Desert Kill Switch

by Mark S. Bacon

  Why did Kate feel uneasy talking with Lyle about Bruce? She needed to sort out her feelings and try to be honest with herself. It was just that every time she thought she’d figure it out, something dreadful happened and she had to go into survival mode.

  “Right now I can use all the support I can get.” She got up and started making coffee in the tiny hotel-room pot. When they both had mugs in hand, she sat on the couch next to Lyle.

  “I see you still have your rubber band.”

  “Snapping it is supposed to keep me centered.”

  “Well, between getting into my murder case, then getting mugged...”

  “I’m okay,” Lyle said.

  Kate didn’t believe him. He looked like he needed a hug.

  “Here’s what I suggest,” he said, changing the subject. “Busick had an enemies list longer than Richard Nixon’s. We’ve uncovered a good handful of them already. Several people--maybe dozens if you include angry customers--had good reasons to kill Busick. We should wait for the police to do their work.”

  Kate raised a hand and started to say something.

  “I know,” Lyle said, “you hate to wait. But think about it. An argument with Busick, a guy you’d just met, is no motive for murder. If the police are even halfway thorough with all the suspects, you’ll be so far down their list they’ll forget all about you.”

  “So, we do nothing?”

  “For now, yes. You don’t want the detectives to think you’re trying to tamper with potential witnesses or cloud up the case. You’re innocent. Act that way. Go back to work in the NC exhibit. Forget about this, if you can.”

  “And what’re you going to do?”

  “Max’s flight crew is staying over. They can fly me back to the park first thing in the morning."

  “You’re going home?”

  Chapter 18

  Since Nostalgia City opened, and tourists from all over the world wanted quick access to the wondrous 1970s make-believe metropolis, airlines responded by scheduling flights into tiny Flagstaff Pulliam Airport. As the county struggled to double the size of the terminal, the overcrowded airport took on the qualities of a mini O’Hare. Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport still carried the majority of Nostalgia City visitors, but direct flights into much-closer Flagstaff helped the park grow. In Lyle’s case, however, the corporate jet meant he could bypass the crowds at Flagstaff Pulliam terminal and walk right to his car.

  Max, of course, wanted the full story about Kate almost as soon as the company plane carried Lyle across Arizona air space early Saturday morning. Before he could get behind the wheel of his cab, Lyle had to report to the executive offices. He remembered being impressed by the hushed atmosphere and authentic furnishings of Max’s office suite, the lime green and orange reception area couches, the pop art paintings. Lyle wore a long-sleeve shirt so his scraped arms didn’t show. When he got off the elevator, Max was waiting for him. The administrative staff wasn’t working so Max led Lyle through to his spacious office.

  “So, what’s happening over there? Kate’s out of jail, right? That lawyer we found working out?”

  The energetic executive with the hawk nose and ring of close-cropped gray hair around his shiny head offered Lyle a seat at a small conference table.

  “Really a crock, that guy saying we want to steal some car show,” Max continued. “No way we’re letting people drive their own cars in here. We want them to rent ’em.”

  Lyle settled into a retro-styled chair and put one forearm--carefully--on the table.

  “Figure out who did it,” Max asked, “who killed that car dealer?”

  “Not in one day. Too many suspects. The only person who liked Alvin Busick was maybe his mother. And maybe the lawyers he kept busy defending his business practices.” Lyle listed some of the possible suspects, mentioned the kill switches, and told Max he advised Kate to sit tight and let the police do their work.

  “Even though the cops found her with the body, there’s really little evidence to make her a credible suspect. She’d only met Busick a day or so before. This’ll blow over and the cops’ll find somebody.”

  “Dunno. Gotta keep a close eye on this. Don’t want it to backfire. Summer season. We need Kate back here to pump up our image, soon as that rockin’ days thing is over.”

  Lyle agreed, excused himself, and almost reached the door when he heard Max say, “Wait a minute. What about you?”

  Lyle didn’t expect what came next.

  “I read you reported a murder. Something out in the desert. They find anything?”

  Lyle took a couple of reluctant steps back toward Maxwell. “How did you--”

  “Read this in one of those news blogs. Didn’t say your name but said it was an NC cab driver. So I called the sheriff. Wisniewski said it was you.”

  Unfortunately, Lyle thought, it looked as if Max must have finally taken Kate’s advice about the importance of social media. He’d have to ask Rey how the story got out. “I reported it to the sheriff’s office,” Lyle said. “They haven’t found anything yet. Still checking.” Don’t worry, it won’t affect attendance.

  The crowded NC hotels and surging turnstile numbers must have assuaged Max, usually focused on the bottom line. He said only, “You feeling okay?”

  Lyle nodded, held up a hand, and promptly got out of there.

  What did Max mean? Lyle thought, two hours later as he cruised down the main street in Centerville. Do I feel okay? His expulsion from the Phoenix Police Department, as a result of what was only later shown to be a set-up by two scheming senior officers, had become public knowledge. As had his mandatory sessions with department shrinks. The only accusation he was guilty of, was his habit of talking to himself. But rumors persisted. He’d told Kate all about it. Years of dangerous and frustrating police work--when he tried to help people who were often beyond help--took a toll. Then his wife divorced him. He decided not to dispute his separation from the department. He left to follow more stress-free employment.

  Okay, some of that internal stress persisted, but he had a handle on it. Or so he thought, until he saw a blue Pontiac Firebird Trans Am cross a side street in front of him. This phantom car appeared like the elusive white T-Bird in American Graffiti. But instead of a cute blonde behind the wheel, a dark-haired man sat at the controls.

  Be logical, Deming, Lyle told himself. First, tourists are not allowed to drive their personal cars in Nostalgia City. Second, no blue Firebirds are available for rent. Conclusion: I’m seeing things.

  His cab reached the intersection and Lyle looked to the right. The Firebird was still there, now a block and a half away. Lyle started to have the same feeling in his gut as when he first stood at the desert murder scene. But hell, now something’s in sight. And it wasn’t going to go away. Probably.

  Lyle made a sharp right at a J.J. Newberry store, cutting off a red Oldsmobile in the curb lane. He floored the accelerator of his bright yellow Dodge and tried to close on the Pontiac, but it turned left--out of sight. Lyle screeched up to the signal as it turned red. He looked down the street and saw the blue ghost. It was heading out one of NC’s connector roads that led to the hotel complex. By the time the light changed, the Firebird Trans Am was a half-mile ahead separated from Lyle by a delivery van and one other car.

  No side streets crossed the connector road so Lyle had a straight shot to follow the Firebird. It was no mirage.

  As he approached the first hotel, cars filled a parking lot to the right. The delivery van turned off and the other car continued straight ahead behind the Firebird. In another block Lyle watched the Firebird turn into the parking lot of the Traveler’s Court, a high-rise hotel with ’70s-modern architecture. The Firebird parked near the hotel entrance.

  Who did he expect to see get out of the car, a mobster in a dark suit, a gangbanger in a wife beater? Certainly he didn’t expect the middle-aged guy in shorts, sandals, and plaid shirt who got out, locked the car, and walked toward the hotel.

  Lyle stopped his cab
in the middle of the aisle and jumped out. “Excuse me,” he said, and the man turned around. “You have that blue Firebird.”

  “Yeah, it’s a sweet car, isn’t it? I used to have one like that when I was a kid.”

  The guy sounded harmless enough and with his light clothing Lyle couldn’t see where he could be carrying a weapon. “Uh, where did you find it?” Lyle said as he walked up to him.

  “Find it? What do you mean? Find it in the downtown parking lot? You don’t give tourists parking tickets here do you?” The man seemed to think for a moment. “But you wouldn’t. You’re a cab driver.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. It’s just that we don’t permit people to bring their personal cars into the park.”

  “That’s not mine. I rented it.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Is there a problem with the car? I have the rental receipt.”

  Lyle tried to think. “Okay. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  When they got back to the Firebird, Lyle saw that his cab blocked someone trying to back out. He waved to them and moved the cab, then took the empty parking space. By that time, the Firebird driver had opened the passenger side door and was leaning inside. Lyle’s faculties went on alert. He ducked behind the car next to the Firebird and tried to peek through the car’s windows. The man in shorts stood up, looked around, and waved something in his hand. “Hello?” he said.

  Cautiously, Lyle came out from behind the car and saw the man held a colorful Centerville Car Rental folder. By now the tourist, or whoever he was, had to be convinced Lyle was either a dangerous kook or Candid Camera’s Alan Funt in disguise. The rental contract looked official. Lyle had seen them before.

  While Lyle looked at the car’s blue upholstery, the man pulled out a pencil and wrote something down on the contract.

  “Thanks,” Lyle said, “sorry to trouble you. It’s really a long story. A mix-up I guess. Do you mind if I look inside for a moment?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry. My family’s waiting for me.”

  Lyle muttered thanks again and watched as the man carefully locked the car and made his way into the hotel, glancing back at Lyle.

  With the man out of sight, Lyle looked inside the Firebird, shading his eyes with his hands, horse-blinker style. The interior looked clean and nothing seemed out of place. A Nostalgia City visitor’s map sat on the passenger seat and a cardboard coffee cup on the console.

  Lyle walked back to his cab and got on the radio.

  “Can you call Rey Martinez at the Sheriff’s Office for me? See if he’s on duty? Tell him I found the Firebird and need to meet him at the NC car rental office. That’s right, found the Firebird.”

  The park’s prohibition against cell phones made sense for historical accuracy, but was a bitch when you needed to communicate right away. The cab dispatcher came back soon. “Martinez wants to know if it’s blue. Says he’s busy but can be at the rental office in a half hour.”

  “Roger that. And tell him affirmative on the blue color.”

  He backed his cab out of the parking space and took a last look at the Firebird. Did it have those fancy mag wheels?

  Chapter 19

  Kate lingered in bed. Bruce had left an hour before. He needed to get back to Vegas to meet with the real estate agent selling their condo. Kate told him she’d be fine. Bruce’s presence did comfort her, so did their intense love making. It helped her relax. Today, she would do what Lyle suggested yesterday, go to work and forget about the cops. Sure, she would.

  After a shower and quick breakfast, Kate wanted to check in with her office but realized it was Saturday. Max had inevitably called her earlier in the morning while Bruce was still there. Talk about inopportune. She poured herself a cup of coffee in the sitting room of her suite and listened to Max’s voice mail. She hated to bother her secretary at home, but she needed to know if the Busick fiasco and her arrest had made the local, Arizona media.

  “Not really front page,” Joann said, after Kate apologized for calling, “but the Phoenix Standard ran a small story about the murder. You were mentioned briefly.”

  “Did the story say anything about sharing the Reno car event with NC?”

  “No. The story mentioned the Rockin’ Summer Days event and said Busick was chairman, but it mostly talked about his background as a Vegas car dealer.”

  Joann paused and Kate knew there was more coming.

  “Of course,” Joann said, “your favorite Phoenix TV news program picked up the story too, and wanted a comment. They called the executive offices and I think most of what they got couldn’t be broadcast, if you know what I mean.”

  “In other words, they talked to Max.”

  “I believe so. Are you doing okay? You’re not still arrested or anything?”

  “No, I’m free. No handcuffs or iron bars. Thanks. On the bright side, I can tell Max we’re selling a lot of NC vacations. I wasn’t sure this was the right demographic, but the visitors are crowding into our booth.”

  “Business is good here, too. The park is packed. Hotels are full and all’s well.”

  “Good to hear. I should probably call Max now and check in. I bet he’s in the office.”

  “There is one other item.”

  Uh oh. “What else?”

  “There were a couple of stories online and a small one in a weekly paper about an NC cab driver reporting a murder in the desert.”

  “Who was murdered?”

  “That’s just it. The cab driver reported seeing a bullet-riddled body, but the sheriff never found anything. Apparently there was supposed to be an abandoned car. They never found that, either.”

  “Was it Lyle?”

  “Yes. The stories didn’t say, but Mr. Maxwell called the sheriff and found out.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” Kate said under her breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind, Joann. Thanks for the update. Keep me posted.”

  Kate leaned back on the couch. Lyle reported a murder, and the sheriff couldn’t find a body? Was she disappointed in him for not telling her? What was their relationship? Was he embarrassed or maybe the news stories exaggerated the situation. But if Max called the sheriff, the NC president would be sure to question Lyle about it, no matter what. For a few minutes she thought of Lyle and forgot she was a murder suspect.

  She reached for her cell phone again and started to dial Lyle’s number when she remembered he’d be working and wouldn’t have his phone with him. A moment later, the phone rang.

  “Kate, how are you holding up? This is Henrietta Mauser.”

  Back to my problems, Kate thought.

  “Have you heard from the police?”

  “Should I have?” Kate said.

  “No. In fact I’ve heard they’re spreading a wide net. As I told you, Mr. Busick was not...well let’s say he had an abrasive personality and leave it at that.”

  Kate told her about talking to Detective Polhouse at the RSD office the day before.

  “That’s not such a good idea. You don’t want the police to think you’re trying to influence the case.”

  “That’s just what a friend of mine said.”

  “It’s good advice. Are you going to go back to work at the Nostalgia City booth?”

  “That’s the plan today. Let the police do their work.”

  “Good. Please call me if I can do anything.”

  The attorney called me, on a Saturday, Kate thought after she hung up. Having a big-time corporation for a client gets attention. Mauser was right. Lyle was right. She needed to get back to work. Calling Max could wait. Dealing with a pack of enthusiastic potential NC customers in the booth would take her mind off things. And she would do just that, after she made one stop.

  She wanted to talk to Busick’s stepson Ricky, and the easiest way to get in touch with him, without alerting anyone, might be to talk with his mother. Besides, she liked Louise and felt sorry for her. If by some strange means Louise had man
aged to knock off her husband, Kate could understand.

  Louise sat up in bed and looked in good humor when Kate walked in.

  “Hi, Kate. Look at me. I’m getting out today.”

  “That’s great news,” Kate said, putting a hand on Mrs. Busick’s shoulder.

  “Still got a little more radiation coming up. But I’ll manage. How about you? The cops still think you killed Al?”

  “They may be backing off a little. I don’t know. When are you getting out?”

  “Any minute now. Just waiting for some paperwork. I’m ready to get back up to Tahoe.”

  “Is your son--”

  “Ricky had to fly to Vegas. A big car deal. A friend of mine is going to pick me up.”

  Kate wondered if getting out of range of the Reno PD had anything to do with Louise’s son’s travel.

  “Ricky needs to stay busy. The death of his stepfather hit him harder than he lets on. Oh, here’s my friend.”

  Kate turned around and saw someone she remembered standing in the doorway.

  “Kate,” Louise said, “this is my friend Marge Drysdale.”

  Kate could see Drysdale recognized her. She looked at Kate with repressed alarm.

  Before anyone could say anything, a nurse entered the room. “Would you ladies mind stepping into the hall? I need to check Mrs. Busick’s vitals and she needs to get dressed for discharge.”

  Marge Drysdale looked more like someone battling cancer than Louise. Thin and drawn, she glanced around nervously. She stood in the hallway next to Kate, but not close enough to encourage conversation. Kate took a half step toward her.

  “Louise seems to be in good spirits,” Kate said. “This has got to be tough on her, especially with the cancer.”

  Drysdale just nodded.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with the murder,” Kate said with lowered voice. She stood a head taller and didn’t want to intimidate Marge any more than she already seemed to have. “The police are trying to find who did it.”

  Kate paused for a response, but Marge just stared down the hall.