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

by Michael Wallace

  Gordon cut her off.

  “Highly overrated, I’m afraid. Believe me, Brenda, I’m doing everything I can to help, but in the end, the sheriff has to do the real work.”

  They talked for half an hour, and Gordon thought Brenda seemed to be comforted by his visit, though it was hard to say. Before leaving, he asked her to show him Bob’s basement room. He said he wanted to remember where he’d last seen Bob in the house, but the real reason was to acquaint himself with the layout of a Pinelli basement, just in case. He felt only slightly uneasy about the lie.

  It was raining again when he left, and the drops that fell from the leaden sky were icy cold. The radio had said there might be snow that night, and it seemed entirely plausible. His phone rang as soon as he got into the Cherokee. It was Chris.

  “Just wanted to let you know,” she said. “Tiffany Reese’s parents have taken off for the weekend, saying they needed to get away by themselves. No one seems to know where they went. It may be Monday before we have a chance to show them the ring.”

  He sighed. “Thanks for the professional courtesy.”

  “Don’t mention it. And Gordon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t get any ideas. Following procedure is the way to go on this.”

  “Thank you.”

  He put the phone in his pocket and stared straight ahead, through the fogged-up, rain-pelted windshield for five minutes. When he started the Cherokee, it took a minute for the defroster to restore visibility. By the time the vehicle was rolling, Brenda’s plea and the delay in the investigation had settled his mind on the question of going to Armstrong’s house that night.

  THERE’S SOMETHING UNNERVING about spending a dreary, rainy afternoon in a dreary hotel room in a dreary small town, watching your best friend play with his burglary tools. Granted, it’s not an experience most people are likely to have, but then most people don’t have Gordon as a friend. I offered to help him out tonight, but when he said no, I let it drop. After our experience in Summit County four years ago, I’ve had my fill of life-threatening adventure.

  I did, however, say a brief prayer of gratitude for the fact that Gordon had brought the tools up to the room and put them in his suitcase when he arrived in town last week. If they had been found in the Cherokee the morning Bob got shot, I’m guessing the average Plateau County sheriff’s deputy would have believed in Clancy about as much as he would have believed in the Easter Bunny.

  We were meeting Mademoiselle Macondray at Elizalde’s at 5:45, which passes for a fashionable dinner hour in Alta Mira. At 5:35, we went downstairs, got into the Cherokee (after Gordon put his burglary kit under a jacket on the back seat) and started up Chaparral Boulevard. It was drizzling, and the sign on the bank gave the temperature as 33 degrees.

  “Might snow tonight,” I said conversationally.

  “Might,” Gordon said.

  “So at the risk of being the skunk at the garden party, what if you break into the house and don’t find anything?”

  “I leave the house and lock it up.”

  At that point, I decided to wait until we got to the restaurant. Maybe she’d have more luck getting him to talk.

  She did, but only a bit. It was a tense dinner, and when Gordon said midway through it that he’d need a couple of hours “to take care of some business,” I could practically see her ears twitch. If she hadn’t been talking about meeting with Alicia, and how she and Sandy were keeping her spirits up for now but didn’t know how long they could keep her going, I don’t know what we would have talked about.

  When we’d finished eating, the waitress came by to ask about dessert. Elizabeth and I decided we could handle ice cream and coffee, but Gordon, after saying he had to tend to his “business,” slipped me a hundred to pay for dinner and took his leave.

  As soon as he walked out the front door of Elizalde’s, she turned to me.

  “All right, Sam. What’s going on here?”

  I looked at my watch while I tried to think how to answer her. The time was 7:02 p.m.

  CHRIS WAS AT HER DESK, beginning to wade through three stacks of reports on the Jessica Milland murder, the shooting of Mountain Bob, and the Alicia Rios rape, when the call from the watchman came.

  “Sheriff, this is Andy.”

  “What’s up, Andy?”

  “I got someone at the downstairs entrance who wants to see you.”

  “For God’s sake, it’s after hours on a Saturday night. Can’t it wait until Monday?”

  “That’s what I asked, ma’am, but he says it can’t.”

  “Did he tell you what it’s about?”

  “No, ma’am. Do you want me to ask him?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please.”

  She heard indistinct chatter in the background before Andy came on again.

  “He says he’s a witness, ma’am.”

  “Did he say what he’s a witness to?”

  “Hold on while I ask.”

  After a bit more background noise, “He says he thinks he saw the killer.”

  She pressed down so hard on the pencil she was holding that it snapped in half, a metaphor for her nerves.

  “I don’t suppose he happened to mention which killer?”

  “No, but I can ask if you want.”

  She said nothing, and Andy didn’t take the hint. Finally, through gritted teeth, she said, “Ask him.”

  A few seconds later, “He says the radio guy.”

  Chris had by this time begun to suspect that the visitor was a crank, but because no potential lead could be ignored, she sighed and said, “Send him up.”

  She stepped out of her office to see if, by chance, anyone else was around. Deputy Buzz Frazier, a second-year man, and the one who had traded banter with Howard when the aerial search was going on, was placing a stack of papers in the typist’s basket.

  “Deputy.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Are you doing anything now?”

  “I was just about to clock out.”

  “Well, I hope you can use some overtime because I need you a bit longer. We’ve got someone coming up who says he saw Mountain Bob’s killer.”

  Frazier looked puzzled. “Do you think it’s for real, ma’am? I mean, why did he wait until now?”

  “An excellent question, and one I’ll be sure to ask. Grab your notebook, greet him when he comes in, and bring him into my office so we can find out.”

  The man who accompanied Frazier into her office a minute later didn’t look familiar. He was the kind of stocky middle-aged man who could have been anywhere between 45 and 55, and whose straight hair might have been gray-sandy or sandy-gray. He introduced himself as Ed Mullin.

  “All right, Mr. Mullin,” Chris said. “You said you saw the killer of the radio DJ Mountain Bob Hastings, is that right?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Well, what did he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Frazier, sitting slightly behind the witness, broke into a smile, and Chris shot him a killing look.

  “I see. You saw the killer, but you didn’t see enough to describe him. Are you from around here, Mr. Mullin?”

  “No. I make my home in Stockton, but I’m on the road a lot. That’s how I saw it.”

  She sat up straighter, and lowered her voice to make it as soothing as possible. Even Frazier was paying more attention.

  “Why don’t you tell me in your own words, instead of me asking a lot of questions?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, at 3 a.m. Monday morning, I picked up a load in Redding for delivery to Bozeman, Montana. I stopped for breakfast along the way, and was coming into Alta Mira a bit after seven o’clock. Can’t say exactly.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was driving down the state highway, and just when I got to the radio station, some idiot in a pickup came flying out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, if you’ll pardon my language. These big rigs don’t brake real fast, and I almost hit him. It beat me w
hy he was in such a hurry. Nobody behind me and nobody coming the other way. He could have waited a couple of seconds and gotten on the road nice and easy.”

  He paused to nurse his resentment at the bad behavior.

  “I said a couple of un-Christian things under my breath, but he just screamed on ahead of me, out of sight. I didn’t think anything more about it until tonight. I stopped at Danny’s Diner for dinner on the way back from Bozeman and picked up a copy of your local newspaper. There was a big story about the radio DJ being shot, and I realized it was right about the time that fella pulled out right in front of me, and I might have seen him.”

  “You said, ‘seen him.’ How certain are you that it was a man?”

  “Pretty sure. I couldn’t tell you much except that he looked young, but he was gone before I could see much more. He was driving a gray Ford Ranger, probably three or four years old.”

  “But you didn’t get a good look at him?”

  Mullin shook his head.

  “Could you identify him?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t believe I could.”

  She leaned back in her chair and tried to figure out how much to make of this. She was still sorting it out when Mullin spoke up.

  “There’s one thing you haven’t asked, ma’am.”

  “What’s that?” she said, as calmly as possible.

  “About his license plate. I got that.”

  “Are you sure? You can remember it after almost a week?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was one of those personalized plates.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said SCR, space, CCH”

  She wrote it on a pad, tore off the top sheet and handed it to the deputy.

  “Buzz, run this right away.”

  He took the sheet, stood up and hesitated.

  “No need for that, ma’am. I recognize the plate, but there must be some mistake. It belongs to Johnny Armstrong.”

  She said nothing for a minute, as that sank in.

  “And what on earth does SCR CCH mean, deputy?”

  “Soccer coach, ma’am.”

  The time was 7:29 p.m.

  I HAD JUST PUT THE HUNDRED on the tray with the bill, and the waitress had gone off to get change. The nice thing about fishing trips to the mountains is that you can eat well and cheaply. It had only taken Elizabeth a little more than five minutes to worm the story of Gordon’s escapade out of me. The woman has interrogation skills, and I don’t think I’d like to be coming home late to her with a cock-and-bull story.

  “So Gordon said to wait at the hotel?” she said.

  “If you don’t mind driving me.

  “My pleasure.”

  The waitress returned with the change, and I left half of it as a tip. Elizabeth pulled a sweater over her shoulders.

  “This is going to be exciting, Sam. I had a boyfriend who was a sociopath once — I mean, who hasn’t? — but this is my first experience with a garden-variety burglar acting on the side of law enforcement. I can hardly wait to hear how it turns out.”

  She stood up. The clock on the wall read 7:33 p.m. as we walked out the door into the cold night.

  GORDON SAT IN THE CHEROKEE with the engine and heater off, shivering slightly. Except for Chaparral Boulevard, the streets in Alta Mira didn’t have lights, so the neighborhood was mostly cloaked in darkness. The front porch light of Armstrong’s house was on, but the interior showed no sign of being lit. Gordon was trying to size up the situation as carefully as possible.

  It appeared that the neighbors were home on all sides, but the blinds were drawn on all their windows. Even so, the front door would be too risky. He would have to get out of his vehicle, close the door quietly so as not to attract attention, move quickly to the back door, and hope he could get it open as fast as possible. Once inside, he’d use only his penlight until he got into the basement.

  He looked at the other houses again. Everything seemed quiet. He realized that the moisture hitting his windshield now was from snowflakes and decided not to wait any longer.

  Grabbing his tool kit in one hand, he opened the door, slipped out, and closed it as quietly as possible. Wearing dark jeans and a black windbreaker, he walked purposefully across the street, across Armstrong’s lawn, and to the back door. He looked at the surrounding houses again, and all seemed quiet. He set his tools on the ground by the back door and turned off his phone. His nerves wouldn’t have stood it ringing in the empty house.

  But he hadn’t seen that across the street, two venetian blind slats were slightly pried apart, and that the occupant of the house had been looking out. When Gordon disappeared around the back of the house, the two slats came together again.

  The time was 7:46 p.m.

  DIANE BRINKLEY had just opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured herself half a glass when the phone rang. She felt she needed a splash of courage to tackle the stack of notes covering all the interviews in the rape case this week. She was sitting on the couch in front of a large fire, and, the ranch being at a higher elevation than Alta Mira, snow was falling steadily outside.

  “This is Diane.”

  “It’s Chris. We finally caught a break.”

  “Tell me.”

  Chris ran through Mullin’s testimony. When she finished, Diane asked:

  “Can you get a deposition?”

  “Linda Britton will be here to take it in 15 minutes.”

  “If it’s as you say, that should be more than enough to get a warrant to search Mr. Armstrong’s house and work space for the gun that killed Mountain Bob. With any luck, you can be searching his house when he comes home from work after midnight.”

  “God, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

  Diane was silent for a moment, then:

  “Chris, you don’t suppose Gordon is going to try anything, do you?”

  “I forgot about that in all the excitement. I’ll call him right away.”

  “Then I won’t keep you a second longer. Au revoir, my dear, and fax that deposition the instant the ink is dry.”

  Diane corked the bottle of wine, took it to the refrigerator, and carried the half-glass, which would now have to last the evening, to the window. She loved watching the snow fall and intended to look at it until her thoughts were composed.

  The time was 7:49 p.m.

  I’D JUST BROUGHT OUR DRINKS to the table in the corner of the bar at the Danube Hotel when my phone rang. Even though it was Saturday night, none of the other three denizens of the establishment looked as if they were there to pick anyone up. They were sitting morosely at the bar, watching a college football game they probably wouldn’t remember in two days, and they were ignoring us, which was fine by me. I didn’t want Elizabeth to notice, but I was beginning to become concerned about Gordon’s adventure. He’s almost gotten himself killed twice (and me once, but I’m over it) trying to be an amateur sleuth. A man who puts himself in that sort of position is going to run out of luck sooner, rather than later.

  I answered the phone. It was the sheriff, and she got right to the point.

  “Sam, is Gordon with you?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Actually, I’m with a rather attractive woman.”

  “Say hi to Elizabeth for me, but listen, Sam, this is urgent. Please tell me Gordon didn’t go to that house.”

  I paused for a few seconds before coming up with a clever and original response.

  “Ummmmmm …” I said.

  “Oh, God. Do you have any way of reaching him?”

  “Did you try his cell phone?”

  “It went straight to voice mail. I think it’s turned off.”

  “Then I’m out of ideas.”

  “All right, if you do hear from him, tell him I called and said something’s come up, there’s no need for him to go to that house, and if he’s anywhere near it, get the hell out of there. Got that.”

  “I think so.” In the background, on her end, I heard some squaw
king that could have been a police radio.

  “Just a minute,” she said. She was silent for several seconds while the squawking continued, and finally stopped. “Oh, shit. I’ve gotta go, Sam. If Gordon calls, keep him away from that house. And don’t let him get a word in edgewise.”

  That wasn’t what I needed to hear. As I set down my phone, I noticed that the time on the display was 7:54 p.m.

  IT TOOK GORDON ONLY A MINUTE to quickly case the main floor of Armstrong’s house. What he saw was not much. For a bachelor, Armstrong kept a tidy house, and a rather impersonal one. It was decorated in a Spartan style, and one of the few distinctive decorations was a photo of himself with a girls soccer team, taken in December of the previous year.

  From his scrutiny of Bob’s house earlier in the day, Gordon had determined that the door to the basement would be between the living room and kitchen, and it was. He began looking through his tool kit, then thought to try turning the doorknob first. It was unlocked. He took a deep breath and started down the stairs, keeping the thin beam of light on the stairs in front of him. When he got to the bottom, he knew, that if this house conformed to the pattern of Bob’s, there would be a light switch on the wall at the right. The light in this underground room shouldn’t be visible to the neighbors. It was silent as a tomb, and he guessed he’d been wrong about captives being held here.

  He looked at the luminous dial of his watch, and it showed 7:57 p.m. He turned off the flashlight and began running his hand along the wall. He found the switch in less than 10 seconds and flipped it.

  The first thing he saw when the light came on was a pair of malevolent eyes staring directly at him, only five feet away.

  AFTER GETTING OFF THE PHONE with Sam, Chris sat at her desk, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her left hand. In her 20-year law enforcement career, she had never faced a situation like this, and was not likely to again. The circumstances called for extreme care and judgment, yet she had only minutes, maybe even seconds, to figure out what to do.

  She stood up and walked to the door of her office. There was a large window next to the door, which allowed her to see the entire sheriff’s office. Assistant District Attorney Linda Britton had just walked through the door, and Deputy Frazier had risen to greet her. Like the tumblers falling into place on a lock, it came to the sheriff what she had to do.