by Joseph Flynn
He didn’t see a killer sophisticated enough to pull off a murder like Tibbot’s as someone so deranged he’d consume blood and pretend he was Bela Lugosi or whoever it was that played teenage vampires these days.
Still there had to be a reason the blood had been taken.
Or maybe it hadn’t been taken. Might have been flushed down a toilet. Right there in Tibbot’s house. Pour a gallon of household bleach in after the blood. Flush again. Who would ever know?
Ron decided to ask Officer Benny Marx, the department’s crime scene specialist, if there would be any way to detect blood in the plumbing of the Tibbot house. Then he tabled that matter, too, and looked at the other boaters out on the water with him.
Many of them waved when they saw him looking their way.
They were glad to have him out there.
Presumably ready to risk his ass for the town again, should the need present itself. Ron had thought that maybe the bomber wouldn’t want to risk taking the chance of being the only unauthorized boat on the lake after dark. At the very least, the cops would give chase. Whoever they caught, even if he was just a joker, would have his life turned inside out.
Maybe the better bet would be to do your dirty work while the sun was shining, pretend to be just one of the many innocent boaters on the lake. A bad guy would have to be subtle about his malice, but if he could manage that hiding in plain sight might be just the thing.
Ron didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously, and as the sun lowered every boater in sight headed back to their marinas. He didn’t know how long the community would put up with the boating curfew but for now the mayor’s edict appeared to be one hundred percent effective. The threat of incurring Clay Steadman’s wrath was still potent.
Ron brought the patrol craft’s bow about and headed for the police dock.
Keely Powell strolled along Lake Shore Drive in the last rays of daylight. The main commercial thoroughfare in Goldstrike wasn’t Rodeo Drive or even the Century City Mall. The town’s population was too small to pull in that concentration of name-brand boutiques. Still, there was enough opportunity for high-end consumption to tide the overprivileged over until they returned to greater hubs of self-indulgence.
The retired LAPD detective tried to decide if living in a high-altitude jewelry box like Goldstrike would drive her crazy within a week. Whole divisions of L.A. cops left town within days of retiring. Many of them headed to mountain communities, though usually not places as glitzy as Goldstrike. Just somewhere the air and water were clean and the predators got around on four legs instead of two.
She could understand why Ron Ketchum had come to Goldstrike. Clay Steadman had offered him not just a job but a chance at redemption. Ron had made the most of it, too. Catching the killer of Reverend Isaac Cardwell despite all the craziness that got in his way.
An old lady cursing his town.
A lawyer with a grudge taking another shot at him.
A mountain lion preying on the citizenry.
Keely was ready to drive up to Goldstrike right then and congratulate Ron. Only she thought he should have been the one to make contact. Invite her to come visit and celebrate. They’d been partners for six years. They’d shared everything but a bed.They might have shared that too if Ron had ever been able to make a clean break of it with Leilani.
He’d wanted kids; he’d told her so. Leilani had wanted her career as an actress, an idea that had seemed to be a joke, until she made it real very late in the day. The two of them had stuck together through the wrongful death suit brought against Ron by the family of Qadry Carter. Soon after that, Ron was gone. Off to the Sierra Nevada and Goldstrike.
He’d never thought to ask Keely if she might like to have kids.
That had hurt, and now it was too late for her. Most likely.
She’d told herself if she ever heard from Ron Ketchum again she’d close her door in his face. Drive away. Hang up on him. Never saying a word. Like he was a robocalling telemarketer. So when he finally did call and asked for help what had she done? She’d not only had talked to the SOB, she must have waited six whole hours before hitting the road and heading north while it was still dark out.
To see what she could do to help him. What a wuss.
But only up to a point.
No way she was going to work under him.
When they finally got into the sack together after all those years — that was great restraint, too, wasn’t it — she at least made sure she was on top.
Now, she was asking herself whether she could stand to live in this gilded bird cage.
She’d been born and raised in L.A. Bought her parents’ house on North Genesee Avenue after they’d left town. Moved to Naples, Florida for the slower pace of life. Well, she certainly wasn’t ready to slow down. The city was what she knew and she liked it. Walking over to the Diamond Bakery on Fairfax in the morning, getting her pastries, kaiser rolls and loaves of rye. Picking up her newspapers at Sheltham’s in the Farmer’s Market. Finding new books at the Beverly Hills Public Library. Sunning herself on the beach in Santa Monica.
If she had to go to the mountains, never a favorite destination, there was always Big Bear or Arrowhead. She didn’t need no stinking Goldstrike, and the sooner she told Ron Ketchum —
Well, that would have to wait until she let him know about the idea she’d had at the morgue. A notion of who might have combed Hale Tibbot’s hair so neatly. It was really a matter of answering a simple question: Who did the best job of combing anyone’s hair?
A hair stylist.
Say a woman who’d been cutting Tibbot’s hair for a while and had been trying to cajole him into adopting a style she thought suited him much better than his old look. Tall Wolf had figured that out right away. Maybe she should ask if he’d like to date her.
Nah, the fed had to be ten years younger than her.
Wouldn’t do to think of herself as a cougar.
Anyway, if the stylist was a looker, and more than a few were, Tibbot might have taken a personal interest in her. For recreational sex if nothing else. He might even have let her have her way about the new hairdo. Once. A harmless indulgence at a social gathering where he’d been wearing a costume and a mask.
And the redo at the scene of the crime?
A final gesture of affection after finding Tibbot’s body.
What else did you happen to see, honey, Keely wondered.
After Ron had taken Abra Benjamin to her hotel and the coast was clear, Sergeant Stanley had brought in the picture Ron had requested, the one that showed the woman who had her hand on Tibbot’s shoulder. She was, big surprise, a blonde with a sculpted figure. Her face was hidden forehead to nose by a costume mask. Marie Antoinette, Keely thought.
Keely had no sooner decided that she could never live in Goldstrike than she saw a photograph in the window of a hair salon called Locks & Bangs. Corny, Keely thought, but more upmarket than chain-store stylists. There were three photos in the window. Gorgeous young women in your favorite flavors: blonde, brunette and redhead.
Under the photos, a sign said: Our Stylists.
Veronika, Jolie and Siobhan, respectively.
If Keely wasn’t mistaken, Veronika had the same mouth and jaw line as the masked woman with her hand on Hale Tibbot’s shoulder. Had the salon been open for business, Keely would have stepped inside, asked if Veronika had the time to give her a cut, taken the opportunity to see if she had a picture of herself with Hale Tibbot at her workstation.
Making do, she used her cell phone to take a photo of Veronika’s portrait. She thought it would be good enough for a side-by-side comparison with the picture Sergeant Stanley had turned up. Who knew, maybe the Goldstrike PD had the facial recognition software to do a digital identification.
A town this glossy, they should be ashamed if they didn’t.
Marlene Flower Moon had booked a room for herself at Le Château du Ciel, the Castle of Heaven. Another reference to elevation. In a metaphysical sense and in French.
Which did take a good bit of hokeyness out of the name. The faux chateau’s level of luxury and room rates disposed of the rest.
Tall Wolf knew that even Marlene couldn’t slip a stay at a five-star hotel past an audit of her expense account. So Coyote had a private party picking up her tab. It was possible she knew more than one big spender in Goldstrike, but Tall Wolf’s intuition told him that Clay Steadman was footing the bill. The special agent wondered if the macho actor knew what he was letting himself in for. Marlene, if she took it to mind, would feast on him as if he were an unweaned lamb.
She and Tall Wolf were dining in a somewhat more refined fashion in the hotel’s restaurant, La Pêche Parfaite. The perfect peach. Tall Wolfe could only assume the name was a metaphor he’d missed in school. He was having salmon. Marlene was making short work of a filet mignon.
She’d invited him to her room and he’d declined, as always, but there were times when sharing a meal with Marlene was almost as dubious a choice. The visceral pleasure she took in consuming animal protein could be unnerving. Not that her table manners were lacking.
Unless you happened to notice that her jaw muscles, as she chewed, had unusual definition and power, and her eyes glowed as if her meal were not only nourishment but also the victory of predator over prey.
Marlene took a sip of her merlot and asked, “What are you thinking, Tall Wolf?”
“That I haven’t heard from Herbert Wilkins yet.”
The leader of the local Washoe tribal council.
“Tomorrow before noon. I’m trusting you to make both of us look good.”
A lie. She didn’t give a damn if his name attracted any public notice.
Better that it shouldn’t.
Tall Wolf knew that but he said, “Sure, PR is my life.”
Marlene shot him a look. She ate her last piece of beef with such satisfaction she seemed to be nearing sexual fulfillment. She finished her wine and waved off a second glass.
“You think the eco-terrorists will try again?” she asked.
“A caller to the local cops said they would, and they’d do better next time.”
Marlene heard the doubt in Tall Wolf’s voice.
“But?”
“But the considered opinion of Chief Ketchum, Detective Powell and me is that we’re not dealing with eco-terrorists. Something else is going on. We’re not quite sure what yet.”
“Who’s Powell?”
“The chief’s old homicide partner from L.A.”
“So is there any danger or not?” Marlene asked.
“There’s been a murder.”
“Have you found any connection between the killing and the bomb yet?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Tall Wolf told her. “But the so-called eco-terrorist says he wants to stop commercial development of the area, and the dead guy was a big real estate developer.”
“Sounds like a connection to me,” Marlene said.
“Maybe, but why not just kill the guy? Why bother with the bomb? What kind of eco-terrorist wants to kill a lake?”
All good questions, Marlene thought. She didn’t have answers to any of them. Law enforcement was only her job. Politics was her life.
To that end, she asked Tall Wolf, “Do you think you can find whoever is behind all this before any harm is done?”
“You mean, can I help the locals save the day? Make you look good to your old friend Mayor Steadman?”
“Have you met him yet?” she asked, dodging the question.
“No, not yet. But I have an idea how I might go about finding a lead on the murder.”
“Is it a good idea?”
Tall Wolf said, “I should know by tomorrow. Before noon. If I hear from Herbert Wilkins.”
Marlene grimaced. She hated it when Tall Wolf got her to jump through one of his hoops. But they both knew Herbert Wilkins wouldn’t be tardy with his call tomorrow.
By having been careful not to over-promise on what he would deliver, Tall Wolf had forestalled any question from Marlene about what he wanted from Wilkins. She knew if Tall Wolf’s idea blew up in his face, she would be better off not knowing what he’d been up to.
But if things worked out well, Tall Wolf’s saving grace was his willingness to yield credit to those who craved it. Political advancement didn’t interest him.
Marlene put their dinners on her room tab. She didn’t extend a second invitation to Tall Wolf to visit her room. She didn’t need further rejection. It would have been a comfort to her if he’d been gay, but she knew that was not the case.
John Tall Wolf took a taxi back to the Marriott. He’d yet to share the idea that had occurred to him as he woke up that day after too little sleep. What if Hale Tibbot had found — or more likely had bought information regarding — the whereabouts of the gold Timothy Johnson had discovered so long ago?
The prevalent assumption was Tibbot had simply seen Goldstrike as low-hanging fruit, ripe for standard exploitation. But what if it was more than that? What if buying up large parcels of mountain real estate was a cover for acquiring mineral rights worth what … billions?
Of course, the whole notion might be nothing more than the scenario of a waking dream. He’d have to see what Herbert Wilkins was willing to share with him. The Washoe leader might be understandably tightlipped. Nobody just gave away his goldmine.
On the other hand, if the tribe didn’t hold title to the land where the motherlode was to be found, maybe they’d be forthcoming. Maybe, if Tall Wolf played his cards right, he could even see to it that this might be the rare case where the original inhabitants didn’t get screwed by the newcomers. That ought to please Marlene. Be the good PR she jonesed on.
Tall Wolf, still weary from lack of sleep, tucked himself into bed by nine o’clock.
As his head hit the pillow, he wondered how gold mining got done these days.
He didn’t see it as a prospector-with-a-pick operation anymore.
If things panned out — ha, ha — he’d have to look into it.
As Ron Ketchum piloted the patrol boat back to the police dock, he wondered what might have happened if the dirty bomb had fallen into the lake before he found it. The damn thing, heavy as it was, would have sunk to the bottom. The growing water pressure, as it descended, likely would have cracked the plastic housing of the detonator, disabling it. Then the payload in its stainless steel container would have hit bottom.
The impact probably wouldn’t have been strong enough to split the metal box open, but would the jolt have been strong enough to deform the seal on the lid? Let the radioactive material leak out bit by bit. Would the tremendous volume of water in the lake have been able to absorb a slow accretion of poison without damage?
Or would islands of dead fish start to float belly up on the surface?
Would the contamination make the water impotable?
Would everyone who lived on the shoreline find their property both uninhabitable and unsalable? You thought about things that way, maybe eco-terrorists were involved. If they turned Goldstrike into Love Canal on high, required the land and water a millennium or more to heal themselves and shed the human population in the meantime, that might be just what they wanted.
Assuming anyone could be that radical.
Ron looked at the majesty of nature surrounding him and thought that anyone taking even the slightest chance of blighting such beauty had to be seriously unbalanced.
As he neared the dock, the chief saw he had a crowd of people waiting to meet him. He was pleased to see none of them had minicams or audio recorders. Other than their cell phones, of course. Point was, the mainstream media were not present. Just the public, expressing by their presence the concern they felt for their community.
Men, women and children, crossing decades and generations in age, longtime residents and newcomers, they all longed to hear that they would be safe in their homes, on their streets and on the waters of Lake Adeline again.
Officers Dennehy and Cardoza were also waiting for Ron. They ti
ed off his patrol craft as Ron hopped onto the dock. Dennehy asked, “Everything good, Chief?”
Ron nodded. He looked at the faces of the crowd and told them, “I found nothing amiss on my patrol. Officers Dennehy and Cardoza will begin their lake patrol momentarily. This craft will be refueled and another pair of officers will go out mid-watch tonight. We’re doing everything we can to protect the community. Our efforts have been reinforced by agencies of the federal government, including the FBI.”
Smiles and nodding heads showed appreciation.
Roger Sutherland stepped forward and shook Ron’s hand. He told the chief, “We just had to come down to the lake and take a close-up look, you know. Just in case.”
In case a simple pleasure they’d taken for granted would soon be unavailable to them. Ron understood. Sutherland didn’t have to explain why the crowd chose the police dock as their vantage point. That was where they could multitask. Enjoy the view and make sure the cops were earning their pay.
Ron made his way through the crowd, shaking more hands and exchanging a few hugs. Pretty much everyone had some compliment to pay him for disarming the bomb. He was gracious about accepting their thanks, but he found himself in agreement with John Tall Wolf. The satisfaction came from doing the job not hearing the praise.
The chief stopped when he saw a lone figure sitting on a bench.
Jacob Burkett. Mayor Steadman had introduced Ron to the man. Told the chief that Burkett’s family had arrived in the Sierra not long after Adeline Walsh and her family had built their cabin, and had lived in Goldstrike ever since. Jake was an environmental engineer with the California Natural Resources Agency. He’d worked all over the state, but nearing retirement now he worked the nearby mountains from his hometown.
Ron sat next to Jake. Unlike the other citizens out that night, Jake’s mien was glum. He said to the chief, “Hell of a thing, isn’t it, someone would want to defile such a natural wonder?”
“Sure is, but we’re doing our best to prevent it.”
“Can’t stop sick minds from getting sicker.”
Ron sighed, patted Jake on the shoulder and got to his feet.
