Desert Kill Switch

by Mark S. Bacon

  He’d spent the previous late afternoon scouring the desert, searching for a sign of the blue Firebird and what might have been its former occupant. Occasionally he’d seen a sheriff’s cruiser. True to his word, Rey and his deputy looked for the body, too. But no one found anything. Lyle stopped several places on Wagon Trail Road, got out, and walked twenty yards into the brush when he thought he saw something. He stopped again near what he thought was the original site and walked up and down the berm looking at tire tracks in places where the shoulder was wide enough for a car. He saw lots of tracks, probably some of them from Rey’s black and white, but nothing in the area where he’d seen the body.

  When it started to get dark, he headed home, trying to decide whether he should stop off for a drink, eat something, or just go to bed and pull the covers over his head. The clatter of his phone startled him. He’d have to change the damn ring tone. It was Sam.

  “Where are you? Who got killed? What happened?”

  Hell, he hadn’t thought about Sam. What would she think? But wait a minute, she was there. At least she wouldn’t think he was seeing things.

  “There’s a little problem. We couldn’t find the car or the body.”

  “It wasn’t there? Somebody moved it?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Did the sheriff look?”

  “Yeah, two patrol cars drove all around. We couldn’t find it. I went back to the same spot where we parked. Empty. No sign of anything. It looks like I made it up.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “You saw the blue car, right?”

  “Yeah, I saw a blue car behind us. You told me about the body.”

  “Okay. Yeah, there was a body, too.” At least he had one witness.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ve just been driving around, looking. I’m tired, going home.”

  He’d promised Samantha he was all right--although he certainly didn’t feel that way--and told her he’d let her know what happened.

  Over a beer at Gilligan’s Island, his neighborhood bar, he realized the Firebird he saw had to be a Nostalgia City rental. Where else could a pristine Pontiac Firebird come from, but the park? And the rental cars had GPS trackers. He’d find the car the next morning, find out who rented it and, maybe, find out whose body he’d seen in the desert.

  After a fitful night, he went into the park long before his taxi shift and stood at the rental office door just as someone was opening up for business. Car rental employees all wore bright orange and white uniforms with wide, spread collars.

  A clerk stood, arranging her station at the counter.

  Lyle introduced himself as an NC employee--everyone who worked in the park used the initials NC, rather than the full name. Even without the introduction, the young woman couldn’t possibly have mistaken him for an early tourist customer. Lyle wore a white shirt, dark bow tie, and his NC name badge. His yellow cabbie hat sat on the back of his head, his wavy brown hair spilling down his forehead.

  “I’m trying to locate one of our rental cars, a blue, maybe dark blue, Pontiac Firebird. Mid-seventies.”

  The clerk looked puzzled. “Do you want to rent it?”

  “No, I saw it abandoned out in the desert yesterday and I wanted to see if it had been located.”

  The clerk was obviously not eager to help Lyle with a question she’d never encountered, and certainly not this early in the morning. “You want to locate one of our rental cars?”

  Lyle tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sigh. Fortunately, in the silence of the office, a manager overheard the conversation and came over to help.

  “You looking for a Firebird?”

  “Yes. A blue one, ’seventy-four or ’seventy-five.”

  “We have a red ’seventy-three. It’s very popular. We have an older one, too. I don’t think it’s blue, but I can check.” He pulled out a typed or printed register and started looking through the pages. “We track all our cars on computer, but of course the computers are in the back, out of sight. All you see here are these Selectrics.” He pointed to the IBM typewriter sitting behind the counter. “Nope. No blue one from the mid-seventies. In fact, no blue Firebirds at all. We have two blue Camaros.”

  “The one I saw was definitely blue and it was a Firebird. Blue outside with blue upholstery.” Lyle remembered distinctly looking inside the car through the large, open door. This was a dead end. He walked out of the rental office door, muttering to himself.

  Chapter 6

  With plenty of time before his taxicab shift started, Lyle retrieved his personal car and drove toward Polk, listening to KBOP, the Nostalgia City radio station. The words to Johnny Rivers’s “Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu” competed with the sound of wind rushing over the Mustang’s convertible top.

  The community nearest the park was also the county seat. Formerly a small, overlooked southwestern town, unremarkable except for its proximity to a nearly abandoned stretch of Route 66, Polk was reborn. When the huge retro theme park started rising next door, stores, restaurants, and motels, most with ’60s and ’70s themes and décor, sprouted along the town’s main drag, expanding Polk’s outskirts. Sitting on a side street two blocks from the courthouse, the San Navarro County Sheriff’s Office fit both the old and new versions of Polk. Tan adobe walls and desert landscaping made it look like a southwestern police station from central casting. Seeing the undersheriff busy at work first thing in the morning pleased Lyle. He took a seat in Martinez’s office, opposite his metal desk.

  “It’s not an NC rental car,” Lyle said without preface.

  “I thought about that. Figured you’d check,” Martinez said. “You’re up early.”

  “Yeah, and only two cups of coffee so far, too. Couldn’t sleep, so I got to the NC car rental office when it opened.”

  Rey glanced at the computer screen on his desk, then back at Lyle. He wore his tan uniform again, his hat upside down on his credenza. Martinez’s light skin gave only a suggestion of his Hispanic heritage. Like most cops, he had his dark hair cut short.

  “I don’t know where else that Firebird could be from,” Lyle said. “It was in cherry condition.”

  “Well, forty-three Pontiac Firebirds are registered in Arizona, years 1973 through 1975. Cars that old are often repainted so the registered color’s not that big a help.”

  To Lyle’s relief, he saw Rey was not just humoring him. “’Course California’s next door,” Lyle said, “and they probably have hundreds of old Firebirds, maybe thousands. I wonder how many were manufactured those years.”

  “Two hundred and four thousand, one hundred and five.” Rey said. “Approximately.”

  “I wonder how many are still on the road?

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet. Did it have a spoiler?”

  “Ah, I think so.”

  “If that’s right, then it cuts the numbers down a lot. Looks like only the Trans Am and the Formula models had spoilers.”

  “I saw it from the side and the rear. ‘Course the dead body kinda got my attention.”

  “This sounds like a drug deal to me,” Martinez said.

  “But the car. It’s so Nostalgia City.”

  “Yeah, a cool ride. A hot Trans Am is just what some of the gang members would like.”

  “Gangs? Out here?”

  “You know the Phoenix gangs. Some o’ them are spreadin’ out. There was a little gang activity near Prescott. I heard from the sheriff over there. Some of them drive fancy cars. I’ll see what I can do about cross checking the registrations for a Firebird in Phoenix gang areas. And before you ask, no, there are no ’seventies Firebirds registered in San Navarro County. Except a few at Nostalgia City.”

  “You report this to Wisniewski?” Lyle asked, referring to the sometimes bellicose sheriff, Jeb Wisniewski.

  “Had to. We put in seven or eight man hours out there.”

  “I don’t know where to go from here.”

  “I’m only on my first cup of coffee. Let’s g
o get some more.”

  In the tiny break room, Lyle helped himself to an empty cup and filled it. The room smelled of coffee and something else. Maybe leftover food moldering in a corner. He sat down at one of the two tables.

  “This is a bitch, Rey.”

  “Nothing that an ex-Phoenix detective sergeant and an underpaid undersheriff of San Navarro can’t figure out. My Irish stubbornness is kicking in.”

  “Yeah? Irish? O’Martinez?”

  “Really. My grandmother on my mother’s side was Irish, Scottish, and somethin’ else. My grandfather, Jesus Martinez, came up from Baja and met my grandmother working in a soup kitchen.”

  Lyle looked at Martinez’s broad mouth and olive skin trying to imagine him as part Irish.

  “My grandfather was a stylish dude back then. But of course, he was also considered a wetback. Had no rights.”

  “Different from now?”

  “Aw, things are getting better. Look at me, badge and all.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a cynic. O’Martinez. I like that.”

  Martinez frowned.

  Silent for a minute, Lyle finally said, “What about the missing persons angle?”

  “Too early don’t you think? It’s been less than a day. But I’ll keep an eye on reports. And let you know, worrier.”

  “Worrier?”

  “Yeah, I see you still do that rubber band thing on your wrist.”

  “Only because I’m crazy.”

  “What about the car show. You check that out?”

  “No, I forgot about the NC car show. I shoulda looked.”

  “We’ve had some calls. People getting too close to a few of the really expensive models. Your new security guy is on it. You’ve got a lot full of cars on display. Want me to have a deputy see if there’s a Firebird?”

  “I’ll do it. I have to get back to my cab. I’ll cruise the show and find out.”

  Chapter 7

  Kate tried to sort out the odor. Garlic for sure, but the rest was fragrant. Citrus? Vanilla? An almost over-powering combination. But then, fortuitously, the breeze shifted.

  Sitting in the Nostalgia City exhibit booth the morning after the vendors reception, Kate and Amanda contended with an odd bouquet of aromas coming from the booth next door. A young woman with long dark hair, a silver stud in her nose, and several around her ears, sold homemade dips, spices, incense, and soap. She’d already offered Kate some greenish brown dip and a pretzel. Kate politely declined.

  As Kate looked down the aisle at their neighbors, she took in the range of products and services being touted, from T-shirts, car accessories, and jewelry, to leather, pottery, and yard sculptures made out of automobile parts. Across from them, next to the beer-can hats, a photographer’s booth displayed laser-sharp, artistic shots of classic cars, empty highways, and old gas stations. Kate thought the photos were good enough to double for pictures in the NC display.

  She and Amanda sat on stools at the front of their booth. Although it was cool in the morning, Kate knew they’d be baking by the afternoon, so she wore a loose-fitting Nordstrom blouse and stretch jeans. Crossing one leg over the other, she pulled out a newspaper and read aloud from Gale Forrester’s column in the Reno Daily News Leader.

  “Sources say officials at Rockin’ Summer Days are considering an offer to split the event between Reno and another western city. The person who spoke on condition of anonymity said the purpose would be to expand the appeal of RSD beyond northern Nevada and thus increase revenue and participation among aficionados of reminiscences.

  “For the last two years of the twenty-year-old event, Washoe County and RSD officials have sparred over the percentage of the maintenance costs borne by the county. RSD Executive Director Chris Easley said the event this year topped out at 7,000 registered vehicles, the maximum approved by county officials.”

  “What do you think this means?” Amanda asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s local politics,” Kate said, lowering her voice, “and we need to stay out of it. We’re here to sell NC, period. Anyone else asks you, you just tell them the truth. We don’t know anything about the event, except it’s a good place for us to sponsor a booth.”

  Kate put down the paper and stood up as a middle-aged couple wandered toward the back of the booth looking at the large NC map. “Welcome,” Kate said. “Nostalgia City is an extension of this whole retro experience, only you feel like you really are back in the 1970s.” She handed them a brochure.

  When another couple approached the booth, Amanda greeted them with a smile. On her own initiative, Amanda had worn tight bell bottoms and a fringed cotton blouse. With her NC name badge and her hair pulled back, she looked retro, attractive, and professional.

  The couple Kate talked to sounded interested and, judging by their dress, would not be put off by NC prices. The world’s most elaborate theme park and resort was also one of the most expensive. As the couple left, Kate had a good idea they’d be booking an NC stay soon. She encouraged them to call the toll-free number and download the fun NC app.

  With temperatures only in the high seventies, traffic in the outdoor exhibit area picked up. When the engine on a bright red Chevy convertible roared to life, Kate glanced toward Virginia Street. The car’s owner put the top down to better show off the gleaming chromed and upholstered interior.

  After months of working for Nostalgia City, Kate had begun to appreciate the beauty--at least the craftsmanship--of restored cars that were older than she was.

  Turning back to the booth, Kate was startled to see Alvin Busick talking to Amanda. If not leering, Busick certainly admired Amanda as he spoke. Busick’s polo shirt from the other night had been replaced by a suit. “Good morning Mr. Bu--Al,” Kate said with a smile before he could correct her.

  Busick returned her smile. Kate walked over, shook hands, then settled back on her stool.

  “What do you think of your spot here,” Busick asked, “right next to North Virginia Street. We just opened this exhibit area last year.”

  Kate wanted to say she liked being just one booth away from the hot rod display along the street, but it would have been better to be right next to the street and thus upwind from her odiferous neighbor. Instead she said, “We’re getting visitors this morning. Lots of people out, as you can see.”

  Busick made small talk about the weather and the city for a few minutes, then said, “This is a tremendous event. Sure fits in with Nostalgia City. You’ve gotcher prime element here. Don’t you agree?”

  “It’s a good match, yes,” Kate said.

  “But what do you think of the whole event? I mean, all these cars and people. It’s really a Nostalgia City kinda thing, wouldn’t you say?” Busick sounded like he was selling a car.

  Kate started to nod, then stopped, glancing at the growing flow of visitors in front of the booths. “We’re very glad to be here Al, to be a part of this event. You’ve done a good job with it.”

  “Thanks. So you think it’s a good match for Nostalgia City.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You think you could use an event like ours? In Nostalgia City, I mean.”

  “These hot cars are nice on display,” she said, “but the concept of a big car show doesn’t really fit our park. We rent our own classic cars. I mentioned that last night.”

  “I know you do, but you rent ’em to folks like this don’t you? Rockin’ Summer Days is a natural, huh?”

  “Al, this is lovely but--”

  “But you like it here, right?” Busick’s salesman’s voice now pleaded. He held up one hand, palm up. “I mean, Rockin’ Summer Days--” He paused and held up his other hand. “And Nostalgia City.” He brought his hands together interlocking his fingers. “What could be better?”

  “It’s fine, but we’re not interested in any sort of partnership if that’s what you mean. We’re just here to tell people about Nostalgia City.”

  “Really? I thought you were here to check us out,” Busick said. “You�
�re thinking about having this event at your park and in Reno, too, aren’t you?”

  “If you’re talking about Forrester’s column in the paper, he’s not referring to us.” Kate felt boxed in. Yes, they were in Reno to attract some of RSD’s prime customers, but they definitely didn’t want any part of a local controversy. Busick was not getting the message. “This is ludicrous. We don’t want your event. We’re not competition. Rockin’ Summer Days is a ten-day party. We’re a theme park. We like exhibiting here, but that’s it.”

  “Oh, maybe you’re here to get the whole event. Take it out of Nevada.” Busick’s tone switched from imploring salesman to prosecuting attorney.

  Kate just shook her head. “No. Please understand--”

  “But you know what? We’d never let that happen.” He took half a step toward Kate. Seated on her stool, she sat almost at eye level with him. Still, he seemed to have a looming presence.

  “I don’t know anything about this,” she said. “Why don’t you talk to Chris Easley? Maybe something is going on in your organization.”

  Busick exploded. “That’s bullshit.” He pointed a finger at Kate. “I have information about you.”

  “Hey,” Amanda said as she stood up next to Busick. “It’s like you don’t know what’s going on.”

  Busick gripped Amanda’s arm momentarily. “Stay out of this young lady.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing,” Kate said to Busick, “but you can damn well keep your distance and talk civilly. Please leave Amanda alone.” Kate got off her stool and towered over Busick.

  Standing inches from her, Busick pointed a finger again, this time poking her several times in the chest above her breastbone. “Listen, blondie, you’re a big--” he started to say. But before he could get any more words out, Kate put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. She shoved a little harder than she meant to, and Busick stumbled backward. He reached out for a corner of the booth to soften his landing on the pavement.