by N. M. Brown
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘No, I mean a girl who maybe sings here?’
Something shifted slightly in the younger man’s face, as if some internal doors were being shut. ‘We have a lot of acts come through here. You a private investigator?’
‘No.’ Mark smiled at the idea. ‘I’m not a psycho stalker, either. I run a small music bar up in Laughlin. The girl left on a mini-tour to come down here, only no-one’s heard from her in weeks. I just wanted to know she got here safely.’
‘Shit, that’s not cool.’
‘Her name is Jo. Can I show you a picture?’
‘Sure,’ the barman said, suddenly more sympathetic.
Mark reached into his shirt pocket and produced a photo of Jo standing outside the RPM shop with her guitar in hand. It was one he had taken just after one of their first lunchtime picnics. At the time, he had pretended the photo would be a good promo shot for both the shop and the bar. In truth, he had simply wanted a photograph of that beautiful, enchanting girl. Perhaps he naïvely thought it would help him hold on to her. Mark had the photo printed out at a local photo booth, with the vague intention of pinning it up behind the bar. Instead, he had considered it too precious to share and kept it secretly in his wallet instead. He handed the photo to the barman, who peered at it for a long moment.
‘Sorry, man, never seen her.’
‘Maybe she came in on your night off?’
‘I’m full time here, five till eleven, seven days a week. There is no night off.’
‘Is there only one Black Cat in San Diego?’
‘Yeah.’ The barman nodded. ‘Just the one, but there is another place up in San Fran. You could try there, but to be honest, man, if I were you…’
‘Yeah?’
‘I reckon I’d call the cops. It could be serious, you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah.’ Mark nodded solemnly. ‘I do.’
At that point, a group of perfumed young women clattered through the door of the Black Cat and absorbed the barman’s attention. Mark picked up his beer and relocated to a bright red leather chair by a table in a dark corner of the bar. After taking another drink from the bottle, he pulled the photograph out of his pocket again and held it in both hands.
For a few moments, he stared at the image as if trying to open a window to the past he could somehow tumble through.
Eventually, he sighed and reached into his back pocket. Taking out his phone, he slid his finger across the screen and tapped in the Internet search. When the number came up, he pressed it and raised the phone to his ear. There were a couple of rings, then a voice answered.
‘Good afternoon, Laughlin Police Department, how may I help?’
‘I’d like to report a missing person,’ Mark said, weakly hoping he was being stupid, but suspecting he wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leighton had only taken two steps inside the cool vault of the station when he was met by Chief Gretsch, who had been supervising the installation of a new framed display of decorated senior officers on the wall behind the main reception. The chief’s own grinning photograph was at the top of the display. He hurried across the foyer to intercept Leighton before he reached the reception desk. As he blocked Leighton’s path, he smiled a broad and emotionless smile.
‘Mr Jones, I was wondering when you might show up.’ He took Leighton’s arm and led him purposefully across the marble floor, away from the reception desk.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, it seems you were in here last week too. You do know you are currently retired, right?’ Gretsch chuckled without warmth.
‘I just popped in.’ Leighton shrugged. ‘Didn’t think there was any harm.’
‘No?’ A fresh smile split Gretsch’s face. ‘Well, that’s as may be, Mr Jones, but the way I see it is, you have attempted to misappropriate police resources, and trespassed on private property.’
‘I was looking into a missing person for a young woman who asked for my help.’
‘This wouldn’t be the same young woman whose mother called the station this morning to accuse you of stalking and harassment? And are you aware the young woman has a history of mental health issues?’
Leighton shook his head in disbelief.
‘Now, you listen to me, Jones. I know a few cops who struggle with retirement and start to convince themselves they see armed robberies taking place on every other street corner. It’s an occupational hazard. My advice is you drop whatever Columbo case you’re on right now before you end up in front of a judge yourself. You’re sixty-years-old, man. Go buy yourself a toy dog or a chess set.’
With his speech finished, Gretsch straightened his shirt and walked away from Leighton, who decided to give the chief the benefit of the doubt.
‘Sir,’ he called loudly across the foyer. ‘I believe we may have a group of highly organised killers working together.’
Gretsch turned around as if he’d just been punched on the shoulder, and hurried back across the tiled floor to Leighton.
‘A group?’ As he spoke, the complexion of Gretsch’s moisturised face darkened visibly.
‘Well, more than two, anyway – there would probably have to be a driver and two others…’
‘Are you shitting me, Jones?’
‘No, sir, I simply think that…’
‘No,’ Gretsch interrupted, ‘you’re clearly not thinking, are you, eh? Do you know what the collective noun for serial killers is?’
‘No, sir, I don’t believe I do,’ Jones said as he looked at his feet.
‘Of course you don’t, because there isn’t one! They are loners by definition.’
‘What about Bianchi and Buono, or Lake and Ng up in San Francisco? I bet their twenty-five victims might disagree with you, had they not all been raped, tortured, and murdered.’
‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jones,’ Gretsch said in an angry whisper. ‘That was a pair, not a group. Anything more than that can’t happen.’
‘Or it hasn’t, until now. Maybe before Lake and Ng, unimaginative cops blissfully believed serial killers working in pairs couldn’t happen either.’
Gretsch stared directly at Leighton. ‘Okay, let’s cut the shit – to date, you have misappropriated police resources, trespassed on private property, and have been accused of harassment.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Leighton. ‘Given your monumental fuckup with that business at Black Mountain Ranch, I reckon you should keep your head down. So, if you show up here, or engage in communication with any of my officers, I’m throwing your ass in jail, Jones. Now get the fuck out of here.’
This time, when Gretsch thundered off in a cloud of self-importance, Leighton let him go. The comment about the Ranch was a pretty low blow – even for Gretsch. However, it wasn’t enough to deter Leighton; he was becoming used to rejection.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The gears of the bike clicked solidly into place as Cherylyn Sanderson pedalled steadily along the smooth asphalt outside the dusty, desert city of Twenty-Nine Palms. After six weeks of early morning journeys, covering a grand total of ninety miles, her tanned legs were finally becoming more defined. Hitting the road at 6.30am each day wasn’t easy, but it was a lot easier than it would be during the day when the scorching sun was high in the sky and the thundering trucks began to dominate the hot roads.
At the age of thirty-seven, Cherylyn had decided it was time to fight nature’s insistence on attaching extra inches to her body, and cycling was the easiest and least conspicuous way to do it. When anyone from work passed by in a car, she could pretend she was taking it easy – enjoying the view; however, once they had passed and she was alone again, she would push her body to a fat burning level. Cherylyn could have used the fitness facilities at work, but that way, everyone would have known what she was up to.
Although she still found it difficult to believe, Cherylyn had worked on the reception of the busy Country Inn in the city of Twenty-Nine Palms for two decades. For most of that t
ime, she had worked alongside Louisa – a small, round woman, fifteen years her senior. This meant that, for the majority of her adult life, Cherylyn had been defined by a favourable contrast to her co-worker. Whenever guests asked for her, they would refer to the young slim girl from reception. In the blissful bubble of youth, this was not something Cherylyn considered complimentary; it was simply factual. Nor did she give any consideration to how such comments must have made Louisa feel… until recently.
Six months earlier, Louisa had announced her retirement to spend more time helping her daughter with the grandchildren over in Reno. Within a few days of this announcement, Danny McGhee – the general manager of the inn – had spoken discretely to Cherylyn and asked if she would be interested in becoming the senior receptionist, which she was. She had been sad to see her co-worker go, but was also a little excited by the prospect of a new colleague – naïvely assuming Louisa’s post would be filled by someone of similar age.
One week after Louisa had retired, Danny McGhee had walked into reception accompanied by a petite, smiley girl who would – Danny informed her – be the other receptionist. The younger woman’s name was Lisa-Marie; she had the physique of a swimwear model and looked like she spent a couple of hours perfecting her appearance each day.
Three weeks later, Cherylyn had been reloading paper into the HP printer in the rear office, when she overheard an elderly guest asking Danny if they could speak to the young, slim receptionist. Partly out of habit and partly out of naivety, Danny had stupidly called Cherylyn through.
‘Hi there, can I help you?’ Cherylyn had smiled warmly at the elderly woman, who had frowned in mild irritation back at her.
‘No, not you, dear,’ she had said as she shook her head. ‘I want to speak to that slim, pretty young thing who was working reception last night.’
That had been enough for Cherylyn, who realised she could magnanimously accept her role as the older, larger receptionist and wear it like an ugly costume, or she could fight to retain her looks and status. She opted for the latter.
The first day on the bike had been easier than she anticipated. It had been her day off, so she rose early and drove to the Joshua Tree Bicycle Shop where she collected her gleaming purchase. Then she had returned home, where, after a lunch of Special K, Cherylyn moved in tentative circles around the backyard of her two-storey home. By 3.00pm she had pulled on the glossy red fibre-glass helmet and ventured out into the quieter roads. In the weeks that followed, cycling became part of her daily routine – a secret weapon in her war against ageing and Lisa-Marie’s effortless pert little ass.
Cherylyn was three miles out of town and pushing hard on the pedals when a sudden noise rose behind her. She turned her head frantically around and found herself faced with a shuddering wall of metal as a speeding bus passed dangerously close her. For a scary moment, she felt her bike pulled towards the mass of the dull metal beast thundering past her. It seemed inevitable she would be drawn beneath the wheels of the bus and crushed to dusty meat. The bike wobbled unsteadily between Cherylyn’s legs, but she managed to steady it as the bus roared away from her.
‘Jesus!’ she yelled. ‘Watch where you’re going, psycho!’ She would have flipped her middle finger to the departing bus, but she was partly unsure if such a defiant gesture would put her further off balance. Instead, she simply put her head down and continued counting her downward strokes, muttering her annoyance.
It took a couple of minutes before she glanced up and realised that the bus had stopped about fifty yards up ahead.
Even though she was already at the limit of her energy, Cherylyn’s rage provided her with enough strength to reach the silent vehicle. She glanced up at the dark windows as she moved along the flank of the bus. When she reached the door, she banged angrily on the dark glass.
The door hissed open.
‘Listen! I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing back there, but I almost…’ Cherylyn fell silent as she found herself staring down the black barrel of a shining rifle.
‘Climb aboard!’ the man in the Mickey Mouse hat said, with a fixed grin on his face.
Cherylyn glanced helplessly at the deserted road ahead. The tears fell from her face almost as soon as she stepped off the bike and into the darkness of the bus.
A moment later, a large man in a Hawaiian shirt climbed off the bus and opened the cover of the luggage compartment. He picked the bike up with one hand and threw it in.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The warm mist of the shower filled the cubicle and swirled around Vicki’s head. She stood beneath the torrent with one palm pressed against the smooth, charcoal-coloured tiles. She had taken to the bathroom to escape her mother’s interrogation about the previous evening. Abigail Reiner was not so easily pacified.
Stepping out of the shower, Vicki wrapped a white towel around herself, turning to find her mother sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bath. In one hand she held a smouldering menthol cigarette, in the other was a crystal ashtray.
‘Wow, you gave me a fright.’ Vicki tried to sound nonchalant as she twisted a second towel around her dripping hair.
Her mother sucked on the cigarette and spoke as she blew the smoke out. ‘Who was the man I showed out of my house this morning?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Victoria. Who was the man?’
‘A detective.’
‘He claimed you approached him.’
‘That’s true. Laurie has been missing for some time. I think something bad might have happened to her. I wanted help.’
Vicki, eager to avoid the confrontation, walked out of the bathroom and padded into her bedroom, but her mother merely followed her, hovering in the hallway.
‘Are you sleeping with him?’ Abigail asked as she stood in the doorway.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’ Abigail crushed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Are you sleeping with that old man? He’d obviously spent the night after your little party.’
Vicki sat on the edge of her bed where various old photographs of her father remained, scattered like playing cards.
‘For God’s sake, your sense of timing is great. I’ve just lost my father.’
‘All the more likely it is then that you would make irrational decisions. Can you imagine how I felt flying three thousand miles to collect your father’s insurance documents, and walking in on this?’
‘On what?’
‘Your cheap date.’
‘I am not sleeping with him, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Good, that keeps everything nice and simple then.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, I have informed the police of his intrusion…’
‘His what?’
Abigail’s face did not even register her daughter had spoken. She carried on speaking, undaunted by the interruption.
‘–And that I would consider any repeat of his visit to represent a criminal act.’
‘My friend is missing, possibly murdered, and that kind man is helping.’
‘Murdered? Don’t be so melodramatic.’
‘She is missing then,’ Vicki clarified, ‘and he’s helping.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s helping by filling you full of junk food and alcohol?’
‘It was me who bought the beer.’
‘Oh, jeez, he must have thought he won the state lottery meeting you.’
‘You know, not everyone is as selfish as you!’
‘No, of course not. I’m flying back out this afternoon. I appreciate you may be vulnerable, and suitors haven’t exactly been thick on the ground, but in my absence, try to avoid inviting any other strangers into my house.’
Abigail turned victoriously out of the doorway and strode back to the kitchen, leaving her daughter sobbing quietly on the bed. If nothing else, Abigail felt comforted by the fact her daughter would be very unlikely to see the elderly man again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At 2.15pm, a couple of lawnmowers were droning sleepily on the opposite side of the street as Leighton sat beneath the yellow parasol at his patio table with a tall glass of iced tea. He was scribbling methodically on his notepad when a white Punto pulled up in front of the single-storey condo.
‘Hi,’ Vicki called from the open window as she leant across and smiled sheepishly. She had tortoiseshell sunglasses on her head and was wearing that faded University of San Diego T-shirt again.
Leighton stepped off the patio and crossed the shared lawn dividing the properties from the road. He paused halfway.
‘Hey, is your mother waiting in the backseat with a telephoto lens and a rifle?’
‘I’m sorry you had to suffer an encounter with her.’ Vicki narrowed her eyes and assumed the icy stare. ‘Bitch is as bitch does.’
‘Aren’t you taking a chance talking like that?’ Leighton smiled. ‘She might have followed you?’
‘No, she’s already headed back to New York.’
‘What? I thought she came down to be with you.’
‘No,’ Vicki scoffed. ‘She came to collect Dad’s life insurance documents and other paperwork. She’s a very efficient woman, you know – even while dealing with the death of her husband.’
‘I could see that. So do you want some iced tea, or would that constitute harassment?’
‘Well, that would depend on what you’ve spiked it with.’
‘Ah,’ Leighton smiled. ‘Just slices of lemon, I’m afraid.’
‘In that case I’ll risk it,’ Vicki said and climbed out of the car.
Leighton went inside to fix her a drink. Vicki sat at the table and breathed in the sweet smell of the overflowing hanging baskets running along the front of his home. She liked the simplicity of Leighton’s world. He seemed to have found a small, comfortable space for himself – self-contained and safe.
‘Here you go,’ he said, as he placed the glass before her. ‘So, did you have any luck with your computer stuff?’ Leighton asked as he sat down.
