she treated you."

  "It's not uncommon. People often don't have time for cops. I'm used to it," I sighed.

  "Ramona and I thought the world of Ashley, and we want to help catch the person responsible for her death. She had a promising career ahead of her."

  Ramona said, "I just got back from Hawaii and was shocked to hear what happened to her."

  "I already asked Jill, but can you think of anyone who might have done this to her? Perhaps, someone, she might have met in the course of her job."

  "People we deal with can be a bit rough. Especially those in construction, but I know of no one who'd do that to another human being."

  "Was anyone overly friendly or coming on to her sexually?"

  "Ashley was a beautiful woman, and men would flirt with her, but it was harmless."

  Jill slid a USB flash drive across the table to me. "Perhaps this will help. It's a copy of Ashley's work emails, including ones she recently deleted. I heard you ask the Mayor for them. She would probably fire us both if she knew I'd given them to you. Please keep that in mind before you tell anyone else."

  "I'll look through them. If I find something which leads me to the women's killers, I can't guarantee to keep them a secret."

  "It's a risk we're both willing to take," Jill conceded.

  Ramona nodded. "Detective Riley, sometimes we need to stand up and be counted."

  "Please call me Megan. Ashley's parents told me their daughter was helping Beth with a story in her spare time. Do either of you know what she was doing?"

  "Beth needed help interviewing a number of families, face to face. Ashley was good at that kind of thing," Jill said. "But I don't know anything about the story."

  "Neither do I." Ramona shook her head pensively.

  "Could Ashley have given any newsworthy documents to Beth, and put someone in a compromising position?" I asked.

  "Ashley's integrity would have prevented her from doing that," Jill declared. "Nevertheless, some think the relationship between the mayor and local business leaders is too cozy. I don't know of anyone accepting backhanders. But there's always a certain quid pro quo in business everywhere, and the mayor's office is no exception. The press could find some of the situations we deal with newsworthy. But local scandals don't lead to murder."

  You have no idea, I thought. Upstanding citizens like Jill and Ramona can never imagine the people with whom they associate are capable of crimes. They think murderers are a race apart, when in fact they move unseen among us. Perhaps my questions were too general for them to get their heads around. After seeing the emails, I might know better what to ask. I said:

  "Thanks for your help. I'll read the messages. Is there a discrete way to contact you if I have questions?" I thought they were exceptionally courageous in snubbing the Mayor and coming forward.

  Jill and Ramona gave me their cell numbers and requested I called outside of office hours. I said goodbye and walked back toward the bandstand, hoping to get some traction in the case from what they'd given me. Despite my high clearance rate, Lieutenant Townsend only tolerated me because I had Chief Kane's support. I could lose that if I didn't get some results soon and find myself out on my ear.

  CHAPTER 35

  RAINDROPS HAD BEGUN STREAKING the glass when developer Joey Sands looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the clubhouse bar. The tennis courts in the foreground were empty, and beyond them, he could see three golfers running across the 18th fairway for shelter. He'd already drunk more than he intended before their round of golf, and now his business partner, Buddy Olsen, the victor as always, was holding out two frosty mugs of Mic
helob.

  "This place turned out alright, despite your misgivings," Olsen said, setting one of the mugs on the granite-topped table and taking a long drag from the other.

  "When we built the clubhouse, Jack and I had a different look in mind for the bar," Sands replied. "The full-length windows, the low cantilevered roof over the outside seating all scream ultra-modern, so we were shocked when that interior designer persuaded the owner to go with a retro British pub-style bar. This is America. Why do we need to imitate styles from other countries?" Sands took a seat next to his friend.

  "A touch of jolly old England is fine with me."

  "The British racing green accent walls are overdone."

  "We just made it round before the rain. You're off your game, pal. What's going on?" Olsen's voice was deep and gruff.

  "There's a problem with some of the tenants at Brockway."

  "Are they all protesting together? You need a thicker skin, pal."

  "I've been trying for months to get them to leave so I can go in and renovate the apartments, but nothing seems to work. I thought the nosy reporter dying on their doorstep would make them want to move to somewhere safer, but all it's done is to get that mongrel detective and the press on my case. As if I had anything to do with cutting anyone's throat. Half the questions she asked were about you."

  Detective Riley is out of her depth and flailing around. Townsend is running out of patience with her—I told him not to hire her, but he didn't listen."

  "She even wanted to know about Jack. The uppity bitch needs taking down a peg or two."

  "What possible connection could Jack have to what she's supposed to be investigating? Her boyfriend was killed at that bank job a few months back. Maybe she's not getting enough sex, and a good hard poke would sort her out," Olsen snickered and gestured with his middle finger.

  "The reporter gal who is the daughter of the apartment manager keeps wanting an interview. Kayla something. She's stirring things up about Jack's death. Did you see what she wrote?"

  "Give her an interview. Just stick to the story, and we'll all be good. Jack killed himself no matter what people want to think." Olsen slurped noisily as he drained his beer. "I swear these glasses are getting smaller. Another one?"

  When Olsen returned from the bar, he continued, "What have you done to persuade them to leave?"

  "I've cut the electricity without warning on hot evenings; sent workman in to fix plumbing problems that didn't exist."

  "You need to use more aggressive tactics, pal. Burglaries, for instance."

  "Crime would only attract more attention from the cops." Sands could never keep up with Olsen who had almost finished his second glass.

  "Menacing phone calls might work. Skip the plumbing repairs and have water pipes burst when no one's around to fix them. I know just the guy to empty out your apartments for a price."

  "Flood my own apartments? I'm already worried the reporter gal will find out about the power cuts and mystery repairs."

  "Buck up. You're going to renovate them, right? Where has my fearless friend gone to?"

  "I've told you I've been off my game since Jack died."

  "That was ten months ago. You need to move on."

  "We nearly didn't get the contract for the DMV building, when the state started looking into his death. I'd have been ruined if someone else got the contract after all the time Jack and I spent on the proposal."

  "And who backed you and became your partner?

  "Angie got all the life insurance money. I was Jack's business partner. I deserved something from him."

  "What did you expect would happen?" Olsen drained his beer. "Another?"

  "I'm good for now." Sands watched the big man go to the bar and waste no time in getting the blond barmaid laughing at something he'd said.

  When Olsen returned, Sands asked, "what's her name?"

  "Phillis. She looks more like a Mandy to me. I thought life was easier for you since Shirley left with the kids."

  "She's squeezing me for alimony and child support."

  "Back to your tenant problem. I've used this guy in the past, and he's first-rate."

  "Who is it?"

  "It's best you don't know his name or meet him."

  "I'm going to hold off doing anything more until things die down. I'll be good when the cops move on to something not connected to me."

  "I can take care of the cops for you." Olsen chugged his beer.

  "What do you mean by that? I've told you before I won't sanction violence of any kind."

  Olsen laughed. "I've got friends in the force who can make sure the half-breed spins her wheels looking in the wrong place until she's fired for being ineffective. They can also neuter that little prick who works with her, no questions asked. You need to have the right people in your pocket, pal."

  "Find out how much he wants to get her taken off the case," Sands conceded.

  "I'll also talk to the guy who can put the frighteners on your tenants and get them out. In the past, he's charged me five grand for a similar job."

  "I can spring for that. It will cost a packet if I don't get started on the repairs soon, and the new building inspector sees what really needs doing to the place."

  "Exactly why are you fixing them up? The Brockway Apartments are over twenty years old and will never pay their way. You should bulldoze them and build upmarket homes there. They're in high demand in this area."

  "I still have a bunch of money, which I can't afford to lose, tied up in them."

  "Who said anything about losing money, pal? They're insured, aren't they?" Olsen fixed his eyes on the other man. "Once they're empty, my guy can arrange a fire."

  "Won't it look suspicious, if right after tenants leave, the apartments burn to the ground? Arson investigation is getting better all the time. They can get a person's DNA off a dropped cigarette."

  "Workmen are always having accidents: propane heaters get knocked over, welding torches are left on. I know the place you're talking about. The apartment buildings are joined together, so it won't take much of a fire to get them all condemned from smoke damage. It happened to one of my properties before I moved to this area. Getting the insurance money won't be a problem—I know one of the state fire inspectors."

  "I need to think about it first." Sands stood, and Olsen followed suit.

  "Fortune favors the brave, pal. Just remember that." Olsen patted him on the back. "Are we still on for the range tomorrow at 10 a.m.?"

  "You bet. I've had laser sights added to the Glock 19, and I'm anxious to try it out."

  CHAPTER 36

  I STARTED TO TURN THE 4Runner into my driveway and pulled up sharply. A tall, athletically built man, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, was leaning against a silver Toyota parked there. I wondered if he was someone who'd come from the prison to apologize in person. The day hadn't brought any more news about Hildegard's escape. I was anxious to know how the bank robber had come to be put on a work detail when he was supposed to be in isolation; how he'd managed to drop his tracking anklet and flee.

  I parked on the street and walked to meet the stranger's outstretched hand. "Greg Gervais—Beth Gervais' brother," he said as I shook it.

  I froze. "Beth Gervais didn't have a brother. In the twelve years, I knew her, she never mentioned one. Her parents didn't either, and I know they would have said something if a brother existed. What are you really doing here? Are you press, because this is a loathsome way to try to get an interview?"

  "Technically, I'm her half-brother, the black sheep of the family. Well, I used to be. When you were friends with Beth, she didn't know about me, because I left home when she was two. Her parents cut off all contact with me. Beth and I share the same father, different mother. She didn't find out about me until she was eighteen, well after she split with you."

  "And you have some proof of who you say you are?" My hand was on the butt of my pistol, as he lowered a canvas satchel to the ground, and rummaged inside. He pulled out a blue passport and
handed it to me.

  "And you just happen to have this with you?" I asked as I thumbed it open with my free hand. The picture matched, as did the name.

  "I just returned from a business trip to China and heard what happened to Beth. You can't keep up with the news there like you can in the States. Look in the back. I want to talk if you have the time."

  Flicking through the passport, revealed the Chinese visa. Under next of kin, the entry read Elizabeth Gervais. I only knew how to spot the poorer forgeries, but I couldn't see any reason why a reporter or anyone else would go to those lengths. I relaxed my stance and handed it back. "You'd better come in."

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting in my living room, each with a glass of iced water on the coffee table between us. Greg was tall and tanned, his clothes loose on his lithe body.

  I said, "I think you should explain."

  "Of course. I'm sixteen years older than Beth. My Dad divorced my mother when I was ten and remarried soon after. Beth was born six years later. I hated her and her mother. I hated the father we shared, for leaving my mother. When I was eighteen and had graduated high school, I ran away and never contacted them again. Beth was two at the time and didn't remember me. I think her parents disowned me."

  Greg paused to chug water. He continued:

  "Jumping to sixteen years later, I heard about the house fire which took Beth's parents. I reconnected with her at the funeral, and we've stayed in contact ever since. It worried me when she stopped replying to my emails. As soon as I got back from China, I came to town to see her. I'm staying at the Stockbridge Holiday Inn."

  "How did you find my address?"

  "The news said you were leading the investigation. I Googled you and didn't want to show up unannounced at the police station until we'd talked. I didn't know if your history with Beth was public knowledge."