“I’ll be just a minute, Honey. I promise,” the driver said to the pretty redhead in the passenger seat before slamming the door shut and dashing toward the building.
The driver, a forty-two year old woman who practiced the alternative life-style, scurried up the porch steps, her harness boots slapping against the wooden slats as if on a boardwalk in an old western town. She wore a blue, green, and white plaid flannel shirt tucked into a stone-washed pair of 501s.
At five-foot-ten-inches tall, she tipped the scales at nearly one-hundred-eighty pounds. Solid muscle, not fat. Decades of fishing and playing softball in the sun had blazed permanent ruts in her face. Her big hazel eyes looked like moss-covered boulders against her ruddy complexion that resembled a four-wheel-drive trail. Hair, the color of burnt almonds and cut in a no-frills pixie, topped her head like the roof on a grass hut. She possessed a look of masculinity some men could only ever dream of emulating. She burst through the door.
“Sheriff! Thought you had the day off. What are you doin’ here?” the twenty-two year old man in uniform asked, quickly removing his lounging size fourteen feet from the desk top. His hawk-brown eyes glanced nervously down at the floor, his milky white face suddenly ablaze to match the color of his hair: red. The big boss had caught him loafing.
“Scumbags don’t take time off,” she replied with a raspy chuckle, hustling past him toward her office. Not really there to work, she was just stopping by to pick up the purchase order form she had promised to drop off to Sheriff Wadison on her way to the cabin to go fishing. Since her county was small and so was Wadison’s, they often combined supply orders to save money. This one was for road safety flares. Unfortunately, she forgot the paperwork last night when she left. Remembered this morning fifty minutes into the drive. Had to turn around, drive back to grab them.
Her big leathery hands sifted through the pile of yellow, pink, and eggshell sheets that haphazardly formed a mini leaning Tower of Pisa on her well-used metal desk.
The building suddenly groaned. A giveaway someone had come through the front door. “Shit, Lilly can’t be that anxious to go fishing,” she muttered to herself.
“Express letter for Clarkston. Sheriff Jodie
Clarkston,” an unfamiliar male voice announced.
Who would be sending her anything urgent enough to be delivered overnight? After all, she was the sheriff in a podunk county. The mysterious case of the tomato tossers who had, with blatant premeditation, assaulted dozens of defenseless rural mail boxes across the county, was the last exciting crime spree she had solved. “Bored high school kids,” she reminisced. She had caught the perpetrators red-handed, literally with juice and seeds from over-ripe tomatoes leaking between their fingers, all over their clothes and dripping inside the cab of the old pickup.
Certainly, she was capable of solving larger crimes. But in farm country, aside from reffing the occasional spat at high school athletic games between agitated parents, or simmering down the drunken rampage of eighty-seven year old Bud Payson driving his old John Deere through his neighbor’s wheat fields, the opportunity never really presented itself.
Leaning her head around the corner of her office door, “I’m Clarkston. Sheriff Jodie Clarkston,” she said, curiosity in her voice,
The delivery man, a boy really, shuffled to her office door. He wore baggy khakis that intentionally hung low, hovering at the peaks of his buttocks. An oversized brown and hunter green striped T-shirt flowed around his upper body like a garbage sack. Handing her the envelope, he stuffed an electronic device with attached pen at her gut and said, “Sign here.”
Clarkston scanned the towheaded kid. Transplant from California, she concluded. Signing the screen, she handed the boy a dollar tip.
Snatching up the buck, the kid nodded a thank-you and skipped out the door. The building groaned again.
Her young deputy, the one she had caught daydreaming with propped up feet on the desk, popped his head into her office. His eyes were wide, the size of quarters. “What is it, Sheriff? What’s in the envelope?”
“Don’t know yet,” she said, gently tapping the office door closed in his face with the tip of her boot. He was a nice enough kid, but he was just that: a wet-behind-the-ears kid. She didn’t have the patience for him today, especially not now. Not with the special delivery letter. Could this be the big break she had been waiting for? The one that would get her out of the sticks and into the big city? For months, she had submitted her application and resume for consideration as a homicide detective to dozens of counties and cities across the country. Nothing. Maybe this would be her lucky day. Noticing the return address, “Shit. New Greensburgh,” she said, disappointment eclipsing hope. “I didn’t put my application in there ... or did I?”
Curiosity about what could be inside the envelope was devouring Sheriff Jodie Clarkston like a voracious flesh-eating disease caught on a time-lapse camera. Yet fear of disappointment made her hold onto the unopened letter a few moments longer. Plopping down in the rickety swivel chair behind her desk, she pressed the letter to her chest, basking in the notion the contents of the letter could be the beginning of a new career. A new life.
The building groaned.
Clarkston snapped out of her daydream. She had forgotten about Lilly. There would be hell to pay.
Not bothering with a letter opener, she ripped off the top of the envelope, dumped it upside down, and waited for the contents to drop out as if it were a birthing process.
First a mini cassette tape. Then a crudely drawn map.
Jodie gazed at them as if they were magic beans.
TAP-TAP. The office door whined as it opened, Lilly’s head protruded.
Lilly Rochester was a lesbian, but she didn’t have the look. To an outsider, she and Jodi would seem to be an odd couple if there ever was one. Her hair was long and flowing, slightly curled and dyed a rich, deep red; the color of bricks. She always wore makeup: mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, and pale pink lipstick. And always jewelry. Big hoop earrings. Bangle bracelets. Dainty chains. Even when the occasion was a camping or fishing trip.
Short and slim, Lilly was five-foot-two-inches, one-hundred-four pounds. She wore a pastel pink Hard Rock Cafe Salt Lake City sweatshirt bloused out over tight-fitting blue jeans. Size six hiking boots with bright pink laces completed the thirty-six year old’s outfit. “Jod, are you ready?” she asked, annoyance in her voice.
Waving her hand for Lilly to enter her office, “Uh, I got an express overnight delivery and I think I’ve got something kind of important here,” Clarkston said, pointing at the cassette and map.
Lilly entered, shut the door behind her and parked on top of the desk, eyeing the contents of the envelope. “What is this stuff? Who’s it from?”
“Don’t know on both counts.”
Looking at the paper for a moment, she tossed it back on Jodie’s desk. “A kid sent you a map, huh? To what?”
“Don’t know that either,” Clarkston said, staring at the map and tape.
“For godsakes, Jod, how about doing a little police work. Play the frickin’ tape!”
Clarkston looked up, “So you won’t be sore with me ... I mean, if we go to the cabin later?”
“Hell no! This looks more exciting than trying to outwit a few dumb trout.”
Sheriff Clarkston pushed the play button, dialed the volume to maximum. “Hello. This is Julia Andrasy. If you’re listening to this tape, it’s because something has happened to me....”
The women listened as Jewels’ recorded voice revealed the details of her bizarre adventure, beginning with the urgent phone call from her friend, then to the fiasco in the diner where the friend passed her a map with SPOF scrawled across the top, warned her not to trust the old times, and made her promise not to give the SPOF map to police before dying of a stab wound to the gut, and finally ending with someone in a green Dodge pickup truck following her.
“You now know as much as I do at this point,” Jewels’ recorded voice conclu
ded. “Please take it from here. Find out who murdered Sharon Marie Jeppson. No doubt, it has something to do with the map. And, please...,” Jewels’ voice quivered. Pausing to gain composure, she cleared her throat, “Please, find me.”
Silence.
Jodie and Lilly stared at the recorder, their faces ashen.
“Oh, one more thing....”
They both reflexively flinched as Jewels’ voice blared through the speakers again.
“Remember Sharon’s dying words of warning, Don’t trust the old times. I haven’t figured out what that means yet, but hopefully you’ll have better luck. I thank you now, in advance, for everything I’m sure you’re about to do to help me. God bless.”
The tape continued to turn a few more minutes, void of words. When it reached the end, the PLAY button automatically clicked off.
Lilly was the first to speak up. “Here’s your chance, Jod. Show the world what you’ve got. It’s obvious Julia thought...,” she caught herself referring to Jewels as if she were dead, made the correction, and continued, “thinks very highly of you and your police skills.”
Jodie pushed her hair up her forehead, remembering how she first met Jewels. It was seven years ago at the Republican Party convention. Jewels was a state delegate and Jodie was making a bid for the Sheriff’s seat of Westmoreland County. Though Jewels was not in Jodie’s county, she took a special interest in Jodie when the subject of guns and gun control became the topic of discussion. Jodie professed her belief in punishing criminals and not law-abiding citizens. She also stated she believed a well armed society coupled with a swift and appropriate justice system were the best ways to deter crime. Jewels then offered to help Jodie with her campaign. And help she did. Not only by donating funds, but by volunteering time.
Jewels and her husband were at Jodie’s house election night and had celebrated into the wee hours of the morning the sweet victory of unseating the four term incumbent.
Jodie fondly reflected how her sexual preference was a non-issue to Jewels and never came between their friendship or respect for one another.
Lilly rubbed Jodie’s shoulders. “She’s betting her life on you, Jod. On your detective skills.”
Jodie had been following the news about the disappearance of her millionaire friend. But until now, hadn’t given much thought to actually working on solving the case herself. The envelope changed that. Her perspective was different now. Jewels had confided in her for help. And help she would get.
“What are you gonna do, Jod?” Lilly asked, finishing the neck rub before plopping her butt down in a chair.
“I’m gonna find Jewels,” Jodie replied, pounding a determined fist on the desk top.
Lilly beamed. She hadn’t seen Jodie this alive since ... well, she couldn’t remember when!
“I guess I should start by getting in touch with the FBI guy who’s heading the investigation. What’s his name?”
“Uh, Hines, I think. Theodore Hines.”
Searching through her law enforcement directory, Clarkston found his number. Dialed.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
“You’ve reached the FBI, Special Agent In Charge, Theodore Hines. Leave your name, a brief message, and I’ll call you back.” BEEP.
“This is Sheriff Clarkston. It’s about eleven-ten Saturday morning. I just received an overnight envelope from Julia Andrasy with a map and an audio cassette tape. Please call me immediately, I would like to coordinate rescue strategies with you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
11:13 A.M. FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines sat at his kitchen table nursing a cup of black coffee. Pouring over the information on the Andrasy case, he fretted how the MTAF bastards had swiped the case out from under his nose.
The little black beeper tucked in the pocket of his starched crisp white shirt vibrated; someone had just left him a message at the office.
Immediately he called his office, pressed the code to retrieve the message, listened. His eyes narrowed, mouth crimped. “Goddammit,” he fumed, slamming down the phone.
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy blue Armani suit pants, he paced the floor. Thinking. His red and white striped tie swung back and forth around his neck like a pendulum ticking away precious time.
He dialed the number the sheriff had left.
“Westmoreland County Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Baxter—”
“Sheriff Clarkston, right away,” Hines demanded.
“One moment, Sir,” he replied, putting him on hold.
After a few seconds: “This is Sheriff Clarkston.”
“Agent Hines.”
“Wow! Quick message return. Were you in the office?”
“No. Just got paged. Have you listened to the tape?”
“Yes.”
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone with a cupped hand, he turned his head away from the phone. “Shit!”
“Excuse me? What did you say?” Clarkston asked.
“Nothing. Sorry, sneezed.”
“Oh, God bless you. Uh, as I was saying—”
“Does anyone else know about the tape?”
“No.”
“Good. Sheriff, it’s important I meet with you immediately and it’s imperative no one knows about this. And I mean no one. Not your best friend, even if that happens to be your dog. Miz Andrasy’s life may depend on it.”
“Certainly. I understand.”
“Good.” Glancing up at the digital clock on the microwave, “Meet me at my office in Salt Lake in forty minutes.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Oh, yeah, and what kind of car will you be driving?”
“A white Ford Expedition with a light bar on the roof.”
“Okay, fine. Just remember, don’t tell anyone about this. And don’t mention you’re meeting me,” Hines said, hanging up the phone.
Rapidly massaging his hands together for a moment, he punched numbers into the phone.
After six rings: “Hello?” The man’s voice was thick with sleep.
“Wingate! Get your ass up. I need the chopper.”
“Hines? Is that you?”
“Fuck no. It’s your fairy godmother,” Hines said throwing his hands up in frustration. “Hell yes it’s me, you jackass. See you on the pad in fifteen minutes.”
• • •
SHERIFF CLARKSTON’S OFFICE. “Anal retentive prick,” Jodie mumbled in response to Hines’ rude hang-up.
“What’s the deal?” Lilly asked.
“Wants me to drive to Salt Lake. Meet him at his office. Doesn’t want anyone to know about the map or tape and he doesn’t want me to tell anyone I am going to meet with him.”
Lilly’s brows pinched. “You didn’t tell him I heard the tape and saw the map?”
“Hell no.”
Lilly stared blankly at the door, thinking. Then: “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“What?”
“That he doesn’t want you to tell anyone you’re going to meet with the FBI.”
Jodie shrugged. “Not really, I mean under the circumstances. You know, Jewels is one of the rich and famous.”
“Whatever. Still seems weird to me,” Lilly said, wiping imaginary dirt from her hands onto her pants.
Dropping the map and cassette tape back into the envelope, she tucked it under her arm and faced Lilly. “Hon, I gotta go. Would you mind if I have Baxter drive you home?”
Lilly smiled thinly. “Nah. I’ll be fine. You go catch the bad guys and save your friend.”
Jodie thanked her, pecked her on the lips, whispered, “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” Lilly shouted as Jodie vanished from the room.
Lilly was about to hit up Baxter for a ride home, but at the last minute didn’t. Strolling to the overstuffed executive chair behind Jodie’s desk, she collapsed into it. A gnawing feeling in her gut wouldn’t let her cast the thoughts of the tape and the FBI man’s bizarre behavior into h
er mind’s shredder.
Snooping through Jodie’s desk drawers, she found a tablet and pen and jotted down her thoughts.
Julia Andrasy SPOF Map Tape FBI Theodore Hines Secrets Murder Kidnapping Don’t trust the old times
Then she sat there, doodling with the words. Scribbling over the top of the dore part of Theodore, she was drawn to study it. Came up with nothing.
Goofing off, she pretended to be an FBI agent. Twirling around in Jodie’s chair with the end of the pencil to her mouth like it was a CB microphone in her hand, she announced: “This is the F-B-I. We know everything about everyone because we’re control freaks and I’m the head freak, Theeeooo Hiiiines.”
Suddenly she stopped twirling, sat straight up in the chair, eyes bulging. “Oh ... my ... god. Sharon wasn’t saying don’t trust the old times, she was saying, don’t trust Theo Hines!”
Lilly sprinted out of Jodie’s office. “Get Jodie on the radio, right now,” she screamed to Baxter, who had settled back to loafing behind a desk, reading a western novel.
Rocketing to his feet, “What’s up?”
“Just call Jodie now,” Lilly ranted, wildly gesturing with her hands. “Her life could be in danger.”
Dashing to the radio, Baxter hailed Jodie’s call sign.
Nothing.
Immediately tried again.
Still nothing.
• • •
“Head out toward Westmoreland County, the back road,” Hines barked, adjusting the headset to cover his ears.
“Well a happy and cheery fuckin’ good morning to you, too, Theodore,” Wingate mumbled, stuffing the last bite of bagel into his chubby jowls.
Markus Pratt Wingate was Theodore Hines’ confidant. Long time partner. Best friend. And crime buddy. At age forty-four, Wingate had been Hines’ sidekick in the FBI for the last thirteen years. The two rose to the status of national crime-solving celebrities by orchestrating elaborate crimes, then solving them.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 27
