Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2

by Mark S. Bacon

  Stunned into near immobility, Kate fought inertia and got to her feet. She had to move.

  If Stark didn’t stab his stepfather, someone else did. She and Lyle had developed a list of suspects before settling on Stark. The murderer was out there and probably thinking he or she was in the clear. Kate shuffled through the list of suspects in her head. Who really wanted that bastard Busick dead--and stood to gain from it? She thought back to the column by Gale Forrester. His article started the chain of events, and Marge Drysdale was the key. A Rockin’ Summer Days board member, she knew everyone in town, and she talked to Forrester. But Marge Drysdale would not want to talk to her. The last time Kate saw Drysdale, at the hospital, she seemed afraid--of Kate or something else--and exchanged but a few words.

  She or Lyle could try to threaten Drysdale into telling what she knew--but Kate didn’t think it would work. Marge would clam up, withdraw. She needed Drysdale as a credible witness, if not an ally, and certainly not an adversary. Kate had to find out everything that happened prior to and just after Forrester’s column appeared.

  Drysdale knew Louise Busick. She picked her up from the hospital. And Kate hit it off with Louise. Maybe she could get Louise to be her intermediary.

  Chapter 65

  If Sergeant Waldman expected Lyle to hang around the PD to give more testimony or wait until detectives decided they would charge him with something, he was mistaken. Lyle sat outside in his car parked on the street waiting for Stark.

  When someone told you he didn’t have an alibi for a murder, that he was at home by himself, you didn’t necessarily check it. You checked alibis, not confessions that a person was alone. Why did Stark fear the police? Why did he want to leave the country? Lyle pounded himself with questions. Then he had an idea. He pulled out his cell phone and went to the Southwest Airlines app to check schedules. Then he called Rey Martinez’s cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. Lyle phoned the office.

  “I’m sorry, Undersheriff Martinez is testifying in court.”

  “This is an emergency,” Lyle said. “Please get a message to him any way you can.” Lyle explained the nature of the emergency, as he had on Rey’s voice mail.

  A few minutes later, Lyle saw a gray Chevy Malibu pull into the police parking lot. He couldn’t be sure, but the driver looked like Viktor. After a few more minutes, Stark came out and got in the Chevy.

  Lyle knew that Stark and Viktor were well acquainted with his now dirty, dusty Mustang, so he stayed as far back from them as he could and still keep them in sight. After a few miles, Lyle was not entirely surprised to see them pull up to the entrance gate to Stark’s storage facility. As Viktor punched in the entrance code, Lyle parked. When the Chevy drove in, Lyle ran up to the gate. The car stopped three-quarters of the way down the first aisle and Stark got out. Lyle watched through a chain link fence as Stark unlocked the roll-up storage door and walked inside. He came out a few minutes later.

  Although fifty or sixty yards away, Lyle still could see Stark held nothing in his arms as he got back in the car. Whatever he retrieved from storage fit in a pocket--or holster. Lyle ran back to his Mustang and drove into a strip mall parking lot across the street to wait and see which way Stark would head. Viktor drove south toward Vassar Street, then turned west. Lyle stayed more than a block behind them, almost losing them at a signal.

  When Lyle’s phone rang, he groped around for it on the passenger seat, not daring to take his eyes off the gray Chevy.

  “Okay, got your message,” Martinez said. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Go to the website of Busick Pony Cars and download the picture of Rick Stark. Stark has a record, too. You might be able to get a mugshot that way.”

  “Okay, then what do I do?”

  “Can you print the picture of Stark and include it in a photo lineup for Dario Galluzzo?”

  “Can do, but I don’t get it. You think this Stark guy is your desert murderer?”

  “Long story, Rey, but I’m pretty sure Stark was in Nostalgia City with the Busick Pony Cars exhibit at our little car show. Somehow Shaun Harris tried to sell him the blue Firebird. Stark and these guys he’s with would have seen through Harris’s scam, and Stark is easily unhinged. Just the kind of hothead to shoot him on the spot. He claims he was on a flight to Reno from Vegas the day after I found the body. I checked with the airline. The flight started in Phoenix then changed planes in Vegas. If he killed Shaun Harris he would have had plenty of time to help cover up the crime and fly to Reno.”

  “So if Galluzzo IDs Stark--”

  “That should give the Reno PD enough to hold Stark until they can put together other evidence. I know some places they can look. Did you arrest Dario for car theft?”

  “Had to. Released without bail. I know where he is.”

  ***

  “Thanks so much, Louise,” Kate said sitting in the massive Busick living room overlooking Lake Tahoe. A stone fireplace soared up more than two stories to a beamed ceiling. Kate knew she would find a Stickley label under all the furniture, and the carpet felt as thick as quicksand.

  “You don’t deserve to get hung with Al’s murder, honey.”

  “How are you faring?”

  “Cancer-wise? I’ve got a treatment scheduled, but they haven’t told me I’m going to be pushing up daises soon. Besides, I’m flying to Vegas in a few days to kick butt and take names at the dealerships.”

  Earlier, Kate worried that Rick had told his mother about her. But Kate saw Rick as a neglectful son, and she bet he hadn’t told his mother about his $2-million deal, his planned escape from the country--or Kate’s attempt to pin the murder on him. Kate confirmed her assumption on the phone when Louise graciously agreed to put her together with an unsuspecting Marge Drysdale.

  Louise had liquor, glasses, and a bucket of ice sitting on the coffee table. It wasn’t quite five o’clock, but Louise didn’t follow standard etiquette, or standard anything. Louise offered Drysdale a scotch when she walked in. Drysdale took three steps into the cavernous living room before she spotted Kate. She froze.

  “Relax, Margie,” Louise said putting a double shot of Johnny Walker Blue in her hand.

  It took two good sips of scotch and entreaties from Louise to get Drysdale to sit down on the couch facing Kate and two more sips to get her to say something.

  Liquoring up witnesses is beginning to be my MO, Kate thought. Well, in vino veritas. Scotch, too.

  “Louise seems to trust you,” Drysdale said, holding on to her glass for stability.

  “Hell, Marge, even if Kate here did stab old Al, what do you care? You hated him, too. You told me.”

  “Yes, well, he could be unpleasant. Um, most unpleasant.”

  “I assure you Mrs. Drysdale, much as we all disliked Mr. Busick, I had nothing to do with his murder. What I’m trying to find out is, what happened the day before his murder. Now we all know--” Kate glanced at Louise then back at Drysdale. “--that Al dreamed up the plan to move RSD to Vegas.”

  It didn’t seem possible that Marge Drysdale could purse her lips any tighter than they already were, but when Kate mentioned moving RSD, her lips all but disappeared.

  Kate realized Marge was afraid someone would find out that she agreed to the plan at first. That’s why she tried to cancel the story with Forrester. She let silence linger.

  Eventually, Drysdale spoke. “Al told me you were going to steal RSD and move it to Arizona. I didn’t see how you could, but Al insisted.” She looked expectantly at Louise then Kate. “Then he said he could save it, keep it in Nevada--split it with Vegas. But he was a liar.”

  The increased intensity of Drysdale’s voice made Kate think Marge herself could have stuck Al with the cake knife. She looked old, but wiry.

  “I thought if everyone knew about this plan, it could never work,” Drysdale said. “That’s why I told Gale Forrester. Al said he’d get away with it because of your amusement park.”

  This confirmed what Kate had already pres
umed, but again, Al’s scheme would only reinforce her motive for whacking him. Now for what she really needed to know. “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “Yes, I told Chris--Mr. Easley. He’s such a dear, I thought he deserved to know about Al’s scheme.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yes,” Drysdale said holding her refilled glass in her lap. “I saw my friend Lisa Teague that evening. I mentioned it to her, too. I was so upset, I had to confide in someone.”

  Chapter 66

  Stark and Viktor taxed Lyle’s surveillance abilities to the max. Hanging back as far as he dared, Lyle followed the pair west of downtown to what Lyle assumed was Stark’s apartment. The two-story, dark wood and stucco building sat on a corner, affording Lyle several options for parking. His binoculars allowed him to stay a block away and still watch them come and go. Both men walked up a broad wooden stairway and went into an apartment.

  A half hour later, as Lyle listened to the Moody Blues doing “Knights in White Satin,” he saw Viktor and Stark come out, wheeling suitcases. Not a good sign.

  “Going on a trip?” Lyle said to himself.

  The cases went in the trunk and the Chevy drove back toward downtown. Heading east, with the sunset at Lyle’s back, meant Viktor might not be able to see him clearly with the descending sun glaring in the rearview. Lyle advanced on the Chevy, when Viktor pulled into a block-long parking lot on North Virginia Street. Lyle parked at the other end of the lot. He could see four bank buildings, two across the street, one adjacent to the lot and the fourth a half block away. Again using his binoculars, he watched Stark get out of the car, walk to the corner, and cross a busy intersection to one of the banks. He held a manila envelope.

  Free from his car that identified him like a searchlight, Lyle followed on foot. Stark walked away from Viktor’s car so Lyle didn’t have to risk being seen by the Chechen. Lyle waited at the curb and watched Stark walk into the bank. Giving Stark a couple of minutes head start, Lyle crossed at an adjacent corner and went inside. Stark stood in front of someone’s desk on the far side of the airy, open office. Several people waited in the teller line, giving Lyle enough cover to stand at a counter, pretending to fill out a form.

  The bank officer--whoever he was--smiled at Stark and gestured to a chair. Both men sat. The banker looked at his watch. Almost closing time. Stark placed the envelope on the desk. Guess he didn’t come in to rob the place, Lyle thought, then his phone rang. Two people in the teller line looked over at him. Lyle pulled the phone out of his pocket as quickly as he could. He turned away from Stark to answer.

  “Good news, Rey?”

  “Galluzzo identified Stark,” Rey said, “just like you said.”

  “Not surprised,” Lyle said walking slowly to the door he’d come in. “Hang on just a second.” He stepped outside. “Did he have trouble on the ID?”

  “Not at all. Picked him out right away. And I did a good photo lineup. Galluzzo said the guy made him nervous first time he saw him that day.”

  “Okay, Rey. Now here’s what I’d like you to do, if you don’t mind.”

  “I think we’re getting caught up on the balance of favors. But who’s counting.”

  “Obviously you are, O’Martinez.”

  “You want my help?”

  “Yes. Okay, I know you’re busy. I appreciate this.” Lyle gave Rey Sergeant. Waldman’s phone number. “Please tell him about the murder, the body in the desert, and Galluzzo’s ID. Waldman knows Stark talked about escaping the death penalty. The only difference is, we had him pegged for the wrong murder.”

  “You never have tiny problems do you, Lyle? And what about your blonde girlfriend?”

  “Why does everyone call her my girlfriend? She’s still on the hook. That’s the next tiny problem, once we get Stark in a cell.”

  “Need help with that other murder, too?”

  “Enough for now. Thanks. But could you also tell Waldman that Stark is in the Silverado State Bank downtown right now probably fortifying his estate. Tell him I saw Stark put suitcases in his car. He’ll know what that means.”

  “Be careful, amigo.”

  Lyle put his phone away and assessed his options. He could take down Stark inside the bank, but he wasn’t a cop anymore, and Stark seemed to be known there. Perhaps employees would come to his aid. And maybe Stark had a gun and someone might get shot. And possibly that someone could be me, Lyle thought.

  Better to grab him outside and wait for Waldman and backup.

  Ten minutes later, Stark walked out, a thin smile on his face. As soon as he saw Lyle, his smile broadened. Was he going to talk his way out, or what? The answer came in a lightning blow to the stomach that caught Lyle off guard. He doubled over, but didn’t hit the ground. He reached out to grab Stark by the coat, but the athletic, hair-trigger murderer danced away. Stark took a step toward the street and decided not to risk dashing through the fast-moving traffic. He turned and sprinted north along the sidewalk and away from the parking lot.

  Was he planning to circle around, call Viktor on his cell, or what? Just running was a losing game--provided Lyle could keep up. Stark still wore a suit and street shoes while Lyle wore rubber-soled loafers, but damn Stark was fast. He was half a block ahead before Lyle hit his stride, having absorbed the blow to his stomach.

  Stark took a right on a side street, and Lyle lost sight of him momentarily. Around the corner, Lyle saw the distance between them narrowing--just a little. At the next street, Stark ran through a red light. He dodged cars and just made it to the far curb when he slipped. He grabbed a signpost to steady himself, turned to look at Lyle, then took off again. By the time Lyle reached the intersection, the light had changed, and he kept running. Reno’s 4,000-foot-plus elevation didn’t slow Lyle. He normally jogged in the high desert at Nostalgia City.

  When Lyle closed the gap further, Stark turned and pulled out a gun. Lyle stopped. His semi-auto was still under the seat in his Mustang. Stark didn’t fire, just sneered and darted down another street. Lyle followed--a bit more cautiously. Getting killed trying to collar Stark wouldn’t help Kate, but Stark and his goons had nearly killed them. He couldn’t walk away.

  Stark slowed. The street dead-ended at the Truckee River. Lyle stopped, expecting Stark to turn and wave his gun at him again. Instead, Stark jumped down a small embankment and landed on the river jogging trail. Then he turned and fired.

  The shot hit the ground at Lyle’s feet. Blacktop grit flew in the air. Before Lyle could duck for cover, Stark ran on. He headed east, the sun low in the sky. Lyle followed and they both sprinted through the shadows under a bridge. Soon another bridge loomed ahead.

  Lyle picked up his pace and was less than twenty yards from Stark when he yelled out, “RIC-key, stop. RIC-key.”

  Raising his gun, Stark glared over his shoulder at Lyle as he ran under the bridge. This time, Lyle saw no homeless men on the trail, just a collection of sad-looking belongings piled high on a shopping cart. Stark crashed flat into the cart. Unable to cushion his fall, he knocked over the cart, landing face-first on top of it. His pistol flew down the trail. He struggled to get up. Lyle jumped on him in a second, pinning his arms behind him and forcing his body against the metal grocery cart.

  Chapter 67

  “I got into trouble letting you go,” Sergeant Waldman said when they were seated in the detective bureau.

  “Well, this’ll get you in good with your boss, ” Lyle said, “now that you have a murder you can pin on Stark. That fancy pistol of his is a Nighthawk nine.”

  “Yeah, engraving, custom grips--custom everything.”

  “I doubt it’ll match the slug the Yavapai County Sheriffs took out of the body, unless Stark flew up here from Phoenix with the gun in a checked bag. Or maybe the Chechens brought the murder weapon back with the custom cars from Nostalgia City, and Stark kept the gun down there.”

  “His condo in Vegas is going to be searched today,” Waldman said. “We’ll find out what guns he has. I wonder if h
e was planning on taking that Nighthawk with him to Europe. He had connecting flights to Barcelona.”

  “I think if you check his computer and his email accounts you’ll find he exchanged messages with Harris the day before the murder.”

  “We’re on that, too.

  “I know, but since our last case fell apart, I just want to be sure. Rey Martinez is a good cop. The Galluzzo ID will stand up. And you can check hotel--”

  “Yes, hotel and flight reservations in Nostalgia City and Phoenix. I got it. Now, start all over again from the beginning.”

  ***

  Kate’s smile held little brightness the next morning when she saw Lyle’s grimy Mustang pull up in the rear lot of the Atlantis Casino/Hotel. It’d been a long day and night. She’d learned Stark had an alibi for the Busick murder. Then, in desperation, she managed to set up a meeting and pry information out of Marge Drysdale. That accomplished, she eagerly awaited seeing Lyle, but he called late to say he captured Stark--again--this time for murdering the guy in the desert near Nostalgia City. He was exhausted after chasing Stark then sitting through hours of questioning. He worried he might miss someone following him from the police station. He said it would be safer if they got together the next morning, when he’d be clear-headed and able to ditch any tails the police tried to hang on him.

  She jumped in Lyle’s car and leaned over the console to give him a hug. She held tight for a second, then slumped into the seat, straightening the light jacket she wore over a tailored blouse and jeans.

  “I didn’t want to risk it last night,” Lyle said. “They did follow me. I let them tail me to my hotel so they’d be comfortable. Then I ditched them this morning.”

  “S’okay. I don’t want to see the cops until we know who really did it.”