The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “There she is, ladies and gennulmens,” Fishbach announced in a circus impresario’s voice, “Tasha Novarro, hero of song and fable. Keeper of the flame and my heart.”

  Novarro smiled. You couldn’t feel shitty around Fish. “What you up to, Fish?”

  “Livin’ the dream, Tasha,” Fishbach said, spinning his forefinger in the air. “Cap’s got me assembling crime stats neighborhood by neighborhood.”

  “Better you than me.”

  “Ain’t so bad now that all the files are online or wherever; I can call up reports pretty easy with the search engine.”

  “Did you just say ‘search engine,’ Fish?” Most of Fishbach’s previous thoughts on computers turned the air blue.

  A big-teeth grin. “I’m a regular computer geek, Tash. The next Bill Jobs.”

  Novarro entered her cubicle – spare, save for a photo of she and Ben a few years ago smiling for the camera with Camelback Mountain in the background – and sat at her desk, turning on the computer. She’d had the lab make a copy of the reverse of Meridien’s calendar and pulled it from her briefcase.

  Carson Rider

  She googled the name, saw a page of hits, scanned down. A Carson T. Rider in Memphis, an accountant. Another Carson Rider who headed an advertising firm in Connecticut. It wasn’t a popular name, obviously, the spellings shifting by the middle of the page. A Carson Rider in New York.

  Fishbach’s phone rang, the internal line. He kept the speakerphone on low. It was Captain Solero.

  “Got a few extra minutes, Mike?”

  “Shoot, Cap.”

  Novarro kept studying her monitor. There was a Carson Rider in Wichita, a dentist, a Carson Rider in Cleveland, something to do with antiques …

  “… this detective in Miami,” Captain Solero was saying to Fish, “… looking for anything we can send on Ramon Escheverría.”

  “That hunk a shit?” Fishbach snorted. “What’d that psycho do in Miami?”

  “Showed up on CCTV near a crime scene. I guess there were reports of …”

  Novarro dropped her eyes farther down the page. Ridley Carson was a TV weatherman in Seattle. She stared at the screen … what did any of this mean? She should be out pounding the pavement and sweating the alcohol from her system.

  “Could you give the guy a call, Mike? Arrange to get him whatever we have on Escheverría?”

  Novarro’s eyes tracked to the bottom of the page. There was a Carson Rider who sold insurance in Bloomington, Indiana …

  “Sure, Cap … gimme the guy’s name …”

  It seemed Carson Rider was not as uncommon a name as it sounded. Novarro was about to write Meridien’s scribble off as a tip on a handyman or rug cleaner and hit the streets where she might do some good.

  “Carson Ryder,” the captain completed. “R-Y-D-E-R.”

  15

  “Detective Ryder, this is Detective Tasha Novarro with the Phoenix PD.”

  “Thanks for getting back so quickly, we’re looking for anything—”

  “Leslie Meridien, Detective Ryder. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “I’m sorry, I was calling about information on Ramon Eschev— Wait, sure … I’ve got a call into Dr Meridien.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “She recently spoke to a Dr Angela Bowers here in Miami. Dr Bowers was murdered two days later. The next day one of her close colleagues was killed. I was wondering what the two doctors talked about. I’m waiting for Dr Meridien to return my call.”

  A sustained pause.

  “You’re going to have a long wait, Detective Ryder …”

  16

  “We’ve begun our descent to Sky Harbor International in Phoenix, folks,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Where it’s a sunny 94˚ at present; 7 percent humidity. Time of landing should be fifteen minutes …”

  From three miles up, southern Arizona looked forbidding, at least the Sonoran Desert portion, vast and desolate stretches of gray and brown which now and then rumpled into sharp-peaked mountains. Towns were small collections of boxes arranged along straight roads that disappeared into the horizon.

  I was on vacation. Roy didn’t seem to mind the two-day notice. Gershwin had returned early and the investigative section was fully staffed. Harry would continue to work the Bowers and Warbley cases – with Gershwin on hand if he needed assistance – and I’d catch the sights in Phoenix, my first-ever trip to the Southwest.

  The plane continued to descend for several minutes, then banked. I looked out the window, whispered, “Holy shit.”

  “What?” said the fortyish and suited guy beside me, a native Arizonan back from a sales trip to Miami.

  “Is all that Phoenix?”

  A laugh. “Phoenix, Mesa, Glendale, Scottsdale, Tempe, Sun City, Peoria, Goodyear, Guadalupe, Fountain Hills and well over a dozen others, all jammed together in the Salt River Valley. It wasn’t that long ago they were distinct cities and towns. But people kept coming and the cities grew until there was no land between them. The aggregate population is about four and a half million.”

  I hadn’t had any time for checking out the Phoenix environs. Yesterday I’d cleared my fast jump-out with Roy, called the DA to bump a next-week meeting for another week, explained my impromptu trip to Viv, who grew so quiet I twice asked if she was still on the line. I next hauled Mix-Up to Dubois Burnside’s for dog-sitting, then ran back home to jam clothes into a suitcase, the call from Detective Novarro tumbling through my head all the while.

  I’d been gobsmacked to find Novarro had her own dead psychologist, she horrified to discover mine. We traded details for fifteen minutes, and that’s when it hit me that Phoenix would be an ideal vacation venue.

  I deplaned and picked up my suitcase, my carry-on backpack slung over my shoulder. My Glock had ridden beneath me in my suitcase. Turning from the luggage carousel, I saw a woman in jeans and a mocha jacket striding toward me, thirtyish and slender, dark of eye and hair – striking eyes, even from a distance – and a face more handsome than pretty.

  “Detective Ryder,” the woman said.

  “You must be Detective Novarro. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “I’m interested in hearing more about your case. I figured I’d waylay you here and we can go somewhere to talk. Where are you staying?”

  “Somewhere downtown, one of those vacation-rental homes on Airbnb. I figured it’d be central.”

  “Beats a motel. You familiar with the area?”

  “Never been any closer than Boulder, Colorado.”

  “Your rental vehicle should have a map. How about we meet for lunch? There are nice places not far from here. You like Mexican food?”

  “The hotter the better.”

  She gave me directions to a restaurant less than a mile distant, and I watched Detective Novarro walk away. Though Harry enjoys seismic motion, I prefer poetic, and the fifty feet it took Ms Novarro to get to the door provided two sonnets and a villanelle.

  Fifteen minutes later we were at Mariscosa Playa Hermosa on Garfield Street, Camarones Ranchero for me, a grilled fish filet for Novarro. It was two p.m. in Phoenix, which made it four p.m. in Miami, close enough for me to order a brew. Novarro ordered a horchata, that sweet Mexican favorite made of powdered rice, sugar, milk, vanilla, and dusted with cinnamon.

  “All of Meridien’s records disappeared?” I said after we’d launched into both the meal and a discussion of the cases. She’d taken me through the discovery of Meridien’s body, her suspicions that it wasn’t as seemed, and the clincher of the stolen goods found buried in the desert. She was now telling me about the vanished files.

  “From what I gather, getting through all the firewalls that DataSĀF has in place would take super-high-level hacking abilities.” She paused in thought. “Which reminds me that I need to make another visit to the place. Maybe they’ve learned something.”

  “I wouldn’t mind going with you,” I said, wondering if it would be possible to convince her to let me follow along if I promis
ed to stay out of the way.

  “We’ll do it right after lunch,” she said, unfazed. “No, it’ll be the second thing we do.”

  The first thing was the smart thing and the right thing. After lunch Novarro took me to her headquarters and made sure her Chief of Detectives, a Captain Frank Solero, knew that I was in the mix.

  “You’re convinced the two cases are connected, Detective?” Solero asked as we sat in his office. He was in his late fifties, looking constructed of sinews and rawhide. His dark eyes held an electric intensity. Solero wore a tan suit with a blue shirt, his bolo tie centered with a five-pointed star in a circle. Brown cowboy-style boots. His voice was soft and held echoes of a Spanish-speaking youth.

  I said: “I think Meridien called Bowers with a question or conflict regarding professional ethics which Bowers shared with Professor Warbley. They’re all dead.”

  A raised eyebrow. “And Escheverría?”

  “Unless the most current and sophisticated facial-recognition program at Quantico’s computer lab is wrong, Escheverría was in a Miami convenience store three days ago … four miles from where Warbley was killed.”

  “You got the FBI to jump that fast?” Solero said, surprised.

  “I had to buy a man an alligator.”

  A smile. “I won’t ask. Have you read the materials on El Gila?”

  “I plan to do that tonight. My partner in Miami has everything as well.”

  Solero sighed. “I can only hope that Escheverría stays in Miami forever, though I expect he’ll resume being a thorn in our side. A very nasty and elusive thorn. Every time we try to draw close – like establishing surveillance – it’s like he knows what we’re doing, and he retreats under his rock or adjusts accordingly. It’s frustrating.” He looked to Novarro. “I expect Detective Ryder’s revelations will create a shift in emphasis in your case, Detective Novarro?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be on the tracks of Escheverría. This could be the break we’ve needed.”

  Solero frowned. “Death follows him like smoke follows fire. Be very cautious.”

  “Caution is my middle name, Cap,” Novarro said.

  “Then that would be a new addition.” He paused. “Could you both wait outside for a few minutes?”

  We waited outside his closed door, Novarro pacing as I leaned against the wall. After seven minutes he yelled, “You can come back in now.”

  Solero was at the window gazing into a rich blue sky, his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to be making a decision. He turned, looking into my eyes. “I took the liberty of calling the FCLE, Detective Ryder. I spoke to a gentleman named Roy McDermott.”

  “Oh?” I said, keeping my voice noncommittal.

  “He speaks very highly of you, Detective, though McDermott doubted you were on a true vacation.”

  “Roy has a dubious nature.”

  Solero kept his gaze straight into mine. “Mr McDermott, who seemed a very intelligent man, believed your experiences and special knowledge would make you an asset. Especially if the cases involve Escheverría, a true psychopath. Very canny, very stealthy, but as loco as they come. A sick man with no moral restraints.”

  “I’ve known many Ramon Escheverrías, Captain Solero. I’ve put a lot of them away. Or in the ground.”

  A nod. “I’m told you’ve made such people a study for years.” The big boots brought him my way, stopping a yard from me, the electric eyes directing a band of current into mine. “I truly don’t want you out on our fine streets freelancing, Detective Ryder. Going it on your own. Mr McDermott also warned me that such a thing was your nature.”

  “I was sort of hoping, that is, I thought I could maybe just follow along and—”

  Solero said, “Hold up your right hand.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “It is within my power to deputize you. That might save us all many headaches.”

  17

  I followed Novarro to her office to look at files, noting that twice in a minute she received a call on her mobile, checked the caller, winced and didn’t answer. The detective’s room was wide and bright and populated with only a few people, meeting in corners with coffee in hand, talking on phones. Familiar turf. A few curious eyes wandered my way, took a snapshot, and went back to work.

  Novarro had a small desk in a six-foot-tall cubicle and I leaned against the side as she sat and pulled her keyboard close. I was about to comment on the sole framed photo on the desk, Novarro and a kid about ten years younger, smiling in front of a mountain, but her desk phone rang.

  “Tasha,” the speaker said, “Merle Castle’s on line two.”

  I saw her shoulders slump. She stared at the phone, then punched the button.

  “Merle, dammit, I …”

  “I been calling your cell,” a male voice said on speaker, talking like there was interference on the line. “You’re not answering.”

  “Merle, I haven’t got time for your—”

  “I’m in Estrella Park and looking at a DB. It’s a seventeen-year-old kid. Looks like he fell from a cliff while hiking.”

  I heard an odd but familiar sound in the background. Was that a horse whinnying?

  “It’s your jurisdiction,” Novarro said. “Why are you cal—?”

  “We pulled the wallet. I’ve got $63. A pair of credit cards …”

  “Merle, is there a reason—?”

  “An REI membership card …”

  “Merle …” Her voice edged on anger.

  “And a business card from one Leslie Meridien, psychologist. I doubt it means shit, since I’m seventy feet below a trail and there’s no look of foul play, but I know how you get about these things.”

  Twenty minutes later we were in a Phoenix PD four-wheel-drive SUV and somewhere southwest of the city. The desert was raw and spare, with low trees and bushes, the tallest growth being the saguaro cacti, some thrusting three stories into the arid atmosphere. I’d thought they were endangered, but they seemed as ubiquitous as oaks were in Mobile, every direction you looked. I’d never been in a desert and it was as strange to me as the surface of the moon.

  “Is it the dry season here?” I asked.

  “It’s the dry season most of the year. The valley averages seven inches of rainfall annually.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been in Mobile when it’s rained that much in two hours. How does anything grow here?”

  “Nearly every plant has thorns or spikes or a tough exterior. It’s all about grabbing water and protecting it.”

  I nodded and kept looking out the window, fascinated. Novarro jerked the wheel hard left and we bounced off the asphalt onto a slender gravel road. “Phoenix PD’s jurisdiction ends here,” she noted. “Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department takes over.”

  A series of jagged peaks loomed ahead. We drove another couple minutes until I saw a grouping of vehicles at a trailhead: four or five cruisers, an SUV, an ambulance, medical and forensics vehicles, and a multi-stalled horse trailer pulled by a Dodge Ram 350. We got out and stood in stultifying heat, as much reflected from the hard ground as beating down from above. Novarro seemed not to notice.

  Four men on horseback came clopping down the trail. Three passed by shooting glances and nods at Novarro while a fourth – early mid-thirties, gym-rat build, brown uniform with a Stetson up top – stared squint-eyed at me like trying to guess my weight, then snapped the leash or whatever to aim the beast our way.

  “You got here faster’n I figured, Tash.”

  “Where’s the body, Officer Castle?”

  The guy on the horse pulled up, craning his head toward the peaks. “On its way down. Should be here just about …”

  I heard the sound of a chopper in the distance and turned to see the helo appear in the cleft between a pair of mountains, the body suspended below on a line, no need to pull it to the chopper. The chopper was hovering above a minute later and whipping dust into the air as a pair of techs set the corpse on a body board. I could tell he was young. A tech gave
a thumb-up to the pilot and the basket retreated into the sky as the chopper roared off into a blazing yellow sun.

  The Maricopa County Cowboy dismounted in what seemed an unnecessarily theatrical move, boot heels puffing dust from the ground. He looked at Novarro, then at me.

  “Who’s this, Three-Point?”

  “I’m Carson Ryder,” I said, capable of answering on my own. “With the Florida Center for Law Enforcement.”

  “You take a wrong turn somewhere?” His expression split the difference between curiosity and mockery. He made no effort to extend a hand, so mine remained at my side.

  Novarro said: “Detective Ryder has a case in Miami that seems to be connected to the Meridien murder. And thus perhaps with this one.”

  “I doubt it, Tasha,” Castle said.

  “Got a reason?”

  Castle gave a come-hither twitch of his head and Novarro and I followed him to the victim as the needless paramedics unbuckled the body from the basket and set it on the carry board. The vic was as limp as a rag doll, the neck obviously broken, as was a leg, turned at a 45-degree angle from the knee. The kid was slender, in decent physical condition, and wore a blue tee shirt – now half torn away – cotton cargo shorts, with one green Converse All Star on a white-socked foot, the other shoe beside the body, telling me it had come off in the fall.

  Castle stared down at the body. “Everything says accident, Tash. He was coming down the trail at the 2.6 marker, a rugged section. He probably got a few feet off the trail to take a picture or check the view. He slipped on loose footing and took a sixty-foot tumble.”

  “The parents know?”

  “We sent a sergeant and a chaplain to deliver the news. I guess the parents are waiting for the victim to go to the morgue.”

  “Your folks got shots of where he landed, right?” I said. “From different angles?”

  The eyes turned to me, assaying. “You know you have no jurisdictional standing here, right, Floor-da?”

  Novarro stepped in. “Captain Solero deputized him, Merle. He’s a bona-fidey Arizona lawman.”

  Castle stared at me, absorbing the new information. He didn’t appear cheered. But Novarro offered an encouraging smile and clapped her hands.