by Rick Mofina
“My, my.” Layne smiled. Sydowski was dangerous. She liked that. “The tape’s not my property. Being competent investigators, you’d know that.” She opened a drawer, tossed two business cards on the desk. “You have to call the show in New York.”
Sydowski ignored the cards. “How about I call the DA right now and get a warrant?”
Layne crushed her cigarette in an empty container for take-out food. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” she said. “You go there and give me thirty minutes to make some calls.”
“Fifteen.” Sydowski popped a Tums in his mouth. “Then I’ll make some calls.”
After they’d left, Layne grinned as she reached for her phone. This was good, she thought, waiting for the connection to Worldwide's New York office. The cops must have zero leads. She lit another cigarette.
“Mr. Morten’s office.”
“It’s Tia Layne in San Francisco, put me through to him.”
“He’s on another line, Ms. Layne.”
“Tell him it’s me.”
“But he’s on another call, Ms. Layne.”
“Now, please.” The line switched to elevator music. Three seconds of something from a Broadway musical. “Seth Morten.”
“It’s Tia in California.”
“Tia, I just got off the line with London. They loved your item. Networks are already calling. It’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, listen. A couple of Joe Fridays just paid me a visit. They want our raw footage, all the uncut stuff, or they’ll get a warrant. I think I should volunteer it.”
“Why?”
“We can capitalize on this. In my next piece we can say police need our pictures to help solve the crime. It reinforces us as owning the story.”
“Let me call legal.”
“There’s nothing in it we haven’t used.”
“I don’t know. It’s the show’s property. What if it gets leaked?”
“Seth, the police will want to take their time going through it. There’s nothing there. The best pictures are in the piece. If we refuse, they’ll get it with the warrant in a few hours anyway, believe me.”
“All right. My other line’s going. Tia, I’ll talk to legal. You stall the cops, suggest they view it in your office with the promise of all unedited tape after the show airs in the Pacific zone. That should cover us.”
“Fine. There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Tell the editors to insert a super of our toll-free tip line for viewers with any information to call us at the end of my item.”
“Why? We’re not a crime and cop show.”
“Do it, Seth. This story’s going to be huge.”
TWENTY
Jill grabbed a water bottle and a beer from the fridge, then stepped from her boyfriend Warren’s tent trailer. Tell him tonight, she thought, squinting into the sun sinking over the caravan of four-by-fours that had settled in for the night at the southern edge of Death Valley, California.
“Thanks. You sure everything’s fine?” Warren touched the can to his moist forehead.
“It was a long haul today. I’m just going to stretch my legs.”
“Where’re you going?”
“I’ll walk for a bit down the prospector’s trail to the old cabin.” Jill held up the map. “It’s not far at all.”
“It’s not. I thought the plan was for all of us to go there in the morning after breakfast?”
“Thought I’d have some alone time.”
“You need to be alone?”
“I’m restless. I’ll get a sneak preview of the cabin.”
He regarded her for a long moment. Whatever was bothering her, Warren realized that he would never pry it out of her, so he resumed preparing chili, his contribution to the group’s potluck campfire dinner. “Be careful, Jill. I think the girls ran over to see the Murrays. If you see them, remind them, we’ll be eating in an hour.”
“Will do. But they’re vegetarians, dear. Remember?” He didn’t return her smile. She pecked his cheek, adjusted her sunglasses, and set out alone, knowing that their relationship had ended long before this adventure to the desert with his daughters.
Jill took a pensive pace along the sandy trail, a miner’s road from the 1890s, snaking through a series of rocky hills at the fringes of the barren Silurian Valley near the Mojave.
What am I doing here? She was a thirty-four-year-old corporate lawyer for a conglomerate in Philadelphia. Never married. Devoted to her work. A fitness freak who held a black belt. A curious soul who loved reading mysteries. Warren was the attorney for a large private humanitarian foundation in Pasadena, ten years her senior and recently divorced, he had told her over dinner in Chicago at the conference where they’d met several months earlier. They commenced a cross-country romance. At times it was intoxicating, with an intensity that had burned itself out. Or had it?
This trip was Warren’s idea, a chance for Jill to get to know his girls. Emma was sixteen and Taylor was twelve. Both in braces. Beautiful like their mother, who was an engineer for the city of Los Angeles, specializing in strengthening community buildings against earthquakes, therefore, a saint, Emma had informed Jill at the outset of the trip a few long days ago.
“My parents will likely reconcile and remarry,” Emma had said to her while Warren gassed up their rented Grand Cherokee outside of Bakersfield. “Oh, and I think corporate greed is vile. In fact, I saw your firm targeted on an antiglobalization site.”
Taylor giggled, betraying to Jill that the attack on the other woman had commenced. From that point on Emma never removed the headphones of her CD, while Taylor immersed herself in books.
Jill accepted the hostility as natural, but it emphasized that she and Warren were separated by more than a continent. It wasn’t the girls. It was just over. Jill missed her independence. Missed no complications in her life. She had a tight circle of friends, a penthouse condo. Her job directing corporate donations was fulfilling. Three times a year, she volunteered at Philadelphia shelters. So there, Emma. She stuck out her tongue.
Jill crested a hill, stopped to rest on a rock. The temperature hadn’t dipped much, still in the high nineties. A hot breeze was kicking up. She patted her damp brow, then sipped from her bottle.
“What’s that?”
A glint of metal caught her eye. Not far off. Looked like a rusted-out old car. Jill started to it, glancing at the map as she walked. It appeared to be at the mouth of an abandoned mine entrance. Her curiosity grew as she neared it. The thing was half in the darkness of the mine and half in light. Must’ve been left here from the prospector days.
A car. Definitely a car. She ran her fingers along its body. It smelled bad. Hold it. That’s not rust. She examined the black residue on her fingertips. Sooty. This car’s not old. It’s practically new. Jill stepped back. Someone’s torched it. Likely stolen from LA. Maybe an insurance fraud thing. The plate was gone. She could see the serial number on the dash and slapped her pockets for a pen or something, making her water splash.
Her heart skipped.
Guttural growling threatened her from the darkness.
She froze.
Something was scratching in the dirt behind the car.
A coyote?
What now? Run away like a girl? Wouldn’t Warren’s daughters love that? Jill searched the area for a large rock. She found a couple and bowled one with all her strength under the car. It resulted in yelping; then a little scrawny coyote pup lurched away.
“Get outta here!”
Jill’s second toss of a smaller rock hit its target and the coyote disappeared. She rolled several more rocks under the car and waited as the desert wind gusted, stinging her arms and legs with sand.
Confident all was clear, she dropped to her knees behind the car, removed her sunglasses to see what the animal had been pawing at. There was something. She wiped grit from her eyes. Something in the dirt near the rear tire. The wind began buffeting, flapping against her T-shirt as she fished o
ut her key chain, hoping she’d replaced the battery of her penlight. It worked. Good. The light was strong.
Sand began swirling. Jill aimed her small light, until it caught something small, silvery, and reflective, half buried.
What is that?
Jill blinked, reaching in, feeling the object. Hard. Metal. She tugged lightly. It was embedded in the ground. Strange. The dirt was soft. Loose. She dug at it some, until she had a firmer grip on the metal thing with her fingers, and tugged. It moved a bit. She dug more dirt away. Pulled. It moved a bit more. It was attached to something. A stick or log? What the heck is it?
Jill repositioned herself. Still on one knee, she wedged her other foot against the car’s tire, gripped the metal object, pulling with all of her strength, her scalp tingling, the earth ripping open, revealing that she’d seized a chain, linked to a handcuff, clamped around an arm, attached to a shoulder, now rising from its shallow grave until Jill stopped pulling and began screaming.
TWENTY-ONE
Just before sunrise Sydowski and Turgeon rang the bell at Reed’s door. An FBI agent let them in. They went directly to Reed’s bedroom.
Sydowski switched on a bedside lamp, which bathed the room in soft light. Reed woke, squinting. His hair was messed. He was wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants. He stood before them. They didn’t have to speak. It was written in their eyes.
Sydowski let a moment pass, thought of a star falling from the sky.
“Tom, a woman’s body—”
Reed’s knees buckled. Sydowksi and Turgeon caught him, sat him on the bed. He thrust his face into his hands, took a deep ragged breath, groaning as he let it out, not feeling Turgeon’s hand take his shoulder, nor Sydowski take the other. Sydowski squeezed hard until Reed felt it and met his eyes.
“Listen to me. Nothing’s been confirmed. Are you hearing me? Nothing’s been confirmed. A woman’s body was found.
“Tom, you’ve got to hear me now. Identification hasn’t been confirmed.”
“No. No!”
Sydowski sat beside Reed, gripping his knee hard.
“Tom, you’ve got to be strong here, for Zach. For Doris.” Tears fell as Reed gasped, nodding, swallowing, gulping air, the room spinning, Turgeon and Sydowski comforting him until he managed to speak.
“Where? How?”
“San Bernardino County. Hikers in the desert, north of Baker.”
“Did she—” Reed looked at the ceiling. “Did she suffer?”
“We don’t know any details. County people are still working on it. We’re flying down.”
“I’m going down there.”
“You should stay here, wait for word.”
“I’ve got to see for myself.”
“Tom,” Sydowski said, “we advise you to stay here.”
“No one on earth will stop me.”
Sydowski saw Ann’s robe, her slippers, her framed picture near the bed, and knew Reed must go.
“Walt, I have to know.”
“Tom—”
“What flight are you taking?”
“There’s a direct jet to Las Vegas that leaves in ninety minutes.”
“I’m going to be on that flight with you. Let me tell Doris and Zach first.”
Moments later, Zach’s cries and Ann’s mother’s muffled moans reached to the living room where Sydowski and Turgeon waited for Reed to dress, pack, and do what he had to do.
When the bell chimed at the front door, Sydowski opened it to two plain-dressed women wearing concerned faces. One middle-aged, one barely in her twenties. They were crisis workers from victim services he had called after San Bernardino alerted him to the discovery of the corpse in the desert.
The 737 thudded down at McCarran International.
Agents from the FBI’s Las Vegas field office led them through the terminal amid clanging slot machines to a waiting full-sized four-by-four. Doors slammed, tires squealed, and the federal vehicle roared south on I-15.
“We got coffee, fruit, bagels, donuts, if anybody wants anything,” the agent in the front passenger seat offered.
Everybody took something except Reed, who watched the mammoth casino resorts and metro sprawl melt into the desert. It took well over an hour to reach Baker. Its big thermometer dominated the restaurants, motels, and gas stations that marked a rest stop between Los Angeles and Las Vegas.
Approaching the sheriff’s substation on Baker Boulevard, Reed saw the news trucks from Barstow. A small cluster of press people were waiting. They were greeted by Baker deputies and members of the San Bernardino County Specialized Investigations Division, who’d been at the scene much of the night. Agents from the FBI’s Los Angeles division were waiting inside.
A young man in dark glasses thrust a microphone toward him. “Tom, what’s your reaction to the discovery of the body?”
“Could you give us a statement, Mr. Reed?” a woman holding out a cassette recorder said.
Overhead, a small prop plane crossed the sky.
“No statements.” Sydowski waved off the questions. “Excuse us, please.”
Inside, conversations ceased when the San Francisco group joined the others crowded around a small table. Sydowski’s case binder slapped down. A man in a navy polo shirt rose and introduced himself to the new arrivals as the lead investigator.
“Detective Marv Gutteres, Sheriff’s homicide detail.”
“Marv.” Sydowski introduced himself, then said, “This is Tom Reed.”
Glances were traded around the table.
“Tom’s got a few questions, which I thought we could take care of right away,” Sydowski said. Gutteres extended his hand.
“Mr. Reed, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Is my wife dead?” Gutteres had quick, intelligent eyes, an honest face. Reed didn’t know if he was a God-fearing, compassionate family man who took his kids to church on Sundays but he wanted to believe it. Christ, he needed to believe it. He couldn’t accept some pension-tabulating clock watcher. “Did you find my wife?”
“Please, Mr. Reed, have a seat.”
“Just tell me, Detective.”
Throats were cleared. Local officials were annoyed that Sydowski had brought a victim’s relative this deep into their case. The air conditioner rattled and hummed.
“This is a bit unusual because of the stage of our investigation,” Gutteres said more to Sydowski, “but I’ll tell you what I can, Tom. A female hiker from Philadelphia found a car. It was not your wife’s Jetta. According to the VIN, it’s a Buick, stolen from a Sacramento mall lot.”
“What about the owners?”
“No one’s missing. Our arson people say the car was set ablaze. In a shallow grave near it, a body was found. It appears to be a white female.”
“Was the body burned too? Was she alive at the—” He stopped.
“We’re not certain of any details. The coroner’s investigators haven’t removed it from the scene for an autopsy. We haven’t confirmed the victim’s identification or cause of death. It may take a while. The find was made just before sunset. We’ve still got our scene people working out there, combing the area for anything to help us find the suspects.
“We’ve canvassed where we could, gas stations, restaurants, motels all along the corridor.”
Reed nodded, noticing that Gutteres had a file thicker than the others.
“You’re not telling me everything. What else do you know?”
Gutteres blinked coldly at Sydowski, then opened his folder and slid a plastic evidence bag to Reed. He covered his mouth with his hand.
It was Ann’s wallet.
“Tom,” Gutteres said, “we haven’t confirmed identification but you should prepare yourself.”
Reed nodded. “Can I talk to the person who found her?”
“The witness was distraught and went to Los Angeles to catch a plane home. I apologize that we don’t have more for you.”
“I want to go to the scene. See it for myself.”
“I understand, Tom, but we�
�ve got to start briefing the other agencies as quickly as possible. We’ve got armed, dangerous fugitives suspected in three homicides now.”
Suspected in three homicides now. There it was.
Reed removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Tom, maybe you should rest up. That San Francisco footage broadcast by that tabloid show has drawn a flood of calls and national press attention. This place is getting busy. We’ve reserved some motel rooms, maybe if you waited there—”
“I need to see it for myself.”
“Marv,” Sydowski said, “it might be best if we all saw it now. Familiarize ourselves, so we can start on the same page.”
A second of knowing passed between the detectives. Get the relative in and out; then get back to work. Gutteres understood.
“It’s about an hour’s drive from here.”
Reed sat in the rear of a four-by-four behind Sydowski as the convoy of police vehicles worked their way along the dirt roads north of Baker.
To break the silence, the deputy at the wheel explained the region. “Baker substation is a satellite of Barstow, responsible for Nipton, Primm Valley, Sandy Valley, parts of Mojave and Death Valley National Parks. Serves about two thousand residents. Only get four or five homicides a year, if that. We work mostly with the California Highway Patrol on the freeway. Our jurisdiction covers about five thousand square miles of remote, uninhabited desert terrain where the temp has been recorded at 130 degrees Fahrenheit. See, there to the east you got the Avawatz Mountains, to the west, the Silurian Hills. It’s quite beautiful, really.”
No, it’s not, Reed thought.
Threading their way up and down a rolling serpentine trail, they stopped next to a couple dozen parked vehicles, including two police four-by-fours parked sideways to block the press trucks. Photographers had climbed to the rooftops of their vehicles for a better shot, turning their cameras on the new arrivals.
Heat rose from the desert as if it were a blast furnace, moistening Reed’s skin in seconds after he got out and began walking with the deputy and Sydowski. They came to a hill with a clear view of the large white canopy and several scene people in coveralls and white gloves working under it. Silence filled the air after the last car door was shut.
