by Terri Nolan
Indio was located in the southern desert of California with the distinction of being the first city in the Coachella Valley. The old slowly succumbed to the new as a cheap housing market for retirees and weekenders spread from hip Palm Springs to the golf course-heavy communities of Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage.
The property wasn’t a house. It was a big chunk of agricultural property at the edge of the city. Date palm stumps in neat rows were all that was left on the eastern half. On the western half, cultivated rows contained giant green tumbleweeds. The abandoned farm was surrounded by houses on two sides. A major thoroughfare lay on the third side. More houses and a date packing plant with a tourist store were on the fourth.
Located inside the compound, directly across the street from the packing plant, were a series of wood-slatted buildings; the blue paint faded from the desert heat and sun. Near the single-story buildings were hundreds of wood crates stacked in columns. Large crates. Four stacked together were taller than the hurricane fence, topped with razor wire, which enclosed the entire plot. Four large barrels of liquid were at the far end of the closest building. Birdie drove slowly around the perimeter of the property and stopped to take pictures from the window. There was one entrance. A gate held together with a heavy chain and a large lock. She saw no vehicles or signs of life. There was one large wire to the property. Probably electricity.
After another pass, she drove to the date farm and tourist center and headed into the store.
There were lots of cars in the front parking lot, but not many people inside. A plethora of date food products, nuts, dried fruits, culinary crap, and tourist souvenirs packed the store. She walked over to a deli counter and asked an old man, “Where are all the people? The lot is packed.”
“On a tour of the packing plant. Busy this time of year, ya know. National Date Festival and all.” He pointed to a poster that advertised the ten-day event. Right next to it was a poster for the upcoming Coachella Music Festival. “It’s a big deal around here,” the man continued. “Brings in two hundred thousand visitors during the whole festival. The music brings in even more.” He scratched his chin.
“Do you know anything about the property next door? I’m in the market.”
“It used to be a date farm. The owner died and the place was bought and sold a few times. It’s closed now. Some developer is trying to buy it. Build more houses, ya know.”
She had to credit Matt. The man could sniff a good business opportunity. He bought a huge chunk of land, sat on it, waited for it to appreciate.
“Have you ever met the owner?”
“Nope. Get my information second-hand. The owner should sell though. It’s worth millions.”
“Do you know the developer?”
“Naw. But it’s probably the same company that built the houses on the other side.”
“Anyone work there?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Four years.”
“In four years, you’ve never seen anybody over there?”
“Doesn’t mean no one ever does. I just don’t see it, that’s all.”
Birdie bought a bottle of water and thanked the man for his time.
She leaned against the outside wall. Studied the property. A dark shape ducked behind a stack of crates. She watched a big black dog emerge from the other side. The man may not have seen anybody in four years, but someone must feed the guard dog.
Birdie drove back toward the center of town and dropped into a drug store. She used the self-help digital processing machine to develop the pictures. Then she went to a grocery store and bought a hunk of meat for the dog.
Back in her hotel room she compared the photos and the printed satellite images to the blueprints. She pieced together the layout. It fit quite nicely. The stacked fruit crates were outlined on the blueprint as new construction. The existing buildings matched. But there was one crucial feature missing. A pool. None was visible from overhead or from the street. She hoped all the computer research and surreptitious activity led her to the right place. All she could do at this point was pray that she hadn’t got it wrong.
At ten p.m. Birdie was wide awake, lying on a too-soft bed with a too-fat pillow. She couldn’t get comfortable. Intrusive thoughts of her captivity and Denis’ role kept creeping into her brain. The minutes ticking past on the clock just made her more agitated. So she made a call.
“Silva,” answered George.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I just got home. Been working all day. What are you doing?”
“Calling to say thank you for staying with me last night.”
“You’re welcome. Where are you? Your cousins are looking for you.”
“I know. They’ve been leaving messages on my cell.”
“Thom wants me to call if I hear from you.”
“I don’t want to be found.”
“Going to tell me where you are?”
“No.”
“Hold on. Someone’s at my door.” George put the phone down and Birdie didn’t hear anything for a moment. Then she heard shuffling. George cussing in Spanish. A Caucasian voice cussing in English. The conflict moved closer to the phone. It sounded like a fight. She heard a crash like a fallen lamp, a body slammed against furniture, cluttered noise, objects being broken. Then she heard a sound she knew too well. A gunshot.
She covered her mouth and suppressed a cry. Then the call dropped.
She screamed into the fat pillow.
Her cell rang.
“OHMYGOD. What the hell happened?”
“Birdie?” said Ron. “Why aren’t you at home? What’s wrong?”
She screamed at him. Told him something about being on the phone, a home invasion, fighting, a gunshot. Get help for George!
“Give me his address. I’ll take care of it,” he said in a calm voice.
She rattled off the address.
“I’ll call you back. Don’t answer for anybody but me. No matter what.” He rang off.
How far was this going to go? Did someone else have to die?
forty-three
Thursday, February 9
Day 272. At 4 a.m. the vibrating cell phone shook Birdie from slumber. She couldn’t believe she’d actually fallen asleep. It was Ron.
“George is going to be okay.”
“What happened?”
“Two guys came to his door looking for your whereabouts. He was caught by surprise. Mostly his pride is hurt. He took one in the abdomen with his own damn gun in his own damn house. It was a clean exit.”
“This is my fault,” said Birdie, holding the phone away from her mouth to swallow the guilt that lodged in her throat. “He came by to check on me after I got sick at Denis’ house. I asked him to stay. I never thought that it would put him in danger.”
“Yeah, he told me you’d feel responsible.”
“You spoke with him?”
“I’ve seen him. I’m here in L.A.”
“Why would they go after George? What does he have to do with this?”
“Nothing. I suspect your house is being watched. They saw him arrive late, leave early, and go straight to work. The first opportunity to catch him alone was when he went home.”
“What about Arthur?”
“No one knows where he is. George told me that Denis is missing. I didn’t tell him I already knew.”
As Birdie gathered gear together and stuffed it into her backpack, she confessed to Ron all the details about her evidence recovery plan.
“I knew you were lying! I never should’ve left you alone!”
“Calm down. I’d figure out a way to get this done anyway.”
“You’re in no shape to take this on alone. I’ll meet you.”
“No. I need you to stay. Keep my cous
ins diverted. I don’t know for certain that the evidence boxes are here. I know you’re worried. But please, please, I need your support right now, not your condescension.”
“Look, Birdie, I’m impressed by your abilities as a journalist to dig deep at stories and uncover the truth. To keep you safe is asking you to deny who you are and what you’re compelled to do. But this is dangerous. Don’t you see?”
“You must respect my independence. I have to do this. Sooner rather than later. I won’t be able to heal until this is behind me.”
“Do you honestly think your life will magically return to normal if you do?”
“Tell me, Ron, what’s normal?”
There was a long silence before Ron finally said, “Assure me again you didn’t tell anyone about Matt’s property.”
“No one.”
“Let’s hope the damn boxes are there. Do you want me to call your ADA friend?”
“No. He has to stay completely clean.”
“Keep a low profile. Don’t answer your cell unless it’s me.”
“Understood.” She double-checked the backpack contents, scooped up the recon photos, opened the mini fridge and grabbed the meat. Her senses worked at a heightened level. She felt the adrenaline pump through her veins, firing nerves, making her feel like she could fly. At that moment she could conquer anything.
“Go now while it’s still dark,” said Ron. “Kill the headlights before you get to the property. Park the van out of sight. Get in, get the boxes, get out.”
“I know what to do.”
“Do you have your Sig?”
“Loaded and ready to go.”
“Do you have a flashlight?”
“Stop it. I have a flashlight.”
“Be smart. Be safe. Don’t do anything stupid.”
As Birdie hung up the phone, she was glad she hadn’t mentioned the guard dog. He’d really go off on that tidbit.
forty-four
Birdie caught all greens and pushed the van to nearly eighty mph on Highway 111. She parked on the street near the farm. It was dark, but there weren’t any darker shadows lurking. She got out of the van and pulled on the padlocked chain securing the gate. Reluctantly, she turned on the flashlight and held it between her throat and chin and flipped through Matt’s keys until she found one that looked right. Not the right one. She tried another. And another. One more. This time, the padlock popped open with a slight tug. As quietly as she could, she unwound the heavy chain and pushed open the gate. She drove the van through and wrapped the unlocked chain back around the fence.
She visualized the layout from the photos she’d studied. Straight ahead was a stack of fruit crates four high. Behind them were two more. On the right, crates were stacked eight high. She gently steered the van to hide it behind the taller stack. She backed it between two stacks. She slung the backpack over a shoulder, checked the gun under her left arm, grabbed the Maglite, rested the meat on top of the pack.
Okay doggie. I’m ready for you.
She stood still, listening, and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Dawn would break soon. Taking a deep breath, she crept from crate stack to crate stack until she was closer to the farm’s buildings. According to the blueprint there was a pool. That’s where she wanted to start. It was the Big Kahuna clue. Was there one here? With her back to the nearest building she moved farther away from the street.
On the left was an unmistakable light shining from underneath a door. She squatted to look under, but couldn’t get the angle. She knelt down on her knees, lowered her torso forward against the ground and pressed her damaged cheek into the dirt.
She peered under the door but didn’t see anything except bright artificial light. Then she heard it. The sound of a dog sniffing. A big black nose explored the bottom of the door. It started to growl. A man’s groggy voice said, “What do you smell boy? Got yourself a rat?” The dog started barking.
The light was extinguished.
The man on the other side of the door probably knew the layout of these buildings better than she. Birdie got objective with her situation. What were the options? One: she could wait for the man to come out. Two: there could be another door and the man would come in behind her. Three: he was waiting for her to enter. Four: he could have taken off, leaving the dog. Five: she could turn and run like hell.
She went with five.
Birdie dumped the meat out of its plastic bag and ran. She wasn’t even to the first crate stack when the door creaked open and the dog ran after her, ignoring the select piece of meat. She decided to run toward the van. Thirty yards at most. It never occurred to her to turn and shoot the dog following her. She ran around a crate stack and another until the back bumper came into view. Just when she thought she’d make the van, the dog clamped his mouth on the heel of her steel-toed Wolverine boot. He brought her down. She rolled over to reach for the gun tucked into the holster under her left arm. Just as she got her hand on the grip, the dog jumped up on her chest. She was certain the dog was going to tear her face apart. She screamed bloody murder.
Then she heard the pumping of a shotgun and the words “Don’t move.”
A dark figure stood behind the gun.
It’s not like she had anyplace to go. A big-ass dog was on her chest, his teeth inches away from her face.
She challenged the man. “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.
He chuckled. “What the hell are you doing? Can’t you read?”
“Read what?”
“The signs on the fence. They say private property, no trespassing.”
Of course. “That’s right,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “I own this property. You’re the trespasser.”
The man commanded the dog to retreat. It took a position three feet away and bared its teeth in a perverted dog grin. “Git up,” the man said. “Toss the pack. Put your hands on your head.” She did as told. He took her gun and pack, then motioned with the shotgun and marched her back. “Open the door and slowly step into the room,” he said. “Turn on the light.”
“What about the dog?”
“Don’t worry ’bout the dog.”
She felt the wall for the switch. She squinted into the light and turned to face him, slowly backing farther into the room, hands still up. The man was maybe twenty-five, shaved head, dragon tattoo on his neck, no facial hair. Probably had a mug shot.
“What’s your name?” he said, gun still pointed at her chest.
“None of your damn business.”
“Lady, let’s git on with this. What’s your name?”
What did she have to lose? “Birdie Keane,” she said.
“ID?”
She ticked her head toward the backpack hanging off his arm. “In there. Front pocket.”
He put both guns on a table and held up his hand in warning. He pulled out a passport and compared the image with the one standing before him. “I’m Warren. I’ve been expecting you for weeks. What took so long?”
“I don’t know you,” she said, relaxing a bit. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m the caretaker. Was told that a woman named Birdie would be coming to git something.” He tossed the backpack to her and she hooked it over her shoulder.
She looked around the small square room. It contained the basics: a cot, table, two chairs, a mini fridge, microwave, a plastic water jug on the edge of the table. The dog sat at attention, eyes glued on her. He had picked up the meat and it sat nearby; ready to be eaten when given permission.
“Who’s your employer?” she said.
“Don’t know. I git a check from a lawyer in Beverly Hills. Look lady, just git what you need. I wanna go home.”
“Show me where.”
Warren shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what you want. Or where it is.”
She a
nxiously studied Warren. He looked untrustworthy, yet she needed to believe that Matt had arranged for him to protect the property until she arrived.
“Okay,” she said, “Is there a swimming pool on the property?”
“An empty one. I’ll show you.”
The pool was covered with a massive desert camo tarpaulin rendering it invisible to the satellite. With Warren’s help they rolled it up.
“Start packing,” said Birdie.
Warren gave a nod and turned toward the building. Before her was a classic kidney-shaped swimming pool with about a foot of muck at the bottom. Now what? She leaned on her knees and sat back on the heels of her trusty boots. She spread the blueprints on the dirt and flipped the pages. She didn’t understand. The buildings, pool, and crate stacks were on the blueprints, but where was the evidence? She looked around in all directions. Crates. More crates. She didn’t bother inspecting them; Matt would’ve protected the evidence from the elements.
She studied a decrepit tractor: an old John Deere row-crop that had once been bright green. She climbed up in the seat and pressed the start button. Nothing. Not like she could start it anyway. She didn’t have the key. Or did she? She pulled out Matt’s key ring and looked for an uncommon one. There was an extra long one with a rubber cap. She removed it from the ring and poked it into the ignition and turned the key to the right. She pressed the start button again and the tractor thundered to life.
Warren came out to watch, shotgun over his elbow, broke open in safe position. He stood next to the tractor and yelled, “I figured this thing didn’t work.”
“Just because something is old and rundown doesn’t mean anything. Where’s the dog?”
“Eatin’ his treat. Do you know how to drive it?” he said.
“It has a clutch and gears. How hard can it be?” She gripped the gearshift and ground it to what she believed was first. The tractor argued and spat out black smoke, but it slowly jerked forward.
Warren turned his interest behind the tractor. Buried under the ground, a heavy chain attached to the back of the tractor snapped out of the dirt as the vehicle moved. It was attached to a large metal plate that slid forward to reveal an opening in the ground.
