Clean Slate (Jim Knighthorse Book 4)

by J. R. Rain

Sadly, it was just me.

  Hell, I could barely keep my own financial affairs in order. I might be many wondrous things, but financial savant wasn’t one of them.

  No, I may not be a financial wunderkind, but I was a decent investigator. Maybe a little more than decent. And one thing was glaringly certain: a body had been cremated a few nights after Freddie Calgary may or may not have died.

  That was worth looking into.

  Now, as the sky continued to brighten, and as my strength only seemed to increase, it was all I could do to not keep jogging, to keep myself from crossing the street, then crossing the desert, and heading up into the stone cliffs themselves.

  Instead, as I reached the outskirts of town, I turned around and headed back.

  Duty called.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I was on my Samsung Galaxy, in my hotel suite, with a mocha latte steaming next to me. I sipped from it absently as I plugged in various search words. In the past, such a search would have had me going through the microfiche at the local libraries. In fact, I had been prepared to do just that if the Google search didn’t prove fruitful.

  It proved very, very fruitful, and another quick Google search confirmed “fruitful” was, in fact, a word.

  According to Detective Falcon, who still had the coolest name, there had been only one murder in Sedona in the past two decades.

  What had not been mentioned was that there had been two or three disappearances, most notably of a young barista...two years ago.

  A quick glance at the date of the article sent a shiver through me, a shiver that suggested that I might be onto something. That this might be, in fact, a clue.

  The date of the article was one day before the death of one Freddie Calgary. I read the article. The young man had, in fact, gone missing the previous afternoon. He had left work at the Red Hill Coffee Plantation...and was never seen again. There was little more mentioned about the young barista. The dominating news, of course, was the death of Freddie Calgary. The young man—whose name was Theo Chad—was all but forgotten.

  There was an accompanying picture of Theo in the article. That he was the spitting image of Freddie Calgary shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.

  I stared at the image of the handsome young man. In it, he was climbing the reddish rocks of Sedona, mugging happily for the camera. Dark hair, perfect teeth, dimples.

  If not Freddie Calgary, he could have been his brother. I continued staring...then called Detective Falcon.

  And not just because he had a cool name.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Now we were sitting in the detective’s car, across the street from the Red Hill Coffee Plantation kiosk. The kiosk itself was in the parking lot of a smallish shopping center. The kiosk presently sat mostly empty, with no cars in line, although I saw a small figure moving around in the small structure. The figure appeared female. Deduction at its best.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked.

  “We were about to play Nerf darts in the break room,” said Detective Falcon.

  “So, a bad time, then,” I said.

  “The worst,” he said. Detective Falcon was my kind of people: whimsical, tough, open-minded. Had he lived in Orange County, we might have shared a beer or two. Or played some Nerf darts. He said, “You wanted to talk about Theo Chad.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you wanted to meet where he disappeared.”

  “It seemed fitting,” I said. “Did you investigate his disappearance?”

  “I did. Myself and the squad’s other detective.”

  “Your conclusions?”

  “Disappeared off the face of the fucking Earth.”

  “Aliens?”

  “Might as well have been. Why do you want to know, Knighthorse?”

  A car pulled up to the RHCP, as I’d come to think of it now. An old car, with two older guys who seemed to take a strong interest in the girl working inside, a girl who proved to be in her late teens or early twenties. We watched as the two guys talked and gesticulated and leaned forward and tried to get a good look at her. She didn’t give them much of the time of day.

  “She’s all alone in there,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  “They’re big guys.”

  “Yup.”

  “They’re making her uncomfortable,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I said.

  He nodded. “I think so, too.”

  We watched as the young barista next leaned out and handed them their drinks. She accepted their money, then gave them a weak smile as one of them said something to her. Her smile dropped.

  My hand was on the handle of the door...before the two pervs made a very smart decision and pulled forward through the driveway, hung a left and were gone.

  “That could have gone badly,” I said.

  “Maybe, but not a lot of bad things happen here, Knighthorse. This is Sedona, not L.A. The worst that happens in these parts are out-of-body experiences.”

  I clenched my fist. “It’s not very safe in there.”

  “See my last comment.”

  I needed to calm down before I could think clearly. Yes, that could have gone badly. Those two guys could also come back, wait for her to get off work. I unclenched my fist. I had nearly jumped out of the car, nearly dashed across the street. Nearly knocked some heads. Yes, they had made a very good decision to leave.

  “What’s all this about, Knighthorse?”

  I took some deep breaths. “I’m developing a working theory. But it’s going to sound crazy and I don’t have much evidence.”

  “Down the road, there’s this guy who takes you out into the desert on a mule, then helps you have what he calls a Vision Quest. Mostly, I think it’s an excuse for him to smoke peyote and run around naked in a sweat lodge.”

  “Where do I sign up?” I joked.

  “My point is, there’s a lot of crazy going on here, with little or no evidence. So, hit me with your best shot.”

  “I don’t think Freddie Calgary died in your city two years ago.”

  Detective Falcon didn’t blink or move. He continued staring forward, through the windshield. In front of us, another car pulled into the RHCP. This one was driven by an elderly lady.

  I plunged forward, “And I think Theo was killed in his place. I think, at some point, the bodies were switched. I think Freddie Calgary hides his secret by killing any and all people who look a little too deeply into his death.”

  Falcon was silent some more, then started nodding. “I’ve heard a lot of crazy in my time, but this might take the crazy cake. And that’s coming from someone who lived his whole life in Sedona.”

  I waited; he wasn’t done. I expected this initial reaction, but if he was anything like me—and I suspected he was—he would scoff first, even while my words continued to percolate.

  They were percolating now. He blinked. Cocked his head a little. Scratched his mustache. As he scratched it, I wondered what I would look like with a mustache. The word dapper came to mind.

  Falcon then looked at me sideways and squinted, and I got a glimpse of myself in about twenty-five years. Tough, graying, a wrinkle or three, skeptical, yet open-minded. Of course, I doubted I would have the man’s considerable belly. Then again, there was nothing wrong with a good, manly belly when worn with pride.

  Finally, he said, “Are you the same Knighthorse who played fullback for the Bruins?”

  “I am.”

  “You beat our Sun Devils once or twice.”

  “Three times,” I said, “But who’s counting?”

  “I didn’t like you much. I thought you were a cocky SOB on the field.”

  I nodded, waiting.

  “But I respected you. And felt for you when I saw the injury.”

  I waited some more, and noted again the lack of a dull pain in my right leg.

  “I guess what I’m saying is, you have my respect.”

  “It was j
ust football,” I said.

  “You played it like a man possessed.”

  “I played it the only way I knew how.”

  “You’re kind of a celebrity, I imagine.”

  “More for breaking my leg on national TV than anything.”

  Falcon shook his head. “Not true, but I like a man who at least makes a small attempt at being humble.”

  I glanced at the detective. “I was kind of a badass, wasn’t I?”

  “One of the baddest. Anyway, the way I see it, you don’t have a lot to gain by coming in here and spreading rumors without good reason. You really think Theo Chad was killed?”

  “I think there’s a very strong likelihood, Detective.”

  His jawline rippled. He looked forward and said, “Okay, Knighthorse. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Better,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So am I.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I waited in the parking lot.

  Detective Falcon and his cool name were long gone, and I sat alone in the front seat of the Mystery Machine. It didn’t take long for me to spot what I had been waiting for. The same maroon car had appeared down the road, cruising the street slowly.

  The car slowed as it passed the coffee kiosk. As it did so, I sat a little more forward in the driver’s seat. Yes, it was the same two guys in the car. I had a better view of them. Both were older. Both mostly gray. Both up to no good.

  I suspected both had gone far too long without a good ass-kicking. A good ass-kicking straightens guys like this out. A good ass-kicking reminds them of the errors of their ways.

  As they rolled slowly past a second time, each leaning in the direction of the kiosk, I gripped the bottom of my steering wheel and twisted. Gripped and twisted.

  I was parked across the street from the kiosk, in the shadows of more cottonwoods. The two men were unaware that I was watching them in return.

  Sedona is a quiet city. The red rock kept the tourists coming, and the aliens and vortexes and peyote kept the New Agers coming, too. It also gave some of the residents a false sense of security.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the maroon car circle back for a third time. Nor was I surprised to see it pull into the coffee kiosk again.

  For more coffee? I doubted it.

  I stepped out of my van.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was hot, although I barely noticed it.

  There was also a stiff wind blowing down from the surrounding red rock formations. I didn’t notice the wind much either.

  I also didn’t notice the traffic on the street as I crossed it now. I paused briefly for a tour bus to thunder by. The tour bus whipped up dust and debris and probably reddish particles from the surrounding rock formations themselves. Some of it might have gotten in my eyes, too, but I blinked it away.

  I continued across the street.

  The kiosk sat in a mostly empty parking lot. Drivers had the option of pulling either to the right side or left side of the kiosk, depending on which direction they were going. The maroon car with the two winners inside had pulled up in the south-facing lane. Far back behind the kiosk was a souvenir shop that sat empty for the past hour. The parking lot behind the Red Hill Coffee Plantation was empty, save for two cars. Probably, one of them belonged to the girl and the other to the souvenir shop worker.

  The kiosk itself was up a slight embankment, and sat higher than the road. I climbed up it now, subconsciously waiting for the knee pain that never came.

  Once up the embankment, I moved quickly behind the maroon car. If the two pervs had seen me, or spotted me in the rearview mirror or side mirrors, they give no indication.

  Instead, I heard snatches of dialogue as I now stepped behind the kiosk on the north side: “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that...” “When do you get off work, baby?” “You have a boyfriend, sweetheart?” “Can I be your boyfriend?”

  Yeah, even my skin crawled. The girl, as far as I could tell, remained in the shadows in the kiosk. I don’t think she had seen me either.

  Along the south side of the kiosk—the opposite side of where the two clowns were presently harassing the barista—cool air hit me as I approached the open window. A display of muffins and health bars and pink cookies lined the metal shelf just outside the window. Pink cookies. Mmm.

  I was still hidden from the goons, as they kept up a steady barrage of perversion and misconduct. Their mamas wouldn’t be proud. As I neared the window, I slowed and peeked through it. I could see through one drive-thru window and out the other. At the moment, I could see the driver’s side door opening and the driver stepping out. I could also see his friend chuckling. Both were about twenty years older than me. The girl was nowhere to be found, until I heard the sounds of a cell phone being rapidly dialed. Whatever number she had dialed was clearly longer than 9-1-1, which should have been the only number she should have dialed. I heard a “Shit!” from inside the kiosk, followed by the sharp sound of the “end call” button being pressed. That was followed immediately by what I assumed was the phone being dropped and another “Shit!” followed by the sounds of panicked breathing and what might have been her crying. They had her scared shitless. Great job, assholes. No one had seen me yet.

  “It’s okay, baby,” said the guy getting out of the car. “Why don’t you put that cell phone away.”

  “Hurry, Hal,” said the guy in the passenger seat. “Get that bitch.”

  “Just make sure no one bothers us.”

  “I’ll make sure...just fucking hurry.”

  I ducked under the window and continued on toward the back of the kiosk, in the direction the driver was heading.

  “The big, bad wolf is coming, honey. And I’m going to blow that fucking door down.”

  He and I appeared at the rear entrance at roughly the same time. His grinning, contorted, perverted face fell in an instant. The hungry, wild look in his eye was replaced by shock and then anger.

  “Who the fuck are—”

  But that was all he got out before I hit him in his right eye socket with a straight punch that shot out from my shoulder. I turned my waist, lunging with my newly empowered legs. The result was terrifying and explosive.

  One moment, he was charging me, and the next, he was staggering backward, arms reaching out for something to hold onto. Except, of course, there was nothing to hold onto. He was a big guy. Not much would knock him off his feet.

  He tripped over a curb, and then went down in a heap. Blood bubbled from his nose area and he made small noises that seemed to indicate he wasn’t getting up any time soon.

  From my peripheral vision, I saw movement in the maroon car, and I turned to see the guy in the passenger seat reaching behind him in the backseat. He looked up at me, lifted a sawed-off shotgun, and I moved quickly.

  I reached the passenger side door in four long strides, just as the sawed-off part of the shotgun appeared out the window. I grabbed the barrel and pointed it up and away from me as a shot fired. The concussion was deafening, and the heat intense. I yanked the gun out of his hands and out through the window. I might have broken his finger in the process. I didn’t much care about his finger. Something white-hot and blinding filled my thoughts and I watched myself, as if from a distance, drive the wooden stock of the shotgun into his face. I did it two more times. The third blow, perhaps even harder than the first two, killed him instantly, of that I was sure.

  The white hot, blinding light still filled my thoughts, and I blinked it away and glanced back at the first guy, who still lay mostly unmoving. He was wearing jeans and a dirty wife beater. He wasn’t packing anything, and didn’t seem to be in any condition to do anything, other than hold his face and moan.

  I next turned my attention to the weeping girl in the kiosk. She was scared, but fine. The shotgun blast had gone nowhere near her. She was far back in the kiosk, probably covering her head. Sh
e wouldn’t have seen me.

  With that thought in mind, I grabbed the first guy and hauled him up to his feet and marched him across the street and to my van. Once there, I opened the passenger door and stuffed him inside. He had started resisting about this time, which was about the time he received the mother of all backhands.

  Now, he seemed much more cooperative and lay sprawling in the passenger seat. Soon after that, we were heading out into the desert.

  Far away from anyone.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I was on the balcony, ruminating and drinking. And not necessarily in that order.

  Last year, I’d given up drinking altogether. That hadn’t lasted long. It had, in fact, been what one would call a failed experiment. In fact, one of the few things I’d ever failed at...or at least admitted to failing at. Truth was, I didn’t think I had much of a drinking problem. Famous last words.

  Maybe that was half the problem: admission.

  Anyway, in public, I drink only moderately, casually. No, I saved getting shit-faced for when I’m in the comfort of my home—and when I’m alone. Cindy rarely sees this side of me.

  And, yes, I was shit-faced now.

  I drank more Blue Moon Pale Ale, tilting the bottle back, draining damn near half of it in one swallow. Twelve-ounce bottles of beer weren’t made for guys like me. Twelve-ounce bottles of beer tended to empty far too quickly.

  Yeah, maybe I do have a problem.

  No, the guy in the desert had the problem. Hal was his name. A very big problem.

  As I opened my ninth beer—but who was counting?—I reflected on the day’s events. Earlier in the news, on Sedona Live at Five—it was reported that a man had been beaten to death with his own sawed-off shotgun at the drive-thru of the Red Hill Coffee Plantation. The details of the death were sketchy. There were no witnesses. I liked that part. No mention of the girl who worked at the kiosk, other than that she hadn’t been harmed. I liked that part, too.

  I’d gotten a call from Detective Falcon a few hours later, catching me just as I was leaving the desert, alone. The call had gone like this: