Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  “My friend, you overestimate my influence with the elderly relative.” Now for the fun part. “But I think I might be able tell you a little something.”

  “About what?”

  “How Moxon passes information to his client while she’s on a live TV show.”

  Parris’s eyes narrowed. “Has Daisy already told you something?”

  “Nope. And don’t take this the wrong way, but us real honest-to-goodness professional lawmen don’t depend on common gossip for figuring things out.”

  “Right.” Parris snorted. “So what’ve you ‘figured out,’ Sherlock Ute.”

  “Oh, nothing much.” Moon paused just long enough to annoy his passenger. “I had a few minutes to spare, so I watched some old Cassandra Sees TV shows.”

  The Granite Creek chief of police was hanging on every tantalizing word. “And?”

  “And right off, I noticed that if you looked at close-ups of that spooky lady’s eyes, you could see reflections.”

  “Reflections of what?”

  “Oh, this and that. Anything shiny in her living room.” Moon listed several such items that had been visible on Cassandra’s corneas. He passed a gravel truck. “And there was this bright little rectangle on her eye. Applying my considerable knowledge of high-tech video recording equipment, I magnified it. Unless I’m mistaken, which I’m not, it was the TV monitor Miss Spencer keeps under her coffee table.” The driver smiled at a dark cloud bank off to the south. “Nice day we’re having.”

  “Cut the crap, Charlie. What’d you see on her TV?”

  “Oh, lots of stuff.” He glanced at his best friend. “Remember that big warehouse fire she reported in Denver?”

  “Uh-huh. What about it?”

  “Well, while she was talking about it on her show, she was looking at a live video of a fire on her under-the-table TV.”

  Parris made a long, low whistle. “So that’s it. Moxon was transmitting digitized shots from the scene. Had to be by e-mail.” Oh, this is just dandy. “Her PC video port must be patched into the TV monitor.”

  “Pictures wasn’t all he was sending.” The tribal investigator described alphanumeric banners that appeared on the psychic’s TV monitor immediately before she had one of her visions. “Like the kind the TV stations use to report severe weather. Election results. Scores on big games.”

  Parris banged his fist on the car seat. “Charlie, that flat out nails it!”

  “So you won’t need to talk to my aunt.”

  The pale face blushed. “Uh—I still need to pay a call on Daisy.”

  “What’s the big hurry?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Explain now.”

  “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Give me the executive summary.”

  “You want the dumbed-down version?”

  “That’ll do nicely.”

  “Okay.” But you’ll get all upset. “About an hour ago, when I got an alert from the state police about that eyewitness who’d fingered Moxon, me and three officers staked out his house. His car was parked in the driveway, so we figured he was inside. But just to be sure, I knocked on the front door.”

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t home.”

  “Well if he was, he didn’t answer the door. Or the telephone in his house.”

  Moon opted for a hopeful view: “It’s a nice day. Maybe he went for a walk.”

  “You really believe that, I’ll give you six-to-one the rooster’s flown the coop.”

  The Ute did not like the odds. “You figure he got a tip?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Moxon’s got lots of political connections.” Parris, who had a few such connections himself, occasionally toyed with the notion of running for public office. “But we’ll find him. Cops in nine states are on the lookout.”

  Charlie Moon was beginning to feel uneasy. “But you figure maybe Moxon’s got more on his mind than hiding. Maybe he’s up to no good.”

  “It did cross my mind that if he got tipped about the so so eyewitness, he might decide to eliminate the one person who could provide hard evidence against him.”

  “Please tell me you have Cassandra Spencer in protective custody.”

  “Uh…Cassie’s not at home.”

  “Maybe she’s with Moxon.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “For one thing, when Officer Martin spotted her leaving town a couple of hours ago—this was before I got the call implicating Moxon in the trucker shooting—Cassie was alone in her Cadillac. Heading out of town.”

  “In which direction?”

  “South.”

  Lots of destinations lay to the south. New Mexico. Old Mexico. Closer still, the Southern Ute reservation. “Pardner, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  The beefy man clenched his hands together, making a fist big enough to KO a full-grown buffalo. “Charlie, an old pro like your aunt could spot a fake psychic a mile away. At midnight, in a heavy fog.” A few heartbeats. “And after Cassie passed out during last Saturday’s show, Daisy spent the rest of the hour sitting in the star’s chair. Maybe the old lady saw something on the TV under the coffee table. And Moxon might’ve thought of that.”

  The driver was seeing the road miles ahead, far around the bend. “Which would put my aunt in the number-two spot on his hit list.”

  “That’s about what the worry-stew boils down to.”

  Under the Ute’s heavy foot, the accelerator was against the floor, the Ford V-8 churning out maximum horsepower, the speedometer at eighty-five and climbing.

  As the big tires whined around a curve, the passenger clenched his teeth. “I’m in a hurry too. But there’s no need to break the sound barrier.” Or my neck.

  “Tell me why.”

  “A little while before you hit town, I had the dispatcher put in a call to the state police and the Southern Ute PD, request immediate protection for Daisy. By now there’ll be cops camped out around her house, thick as fleas on a sickly prairie dog. The old lady’s safe as them stacks of gold bricks at Fort Knox.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” And “The check is in the mail.” And “As I insert this hypodermic needle the size of a lead pencil into your spine, you may feel a slight discomfort.” And “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.” And “Trust me—”

  “Trust me on this, Charlie.” A sharper curve. Now the tires screamed. “She’ll be fine.”

  “Sure she will.” Suddenly, like the snap-crack at the tip of a bull whip, it occurred to Charlie Moon that Sarah Frank should be home from the church picnic by now. “But just to ease my mind, call Daisy. Ask her to count those thick-as-fleas cops camped out around her home.”

  Parris’s cell phone materialized in his hand. “Gimme her number.”

  Thirty-Four

  Use Your Imagination

  As Charlie Moon’s Ford Expedition topped Six Mile Mountain, the church van dropped Sarah Frank off at Daisy’s home. The skinny little girl was surprised to see the snazzy Cadillac parked in the front yard. I wonder who’s visiting us. She soon found out. Wow! While receiving a perfunctory pat on the head from Miss Cassandra Spencer, she was brusquely informed by Daisy that “Soon as I get some things together, me and Cassie [first-name basis now] are going up to Granite Creek.” Sarah’s eyes popped as the psychic’s new sidekick explained about the contract she would be signing. “And don’t forget to watch us on the TV tonight. I won’t be back till Sunday, but there’s plenty of food in the house and you know how to take care of yourself.”

  Though quite grown-up for her age, Sarah had come dangerously close to whining as she pleaded, “Can’t me and Mr. Zig-Zag come with you?”

  Cassandra, who was fond of neither children nor cats, made no attempt to conceal her apprehension at this suggestion.

  Reading Miss Spencer’s face, Daisy was characteristically blunt. “No, you can’t.” And that was that.

  More than a little miffed at not being invited along
for the overnight trip, Sarah sulked. Neither of the women took any notice of her melancholy effort, so, in search of what small comforts life had to offer, the fifteen-year-old put Mr.

  Zig-Zag on her lap and a grape Popsicle into her mouth.

  It so happened that when Daisy Perika’s telephone rang, Sarah was sitting close to the instrument. She picked it up, spoke around the purple Popsicle. “Hebbo.”

  A gruff, familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Sarah—is that you?”

  She removed the frozen obstacle. “Uh-huh.”

  “This is Charlie’s buddy—Scott Parris. Is Aunt Daisy there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. Now listen close. I’m going to ask you something really important, but all I want is a yes or no. Don’t mention any names. You got that?”

  “Sure. I mean yes.”

  “Okay, now here’s the question: Besides yourself and Daisy, is anybody else there?”

  She considered the warm fluff of fur in her lap, decided Scott Parris probably did not consider cats as persons. Even so, the answer was: “Yes.”

  “Cops?”

  This struck her as a peculiar question. “Uh—no.”

  Dammit! Charlie’ll blow a gasket. “Okay. Now again, just yes or no.” Please, God—let the answer be no. “Is Cassandra Spencer there?”

  How did he know that? “Uh—yes.”

  Scott Parris felt a sharp look from Charlie Moon. “Anybody else there besides Cassandra?”

  “No.”

  Thank you, God. He cupped his hand over the phone, said to Moon, “Moxon’s not there.” Back to the cell phone: “Sarah, can Cassandra hear what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.” She watched the white woman get up from a chair, stride across the parlor. “Not now. She went into the kitchen.”

  “Good. Now tell me what she’s doing there.”

  “I just got back from a picnic, so I don’t know everything they’ve been talking about. But she’s going to take Aunt Daisy to Granite Creek.”

  The chief of police shouted in her ear, “She’s what?”

  Duly startled, Sarah repeated her previous statement, added, “They’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Daisy’s going to be on her TV show tonight.” And I have to stay here and do my homework. Major bummer.

  “Is that a fact?”

  Sarah watched Cassandra Spencer return with a glass of water. “Yes!”

  Parris, who had never had a “way with children,” shifted to his pedantic tone: “Sarah, when I say ‘Is that a fact,’ that’s what we call a rhetorical question. Which means you don’t need to answer it.”

  “Yeeessss!”

  Realizing that she had reverted to the yes/no mode, he asked: “What is it—Cassandra back where she can hear you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a pretty smart kid.”

  Sarah smiled. “Yes.” Yes I am.

  “Heh-heh. Now pay attention. Here’s what I want you to do—get Daisy on the phone so I can tell her what’s happening. But don’t say my name out loud, because I don’t want Cassandra to know it’s me on the line.”

  The girl yelled. “Aunt Daisy—somebody wants to talk to you.”

  The old woman emerged from her bedroom with a battered suitcase. “Who?”

  Sarah felt the psychic’s stare. I wonder if she can read my mind. “Uh—he won’t say.”

  “Then it’s one of them pesky people who want to sell me something. Or a poll-taker that’ll want to talk to me for thirty minutes, asking what I think about this or that.” She set the suitcase down, headed for the bathroom. “Hang up on him!”

  Sarah murmured into the telephone, “She said hang up on you.”

  “I heard her. Listen, kid—I don’t have time to tell you the whole story, but here’s the bottom line—Cassandra is bad news. You get my drift?”

  “Uh—yes.” The Ute-Papago teenager dared not look at the white woman, who was sipping from the water glass. I wonder what she did. Murdered somebody, probably. And cut up the body and burned all the pieces to cinders and buried them in her garden and—

  Parris’s voice interrupted Sarah’s lurid plotline: “Any minute now, some cops will show up, and me and Charlie will be there in about half an hour.” If he don’t run this big car off the highway and wrap it around a telephone pole and kill both of us. “But whatever happens, you’ve got to make sure that Charlie’s aunt don’t leave with Cassandra.”

  She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper: “How?”

  “I don’t know, kid—use your imagination!” A crackle of static. “We’re going into a canyon, and my phone’s losing signal. Do whatever you have to—me and Charlie Moon are counting on you!” This declaration was punctuated by a sizzle in her ear. The kind you hear when the fat is in the frying pan.

  Keeping his eye on the center line, Charlie Moon said, “Fill me in on what I didn’t hear.”

  Scott Parris summarized. Finished with: “Don’t sweat it, Charlie. Daisy won’t leave the place with Cassandra. Sarah’s got the right stuff—she’ll get the job done.”

  “You sure of that, are you?” Like you were sure the place would be crawling with cops.

  “Sure I’m sure.” The chief of police crossed his fingers. “One hundred percent.”

  Sarah Frank looked up to see Daisy emerge from the bathroom, watched the Ute elder hurry back to her bedroom muttering, “I’ll need to take my blood pressure medicine. And my necklace of turquoise and jet beads.”

  Cassandra—evidently about to perform that last-minute preparation for travel that is too delicate to mention—entered Daisy’s bathroom, closed the door.

  The teenager stared blankly at the grape Popsicle. Charlie Moon is counting on me! How great inspirations come, and where from, one can only speculate. But in an instant, Sarah Frank knew what she had to do, how to do it, and got right to it.

  Thirty-Five

  Where is a Cop When You Really Need Him?

  You know how it goes. Let’s say it’s mid-August. You’re in the Audi, tooling along in middle of the Mojave Desert. You slow for that rusty Stop sign at the intersection, look left. Then right. All the way to the far horizon, not a vehicle in sight. You roll almost to a stop and then proceed—and who pulls out from behind the Last Chance for Gas for 99 Miles billboard? You know who. John Law, on his shiny black motorcycle. Do not attempt to reason with the no-nonsense officer behind the badge and plastic visor—this will annoy a fellow who’s right at the ragged edge of heat-stroke and has an automatic pistol strapped to his hip. Write it off to experience, prepare your mind to pay the fine.

  But when the services of a policeman are sorely required—such as at 2:45 A.M. when the three-hundred-pound maniac on crack cocaine is breaking through your bedroom window with a crowbar—you know where the cops will be. Elsewhere, that’s where. But to be fair, these are very busy public servants, who—in addition to having to deal with endless paperwork, petty bureaucrats, substandard equipment, low pay, and the list goes on and on—have more than sufficient troubles of their own. Such as spouses who complain of long hours alone.

  Consider a Case in Point: On his way to Daisy Perika’s remote homestead, SUPD Officer Danny Bignight had blown a bald tire by Capote Lake, run off the highway, wreaked havoc upon an innocent cluster of aspen saplings. Only to discover that his radio was on the fritz and a $#&%$ $#&#% %&%#$! (thoughtless fellow officer!) had removed the spare tire from the trunk. Also the jack. And had not put them back.

  Consider a second Case in Point: State policeman Elmer Jackson had been diverted by a DWI who, for obscure reasons known only to herself, had chosen to park her Avis rental car in a ditch just west of Pagosa Springs. The sophisticated lady behind the wheel had flung a one-liter wine bottle at the black cop’s head. A half-full one-liter wine bottle, which had clipped him on the left ear. And though Officer Jackson may have been tempted, he had not strangled the inebriated citizen, who happened to be a prosperous psy
chologist from Los Angeles, California, whose PhD thesis title was: “The Breakdown of Civility in Post-Modern Society and Ancillary Effects upon the System of Criminal Justice.” Ancillary?

  After handing the mental-health professional over to a not-overjoyed Archuleta County sheriff’s deputy, Officer E. Jackson (this was not his lucky day) happened to be the first to arrive on the scene. At Daisy Perika’s residence, that is. The first thing that caught his eye was the sleek, black, 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham sedan. The hood was up. A mismatched pair of women stood by the Detroit City machine, hands on hips, glaring darkly at the motor as if it had committed some despicable offense.

  Cassandra inquired of her host what that policeman might be doing here.

  “I don’t have no idea.” Daisy recognized the black lawman as one of her nephew’s friends. “You’d be surprised how many oddballs drop by here.”

  Jackson donned his spiffy state-trooper hat, joined the ladies, peered under the hood. The means of locomotion, which looked much like any other fifty-year-old V-8 engine, provided no obvious clue. “Got some car trouble?”

  Daisy Perika said to the state cop, “No, we’re just a couple of grease monkeys, talking shop.”

  “Ha-ha!” Not only did sarcasm roll off Jackson like water off the oily mallard’s back—he also enjoyed the experience.

  Hoping for some expert help (all men could fix mechanical things, couldn’t they?), Cassandra Spencer was more helpful: “It won’t start.”

  “Aha,” Jackson said. Now we are getting somewhere. Probably a loose battery terminal. “Won’t turn over, huh?”

  “I don’t know.” The white woman held up Exhibit One—a key chain with a lucky rabbit’s foot and several brass keys affixed to it. “It was just fine on the drive down from Granite Creek. But now I can’t get this into the little slot.” In case he did not entirely get the picture, she made a jabbing motion with the ignition key and explained, “I push it and it won’t go.”

  His cocked his head. “If your key won’t go into the ignition switch, why are you lookin’ at the engine?” Silly fellow—to ask such a question.