“Did Glade give you his phone number? I don’t have it with me.”
“No, but he said he was in his office at the pet cemetery.”
“No problem. I can look it up. Is there anything else, E.J.?”
“Myra called again. I told her I’d already given you her message.”
“I’ll try to get back to her soon.”
When Geller got off the line, Michael turned to the detective. “May I use your phone book, Mark? I hate to call information, now that the phone company charges an arm and a leg for every inquiry.”
Mark nodded. “Sure, Michael. Let’s go back to my office. You might as well use my phone, too. Why pay for air time on your cell phone, when there’s a telephone sitting on my desk?” he offered magnanimously.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Michael looked up the number for Fairlawn Pet Cemetery in the Sprint directory and pressed the numbers on Mark’s phone. Las Vegas is the only city in the country where new telephone directories are issued twice a year, due to the area’s transient population and rapid growth.
Glade answered the telephone himself on the second ring. “Fairlawn Pet Cemetery.”
“Mr. Glade, this is Michael Kaplan. I’m returning your call.”
“Thank you for getting back to me so promptly, Mr. Kaplan. I’m about at my wit’s end. I received a phone call from one of my workers ten minutes ago. There’s a big problem out at the mine.”
Geller had been right, Michael thought. Glade had a tremor in his voice, as if he were in absolute panic, but working hard to keep his emotions under control. “Go ahead, Mr. Glade. I’m listening.”
“The first trash bag my employees raised to the surface was very heavy; it ripped open, just as they pulled it out of the mine shaft. It wasn’t a dead animal inside, Mr. Kaplan. Not at all. It was a woman. Murdered, I’m afraid.”
Michael did a double take. “A woman? Are you absolutely sure, Mr. Glade? Your workers aren’t pulling your leg, are they?”
Glade seemed offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My employees are much too serious about their jobs to have said anything like that if it wasn’t true. What should I do about the dead woman? Should I have them bring her corpse to Las Vegas?”
“No. Tell your men to stay where they are and not to move the body again or to touch anything else in the mine. As it happens, you caught me in the right place at the right time. I’m at Metro right now, in the office of the Chief of Detectives of the Homicide Division. Detective Caruso or one of his officers will be at the mine as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kaplan. I knew you would be able to advise me of the right procedure.”
Mark waited until Michael finished his conversation, then asked, “What was it you just committed me to do? Did I hear you say something about a homicide?”
“That was Forrest Glade on the phone. He owns the pet cemetery north of town. When his workers went to the abandoned mine to remove the dead animals, they found a woman’s body. Murdered, according to Glade. He said her corpse was stuffed into a plastic bag and dropped on top of the pile of dead animals. I told him you or someone from the department will be right out. I’ll draw a map for you, so you’ll know how to get to the mine.”
“Better yet, Michael, I’d like you to come along and show me the way. That will save some time. Besides, you’ll need to get all the lurid details for your newspaper, won’t you?”
Michael checked his watch. There was no way he could go to the mine with Mark and be back in Las Vegas in time to take Myra to lunch. He turned to Kimberly. “Kim, I’d like you to drive my car back to the office. I’ll go with Mark. As soon as I find out anything about the murder victim I’ll phone in and dictate the story to you.
“Oh, by the way,” he added casually, as if what he was going to say next was a mere afterthought. “Please call Myra for me. She should be in her office at the Gold Crest. Tell her I had to go out to the desert and won’t be able to meet her for lunch today. Say I’ll give her a call as soon as I get back into town.”
Kimberly was taken aback by Michael’s request. He could call Myra himself. A phone was sitting on the desk right in front of him. If he was in such a big hurry to leave, he could use his cellular while he and Mark were driving to the mine.
Michael should call Myra himself, Kimberly thought angrily. Myra didn’t want to hear from her. Not her, of all people. Of that, Kimberly was quite sure. Myra had accused her of sleeping with Michael and trying to steal her husband and undoubtedly hated her with a purple passion. Why was Michael so damned reluctant to pick up the phone and make the call?
Suddenly, it dawned on her. Michael didn’t want to risk embarrassing himself in front of his friend Mark by making a phone call to Myra that would likely turn into a big argument—especially if he called to break their luncheon date. A date Michael hadn’t even mentioned to Kimberly until that very moment. And she had been planning to have lunch with him herself.
Okay, Kimberly decided. I’ll do what Michael wants. First, I’m going to make him squirm a bit. “Sure, Michael. I’ll be glad to call Myra for you. Since you won’t be back in time to take her to lunch, maybe I’ll go in your stead. That way, neither Myra nor I will have to eat alone today. Besides, we haven’t had the chance to sit down and have a heart-to-heart for a long while. We have a lot of things to catch up on. I especially want to tell Myra about the burglary and everything else that happened last night.”
As she spoke, Kimberly watched Michael for a reaction. She was rewarded royally. He clenched his fists. His eyes bulged and his cheeks puffed out slightly as he clamped down hard on his teeth. The lines around his eyes tightened. His skin colored, then faded to a pale fallow. He had not found her suggestion amusing. “I’d really prefer you to stay in the office and wait for my call,” he stated through tightened, almost motionless lips. “Send out for a pizza or something. I’ll pay.”
Kimberly nodded to acknowledge she had heard him, but said nothing. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she really did want to sit down with Myra and talk. It was high time she brought her feelings about Michael into the open.
MARK ARRANGED TO MEET THE CORONER and a Mercy Ambulance crew near the I-15 freeway offramp in Jean. From there, the three vehicles caravaned on a dirt road that wandered somewhat aimlessly, but eventually took them up the alluvial plain to the abandoned mine. Mark and Michael led in the Metro black-and-white; the others followed in their dust. Michael remembered the intense heat on the day he and Kimberly were at the mine. This day, the air was much cooler; the skies had clouded over and there were distant rumblings, like the skies were belching, and a downpour was threatening, if not actually imminent.
A white Ford pickup with the words Fairlawn Pet Cemetery painted in blue letters on its door panels was parked near the mine shaft. Two Hispanic youths in their late teens or early twenties were sitting on the opened tailgate smoking cigarettes. An older man, whom Michael recognized as being the same person who had been mowing the lawn when he and Kimberly visited the pet cemetery, stepped out of the cab of the pickup and waved as the caravan approached.
THE CLARK COUNTY CORONER, Mortimer Postum, was a large, grizzly bear of a man with a full gray beard and full head of bushy hair, except for a large bald spot on the crown where male pattern baldness had taken its toll. He wore a three-piece black pin-stripe suit, a size or two too small. Michael shook the coroner’s hand; he remembered Michael from a previous murder case. Two paramedics, both gay, exited their vehicle and walked over to the pickup truck. They lit cigarettes and started talking with the young men. They knew they should stay out of the coroner’s way until the medical examiner was through with his job; and, anyway, a dead female wasn’t their main concern at the moment.
The cemetery workers had draped the corpse with the same black plastic trash bag that formerly contained it. They’d used small rocks as weights to keep the plastic from blowing away in the wind, which was picking up as the storm f
ront started moving through.
Postum removed the covering and knelt down over the body. It was lying supine on the ground. The woman’s lifeless blue eyes were open and appeared to be staring at the sky. With his thumb and middle finger, the coroner gently closed her eyelids. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties, a rather plain-looking woman with stringy brown hair, now matted with blood. She was wearing men’s striped pajamas, half-covered with a peach-colored robe. The clothes were soaked with sticky, semi-dried blood. There was a large gash on her neck, from which much of the blood had gushed. A stain of gore oozed from another wound on her abdomen. She was barefoot.
Michael watched from a distance of about fifteen feet. He had never become accustomed to looking at cadavers. Mark Caruso stood over the coroner, making notes on his legal pad whenever Postum spoke. When he finished his examination, Postum peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them into a medical waste container he kept in the trunk of his car. Caruso removed a bottle of water from the trunk and poured it over Postum’s hands.
Rain started to fall. The coroner called the paramedics over and told them to load the body into the ambulance and deliver it to the county morgue. They were ready to go, having already exchanged phone numbers with the young men who worked for the cemetery.
Mark motioned for Michael. “I don’t think we should stay up here on the hill much longer,” he stated. “If the rain gets any heavier, our vehicles are likely to get mired down in mud. We’ll drive back down to Jean and have lunch at the Silver Lode while we talk.
“I think the people from the pet cemetery should leave now, also. They can come back to pick up the dead animals another day.” The words were barely out of Mark’s mouth when a large bolt of lightning sizzled to the ground a few hundred feet away. The brilliant flash was accompanied instantaneously by a deafening crash of thunder, and raindrops the size of teacups plummeted from the sky.
MARK AND DR. POSTUM ordered double cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes. Michael didn’t have much appetite and settled on a mixed green side salad and a glass of iced tea. Mark and Postum deferred discussion of the post-mortem examination until after completing their meals. They were accustomed to seeing death, and talking about post-mortems over lunch didn’t bother them, but they didn’t know how the conversation would affect Michael. He had gamely watched the entire proceeding, but on several occasions they noticed he started to turn green around the gills.
After the waitress removed their emptied plates and brought coffee, Postum made his oral report; his written report would be submitted to Metro later. “I can’t fix the time of death precisely. My best guess is the woman was killed thirty to thirty-six hours ago—between midnight of day before yesterday and six a.m. yesterday morning. She was killed somewhere else, stuffed into the plastic bag, and brought here. I suppose you should have checked for tire tracks around the mine, Mark, but after the rain started it was too late.
“The killer knew what he was doing. There’s no doubt about that,” Postum stated conclusively. “He might even be a professional assassin. The woman was slashed with surgical precision in both the carotid artery, which is on the neck, and the abdominal aorta, which is located right in front of the kidneys. Either wound would be almost instantly fatal. There were no superficial wounds. The killing was very efficient.” Postum paused to let the weight of his statement sink in.
“Of course, there’s another possibility—” His voice trailed off for effect.
“What’s that?” Michael asked, rising to the bait.
“The assailant knew exactly where to plunge the knife, indicating he had a thorough knowledge of anatomy. Perhaps he’s not a professional killer at all, but a doctor or someone with a medical background. There’s yet another reason why I think the perp could be a doctor. The murder weapon was thin and very sharp, like a surgeon’s scalpel. That would indicate this homicide was premeditated and planned well in advance. If the woman was killed in the heat of passion, the killer would have grabbed the nearest weapon available—a kitchen knife, for instance, or a table lamp. Not many people carry surgical instruments in their pockets,” Postum chuckled grimly.
“I don’t suppose the woman had identification, since she was wearing pajamas and must have been ready for bed,” Michael postulated.
“On the contrary, we know exactly who she was,” Mark informed Michael. He had been saving this tidbit for last. “She wore a medical alert bracelet. Her name was Patricia Hogg. She was Gunther Hogg’s wife.”
Thirty-Two
AS SOON AS MICHAEL AND MARK left Metro headquarters and headed for the abandoned mine, Kimberly rushed to a pay phone in the lobby. She knew she would lose her nerve if she didn’t call Myra immediately. To Kimberly’s complete surprise, Myra complaisantly agreed to join her for lunch.
Myra suggested they meet at noon in the Ponce de Leon room at the Gold Crest, which was more than satisfactory to Kimberly, it was perfect. No matter what was said—and Kimberly had plenty to say—Myra wouldn’t cause a scene in public, especially where she worked.
Kimberly arrived at the restaurant about five minutes early, but Myra was already there, seated in the same booth where Kimberly and Michael had confronted Soozie. She wondered if it was happenstance they would occupy the same booth again today, or if Myra had arranged it with the maitre d’.
“Hi, Myra, you’re looking great,” Kimberly complimented. It was no lie. Myra was wearing a brick-colored silk pantsuit, obviously new, with matching leather accessories—shoes, purse, and belt, the same hue as her outfit, but a slightly darker shade. Her normally straight brown hair had been spiral permed, and, Kimberly thought, trimmed slightly shorter. It was difficult to discern in the dim light of the restaurant, but Kimberly suspected the titian highlights in Myra’s hair, which harmonized with her attire, came from a henna rinse.
“Thanks. You’re as gorgeous as ever, too, Kimberly,” Myra returned the compliment graciously. It was not by accident that Kimberly looked her best. Once the luncheon date was confirmed she hurried home to change into the new white silk dress she’d charged at the Fashion Show Mall a few days earlier. She would have to be careful what she ordered for lunch; any accidental spills or splashes would permanently stain the delicate fabric.
The busboy filled their water glasses and brought their iced teas and a wicker basket lined with a blue napkin, filled with warm sourdough rolls and little pats of butter wrapped in foil; the waiter took their orders. Both women decided to have a Monte Cristo, one of the most popular items on the Ponce de Leon’s luncheon menu. Myra ordered hers without the ham.
Myra got right to the point. “What did you want to discuss with me today, Kim?”
There was no need to beat around the bush, and a one word answer was more than sufficient. “Michael.”
Myra could feel a flush of vermilion surface on her cheeks, but she’d determined to maintain her composure no matter what went down. Under the circumstances, she felt remarkably calm. Still, when she spoke, her voice sounded hard, even embittered.
“Michael’s asked me for a divorce, if that’s what you want to know. I haven’t had the time to hire an attorney yet, but I’ll make an effort to do so before the end of the week. That should make you happy, Kimberly.”
Kimberly dug into her handbag and found her cigarette case and lighter, then removed a Winston from the pack. She hadn’t thought she would be nervous, but when she held the lighter to the tip of the cigarette she noticed her hands were trembling.
“Are you saying you no longer love him?” Kimberly asked, almost indifferently.
A single tear appeared in the corner of Myra’s left eye. She brushed at it with her napkin. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I still love Michael, and always will. I’m just so hurt, Kimberly. I never thought Michael would have an affair. And with you, of all people. My best friend.”
Myra hadn’t smoked in years, but she reached over, took one of Kimberly’s cigarettes from her case, and lit it. Their meal had no
t yet arrived, and Myra was already so worked up and her mouth so dry she didn’t know if she would be able to swallow, let alone hold the food down.
“When you induced Michael to commit adultery, you opened a Pandora’s box,” she criticized. “Now he wants as many women as he can get. Not only you, but also the real estate agent, the brunette—”
Kimberly reached over and put her hand on Myra’s arm. “Hold on a minute, Myra. Let me straighten you out about a few things. First of all, Michael and I have never had sex. Never. That’s the truth, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Myra frowned. “How can I believe you? With my own two eyes I saw Michael come out of your bedroom wearing only a towel, with love bites all over his neck.”
“Things aren’t always as they seem, Myra. First of all, I didn’t give Michael any hickeys. That isn’t my style. Are you sure what you saw weren’t insect bites or razor burns or an allergic rash? You immediately suspected the worst, refused to give Michael a chance to explain, and ran your mouth off with jealous accusations.
Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 27
