On Deadly Ground (12 page)

“Easier said than done,” said Boyd.

Books looked directly at Boyd. “Your family is one of the most influential in Kane County, Boyd. You and Neil should be leaders in discussions that are going to have to take place sooner or later.”

“Spoken like a true bureaucrat,” said Neil. “As the old saying goes, it takes two to tango, and, at the moment, we don't seem to have a dance partner who wants to be reasonable.”

“That's exactly what the environmental groups are saying about you,” said Books. “Taking your dance analogy a bit further, at some point, people on both sides are going to have to find a dance partner and get out on the floor. Short of dialogue, the alternatives just aren't very good.”

The conversation lasted almost an hour. By the time it was over, Books was exhausted and sober as a judge. He found Ned, iced tea in hand, doing his best to entertain Becky. The two men said their good-byes and left.

When he got home, Books found a voicemail from Lillian Greenbriar. She explained that she and Victor Stein would fly into Las Vegas early Friday morning, rent a car, and drive to Kanab in time for David's memorial service. A small cadre of David's friends and former colleagues opted to drive from Berkeley and would arrive sometime Thursday night. Lillian and Stein asked to meet Books at the sheriff's office at noon for an update on the status of the case.

Chapter Twenty-four

Books arrived at the office early Friday morning to find Sutter and Brian Call waiting for him. Something was up; he just wasn't sure what. Both men looked uncomfortable.

“Morning, Charley, Brian. You boys don't look too happy, this morning. What's up?”

“We've had a development in the case,” said Sutter.

Books' interest was instantly piqued. “What kind of development?”

“Not a very important one, at least we don't think so,” said Call.

“But important enough for both of you to be sitting on my doorstep this morning. Tell me about it.”

“You remember the Gadasky family, J.D.?” asked Sutter.

“Scrapiron Gadasky?”

Sutter nodded.

“Sure do. The old man operated a salvage business and towing service out of that decrepit old place they lived in outside town.” Books recalled the place being a graveyard of rusted-out cars, trucks, farm equipment, even some old school buses.

“That's him,” said Call. “Last night old man Gadasky called the sheriff's office and wanted to speak to a deputy.”

“About?”

“The Greenbriar murder,” said Call. “A deputy went out to the house and ended up taking a statement from Ivan's youngest son, kid by the name of Ronnie.”

“And what did Ronnie have to say?”

“Boy said he was out on the Smoky Mountain Road last Sunday afternoon and says he got a look at the guy who shot Greenbriar,” said Call.

Books' temper flared. “Jesus, why didn't I hear about this last night? It's kind of important, don't you think?”

“Hold on a minute, J.D. Don't get your tail in a knot,” said Sutter. “Ronnie Gadasky's a loony-tune, and everybody in town knows it.”

“Since you placed me in charge of the investigation, maybe you ought to let me be the judge of that?”

Sutter frowned. “And you will be, J.D. I just thought maybe you'd like a little insider information about the family, since you've been gone so long.”

“You're right, Charlie, sorry. Tell me about Ronnie Gadasky.”

Sutter continued. “What do you remember about the Gadasky family?”

“Not all that much. They had four or five kids. The oldest boys, Ernie and George, were at Kanab High School around the same time I was. The other kids were pretty young at the time….”

Sutter interrupted. “Here's the story, J.D. Ivan and his wife had five kids, four boys and a sweet little girl named Irina. You're right about the older boys. They were a year or two behind you in school. Ronnie is eighteen. He's the youngest. About seven, maybe eight years ago, Ivan's wife ran off with a construction worker—never did come back. Ivan did the best he could raising the kids, but things didn't work out very well.”

“Skip the family history, and get to the point.”

Sutter ignored him and continued. “Ronnie started getting into all kinds of mischief, and so did Irina. Rumor had it that Ernie was having his way with Irina, although we never could prove it. She eventually got pregnant and ran off with a Navaho boy—lives somewhere near Page, Arizona. Ronnie started sniffing glue when he was about thirteen. He's been in and out of juvenile court numerous times over the past couple years. You can ask Rebecca Eddins. Ivan hired her to represent the boy a time or two.”

“Okay,” said Books. “So what you're telling me is that we've got a possible murder witness with a juvenile court record and brain damage from spending too much time with his head in a plastic bag sniffing glue.”

Call picked up the story. “It gets worse, J.D. About two years ago, Ronnie stole his brother Ernie's motorcycle. The kid was high on something. Anyway, he was racin' along Highway 89 toward Kanab, with Ernie in hot pursuit, when he came up behind George Detmer's plumbing supply truck. You remember George Detmer?”

“Detmer Plumbing, how could I forget,” said Books. “The old man drove a ratty old panel truck around town with a sign on it that read, ‘We're Number One in the Number Two Business.'”

“That's him. Anyway, it was an old flatbed truck that George used to haul plumbing supplies around when the weather was good. What happened was that old George was hauling several commodes for a job he was doin' in Orderville. About the time Ronnie rolls up behind him, a commode falls off the back end of the truck and lands smack in the middle of the highway. Ronnie does an Evel Knievel, hits the commode head on, goes airborne, and crashes the bike. He lands on his head and ends up with serious internal injuries and head trauma. The boy almost died.”

“Jesus.” Books shook his head. “What an epitaph that would make: ‘Here lies Ronnie Gadasky, killed by a flying crapper.'”

Sutter and Call laughed.

“Point is, J.D., the kid's goofy,” said Call. “He just isn't credible.”

“Okay. Now what you're telling me is we've got a potential witness with a juvenile record and brain damage caused by sniffing glue as well as injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident. Is that it?”

Sutter looked frustrated. “There's not a juror in his right mind that's going to believe one word that comes out of that kid's mouth.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Books. “You can never tell what a jury will choose to believe—unpredictable, that's what they are.”

“You'll be wasting your time,” said Sutter.

“Let me worry about that. I definitely want to talk to him. Where can I find him?”

“Have it your way,” said Sutter. “Best place to find Ronnie is at home. I don't think he works other than doing odd jobs for the old man. Since the accident, the kid disappears into the Grand Staircase, sometimes for days at a time. Nobody knows where he goes or how he survives. I suspect one of these days he'll walk into that wilderness and we'll just never see or hear from him again.”

“That's why I should have been called last night.” Having a disabled witness was difficult, thought Books, but having a disabled, missing witness was worse, much worse.

As Sutter and Call got up to leave, Sutter gave Books a final admonition. “Remember this, J.D., as far as I'm concerned, we've already identified our killer, and if you haven't come up with something else for me by tomorrow, I'll be going to the DA for a murder warrant on Lance Clayburn.”

Books leaned back in his chair and finished his lukewarm coffee. Call and Sutter had already made up their minds about Clayburn's guilt, and they weren't about to allow the emergence of Ronnie Gadasky as a possible witness to influence their thinking.

***

Books still had almost four hours until his noon meeting with Lillian Greenbriar and Victor Stein. It was time to start tying up loose ends, and he had several that required his immediate attention. First, he called Grant Weatherby and explained the problem with Lance Clayburn's alibi. If room service receipts or hotel employees could place Clayburn in Darby's suite on Sunday morning, the case against him would be weakened. Weatherby promised to get back to him after another visit to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.

Books hopped in the Yukon and drove to the sheriff's office. He wanted to pick up a copy of Ronnie Gadasky's statement.

What the statement said was that Gadasky had heard the report of a rifle along a stretch of the Smokey Mountain Road Sunday afternoon around four o'clock. He recalled seeing David Greenbriar's Chevrolet Suburban but claimed not to have seen Greenbriar. Gadasky told the deputy that he saw a man dressed in camouflage hiding in a rocky outcropping above and to the west of Greenbriar's Suburban. He had been unable to provide a physical description of the man other than he was white and older looking. A quarter mile further down the Smokey Mountain Road, Gadasky saw a shiny black car parked in a turnout. Although uncertain, he thought it had Nevada license plates.

What the police report failed to address was what Gadasky was doing in the area. What made him run? Why hadn't he bothered to report the incident to police?

With the statement in hand, Books drove to the Gadasky home. Little had changed over the years. The property remained a wasteland of rusting metal hulks of every sort. A narrow dirt road snaked through the debris over a small rise to an old two-story clapboard house nestled in a sea of sagebrush and rock. As Books parked, a three-legged black lab raced around the side of the house, making a sound that resembled a cross between a bark and a howl.

Ivan Gadasky climbed down from a backhoe he was using to dig fence post holes near the side of the house. Gadasky was a large man, thick through the neck, shoulders, and waist. He had a noticeable limp as he walked slowly toward Books. He mopped his brow with a blue gingham hankie he'd removed from the back pocket of his bib overalls. As he approached, Gadasky returned the hankie to his pocket and placed a Deere logo cap back on his head.

“Gonna get damn hot today,” said Books.

“Already is.” Gadasky extended a hand. Books shook it.

“How have you been, Mr. Gadasky. It's been a long time.”

“Very long, indeed, J.D. Feeling old and a bit rundown at times, but, other than that, I'm doing fine. Think I know what brought you out here—Ronnie's not around.”

Despite many years in the states, Ivan Gadasky still spoke with a pronounced Eastern European accent. The family was Polish Catholic, if Books remembered correctly.

“Where can I find him? It's important that I talk with him as soon as possible.”

“I'm sure it is,” said Gadasky, “but I have no idea where he is or when he might return. When I got up this morning, he was already gone.”

“And you have no idea where he went?”

Gadasky sighed, “No, not really. The boy just up and disappears whenever it suits him. I think I upset him when I called the sheriff's office last night. He didn't want me to do that.”

“How come?”

“Didn't want to get himself involved, I suspect. He's become a pretty reclusive boy since the accident—wanders off into the wilderness whenever he gets the urge. No telling when he's gonna go or when he might come back.”

Books couldn't tell if Gadasky's tone was one of indifference, worry, or mere acceptance.

“Does Ronnie happen to own any guns, Mr. Gadasky?”

“He's got an old .25 caliber pistol that he hasn't used in years.”

“Do you have firearms?”

“One. It's a 12-gauge Remington shotgun—keep it around to scare off varmints, two-legged or four.”

“When Ronnie disappears, how does he get around?”

“Mostly on foot, but he's also got a dirt bike.”

“What kind?”

“2000 Kawasaki, 250 cc, a red one. I hope he's not in trouble.”

“He's not. I just need to talk with him about what he saw on the Smokey Mountain Road last Sunday afternoon.”

“Think he's said about all he's gonna say about that.”

Books handed Gadasky his business card. “That may be true, but I've still got to try. What he saw might be really important—appreciate it if you'd call me when you hear from him.”

Gadasky took the card, nodded, and then lumbered off to the back-hoe.

Books returned to the Yukon and put out an immediate BOLO on Ronnie Gadasky and his red Kawasaki dirt bike. He also asked the dispatch office to notify State Fish and Game, the Forest Service, as well as the National Park Police. Given the vast expanse of the Grand Staircase Monument and nearby national parks, Books wasn't holding his breath that Ronnie would turn up until he was good and ready.

Chapter Twenty-five

Peter “the Rose” Deluca heard the telephone ring. He was in the greenhouse tending his delicate rose bushes. Reluctantly, he took off his gloves, set the scissors down, and went inside. “Yes,” he answered, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“We have a problem.”

“Nothing new about that. What is it this time?”

“The job you did for us last weekend—somebody saw you.”

Deluca sighed, “Well, I'm not surprised. I tried to tell you your plan was ill-conceived. That's why my fee was so high. The target should have been left where I found him.”

“Maybe, but we didn't. Now we've got a problem, one I assume you can help us solve.”

“Are you certain it's necessary?”

“Yes, it is. Failure to eliminate the problem could undermine everything we've done so far.”

Deluca processed what he'd heard. He had never accepted a job that he hadn't finished. He had a reputation to uphold. And besides, unfinished loose ends had a way of coming back to bite you.

“All right, but my fee will be the same as the first time.”

“Jesus, that's a little steep, don't you think, considering you're the one who got careless and let somebody see you?”

“Don't waste my time. Do you want my help or not?”

The line was silent. “All right, we'll pay your fee, but get the job done as quickly as possible. And don't let anyone see you this time.”

Deluca wiped the sweat from his brow. “Think of it this way, if it makes you feel better. Much of your fee will be paid in tithe to the Catholic Church as part of my absolution for missing mass two weeks in a row. Besides, it's a sin to labor on the Sabbath. Any good Catholic knows that.”

“I never realized you were such a pillar of the Church, a regular St. Peter, you might say.”

“Don't mock me.” Deluca's tone turned icy cold. “Father Gregory has asked me to consider studying to become a deacon in the parish.”

“Will miracles never cease? Care to know who you're looking for?”

“Give me the information.” Deluca received a home address, a physical description of Ronnie Gadasky, and a short history of his troubled past.

“One more thing.”

“Yes,” said Deluca.

“There's a cop running the investigation—a former Denver police detective, a real hotshot, they say.”

“So?”

“He's the new BLM ranger. The local sheriff has turned the case over to him.”

“And I should be quaking in my boots?”

“Not necessarily, but I'm told he's very good. He could become a problem.”

There was a lengthy pause. “What's his name?”

“J.D. Books.”

“I'll check him out.” Deluca disconnected.

Peter Deluca was the only son of a Chicago florist. His parents had emigrated from Italy to the U.S. in the early 1930s after the rise of Benito Mussolini. The family operated a thriving floral business on Chicago's south side. Deluca's love affair with flowers began at a young age in the family greenhouse at the hands of a stern but loving father. His mother, Maria, had died during childbirth. He couldn't remember a time, other than a stint in the army, when flowers were not a part of his life.

For a man who had spent the past several decades killing others for a living, nurturing flowers from seedling to bloom provided him with a sense of grounding, a belief that his life amounted to something other than death and destruction.

***

To Books, Lillian Greenbriar seemed the quintessential English literature professor, with long brown hair pulled back into a bun, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and very little makeup. Victor Stein, on the other hand, looked like a lawyer for the stars. He could have passed for actor George Hamilton's brother—a thick head of silver hair with streaks of black; an artificial Hollywood suntan that had to have been purchased somewhere; and a set of capped white teeth so bright they were the first thing you noticed about the man. His black pinstripe Armani suit looked out of place in Kanab, even if he was here to attend a funeral.

They met at noon in the sheriff's office. After introductions, they settled down to business. Assuming a lawyer-like advocacy role, Stein began, “Perhaps, Ranger Books, you could take a moment and fill us in on the status of the investigation.”

“I'm afraid I can't give you many specifics, but I can tell you that we now have a suspect and physical evidence linking this individual to the murder.”

Greenbriar and Stein glanced at each other. Lillian asked, “What kind of evidence?”

“Sorry, can't get into that.”

“Tell us, then, is an arrest imminent?” asked Stein.

“Probably.”

“That's not exactly reassuring,” said Stein.

“It wasn't meant to be,” said Books.

Books handed Lillian a list of names of David's former colleagues. “Are any of these gentlemen going to be attending the memorial service?”

Greenbriar glanced at the list. “Yes. Three of them plan to be here—Simpson, Gladwell, and Stone.”

“My assistant still hasn't been able to reach two of David's former colleagues,” said Books. “We'd like to speak with Gladwell and Stone before they leave.”

“In regard to what?” asked Stein.

“I told Lillian that someone claiming to be an old colleague of David's telephoned the EEWA office looking for him late Friday afternoon. We're wondering whether it was one of David's old friends or if it might have been the killer trying to determine his whereabouts.”

“I see.” Stein pondered that bit of information.

“Lillian, I need to ask a personal question,” said Books. “Did you and David ever attempt to have children?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Lillian.

“A fair question. I'm going to tell you something and ask that you both hold it in confidence. Agreed?”

They both nodded.

“Darby is pregnant and I need to know who the father is.”

Lillian winced, obviously startled by this new information. “Well, it's not David, I can tell you that.”

Now it was Books turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?”

“David was sterile. He couldn't have children.”

“You're sure.”

“Absolutely sure. I can refer you to the Berkeley fertility clinic where David and I dropped several thousand dollars exploring options and being tested.”

For a moment nobody spoke and then Lillian asked, “Do you believe this issue might be connected to David's murder?”

“I'm not sure, but it's possible. I'd like the fertility clinic information when it's convenient.”

“Okay. I'll get it for you before we leave this afternoon.”

“The suspect you mentioned. Could he be the father?” asked Stein.

“Sorry, can't answer that one.”