Impact Zone (Noah Braddock Mysteries Book 6)

by Jeff Shelby

  I nodded. I'd second-guessed myself a lot after the case I'd met Sarah on wrapped up. Or died on the vine, depending on who was looking at it. I'd been sloppy, missing some things and realizing I had only after it was too late to do anything about it. I'd had a long break from being an investigator and, like with anything, my skills had dulled. I'd done a couple of small things since—some simple surveillance, served papers—but I wasn't sure those had made me any better or helped hone my skills.

  But Sarah was asking for help, and it really was nice to see her.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “I'll take a look.”

  “Yeah?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yeah. You wanna take me out there tomorrow?”

  She cocked her head to the side, like she was a little confused. “You don't want to just talk to him?”

  I shook my head. “No. I'd rather go see the pictures and see the area where they were taken. If I don't think there's anything I can do or anything to worry about, he's more likely to take me seriously if I at least show up. A phone conversation won't do much to assure him of anything if he's as worried as you say he is.”

  She thought about those things. “That makes sense. I can take you out there, can pick you up in the morning if that works.”

  I nodded and she added, “I'd need an address.”

  She pulled her phone out of her backpack and I gave her the address of the house Carter and I were living in.

  “One thing, though,” I said.

  She looked up from her phone.

  “You have to promise not to boil Carter.”

  FOUR

  I was up early the next morning. The water was flat and not much for surfing, so I ran on the sand for about forty minutes. I walked back up to the bungalow Carter and I were sharing at the north end of Pacific Beach when I was done, showered, ate a panful of scrambled eggs, and walked outside just as Sarah was pulling up at nine on the button like she'd promised.

  I slid into the passenger seat of her Honda Pilot.

  “Please don't break anyone's arm this time,” she said, smiling at me.

  The last time I'd been in her car, I'd used one of the rear doors to break the arm of a college kid who deserved far worse.

  “Will do my best,” I said, pulling the door closed. “No promises.”

  She kept the smile. Her blonde hair was down this morning, almost hiding the small gold hoops in her ears. She wore a green cotton pullover and jeans. The interior of the car smelled like lavender.

  She pointed to the two cups of coffee in the drink holder between us. “I got you one, if you need it.”

  I picked it up. “I do. Thanks.” I took a quick drink, the hot liquid burning its way down my throat, and I set it back carefully in the holder. “You find the place okay?”

  She pulled away from the curb and nodded. “Yep. Google maps did not lead me astray. Nice having the ocean out your window.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Is it permanent? The house?”

  “No, I don't think so. Carter rented it when...when I came back.”

  She navigated the SUV out of the neighborhood, passing stucco houses on postage stamp lots. A mail carrier was already out on the sidewalk, his mailbag slung over his shoulder. A landscaping crew was mowing and edging the lawn surrounding a new apartment complex, and a woman was out walking her Corgi and talking on her phone.

  Sarah turned left on Garnet and headed toward the freeway. “Then I hope you're making the most of it while you're there. The house, I mean.”

  I nodded silently and looked out the window. The morning traffic was starting to loosen up. We hit the lights quicker the further east we went and we were north on the five about fifteen minutes later.

  “Thanks for driving,” I said as we merged into the traffic.

  “Not a problem. You're doing the favor for me. Least I could do.”

  “Just figured it would be easier since you know where you're headed.”

  Her eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror. “Sure.”

  The silence felt uneasy to me. In truth, I was sure I could've found her father's ranch on my own. There was no reason she needed to drive me there.

  Except there was. Because I felt like I owed her an explanation about disappearing on her.

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  She glanced at me. “For what?”

  “For not calling you.”

  She held the wheel with her left hand and lifted the coffee out of the holder. “You didn't tell me you were going to call me. I didn't think that you would.”

  “Really?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. She sipped the coffee and then set it back down. “You said you needed to get your head on straight or whatever you said. I appreciated the honesty. You don't owe me anything.”

  I picked my own coffee back up, cupped it in my hands. “So you weren't pissed you haven't heard from me?”

  She started to say something, then stopped. She checked the rearview mirror again, hit the blinker, and moved us over to the right so we could head east on the 52. “Pissed isn't the right word.”

  “What would the right word be then?”

  She thought for a minute. “Disappointed,” she said. “But that was my own disappointment. It wasn't because you made me a promise and then didn't keep it. That would've pissed me off. But you were pretty clear. Which, again, disappointed me. But you were at least honest about it.” She glanced in my direction. “I was just disappointed because I enjoyed being around you.”

  “Except when I was breaking arms,” I said.

  She chuckled. “Well, it's not the most enjoyable way to spend your time in a shopping mall parking lot, but it's not like you killed him.”

  I laughed and looked out the window. “Didn't want to mess up your backseat.”

  “Thanks.”

  We drove in silence for a few minutes until we were again pointed north, now on the fifteen, cutting through Mira Mesa and into Rancho Bernardo. It had been awhile since I'd been that far north in the county and the number of houses that had sprouted up on the eastern hills was shocking to see. It had been a bit of a wasteland when I was a kid, vast, barren canyons as far as the eye could see. Now, those same canyons were dotted with homes and palm trees and lush green lawns that looked sorely out of place.

  “So why didn't you call?” Sarah asked.

  I shifted in the leather seat. “I don't know. Was easier not to, I guess. I figured that even if I did, I'd screw it up or piss you off or whatever. I didn't want to do that to you. I'm not lying when I tell you my head's a little jacked up still.”

  She changed lanes, pulling us next to a semi barreling past in the fast lane. “I almost called you. Three weeks ago. Was a Sunday night.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said. “I don’t know why. I mean, I know it’s been a few months, but you just sort of popped into my head. I’d wanted you to call and you hadn't.” She shrugged. “So I was sitting at home, halfway through a bottle of wine, watching some terrible TV show, and I picked up my phone.” She stopped for a moment. “And then I put it back down.”

  “Why?”

  She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Because you said it was on you. Because I was a chicken. Because I was afraid you wouldn't answer. Because it did sort of irritate me that you hadn't called.” She took a sip from the coffee and set it down. “So I talked myself out of it.”

  I shifted in the seat again. “I would've answered.”

  A very thin smile crept onto her face. “I'm not so sure.”

  I actually wasn't, either, but I didn't want to tell her that. But I hadn't lied to her. I liked her and didn't want to end up being a jackass to her. That's why I’d told her I needed time to clear my head.

  “And it's fine,” she said, glancing at me. “You don't owe me a thing. I'm just telling you that you don't have to be sorry for anything. I'm a big girl. Most of the time.”

  I laughed. I wanted to be
able to tell her that I'd gotten over the hump, that I wasn't stuck in neutral anymore, that I could move forward. And that I'd thought about her and wondered what she was doing.

  But I couldn't find the words because they wouldn't have been true, and we drove the rest of the way to Valley Center in silence.

  FIVE

  The Dowdell Farms ranch was about three miles east of I-15 in Valley Center. A two-lane road snaked over the hills and Sarah turned her SUV northbound on a gravel road. A sign that signaled we'd arrived was next to a five-foot high gate. She slowed the car and pulled up to a keypad mounted next to a mailbox. She tapped several of the keys and the gates slowly slid open.

  “There's a public entrance on up the road if we'd kept going,” she explained. “This is for family and employees. It's closer to the offices and the house.”

  We drove through the gates and the gravel road took us to the top of a small hill, then descended downward. I spotted a long, single-story home just up in front of us. Stucco walls, adobe roof, hints of Spanish architecture, very California. She pulled us into the half-circle drive and cut the engine.

  “I do appreciate you coming up here,” she said. “Really.”

  “I'm not sure how much help I'll be.”

  “Maybe. But I appreciate you at least giving him the time.”

  I nodded.

  She hesitated for a moment, then got out of the car.

  I got out my side and the sound of the car door closing echoed as I slammed it shut. We were far removed from the highway and the suburbs and the quiet was a little unsettling. San Diego was always full of noise: traffic, the ocean, the buzz of too many people. Stepping out of the car and into the silence of the ranch made it feel to me like we were a world away.

  Sarah didn't knock when we reached the entrance to the house, instead pushing open one of the large, ornate, wooden doors. “Dad?”

  We stepped into a wide foyer. It opened straight through to a living room with floor to ceiling panoramic windows and all I could see in the distance were rolling hills covered in avocado trees, a sea of green as far as the eye could see.

  “That was the view you were talking about,” I said. “Wow.”

  She closed the door behind us and motioned for me to follow her to the windows. The hills down below extended in every direction. Small dirt roads cut through the groves like brown snakes twisting and turning through the trees

  “Right?” Sarah said. “It's kind of amazing. And over there, that furthest point you can see? There is actually more land beyond that.”

  “I didn't even know there was land like this in San Diego County,” I said, marveling at the view. “I lived by that whole 'there's no life east of I-5' credo as a kid.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. It's a whole different world up here.”

  “That's for sure,” a male voice said behind us.

  We both turned around.

  A man just under six feet tall was smiling at us. I put him in his late fifties. His features were squat and blocky, like he'd been a wrestler at some point in his life. Wide shoulders, barrel chest. His face was tan, deep wrinkles in his forehead. He had a bushy mustache that was already completely gray, beating his sandy brown hair by a few years. He wore a pale green, button-down shirt, with a logo over one breast. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick forearms. His denim jeans looked old and worn from real use, not the faux distress added by a designer. His brown work boots had the same appearance.

  “Hey, Dad,” Sarah said.

  “Thought I heard you in here,” he said, smiling at her. “Sorry, I was over in my office.”

  “That's okay,” she said. “We let ourselves in.” She gestured toward me. “This is Noah Braddock.”

  He strode across the room and we shook hands, his skin rough and calloused. “Mr. Braddock. Thank you for coming out this way. I do appreciate it. I'm Henry Dowdell.”

  “No problem at all,” I told him. “And it's Noah.”

  He set his hands on his hips and nodded. “Alright then. I know it was a long drive out here and I don't want to waste your time. Sarah has told you why I'm looking for some help?”

  “She's given me the basics, yes.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. He turned on his heel. “Follow me, if you would.”

  I looked at Sarah.

  She shrugged and followed her father. I brought up the rear as they led me down a long hallway. There were pictures on the walls and I recognized Sarah in her younger years in several of them. I wanted to stop and take a closer look, but Mr. Dowdell was walking quickly and I appreciated that he wanted to get down to business.

  “Excuse the mess,” he said, as we turned into an oversized office. “I'm usually out on the ranch and paperwork bores me to no end.”

  The mess wasn't much of one. His long desk housed a desktop computer screen, several plastic trays, and a few sheets of paper scattered across the remaining open space. One wall was bookshelves, lined with everything from fiction to what looked like accounting binders, and the other wall was bare, save for a poster-sized framed photo of what I assumed was an aerial view of the property. There were two uncomfortable looking chairs beneath the photo and he motioned toward those as he swung around the desk and eased himself into a brown leather chair on rollers.

  He pulled a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and perched them on the end of his nose, glancing at me. “Sarah told you about the security system?”

  “The basics,” I said again.

  “We have thirty cameras positioned across the property,” he explained. “Some at places that you'd guess: main entrance, gates, nothing unusual. But we now have most of the property surveilled by at least one camera. The gate cameras are on 24 hours at a time, but the ones inside the property are triggered by movement. I can turn them on manually if I'd like, but usually there isn't much reason.”

  “The movement triggers?” I said, trying to picture it. “Infrared lights?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Some are more sensitive then others, but basically if anything moves into the path of the beams, the cameras are triggered. They'll take immediate sets of still photos, then kick on and film for the next 30 minutes before they shut off.” He waved a hand in the air. “So they go off all of the time. It's not unusual. Squirrels, snakes, birds. Anything hits those beams and they trigger.”

  It was the same thing Sarah had said. “And why'd you put them out there again?” I asked. “Was there a specific reason or incident?”

  He leaned back in the chair. “No, not one specific reason. I'd been thinking about it for awhile, but just hadn't gotten around to it, and I wasn't crazy about the cost.” He ran his hand over his mustache, his finger brushing at his whiskers. “But there are more folks traversing the hills now. You've got workers coming up from Mexico who feel more protected back here. You've got the casinos out to the east, which has just meant more traffic and more people. And you've got some of those militia morons who think it's their job to patrol rural areas and look for undocumented workers.” He frowned. “I'd be happy catching one of those knuckleheads on camera because then I'd be able to go find them and prosecute to keep them the hell off my land.”

  “But you haven't had trouble with any of the groups you mentioned?” I asked. “Casino goers? Migrant workers?”

  He shook his head. “No. Our entry points are pretty secure so the casino folks don't concern me, other than how fast they'll drive on some of these backcountry roads. Like bats out of hell a lot of the time, and I’m sure most of them are drunk as skunks. But for them to get onto the actual property here would be fairly difficult.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And as far as the workers go, we'd be out of business if they stopped coming up here to work. They're welcome here and they know it. The community has put the word out and they know that we'll provide work at a fair wage if we have it. If we don’t, I'll help them find work. We've sponsored quite a few of the workers here to help them obtain legal status if they choose to do so.” He shook hi
s head again. “So, they are not a problem in any way, and anyone who tells you different should come and say it to my face.”

  Henry seemed very resolute in his belief and I wasn't in a position to argue. He knew his world better than I did.

  “So, to get back to your question, I didn't have a specific reason,” he said. “But I have a few families living on property, our distribution has increased, and I was about the only dinosaur left in the industry that hadn't installed something like this.” He smiled. “A friend recommended the system we ended up purchasing and I don't have any complaints. And I guess you could say it's done the job it’s supposed to do because we haven't had any issues.” His smile dimmed. “Until now.”

  Sarah shifted in her chair, uncrossing, then recrossing her legs.

  “I get an email notification if any of the remote cameras are triggered,” Henry said. “Again, I get them all the time, so it's not like there's any sort of urgency. I’ll usually do a quick scan of them in the morning when I go through my email, right before I head out to the groves. Takes me all of five minutes to pull them up and then determine that the squirrels mean no harm.” He gave me a tight smile. “There's just never been anything of interest before.”

  “But now there is,” I said.

  Henry Dowdell nodded and laid his large hands flat on his desk. “Now there is.”

  SIX

  There were four pictures.

  All four were black and white. They were grainy, but clear enough. All four featured a young woman in her early twenties, with hair down to her shoulders. She was dressed in cut-off denim shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “This is the sequence they were taken in,” Henry said, moving his hand over the four photos from left to right. “This one's the first.” He stuck his index finger on the far left one.

  The woman was in a bit of a crouched position, like she might've been sneaking up on something. In the second, her head had rotated more toward the camera and she'd bent her knees further, like she was trying to make herself smaller. The third picture was much the same, her eyes focused on something not shown in the photo. In the fourth, her back was to the camera and she was up on her feet. It appeared as if she was running.