by Pamela Cowan
“I told you, I didn’t kill Dodge.”
“Don’t matter, they know you were up there. They need someone to hang this on. You’ll be behind bars before you can say, fuck me.”
Willy hesitated. Would telling his father what had happened to Bonnie do any good? His father had ignored his brother’s wife and kid. Despite what he said, Willy thought that finding out Bonnie was raped would bring his dad a good dose of guilt and regret.
He had mixed feeling about whether that was a good thing or not. One thing he was sure of, Bonnie wouldn’t want what she’d gone through talked about. For her sake he decided to lie. He said, “Leena told me she thought Dodge was looking to buy some firewood, so I drove up there to ask him if that was true.”
“Why not just call him?”
“I. I tried. My phone was dead. Keep forgetting to charge the thing.”
“They make chargers that plug right in your car now, you know,” his father said with the smugness of an older person given an opportunity to teach new technology to a younger one.
“Yes, thanks, I know. I don’t happen to own one.”
“You got answers for everything, don’t you son, only you aren’t all that quick off the mark. If your own father don’t believe you, what do you suppose the cops will think? Whatever you went to Dodge’s house for, that’s your business, but you’d better come up with a better answer.”
More as a distraction than because he wanted one, Willy reached down and took a beer from the cooler. “You really think the cops are going to come talk to me?” he asked casually.
In response, Willy’s father opened the cooler, dug into the ice and came up with a zip lock freezer bag. Inside was a .38 special Willy immediately recognized.
His father removed the gun from the bag and handed it to him. The steel was as cold as the ice it had been hidden beneath.
“Yep, my holdout gun. I want you to have it. Here, this too.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. Opening it he thumbed out two bills then held them out.
Willy took them as gingerly as he had the gun. Two twenty dollar bills. He looked at his father.
“Get out of town and lay low,” his father said.
Willy glanced at the money again and then at the new truck in the driveway. A truck he knew had cost somewhere north of sixty thousand dollars. Paid for in cash. The money said, go away kid, don’t bother me. The gun said, this is your problem, go deal with it.
His father cleared his throat. Maybe he was expecting a thank you.
Willy popped the top off his can of beer, took a foam-filled sip. Then he stood up and handed the money back to his father. “I’m good,” he said. Then, raising the beer in a salute of sorts he said, “Take care of yourself. No wait, you always do.”
He walked quickly to his truck, leaving his father sitting there looking baffled. Nothing new there. He was always surprised that his son, his own flesh and blood, couldn’t seem to understand that a man had to take care of himself first.
Willy drove with one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around the can of beer. When he reached the gate the electronic eye saw him, and the gate swung open for him. Before rolling through he tossed the empty can out the window. No doubt his dad would want the nickel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thursday, September 13
On Thursday morning Emma headed to Summer Creek Apartments, four eightplexes that faced each other around a cul-de-sac off Summer Creek Street, the street where Grace Evers lived.
The apartments were all painted the same blend-into-no-background-ever-imagined beige. Luckily they were numbered well and Emma had no trouble finding Building C, Apartment 115.
Grace was an older woman, probably in her early seventies. She was short and slender but not skinny. Her hair was dyed light blond and tightly permed. For a second Emma wondered whether she and Norma Mackie shared the same hairdresser. She wore square, black glasses, a light beige blouse over dark beige pants and a white sweater. She flashed a friendly, slightly gap-toothed smile when she saw Grace. Her movements were animated, fingers darting nervously from the frame of the door, to shake Grace’s hand, to indicate, with a wide sweep, that she should enter.
Emma did, and found herself in a small but beautifully decorated apartment. Nothing beige here. The walls were sunny yellow lined with white bookcases filled with books, colored glass birds, and framed photographs. A couch and two chairs arranged on a blue rug formed a seating area, like an island floating in the center of the space.
They took seats, Emma on the couch.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Evers,” Emma said, and meant it. She took a quick glance at the open kitchen. It was spotless. A glass table and four white wicker chairs sat under a window. On the table a lemon-colored pitcher held an arrangement of blue hydrangeas.
“Thank you,” she said, and nervously straightened her sweater. “Please call me Grace.”
“Thank you, Grace,” she said, and smiled at the small, anxious looking woman. She hoped she could take some of that anxiety away. “I brought my equipment with me,” she said, glancing at her purse, which she’d placed on the floor beside her feet.
She removed the camera she planned to use. It looked like a phone charger. I’ll connect this and then I’ll be able to see what’s going on in your apartment twenty-four seven.”
“You won’t put one in the bathroom!” Grace asked, seemingly aghast.
Emma wasn’t sure if she was kidding, but in case she wasn’t she reassured her, “No, not the bathroom, or your bedroom. Actually we don’t want you to be triggering it all day either so I think, if we just have it watch your front door that would be best. You did say you think he’s coming through the door, right?”
“Yes, that’s right. He has a key.”
“Then we don’t need to cover the whole apartment. We’ll cover the door and if he comes in we’ll catch him.
That’s wonderful. Can I offer you some coffee, or tea?”
Emma had noticed the apartment smelled like coffee, with a side of lemon furniture polish, when she entered. She knew that letting someone do something for you was often the best way to put them at ease.
“Coffee would be fantastic.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream. Thank you. This won’t take long. Is there an outlet near the door I can use?”
Grace pointed one out and Emma got busy digging out a power cord and powering up the small spy camera.
“I think having it on a cord out in the open makes it look more like a charger and less like a camera. Plus, we don’t have to worry about a dead battery. If your power goes out, it does have a battery backup,” she explained.
“It sounds so clever,” said Grace, as she mixed milk into the cup of coffee she’d poured for Emma.
“It is clever. I’m sure it will help us catch this terrible maintenance man, or whoever has been getting in. Don’t worry. We’ll put a stop to it fast.”
“I believe you,” said Grace.
Emma placed the camera on one of the bookcase shelves then took out her phone. Once she connected to the device she looked at the image on her phone and moved the camera around until she had the angle she wanted, a full shot of the door.
“There, now you can walk around in your apartment freely. The only time the camera will see you, or anyone else, is when they’re in this space.” She indicated the area between the edge of the blue rug and the front door. “Does that work for you?”
“Yes, that’s perfect,” said Grace. “If you’d join me in the dining room we can have our coffee.”
Emma saw that Grace had placed their cups and a plate of some sort of cookies on the table. She knew she should get to the office but company, and cookies, were worth a short delay.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thursday, September 13
After leaving Grace Ever’s apartment, Emma drove to her office and got busy typing up a report that should have gone out days earlie
r. She decided to go easy on herself. Finding a body and getting caught up in the investigation of a murder seemed like a pretty valid excuse for being late. She was sure her client would understand.
Plus, she gave herself points for doing anything other than look for Willy Keene’s home or talk to Harry Olstad. That would be much less boring than writing a report but, she reminded herself sternly, paying the rent had to come first.
The phone rang, and Emma was surprised to find Leo on the other end. For a hold-your-breath moment she thought he was calling to ask her out. When he said he had some information on the case she was working she wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed. She decided to give it more thought later and said, “You mean information on the arson?”
“Sure, the arson. Is that what we’re calling a shotgun blast to the face these days?”
She didn’t answer, just held the phone and listened to the silence.
He broke it first. “Do you want to meet somewhere, maybe get some coffee?”
“Sure, how about Sammy’s?” she said, naming a small locally-owned coffee shop she thought was about half way between her office and VR Tactical.
“Perfect. Half an hour?”
She’d agreed and now sat staring at him over her cup. She noted that his dark eyes were the same shade as a dark roast, his skin the same shade as a caramel latte. Lifting the mug, to hide her amusement at all the coffee metaphors, she peered over the edge. Today Leo wore a teal t-shirt with Florida Marlins written across the front. He also wore an unzipped hoodie he kept on even though it was warm in Sammys. Probably to hide his gun, she decided. Had she remembered to put hers in her purse this morning? No, she was pretty sure it was still locked in the safe at her office. No wonder her sister was always worried about her safety.
Putting down her cup, Emma said, “You have some information for me?”
“Well here’s the thing. I got to thinking that your sister and I hadn’t done any advertising in Muddy Creek, and I should probably take some flyers and some discount cards out there. So yesterday I did and since I was there anyway . . . ”
Emma’s brows rose but she didn’t say anything.
“I went to a few places and got them to hang our flyer. Asked a few questions. Nothing. Then I stopped at the local watering hole to hand out some cards.”
“Because guns and drinking are such a good combination.”
“Exactly,” he said dryly. “So I had a few drinks, bought a few rounds and, when they closed the place down a couple of the guys invited me over. We ran out of booze so switched to weed. After a few bowls everyone was best friends and very talky.”
“Let me guess what they were talking about.”
“I didn’t even need to bring it up. Dodge’s murder is the main subject of all the town gossip. Everyone has their own theory and suspect.”
“Do we have any consensus on a winner?” Emma asked. She’d broken off a part of the marionberry muffin she’d bought but was too intent on what he was saying to eat it.
“Have you ever heard of the Padillo brothers?”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe. It’s vaguely familiar but nothing I can put my finger on.”
“They’re two brothers involved in the local drug trade. The older brother, Ernesto runs a network of dealers, and the younger one, Miguel, helps out.”
“I learned, from my own research, that Dodge was involved in the drug trade,” she said.
“Your research was correct. My understanding is that, In this county, aside from the random person selling a little weed or some pharmaceuticals, there are three main networks. Dodge is part of a group of Native Americans. The Padillo brothers are part of a group of Mexican Americans, and there’s a third group of white guys. The Native Americans mostly sell a little powdered coke, hash, weed and meth. The Mexicans sell heroin, crack cocaine, and meth. The Caucasians sell weed, hash, mushrooms and meth. They all sell oxy and other pharmaceuticals when they can get it. The three networks seem to get along by having pretty clearly defined product and territories. Oh, and you’ll love this. There seems to be a long-standing belief, almost a legend, that the district attorney is the one who supplies most of them.”
“You learned all this hanging out with some guys at a bar?” Emma asked.
“No, I learned a lot of this on the range shooting with local law enforcement people and the rest smoking bowls with some guys in Muddy Creek last night. You want to know a trade secret? Too much alcohol tends to make people want to fight. Too much weed makes them want to talk.”
“Then hurrah for weed.” She popped the piece of muffin in her mouth.
“What I heard that was most interesting, besides the DA nonsense, is that there’s wide agreement your guy was killed by one of the Padillo brothers.”
“Why do they think that?”
“Your guy was—”
“Please don’t call him my guy,” Emma said, breaking off and eating another bite of muffin.
Leo smiled, “Okay, Dodge, had a reputation for keeping his people in line by—,” he looked around then lowered his voice, “by using rape as a punishment. They told me if you stepped out of line, stole his money or his product, you could expect a visit. Only instead of breaking your leg or shooting you, his thing was rape.”
“That’s horrendous,” Emma whispered, matching her lowered tone to his.
“It is,” agreed Leo. “One of the guys I was hanging out with said there was a rumor that three or four months ago Miguel Padillo was caught selling at Pine Valley High. That’s the more rural of the two high schools and is supposed to be WIP’s territory. Oh, that’s what Dodge calls his group, We Indigenous People. Charming isn’t it.”
“Yes, I’m sure all the indigenous people want their name appropriated by drug dealing thugs.”
“Drug dealing rapist thugs,” Leo corrected.
Emma could tell he was trying to lighten the mood but it wasn’t working and he knew it.
“The rumor is that when Dodge found out, he went to Miguel’s, tied him up and was raping him when his wife came home. Miguel broke loose, and was trying to get to his gun cabinet when Dodge shot him dead.”
“Jesus. How did he get away with it? Why isn’t he locked up? Didn’t the man’s wife call the police or anything?”
“I don’t know but I’d guess that Dodge, or someone, threatened her. In any case, nothing happened. It was written up as an accident. Man shoots himself while cleaning his gun. The rumor is that Dodge left the gun there for the cops to find.”
“A gun that was owned by him? Wasn’t it registered in his name?”
“Not many people in these rural communities register guns. They swap them, inherit them, buy them at garage sales. Odds are they could never match that gun to Dodge. I’m guessing he’s pretty good at covering his tracks. They say Miguel wasn’t the first person he killed. Of course this is gossip and rumor but that doesn’t mean there’s not some truth to it.”
“Let me get this straight. The theory is, Dodge raped and killed the brother of a man who runs an illegal drug operation and was killed because of it?”
“That’s what I heard from my new friends.”
“Well, I think the information you've gotten from your, ”new friends.”” she said, making quotation marks in the air, is a lot more than what I’ve been able to get from the people I’ve talked to.”
“Who have you been talking to?” Leo asked.
“The same people the police have, more or less.” She explained about the four individuals seen driving through Muddy Creek that Sunday morning. “I only managed to talk to two of them, Tonya Mackie and Rose Jamison. Neither one seemed like a suspect to me. One was old and sort of frail, the other was, well too polite. I know, I know,” she said, putting up her palm. “Nice people kill people. Anyway, the other rancher wasn’t around and the kid, Willy, lives way out, down some back road in the middle of nowhere. When you were in town did you happen to stop at the gas station?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“A woman who works there told me she thinks anyone planning to kill Keller wouldn’t be dumb enough to drive through town. They’d have hid their car and walked or, get this, rode a horse.”
“Sounds like a pretty good theory.”
“I thought so too. Of course now I have to think about all the possible ways someone could have got to that house. It won’t be as easy as looking for someone in a car.”
“True, but it’s not that different right? It’s still a matter of finding out if anyone was seen near Dodge’s house around the time he was shot. Maybe one of the people you talked to saw someone or something. Maybe they heard the shot.”
“Oh my God, the shot. I never even thought to ask.”
Leo must have seen the dismayed look on her face. Reassuringly he said, “You would have thought of it. You’re smart. Plus remember, you’re the good guy. It’s the bad guys who always screw up.”
“That’s not a thing.” Emma said.
“It is too,” Leo argued. “Don’t you watch television? The bad guys always do something stupid. They leave fingerprints, drop their driver’s license, or they brag, because they’ve got to show off. Someone overhears them and tells someone else and if you’re actively pursuing it, they might feel more comfortable talking to you, since you’re not a cop.”
“And I’m a good guy.”
“Exactly,” he said, but then his smile fell away. “Just remember, the person who committed the crime will also know you’re asking questions. That could put you in danger. Have you thought about that? Your job was to investigate an arson, not a murder. Maybe you should drop it. I mean, no one would blame you. Like I said, it’s not your job.”
