by Mike Monson
“Sweet and this Phil Gaines’ wife ran off together with Phil Gaines’ money?”
“Yeah, and Gaines was totally pissed.”
Still perplexed, Murphy stared at Peele for a moment.
“I can imagine. And Phil Gaines lives here? In Modesto?”
“Long as I’ve known about him. Ten, twelve years.”
“And he robs banks?”
“He’s the best. Reason you haven’t heard of him maybe is that they always do their jobs somewhere else. Like Fresno, Bakersfield, Frisco, Sac, you know. He goes out of town to do his crimes.”
“Nice of him.”
“Like I said, he’s a smart guy.”
“Him and Jeff.”
“Right, two really smart criminals.”
Murphy stood up, sighed, walked around Peele one time and then sat back down. He sighed again and studied Peele’s dull eyes. Detective Murphy didn’t understand any of this, but he had the feeling he was being told the truth.
“Okay, let me get this straight. Phil Gaines and Jeff Sweet live here in Modesto and have been successfully doing crimes and we’ve never heard of them?”
“No one talks about those guys, man.”
“And why is that?”
“Dudes are vicious, like I said. No one wants to die.”
“But now you’re talking about them.”
“I have no choice. Besides, at least one of them is probably dead or will be soon. And hopefully you’ll catch the other one before he gets me. Or figure something out.”
“If I were you, I don’t think I’d like my chances.”
Peele stared toward the door.
“Let me worry about that.”
“Anyway,” Murphy said. “This Jeff Sweet and Paige Gaines did all the mayhem in Del Rio last night?”
“That’s right. Sweet claimed Briggs cheated him on a deal over some stolen cars and was gonna waste him until Briggs told him about Jack Dixon and the Schmitz job.”
“Dixon and Schmitz were close, right?”
“Wow, so you do know something, huh?”
“We try.”
“Yeah, so, hoping to save his ass, Briggs brought Jeff and Paige in on the Schmitz job with Dixon.”
“And then Paige and Jeff killed everyone including Dixon and Briggs?”
“Hey, I wasn’t there, I’m not sure who did what to who, but I know who got out alive at the end.”
“Jeff Sweet and Paige Gaines.”
“Right. And Phil Gaines.”
“Phil Gaines, too? He was there?”
“Exactly. You see that’s kind of the twist to the whole thing.”
“There’s a twist? Why am I not surprised?”
“Sweet made Briggs bring Gaines in on the job, which was easy ’cause he was broke—”
“’Cause Jeff and Paige had just stolen all his bank robbery loot?”
“Uh-huh, and Briggs told Gaines the family was gone to Europe and made it sound like just the two of them were going to do the Schmitz house.”
“And Sweet was supposed to be waiting for Gaines and Briggs and Dixon and then kill Gaines and Dixon and take all the money?”
“Dude, you’re catching on. But it wasn’t just money. Gold and diamonds. Couple million dollars’ worth.”
“And, somehow, Briggs dies too and Gaines gets away?”
“Uh huh …”
“And who has Jessica Schmitz?”
“Oh, it’s gotta be Paige and Jeff.”
“And why is that?”
“That Jeff Sweet, man, he’s all about the pussy. Dude can’t control himself. Everyone knows that.”
“So Mr. Sweet is on the loose somewhere with Paige Gaines and Jessica Schmitz?”
“Unless Phil Gaines has gotten to them by now.”
“And who has the gold and diamonds?”
“Fuck if I know. Like I told you, I wasn’t there.”
“How do you know all the crap you’re telling me?”
“Briggs told me. We were brothers, man.”
“Sounds like he shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, that’s probably why the poor bastard’s dead. Jeff knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Plus, there was the gold. And the diamonds.”
Peele looked at Murphy and grinned.
“Right. Jeff would probably want it all.”
16
“Do you recognize this man?” Murphy asked Barbara Leggett, the property manager at Tully Manor. She was a pretty, middle-aged woman wearing a blue pantsuit. He showed her a mug shot of a man in his early thirties named David Collins.
“Yes, that’s Phil Gaines,” Leggett said.
It was the detective’s second visit to the complex that morning. The pressure from the community and the media kept growing. He couldn’t go in or out of the police station without a barrage of questions from reporters. Questions for which he had no real answers.
Based on Peele’s testimony, Murphy obtained an immediate search warrant for the Gaines’ apartment. When he arrived with a tactical squad, the place was deserted: no Paige and no Phil. Also missing was a Jeep Cherokee registered to Phil Gaines and a Mazda registered to Paige.
They tossed the apartment and found the fingerprints of the former Paige Robins who, they soon confirmed, had recently married a man in Reno named Phillip Anthony Gaines. In order to get married, Gaines provided a valid California driver’s license. However, the only other prints in the apartment were from a man from Washington named David Collins. Further investigation revealed that Collins had an extensive record in his home state for armed robbery. He’d been suspected in the murders of at least two criminal associates, even before his initial five-year stretch in prison for his involvement in a home invasion in which two persons had been severely injured. He was a prime suspect in at least three murders of fellow inmates while in prison and had gotten his sentence increased once for stabbing another convict.
There was no criminal record for Collins for the previous twelve years. Or any record at all. Phillip Anthony Gaines’ identity was found to be a fake.
“That’s him,” Ms. Liggett repeated. “This is quite an old picture, but that’s my tenant, Mr. Gaines.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Oh, no. You hardly ever see Mr. Gaines.”
“Why is that?”
“He keeps to himself. He’s a very quiet man. I always got the impression he doesn’t really like people, that he prefers solitude.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I do remember he was out by the pool a couple of weeks ago cooking some steaks. And that was highly unusual, let me tell you.”
“And that was the last time? You’re sure?
“Yes.”
Paige Gaines’ involvement in the Schmitz home invasion puzzled Murphy. She had priors: multiple shoplifting charges, possession of a controlled substance, and a DUI. She’d been incarcerated in the county honor farm twice. Once at nineteen for her second drug possession charge and once at twenty-two, when she was pulled over for the DUI and police found a pill bottle under the front seat containing dozens of oxycontin. But she hadn’t been in any trouble for several years and had no record of violence or burglary.
“What about Paige Gaines, his new wife?”
“Her, she isn’t quiet at all. Not in the least. Paige was very friendly, very outgoing. Quite beautiful, too. Incredible head of red hair.”
“When was the last time you saw Paige Gaines?”
“Oh, it’s been at least three or four days.”
“You’re sure of that? She hasn’t been around at all for several days?”
“I’m positive.”
“Why’re you so sure?”
“’Cause, like I said, when Paige was around, you knew it. Everyone knew it.”
Finding any useful information about Jeff Sweet proved even more difficult. He had no criminal record beyond his eighteenth birthday. He owned a surprisingly opulent home in the Dutch Hollow subdivisio
n of Modesto, which was as empty as the Gaines’ apartment and, like the Gaines home, was full of Paige Gaines’ fingerprints. Curiously absent, however, were any personal photos of the man. In fact, there was nothing personal about the place at all. While his closet was full of expensive clothing and the walls adorned with tasteful artwork, he didn’t own a computer or a television. There was no land-line. In the garage sat a silver Porsche 911 Carrera registered in Sweet’s name, paid for in full. They found no evidence he ever owned a cell phone. No utility bills, no junk mail, not even a take-out menu.
According to city records, he did have a legitimate business license as an auto mechanic. His garage, JS Repairs, over on Ladd Road, was pristine and tidy and also lacking in personal photos or any sort of electronic items beyond a simple adding machine. He had a nominal checking account for the business in good standing.
Totally clean in every way, Sweet was every bit the professional Peele had described.
“He’s like a ghost,” Murphy said to Robert Blatt, one of the detectives helping him on the case. “This Jeff Sweet leaves nothing behind. Not a trace, not a picture, nothing at all.”
“He’s got those uncles, right?” Blatt said. “And a mother and a sister maybe?”
“Yeah, let’s go check them out; what do you want to bet they know less than we do about this asshole?”
Dale Sweet was easy to find. He was in the medical wing of the men’s jail in downtown Modesto fighting stage-four lung cancer. He sat at a table in his room, sucking air from an oxygen tank. Severely thin with only a few wisps of grey hair left on his head, he looked hopeless and forlorn as he stared out the window at the daylight. He was serving a month for drunk and disorderly.
From Dale they found out Jeff Sweet’s mother had died of a heroin overdose only a month earlier, and his sister had disappeared eight years before and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.
“If you see that boy,” Dale said, “you tell him to come visit his Uncle Dale. Kid acts like he’s ashamed of me or something.”
“That’s a shocker,” Murphy said. “But, if we do get lucky enough to see him, there’s a very good chance he’ll be joining you right here, Mr. Sweet.”
“Well, good luck with that. Good luck with getting anything on that young man. Boy is slippery as hell.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be hiding?”
“I don’t even know where he lives. Sonofabitch never even asked me over. Hear it’s some big fancy house, too. Sonofabitch.”
“Do you think it’s possible he could’ve been involved with what happened out at Del Rio yesterday? Is your nephew capable of such horrible acts?”
Dale Sweet waited a long time before answering.
“Like all us Sweets, he’s a capable man.”
Boyd Sweet was more forthcoming. He welcomed Murphy and Blatt into the main building of his junk yard off Crows Landing Road on the west side of Modesto. The office was a tiny metal shack with grease-caked windows. Boyd sported a long grey ponytail trailing out the back of his John Deere cap, wore greasy blue overalls, and towered over the two detectives.
“Fucker finally showed his true colors, huh?”
“What do you mean?” Murphy said.
“I always knew he was some kind of socio or psychopath or whatever the fuck you call it, but he was always good at keeping it under wraps, hiding his true nature.”
“Mr. Sweet,” Blatt said, “do you have any idea where we can find your nephew?”
“There is one place you might check. I used to own a little cottage out on the edge of a vineyard off of Patterson Road. Between here and Riverbank. Fucker cheated me out of that place about a year ago, broke my fucking arm in the process. Here, let me give you the address. Hope you find that sonofabitch. No one that dangerous should be running around free.”
“What do you mean by that?” Murphy said.
“I know what you think of people like me, Detective Murphy. And, probably, a lot of what you think is correct. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. But even people like me have rules, we have standards.”
“Like what?”
“We try to keep our hurting confined to other people in the life, to people who deserve it for one reason or another. It’s … a business practice, not a recreational activity. See what I mean?”
“Maybe.”
“But my crazy fucking nephew is worse than his father was. He hurts people because he likes it. And he doesn’t give a shit whose life he’s stamping out. I mean, jeez, that’s just wrong.”
Boyd fidgeted as he watched Murphy and Blatt stare at him without speaking.
“Isn’t it?”
The cottage was as empty as Jeff Sweet’s home. Still, Murphy, along with Blatt and two members of the local police force, conducted a detailed search. One of the patrolmen, a freckle-faced rookie, said he’d found evidence that several people had showered and possibly changed clothes in the bathroom sometime in the previous twenty-four hours—but nothing else that was useful. The young cop bagged damp towels and a bar of soap as evidence.
“Is that everything?” Murphy said.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“You’re positive?” Murphy asked.
“Yes,” the patrolman repeated. “We inspected every square inch. There’s nothing but these wrinkled towels and a well-used bar of soap.”
Unconvinced, Murphy stood up from the empty dresser drawers he was searching and told the kid to stand aside while he went back into the bathroom one more time.
Murphy stood alone in the tiled room and looked intently at every square inch. He knew his suspects had been there recently and felt there had to be some kind of real physical evidence somewhere. His eyes lit upon something small and black wedged behind the toilet. He got down on his hands and knees and looked closer. It was a black cap. He picked it up using a pencil. When he held it up to the light, he could see that it was caked with blood. On the inside were dozens of long red hairs.
17
After his night of zazen, Phil Gaines sprung up from his lotus position. He felt like he had gotten a full night’s sleep. Full of energy, he broke camp at six a.m and walked into Groveland. After eating a huge breakfast at the Cross Country Café, he bought a Modesto Bee and read about the Del Rio Massacre. The news was still all about a missing girl, eight dead bodies, and no suspects.
He arranged for a cab to take him to the San Francisco Airport. He paid in cash.
From SFO he took a BART train east across the city and then under the San Francisco Bay to the downtown Berkeley station. There, he bought a throwaway cell phone at Walgreen’s on Shattuck Avenue and stopped for a quick slice of pizza next door. A press conference blared from the dining room TV.
The TV monitor showed a cop, looking grave, with dozens of microphones thrust in his face. The banner across the bottom of the screen read: “Detective Murphy of the Modesto Police Department.”
Murphy identified himself to the reporters as the lead investigator into the Del Rio Massacre.
“Information obtained from reliable sources, as well as vigorous detective work, has revealed that the main suspects in the murders and robbery of the Schmitz house, as well as the kidnapping of young Jessica Schmitz, are Jeff Sweet, David Collins—also known as Phil Gaines—and Collins’ wife, Paige Gaines, also known as Paige Robins.”
In turn, he held up large copies of Paige and Jeff’s drivers’ license photos and Phil’s twelve-year-old mug shot.
“Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of these people should contact the Modesto Police Department immediately,” Murphy said as Gaines quickly disposed of his mostly uneaten slice.
“But beware,” Murphy added. “We believe that all three suspects are armed and extremely dangerous.”
As Phil walked out the door, the news showed a photo of each dead member of the Schmitz family. Then, for several moments, the TV screen was dominated by picture after picture of the lovely Jessica, all obtained from her Facebook page
.
He headed up Cedar Avenue past Buena Vista, to the houses up high in the Berkeley Hills. It was just after noon.
Jessica woke up alone. The clock on the nightstand read twelve-thirty p.m. She was handcuffed to the metal head board.
The bedroom door was open. From down the hall she heard muffled laughter and a steady rhythmic sound. Something between a thud and a slap. She had a pretty good idea of what she was hearing.
“Hey! Where is everybody?”
Nobody responded. Nothing happened.
“Jeff? … Paige? … Marlene?”
The noise stopped. After a moment, Jeff appeared in the door. He wore tight blue jeans and was barefoot and shirtless. He smiled at her. Blue eyes bright with excitement. Jessica thought he looked completely hot—but his presence made her extremely nervous.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said.
He went to the bed, straddled her, and unlocked the cuffs. “Let’s get you some food.”
She climbed out of bed, rubbing her wrists, and followed him into the kitchen. He pointed at the counter. There was a pitcher of orange juice with some toast, butter, and strawberry jam.
The sounds from the basement began again as Jeff prepared Jessica’s toast.
Phil Gaines approached Marlene Huggley’s sprawling house from the back. He hid his backpack under some thick ferns and moved forward with only his guns, his knife, and his cell. Getting close to the blackened windows of the lower-level room, he heard the unmistakable sound of Paige’s giddy laughter.
He crept forward slowly. The blinds covering the door’s window were cracked just enough for him to see Paige inside. She wore a leather corset, elbow-length lacy leather gloves, and obscene-looking black leather boots. Her hair was pulled straight back from her forehead and tied-up in a long braid that reached the small of her back. Her make-up was severe and exaggerated: her lips and cheeks covered with a thick red; her mascara black; her eye-shadow a bright green. She repeatedly flogged the bare breasts of an older woman secured in a chair.
