On Deadly Ground (13 page)
Books stared out his office window, sorting out this new and unexpected information regarding the paternity of Darby Greenbriar's child. If David wasn't the father, who was? Lance Clayburn? Probably. Had Darby deliberately lied to him about the identity of the father? Did she know about David's sterility? It was hard to imagine she didn't.
Was this another attempt to divert attention away from Lance Clayburn? Maybe Sutter had been right all along. Maybe they needn't have looked any further than Clayburn to bring David Greenbriar's killer to justice. Books had interrogated many murderers in his twelve years in Denver. Something about Lance Clayburn had left Books feeling decidedly uncertain about his guilt. The physical evidence, however, suggested something else entirely. Books knew that in Sutter's mind this new revelation would only serve to confirm any suspicion about Clayburn's guilt.
Books was also concerned about leaks to the press, to local political hacks, and even to people involved with groups like the Citizens for a Free West, people who might have had a hand in the murder. It didn't take a genius to figure out that either Sheriff Sutter or Brian Call was leaking information.
Books hatched a plan. He dialed Brian Call's number.
“This is Call.”
“Hey, Brian, I just picked up an important piece of information. I haven't verified it yet, so keep it to yourself.”
“No problem.”
“David Greenbriar isn't the father of Darby's baby.”
“Interesting. How'd you find that out?”
“His ex, Lillian Greenbriar, told me. David was sterile.”
“That means it's gotta be Clayburn's kid,” said Call.
“That's exactly what I think.” Books had set the hook. Now, would Call take the bait?
“What else do you need me to do?” asked Call.
“Two things. Steve Gladwell and Brad Stone are in town as part of the Berkeley contingent. Get yourself over to the memorial service and find out whether either of them called David last Friday evening.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I want you to call the St. George Police Department. I'm sure they'd have a polygraph operator.”
“They do.”
“Clayburn has volunteered to take a poly, and I don't want to give him time to reconsider. Schedule him as soon as possible, tomorrow preferably.”
“Will do. I'll let you know about the poly. Are you going to be at the service today?”
“Yeah. I want to see who shows up and who stays home. I also need catch up with Barry Struthers. It's time to find out what he has to say about David's murder.”
After he got off the phone, Books headed to the sheriff's office. When he walked in, Charley Sutter was sitting at his desk signing a stack of purchase requisitions.
“Morning, Charley. Are you planning to attend Greenbriar's memorial service this afternoon?”
Sutter looked up. “Wasn't planning to. Why? Should I?”
“Not necessarily. What did you find out at Escobars?”
“Exactly what you said I would. I spoke with the owners, Toby and Viola Gabaldon. They said Clayburn came in sometime late Sunday afternoon, three-thirty, maybe four o'clock.”
Without looking up from his paperwork, Sutter added, “Doesn't change anything, J.D. He still had time to commit the murder.”
“Maybe so.” Books got up to leave.
“See you at the meeting tomorrow morning.”
Books stopped at the office door. “What meeting?”
“Oh, maybe I forgot to tell you. We've got an appointment with Virgil Bell at 11:00 a.m. in his office. We need to bring him up to speed on the investigation.”
That meant only one thing. Sutter planned to press for criminal charges against Lance Clayburn.
“I'll be there.”
Books arrived at Blanchard's Mortuary shortly after the memorial service had begun. There was standing room only. He stood near the chapel's entrance, next to Brian Call, where he had an unobstructed view of the room. As he scanned the chapel, Books saw Lance Clayburn sitting with Celia Foxworthy directly behind Darby Greenbriar. Although he had never met the man, Books was looking for Barry Struthers. Call pointed to a couple seated several rows behind Lillian Greenbriar and the Berkeley entourage.
Struthers was a transplanted Californian who had earned a bundle as a Silicon Valley software engineer, so much in fact that he'd been able to retire at fifty. Initially, he and his wife had relocated to St. George, but he quickly became disillusioned with the uncontrolled real estate development and the burgeoning population. Within a year, they had settled in Kanab where Barry had immersed himself in a variety of environmental causes, including membership in the EEWA.
The graveside ceremony following the memorial service was mercifully brief. The triple digit temperature was tempered by an afternoon breeze. Black cumulus clouds to the northwest threatened an imminent thunderstorm.
At the conclusion of the service, Books introduced himself to Barry Struthers. He wasn't expecting a warm greeting, and Struthers didn't offer one. He was polite but wary. Books had learned quickly that wearing a federal badge wasn't endearing to locals, regardless of which side of the environmental chasm they were on. Struthers agreed to meet him for an interview at a nearby local restaurant.
The distant crack of thunder rolled over the Grand Staircase as a persistent light rain turned red clay soil into a sticky mud. Books found Struthers seated in a corner booth at the Subway restaurant drinking a soda and munching on a package of Sun Chips.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” said Books.
“No problem. I'm surprised I didn't hear from you sooner.”
“And why is that?”
“It's no secret that David and I didn't see eye-to-eye when it came to running the organization.”
“So I heard.”
Struthers blew his nose and replaced the Kleenex in his pants pocket. “You and everybody else, it seems. So, what would you like to know, Mr. Books?”
“In a nutshell, whether you had anything to do with David's murder?”
Struthers arched his eyebrows. “That's what I like, a guy who doesn't mince words or waste time. I don't either.”
“Good. So tell me what you and David disagreed so vehemently about.”
“First of all, I wouldn't characterize our disagreements as vehement. We didn't always see eye-to-eye when it came to the operational activities of the EEWA, but we shared common ground when it came to identifying the threats.”
“I'm confused,” said Books. “By threats, are you referring to the environmental issues confronting the EEWA and other Green groups?”
“Yes.”
“And what are those threats?”
Struthers held up a hand and counted them off: “Livestock grazing, road expansion, mining and logging, and off-road vehicle use.”
“You mentioned you and David disagreed when it came to operational activities. Would you explain that for me?”
Barry Struthers pursed his lips. “David was content to attack environmental threats through public information campaigns, lobbying elected officials, that sort of thing. While those activities are important, I also believe in what I like to call, âconstructive confrontation.'”
Books had a pretty good idea what that meant, but he asked the question anyway. “Interesting choice of words, constructive confrontation. What exactly are you talking about?”
“For the sake of clarification, let's use road expansion as an example. I have no problem leading members into the field and physically disrupting illegal road expansion activity. David never thought that was appropriate. He wasn't interested in rolling up his sleeves and getting his hands dirty.”
Books moved on. “Several sources have told me that you and David not only engaged in shouting matches but that you had to be physically separated at a recent EEWA function. What can you tell me about that?”
“It's true, and I'm embarrassed about it. It shouldn't have happened. I regret it, and David did as well. As far as the verbal spats are concerned, no big deal. We had those with some frequency, and I'm sure, we would have continued to have them.”
“Did you have anything to do with David's death?”
“Absolutely not. I wasn't even in town the weekend he was killed.”
“Where were you?”
“A skeet shooting competition in Boise, Idaho. We left Friday morning. I competed Saturday and Sunday. We drove back to Kanab on Monday. We heard about David's death in a phone message left at the house by Cathy Carpenter Monday afternoon.”
“You mentioned âwe.'”
“Oh, sorry. That's my wife, Alice.”
“The woman seated with you at the memorial service?”
“That's right. She had to get back to work. Alice handles the bookkeeping at the Parry Lodge.”
Books nodded. “Do you have any theories about who might have killed David?”
“It's hard to say, but probably one of the local nutcase ranchers, or maybe a professional outfitter. They all hated him.”
“What makes you think his killer might be a professional outfitter?”
“Only that most of the outfitters spend much of their time in the wilderness, and a lot of them are right-wing crazies.”
“Do you think he was stalked and then killed?”
“I doubt it. When the dust settles, I'll bet you'll learn that it was an opportunity killing. Somebody saw him out there by himself and figured, why not?”
Struthers sighed. “But, what difference does it really make. Dead is dead, right?”
“Suppose so,” replied Books.
Books remained at the Subway after Barry Struthers left. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He ordered a turkey sandwich and downed a can of Arizona iced tea.
Books put little credence in Struther's assertion that Greenbriar's murder was a crime of opportunity. At the same time, he had no doubt that Struthers was exactly where he said he was the weekend of the murder. He would send Brian Call to interview Alice Struthers and pick up whatever documentation supported their presence in Idaho during the weekend.
In the meantime, Books needed to find Trees McClain and settle a few issues.
By his own count, Peter Deluca had killed twenty-seven men. That number didn't include scores of Gooks he'd shot during two tours as an Army sniper in Nam back in '72 and '73. His had been a long career spanning more than thirty years. How ironic that the federal government provided the job training that led to a lucrative career as a mob enforcer.
After the call, Deluca quickly packed a small duffel bag with several days' clothes. A second case carried an assortment of firearmsâtools of the trade, as he liked to think of them. He left his home in suburban Henderson and made the thirty-minute drive to McCarron International Airport. On the way, he dropped his female Cocker, Rosie III, at the local doggie day-care facility. It was actually a posh resort for pampered dogs. To Deluca's way of thinking, nothing was too good for Rosie. At the airport, he parked his Cadillac Seville in long-term parking and caught a shuttle to the Hertz lot.
He had rented an all-wheel drive Ford Explorer for the return trip to Kanab, a place he had hoped never to see again. Deluca much preferred the creature comforts of his Cadillac, but depending upon how it turned out, this job might require a four-wheel drive vehicle, something suitable for the wild terrain of the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument.
The three-hour drive from Las Vegas gave Deluca ample time to think. In hindsight, he now regretted accepting this assignment. In more than thirty years of contract work, he had taken jobs outside the mob on only two occasions. Both of those contracts had been completed without serious complications. Now this one had come along, and with it came problems, serious ones.
He arrived in Kanab at five p.m., pulling into one of those dumpy AAA-rated motels on the north end of town. He registered using false identification, and, as always, he paid in cash. Deluca enjoyed the better things in life, including good food. He couldn't imagine anything approximating fine dining in Kanab. He asked the front desk clerk for recommendations, and he ended up at a so-so diner called the Kanab Creek Inn.
Back in the Explorer, Deluca considered his dilemma. He knew exactly what he would do with Ronnie Gadasky once he found him. The problem was finding the little shit. He decided on a reconnaissance mission, knowing that he had to be ready to strike whenever the opportunity presented itself. One chance might be all he got.
First, Deluca drove south through town. He found the old brick house and the double-wide mobile home that belonged to the old man, Ned Hunsaker. The mobile home was located about two hundred yards south and slightly west of the main house. Deluca noticed a ratty old pickup truck parked in a circular gravel driveway in front of the main house. It belonged to Ned Hunsaker. The mobile home looked deserted, but the federal cop, J.D. Books, rented it from Hunsaker. If it became necessary to go after Books, the smart play would be to go in after dark, take out the old man, and then deal with Books.
Next, Deluca headed east on State Highway 89 to a narrow dirt road with a sign that read, Gadasky Towing & Salvage. Fortunately, he still had daylight. In the dark, he would have missed the turnoff. He located a shallow turnout next to the highway that provided an unobstructed view of any traffic entering or exiting the property. From what he'd been told, Ronnie Gadasky lived with his father and one brother. The kid drove a red dirt bike that shouldn't be difficult to spot. Given his druthers, Deluca preferred to kill Ronnie away from home, and, if possible, avoid having to deal with other members of his family. He was, however, prepared to kill the boy at home even if it meant taking out the entire Gadasky clan.
Deluca removed a disposable cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed the Gadasky home. Nobody answered. Fifteen minutes later he called again. Still no answer. He decided to go in and have a look around.
From his gun case, Deluca removed a compact .380 caliber Ruger automatic with a six-round magazine. It was a nice little piece, good for close range work. He attached a sound suppressor to the barrel and then shoved it into the waistband of his pants.
He parked the Explorer next to the highway and walked down a winding dirt road. Everything at the house was as described except for the three-legged dog that gave a couple of disinterested barks and then hobbled his direction from the covered front porch. She was a friendly old girl, nearly blind, he thought, looking only for a pat on the head. Still she might become a problem should he have to return at night to an occupied house. He saw no reason to worry about that now. If it became a problem later, he'd deal with it then.
In his professional life, Peter Deluca had chosen to keep things simple. He conducted business using a few basic rules. He refused to kill women or children. He accepted assignments only from known mob associates in the Chicago Outfit or people recommended by them. And he fastidiously avoided jobs that might involve killing animals, dogs in particular. He was convinced that dogs, unlike people, were God's only living creatures capable of providing unconditional love, courage, loyalty, and trust. And sadly, he thought, they often gave far more to people than they received in return.
Deluca knocked on the front door and waited. When nobody answered, he twisted the knob and stepped into the small living room. He stood perfectly still, listening for any sound that might reveal someone's presence. Convinced that he was alone, he moved quickly from room to room until he came to a door on the second floor with a hand-printed sign on it that read, “Ronnie's RoomâStay Out.” He tried the door. It was locked. It took him all of thirty seconds to pick the lock.
It was a small bedroom that resembled a train wreck, clutter everywhere. Several pairs of boots had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Clothes were scattered all over the room. The bed was unmade. The sheets hadn't been washed in months.
The closet contained a three drawer metal file cabinet. In the bottom drawer, Deluca found an old shoe box. Inside was a stack of color photographs wrapped in an old washcloth and held in place with rubber bands.
The pictures were of the same strikingly beautiful woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She had long black hair and a dark complexion, a petite body, firm and toned yet not muscular. The woman was photographed inside and outside the house. In some, she was dressed, or partially so. In others, she was completely naked. Several of the nudes had been taken in a backyard hot tub.
To Deluca, a couple of things seemed clear. In none of the pictures was the woman photographed looking directly into the camera, and the woman's hair and clothing were different from picture to picture. That meant the photographs were taken over a period of time, not in a single session. And the young woman in the pictures had no idea she was being stalked.
Deluca studied the photos. Ronnie Gadasky had a dirty secret. The fucking little pervert was a peeping Tom, a stalker who at least had the good taste to single out a looker for a victim. Who was the woman and why had the kid selected her? At random? Someone he knew? Deluca kept one picture of the woman and a second of the front of her home. The rest he returned to the shoebox.
Twilight was slowly giving way to darkness when Deluca heard the sound of an approaching diesel engine. He peeked out the bedroom window in time to see a three-quarter-ton flatbed truck pull up in front with a rusted-out Jeep Wrangler strapped on top. An elderly man wearing a dirty ball cap started up the walkway toward the front door, stopping just long enough to give the old dog a scratch on the ears. Deluca removed the Ruger from the waistband of his pants and slipped out the back door. He moved quickly away from the house, crossing an open area and then a shallow depression covered with rock, sagebrush, and scattered juniper. His departure went unnoticed. His path brought him onto the state highway a couple of hundred yards from his SUV.
Driving back to town, Deluca thought about the young woman in the photographs. Assuming she lived in town, how difficult could it be to find her? Probably not very. Kanab was a small town, and he had a picture of her and the house she lived in. It was a pueblo-style ranch home, probably in an upscale area. How many could there be in a place like Kanab?
Maybe the hunt for Ronnie Gadasky had just gotten easier.