Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  His complexion was mottled strawberry and cream—like her partner Anthony, he didn’t seem to tan. Black curly hair, a broad face like his mother.

  He was wiping his face and sniffling.

  Laura said, “Hey.”

  He swiped at his nose and looked at her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Laura Cardinal. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Mind if I sit? My feet are tired.” She motioned to the post and rail fence.

  “Free country,” he said. He threw more gravel, picking it out of one cupped hand and flinging it.

  Laura sat. She stared at the quaint, rustic cabins. Must have been built in the twenties, her guess. As she recalled, they didn’t even have satellite TV here. She sat and listened to the pinging of gravel on gravel. Got down, got herself some gravel, and started throwing it herself.

  “What are trying to do? Pretend you’re just like me to get me on your side?”

  Smart kid.

  Laura swiveled her head to look at him. He looked straight ahead, but she knew he was aware of her scrutiny.

  “I’m going to level with you,” she said. “I’m here to find out who killed Sean Perrin, but I need help. I need cooperation or we might never know who did it. You were friends, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, you might know stuff nobody else knows, okay? If you were any kind of friends at all—”

  “We were friends. Good friends!”

  “Then maybe you can help me find out who did this.”

  He stared straight ahead. “You’re scamming me. You’re just trying to get me to—”

  “What? Talk about him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  She saw a tear shine his eye, spill down his cheek. He shoved his fist to his eye and swiped hard. “Shit!”

  Looked at her defiantly.

  Laura said, “‘Shit’ is right.”

  He slid off the fence. “I’m going for a walk.”

  She remained where she was. He started walking along the road. Got about twenty yards from her and turned back to look at her. “You coming?”

  Later, Laura would realize that that was the moment she hit the Mother Lode.

  Or more accurately, she’d put together the first section of the jigsaw puzzle that was Sean Perrin.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sean Perrin 101

  Laura liked jigsaw puzzles. They framed her thinking in an entirely different way. If she was trying to work out a seemingly unsolvable problem on a case, she would pick out a jigsaw puzzle and set up the card table on their screened-in porch.

  The jigsaw puzzle took her mind off the subject at hand. Just thinking about something else allowed her mind to range free. Her long-deceased mentor, Frank Entwistle, had told her that sometimes you had to step away from a case and let it work on the subconscious.

  When she worked a jigsaw puzzle, her brain was busy concentrating on the mechanics of fitting one piece to another. She’d work on one section, putting together several of the more obvious pieces, until that section played out. Then she’d look around for other pieces that might connect, and start a whole new section. Eventually they would inch toward each other until she zeroed in on the last piece.

  By not thinking about her job, she let her mind rest. And often, her mind broke through barriers and she would end up with a revelation.

  Cody and Laura took a trail to Madera Creek down below the cabins. Once he started talking, he couldn’t stop.

  Sean Perrin had spent a lot of time hanging out with Cody.

  He was former military—Special Forces. He showed Cody some interesting fight moves—what Sean called “basic stuff”—and told him stories about firefights in the Korengal Valley, and the time most of his platoon was wiped out.

  He had a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart.

  After the military Sean worked for a defense contractor, but quit when he realized how dirty that business was.

  Sean told Cody his own son’s name was Cody, but he was a lot younger.

  “What about his daughter? What was her name?”

  “Tabitha—Tabby for short. His wife’s name’s Gina. Are they coming out here?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t yet contacted the next of kin. Did Sean mention anyone he had a problem with? From around here?”

  “He said he was estranged from his sister in Tucson. That means they didn’t talk, right?”

  “Do you know her name?”

  He shrugged. “He just called her ‘Miss Priss.’”

  They’d find her.

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  Cody was picking his way from boulder to boulder, every once in a while tossing sticks into the creek.

  “He lived in Las Vegas. He worked for a … I dunno, I forget. A bank? He said he was a…” He screwed up his forehead. “financial consultant.”

  “Anything you can remember about that?”

  “He said … he said he got fired because he flagged an account, something about a well-connected mob guy. He said he was on the run.”

  “On the run?”

  “He said he had to leave his family behind because he might put them in danger. From the mob guy.”

  Laura said, “Did he have a phone?”

  “Oh, yeah. A Galaxy S III. Don’t you guys have it?”

  Laura knocked on the other doors, but judging from the number of cars in the lot—hers, the Forest Service ranger’s truck, and Barbara Sheehey’s station wagon—most of the guests were out.

  The place was quiet. Just the occasional blurt of the radio in the ranger truck. She talked to the ranger, David Bolings, in the mellow sunlight, as he ate a sandwich he’d gotten from the Subway in Continental.

  Small talk, mostly, but she did learn this. Bolings wasn’t first at the scene, but he’d arrived shortly thereafter.

  “So I high-tailed down here as soon as we found out it was a secondary crime scene,” he said.

  “Anyone coming and going?”

  “Not since I been here. Quiet as a tomb, except for the boy.”

  “You know the Sheeheys well?”

  “Pretty much. The kid’s pretty cool. Mrs. Sheehey has a temper, but she’s got it rough taking care of this place by herself, so who can blame her?”

  “Have you met any of the other guests?”

  “The birders. Just to say hi to. Oh, and I’ve noticed the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Maybe not a girl. She looks like she’s in her early twenties. I guess that would be out of girl territory?”

  Laura ignored that. “Ever talk to her?”

  “No. She’s been here for a week or so. A looker. Don’t tell my wife I said that.” Wink.

  Okay, he didn’t wink, but he might as well have.

  “Did they all leave?”

  Bolings shrugged. “No idea. You want me to go in with you?” He nodded toward Perrin’s cabin.

  “No, thanks.”

  The fewer people in a crime scene, the better.

  He looked a little put out. “Okay, then. Just give me a holler if you need me.” And he went back to his sandwich.

  For the second time today, Laura donned gloves and booties. She stepped onto the porch and into the deep shade. Cool, almost chilly. Even though it was very warm in the sun.

  It was like moving into another sphere.

  She thought of it as the victim’s place to go to ground, to be himself. His home, or the place where he stayed if he was on the road. Where he kicked off his shoes, where he slept, where he showered, where he watched TV.

  This was a venue that always changed from circumstance to circumstance, but in one respect it remained the same. It now belonged to her. She owned it. She owned whatever she could learn from this secondary crime scene, and she would try like hell to make no mistakes. A bell, once rung, reverberates.

  This was where the majority of her succe
ssful homicide investigations really started.

  With the victim’s den.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Frank Entwistle’s Ghost

  The room was paneled with an oak or pine veneer, and dark. The cream-colored curtains—cheap and nubbly—turned the outside sunlight into a garish orange glow that seeped around the edges and gleamed off the walls.

  The bed was unmade and a suitcase sat on a folding luggage rack near the bathroom. A robe hung on the bathroom door.

  Laura was looking at the suitcase when she felt the room temperature change. One moment it was warm, and the next, cold enough to raise goosebumps.

  Her eye went to the mirror on the bathroom door. More specifically, to the reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door.

  A man sat on the edge of the bed.

  The last time Laura saw Frank Entwistle she’d suggested he read up on ghosts to get an idea of how they conducted themselves, since he seemed to do such a slovenly job of it.

  He looked old and tired. Like a deflated balloon in his Sansabelt slacks circa 1989. Cheap button-down shirt, blazer, Hush Puppies loafers, a Daffy Duck tie.

  Lately Frank had taken to wearing cartoon character ties. The first time she’d seen him in one, she thought it had been due to indigestion brought on by some pork ribs.

  But it turned out to be a trend.

  “Scare you?” he said.

  “That ship sailed a long time ago.”

  “Thought you could benefit from my encyclopedic knowledge and razor-sharp instincts, kiddo. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You know what I think?” Laura said. “You miss it.”

  “I’m dead. I don’t miss anything.”

  Laura said, “I missed you—can you believe that?”

  “Sure I believe it. Just didn’t think you’d want me showing up, since you finally got a man. Thought it might embarrass you if I showed up at the wrong time.”

  A considerate ghost. Go figure. An old-fashioned, considerate ghost. Laura felt as if she’d stepped into a Mad Men episode, if the characters in Mad Men wore cheap clothes.

  Frank said, “Does he know about me?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He doesn’t think you’re crazy?”

  Laura thought about it. “No. I think we’re beyond that. He knows I’m crazy.”

  Frank smiled at that, then rubbed his tired-looking face. “Probably should keep it that way. I just wondered what you thought about this guy. Perrin.”

  “I’m not sure. The boy who lives here said he was in Special Forces.”

  “You really think that?”

  “I don’t know. Why? You don’t?”

  “Don’t just go with what’s in here,” Frank said, touching a ghostly finger to his forehead. He pressed his finger to his bellied-out Sansabelts. “You gotta go with what’s in here.”

  “In your pants?”

  “Jesus, you’re getting a mouth on you. Your gut. Do you give your new partner that kind of crap?”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “Changed?”

  “I’m more confident now. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who—”

  “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to bounce things off me. But hey, if I’m not appreciated, I can go.”

  And he faded away.

  Laura stared at the spot where her former partner and mentor sat last. The bed was messy, but no messier for having Frank sit there. He was gone, except for a trace of his godawful cologne.

  What had he asked her?

  What do you think of Perrin?

  Simple question. Who else would she be thinking about?

  Laura started at the outside of the room and worked her way toward the center, taking photos of everything. She looked but didn’t touch; the unmade bed, the toothbrush on the clamshell sink in the bathroom, a squib of toothpaste in the sink. Toilet seat up. She took note: how long had he been married? Not long enough to adopt the habit a lot of married men did. Or was he just a rebel?

  She smiled at that.

  Was that how you proved you were a rebel in modern society?

  She looked at the clothes jumbled in the suitcase.

  Hiking clothes on a chair. Medium-expensive, she thought.

  No Samsung Galaxy S III phone.

  They would subpoena Sean Perrin’s phone records, which would give them access to every call he made or received. Even if the killer removed the SIM card or turned the GPS off and the phone was lying in a landfill somewhere, the calls would still be listed up to that point. They might not find everything, but it was a good place to start.

  Anthony had already put a call in to the Las Vegas Metro PD to get the ball rolling. It would take a few days, but they would get the information in the long run.

  Three framed photographs sat on a side table; a beautiful woman and two beautiful children.

  Absolutely beautiful children. A stunning woman. Model-stunning. They could have been in Lands' End ads.

  The photos were sunny. The faces were happy. Healthy. Scrubbed faces, American as Madison Avenue could make them. But they still looked like real people.

  He’d caught them unawares, almost. Like he’d said, “Hey! Look here!” and his wife had turned to look at him. A quick smile.

  The kids on the grass, watching ducks in a lake. Beautiful, beautiful kids. A boy and a girl.

  Sean Perrin had quite a family, and quite a resume. Special Forces. Financial consultant. Whistleblower.

  Maybe that was the key. He’d crossed the wrong person and now he was on the run.

  He’d told Barbara Sheehey that he was married to a Ford model from LA. He’d told Cody Sheehey he had an estranged sister in Tucson.

  His car was a rental.

  Lots of undercurrents there. Lots of things that stood out, and piqued her interest.

  Laura thought he’d been sitting in his car in the hours between eight and eleven, although she’d need confirmation on that from the M.E. She thought he was there after dark, because it would be more likely no one else would be there.

  He’d sat there in the car and for some reason, closed his eyes. And then someone came along and shot him execution-style.

  Laura said to the empty room, “Whoever you were running from, looks like they caught you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Canvass

  Fresh from his helicopter adventure, Anthony joined Laura at the cabin. Laura stood back and watched him look at the contents of the room. She wanted to see what caught his eye.

  He went for the luggage.

  “Nice clothes. Not too expensive, but nice.” He looked at Tess. “His watch was a knockoff made to look expensive. You know where he worked?”

  “Mrs. Sheehey’s son, Cody, said he was a financial advisor.”

  “In Vegas?” He answered for himself. “Probably. You want me to do that part? See where he worked and what was going on with him?”

  Laura knew he liked that aspect of police work best. Back at the squad bay, kicked back in his swiveling chair, on the phone. Romancing people into telling him their darkest secrets.

  “He has a sister in Tucson,” Laura said. “Apparently they’re estranged. We’re gonna have to run her down, too.”

  Anthony had his phone out, checked it. “Shoot, no cell phone service.” He pocketed his phone. “I’ll go back to the farm and see what I can find. Insurance card, stuff he had to enter for Enterprise.”

  “Why’d he rent a car?” Laura asked. “Why not drive his own?”

  “Got me. You want me to help you here?”

  “I’ve got it covered.” She believed in people doing what they did best. Anthony was good at everything, but he excelled at data collecting and doing his legwork back at the squad bay. She suspected that in down times, he was coming up with movie pitches and treatment ideas, but he was the best talker she’d ever seen on the phone. He could tease answers out of anybody. In person,
though, he came off as overbearing. He towered over people, and some folks—most of them older—were intimidated by his bald head. This, she knew, was the reason he often adopted a porkpie hat. It made him look slightly goofy, but it took away the edge.

  Just then tires crunched on gravel.

  They went to the open doorway. A young woman dressed in skimpy running shorts and a clingy top emerged from a metallic yellow Ford Focus hatchback. She bent gracefully into the back for a bag of groceries, and stepped up onto the low porch to her cabin.

  Anthony said, “On second thought, maybe I should stick around and give you a hand.”

  Her name was Madison Neville.

  Laura couldn’t ever remember looking that good. She felt a moment of regret, and then layered it over with her sterling career as a homicide detective, her superior sharpshooting skills, her interrogation chops, and her fiancé of three-and-a-half years.

  Anthony stood back from the girl, porkpie hat cocked over one eye, looking casual, but Laura could tell he was in love.

  “Sean? He’s dead? Really?” Madison asked after setting her groceries down on the small table in the pocket kitchenette. She stared at them both, her eyes like amethyst jewels.

  “Did you know him to talk to?” Laura asked her.

  “Yeah. I thought he was pretty nice.” From the look on her face, she might as well have said, “for an old guy.”

  Embarrassed that they might think there was anything romantic between this twenty-something girl and a forty-three-year-old man?

  At the age of thirty-seven, forty-three didn’t seem as old to Laura as it used to.

  Madison offered them fruit juice—a weird concoction of papaya, grapefruit, and blueberry, and they sat outside on the porch.

  Anthony took one sip and blanched. He swallowed a couple of times, then regarded Madison from under the camouflage of his cocked porkpie hat. “So what was your impression of him?”

  “He was okay.” She rested her chin on her hand, supported both by leaning forward, elbow on her knee.

  Anthony shifted nervously. Trying not to eat up those perfect thighs, knees and calves with a spoon.

  “But,” Madison said, swiping at a gold sheaf of hair. “He was always trying to impress me.”