Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  I hit the accelerator and dashed up Zycko Hill. I thought I had to be gaining on him but as I reached Main Street there was no car in sight. I drove up and down Main, but there was no sign of him. It was like he had vanished.

  I finally gave up my search and retreated to Bette’s. Doc Mac appeared frustrated by my tardiness, but was still accommodating.

  I apologized for my delay, and then asked him about the man in the Taurus. Was Bette okay? Why would the man be after her?

  Doc looked confused. “That was Bette’s brother—he’s here on business, and visited with her before returning to California.”

  “Her brother?”

  “Yes—Joe Hastings Jr. He was here when I arrived this morning.”

  My head began to spin. The man who met Poca at my brownstone was Woodrow’s older brother? I hadn’t connected the photo of the young man at the fair to the older one in a baseball cap.

  I forced myself to focus on the reason I came—the diary. Doc recalled with a smile how she used to carry it with her at all times when he tutored her. But of course, he had no idea what had happened to it, and it’s not like Bette was able to tell him.

  That didn’t stop me from asking Bette about it. When she had no response, it began to hit me how foolish and desperate I looked at the moment. But I swore there was an understanding in her eyes … not that it was doing me any good.

  I looked to Doc. “You told me that you saw her the day of her accident, to say goodbye before you went back to college. Did she have the diary with her?”

  He looked at me like I was a crazy man, but still found a comforting smile for me, “I don’t have any recollection, but she didn’t let it get too far away from her, so it’s entirely possible.”

  “You said she gave you a gift that day.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “When she came to say her goodbyes, you said she gave you a gift for tutoring her that summer.”

  “Oh, yes, it was just a thing she had written. A thank-you, and a note about how she hoped to apply what she’d learned that summer.”

  “Did you keep it?”

  “If I did, it would probably be in one of the many boxes in my basement, along with the other items patients have given me over the years. If you think it would help in your story, you’re welcome to come by and take a look.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I said. I thanked Doc and Bette, and headed out. I had another hunch, which led me to the Rockfield Police Department.

  Based on the look on Rich Tolland’s face, seeing me wasn’t the way he wanted to start his Monday. But I would be quick—all I wanted was the name of the person who claimed to know who had murdered Thomas Archibald. Rich’s first assignment from thirteen years ago, which had been ruled a waste of time.

  The RPD had no official record of it, as it never became an active investigation. But you never forget your first case, and Rich remembered the name. After he told me, a quick Internet search filled in the rest. I had no idea of the who or why when I asked, but I did know there was some real connection, which there was.

  I returned home, surprised that it was only eight o’clock. I felt like I’d already had a full day, but I knew it was just getting started. And waiting for me when I got there was Gwen.

  Every part of me wanted to yell and scream about how stupid and dangerous what she did was. But I had made peace with it … well, my version of making peace with something. I forcibly held in any outburst for the good of the mission.

  “I know who did it,” we said in unison, upon seeing each other.

  Ladies first. “It was Joe Jr., Woodrow’s brother,” she blurted.

  “I know,” I replied.

  “How did you know?” she said, sounding almost disappointed.

  “First off, he was the mystery man who went into my place to meet with Poca. Secondly, I tried to chase him down this morning after he visited Bette, here in Rockfield.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No, but the Rockfield PD got a tip from a Bryant Ranney, thirteen years ago, claiming that he knew who murdered Archie. He’s the son of Preston Ranney.”

  “Joe Jr.’s alibi at the prep school,” Gwen said, this time sounding impressed. If Rich had been allowed to dig further into the claim, or had been the experienced policeman that he is now, he would have seen the connection. But it wasn’t a high priority for the department at the time.

  “How did you figure it out?” I asked.

  “It was how Woodrow replied to one of my questions last night. That he had always protected his family, and would continue to do so. When I did the math, Joe Jr. was the only one who the statement made sense about. Why would he have to ‘continue to do so’ if the family member wasn’t alive, like his father, and Bette isn’t a possibility for obvious reasons.”

  “And your seductive tactics got him to tell you this?” I couldn’t totally keep it in.

  “I think he wanted to give up his brother to save himself, but didn’t want to appear too obvious in doing so. And as far as the seduction comment, could we hold off on that? We don’t have time to fight about it right now.”

  “You’re right, there’s not a minute to waste—we have a plane waiting to take us to California.”

  Chapter 56

  The flight to Monterrey Regional Airport took six hours, but we made up three with the time change, arriving in mid-afternoon.

  Our arrival was also expedited by Carter, who had contacted his friend, the sheik, and got us access to his private jet—the same one we took on our ill-fated trip to Syria last year. No waits, no lines, no security.

  I was able to catch up on my sleep during the trip, after barely getting a wink over the last forty-eight hours. Gwen spent her time engrossed in research on the Hastings family, specifically Joe Jr.

  Monterrey is a picturesque coastal city in northern California, located on the southern edge of Monterrey Bay. The weather was cool today with a stiff wind, but no lack of sunshine—the rainy “June gloom” season in these parts usually turns into brilliant September sun. Gwen wore a v-neck sweater with Capri pants. While I dressed in the standard reporter uniform—a sport coat thrown on over whatever you’re wearing.

  We rented a Kia, and followed directions to the Hastings home, located on a hillside just above the famed Cannery Row that John Steinbeck wrote about. It was a 1920s bungalow built in Dutch colonial style. Compared to some of the other Hastings properties, the house was modest, but the ocean view was stunning.

  We got out of the rental car and began walking toward the house. Joe Hastings Jr. had left on a flight out of Westchester this morning, and was scheduled to arrive in Monterrey approximately an hour before us. But getting here was one thing—getting inside was another.

  It appeared that Gwen’s research would pay dividends in that regard. She’d discovered that Joseph Hastings Sr.’s 100th birthday would have been next month, if he’d still been alive. So our play was that we were doing a story celebrating Rockfield’s most influential citizen on the centennial of his birth.

  It was better than anything I could come up with, but still had flaws. For instance, wouldn’t that be a type of meeting that would be set up with the family in advance, instead of just showing up unannounced on their doorstep? And their suspicions were probably on high alert after the discovery of Thomas Archibald, so we’d better be prepared for some skepticism.

  We were met at the end of the driveway by a fit-looking Hispanic man. He wore a sleeveless shirt and jeans full of holes. It was as if Carter had dressed him.

  He spoke with a “who goes there?” tone. He said his name was Vaz Salvador, and he added that he worked for “Mrs. Hastings,” which seemed relevant. He then brought up that he was once an amateur boxer in Mexico nicknamed the Vazmanian Devil, which didn’t seem to have any relevance, other than to let me know he could kick my ass if necessary.

  Gwen took the lead in explaining who we were, before providing our centennial birthday story.


  It didn’t get us very far. “No reporters,” he said, his voice firm.

  I had been in enough of these situations to know that we needed to get on the same page, and that page featured currency changing hands. I greased his palm with a couple of hundred dollar bills. It was enough to get us in.

  “Follow me,” he said, and began the hike up the steep incline of the driveway. He didn’t say much, but you could tell he thought of himself as an important cog in the Hastings’ wheel.

  We entered into a sunlit Great Room that opened to a kitchen. He instructed us to wait there while he got Mrs. Hastings. I inquired if Joe Jr. was home, and I was told that he was away on a business trip. So either his flight got delayed, or he had other plans upon his return.

  When Vaz left the room, I used the time to study a family portrait hanging on the wall. Woodrow and Joe Jr. appeared to be around nine or ten years old, so it was taken around 1950. It was formal—suits and top hats. Joe Sr. was a young father in his thirties with the look of success, flanked by his two adoring sons.

  His wife, Georgette Hastings, sat in a chair with her youngest, Bette, on her lap. Georgette was quite a looker in her day, in a blonde bombshell, Jayne Mansfield kind of way. The Hastings men certainly had a type. According to Gwen’s research she had been a struggling actress and burlesque performer in New York when Joe Hastings walked into her club one night. She never made it big but she did marry quite large.

  My eyes were drawn to Bette, who was maybe five at the time—the epitome of the little girl with the curl. She had a vibrant smile and was gazing into the bright future she once had.

  The lost potential of her life saddened me, so I switched my attention to the other photos that were displayed throughout the room. There were plenty of Joe Jr., but no recent ones—and by recent, I mean in the last quarter century. Most were from his movie days when he was the swashbuckling heartthrob cowboy, courageously fighting the Indians. These days he spent his time meeting Indians in my brownstone.

  I was drawn to another photo of Woodrow and Joe Jr. together. In this one they were young men in their twenties. The engraving on the photo indicated that it was from Joe Jr’s wedding to actress Mary Wadman.

  “My Irish twins—born less than a year of each other, but their personalities were always light years apart,” a voice caused me to turn around.

  When I did, I saw a hunched woman hobbling into the room with a cane, the Vazmanian Devil at her side like the Secret Service.

  She took a seat on the couch and caught her breath. She didn’t resemble the woman in the photos, but who did at ninety-six? Her skin was deeply lined and sun-spotted. Her hair was still blonde, but I was certain it was a wig. She wore large-framed glasses, much like Bette’s. But unlike her daughter, the eyes behind these spectacles were lucid and strong.

  Gwen kept to our story about her late husband’s birthday. She even tossed on some sugar about how influential his legacy remains in Rockfield.

  Georgette waved her hand dismissively. “I’m too old for this nonsense—we all know you’re here to talk about that Archibald kid.”

  Chapter 57

  After we made formal introductions, Georgette turned to Vaz. “You didn’t think to ask our guests if they’d like something to drink?”

  Suddenly the Vazmanian Devil wasn’t so tough. He politely took our drink order—a couple of lemonades—and was off to the kitchen.

  “What a beautiful home you have,” Gwen began.

  “My husband was all about golf, golf, golf. When we first moved out to California, we lived in LA, but he was up here every weekend playing at Pebble Beach, so we decided it would just be cheaper to buy a place. When he died, I moved up here full time. If I had to live out here in la la land, I might as well live in a place where I could breathe.”

  “Ever think about moving back to Rockfield?” I asked.

  “Things changed there, so we had no choice but to leave.”

  “What things were those?”

  Her face grew disturbed. “Just things I couldn’t face every day. We needed a change.”

  “I was under the impression that you moved to Hollywood to be close to the movie business,” I pushed.

  She gave us another dismissive wave. “The movie business practically ran itself. We moved out here because my husband was worried about Joe Jr. and his big mouth.”

  I was about to accuse her of covering for her big-mouthed, murderous son, tossing in cop-terms like “accessory to murder,” but Gwen took a softer approach, “Are you aware that the body of Thomas Archibald was discovered in Rockfield a few days ago?”

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is—we all know what killed him.”

  Gwen and I looked at each other.

  “And what would that be?” I asked.

  “Karma.”

  I noticed a lot of crystals and gemstones around the room. Georgette seemed to be into the mystical, so the karma answer would fit. I still didn’t see that as the lead suspect, but I could be convinced.

  “By all accounts, Thomas Archibald was a clean-living, all-American teenager—why would karma be out to get him?” Gwen asked.

  “It had nothing to do with Thomas. Unfortunately in life, the fate of children is connected to their parents. And his parents harmed him by spreading those hurtful lies about my children.”

  “May I ask what these lies were in regard to?” Gwen asked.

  “No you may not,” Georgette put a quick end to that. “Joseph, my husband, was a firm believer that the innocent should never defend themselves against an accusation. And I will choose to honor his memory by not dignifying those lies.”

  “Did you and your husband always agree on such things?” I asked.

  “Most things we did. But I never forgave him for what he did to my baby,” she said, turning emotional.

  This got our attention, and Gwen followed up, “I thought Bette’s injuries were the result of an accident?”

  “She should have never been there that night. That Indian girl was bad news, and we all knew it. I told Joe over and over to put a stop to it, but he did nothing.”

  The tears began to flow, and Vaz returned just in the nick of time to provide her with a box of tissues.

  Georgette dabbed her tears, and then blew her nose like a foghorn. Once she got her emotions under control, she continued, “And the night of the accident, we should have gotten her to a hospital, but my husband was too worried about our image—how it might look if our daughter had been taking drugs, or collaborating with the Samerauk. She needed a real doctor! Not some neighbor boy.”

  I was interested in digging deeper into this, but we were interrupted by footsteps in the foyer. Joe Hastings Jr. stepped in the room, and looked at us with curiosity. He was dressed like a casual business traveler, with khakis and open-collared dress shirt. His baseball cap was gone, and his hair was in a George Carlin style ponytail—bald on top, long in the back.

  “I’d like you to meet my alcoholic son,” Georgette introduced.

  He didn’t seem especially taken aback by the rude greeting. “That is true, I am, but I usually go by Joe,” he said and we all shook hands, introduced ourselves, and played nice … for now.

  Georgette looked to Vaz with mischief in her eyes, “These people need to speak to Joe in private … so I think it’s time you gave me that massage.”

  He helped her to her feet and she actually slapped him on the rear as they exited the room. Gwen looked like she was going to be ill. Security, pool boy, waiter, and gigolo … the guy did it all.

  Joe Jr. took a seat on the couch and we traded suspicious looks. It felt like he was on the witness stand, and I was the prosecutor.

  Court was now in session.

  Chapter 58

  “So where was your trip to?” I got the party started.

  “New York … for business.”

  “What type of work are you in?” Gwen asked, as if truly interested.

  “I’m a drug counselor. I run a
rehabilitation facility near Los Gatos, but I’ll often do ‘house calls’ for certain clients.”

  “Is that why you went to New York? A house call?” I asked.

  “I’m not able to say—privacy issues. Why exactly are you here?”

  Gwen didn’t attempt the 100th birthday story this time. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Thomas Archibald for the Rockfield Gazette. Are you aware that his body was recently discovered in the Samerauk River?”

  “From what I’ve read, that’s yet to be confirmed.”

  “Sources have led us to believe that it is indeed Archibald.”

  Joe Jr. looked rather amused. “The motto of modern journalism: why wait for the truth, when we can speculate and hide behind anonymous sources, without consequence!”

  “So you don’t believe it’s Thomas Archibald?” I asked.

  “I prefer to wait until the entire truth comes out before I form opinions, that’s all.”

  “But what if the truth doesn’t come out because certain people are withholding information?”

  “Whether it’s him or not, I don’t see how I can help you. I was at prep school in Maine at the time of his disappearance, and I’ve spent most of the last fifty years on the west coast.”

  “Your mother claimed that the Archibald family was spreading lies about you in the time before his disappearance. Any idea what that was about?”

  He shrugged. “From what I understand, things got heated during negotiations for a land deal and it got personal. I had no direct knowledge of this, and I don’t have the slightest idea what these supposed lies were about. If you knew my parents, you’d understand that they don’t believe in dignifying accusations, so it rarely came up in our house.”

  He then began to laugh, which seemed odd, considering the topic. “Whatever rumors were spread about me in my youth surely couldn’t compare to the things I did in my adult life. I ruined a career, a marriage, and too many friendships to count, before I got clean.”