by Betty Webb
Jimmy, his father, and Ted’s attorney were in deep conversation when I arrived. They sat on the same bench they’d occupied earlier that morning, but were now surrounded by a dozen visitors who hadn’t been able to see their loved ones because of the previous day’s lockdown.
“Ted’s not released yet?” I asked, seeing him nowhere in evidence. “Please don’t tell me the judge refused to cut him loose even after that Boone guy confessed.”
“Everything’s fine, only slow as molasses in January,” Behar said, throwing me a triumphant smile. “The emergency hearing finished a few minutes ago, and the judge lifted the material witness hold. We’re simply waiting for the paperwork to go through.” Then he turned to Olmstead. “Resuming our conversation, Hank, are you sure you want to do this, pay for Mr. Boone’s defense?”
Olmstead gave the attorney a stubborn look. “I owe Mr. Boone more than you can possibly imagine, Anderson. He’s been with me going on two decades now, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s family. Maybe you can get him released on bond so he can stay free until, well, you know. He doesn’t have that many years left and I don’t want them spent in a prison cell.”
That was Olmstead—not necessarily likeable, but always admirable. His compassionate gesture would be wasted, though. If he’d been unsuccessful in springing his own son from jail, there was no reason to believe he’d have better chance with his cook, advanced years or no.
Behar voiced the same concern. “It’s a lost cause, Hank. Given his confession, he’ll surely be charged, and I can’t see them letting a confessed murderer out on bond, regardless of his age.”
Olmstead remained adamant. “He’s never asked me for any favors, other than to take care of his dog when he had to drive up to Salt Lake. And now, of course. That dog’s eating steak tonight. And always will.”
So all’s well that end’s well, even for the dog. I pulled Jimmy aside and told him I’d be driving back to Scottsdale that afternoon. He wasn’t happy, but he understood. When I left, Olmstead and Behar were discussing defense tactics.
I didn’t make it down the steps before a voice called my name.
“Lena, wait up!”
It was Olivia, recovered from her migraine. She hurried toward me, pale as a bone, dressed in black, her reporter’s notebook at the ready. Planting herself firmly in my path, she fired off a series of questions.
“What’s this I hear about someone confessing to Ike Donohue’s murder? A cook, my sources tell me. Is that right? On my way here I saw a gaggle of sheriff’s deputies swarming the road near Sunset Trails. Did some dude break his neck falling from a horse? There was an ambulance and someone was lying in the middle of the road. What the hell’s going on around here?”
Staring pointedly at her notebook, I asked a question of my own. “I thought you were working on the mine story. You’re going to take time out for a mere murder?
“Don’t be sarcastic, Lena,” she snapped. “It doesn’t become you.”
How little she knew me. “Sorry. I’m not used to getting up so early. Taking your questions in order, yes, someone confessed to Ike Donohue’s murder, and, yes, it was the cook at Sunset Trails Ranch. He claims he killed Donohue, then took off to Salt Lake City to attend his grandniece’s funeral, which is why he wasn’t around to confess earlier. Question number two, re those cops on the road—Roger Tosches has been killed. Shot, like Donohue.” I noted the stunned look on her face. And here I’d always believed reporters were unshockable. “As for question number three, ‘What the hell’s going on around here?’ Olivia, I haven’t a clue, but at least there’s some good news. Ted Olmstead’s getting released any minute now.”
If her mouth opened any further, flies would swarm in, but her pen kept moving across her notebook. Shocked or not, she was still a reporter.
“I’m going in there,” she said, already moving away from me and up the steps.
No wonder so many people hated reporters. Attorneys are accused of being ambulance chasers but they came in a distant second to journalists.
***
Packing finished, I was about to alert the Covered Wagons’ front desk that I was checking out when my cell phone rang. I was tempted to ignore it, but seeing Jimmy’s name on Caller ID changed my mind.
“Thank God I caught you,” he said. “You’d better come back here. Dad got pulled into an interview room by a couple of detectives. They found out Tosches was putting pressure on him to sell the ranch.”
Had Leilani blurted it out in an unguarded moment, or had Mia told them? I looked over at my closed suitcase and sighed. “Please tell me Behar’s in there with him, Jimmy.”
“Sure is. He insisted.”
I was beginning to respect the pudgy real estate attorney. He’d truly risen to the occasion. “I’m on my way. In the meantime, see what you can find out. Say, is Olivia Eames still there?” Belatedly, I remembered that Jimmy had never met her. “Goth-looking reporter. Dressed in black.”
“I saw a woman fitting that description trying to get in to see Mr. Boone. When they wouldn’t let her, she turned around and started throwing questions at everyone, so the cops threw her out. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Too bad. Reporters could sometimes get information private detectives couldn’t. I made a mental note to call her later.
As it turned out, the trip back to the jail was wasted because the detectives had let Hank Olmstead go right around the time his son was released. Mission accomplished, Behar had driven back to Silver Ridge to finish up a real estate transaction, while the two happy Olmsteads drove home, where Leilani was organizing a big Get Out of Jail party.
“The cook alibied Dad,” Jimmy explained, as we stood in the lobby. “He told the investigator the same thing Dad did, that this morning, when they drove over here, there was no dead body in the middle of the road. No parked Mercedes, either.”
That was a new one on me, cops taking a confessed killer’s word, but I didn’t want to rain on Jimmy’s parade so I merely smiled and nodded.
“There’s more,” Jimmy continued. “While Dad was sitting in the interview room, some farrier named Monty-something called his cell phone and said he was the guy who found the body. He told Dad he’d been on his way to the ranch to shoe a couple of horses when he came across the scene, and said that Tosches was still alive when he got there. Unfortunately, Tosches died before the ambulance arrived. Being smarter than the average bear, the farrier realized he was looking at a possible murder, and jotted down the time—6:43 a.m. He was calling Dad in case there was any trouble, what with the ranch being so close and all. Dad handed his cell to one of the detectives, and the guy repeated the same story to him.”
“That’s all very nice, Jimmy, but…”
“Wait. The kicker is that Dad and Gabe Boone were clocked walking into the county complex at 6:55, and you know it’s a half-hour drive from the ranch.”
“Gunshot victims can take hours to die.” It needed to be said.
“Not when they’ve been shot in the neck and blood’s spurting from an artery. The farrier said he took off his shirt and tried to stop the bleeding. The police impounded his shirt because it was drenched in Tosches’ blood.”
I tried to picture the scene: a man bleeding out in the middle of a gravel road, a bare-chested farrier leaning over him, trying to chase away Death. “Did Monty say if Tosches was able to say anything before he died?”
“I’m not sure that came up.”
No matter. The cops would certainly ask. If Tosches had been alive when Monty found him, there was a chance he’d lived long enough to ID his killer. Because the farrier had sense enough to check the time, Hank Olmstead was off the hook. Jimmy wouldn’t be coerced into running the ranch, and he’d return to Scottsdale and Desert Investigations. I wouldn’t lose my partner. I felt like dancing a jig. Instead, I him asked how Ted was doing.
“He’s lost a little weight, but Leilani’s frying up some chicken and baking a big red velvet cake to remedy that. Oh, and she’s fo
und a replacement chef for the ranch, too. He’ll be there in time to cook dinner for the guests. In the meantime, why don’t you put off the drive back to Scottsdale and come to the ranch with me? Leilani’s red velvet cake is the best. And we’ve got ice cream. The whole family will be there, including the aunts. You haven’t met them yet.”
The vision of a big, happy family reminded me of some unfinished business, so impulsively, I decided to put off my departure until tomorrow. The long drive back to Scottsdale would go easier with a good night’s sleep.
“You go without me,” I told him. “As long as I’m here, I want to talk to the sheriff about the Deputy Smiley Face situation.”
The smile left Jimmy’s face. “Good luck,” he said, in a voice that revealed little hope, because we’d both traveled that road many times before to no avail.
With that he waved and left.
Steeling myself for another “He’s too busy,” I walked up to the deputy manning the front desk. I recognized him from an earlier visit to the jail, when he hadn’t been all that helpful. His reading material today was Loft Living. Crossing my fingers, I said, “Is there any way I can have a brief word with the sheriff? I have some important information for him, but I’ve been trying to see him for days now without success.”
“Sheriff’s busy. Tell me and I’ll pass it along to his secretary.”
“It’s confidential information, meant for the sheriff only.” I pulled my ID out of my carry-all and held it in front of him.
He wasn’t impressed. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
For all I knew, this man was bosom buddies with Officer Smiley Face, but I had to chance it. “It’s about misconduct on the part of a Walapai County deputy.”
“What kind of misconduct and by which deputy?” He looked as if he’d heard it all before; he probably had.
“I have good reason to suspect Deputy Stark beats his wife. And possibly his child.”
To my surprise, he picked up his phone, punched in a number, and said to the person on the other end, “Elaine? There’s a private investigator standing in front of me who wants to see the sheriff about that thing you and I were discussing yesterday.” He waited. “Yeah. Him. Small world, huh?” He waited some more, then nodded. “I’ll send her back.” To me, he said, “Take the first left turn down the hall. Sheriff Alcott’s office is three doors down on the right.”
With that, he immersed himself in Loft Living again.
If you’ve seen one county sheriff’s office, you’ve pretty much seen them all—U.S. and Arizona flags bracketing the piled-high desk, photographs of the sheriff shaking hands with politicians, a montage of criminal science degrees, civic awards, and I’m-a-Bigger-Deal-Than-You-Are plaques. Sheriff Wiley Alcott’s office set itself apart by including several hunting trophies mounted on the walls: the heads of an elk, a sixteen-point buck, and two pronghorn antelope. On the long credenza behind his desk stood an entire stuffed mountain lion, its fangs bared. The lion looked like it wanted to bite someone—the sheriff, probably, for killing it. I’m no fan of using dead animals as decorations, but I tried my best to keep the distaste off my face. This was neither the time nor place for an animal rights discussion.
The sheriff was younger than I expected. Like most county sheriffs these days, he wore a suit and tie but there was no mistaking him for a civilian. Somewhere in his thirties, Alcott’s face bore the studious expression of an academic, but with his bull neck, broad shoulders and Arnold Schwarzenegger build, the rest of him looked like a professional wrestler, albeit one that had taken time to get a professional manicure.
“I hear you have a complaint about one of my deputies,” he said, as I settled myself into a leather visitor’s chair.
“Deputy Ronald Stark beats his wife. And maybe his daughter.”
He looked down at his desk, picked up a silver Montegrappa pen and began tapping it on the blotter. “Your proof?”
I described the scene in the park across the street. “My partner saw it, too. James Sisiwan, Hank Olmstead’s son.”
“Would that be the same James Sisiwan we recently charged with suborning perjury?”
“Jimmy’s a big guy and with that facial tattoo of his he can look pretty scary. The entire suborning perjury thing is a misunderstanding.”
The tapping stopped and he gave me a hint of a smile. “That’s what they all say. But you can relax because we’ve dropped the charge. We’re not Neanderthals here.” The smile vanished and the pen-tapping began again. “Back to Deputy Stark. What makes you so certain you didn’t misinterpret the events at the park? From the way you described what was going on, you didn’t actually see Deputy Stark hit his wife or hear him threaten her in any way.”
“No, but she looks beat up and her daughter has a broken arm.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I realized how flimsy they sounded.
“Both could have been the results of falls.” Sheriff Alcott put his pen down, aligning it carefully with a six-inch high stack of blue-covered legal papers. “Here’s how it works, Miss Jones. I’ve heard the rumors about Deputy Stark. Yes, that’s right. Rumors. In the months since I was elected sheriff, there’ve been numerous people trooping in here with their suspicions about him, but every time I ask for proof of the abuse I get none, just different versions of ‘I think’ and ‘I guess’ and ‘It sure looks like abuse to me.’ Those aren’t the kinds of statements that will hold up in court. He’ll sue for reinstatement and damages if I fire him, and this county has neither the time or the funds to dick around in court for something like that. As for the alleged victim, yes, I have to say alleged, because when I brought her in here last week, she denied everything again. She may be walking around with a black eye now, but she still hasn’t voiced one word of complaint to me, to CPS, or anyone else. Neither has the child. That might change when the little girl starts school next year and irregularities are noticed by a school counselor, but until then, what am I supposed to do, waterboard Deputy Stark to find out the truth?”
I understood his frustration because I’d felt it myself many times before. But that didn’t mean he should simply sit there and fret. “There must be something you can do.”
“I hear you’re a former police officer. Scottsdale PD.”
It came as no surprise to learn he’d checked me out. In his position, I’d have done the same. “That’s right, for ten years.”
“Tell me, former Officer Jones, while you were on the job how many times did you encounter a situation like ours, and what did you do about it when the woman refused to press charges?”
He already knew the answer: nothing. So I remained silent.
“The French have a phrase for it,” he said. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ Understand?”
Unfortunately, I did.
“Just so you know,” he added, “A couple of volunteers from a local group named Haven called on her, but they had no more luck than I did. She told them she was accident-prone.”
With nothing more to be said on that topic, I switched gears. “I probably already know the answer to this, but why didn’t you dispatch some deputies to oversee the anti-mining demonstration?”
“Good question, easy answer. Ten minutes before they were to be dispatched, there was a seven-car pileup on Route 47. Two fatalities. All this carnage caused by a couple of teenagers who out of high spirits tore down a stock fence and released forty-six steers onto the road, eight of which are now hamburger. Compared to that catastrophe, a demonstration by the heretofore non-violent members of Victims of Uranium Mining didn’t make a blip on the Richter scale. I’m sure someone’s told you about the budget cuts we’ve had around here. This town doesn’t even have a police force anymore, so the sheriff’s department is left covering everything that happens not only in the county—and it’s a big county with a lot of runaway steers—but in town, too. Bar fights up the wazoo every weekend. Now, if that’s all you wanted t
o talk about, I’m very busy and you have a nice day, hear?”
More Walapai Flats politeness. “One more thing. Why did your detectives question Hank Olmstead about the Roger Tosches killing?”
“Oh, for God’s sa…. Standard procedure, Miss Jones, nothing to be alarmed about. But the killing did take place on his property and right around the time Mr. Olmstead was driving down the road where the death occurred. We’d be remiss if we didn’t follow up.”
Pointedly, he looked at his watch. From this angle, I couldn’t see it all that well, but it appeared to be a Rolex. Arizona sheriffs made decent salaries, but nowhere in the Rolex range. He was also the first sheriff I’d met who spoke French, and unless I was mistaken, his suit was an Armani.
“Anything else, Miss Jones? I’m expected at a county commissioner’s meeting in a few minutes.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. What can you tell me about that cook who supposedly confessed to Donohue’s murder?” I was curious as to why an eighty-year-old would kill someone.
His face closed in. “We’re still looking into his story. Now, if you’re finished…”
I held up my hand. “Another thing. Did Deputy Stark turn in an incident report on a shooting yesterday?”
“A report that identified you as the alleged target? Yes, he did. He also turned in a couple of Baggies that smelled like tuna fish. One had slugs in it, the other had casings. We sent then them to the crime lab.”
“Anything back on them yet?”
He pointed his expensive Montegrappa pen at me accusingly. “Miss Jones, while we here in Walapai County may not be as backwards as you think we are, we’re still not as slick as Scottsdale. Depending on the workload, ballistics testing can take days, maybe even weeks, especially on a random shooting that didn’t hurt anyone. But rest assured that I’ll be in contact if anything interesting pops up.”
“Fair enough.” I thanked him for his time and rose from my chair.
As I headed for the door, he called after me, “Oh, and these hunting trophies you’re so pissed off about? They belonged to one of my predecessors, who just happened to be my grandfather. If I took them down, he’d rise up from his grave and shoot me.”
