The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  “You,” she said, as he and I got out, “drive too fast. Next time I’m ticketing your ass.”

  “Something’s not right,” Gordon said. The radio had been silent all the way back.

  “A couple of other people thought so, too, but they called 911 instead of driving here like lunatics. There’s probably a harmless explanation, so follow me in, but don’t touch anything.”

  She opened the front door with a gloved hand and went in. It was nearly 7:20, and apparently no one else was there yet. Aside from our cars and Bob’s pickup, the parking lot was deserted. The smell of coffee wafted from a room down the hall.

  “Bob!” she shouted.

  No answer.

  “Bob, are you all right?”

  Again, no response.

  We followed her down the hallway to the studio door.

  “Bob!”

  Nothing. She turned the door handle, and it was locked. This wasn’t looking good. She turned to Gordon.

  “I hear you’re good at kicking in doors.” She pointed to it.

  This door was flimsier than the one at the logging camp, and it gave way on Gordon’s first kick. As it flew open, we saw Bob sitting in his seat by the microphone, earphones pulled down so they were around his neck and resting on his shoulders. His eyes were open, and the look on his face was one of bewilderment, or at least that’s how I read it. We never got a chance to ask, because the two bullet holes in his torso, right around his heart, had done what they were intended to do. We were looking at a dead man, who just minutes ago had been alive and talking to an audience over an area of hundreds of square miles.

  Sandy immediately took charge. “Out,” she said crisply, without raising her voice. “Get out in the parking lot and don’t go anywhere until I tell you to. This is a crime scene now.” She opened the door for us with her gloved hand, in case there were any prints on the knob, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t expect the killer to have been so sloppy.

  Once we were outside, I could see that Gordon’s face was drained of color. He was as shaken as I’ve ever seen him, and I probably wasn’t much better myself. Up until a couple of years ago, I’d lived a quiet, upper-middle class life where violence just didn’t figure in. I reacted to this with my stomach. I didn’t throw up, but my insides were in a knot. Bob made the third murder victim I’ve encountered on a fishing trip with Gordon, and that’s a habit I’d like to break.

  Within minutes, the radio station parking lot was full of law enforcement vehicles, plus a fire department paramedic truck and an ambulance, not that there was anything to be done medically. The sheriff was one of the first ones there, beating Howard to the scene by a couple of minutes. She immediately took charge, and no one questioned her, though there were one or two times when it looked as if Howard wanted to.

  It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, and the temperature was in the 30s. Even with our heavy jackets, Gordon and I were cold. We stood by his Cherokee, watching the action unfold and staying out of the way like good citizens. Eventually Gordon pulled himself together enough to talk.

  “There are two things about this that bother me,” he said.

  I nodded, and he kept going.

  “The first one is Bob’s gun. Remember how he told us Saturday night that he keeps a gun in his drawer just in case. I wonder if it’s still there?”

  “Maybe he knew his killer and didn’t feel threatened.”

  Gordon thought about that for a moment.

  “That makes sense, Sam. The only problem is it doesn’t help much. If he knew his killer, that pretty much includes the entire population of Plateau County.”

  “Maybe he was surprised.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Bob spent as much time in that studio as he did in his house. I don’t think it would be easy to sneak up on him. And in the few seconds we were there, I noticed something I didn’t see when I was on his show last Friday.”

  I nodded.

  “Let me show you,” he said. We walked across the parking lot and turned to look at the building. “See that window there?” he pointed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Now turn around.”

  I did, and right away I got his point. Behind us was the entry to the parking lot, in a direct line with the window.

  “The window was behind me when I was on his show, but he had a clear view out of it. He could see anyone pulling up to the station.”

  “If he was looking.”

  “Bob was always looking. He didn’t miss much. And that leads to another question. He’d just been on the air talking about how he might have information that could lead to an arrest. It was reckless of him to say that, but he wouldn’t have said it unless he knew who was going to be arrested. And therefore who might want to stop him. And yet, there’s a pretty good chance he saw his killer in the parking lot and no red flag went up. What’s with that?”

  I didn’t have an answer, so I didn’t say anything. It was almost a minute later before he spoke again.

  “The second thing is that he kept a pen and writing pad on the desk next to him. That I did see last Friday. He was writing down notes to himself in some sort of shorthand that made sense to him, but not necessarily anyone else. Don’t ask me why, but I noticed the pad was there when we were shooed out. If Bob was working on leads, there just might be something on that pad. And the killer had to be acting super fast and might not have realized it was important.”

  “We can hope so,” I said.

  AN HOUR LATER, with the crime scene properly photographed, and a physician having pronounced Bob officially dead, the body was wheeled out to the ambulance and driven to the morgue. The entire parking lot was surrounded by tape, and two uniformed deputies were stationed at the door. The sheriff came out not long after the gurney carrying Bob, looked around the parking lot, and went straight for Gordon and Sam.

  “Interesting, isn’t it,” she said, “how you two always seem to be in the vicinity when somebody gets shot.”

  Gordon started to say something, but realized there was no good answer and stopped himself.

  “Officer Steadman said she followed you part of the way here. If Bob was shot during Porter Wagoner, you probably have an alibi, but if it happened early in Patsy Cline, you could still be a suspect. Do you own a gun, Gordon?”

  “No. I don’t like ‘em.”

  “I wouldn’t cop to that around here if I were you. What about you, Akers?”

  “Me neither.”

  “I believe you, for whatever it’s worth, but I need to verify. Do I have your permission to search the vehicle, Gordon, or are you going to make me wait around for a warrant.”

  “Go right ahead,” he said.

  “Akers, you all right if we check any of your possessions in there?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a yes.”

  She brought over one of the deputies from the front door and had them repeat their consent in front of him. He looked like he was barely 21, with carrot-colored hair no more than three-eighths of an inch long. He gave the Cherokee a thorough going-over, even looking under the hood, and found no gun, or anything else of interest.

  “All right,” she said, after the deputy had left. “I need to have a word with you in my office, Gordon. Be there at one o’clock.”

  “Me, too?” Sam asked.

  “Just Gordon. We raked you over the coals yesterday. Now it’s his turn. One o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there,” Gordon said. She turned to walk away, and he called after her.

  “What?”

  “Has Brenda been notified yet?”

  Chris nodded. “I was going to do it myself, but Officer Steadman pointed out, correctly, that people were already calling in about the dead air on the radio and that time was off the essence. She offered to do it, and I let her.”

  Gordon nodded, and as she walked off, he turned to Sam.

  “Then I have a social obligation. I
t’s ten thirty, so there’s enough time for me to pay a call at Bob’s house and do what I can to comfort the widow. Though I don’t see how. Want to join me?”

  “Count me in,” said Sam.

  SO MANY CARS WERE PARKED near Bob’s house that Gordon and Sam had to park a block away. Brenda had come straight home after being told, and even though the radio station was off the air, the small-town grapevine had spread the news. The front door was open, and two dozen people, mostly women, were in the living room, where Brenda was sitting in the middle of the couch. Coffee was being made by the gallon in the kitchen, and plates of cookies and pastries, brought by the visitors, were set out.

  Brenda was surrounded by a half-dozen people offering condolences and support, but, edging toward her patiently, Gordon and Sam finally got near the couch. When she saw Gordon, she stood up, opening her arms for a hug, which he delivered awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, murmuring in her ear. “I wish I knew what to say.”

  “You’re saying something by being here, Gordon. That’s enough. There aren’t any right words for something like this.”

  A gray-haired woman materialized next to Gordon with a mug of coffee, and Brenda sat down on the couch, patting the cushion to her left.

  “Sit with me for a minute, Gordon.” She looked up. “And thanks for coming, Sam.”

  Gordon took a seat and made a slight head gesture to Sam to leave them alone. Sam took the hint. Brenda picked up a half-full cup of coffee and took a swallow.

  “I haven’t cried yet,” she said softly. “I guess that’ll come later, but right now, I think I’m still in denial.”

  “I’m pretty stunned myself.”

  “The Highway Patrol officer said you were with her when Bob was found.” He nodded. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but can you tell me what he looked like?” Gordon flinched. “Not the wounds and the blood, I mean, but how did his face look? Peaceful? Angry?”

  Gordon thought for a minute, feeling there had never been such a need to get the words right.

  “My impression,” he finally said, “is that he looked surprised. Almost as if he was expecting a friend and suddenly found himself staring down the wrong end of a gun.”

  “That has to be what happened, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, but it makes sense. He was shot while two songs were playing on the air, and just before they started, he said he had some information about the crime.”

  “Oh, Bob,” she said softly.

  “He hinted at that when I had coffee with him last night. Did he say anything to you?”

  “He didn’t, but he was in one of his moods. I’ve seen it before. It’s like, I know something you don’t, and I can hardly wait to surprise you with maximum impact.”

  “But he didn’t say what it was?”

  “He never does in that situation. He likes — liked — knowing something that wasn’t supposed to get out. He was like a little boy about that. It was one of the things I loved about him.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff will be asking you.”

  “And I wish I had more to tell her.”

  For a minute or two they sat quietly. The initial crush of visitors was dwindling, though others would no doubt be coming throughout the day. For better or worse, Brenda would not be alone with her thoughts for several hours, but at some point later in the day, she would be left to confront the new darkness in her life.

  “Brenda,” he finally said, “I’m not just saying this. I really mean it. But is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said, after a long pause. “You can go fishing tomorrow. It’s what Bob would have wanted, and I think there’s a chance he just might be there with you in spirit. Yes, go fishing and think of Bob. That’s the best thing. Promise me you’ll do that?”

  “I promise.”

  They drank more coffee, and then Brenda sat down her cup and let out a choked, one-syllable laugh, in which the “ha” sounded more like a “huh.”

  “What?” said Gordon.

  “I just thought of something, and when I did, I thought about how Bob would have enjoyed the irony.

  “Here we are in the middle of the biggest story to hit this town in ages, and the only man who could tell it right isn’t around to cover it.”

  And, finally, the tears came.

  IT WAS CLOUDING OVER, and there was a damp chill in the air as Gordon walked up the courthouse steps. He paused at the top to look at the clouds, and his cell phone rang. It was a number in the local area code, and he answered.

  “It’s Elizabeth,” the caller said. “I take it you heard about Bob.”

  “Worse than that. I was there when he was found.”

  “Oh my God. That’s awful.” She said no more for a minute. “I was calling to remind you that we were going to get together this afternoon, but if you’d rather not, under the circumstances …”

  “Actually, I think I would. Right now I want to stay as busy as possible. I’m trying to put off the moment when I’m left alone to think about it.”

  “I don’t blame you. Can you meet me at the college?”

  “Sure.”

  “My office is on the second floor of the English building, Room 247. I have office hours until 3:30, but we can meet then.”

  “Sam and I will be there.”

  “Oh, no. Was he with you when …”

  “Yep.”

  “At times like this, I wish I kept a bottle of scotch in my desk drawer, but the school authorities frown on it. We’ll have to settle for coffee, but I’ll see that it’s fresh.”

  “Whatever. I have an appointment with the sheriff in three minutes.”

  “Go, then. See you at 3:30.” She rang off.

  At the sheriff’s office, Gordon was taken straight to Chris’s corner sanctum. She and Diane Brinkley were seated at a round table in one corner, and she motioned for Gordon to take one of the two remaining seats at it. The sheriff was wearing her khaki uniform with crisply pleated trousers. The district attorney was wearing a maroon blouse and a blue-green pleated skirt that looked as if it might be part of a parochial school uniform. Gordon took the seat closer to Chris.

  “For starters,” the sheriff said, “you’re in the clear on Jessica Milland’s murder. You can tell your friend when you see him.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Dumb luck. It turns out a Forest Service ranger was doing an end-of-season check on all their campgrounds last Thursday. She was at Powder Creek at 3:45 p.m., which is about the time Jessica disappeared, and after looking it over, she wrote down the license number of your car. In case they found the campground vandalized later.

  “Sam will be glad to hear that.”

  “Came in this morning while I was at the radio station. But moving along, I wanted to have a word with you about Bob. He’s an old friend, I know, and you’ve spent a lot of time with him the past few days. Is there anything he said that might put us on a line of questioning?”

  “I don’t know. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  Diane leaned forward. “We’re looking for two things, Mr. Gordon. First of all, leads that might result in an arrest, but also information that will provide evidence in court. I have an investigator who can help the sheriff, who is, obviously, stretched pretty thin right now. We have two separate murder investigations, which may or may not be connected, and a serious rape allegation that probably isn’t going to get the attention it deserves because of the murders. At the moment, there are no leads, so the sheriff will be going through time-consuming routine investigations that may serve only to rule out possibilities. Any information that might get us forward a bit faster would be welcome.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not much,” Gordon said. “Bob was really upset about the rape case, I think because of his daughters. He was helping a couple of people look into it …”

  “Their names wouldn’t be Steadman and Macondray,
by any chance?” asked Chris.

  Gordon nodded. “But I didn’t get the sense they really had anything.”

  Diane shook her head. “I don’t see how that case would have gotten Bob killed. The people involved would slug it out with lawyers, not bullets, and that’s assuming we had something, which we don’t.”

  “I agree,” Chris said. “Bob’s murder was a bold act by a cool customer. The profile’s a better fit with our serial killer than the families of some kids who might be in trouble.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Gordon said, “did anyone see anything? The killer must have been parked at the radio station for at least a few minutes.”

  “So far, we’ve had three calls from people who claim they saw a car parked at the radio station that time this morning. The problem is one saw a red pickup, which would probably be Bob’s car, one saw a white sedan, and one saw a black SUV. No plates, no driver ID — nothing. It’s looking like a dead end.”

  “All right,” Gordon said. “One other thing that I know is that Bob met with somebody yesterday afternoon at the college. He didn’t say who and he was putting on like he might really have something. And, frankly, after all we went through yesterday, I was in no mood to play along with him.”

  “Do you have any idea,” Diane said, “even a guess, as to whom he might have met with?”

  “None whatsoever. Sorry. I wish I could help more.”

  Chris and Diane looked at each other as if it were time to end the interview. Gordon pressed on.

  “Could I ask a question or two?”

  “Sure,” said Chris. “The jackals from the Sacramento TV stations are calling for interviews this afternoon. I thought I was done with them for good, but a little practice wouldn’t hurt.”

  “What, exactly, are you looking into?”

  “Well, from all accounts Jessica was a smart and sensible young woman, and she certainly knew about the other two students who disappeared. She wouldn’t have taken a ride from just anyone. So we’re looking at people at the college she might have trusted, and particularly faculty.”

  “Why faculty and not staff?”

  “Because staff work until five o’clock, but faculty often leave early.”