“Chief. It appears I don’t have a ride home. I don’t suppose—”
“Get in my car. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He tossed me the keys to his tell-all cop car Ford.
Five minutes gave me time to call Tracy.
“Are you okay?”
“Only vomited once in your wretched idea of a vehicle, and I didn’t even feel bad about it.”
“I’m so sorry. I need to tell you what went down. It wasn’t so bad.”
“I already know what happened.”
“How?”
“There’s a new crime scene reporter in town and at our station. Seems he’s already working a story. He gave me the head’s up.”
“You mean he’s investigating Sandra Vickery?”
“No. He’s investigating you. And you need to come and collect this heap of a van in my driveway. My HOA will go friggin’ nuts. And you owe me. Find Daddy Michael Scores.”
MY MEETINGS WITH THE families and loved ones of the missing women had been reduced to once a month, in the back of a dismal and failing German restaurant that seemed to appreciate our orders of coffee and tea, and a few Heinekens. Mostly, we were a semi-active membership on a private internet group. It had proved to be our best source of communication, and even that was lacking.
Some had given up.
On ever finding their loved ones.
On me. On the judicial system.
We were now mostly a gathering of seven, that included the bubbly and crazy and outrageously dressed Mandy Palmer, the employee of the missing interior designer.
The mostly absent husband of the designer, who had originally rallied for my retainer fee, morphed into something else. Madness. Anger. Distrust. Boiling blood. He hated me, and as much as I appreciated his ongoing presence, I didn’t much care for him.
One man in our shrinking group said, “No one has gone missing for a while. That’s what the press tells us. Does this mean he left? Did he die? Did he leave our loved ones alive in some dungeon to rot?”
I had nothing of an intelligent reply. Nothing. I could only look at them in their eyes and promise, with my own soul, to convey to them that this wasn’t over until their loved ones were found.
More demands. “What do you have?”
“I can tell you that you do not what to jeopardize this investigation. I can tell you that I believe I am on the right path.”
Another one. “Bullshit.”
Another. “Don’t keep us in the dark. We thought you were family.”
“Look at me. Find the light in my eyes. I am here for you and I am close. Believe in me.”
“You’re all I have,” said a tearful mother.
“But we know you’re a psychic. Damn, woman.”
“No, sir, I am not a psychic. I just seem to receive incredible hunches. Instincts, if you will. But those gut feelings wrench at my very being, and I have them now. Hang with me.”
A father. “You’re all we have.”
A friend of a victim. “I’ll find out what the hell you know and I’ll kill that sunovabitch.”
“You can think that, sir, but God help you if you act on it. If that SOB is still alive, don’t you think that might be our only hope toward finding all of your loved ones?”
Mandy spoke up. Outrageous and now timid. “I’m sorry, but violence is not the path.”
I said, “I’ll leave you to talk, as you wish, amongst yourselves. I have work to do. I’ll see you online, every day”
“And I’m hiring an investigator to investigate you,” the now asshole husband, in my mind, of the interior designer said.
“Been done, so I’ve heard. Go ahead. But for the sake of this group, I hope you take your animosity home with you and leave it there. We all have work to do, but with an earnest love for justice in our hearts. Not a vengeance.”
SCHLEP BECAME A USUAL fixture at Carson Greer’s home. Because he knew her work schedule, as well as her children’s activities, he didn’t bother with the formal calls anymore. Often he showed up with a fresh rotisserie chicken, sometimes bags of fruits and vegetables, and always the disposable diapers.
A platonic friendship, without the benefits, Schlep wasn’t sure he was ready for the next step, and he knew Carson wasn’t there yet.
They took turns reading passages from favorite books. Carson would read from Eckhart Tolle, Rhonda Byrne, and when she felt brave she took on Deepak Chopra. Schlep chose the old masters. Plato. Socrates. Aristotle. And when he felt safe enough to drift out of his comfort zone he spoke the words of Henry David Thoreau. But he never read. He recited.
One night Schlep brought over his Trivial Pursuit game board. As Schlep left Carson shoved the game into Schlep’s hands and told him she would never play with him again unless they were partners.
This night, after the children were tucked in to bed, Carson told Schlep that she needed more hours.
“Is it about the money?”
“No. I’ve been informed, if not ordered, that I am to allow my children a one month visitation with their father.”
“With the babies?”
“His parents have a cottage in Cornville. They’ve promised to be there.”
Schlep knew Cornville. It sounds like a dump town in the Midwest, but instead it’s a quaint little community with wide, tree-lined streets that greeted you with a giant veil of interlaced high branches that, with the blue sky peeking through, promised a peaceful and omniscient magic, as well as being the way toward nearby Sedona.
Carson continued, “They have two acres. All fenced. A lot of grass. A gazebo. Swings. And especially, nosey neighbors that find religion being righteous spies.”
“It sounds like either you miss the setting, or you really are worried.”
“Both. And that’s why I need the hours. I’ve been doing crap shadowing for other persons with even more pathetic domestic problems than mine. And I know our leader, recently a jailbird, could use some help on the Vickery case.”
“That’s a tough one. Cassidy has a restraining order against her. She can’t go near the property,” Schlep said.
“Precisely. But I have no such orders. Vickery doesn’t even know who I am or what I look like.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
“You’re up to the top of your horn-rimmed glasses tracking down Scores. And you and I both know that’s not even our case.”
“Actually, it is. Tracy McClendon gave Cassie a ten dollar retainer fee to dig in to the guy.”
“Is that like that dead-beat that slips ten bucks to an attorney so he or she can spill her guts out, with client privacy?”
Schlep laughed and pulled off his heavy glasses. “Opposite, because McClendon knows nothing, except that Cassie has a big heart and an innate inability to say no.”
“So, you have to have thought about this, Schlep. Why in the world would Michael Scores break the story on the missing women if he was involved?”
“You’ll have to rely on Cassidy for the psychological stuff. She’s written five psychological thrillers. I can guess that the man might be hiding in plain sight. With breaking the story, he flies off of the radar. He diverts any suspicion.”
Carson fluffed up her short kinky hair, turning her attention briefly toward the baby monitor with sounds of muffled little giggles . “So, you think it’s okay for me to ask Cassidy to get back in the main loop?”
“I just told you. She can’t say no.”
“Good, because I already know that when Ms. Vickery elects to go to work she’s predominately at her Broadway store. And she likes to get there after her morning massage. I’m going there on Monday.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
MY MANDATORY MEETING with Chief David Manning. Whenever he summoned me, I would show up, unless I felt a bit cantankerous or feisty. Then I’d show up early.
“I called you here as a courtesy. Give it up. We have a full blown confession for all of these missing women. Everyone, including the FBI, accept this new information.
>
“The women? Does he have them?” I demanded.
“Deceased.”
“Where are they? The remains have to be returned to the families.”
“I can tell you that Leonard Green walked in here. Something about a conscious that had my guys bring him into the interrogation room. It does happen, Cassie.”
“Where the hell are these women?”
“Green is a trust fund baby. Never had much need for work. Not a day in his life. He inherited over eight-hundred acres of ranch land near Eglin. Years ago it was a working ranch, and then a thriving Southern Arizona vineyard.”
“Spit it out, Manning,” I yelled.
“Lots of wells on that acreage. One services what is a crude but large ranch house. All the others serve as irrigation. Our boy didn’t give a rat’s ass about any growing plants. Let them all die. But he knew about the wells. Deep, Cassidy. He admitted taking all of the bodies of all of our victims, raping them, and catapulting their bodies down into any one of the numerous wells. There is no way we can recover any remains. Our guys have been out there for two days.”
“And you’re just telling me?”
“Because you are out of control with this Vickery woman. I wasn’t about to say anything until I had firm confirmation. We have it. Give it up.”
“Motive?”
“Better than what you might have. Why the hell would Sandra Vickery kill women that, purely circumstantial, she might have come into contact with? This is a man. He goes for pretty women. Rape. Murder. Disposal.”
“That’s it?”
“Cassie, I know you want this Vickery woman. You have some circumstantial evidence. But you don’t have motive. Think about it. Why would Vickery want to go after these women, when, in your own words, all she wants is to have ex-husband back?”
“Several of the seven deadly sins. I’ll start with envy.”
“Even the FBI is closing their case on the congresswoman. That’s it.”
I TRIED TO ARRANGE A meeting, of sorts, with the crime scene reporter, Marc Julian. Odd. He had motive to meet me, and Tracy told me that motive was me. That could not be good.
I took the gambit position. Not knowing. I hate not knowing. I called on his direct line.
“No. I can’t do coffee. No breakfast,” Julian said.
“Lunch? A glass of iced tea?
He could meet me at a ridiculously overpriced resort, at five.
The lobby bar was packed. I didn’t think I was wasting my time. Why do I care if I’m being investigated, but damn. As a P.I. I wanted to know what some other guy might have on me. I like my anonymity. If anything, I was wasting my money on those high priced drinks.
He was seated before I arrived. He stood.
“I’m Marc,” he said as he greeted me with a firm handshake.
I hadn’t sat down. “Let’s clear the air. I understand you’re investigating me.”
“Sit. No cameras. No hidden mics.”
The waitress came over and he tried to order for me. Bull.
“Gin and tonic. Lots of lime,” I said.
“I can only hypothesize. You want to know why it is that I have nothing on these missing women cases and there may appear to be a man that has admitted to all of the crimes. Someone off my radar.”
“Not exactly. In a way, you summoned me. A bit of press. My interest has peaked.”
Unnerved. So unlike me. Not my style. An attractive man in a black suit, white shirt, and a somewhat loosened tie that I recognized as a Brioni. Not that I cared. Italian. Was Julian an Italian surname?
“Again, you want to know why I have nothing on these missing women. I can deduce that Ms. Sandra Vickery summoned you. Are you looking into my practice?”
“It has come up. I don’t rush to judgment, although I don’t name sources. You called me. I’m here.”
Too damn charismatic. I hated him.
“Can you at least confirm that it was Sandra Vickery that brought my name to your attention? I know it wasn’t the FBI that doesn’t seem to give a crap about anything but their glorified congresswoman, and they are ostracizing the fact that she may be a victim in my cases.”
“Breathe, Ms. Clark. I do know you were recently arrested.”
“Detained.”
“They tell me you’re one of the best.”
“I don’t know who they are, but it’s subjective. I suppose you’ve already researched everything about me on the internet. So why meet with me?”
His phone rang. “Excuse me.”
A friggin’ ten minutes later the waitress told me the bill had been paid and slipped me a note.
Dinner. Five Palms. Saturday at eight. You can stand me up, because no business will be allowed. Marc J.
I called Tracy. “What do I do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“Make sure I’m not on one of his news broadcasts.”
“Saturday. What are you doing Thursday?”
“I’m slammed. Like always.”
“Slam your schedule into the morning. I’m picking you up at noon and we will have an outing.”
“I can’t.”
“You can, and you will. Noon. Your chauffeur will arrive. Have an open mind.”
I DIDN’T TRUST THE confession. I listened and watched it fourteen times. Thirteen times wasted since I knew it was bogus from the get-go. The man wanted attention.
Schlep’s call was welcome. “Cassidy, I’m worried about Carson. She wants to shadow Vickery.”
“She told me. I’m okay with it. And I’m not ready to let go. Something is not right with this so-called serial confession.”
“So that means you are worried about Carson, too.”
“She is an unknown. She’ll be fine. I’ll call her in the morning and make sure she is in full contact with me. Or you. And, more difficult with every day, I have to meet with the families that are paying our fees. They may all accept this asshole’s crap confession, because that’s what it is, Schlep. I don’t know why the man confessed, but maybe for kicks. If the families are ready to move on with this nonsense, we’re back to zero support.”
“No. There are three of us. Maybe more.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
JAXON GILES ENTERED HIS office at exactly 9:15. He conducted his team meetings at 9:30 and would never consider being late.
He gathered his notes for the weekly Thursday meeting. The usual. New buyers. New sellers. A run-down on who is doing what to get every deal closed and ensure all the parties feel like they are getting a good deal.
At 9:25 he heard the commotion from the hall just outside his office door.
A peer had dropped to the floor, writhing in pain, with a spilt glass of water from the cooler dropped next to him.
The receptionist, a retired nurse, screamed for Jaxon to dial 911.
Jaxon wasn’t quite sure what to tell the dispatcher. “I know we need an ambulance. I don’t know what’s wrong but the guy—maybe a heart attack? I don’t know.
“Wait. His lips are blistering. Right now. And he’s having trouble breathing. He’s clutching at his abdomen. He’s starting to spit up blood!”
“Is he conscious?” the operator asked.
“Yes.”
“Get him to drink some water or milk.”
The receptionist took the instructions and started filling a glass of water from the cooler. Then they both saw it. The carpet where the water had spilt had started to melt.
“Every time I think she’s done and gone, she comes back,” Jaxon muttered under his breath.
TRACY PICKED ME UP at noon. I had no news to report on the whereabouts of Michael Scores. I had to guess that she wanted us to have a quick lunch, and then sneak back into his home.
We had a light and most decadent lunch at Vivace, known for their creamy cheese and spinach soufflé that melted in your mouth.
An hour later we were in Tracy’s car, and me, now the surrendered guest. She didn’t mention Scores. She didn’t thank me for g
etting the dilapidated van out of her drive, not that I blamed her given the circumstances.
“Any word on Daphne?” She asked.
“She’s an indoor cat and she’s not in my house. That’s all I know. My housekeeper wouldn’t dream of letting her outside, and Daphne never wanted to go, anyway. Two sides of my property are desert. She’s heard the coyotes and javelina, and she’s seen the bobcats. No way did she try to go outside.”
“Are those instincts of yours telling you anything?”
“My senses freeze when my emotions are involved. My heart tells me she’s still alive and I’ll see her again. My brain tells me she is gone. Somehow, she is gone. She wouldn’t survive the outdoors. I won’t see her again until I find the Rainbow Bridge.”
“I’m truly sorry. It’s the not knowing that gets you.”
I suddenly knew she was talking about the father of her baby. I changed the subject.
“Where are we going?”
Moments later we arrived at the latest and greatest resort salon and spa.
Three hours later I emerged with a manicure, pedicure, and highlights in my red hair, replete with a trendy cut.
It would be untrue for me to say this event was taxing, but my mind raced with questions of whodunits, and who-dun-what.
“You look awesome!” Tracy squealed.
“Different.”
“Yes, because there’s actually a women in there.”
“Home?” I suggested.
“Where’s your date taking you Saturday night?”
“First, it’s not really a date, and he’s not taking me anywhere. I’m meeting him at Five Palms.”
“Wow. I’ve only been upstairs on the deck for their happy hours. That’s some place on the main level. Extremely fancy.”
“Tell me about it. I took Schlep there once for his birthday and about gagged up my caviar and rib eye when the check came.”
“All the more reason why we have another stop to make,” Tracy teased.
She zipped us over to Tucson’s answer to a Lillie Rubin boutique store, where the shop owner escorted us in to a large private fitting room, served us wine, and brought in the dozen or so dresses Tracy had pre-selected.
Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) Page 20
