by Allen Kent
I started the engine and swung the cruiser around between the rusting yard ornaments. “Your phone check convinced me. LJ looks like he’s on the verge of death. Verl wouldn’t be bringing anyone in to stay with him, and it seems pretty obvious he won’t leave him alone. With no computer, no indication of web activity on the phone, and no trips away from the holler, how would they get an M183 pack?”
“Someone brought it to them?”
“They’d still have to ask. Let’s see who the calls were to. If they have some survivalist buddies they call, we may have new reason to worry. But right now, I believe we need to be looking somewhere else for our bomber.”
“For whoever killed the man?”
I shook my head uncertainly. “I’m still thinking that if the killer wanted him found, why bury him? And even if he did decide to dig him back up, there were sure a hell of a lot easier ways.”
Grace tipped her head in reluctant agreement. “So, what do we do now?”
Instead of turning back toward town, I steered left toward the highway north. “I think we go see who was checked in at the Hampton at the same time as our Mr. Sayegh.”
11
Grace tapped and swiped at her phone as we drove toward Springfield. “There are three or four hotels within a stone’s throw of the Hampton on 65,” she observed. “We may need to check them all.”
“We will,” I agreed. “But if you were following this guy to find the right time to get rid of him, where would you be?”
Grace nodded. “Yes. I’d want to be where I could stay right with him if he left. That pretty well means being in the same place.”
“Either that or staying out of sight in the parking lot. If Sayegh knew the man who was after him, that may have been the case. But I’m betting he didn’t. So probably the same hotel.”
Grace tilted her head thoughtfully. “There’s two assumptions in that statement I’m not sure we can make.” I turned away and smiled at my reflection in the window. I was about to get a dose of that police training she had and I didn’t. Rule One: never assume anything. Even little things. One wrong assumption and you’re headed off in completely the wrong direction. I’d learned to listen to her, act like I’d been considering what she said all along, and adjust as needed.
“First,” she lifted a slender finger. “We can’t assume Sayegh didn’t know the person.” Another finger. “And two, we don’t know that person was a ‘he.’ The Haddads knew him. And he knew them and where they were. I can see this being like a Syrian mafia hit where both sides have their hitmen. In this case, the Haddad side got to Sayegh before he got to them.”
“But Rosario said there had been other interceptions,” I reminded her. “Not all Syrian. And each with the nazars left somewhere on the body.” I wanted to convince her there was a pretty good basis for my assumptions before I conceded. “This must be a bigger operation than just a Syrian family feud. But you’re right. We shouldn’t assume a ‘he.’ My bad. And we’ll check out the nearby places just to be safe.”
I’d called Joseph as we left town and asked her to contact a Springfield judge she’d once dated to see if he could sign warrants that would allow us to review hotel registration records for the previous month. She called when we were still thirty minutes from the city.
“Stop by the Greene County Courthouse and he’ll have them for you. You just need to let him know what hotels you want to search.”
“It looks like there will be four,” I told her.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. His clerk will have them waiting.”
We started with the Hampton, getting a printout of data on everyone who had registered up to a week before Farid Sayegh checked in and left during the two days following his death. The Syrian had been at the hotel for four days, which limited the pool considerably. Only seven guests had been registered during that full period, and in only four rooms. The same proved to be the case at the other three hotels that were close enough we thought they might be reasonable possibilities. We ended up with a list of twenty-seven guests and fourteen rooms.
As we drove back toward Crayton, the sun had dropped below the horizon, turning the wisps of horsetail clouds that brushed the sky a filmy violet. Grace flipped on the overhead light and scanned our lists.
“Let’s say this guy was watching our man so he could follow him wherever he went. The Hampton has doors on all four sides. If he hadn’t bugged Sayegh’s room somehow, how would he keep track of him without there being at least two people? Maybe even more, since he’d need to be watching day and night?”
Another question that reminded me that even after nearly a year and a half, I’m still a rookie at this job. I thought about it for a good two minutes before answering. She didn’t push.
“First of all,” I said finally, “I noticed you said ‘he.’ We have a number of women on our list, so they aren’t out yet.”
She gave me a begrudging elbow in the shoulder. “Okay, smartass. He or she.”
“But you raise a good point. We can’t just look at singles. But we can’t eliminate them either. I can see a professional getting into Sayegh’s room and planting a camera, or even just a buzzer of some kind on the door. It would let him—or her—know when the man came and went. If they knew where his car was parked, when they saw him leave the room they could get to their own vehicle in time to follow.”
“That pretty well brings us back to the killer staying at the Hampton.”
“Or,” I added, having one of those stomach-sinking moments, “he was living in his car in the Hampton lot, like we said before. We should have asked to get copies of their parking surveillance tapes for the past three weeks.”
She chuckled. “We’re back to ‘he’ again, I see.”
“Okay. Let’s forget the pronouns for now and just worry about how he did it.”
Grace arched a thoughtful brow. “There’s only one drive out of the Hampton lot, so one person could keep an eye on it. Watching from a car seems like it might be a pretty good possibility, now that I think about it.”
“I like the door buzzer idea better. One person could handle it then. He could sleep in his clothes and be ready to move. I wonder if the Patrol looked at the room Sayegh stayed in? The killer might have left the device in place.”
“I’m going with the car in the lot,” Grace insisted. “If they haven’t already, get Officer Joseph to ask one of her guys to check the room for a bug of some type and call about a warrant for the security tapes.” She waved the printouts in front of me. “While you and Marti start through these lists, I’ll drive back up in the morning and get the videos.”
12
Initial review of the lists, it turned out, had to wait. Following the Springfield trip with Grace, I’d again come in early and found Marti already at her desk. Plopping the sheets in front of her, I went to the coffeemaker and poured us both a cup.
“Want a bit of a break today?” I asked as she flipped through the pages. “Grace is making a run back to Springfield to pick up some video. We need to contact these people, see why they were in Springfield at the same time our victim was there, and follow up on alibis.”
Marti deposited the sheets back on her desktop. “Grace called just before you came in. She’s got some other things she has to take care of today. And Officer Joseph needed a little more time to get warrants. Plus . . .” she said, smiling slyly, “. . . you forgot about job shadowing this morning, didn’t you?”
“Damn,” I said, before adding “Pardon my French. But was that today? I forgot all about it. Who do I have?”
“Miriam Haddad. The school said she asked for you specifically.”
“Miriam’s interested in law enforcement?” The girl was Yusef’s youngest daughter, a sophomore, and one I’d been helping with parent-teacher conferences when only Lilia could attend.
“Maybe it’s you she’s interested in,” Marti suggested with a teasing grin.
“The kid’s only fifteen.”
“Yup. That
’s about the right age.”
“I can’t imagine the school sending her out on patrol with me alone. Not with all the concerns they have about safety nowadays.”
Marti chuckled. “Are you a threat, Sheriff?”
“You know what I mean. They’d want her going with Grace.”
“She asked for you.”
“Then, they’d want someone riding along.”
“They do—and asked if we had anyone. I told them we did.”
“Yeah? Who?”
Her grin widened. “Me. You get me.”
“Double damn!” I said without apology. “Not that I don’t want you going along. But I’d like to get started on these lists.”
She turned back to the printouts. “Maybe Rocky can spend his morning in here helping with them.”
I pulled the top sheet off the stack. “Yeah. I can’t very well sit in the office all morning and call hotel guests while Miriam twiddles her thumbs. Not the way to maintain the fascinating lawman image.”
Marti handed me another list from her desk. “There are two or three other things that need attention. A couple there I’d rather not assign to Frankie.”
At the top of the sheet, boldly underlined, was the name Farley Buzzard. “What does old Farley need?” I asked.
“Something’s been killing his goats.”
I chuckled. “We’ll take Miriam out there. If she is thinking about law enforcement, that should cure the kid. I know he butchers goats for the Haddads. She might as well see where some of her meals are coming from.”
“She may never want to eat again,” Marti snorted. “That’s a pretty rough way to start a job shadowing day. I drove out there with Nolan to deliver a load of feed corn once. Farley was walking us out to his feed shed when he stopped halfway and said he needed to take a leak. Then he said, ‘Don’t be shocked if this comes out orange. It’s the meds I’m taking.’ So he stopped right there and did the job.”
“Was it orange?”
“Well, I’m sure, Tate! I wasn’t about to stand there and watch the man relieve himself. . . . But yes. Nolan said it was orange.”
I chuckled. “I’ll bet no one will have better stories when they report back to class tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Marti muttered. “If they’re stories the girl can share in school.”
Miriam showed up promptly at 8:30. She’s a gangly teen, a few inches taller than her sister Raca, but with the same wide mouth, dark eyes, and heavy brows. She’s still struggling to catch up with her adolescent growth spurt and is inclined to wrap herself in a hug that hides her blossoming chest. Marti asked if she’d like a Coke or bottle of water to take along. She already had one in her backpack. Marti grabbed a jacket and was dialing Rocky’s cell before we were through the door.
I pointed the Explorer northwest out of town with Miriam examining buttons and switches on the dash and the Sig strapped to my hip. Marti sat quietly in the back, leaving the shadow in my hands.
“Have you ever had to use that thing?” Miriam asked, her eyes on the weapon.
“Once in a while. I rarely have to pull it. Just lay my hand on it to convince people I mean business.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Not here. Hope I never have to.”
“When you were in Iraq?”
Hmm. I’d really hoped to keep this conversation domestic. “Yes,” I answered. “But not something I like to remember.”
She became silent, fidgeting with her hands in her lap and looking out at passing farmland and stands of hardwoods as we left town.
I waited for Marti to fill the awkward silence. When she didn’t, I said, “We’re on our way to meet with a guy who can be a little different. I need to warn you about him before we get there.” Her quick glance showed enough alarm that I immediately clarified.
“Oh, he’s not dangerous. His name’s Farley Buzzard and he raises meat goats on his farm up near Willston. In fact, I think your family buys meat from him.”
“Buzzard? What kind of name is that?”
“I think is father was Cherokee. At least, that’s the story.” I waited for Marti to confirm. More silence.
“What’s different about him?”
“Well, he’s something of a hermit and has a tendency to say whatever pops into his head, without thinking about others being around. People sometimes get offended by things he says or does. So just ignore him if something comes out that shocks you.”
“Like what?” she wanted to know.
“That’s the problem,” I admitted. “You never know what it’s going to be with Farley. Maybe some cussing. Maybe some crude comment—or him doing something odd.”
“I’m not shocked very easily,” she insisted.
I chuckled. “Neither am I, but sometimes he catches me off guard.” I glanced at Marti in the mirror. She was just smiling silently.
“Is he married?” Miriam asked.
“No. Never has been. That’s probably one of the problems. There’s no one to tell him he needs to be more careful about what he says and does.”
“Why are we going up there?
“Something’s been killing his goats. He called to see if we could come out and give him some help.”
“What do you think’s been doing it?” Her eyes again showed worry.
“I have an idea. But I want to see what he has to say before I make a judgment.” We turned off the gravel county road onto an unkept lane that wandered back through a thick stand of cedars to the front of a trailer that could have doubled for Tug Divine’s. It stood without skirting on six square stacks of concrete blocks. Heavy woven cables strapped it to steel rings that protruded from the ground at each end, keeping the thing from blowing off its crude foundation. A set of rough wooden steps rose to a central door that opened as we pulled up in front. The man who stepped onto the shallow porch caused Miriam to shrink back into her seat.
To say Farley Buzzard is grizzly does a disservice to the bears. He’s massive enough to qualify, but no self-respecting bear would allow himself to become so unkempt. The man’s leathered face peered out between a mop of grey-brown hair and beard. Both looked as if he’d grabbed the wire on an electric fence and hung on for dear life. He wore a stained red T-shirt under bib overalls that had never seen a good wash. He frowned disapprovingly, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“Who you got there with ya, Tate?” he called before we could leave the Explorer.
Marti and I stepped out of the cruiser. Miriam stayed pressed into the passenger seat.
“You know Marti Bleasdale. And we have a student from the high school with us. They have the kids go out and work with someone for a day to see what the job’s like. This is Miriam Haddah. Her father, Yusef, buys goats from you.”
“Well, sure thing! Them Moslem families. Come on out here, girl, and let me have a look at you,” he bellowed. Miriam cautiously stepped out beside the vehicle, letting the door shield her from the burly man.
“Come on around here. I can’t see who you are when you’re hidin’ back there.” She eased around the front of the Explorer and stood beside me.
“Hmm,” he grunted. “Looks like you could use a little more of my meat on your bones.” While she tightened the hug across her chest, he nodded his willingness to let her join us. “Come on around back. I’ll show you what I was callin’ about.” He marched down the steps, hands still in his pockets, and led us around the end of the trailer. A twenty-foot loafing shed stood at one end of a bare patch of earth that was surrounded by hog panels wired to rusty orange T-posts to form a corral. Thirty boar goats, white-bodied with brown heads and long drooping ears, huddled together in the enclosure, a dozen miniature kids hiding among their protecting legs. The animals were taller than most of their breed, with the round, full bodies of sheep and strong, straight legs. The rams that looked at us warily from each end of the herd had rough, coffee-colored horns that swept down and back along their necks. It was hard to imagine another animal bringing
one down. Farley leaned against one of the posts.
“I got ‘em all penned up ‘til I can figure out what’s killing ‘em,” Farley growled, then released a blast of methane from the seat of his overalls that echoed off the side of the trailer behind us. He lifted his nose to the wind and said, as if commenting on the weather, “Hey! I think I heard a buck snort.”
I glanced over at Marti who had turned to hide her face. Miriam stared at the seat of the big man’s coveralls, dumbfounded.
Farley pushed away from the fence. “But come here an’ look at this,” he said, leading us along the wall of panels.
At the end of the pen away from the loafing shed, a battered red Chevy pickup stood beside the makeshift corral, its tailgate down and a white, curly mass stretched across the bed. As we got closer, I could see that it was Farley’s Pyrenees, Rupert. The dog’s neck was splashed dark purple across the back.
“Whatever it was got Rupert first.” The big man’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat gruffly. “Didn’t mess with the dog, once he killed him. Just left him there for dead. But then got one of my does. I left her out in the pasture cause her guts was all tore out and half of her was eaten away. Thought it might keep the thing from comin’ up closer to the house.” Miriam had been trailing close behind and shrunk back a step.
I laid a hand on the stiff, still body of the dog. “Damn shame,” I said, starting with what I knew was most important to the ragged old herder. “Rupert was a good ’un.”
“I’m so sorry,” Marti said quietly, and we both waited long enough for the man to know we meant it. Then I asked, “What’s your thinking on this, Farley? You got any ideas?”
“I know what it looks like. But so far, we ain’t seen any ‘round here.”
I parted the hair on the dog’s neck and inspected the bite. “Pretty clean. No tearing. And the canines look two to three inches apart. Gotta have powerful jaws to do this. I’d say cougar instead of coyote.”
“No coyote could get Rupert,” Farley insisted. “He’s killed ’em before. Two or three in a night when they come at him in a pack. This thing ambushed him. Like from a tree.”
