For the second time, Troy put the truck in reverse and swung around until he was facing Horizon Road. Bayard turned his head toward the cabin and fixed his gaze on Iris, who hadn’t moved. This sequence of events felt weird. He had no idea what Austin intended to do, but it couldn’t be good. He locked eyes with Iris and lifted a hand, making a gesture as though he were talking on the phone. He wasn’t sure if she picked up on it or not. The last he saw of her she was still in the doorway, silhouetted against the living room light.
Once the truck was out of sight, Iris stepped into the cabin and closed the door, shivering uncontrollably. She could feel sobs bubbling up and she made a small humming sound, trying to get control of herself. What did Bayard expect her to do? Why would the guys take Sloan up to Yellowweed unless it was for something bad?
She thought about Bayard’s gesture. What did that mean? First, he’d told her to look after herself. He said Austin would be furious if the cops showed up. Was he now urging her to call for help? What if she made the call and meanwhile Sloan and Austin settled their differences? Austin would never forgive her.
She was in trouble enough as it was. She eyed the phone, torn by indecision. Better to do something. How long was the drive to Yellowweed? Time was running short. She took out a tissue and blew her nose. She dashed tears from her face and picked up the handset. What did it matter if one more person was mad at her? She punched in the number and waited, sniffing quietly to herself. As soon as she heard the man who picked up the line, she began to weep. In a squeaky little girl’s voice, she said, “Daddy? Can you come get me?”
34
Thursday, October 5, 1989
I waited well outside the crime scene tape, leaning against a boulder that had initials and rude remarks scratched onto its face. A wide area had been cordoned off for a systematic search. The deputy who’d arrived first in response to my call was in command until the investigator appeared and assumed responsibility. An hour had passed and it was getting dark. The mobile crime lab was on hand, having labored up to the area on the long, winding two-lane road of gravel and cracked asphalt. The county coroner’s car was parked to one side. Two deputies from the sheriff’s office were present and I caught sight of Cheney Phillips conferring with a plainclothes detective, who was probably his counterpart in the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Office. Meanwhile, the crime scene techs picked and sifted their way through every square inch of the physical surroundings, aware that once the tableau was deconstructed, there would be no way to re-create it.
Those of us not directly engaged in the tagging and bagging of evidence were encouraged to wait on the highway below, where a flat gravel apron provided space enough for four vehicles, mine among them. As chilly as it was, I was happy to return to my Honda, still parked on the berm. I opened the trunk and took out a sweatshirt that I pulled over my turtleneck. I slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the ignition so I could keep the heater running in an attempt to keep warm. I was hungry, but there wasn’t any point in complaining or expecting relief. I found a cherry Life Saver at the bottom of my shoulder bag and called that dinner.
Passing cars slowed so that drivers and passengers could peer out at us, wondering what we were up to. In my rearview mirror, I saw Cheney make his way down the access road and walk along the berm in my direction. When he was close, I got out of the car. “What are you doing here? I thought this was the county sheriff’s turf.”
“I could ask the same thing of you,” he said. “Larry Burgess called me as a courtesy because I took the missing person’s report from Hollis McCabe. He tells me you’re working for the McCabes.”
“That’s correct.”
“Whatever job you started with, this is now a homicide investigation, which takes precedence over any confidentially agreement you might have with them.”
“You’re not going to get any argument from me,” I said. “But could we do this sitting in my car? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
“By all means.”
Ever the gentleman, he opened my car door on the driver’s side and then walked around to the passenger side and slid in. He said, “Go.”
I took a deep breath and went. It was a relief to lay out the whole long tale, which I proceeded to do. He knew about the tape, but wasn’t aware that it was back in play again after disappearing for ten years.
“When the demand note first arrived in the mail, the McCabes called Lonnie Kingman and he referred them to me,” I said.
“It didn’t occur to you to bring us into it?”
“Of course it did, but the McCabes were adamant.”
Cheney said, “I know public perception would have it otherwise, but we’re trained to handle situations like this. If we’d known what was going on, we might have been able to help.”
“The issue was confidential. I was under no obligation to make their situation known to you. I saw the bind they were in and I understood their desire to keep it quiet. If you’d seen the tape, you’d understand as well.”
“I feel sure we’ll see it now.”
“No doubt,” I said.
I talked him through the chain of events, including the people I’d interviewed and the bits and pieces I’d picked up along the way. For the purposes of simplicity, I omitted a few of the minor characters, including Poppy Earl’s father and stepmother. I’d provide further details when and if the need arose. Cheney was a quick study and I didn’t have to spell out the particulars. He’d taken out a notepad, jotting down the occasional date or reference point.
I went on. “Last Thursday, the extortionist left a message saying he was tired of excuses and wanted his money. He said he’d pick Fritz up at State and Aguilar at noon on Friday. If Fritz didn’t show up with the cash, he was in big trouble, or words to that effect.”
I paused the narrative long enough to explain the fiddle Fritz pulled at the bank. “That’s how he managed to get his hands on the twenty-five thousand. It looks like he met the guy as instructed.”
“Foolish move on his part.”
“Very,” I said. “For what it’s worth, there’s talk that Austin Brown is back.”
“Who told you that?”
“Iris Lehmann and her fiancé came into my office. She said she’d seen him twice the week before. Tuesday night at the Clockworks when she and Joey were playing pool, and again on Friday around noon when she was going to the bank. That sighting, he was driving up State right around the time of the proposed pickup.”
Cheney said, “I’d be interested in hearing it from her. Go on with your story.”
“Anyway, Lauren McCabe came to see me this past Monday because she realized Fritz hadn’t slept in his bed for the previous three nights. By then she knew he’d forged her signature, which she was prepared to overlook. The pickup must have gone as planned and this is where things get bizarre. The way I heard it, the extortionist did an about-face and told Fritz the threat of blackmail was the only way he could think of to get his hands on some cash. The two stopped off at a friend’s place to borrow camping gear. Fritz was in a chatty mood by then and he told his friend he offered to lend the guy the money, which the fellow promised to repay.”