On Deadly Ground (16 page)
Sutter and Brian Call went to work on the arrest warrant. Books realized that if he was lucky, he might have as much as twenty-fours hours before Lance Clayburn would be arrested. There was a lot to do and very little time.
Books returned to his office hoping he'd find a message from Grant Weatherby. He didn't. While he waited, he decided to examine David Greenbriar's day planner. Darby had given it to him days before, and he hadn't taken the time to go through it. He discovered that the planner contained a comprehensive record of the victim's activities from the beginning of the year until his August murder, and it did so in startling detail. Greenbriar had been a meticulous record-keeper.
Books noticed the amount of time Greenbriar spent in Salt Lake City during the state legislative session in January and February. He had testified in front of both house and senate committees on a variety of environmental bills.
Some days his appointment calendar was filled with meetings with state legislators from both sides of the aisle. He moved from legislator to legislator in fifteen- to thirty-minute intervals. There was also a detailed record of numerous lunches and dinners in which it appeared Greenbriar was schmoozing state legislators over one environmental issue or another.
At first, nothing seemed to jump off the pages. Then he noticed that one name appeared repeatedly. The man's name was Randall Orton. Who was Orton and what was his relationship with Greenbriar? A telephone call to a public information office at the state capitol revealed that Orton was a former state senator turned lobbyist. He lived an hour north of Kanab in the small town of Panguitch. Books was given a phone number and told that Orton Associates operated from an office in Randall Orton's home.
Books called Charley Sutter. “Yeah, J.D.”
“How's that warrant coming?”
“Slow but steady. It'd go a lot quicker if you were here writing it.”
“I'll drop around in a little while and take a look at it. That okay?”
“Sure. What's up?”
“What do you know about a guy named Randall Orton?”
Sutter paused. “I'm surprised you haven't heard of him, J.D. The Ortons are an old cattle-ranching family from southern Utah. Randy served two terms in the state senate and then figured out that there were a lot of available perks working as a lobbyist. The day his second term ended, he became a registered lobbyist.”
“Who does he typically represent?”
Sutter chuckled. “Anybody with a fat bank account. Just kidding. I don't have any specifics, but I'm pretty sure he's represented mining and timber interests as well as the Utah Cattleman's Association. What makes you ask?”
“His name has come up in the Greenbriar case.”
“In what way?”
“I'm not exactly sure, but I'll tell you as soon as I find out. All I know now is that Orton's name appears repeatedly in Greenbriar's planner. There wasn't a month between January and the time of his murder when the two weren't in touch by phone or face-to-face, sometimes both.”
“Give him a call. I'm sure he'll tell you,” said Sutter.
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Books had to give some credit to Charley Sutter. If the sheriff was worried about him continuing to chase leads, he wasn't saying anything about it. Books dialed Orton's number, and a pleasant sounding woman, probably his wife, answered the phone. A minute later, Orton picked up. Books introduced himself and explained his role in the Greenbriar murder investigation.
Orton spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, carefully enunciating each syllable of every word. “I recognize your name from the newspaper and television coverage of the story. It's a terrible crime, a real tragedy. I'm so sorry for his family. I actually met Mrs. Greenbriar once or twice. I hope you apprehend whoever is responsible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Orton. We're doing our best. I wonder if you could tell me the nature of your relationship with David. The reason I ask is that your name appears frequently in his planner in the months leading up to his death.”
Orton took a moment to carefully measure what he was about to say. “In my lobbying practice, I am frequently retained to represent a diverse group of clients whose primary interest is in economic developmentâspecifically companies in industries that will provide economic growth and jobs, particularly in rural parts of Utah.”
“Are those companies mostly from the mining and timber industries?”
“Yes. Those as well as farm and ranching interests,” replied Orton.
“Would it be a safe bet,” said Books, “that you typically do not carry the banner for environmental groups like the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA) or David Greenbriar's organization, the EEWA?”
“Yes. That would be a safe bet, Mr. Books,” he chuckled.
“Then why all the contact with Greenbriar in the months preceding his death?”
“In this instance, I had been hired by a Las Vegas public relations firm to try to negotiate a reasonable solution with the EEWA and SUWA to the road expansion problem in southern Utah wilderness areas.”
“You mean you were trying to get those organizations to stop engaging in activities that might hamper the road expansion plans of your clientsâactivities like filing law suits.”
“Precisely,” said Orton. “We were hoping that we might reach some reasonable compromise that would facilitate economic growth and job creation in southern Utah.”
“And I take it they weren't buying.”
“That's right. There wasn't an ounce of compromise in SUWA or the EEWA, I'm sorry to say.”
“I'll need the name of the Las Vegas PR company that hired you.”
“Certainly. That would be Valley Public Relations and Marketing, LLC. The individual you need to speak with is Candace Fleming. She runs the place.”
After the call, Books sat at his desk. Why would a Las Vegas PR firm retain a Utah hired gun to lobby environmental groups to promote economic development in Utah? It didn't make sense.
Books went on-line to the Nevada state government's official web site. With a handful of key strokes, he found himself on the home page of the Nevada Department of Business Regulation and Licensing. He plugged in the business name Orton had given him. Valley Public Relations and Marketing, LLC, listed three corporate officers: President, Candace Fleming, Vice President, Stephanie Lloyd, and Treasurer, Anthony Oliver. Books Googled all three and came up empty. Next, he entered each name into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) system and again got nothing.
Books leaned back in his chair, planted his feet on the desk, and sipped the last cold swallows of his morning coffee. He decided to ask Grant Weatherby to run the business and its corporate officers through Las Vegas P.D.'s Criminal Intelligence Division and see what they could tell him.
Books' telephone rang. He glanced down at the number and realized it was Weatherby returning his call. Maybe now he'd get some answers.
A few minutes before one o'clock, Deluca turned off State Highway 89 onto a dirt road that led to the old west Paria movie set. He backed the Explorer into a shallow turnout that gave him a clear view of anyone traveling the dirt road or along Highway 89. He didn't particularly like sitting in plain view where any cop who just happened by might stop and begin asking questions. He loaded a clip into the silenced .22 caliber Taurus and replaced it behind his back in the waste band of his khaki pants. It was nearly one-thirty before George Gadasky turned off the highway in a rusted-out, canary yellow Ford pickup and pulled up next to Deluca's Explorer.
Deluca extended a hand out the window, “Elliott Sanders,
Las Vegas Sun Times
. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gadasky, George isn't it?”
Gadasky shook hands. “That's right. You got some green for me, Mr. Sanders.”
“Right here.” Deluca handed across two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Gadasky smiled as he shoved the bills into his shirt pocket. “You want to ride with me?”
“No, I'll follow along behind you. No sense in you having to haul me back here when we're done.”
“Suit yourself.”
“How far are we going, anyway?”
“It's a ways, most of it through rough country. Think that shiny new Explorer of yours can make it?” Gadasky grinned.
“I'm sure of it. How sure are you that Ronnie will be at this place you're taking me to?”
“No way to know for sure where that crazy brother of mine might be. I just know this is a place he likes to go to when he wants to be by his self.”
“I'll follow you. Let's get going.” Deluca had no desire to sit around making small talk with Gadasky in a location where somebody might notice, nor was he interested in leaving his fingerprints all over Gadasky's truck.
Deluca followed Gadasky south along Highway 89 headed toward Lake Powell and the town of Big Water. They passed the BLM Paria contact station and then abruptly turned north on to a graded dirt track called Cottonwood Canyon Road. They followed the rutted, bumpy road for more than an hour, crawling through places requiring a high-clearance vehicle to pass. The road crossed dry creek beds that might become impassable in rain storms because of flash floods.
The landscape was dotted with juniper pine, cottonwood, and sage brush. As they climbed higher, two things struck Deluca. One was the stunning variety of colors on the surrounding hills. They changed from a drab gray to gold, similar to the color of honey. In other places, the hills were a shade of reddish-orange, almost the color of fire. The other was the sheer enormity of this land and the overwhelming sense of isolation that he felt driving through it.
One thing was certain: if you got lost out here, nobody would find your body for a hundred years, if then. Scavengers would eat your flesh, and your bones would be left to bleach in the hot desert sun.
Eventually the road forked. Gadasky turned right. He drove past a road sign that said âGrosvenor Arch.' The road snaked almost another mile before emptying into a small parking lot. The lot was empty. Both men got out.
Deluca said, “It doesn't look like anybody's around. What's that brother of yours drive anyway?”
“It don't mean nothin just cuz the lot's empty. Ronnie most times rides a dirt bike. He wouldn't park it here. Come with me.”
Gadasky led the way down a single-track dirt trail that meandered past several scattered picnic tables. A short distance later, the trail opened into a brush covered area large enough to build a camp fire and spread a sleeping bag. Gadasky squatted next to a fire pit and held his hands above the ashes.
“Still warm,” he said. “I'll bet Ronnie spent the night here and cleared out sometime this morning.”
“When Ronnie comes out here, is this the only place he camps?” said Deluca, trying to keep the anger from his voice.
“It's the only place I know about. I camped here with him one time.”
“Where else does he hide out?”
Gadasky shrugged. “No idea. That boy moves like the wind when he's up here. He could be anyplace.”
Gadasky stood and kicked more dirt on to the still warm ashes. “Well, let's head back to the trucks.”
The kid felt genuinely disappointed. Little did he know that that was about the last thing in the world he would ever feel.
“What's over here?” Deluca walked out on to a sandstone outcropping.
Gadasky followed. “Ain't nothin' out here 'cept fucking hot desert.”
The two men stood next to each other. Deluca pointed toward the horizon at nothing in particular. “What is that?”
Gadasky cocked his head straining to see what Deluca was pointing toward. His last words were, “What you lookin' at?”
In one fluid motion, Deluca brought the twenty-two up until it was almost touching the flesh behind Gadasky's left ear. He squeezed off one round into Gadasky's head as he muttered, “This Bud's for you.” The kid's head twitched once, and then he dropped to the ground without a sound.
He liked nothing better than working with the .22 caliber at close range. It made a small entry wound and no exit wound. The bullet just rattled around inside the head. No fuss, no muss, and best of all, no mess afterward.
Deluca quickly scanned the area looking for any sign of unwanted visitors. He was alone. He bent quickly over the body and plucked his two hundred dollars from Gadasky's shirt pocket. He lifted Gadasky by the shoulders and dragged him to the edge of a shallow ravine. The cliff dropped about twenty feet into what looked like a narrow slot canyon. He laid the body on its side and then used his boot to roll it over the edge, watching as George Gadasky tumbled out of sight.
Deluca returned to the Explorer and started back to town. He left Gadasky's old truck in the parking lot. Even when somebody found it, the authorities wouldn't suspect foul play, at least not for awhile. The ensuing search would eventually uncover the body, but not before Deluca had finished his business in Kanab and returned to Las Vegas.
The phone rang. Books planted his size-twelve boots on the floor. The last remnants of his morning coffee spilled down the front of his shirt. He cursed to himself as he lifted the receiver.
“Morning, Grant.”
“Hey, J.D. Ready for the rundown on Brian Call?”
Books grabbed a pen and a legal pad. “You bet. Fire away.”
“First thing you should know is there's nothing in the record that indicates the Kane County Sheriff's Office ever contacted our department for a reference check on the guy.”
“No surprise there.”
“Call was employed as a corrections officer in our jail for nearly four years. His performance appraisals were actually pretty good. He'd risen to the rank of corporal and was about to test for sergeant when some things finally caught up with him.
“Hold on for a second, I'm taking notes. Okay. What kind of things?”
“Hang on. I'm getting to that. The department gave him the option of resigning or being suspended from duty, pending the outcome of an IA investigation. Call opted to bail. Shortly after that, he dropped off our radar screen. Nobody in intell had heard anything about him in years, at least not until I started asking questions.”
“What got him canned?”
“A couple of things. Right after his promotion to corporal, he showed up in surveillance photographs in the company of several Las Vegas organized crime associates. At first, our intell people didn't know who the hell he was. Somebody picked up a license plate number, and we got him identified. Imagine the surprise when we realized he was one of our own.”
“Why didn't you fire him right away? In a lot of departments, the associations alone would have gotten him shit-canned.”
“Couldn't agree with you more,” said Weatherby. “My guess is that some genius up the chain got the bright idea to put him under surveillance and just keep an eye on him for a while.”
“So what happened?”
“Several weeks later, he was spotted in the company of a local hooker who had just been released from jail. She was on felony probation for credit card forgery. Consorting with a known felon and somebody still under correctional supervision is a big no, no. That's when the department finally confronted him.”
“Given what you've described, I don't understand all the secrecy over his personnel file,” said Books. “It seems like a run-of-the-mill dirty cop kind of case, unless of course, there's more.”
“As a matter of fact, there is. We've got a family here in the valley by the name of Calenti. The patriarch is an old man named Victor Calenti. Ever heard of him?”
“Nope.”
“Anyway, as a kid, Victor grew up dirt-poor working in the Pennsylvania coal mines. Then his family moved west to Chicago. Over time, Victor grew pretty tight with leaders in the Chicago OutfitâSam Giancana, Tony Accardo, and the Fischetti brothers. When Calenti moved to Las Vegas in the early 1970s, he leased space in an industrial park and opened a company called Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. We suspected that that the Outfit was laundering money through Calenti's mining company, although we were never able to prove it.”
“You think they were skimming casino revenue, then washing it through the mining company? Tax-free income with everything neat and tidy.”
“Exactly,” said Weatherby. “The Chicago Outfit made a fortune running the Stardust.”
“So, what does Nevada Mining & Manufacturing do, exactly?”
“They manufacture mining products, drilling equipment mostly. The old man also bought up the controlling interest in a coal mine in some Godforsaken place in Wyoming, and then another one near Price, Utah. Supposedly, the company also buys up mineral rights on land they believe might have future mining potential.”
“I still don't see what this has to do with Brian Call,” said Books.
“Here's the connection. The old man is out of the picture now. The business is run by his two sons, Vic Junior and younger brother, Michael. Michael's had his dirty little hands in a high-end call girl operation in Vegas for years. That aside, he's also has an expensive coke problem. He's been in and out of court and jail numerous times on a variety of beefs. Our intell people checked the duty rosters at the jail. It seems that every time Michael became a guest in our facility, Brian Call was assigned to the same cell block. Intell suspects that Call illegally provided some creature comforts for Calenti to make his time pass a little easier. Those creature comforts probably included contrabandâspecifically drugs and cash. Most of the intelligence information was pieced together after Call resigned.”
“What about the hooker? Any connection to Calenti?”
“Not that we could prove. She denied it, but a snitch, working off a drug beef for one of our vice detectives, claimed she was in Michael's stable of ladies. Intell believes the services of the call girl were pay-back for whatever Call did for Calenti while he was locked up.”
Books then explained what he'd learned in his conversation with former Utah legislator turned lobbyist, Randall Orton. Weatherby had never heard of Valley Public Relations and Marketing, nor was he familiar with any of its corporate officers.
When he got off the phone, Books sat wondering whether he was chasing another dead-end lead. It was small consolation to discover that Brian Call had once been a corrupt cop in Las Vegas who had been forced out of the department, only to have been subsequently hired by Charley Sutter without so much as a reference check.
He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but Books returned to the web site of the Nevada Department of Business Regulation and Licensing. He plugged in the name of the mining company and brought up the names of the corporate officers as well as a list of the corporation's board of directors.
The only board member name he recognized, besides that of its chairman, Victor Calenti, Sr., was that of Randall Orton of Panguitch, Utah. The lobbyist had failed to mention his cozy relationship with the company during their recent phone conversation. The names of the corporate officers coincided with the information Weatherby had given him. Victor Calenti, Jr., President, Michael Calenti, Vice President, Maria Calenti, Secretary, and Anthony Oliver, Treasurer.
He stared at the list. At first, nothing registered with him as unusual or suspicious. Then it struck him. One name among the corporate officers, Anthony Oliver, seemed vaguely familiar. At first Books couldn't put a finger on it. Then it came to him. From the murder book, he grabbed the list of officers from Valley Public Relations and Marketing. Anthony Oliver was listed as the Treasurer on the corporate documents of both Valley Public Relations and Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. Books figured the PR firm had to be a subsidiary of the mining company.
In a fuzzy sort of way, the whole thing began to make sense. He'd discovered a connection between a shady mining company in Las Vegas and a dirty cop in Kane County. But what did it mean? He wasn't sure. A good place to start might be with Ned Hunsaker. The old man might have some ideas.
In the meantime, he had another priority. Why had Darby Greenbriar deliberately lied about who the father of her child was? If it was done to protect Lance Clayburn, the move had backfired. If anything, the lie made Clayburn look all the more guilty and probably gave Charley Sutter reason to believe she might be involved in the murder herself.
Books grabbed the keys to the Yukon. It was time to pay an unannounced visit to Darby Greenbriar. And it was time for him to stop playing Mr. Nice Guy.