Desert Wind (28 page)
“Yeah, you better get up off your rump, mister,” the Duke growled. “What kind of a man passes his days crying over what’s done and gone? Drink is fine, fights are fine—when there’s good cause—but not when that’s all you bother doin’. I’m mighty disappointed in you, Gabe, and that’s a fact, because I always thought you had grit. Quit all this messing around and go home.”
“Lost my home, Duke.”
“I ain’t been wrong before and I ain’t wrong now. Go home, Gabe. You’re needed.”
So Gabe went home.
Sitting here now in the Walapai County Jail, he felt peace. With the Duke watching out for him, he could handle anything, prison bars or no.
“Doing what you did, that was a righteous thing,” the Duke said. He was leaning against the gray concrete wall, still wearing the same red double-breasted shirt.
“Glad you think so, Duke.”
“No thinking to it, Gabe. It’s a matter of knowing. Your Abby would approve, too.” Then the Duke vanished, leaving Gabe talking to the wall.
But that was fine. With the Duke gone away again, it was easier to see another face. Still looking at the gray concrete, Gabe said, “Your man’s comin’ to you soon, Abby. And then we’ll have us a good ol’ time.”
Just thinking about that glorious day made his heart sing, and looking out toward the future he could see those heavy jailhouse walls falling down and his own sweet girl walking toward him.
The drive back to Walapai Flats from the ranch cemented my desire to leave town. While the place itself was pretty enough, all those dudes walking around in rhinestone cowboy get-ups depressed me. They brought in money, though, and kept the local businesses alive—especially the restaurants. While I was stopped at the town’s only traffic light, I noticed that a line had formed in front of Ma’s Kitchen. It was noon already.
Given that the sheriff’s department was so understaffed, I idly wondered if Mia Tosches had been notified that she was a widow. Probably. Death notifications were something law enforcement officers normally performed as a matter of course, at least for the nearest and dearest. Then again, maybe his death wouldn’t come as news to her. While I couldn’t see her pulling a gun and messing up her manicure, it was easy to envision another scenario. Mia Tosches was no dumb blonde. As a teen she’d displayed an aptitude for organization and a talent for getting her friends to do her dirty work. Given her spectacular physical charms, it would have been easy for Mia to convince some naive pool boy or wrangler to get rid of a husband whose sell-by date had expired.
Dusty had admitted to having a fling with her. Surely he wouldn’t have had anything to do with Tosches’ death. The man was an amoral rascal, but I doubted he was murderous. Still…
Behind me, the blare of a car horn alerted me that the traffic light had turned green. Waving an apology at the cranky Volvo, I continued down John Wayne Boulevard to the county complex.
Jimmy, his father, and Ted’s attorney were in deep conversation when I arrived. They sat on the same bench they’d occupied earlier that morning, but were now surrounded by a dozen visitors who hadn’t been able to see their loved ones because of the previous day’s lockdown.
“Ted’s not released yet?” I asked, seeing him nowhere in evidence. “Please don’t tell me the judge refused to cut him loose even after that Boone guy confessed.”
“Everything’s fine, only slow as molasses in January,” Behar said, throwing me a triumphant smile. “The emergency hearing finished a few minutes ago, and the judge lifted the material witness hold. We’re simply waiting for the paperwork to go through.” Then he turned to Olmstead. “Resuming our conversation, Hank, are you sure you want to do this, pay for Mr. Boone’s defense?”
Olmstead gave the attorney a stubborn look. “I owe Mr. Boone more than you can possibly imagine, Anderson. He’s been with me going on two decades now, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s family. Maybe you can get him released on bond so he can stay free until, well, you know. He doesn’t have that many years left and I don’t want them spent in a prison cell.”
That was Olmstead—not necessarily likeable, but always admirable. His compassionate gesture would be wasted, though. If he’d been unsuccessful in springing his own son from jail, there was no reason to believe he’d have better chance with his cook, advanced years or no.
Behar voiced the same concern. “It’s a lost cause, Hank. Given his confession, he’ll surely be charged, and I can’t see them letting a confessed murderer out on bond, regardless of his age.”
Olmstead remained adamant. “He’s never asked me for any favors, other than to take care of his dog when he had to drive up to Salt Lake. And now, of course. That dog’s eating steak tonight. And always will.”
So all’s well that end’s well, even for the dog. I pulled Jimmy aside and told him I’d be driving back to Scottsdale that afternoon. He wasn’t happy, but he understood. When I left, Olmstead and Behar were discussing defense tactics.
I didn’t make it down the steps before a voice called my name.
“Lena, wait up!”
It was Olivia, recovered from her migraine. She hurried toward me, pale as a bone, dressed in black, her reporter’s notebook at the ready. Planting herself firmly in my path, she fired off a series of questions.
“What’s this I hear about someone confessing to Ike Donohue’s murder? A cook, my sources tell me. Is that right? On my way here I saw a gaggle of sheriff’s deputies swarming the road near Sunset Trails. Did some dude break his neck falling from a horse? There was an ambulance and someone was lying in the middle of the road. What the hell’s going on around here?”
Staring pointedly at her notebook, I asked a question of my own. “I thought you were working on the mine story. You’re going to take time out for a mere murder?
“Don’t be sarcastic, Lena,” she snapped. “It doesn’t become you.”
How little she knew me. “Sorry. I’m not used to getting up so early. Taking your questions in order, yes, someone confessed to Ike Donohue’s murder, and, yes, it was the cook at Sunset Trails Ranch. He claims he killed Donohue, then took off to Salt Lake City to attend his grandniece’s funeral, which is why he wasn’t around to confess earlier. Question number two, re those cops on the road—Roger Tosches has been killed. Shot, like Donohue.” I noted the stunned look on her face. And here I’d always believed reporters were unshockable. “As for question number three, ‘What the hell’s going on around here?’ Olivia, I haven’t a clue, but at least there’s some good news. Ted Olmstead’s getting released any minute now.”
If her mouth opened any further, flies would swarm in, but her pen kept moving across her notebook. Shocked or not, she was still a reporter.
“I’m going in there,” she said, already moving away from me and up the steps.
No wonder so many people hated reporters. Attorneys are accused of being ambulance chasers but they came in a distant second to journalists.
***
Packing finished, I was about to alert the Covered Wagons’ front desk that I was checking out when my cell phone rang. I was tempted to ignore it, but seeing Jimmy’s name on Caller ID changed my mind.
“Thank God I caught you,” he said. “You’d better come back here. Dad got pulled into an interview room by a couple of detectives. They found out Tosches was putting pressure on him to sell the ranch.”
Had Leilani blurted it out in an unguarded moment, or had Mia told them? I looked over at my closed suitcase and sighed. “Please tell me Behar’s in there with him, Jimmy.”
“Sure is. He insisted.”
I was beginning to respect the pudgy real estate attorney. He’d truly risen to the occasion. “I’m on my way. In the meantime, see what you can find out. Say, is Olivia Eames still there?” Belatedly, I remembered that Jimmy had never met her. “Goth-looking reporter. Dressed in black.”
“I saw a woman fitting that description trying to get in to see Mr. Boone. When they wouldn’t let her, she turned around and started throwing questions at everyone, so the cops threw her out. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Too bad. Reporters could sometimes get information private detectives couldn’t. I made a mental note to call her later.
As it turned out, the trip back to the jail was wasted because the detectives had let Hank Olmstead go right around the time his son was released. Mission accomplished, Behar had driven back to Silver Ridge to finish up a real estate transaction, while the two happy Olmsteads drove home, where Leilani was organizing a big Get Out of Jail party.
“The cook alibied Dad,” Jimmy explained, as we stood in the lobby. “He told the investigator the same thing Dad did, that this morning, when they drove over here, there was no dead body in the middle of the road. No parked Mercedes, either.”
That was a new one on me, cops taking a confessed killer’s word, but I didn’t want to rain on Jimmy’s parade so I merely smiled and nodded.
“There’s more,” Jimmy continued. “While Dad was sitting in the interview room, some farrier named Monty-something called his cell phone and said he was the guy who found the body. He told Dad he’d been on his way to the ranch to shoe a couple of horses when he came across the scene, and said that Tosches was still alive when he got there. Unfortunately, Tosches died before the ambulance arrived. Being smarter than the average bear, the farrier realized he was looking at a possible murder, and jotted down the time—6:43 a.m. He was calling Dad in case there was any trouble, what with the ranch being so close and all. Dad handed his cell to one of the detectives, and the guy repeated the same story to him.”
“That’s all very nice, Jimmy, but…”
“Wait. The kicker is that Dad and Gabe Boone were clocked walking into the county complex at 6:55, and you know it’s a half-hour drive from the ranch.”
“Gunshot victims can take hours to die.” It needed to be said.
“Not when they’ve been shot in the neck and blood’s spurting from an artery. The farrier said he took off his shirt and tried to stop the bleeding. The police impounded his shirt because it was drenched in Tosches’ blood.”
I tried to picture the scene: a man bleeding out in the middle of a gravel road, a bare-chested farrier leaning over him, trying to chase away Death. “Did Monty say if Tosches was able to say anything before he died?”
“I’m not sure that came up.”
No matter. The cops would certainly ask. If Tosches had been alive when Monty found him, there was a chance he’d lived long enough to ID his killer. Because the farrier had sense enough to check the time, Hank Olmstead was off the hook. Jimmy wouldn’t be coerced into running the ranch, and he’d return to Scottsdale and Desert Investigations. I wouldn’t lose my partner. I felt like dancing a jig. Instead, I him asked how Ted was doing.
“He’s lost a little weight, but Leilani’s frying up some chicken and baking a big red velvet cake to remedy that. Oh, and she’s found a replacement chef for the ranch, too. He’ll be there in time to cook dinner for the guests. In the meantime, why don’t you put off the drive back to Scottsdale and come to the ranch with me? Leilani’s red velvet cake is the best. And we’ve got ice cream. The whole family will be there, including the aunts. You haven’t met them yet.”
The vision of a big, happy family reminded me of some unfinished business, so impulsively, I decided to put off my departure until tomorrow. The long drive back to Scottsdale would go easier with a good night’s sleep.
“You go without me,” I told him. “As long as I’m here, I want to talk to the sheriff about the Deputy Smiley Face situation.”
The smile left Jimmy’s face. “Good luck,” he said, in a voice that revealed little hope, because we’d both traveled that road many times before to no avail.
With that he waved and left.
Steeling myself for another “He’s too busy,” I walked up to the deputy manning the front desk. I recognized him from an earlier visit to the jail, when he hadn’t been all that helpful. His reading material today was
Loft Living
. Crossing my fingers, I said, “Is there any way I can have a brief word with the sheriff? I have some important information for him, but I’ve been trying to see him for days now without success.”
“Sheriff’s busy. Tell me and I’ll pass it along to his secretary.”
“It’s confidential information, meant for the sheriff only.” I pulled my ID out of my carry-all and held it in front of him.
He wasn’t impressed. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
For all I knew, this man was bosom buddies with Officer Smiley Face, but I had to chance it. “It’s about misconduct on the part of a Walapai County deputy.”
“What kind of misconduct and by which deputy?” He looked as if he’d heard it all before; he probably had.
“I have good reason to suspect Deputy Stark beats his wife. And possibly his child.”
To my surprise, he picked up his phone, punched in a number, and said to the person on the other end, “Elaine? There’s a private investigator standing in front of me who wants to see the sheriff about that thing you and I were discussing yesterday.” He waited. “Yeah. Him. Small world, huh?” He waited some more, then nodded. “I’ll send her back.” To me, he said, “Take the first left turn down the hall. Sheriff Alcott’s office is three doors down on the right.”
With that, he immersed himself in
Loft Living
again.