It took me less than a minute to reach the top of the falls and another five minutes to reach the small camp of the sheriff’s deputy on the wide ledge. The man had built a small fire ring, brought an air mattress for easier sleeping, and a lawn chair for comfort. He was in the process of tearing down his camp and erasing any sign that he had been there.
I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, not looking at the plane just yet.
“Ben Hendricks,” the young deputy said, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Thanks. You Ray’s kid?”
“I am. My dad figured we should just keep things in the family up here.” Ben hesitated for a moment, then went on. “I’ve sure heard a lot about you. The way you found that lost hunter two years ago up on Lick Creek Summit was something.”
“Just played a hunch and got lucky,” I said, smiling at the fact that someone had even noticed. “Thanks for watching over this mess. Had to have been a long night.”
“Two nights, actually,” Ben said. “This area gives me the creeps, and I’ll be glad to be out of here, to be honest with you. Too many rockmen clattering around looking for lawyers.”
I laughed. “You heard that, huh?”
“You can hear just about everything up here.”
I nodded, then took a deep breath and slowly turned to look at the place where my father had died.
The sight of the wreckage scattered along the cliff wall looked more like someone had made an illegal trash dump. I had expected the sight to bother me, but for some reason it didn’t. I had seen my share of small plane wrecks, and with this one I felt more curious than anything.
Maybe something would hit me later.
Maybe not.
I still wasn’t caring that the bastard was dead.
The plane must have cartwheeled along the rocks and cliff face, coming apart as it went. Now the biggest section of the Piper six-seater was no more than four or five feet long. Off to one side, the engine compartment lay between two boulders, still amazingly intact.
The tail section had traveled the farthest toward the hoped-for landing site. Most of the plane rested in a rock field at the base of the cliff above the waterfall. Two parts of the plane, a wing tip and a chair, were in the small pool, and another chair lay tipped on its side near the water.
Flying a plane into a rock wall was a stupid way to go. Quick, but stupid.
I glanced back at the young deputy who had a worried expression on his face. “Do you know where his body ended up?”
The kid looked even more pained, but stepped up beside me and pointed. “We found your father still buckled in his chair in the rocks down by the tail section. He was pretty smashed up as well. You won’t want to look at the body.”
I stood there, taking slow, steady breaths, going over the details of the crash, the marks on the rocks, the positions of pieces of the plane, studying it like I studied the other players and their patterns at a poker table. I had promised Ace I would get it all, learn it all, so I would get him every damn detail.
After a few minutes, the faint sound of a vehicle coming up the valley echoed over the background noise of the gently flowing river. Whoever was coming was still a ways down the canyon.
“Looks like you get to be relieved soon. You need help getting this stuff down?”
“Thanks,” Ben said, “but I can get it fine.”
“I appreciate the tour. Don’t step in any rockmen spoor on the way out.”
“I’ll try not to,” Ben said, laughing.
On the climb down, I didn’t allow myself to look again at the torn-up plane. I had seen what I needed to see to keep my promise to Ace.
That was enough.
I just hoped this wouldn’t end up in my nightmares, right along with the bloated face of that child in the pond.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
White House, Washington, D.C. August 19
PRESIDENT DOLAN CHASE sat at his desk in the Oval Office, his jacket off and hung over the back of his leather chair, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up. The frustration ate at him as he slammed the phone back into its cradle just a little too hard. He’d broken a phone already during his first year in office. He might break another by the time these calls were finished.
For the last two days, he had been trying to sway senators over to his side on a bill that would increase funding to schools. He wasn’t sure of the exact count at the moment, but he had been promised a few things by a few senators, and had to give a few promises in return.
If this worked, all the compromising would be worth it. He would be known as the president who funded up the schools like they should have been funded decades ago. If he did nothing else during his presidency, this one bill might be enough.
He glanced up at the clock. Two hours left before the vote started, if it started on time, which was doubtful.
Outside, the threatened thunderstorms were starting to materialize as the afternoon sky turned dark. No doubt the award ceremony for the Red Cross would have to be moved from the Rose Garden. Probably better, anyhow. The humidity out there felt higher than a sauna at a fancy spa. He hated having the press see him sweat.
The next name on his list was Senator Conners, a Republican who hadn’t voted for any of his bills. He hated the thought of even calling the egotistical little man, let alone asking him for his support.
He shook his head. Three years of law school and fourteen years in the Senate. You’d think he would have gotten used to this kind of pushing and shoving and trading by now. But he hadn’t, never would. It grated on him.
A knock at his door came a respectable moment before Paul stepped into the room. Paul actually looked slightly harried, with his tie loosened just an inch and his jacket unbuttoned. That was about as casual as he ever got.
Dolan slid his notes toward Paul. “Having a little luck. How about everyone else?”
Paul smiled, and the smile actually reached his eyes. “Looks like we’re up two votes at the moment, thanks to your calls. A couple of moderate Republicans have moved over.”
“The two we hoped to get?”
Paul nodded. “But no one on the staff thinks we should completely count on that, and I agree.”
“Then keep the calls going. And I’ll call Senator Conners.”
“Oh, yeah, good luck on that one,” Paul said, shaking his head.
Then the smile left Paul’s face like someone had pulled a plug on his chin. “Sir, I just got word that the NTSB is on its way to the site of the Carson Hill crash.”
Dolan’s heartburn flared. That Spanish pasta dish had been good at lunch, but he should have stopped at one helping. It didn’t taste as good coming back up. He reached for the bottle of Tums in his top desk drawer, took one, and let the chalky taste coat his mouth. He was starting to get used to the damn things.
“We have a man with the NTSB team? And can we trust the son-of-a-bitch not to say anything about feeding us information?”
“It’s a woman,” Paul said. “FBI agent. I talked to Director Smith and got his help on this. I asked for Agent Heather Voight and got her assigned. You know her, that special friend of mine.”
“The one you’ve been dating?
“Yeah,” Paul said. “And yes, we can trust her, sir.”
“Good. I want to know what happened to Carson. Anything about the crash hitting the papers yet?”
This entire thing had him worried. Real worried.
“Nothing outside of Boise this morning. They haven’t released Carson’s name yet. I expect more tomorrow. Carson had a lot of friends.”
“And a couple of enemies,” he said.
“That too.”
“Keep me posted.”
“One more thing, sir,” Paul said.
“Take your time. I am so looking forward to making this call.”
Paul didn’t even smile.
That wasn’t a good sign. He must have more bad news.
Paul took a folded piece o
f paper from his inside coat pocket and slid it across the desk. “This just came across one of the wires. More than likely, a lot of places will pick it up tomorrow.”
Dolan read the piece of paper, stunned. Someone had dug up and robbed the grave of Jeff Taylor. No reason for the robbery was given, no suspects had been found, and no mention of what had been taken from the grave.
Dolan took a second Tums and then put the bottle away, trying to think straight.
After a moment, he looked up at his chief of staff, who stood there shifting his weight nervously from side to side. Paul only did that when he was really worried. On this topic, they both had a right to be.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know.”
He glanced at the news article again. Taylor had been dead for over a decade. Why the hell would someone pick now to dig up the jerk’s grave?
“Weird, damned weird.”
“That it is,” Paul said. “But I thought you should see it.”
He folded the article and flipped it toward Paul. “Forget it. We have enough to worry about getting this bill passed.”
Paul looked for an instant as if he might disagree, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And Paul, make sure everyone stays on the phones right to the last minute. I want to get these schools funded the way they should be. We’ve been working way too long on this baby to let it slip now. No screw-ups.”
“No screw-ups,” Paul said, turning and heading back for his office.
After the door was closed, Dolan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, giving himself a moment before making the next call.
Why couldn’t the past just stay buried?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Las Vegas, Nevada. August 19
AFTER SPENDING the morning in the station, Detective Annie Lott decided that she needed to talk to Jeff Taylor’s son, Brent. Maybe the kid could give her a clue, a detail that would be the lead she needed.
The day had grown typically August hot, and by the time the air-conditioning had completely cooled the big Buick Regal that her father had given her when her mother died, she was inside the parking garage of the Stardust.
Brent Taylor dealt poker in the Stardust poker room, one of the friendlier rooms in town. The Bellagio poker room might get a lot of the high rollers and host a couple of the World Poker Tour events, but the best poker promotions day-after-day for the grinders were often found at the Stardust.
She entered the cool air-conditioning of the busy casino. Around her the bright lights of the slot and video poker games flashed their welcomes, saying Come play me, I’ll make you rich in an instant. She loved casinos, drew energy from them for some reason.
The place smelled faintly of smoke combined with a wonderful odor of baking bread coming from a café just off to the side of the main entrance. No doubt the smell was done on purpose, piped into the casino to relax people. Very few details in a modern casino were left to chance.
She headed through the rows and rows of slots, following what looked like a decent-sized aisle. Of course, no aisle in a casino ever went directly from one place to another. Too easy for people to escape that way. At every step, there was something to get your attention, to take your money, to make you look around.
That was another thing she loved about the places.
She walked into the medium-sized poker room and glanced around. About half the tables had games and a number of people sat around waiting. She hadn’t played here that much. Too many what were called “rocks” for her taste.
The back wall of the poker room had signs indicating the current promotion, the amount of the bad-beat jackpots, and other listings. Nothing spectacular this week. Four televisions, sound off, were stuck up in the four corners of the room. All four were tuned to different sports events. Compared to the main floor of the casino, the poker room was morgue-silent.
The poker desk sat near the room’s main entrance. Actually, it was a long, elevated counter with two people standing behind it, watching over the room like a guard station. The people behind the counter kept a list of those waiting to get a seat in each game on a big erasable white board.
She flashed her badge to the man behind the desk. “I’m looking for Brent Taylor.”
“He’s dealing on table ten in the back,” the man said, pointing.
Within a minute, he had been relieved for a break and they were headed out of the room with him leading. In the years since his father had died, he had gone bald and gained a good hundred pounds. She would have never recognized him from his pictures in the files.
“I need to talk over my lunch,” Brent said as he walked, “I only have a fifteen minute break since we’re short-handed this afternoon.”
“No problem.”
“You got a badge?” Brent asked.
“Bright and shiny.”
Brent only grunted.
She only had to show her badge once before they were in the big employee lunchroom. The place clearly got a lot of use. The room was huge, with low ceilings filled with recessed florescent lights. The floor was covered in a tile that looked faded, as if it had been mopped a few hundred times too many.
The sharp smell of lasagna filled the space, reminding her of a high school lunchroom.
“You want a drink?” Brent asked as he pointed to a table against a side wall, away from the other dozen employees in the room.
“No, thanks.” She moved to sit down with her back to the wall. She couldn’t imagine having to eat in places like this every day simply because the food was free and time on breaks was too short to go anyplace better.
Brent came back with a large dish of what looked like pasta in red sauce, two dinner rolls, and a glass of Coke.
“So, you trying to figure out who dug up my father?”
“I am.”
“How about figuring out who killed him while you’re at it.”
“I read the file,” Annie said. “Since someone has already dug up your father, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to run a few modern tests on his body. Unless you mind, of course.”
Brent stared at her, clearly stunned, a half-eaten dinner role in his mouth.
“I don’t mind,” Brent said, his attitude clearly a few degrees less hostile than a moment before. “What can I do to help?”
“Answer a few questions is all.”
“Fire away,” Brent said, digging into his pasta like a man who loved food, no matter how it tasted. From the looks of his weight, he had loved a few too many meals over the last dozen years.
“Some of these questions I have answers for in the file,” Annie said, “some you answered before, but I want to see if an answer appears different in the light of the years going by.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“First off, do you have any idea who robbed your father’s grave?”
“Not a damned clue,” Brent said, “And I’ll tell you, I’d like to get my hands on whoever it was that dug him up. The last thing I needed was to see the old man again. Especially after no one believed me about him and his murder. It’s taken me this long to get past that, and now it’s all back.”
“They showed you a picture of his face, right? Identifying the body is procedure.”
“I suppose,” Brent said, chewing on the second roll. “Still sucked.”
Annie could imagine. “You told the officer who contacted you that only a key was taken from the grave. Right?”
“It was the only thing in there with Dad besides his suit coat and shirt,” Brent said. “I kept all his rings and his World Series bracelets. I have them in a safe-deposit box with my mom’s jewelry.”
“And you have no idea what the key was to?”
“Not a God-damned clue,” Brent said. “But I’m convinced it got him killed. He told me before he died that he had a terrible secret that he needed to tell the world. He showed me the key and made me promise that if something happened to him, I’d keep the key safe. He told me that the key
was to the secret.”
“And he said nothing more?”
“He got killed before he could,” Brent said. “I was so pissed off at the police and everyone back then for not believing me, I figured letting Dad keep the key was the safest. Guess I was wrong.”
Brent went back to eating, and Annie looked at her notes. “You have any idea how long your father had that key before he died?”
Brent’s dark eyes got a distant look in them. “I do remember that when Dad won his first World Series, he put his bracelet in my mother’s big jewelry case in her closet, in a small drawer with his name on it. I sneaked into their bedroom and looked at the bracelet one day when he was gone. That same key was in there with his bracelet. I didn’t want to get in trouble for looking at his stuff, so I never asked what the key was for.”
“And how soon was this before he died?”
“Maybe five years or so.”
“So that key goes back at least seventeen years. You sure it was the same key?”
“Perfectly sure,” Brent said. “The thing was a bank key, long and thin, and had the number three etched large on it.”
“Did you ever tell anyone about burying the key with your father?”
“I don’t think so,” Brent said, stopping to think for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Beyond family, I’m sure I didn’t. Not the kind of thing that just comes up in a conversation, if you know what I mean.”
“Good point.”
“Who would have thought someone would go to all the trouble of digging up a grave to get a key? I’ve always wondered just what the hell that key went to. Clearly, my dad wasn’t kidding when he said it was important.”
Annie nodded. “I’m starting to believe that.”
“It’s about damn time someone does.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Smith's Monthly #22 Page 12
