Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  “Well done, Myron,” I said. “This is a tough one. I’m sure it’s especially hard on the parents of the girls.”

  The telephone on my desk rang.

  I rolled my chair closer and lifted the phone off the hook after the third ring. “Missing Persons. Detective Oveson.”

  “Hello Detective Oveson,” said Amelia Van Cott. “I have a feeling something really important happened in the Hotel Utah yesterday, but you ducked out before you could tell me what it was. Is that so?”

  “Nope. Nothing happened. I went there to check on Clive Underhill after his accident. Everything seemed hunky-dory. I left.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all,” I said.

  “That’s funny, because I get the distinct impression something is amiss in the Beehive State.”

  “Art!”

  Cradling the telephone between my head and shoulders, I turned to see Buddy Hawkins standing in the doorway. He opened his mouth and nodded when he saw me on the telephone. I mouthed, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He stepped back into the corridor, but kept watching from outside. Amelia Van Cott was waiting for some sort of response from me, but I could not remember—for the life of me—what she had just said.

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a funny feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.

  “Oh? What gave you that impression?” I asked, wondering how to get her off the phone without making it look like that’s what I was trying to do.

  “It could have something to do with that county coroner’s wagon I saw leaving the parking lot, not long after you went upstairs.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Does that mean you have no comment?”

  “Yep. ’Fraid so.”

  “Well, if you hear of anything, you know where to reach me.”

  “I do. HYland three thousand, extension…”

  She said, “Twelve.”

  “Twelve. That’s my lucky number.”

  “Is it really?” she asked, with a spark of excitement in her voice.

  I hung up. Buddy took that as his cue to enter. Scanning the room with a spark of contempt in his eyes, he kept his hands in his pants pockets, and as he drew closer, I noticed he reeked of too much aftershave. Crossing to my desk, he offered something in the way of a nod to Myron and DeVoy. Rage gleamed in his eyes when he looked at me.

  “I’d like to see you in my office, Art,” he said. “This very instant.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Now. Please.”

  “Aren’t you going to give me a little hint?”

  His teeth were grinding. Bad sign. As quickly as he had appeared, he left.

  Ten

  “All right, Art, I’ll ask you again. Where is he?”

  “I told you I don’t know. How come you brought me all the way over here anyway? Isn’t he under the covers, sleeping?”

  “You know he isn’t.”

  Buddy yanked the wool blanket down, revealing a pair of haggard pillows that’d seen better days. We were standing in the hot, dimly lit cell in the city jail where Roscoe had been incarcerated. Now, it looked as though he’d escaped. I wasn’t lying to Buddy when I said I didn’t know where he went. I truly had no inkling of where he might be, or when—or even how—he lit out. I should’ve known he might escape. If anybody could break free of this dungeon, it was Roscoe. He had worked in this building once upon a time, and he knew where the chinks in the armor were. I can’t say I blame him, especially if his claim was true, that he had nothing to do with murdering Nigel Underhill. Still, I knew Buddy would order a small army, if need be, to hunt down Roscoe. Buddy could be relentless, especially when fixated on something like apprehending a particular individual.

  “According to Stroud, you visited Roscoe yesterday,” said Buddy. “What did you do to help him?”

  “I didn’t help him,” I said, facing Buddy. “I don’t even know where he is.”

  Buddy suddenly came across as intimidating, flanked as he was on one side by Pace Newbold and, on the other, by Wit Dunaway. Maybe it was that stiff suit he was wearing, black as night, or his lantern jaw moving side to side as he ground his teeth. He reminded me of a gangster from a Warner Bros. picture, and the way he looked now, he could throw a scare into Jimmy Cagney.

  “I want to know what you two talked about,” he said. “And I mean everything.”

  “I wanted to see how he was holding up,” I said. “I also happen to know he has three cats, and I asked him if there was anybody looking after them. That’s all.”

  “Quit covering up for him,” Buddy said. “Come clean. Now.”

  “What do you think,” I said, “that I’d risk my entire career and livelihood, my … my family, my well-being, to cover for Roscoe?”

  Pace chimed in: “That’s precisely what we think.”

  “You keep quiet,” Buddy told him. He eyed me. “Well?”

  “I’m telling the truth,” I said. “I’m as shocked as you are.”

  “I find that a little hard to swallow,” said Pace.

  “Shut up,” said Buddy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Buddy reserved his coldest stare for me. “Stay away from this case. That’s an order.”

  “Buddy.”

  Buddy turned to Wit. “Yeah? What is it?”

  “A word,” said Wit. “In private.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” said Buddy, scowling.

  “Where would I go?” I asked.

  Wit placed his hand on Buddy’s shoulder and steered him out into the hallway. Pace and I stayed put in the cell. He smirked at me. I avoided eye contact. We were quiet for a couple of tense minutes. But the weight of his stare got to me.

  “What?”

  “Where is he, Oveson?”

  “Beats me.”

  “C’mon, don’t be an asshole. I know you’re hiding him. You know what they say. Once a partner, always a partner.”

  “Who says that?” I asked. “Ignoramuses like you?”

  “Maybe you’d like to step outside.”

  “You two mugs will work together,” said Wit, coming back in and maneuvering between us. “Newbold, you’ll coordinate the homicide investigation. Oveson, you’re on the missing persons detail to look for the racer. And don’t go pissing into each other’s gardens.”

  I reared my head in surprise. “I thought Buddy didn’t want me to…”

  “I reminded him you’re one of the best detectives in the bureau. If anybody’s going to find Underhill, it’ll be you.” He switched to Pace. “And you’re my numero uno man in Homicide. Lemme know what you need to crack this one and it’s yours.”

  “Yes sir,” said Pace, trying to conceal his scowl.

  “You two ladies bury the hatchet,” said Wit. “C’mon. We haven’t got all day.”

  I held out my hand. Pace grabbed, squeezed, and tossed it back like a piece of garbage. The entire time, he wore a nasty sneer on his face.

  “We’ve got a meeting with Underhill’s manager and fiancée in Cowley’s office,” said Wit. “I want you both behaving like a couple of choirboys. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Let’s shake a leg.”

  * * *

  Chief William Cowley occupied the type of large and bright office one might expect of a powerful politician or company president. Framed pictures lined the walls, spectacular windows looked out at the mountains on the valley’s east side, plush carpeting muted footsteps, and you’d get a sore neck from always gazing up at the elaborate ceiling frescoes.

  Everybody in these halls knew Chief Cowley was a figurehead. Real power rested in the hands of Deputy Police Chief Hawkins. He possessed the all-consuming work ethic of my father, who also ran this police department as a deputy chief before his life was cut short by an
unknown gunman. Chief Cowley may have rubbed elbows with the prominent and powerful, and constantly reassured the public—through his connections in the press—that he presided over the most honest police force in the nation. But his was an empty title, and he nearly always deferred to his deputy chief.

  Still, Cowley enjoyed the nicest digs in the building. This morning, he was parked behind an art deco desk that faced a row of antique leather guest chairs. It was in these chairs that Cowley either welcomed prestigious visitors or read the riot act to inept subordinates. I’d just passed through the anteroom where Cowley’s small army of secretaries typed away, walking at the head of the line, followed by Buddy, Wit, and Pace. Cowley’s door was ajar. I pressed it open.

  My brother, Frank, was the first person to enter my line of vision. He occupied a corner chair, adjacent to and behind Cowley, watching the proceedings like a ghost in a three-piece suit. He smiled and winked at me when we made eye contact, and I offered a single nod without saying hello.

  I recognized Albert Shaw, Underhill’s manager, and he rose to shake my hand. Seated beside him was a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat over her shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair. She came attired in a striking satiny violet dress that almost appeared painted on certain parts of her voluptuous body. The hat shaded what had to be one of the most attractive faces I’ve ever seen. When she got up from her seat, I noticed her dress showed off a great deal of cleavage, and her stockings turned her legs a dark tan.

  “Art, I take it you’ve met Mr. Shaw,” said Cowley. I nodded, and Cowley continued: “This is Clive Underhill’s fiancée, Dorothy Bliss.”

  “Please, call me Dot,” she said, in a throaty British accent that made me swallow hard. She extended a tiny hand. I shook it gently. “You must be Detective Oveson. I have you to thank for saving Clive’s life.”

  “It was nothing,” I said.

  “I’ve a difficult time believing that.”

  We released hands and I whiffed her perfume—sweet, but with an edge to it. I gestured to Pace. “This is…”

  “I’m capable of introducing myself, Oveson.”

  I shrugged and made a long face, as if to say, “Be my guest.”

  “Pace Newbold, Homicide Bureau. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  She aimed that dainty hand at Pace, and he gripped it for a few seconds.

  “Mr. Newbold, the pleasure is all mine.”

  “Of course, the two of you have already met,” said Cowley, eyeing Pace and Albert Shaw. They exchanged quiet greetings. Buddy walked past me and shook hands briefly with Shaw and Bliss. “And you all know FBI Special Agent Franklin Oveson.”

  “Don’t mind me,” said Frank from the corner. “I’m observing.”

  “Please be seated,” said Cowley, gesturing to the extra chairs that his secretary had brought in from another room.

  I made myself comfortable next to Shaw. Pace sat on the other side of me. Buddy picked a chair strategically located by Cowley’s desk, which lent him an air of authority. I wondered if he was going to mention Roscoe’s escape from jail. Something told me our British guests would not be impressed with the news. And Buddy, always fearful that the Salt Lake City Police Department might appear anything less than the world’s greatest police force, would tie himself up in knots over even a hint of negative publicity.

  “I’d like to thank each of you for coming here this morning on such short notice,” said Cowley. “I will keep the preliminaries brief. I know you’re all aware of the key details. Nigel Underhill has been murdered and he’s lying in the morgue as we speak. Clive Underhill is missing, and his whereabouts are unknown. And there is one other matter.” He looked at Buddy. “Do you want to tell them? Or shall I?”

  “Tell us what?” asked Dot Bliss.

  Buddy drew a deep breath, eyeing the pair of Brits sheepishly. “The man we arrested as a key suspect in the murder of Nigel Underhill has somehow escaped from our city jail. He is at large.”

  “How could something like this possibly happen?” asked Shaw.

  “We’re as shocked as you are,” said Cowley. “I’m placing the full manpower of two entire squads behind a joint investigation of Nigel Underhill’s homicide and Clive’s disappearance. Special Agent Oveson of the FBI and myself will personally oversee the all aspects of this undertaking. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we will not sleep at night until Clive is found and Nigel’s murderer is captured.”

  “I plan to be there the day that pathetic bastard Lund goes in front of the firing squad,” said Pace. “He’ll get his, just as sure as I’m sitting here.”

  Pace’s comment bothered me. Cowley picked the perfect time to change the subject: “Detective Oveson, part of the purpose of today’s meeting is to brief you on the case. I understand Detective Newbold, under the supervision of Hawkins and Dunaway, has already questioned Mr. Shaw, Miss Bliss, and all of the members of Underhill’s entourage.”

  “Yes sir,” said Pace. “They were all in their rooms at the time, sleeping. We’ve collected fingerprint samples from each one, and we’ll be conducting follow-up questioning. For now, none of them are suspects, or even persons of interest.”

  “Have you any questions, Art?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. I looked at Shaw and Bliss. “Who was the last person to see Clive before he disappeared?”

  “Nigel,” said Shaw. “He and Clive…” Shaw hesitated. “They quarreled in the hotel lobby, after you left.”

  “What about?”

  “We don’t know,” said Shaw. “A couple of hotel employees heard portions of the argument, but they weren’t really sure what it was about.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  Buddy chimed in: “An elevator operator says he gave Clive a ride up to his room, followed by Nigel about ten minutes later. The doorman saw him outside having a cigarette, evidently pacing, probably trying to calm down.”

  “That was the last time anybody saw Clive,” said Pace.

  “That we know of,” added Dot Bliss.

  Pace smiled at her. “That we know of,” he echoed.

  “Did the elevator operator see Clive go to his room?” I asked.

  “No,” said Pace.

  “Did anybody see him leave the building after that?” I asked.

  “No,” repeated Pace. “There is an unattended stairwell, but it would’ve been next to impossible for a man on crutches to go down all of those flights of stairs.”

  “Yeah, that is highly unlikely,” I said. “Unless he had help of some sort.”

  “I’ve witnessed Clive achieve feats I thought impossible,” said Shaw. “I learned long ago never to rule out anything in his case.”

  “Well, we can theorize about that one until we’re blue in the face,” said Buddy. “Let’s stick to matters that we know for sure, the main one being the following morning, a hotel employee found Nigel’s body. We’re still awaiting word from the coroner, but the m.o. appears to have been manual strangulation.”

  “Manual?” asked Dot.

  “Done with the hands,” I said.

  Shaw said, “Nigel had a standing order with room service to deliver a poached egg, a sectioned grapefruit, and dry wheat toast to his room each morning at half past seven. When he didn’t answer the door Sunday morning, the room service man let himself in. He found Nigel on the floor and promptly alerted the manager, who telephoned the police and then called up to my room. I, in turn, rang Clive’s hotel room, but got no answer. I asked the manager to let me in with a passkey. The place was spotless. The bed was made, even though room service hadn’t visited since the previous day. There was no sign of Clive. Thankfully, we found no evidence of foul play, either. I do hope he’s somewhere safe right now.”

  Staring at me, Buddy said, “I understand you were alone with him for a good hour or more at the Coconut Grove, and you gave him a lift back to the hotel afterward. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well
?”

  “Well what?”

  “Did he say anything?” pressed Buddy.

  “He wouldn’t stop talking,” I said.

  Buddy glowered, as if I should’ve known what he meant. “Anything that’d lead you to believe that he was in danger or had any intention of going away?”

  Just yesterday, I’d told Buddy about Clive’s expressions of unhappiness, his desire to flee his current life and the people in it, his pleading with me to take him down to the Canyons of the Escalante, where he could lose himself, the way Everett Ruess had gotten lost four years ago. I didn’t think it was wise to repeat all of those things in the presence of Shaw and Bliss. My gut instinct was to spare the feelings of those closest to him. Perhaps I hadn’t made it clear to Buddy that Clive had revealed all of that information to me in confidence, and in a drunken state, probably not expecting me to share it with others. And what if he should return today or tomorrow or sometime soon, unscathed, only to be confronted by people that I’d turned against him? These matters weighed heavily on my mind, made all the more pressing by all of those people in Cowley’s office staring at me, waiting for my reply.

  All of these notions raced through my mind in the span of a split second.

  “No,” I said. “Not that I recall. He talked a lot about his upcoming attempt to break the speed record out at the Salt Flats. He was careful not to divulge too many secrets about the car he’ll be driving.”

  “What other topics of conversation came up?” asked Buddy.

  “It was all small talk,” I said. “Differences between England and America, the killer heat out in the desert, and how big and open the spaces are out here in the West. Early on, Clive put the kibosh on political talk. That’s about it, really.”

  Dot turned her glassy eyes on me. “Was he distressed or melancholy?”