Bill Bauer is a District Attorney for Sullivan County (and a fellow fly fisherman) over in Monticello, which is about a forty-minute drive east from Roscoe. If anyone knows his way “around” the law, it’s him. I could call him, but I decide to pay him a little visit instead.
You can run, Mr. Shields, but you can’t hide.
Chapter 34
Peggy, December, the previous year – late in day two
The sun has set, and the temperature has dropped considerably. Jake and Peggy have gotten just past the little town of Rock Hill, thanks in varying degrees to rides from an eighteen-wheel trucker, a musician in an ancient pickup, and a dark-skinned man with an accent who apologized profusely for only being able to take them a very short distance, because he had to be “home before the sun goes down,” whatever that implied.
In spite of Jake’s arm around her shoulder, Peggy is becoming increasingly colder. Her shivering is more pronounced, and she is becoming a bit frightened. What if they can’t get home tonight, she thinks. Where will they spend the night? Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all. But, really, she reminds herself, what choice did she have?
As if reading her mind, Jake says, “Boy, this kinda sucks, doesn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement.”
The two laugh in unison.
“So, what do you think?” says Jake. “Want to get a room or something?”
“Lots of luck,” replies Peggy. “I’ve only got about fifteen bucks to my name—and I need that for food.”
“I’ve got money,” offers Jake. “I could pay for a room. Unless you’d rather keep on with the cross-country ski thing.”
Peggy laughs aloud. “No, no. Of course not. But, I’d have to pay you back. You know, you give me your address; I’ll send you the money when I get home?”
“No sweat. My parents have more money than God. I’m only hitchhiking because it’s fun.”
“Oh, yeah. Lots of fun,” laughs Peggy. “Look at all the fun we’re having, freezing our asses off in the snow.”
“Well, we have met some interesting people, haven’t we? Present company excluded, of course,” replies Jake, in mock self-deprecation.
“Oh, you’re okay,” laughs Peggy. “Not as nice as Joe, maybe, but you’ll do.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“Hey!” says Jake. “What about that room? You wanna do it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
As if on cue, the dimly lit, flickering sign of an ancient motel appears in the distance, barely visible through the driven snow. It says, “Shangri La Motel.” They both think it is the most beautiful sign they’ve ever seen.
Chapter 35
The ride to Monticello is a pleasant one, a straight shot down Route 17, and in no time at all, it seems, I pull into the parking lot behind the county courthouse.
Bill is waiting for me in his office, his feet up on his enormous walnut desk, smoking a cigar—Cuban, no doubt. Although I’ve never been a smoker, the aroma is not unpleasant, and I wait patiently with respect as he puffs away contentedly for a few moments, before carefully extinguishing it. Then, he stands up, and extends an oversized hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you Matt.”
“Same here, Bill”
We met many years ago at a Trout Unlimited dinner in Roscoe, before I retired and moved Upstate, and since then have fished together often. He’s a large man, with a shock of prematurely white hair that he keeps stylishly long in keeping with the outdated, three-piece suits he affects. The only thing missing is a pocket watch, although I have no doubt he owns one.
“So, it sounds like you’ve got yourself a little problem,” says Bill, looking down at me over his pince-nez reading glasses (his personal homage to one of his idols, Teddy Roosevelt). I had briefly explained my dilemma to him on the phone, before making the drive.
“I’m afraid I do, Bill,” I say. “We’ve got a DNA match between the bracelet and the victim, but still no positive ID. But, this prick in Arizona won’t give us the name of the person who bought the damn thing. If we had that, we could put a face to the deceased, and probably solve this thing.
“But, he won’t cooperate,” says Bill.
“Nope, not without a subpoena. Frankly, this has been one of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever worked on.”
Just then, a young female aide enters the room, carrying a stack of papers. “Excuse me, sir,” she says. “I hate to disturb you, but I need to get a few signatures on these.” Looking at the DA, and then back at me, she adds, “It should only take a second.”
Bill takes the papers from the woman, saying, “Sorry, Matt. Do you mind?”
“Not at all, Bill. I appreciate the time.”
I watch with admiration as he hastily scrawls his name a half-dozen or so times with a gold-plated fountain pen. It must be something to have that kind of power, I think. As if reading my mind, Bill laughs and says, “Sometimes I feel like one of those old French Kings, you know. The only thing missing is a feathered, quill pen. I probably ought to get one of those. What do you think? Too much? Yeah, probably. Wouldn’t want all the lawyers to hate me, now, would I? It’s bad enough I’ve got all the defense attorneys ready to vote me out of office.”
It’s public knowledge that Bill is a hard-nosed prosecutor, and never one to let a blatant criminal get away with anything in his jurisdiction. More than likely, it will be he who will prosecute this case, if it ever gets to trial.
The aide thanks Bill, and scurries out of his office with the signed documents. The DA sits back down at his desk, beckoning me to pull up a chair.
“So, won’t be long until we start catching those big browns, huh, Matt. Why don’t you check your calendar, and let me know when we can get out on the water.”
“I’ll do that, Bill,” I reply. “But, it might be a while, especially the way things are going with this case. Maybe the last weekend in September. I’ll give you a call.”
“I’ll be ready,” says Bill, as he begins the ritual-like task of re-igniting his cigar. “In the meantime, let’s figure out how I can help you catch that damn murderer!”
“Well, as I said, this fellow owns a website that sells memorial war jewelry. You know, MIA bracelets, things like that. The problem is he doesn’t want give out the names and addresses of his customers, and since he’s in Arizona, I can’t subpoena the records—and he probably knows it.”
“Hmmm,” says Bill, puffing away on his cigar, a cloud of blue smoke beginning to form around him. I can almost hear the judicial wheels turning in his head. “Does he know it’s a federal crime to impede a murder investigation across state lines?”
“But, it isn’t, is it?”
“But, does he know that?” asks Bill, with a wry smile.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” says the DA. “Have you gotten in touch with law enforcement out there yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Okay, here’s what I suggest you do. Find out who’s got jurisdiction out there. Might be a chief of police, like you, or maybe a sheriff. Tell him what you need. See if he can’t lean on the guy a little. Maybe scare him. Give him some bullshit about Internet businesses being an exception to the law.”
“Well, I guess it’s worth a shot,” I say. “If you really think it’ll work.”
“Ought to,” says Bill. “Most people want to help; they just need a little convincing.”
“And, if it doesn’t work?”
“Then, you just let me know, and I’ll call him myself. It’d be fun.” As if adding a punctuation mark, he blows a perfect smoke ring, and watches as it penetrates the air.
I stand up, reach out, and shake his hand, saying, “Thanks Bill. I’ll let you know how I make out.”
“Don’t mention it. And let me know when you’re free for some fishing.”
“Will do,” I say, laughing over my shoulder. “And don’t let ‘em catch you wit
h those Castro cigars.”
“Never happen!” says Bill. “Besides, I’m the District Attorney; remember?”
“How could I forget?”
I jog out of the courthouse and into the parking lot, and jump into the patrol car, eager to return to Roscoe. For the first time in a long while, I feel energized.
Back at the office, I bring up a map of Arizona on my computer screen, and after enlarging it, I find that Wood Hall is a miniscule dot, somewhere between Victorville and Lake Havasu City. It falls under the auspices of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department. I obtain the phone number, and my call is answered by a Sergeant José Cuervo, who assures me in his slightly accented English that he is not related to “that damned tequila.” After I explain the reluctance of the website’s owner to furnish the information, and how badly we need it, he assures me that he will be happy to help. “Not to worry, ‘amigo,’” he says. “I’ll just pay Meester Shields a little personal veesit; maybe even play the old race card, if you know what I mean, Signor.” Each Spanish word is spoken in an exaggerated Mexican accent, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, you like my accent?” asks José.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, trying to hold back my laughter. “But, you do that very well.” Then, attempting to steer away from the race thing, in the event that I might unwittingly cross a delicate line, I try to change the subject. “So, José,” I ask, “do you do any fly fishing out there?” I may as well have stepped on the gas pedal.
“Oh, Si, Signor,” he says, his accent becoming even more exaggerated. It’s becoming apparent that he’s enjoying this game. “We feesh the Deelores and the San Juan, over in New Mexico.” He rolls the “r” in Delores, makes the traditional “wha” sound for the “j” in Juan, and turns the “x” into an “h” in Mexico. “Are jou a fly fisherman?”
I’m laughing so hard, I can scarcely speak. “Yes, yes, I am,” I stammer. Then, regaining my composure, I tell him all about the Catskills, and the various rivers I fish.
“Well, then,” he says in perfectly enunciated English, “you’ll have to get your ass out here sometime, and fish with me.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” I assure him. “And, the same goes for you, up here in the Catskills.”
“I’d like that.”
I ask Officer Cuervo to have Shields fax me the information, assuming he’s able to convince him to part with it.
“No problemo, Matt-eo,” he says. “I’ll give you a call and tell you when to expect it.”
We say our goodbyes, and then I glance up at the clock. It’s nearly six. I’ve promised Val we’d get pizza tonight. I call her, and tell her I’ll meet her at the restaurant in half an hour.
Hmmm, I think, maybe I’ll even get anchovies.
Raimondo’s is the best pizzeria in Roscoe; actually, it’s the only pizzeria in a town bereft of decent eating establishments. Fortunately, for me, its owners are first-generation Italian Americans, and the food they serve is comparable to that of any of the finest restaurants gracing the streets of New York City’s Little Italy. Sometimes you just get lucky.
Val and I take our favorite table in the right rear corner of the back dining room, and one of the young community college students who waitresses the place hustles over with a menu. I wave off the proffered bill of fair, saying, “Not necessary. We know just what we want.”
“We’ll have a medium cheese pie, half with sausage, and half with anchovies,” says Val, wincing in mock disgust as she finishes the sentence.
“And two house salads, with Italian dressing—on the side—and a couple of Yuengling drafts,” I add.
“But, don’t bring the beers ‘til you bring the pizza, okay?” asks Val. (We both hate warm beer, and since our limit is one apiece, we long ago agreed to have it as cold as possible).
We wait until the girl disappears, and simultaneously reach across the table to hold hands. It’s a ritual we established early in our marriage.
“So? How’d it go?” asks Val.
“What? Oh, the subpoena thing? Don’t know yet. I went over to Monticello, and spoke with Bill Bauer.” I explain what Bill has suggested. “You know Bill. Anything that’ll help catch some enemy of society. He’s all for it.”
“So tell me about this bracelet. Do you really think there’s a connection?”
“No question about it,” I say. “There’s a perfect match with the DNA from the body. I don’t want to get too excited, but since we definitely know it belonged to the victim, and if we get the information we’ve requested from Arizona, we’ll finally have something to work with.”
“That’s great, Matt.”
“Yeah. Once we find out who this girl is—was—we ought to be able to get a picture and start circulating it around; you know, see who might have seen her, where they might have seen her, and, who they might have seen her with.”
Val leans in, and with an air of conspiracy, whispers, “So, what’s your gut feeling? Local or out-of-towner?”
“Well, the pragmatist in me hopes he’s a local; it’d make it a lot easier to find him. But, the ideal scenario would be if it turned out to be somebody from a different city—a different state, even. Somebody long gone—so we wouldn’t have to worry about it happening again.”
“And let somebody else catch him,” says Val.
“Exactly; as long as he gets caught.”
“But, it would be nice if you caught him, don’t ya think?” she says with a wink.
That’s my Val, always looking out for me.
Just then, our pizza and salads arrive, along with our ice-cold beers. We raise our glasses, clinking them together in a silent salute. Val grabs a slice with sausage on it, motioning with the hot wedge of pizza for me to join her. “I don’t know how you can eat those things,” she says.
The taste of the anchovies is a perfect compliment to the rich, aromatic draught beer. “It’s an acquired taste,” I say with a wink. “Just like—”
“Matt, don’t you dare—”
“I was just going to say Scotch whiskey.” I leer at her over my beer mug. “What’d you think I was going to say?”
“Never mind,” says Val. “Just eat your pizza—and your hideous, hairy little fish.” Then, not satisfied, she adds with a smile, “You men. You’re all just like little boys.”
“You women,” I respond. “You all have dirty minds.”
“And, aren’t you lucky!”
In less than half an hour, the pizza, salads, and beer are gone. And, so are we.
Chapter 36
Olivia, the previous year – still day one
The police scanner mounted beneath the dashboard squawks noisily, and Olivia can only make out about a third of what she hears. The big policeman listens intently, however, and appears to understand every word.
“How the heck can you understand all that noise?” she asks, innocently.
“You get used to it,” replies Red. “Been listening to these things more than twenty years. After a while, it just comes naturally. Actually, I’m retired, but I still like to monitor the calls.” He glances over at the girl, quickly assessing her demeanor—and, her possible predicament. “So, what brings you to these parts? Parents throw you out of the house?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. And, it’s par-ent, as in singular,” she says, emphasizing the last syllable. “My dad got killed over in Iraq, about six years ago.”
“Oh,” says Red. “Sorry about that. Must have been tough on your mom—and you, too, of course.”
“Yeah,” says the girl, with a sigh. “But, it’s really been hard on my little brother, Frankie. He was only two when Daddy was killed. He still thinks Dad’s coming home someday.”
Red continues driving, without responding to Olivia’s remark about her brother. The scratchy sound from the police scanner has become a kind of “white noise,” not particularly invasive, almost comforting.
“I’m going to help them,” says Olivia, breaking the silence between the ca
r’s occupants. “I’m going to become a model.”
“Oh really?” replies Red. There’s a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but it’s lost on the girl, who continues on, oblivious to his tone.
“I’ve got it all planned out—ever since I won Miss Homecoming Queen last year, when I was a junior. I’m going to be a model.”
“And then what?” asks Red. “Don’t you have to be at least eighteen to be a model?”
“Oh, I’m eighteen already,” lies Olivia. “But, I won’t be a model right away. First, I have to find a job—probably waitressing—there’s lots of waitress jobs in the city. I already have a place to stay and everything.”
Red just stares straight ahead, his mind a million miles away, it seems. Olivia senses a problem. Maybe it wasn’t so smart to take a ride from a cop after all. She decides it’s better to keep talking; keep him from thinking about things too much. She starts rambling on, hoping to distract him from any “cop” thoughts.
“Anyway, she knows I can make it. My mom, I mean. She even helped me find a place. I’m going to be staying at a Y. Have you ever stayed at a Y? I think it’ll be fun. I’ve never been to the city before; have you? Ever been to the city, I mean?” She’s falling apart, talking too much, giving this man way too much information.
“Look,” says Red. “It’s okay. If you want to run away from home that’s your decision. But, what’s the deal? Is your old man hitting on you? Is that what it is?”
“Oh, no. I swear. My father’s dead. Honest. He—”
“Because, if he is, I can make a call—”
“It’s not my father,” cries Olivia. “It’s just me! I just want to get away. I want to be somebody. I know I can. If I can just get to the city. Please don’t call my mother. Please?”
“Okay, okay. Just calm down,” says Red. “Nobody’s going to call your mother. Just relax. It’s just that I see this stuff all the time. Girls running away from home; their old man using them for a punching bag. I just wanted to be sure that wasn’t your story.”
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 15
