On Deadly Ground (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

It was almost dark when Books arrived home. Seeing the lights on inside Ned's place, he parked by the trailer and walked the short distance to the house. The screen door was locked, but the front door stood wide open. He could hear the sound of a television set, the volume cranked way up. Maybe the old man had lost some hearing. His mother had gotten like that late in her life. He'd walk into a room and realize that a conversation was impossible until he got the volume on the television turned down.

Books knocked on the screen door but got no answer. He rapped again, this time louder. Still no answer. He rapped a third time and shouted, “Hello, Ned, anybody home?”

After a moment, the old man stumbled to the front door. His eyes were glassy and he reeked of booze. He gave J.D. a weak smile. “Come on in, J.D. Can I get you something?”

Books stared at him. “I guess I'll have whatever you're having, Ned.”

The old man looked away dropping his gaze to the floor. “Guess I kinda fell off the wagon.”

“I guess you kinda did. Are you all right?”

Hunsaker shrugged, motioning Books to follow him into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted the cap off, and handed it to Books. Books followed him into the living room. Both men sat, neither speaking for more than a minute. Finally, Hunsaker broke the silence. “I hope you won't mention this to my daughter and son-in-law. It'll just get them all upset.”

“I'm sure it would. I won't say anything to anybody, Ned.”

The old man nodded. “Thanks.”

“That doesn't mean that I approve or that I'm not concerned about you. Is anything wrong?”

Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down the craggy face, deeply lined by sun, wind, and the passage of time. “I don't really know. Sometimes, I just feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.”

Books waited.

Hunsaker paused as though carefully gauging what he was about to say. “I guess I never imagined that my life would end up like this.”

“Afraid I don't understand, Ned. You're a well liked and well respected man in this community. You always have been.”

“Thanks, but that's not what I meant. What I meant was that the two women I loved most in my life died before me. It shouldn't have been like that. I'm older. I should have gone first.”

Books considered that. “Maybe so. It's just not something we get to choose.”

The two men fell silent for a time. The women Ned referred to were his late wife Winnie and Books' mother, Maggie. Obviously, he had never fully understood the strength of the bond between his mother and Ned.

“I think I just figured something out, Ned. Since I got back in town last week, I've been to mom's grave twice. Somebody's been caring for the grave site. I assumed it was Maggie but she denied it. It sure didn't seem like anything Bernie would do, so that leaves you. Are you the one who's been tidying up and leaving the fresh flowers?”

Hunsaker nodded. “I go to visit both graves twice a week. They're not buried very far apart—don't know if you knew that.”

“I didn't. And thanks for doing it.”

“You're welcome, J.D.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, Ned, but were you in love with my mother?”

The two men stared at each other for a moment. “Yes, I was. I've loved only two women in my life. I had the good fortune of being married to my wife for thirty-seven years. Your mother was the other.”

“I guess I should tell you something, Ned. Right before mother died, in fact, it was the last time I saw her, she told me how much you meant to her. I think she was closer to you than almost anyone else in her life. She told me how blessed she felt, blessed, those were her words, at getting to work at your side all those years in the library. She said it more than made up for some of the shortcomings that existed in her marriage to Bernie. And I'd like to thank you for that. It was a special gift.”

“I wouldn't have had it any other way.”

***

Books asked Hunsaker what he knew about lobbyist, Randall Orton, Valley Public Relations and Marketing, and Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. He'd never heard of the two Las Vegas companies, but Books got an earful about Orton, none of it complimentary.

“Cowboy Randy Orton, that's what we used to call him. His family runs a spread this side of Panguitch, some hogs, cattle mostly. He served two terms in the Utah State Senate and then realized there was a hell of a lot more money to be made using his legislative contacts as a registered lobbyist. Greedy little bastard, if you ask me.”

“Tell me about his politics.” said Books.

“He's pretty much your stereotypical Utah conservative. Soft-spoken, affable, but don't let that fool you. He'd slip the blade between your ribs without a second thought. When he served in the legislature, he belonged to a group of rural Utah Republicans who called themselves the Cowboy Caucus. Most of them are so far right politically they'd make members of the John Birch Society look like left-wing liberals. That said, they exert a fair amount of influence in the legislature.”

“Was he willing to work with elements in the conservation movement?”

Hunsaker shook his head. “Not as far as I could tell. Orton always struck me as a guy who appreciated the land only for what he could take from it. When he looks out over the Vermilion Cliffs, he's not thinking what a beautiful place this is to preserve for future generations. He's thinking about how the land can be used for a logging or mining operation or how many head of cattle a rancher could run per acre.”

Books explained to Hunsaker the relationship between Orton and the Nevada Mining & Manufacturing Company. The old man listened patiently before making what would later turn out to be a telling observation.

“J.D., you mentioned this Nevada mining company operates coal mines in Wyoming and Utah. Maybe they were planning to establish a coal mining operation down here and needed the help of somebody like Orton to get it done.”

“Possible, I guess, but where would they set up shop down here?”

Hunsaker paused, giving the question some thought. “I know where I'd do it if I was them. I'd do it on the Kaiparowits Plateau.”

“Why?

“Because the coal reserves on the plateau are enormous. Given the energy crunch we're facing in this country and the push for clean burning coal technology, the potential for economic growth and new jobs might make it a downright attractive proposition.”

Books decided that a follow-up contact with Randall Orton would be a good idea. As a member of the corporate board of directors for Nevada Mining & Manufacturing, Orton had to know more about the operation of the company than he had let on in their previous conversation.

Books stayed with Ned long enough to fix both of them scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee for dinner. When he returned to his trailer, he found a voice message from Ivan Gadasky asking him to call as soon as possible. Gadasky didn't explain the reason for the call but he sounded upset.

“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Books,” said Gadasky.

“Sure. Is everything all right?”

“I'm not sure. When I returned home this afternoon, I found a note from my son, George. It said he'd gone off into the monument with some newspaper reporter looking for Ronnie. Said he'd be back before dark.”

“And you haven't seen or heard from him?”

“Not a word.”

Books glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. “Here's what I think we should do. I'll call county dispatch and have them send an officer to your house to take a missing persons report. Hang onto the note. The deputy will want to see it. In the meantime, I'll notify Charley Sutter.”

“Will they mount an immediate search?” said Gadasky.

“I'm sure he'll want to get county search and rescue involved. They'll set up a command post and probably begin to search at first light, assuming George hasn't surfaced by then. You probably don't know this, but I stopped at your place this morning and talked with George. He mentioned receiving a phone call from a news reporter who wanted to interview Ronnie. He didn't say anything to me about actually going with the reporter to look for Ronnie.”

“Did he tell you the name of this reporter?” Gadasky said.

“I asked him who it was. He told me the guy's name was Elliott Sanders and he worked for the
Las Vegas Sun Times
. We can check that out very easily. Do you have any idea where George might have taken him?”

“One time I overheard Ronnie and George talking about places Ronnie liked to go when he headed off into the monument. Ronnie mentioned the Cockscomb.”

“That could be important information, Mr. Gadasky. I don't have to tell you how large and how remote the monument is. Be sure you share that information with the deputy. Sit tight until we can get a deputy to your house.” Books disconnected.

Books knew the area pretty well around the Cockscomb. It was located on the Cottonwood Canyon Road, a remote forty-mile stretch of the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument that passed Grosvenor Arch and eventually connected up with Kodachrome Basin State Park. The land was so inhospitable in the summer that if you broke down or got lost, you might not make it back alive.

Books got Charley Sutter out of bed and let him contact dispatch. In the meantime, Books went through directory assistance and found a phone number for the
Las Vegas Sun Times
. It was a busy Saturday night in the city that never sleeps, so finding a live body in the newsroom was easy. The problem was that nobody at the paper had ever heard of a reporter named Elliott Sanders, nor did they have anyone in Kanab covering the Greenbriar murder.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Deluca sat in the Ford Explorer trying to resist fatigue and remain alert. It was past midnight, and traffic passing on the highway had become less and less frequent. He'd brought snacks and a small thermos of coffee. The caffeine helped, but the coffee worked its way through his system so fast that he'd had to get out of the vehicle twice to relieve himself. Each time he had to wait for a minute, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sliver of moon provided little natural light. It was so black that it gave him the creeps. Hadn't these people ever heard of street lights?

There had been no activity around the Gadasky home in the nearly four hours he'd been watching. He was parked close enough to the property turnoff so that he could easily see anybody coming or going. At the same time, he was far enough off the highway to remain invisible to passing cars.

An approaching vehicle popped into view above the starlit horizon from the west, its high beams illuminating the highway in front of it. As it neared the turnoff to the Gadasky property, the driver slowed and turned on the truck's right blinker. The overhead rack of lights confirmed what Deluca already suspected. The insignia on the door of the SUV read Kane County Sheriff. Somebody at the home, probably the elder Gadasky, had begun to worry about the whereabouts of George and had called the police.

Deluca was disappointed. He had hoped to buy a little more time. The authorities wouldn't begin to search in earnest until daylight. He still had time but probably less than he originally thought. He waited until the cruiser was out of sight and then eased the Explorer on to the highway pointed back toward Kanab. He hid the guns and night vision goggles, not wanting to explain to some sheriff's deputy what he was doing in the middle of the night dressed in camouflage fatigues. It was best to let things cool off for a while. He would return later.

Deluca drove the streets around the home of Rebecca Eddins hoping to spot Ronnie or his dirt bike. Nothing. He headed back to the motel for a few hours of much needed sleep.

***

Books met Sutter early Sunday morning at the sheriff's office. Sutter had placed Brian Call in charge of the search and rescue effort to locate George Gadasky. That was fine with Books. Keeping Call on a short leash until all of this got sorted out seemed like a good idea. Coordinating the search for Gadasky should keep him occupied for a while.

Call had established a mobile command center at the mouth of Johnson Canyon. At the urging of the boy's father, Ivan Gadasky, two teams of volunteers had agreed to simultaneously search the remote Cottonwood Canyon Road as well as Johnson Canyon. A small single-engine Cessna was preparing to join the search from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Sutter listened intently while Books explained a possible theory for the murder of David Greenbriar. When he finished, the sheriff didn't say anything for a minute while he poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down at his desk, and began dunking a chocolate cake donut into his coffee.

“Want a cup, J.D.?”

“Had some already this morning, thanks anyway.”

“Probably a wise choice,” said Sutter. “It's yesterday's brew.”

“Looks like used motor oil.”

“Tastes like it, too.”

“Don't see how you drink that stuff.”

Sutter shrugged. “This theory of yours, you aren't saying you think Randy Orton had something to do with Greenbriar's murder.”

“I don't think so, but I'll bet he knows some things about the future plans of Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. As a member of the board of directors, how could he not?”

“Could be. I don't see how your theory explains the physical evidence linking Clayburn to the killing.”

“It doesn't.”

“So….”

“So, I'm working on it and I may have an idea.”

“I'm listening,” said Sutter.

Books explained the mystery of the nonexistent
Las Vegas Sun Times
newspaper reporter. By the time he finished, Sutter was listening intently.

“Let me be sure I understand this,” said Sutter. “George Gadasky told you this morning that he'd received a phone call from a guy who claimed to be a reporter with a Las Vegas newspaper who was trying to find Ronnie for an interview.”

Books nodded. “The guy said his name was Elliott Sanders and claimed he worked for the
Las Vegas Sun Times
.”

“And you called the newspaper, and somebody told you they don't have a reporter named Elliott Sanders.”

“Yup.”

“Maybe George got the name wrong. He's not the brightest bulb in the box, you know.”

“Possible, I suppose, but the guy I spoke with at the newspaper claimed they didn't have anybody up here covering the story.”

“Seems kind of strange. What do you make of it?”

“Hard to know, Charlie, but one thing's for sure. We've got ourselves a mystery man poking around the community asking a lot of questions.”

Neither man spoke for a time, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

“You don't suppose, J.D., that George's disappearance might involve foul play.”

“That thought has occurred to me. What if this guy is our killer?”

“That's quite a stretch, don't you think? Like I said before, the evidence still points to Clayburn.”

Sutter was right and Books knew it. Maybe Books' instincts about Clayburn had been wrong all along. Maybe Sutter was right and Clayburn was the killer. What if Clayburn was somehow connected to Nevada Mining & Manufacturing? But how? And even if he was, why would he agree to commit a murder? For money? It didn't seem very likely. He already had plenty of that. For love? He couldn't rule it out, but again, it didn't seem likely. And if he had killed for love, he certainly didn't need the mining company for that.

Neil Eddins had agreed to meet them in the restaurant of the Parry Lodge at ten
AM
. Sutter called him the night before to set the meeting. Eddins acted wary—as though he knew what might be coming. And who knows? Maybe Darby had tipped him off. It was certainly plausible. She had lied before, and Books didn't trust her.

For several decades beginning in the early 1930s, the Parry Lodge served as the headquarters for Hollywood movie moguls who were drawn to Kanab because of the area's rugged beauty. Hundreds of television shows and movies, many of the them westerns, were filmed in and around Kanab. The Lodge played host to such film luminaries as John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Glen Ford, Ava Gardner, and Charlton Heston as well as members of the Rat Pack. Many of the hotel's eighty-nine rooms were named for the Hollywood stars who stayed in them during film shoots.

On the drive to the Parry Lodge, Sutter was quiet and looked genuinely uncomfortable. He had to be contemplating his future as the Kane County Sheriff, if indeed he had a future. Crossing a man like Neil Eddins would make his chances for re-election tenuous at best.

As Books parked the Yukon, Sutter said, “Let me take the lead with Neil.”

“Suits me. Are you sure that's a good idea? It might be easier to let me do the heavy lifting.”

“Appreciate the offer but this is something I need to do.”

When they entered the restaurant, Eddins had already taken a seat in a far corner of the place, well out of earshot of any restaurant employees. He was drinking coffee and looked about as miserable as Sutter. The initial small talk was polite, but the tension in the room was palpable. Eddins had given Books a curt nod but otherwise hadn't spoken to him. He directed his conversation to Sutter. That suited Books just fine.

Finally, after an indefatigable period of small talk, they settled down to business. It was Eddins who began. “This is clearly no social call, Charley, so tell me why we're here.”

Sutter cleared his throat. “There's no easy way to ask you this, so I'm just going to come out with it. Darby Greenbriar has told us she's pregnant. She also told us you're the father.”

“That's a preposterous allegation, Charley. I'm disappointed in you. You of all people should know that the EEWA would do anything to destroy my reputation in this community. Divide and conquer, that's what they're all about.”

“But, Neil,” said Sutter, “she says she was having an affair with you, became pregnant, and that the two of you have discussed what to do about it. She even went so far as to say that you suggested she get an abortion and that you'd cover all expenses.”

“That's utter nonsense, and I categorically deny it. His voice had taken on a quiet but edgy tone. “If the child isn't David's, then it must belong to Lance Clayburn. That's who she was having an affair with, and everybody in town knows it.”

Books had to give Eddins credit. If the allegation had caught him completely unaware, his body language certainly wasn't giving him away.

“Just so we're clear, Neil. You're telling us that you are not presently having an affair with Darby Greenbriar and that you've never had an intimate relationship with her. Therefore, you can't possibly be the father of her child. Is that correct?”

Eddins raised his eyebrows and heaved a sigh of mock exasperation. “For crissake, Charley, do I have to get a color crayon and draw you a picture? That's exactly what I'm telling you. This is nothing more than a vicious, unsubstantiated rumor, and I promise you this, if any of this rubbish finds its way to my family or gets leaked to the news media, I'll file a lawsuit against you so fast it'll make your head swim. Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” said the sheriff.

“Now, is there anything else? Because if there isn't, I'm a busy man and I've got things to do today.”

Sutter glanced at Books, uncertainty written across his face. Eddins started to rise when Books spoke up. “Yeah, there is something else, Neil. You need to account for your whereabouts last Sunday.”

Eddins returned to his chair. “Why, you pompous little shit. How dare you accuse me of murder?”

“We're not accusing you of anything” said Books, “but you have become a person of interest in our case. And the things that got you here were an extramarital affair, a pregnancy, and now a murder. You don't have to answer our questions, but if you don't, I'll be forced to start asking all kinds of unpleasant questions all over town. And if the word does get out, and it will, you'll have only yourself to blame.”

“This is absolutely outrageous,” said Eddins, his voice rising into one of controlled fury. He stood up again, placing his hands palms down on the table leaning closer to Books and Sutter. “You'll be hearing from my lawyer before your breakfast has a chance to digest.”

“Neil, shut up and sit down for a minute,” said Sutter.

Eddins sat, his facial expression conveying shock at Sutter's tone and choice of words. Telling arguably the most powerful man in Kane County to sit down and shut up took guts. It also bordered on political suicide. Books was certain that this kind of insult was something Eddins was not used to, nor was he the kind of man to simply forgive and forget.

And Sutter wasn't finished yet. “I'm disappointed in you, Neil. We've been friends for a long time, or so I thought. Right now, I don't have time for this malarkey. You need to answer our questions and answer them truthfully. And if I find out you lied to us about your relationship with Darby Greenbriar or anything else, I promise you that I'll do everything in my power to see that you're charged with obstruction of justice. Am I making myself clear?”

Eddins nodded slowly, glaring at Sutter, his eyes tiny slits. He was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “All right,” he finally said. “I spent Sunday morning at church with members of my family. We got home shortly after noon. I remained at home the rest of the day working in my office. Around four o'clock the wife and I drove to Becky's home for a family dinner. My son, Alex, and his wife attended as did Boyd and his family. We went home around eight-thirty. Satisfied?”

“That's all we wanted you to tell us,” said Books.

Sutter added. “Anything else you want to tell us about your relationship with Darby Greenbriar?”

Eddins glanced at Sutter, then at Books, and then back again at Sutter before answering. “What if, say, just for the sake of argument that I did have a brief fling with Darby Greenbriar. If I were to admit that to you, would you promise to hold that information in confidence?”

“We would have absolutely no reason to release that kind of information to anyone,” said Sutter, “unless we discover that you're somehow involved in David's murder, and then all bets are off. But you also need to understand that I don't control the press. If they dig long enough and deep enough, who knows what they'll come up with? It's a crap shoot. That's all I can say.”

Eddins considered that momentarily and then proceeded to confirm what Books and Sutter already suspected. He admitted having an affair with Darby that had lasted for most of the past year. Initially, their paths had crossed at contentious land use functions and county commission meetings. They had become increasingly friendly when they served together on a planning committee for Kanab's annual Western Legends Festival. There was instant chemistry between them. Their intimate trysts had occurred away from the small town of Kanab in St. George, Page, and, on occasion, Las Vegas.

Eddins vehemently denied any involvement in David's murder. He insisted that neither he nor Darby had ever discussed leaving their respective spouses. From his perspective, the relationship with Darby was a dalliance, a fling, that both realized had no long-term future.

By the time Eddins had finished describing his relationship with Darby Greenbriar, Books was ready to jump across the table and pound his smug face into pulp. At least Books understood his own anger, or thought he did anyway. Eddins' behavior mirrored what his soon-to-be ex-wife had done to him and what his father had repeatedly done to his mother throughout their marriage. The light-hearted rationale was all too common: What's so bad about a harmless little bout of sport fucking? After all, boys will be boys. It's only an innocent fling, no commitment required, no harm, no foul. Books had heard it all before.