The Watchman (20 page)

“That may take some time, and the police will be doing most of the work—they have all the resources. And the authorities are still looking for me. That limits my mobility somewhat at present. I'm not trying to talk myself out of a job, just want you to know my limitations.”

Powerful men aren't always good listeners. Not so with Lincoln Armstrong. He gave his full attention—heard and evaluated each word.

Armstrong pushed his chair back and walked to the hearth. He stood gazing into the flames. After a moment, he turned and faced me. “As you know, my experience with law enforcement leaves much to be desired. I'd like you to stay on the case.”

“If that's what you want, I'll keep on it until this situation is resolved to your satisfaction.”

He braced one elbow on the mantel and nodded. “Good. Then it's settled. You've gathered more information in a few weeks than the police did in three years.” There was a chill in his gaze, a well of pain that ran deep into his soul. “I can't get my life back until I know what happened to Abby.”

When the food arrived, the waiter placed a napkin on my lap, cracked the lobster, cut it into small bites, and did everything but feed me. While we ate, I spent the better part of lunch describing in detail the meeting with Goldie.

Obviously anxious to return to the office, Armstrong rose after the meal ended.

We exited the private room and stepped into the corridor.

A voice behind me called, “Noah, Noah Adams.”

Visions of flashing blue lights and handcuffs seared my brain as I turned. There stood Jake Stein, with a huge smile on his face. My heart began to pump blood again. Jake glanced at my companion, visibly impressed. I hastily introduced the two men, and Armstrong excused himself. He hurried to the lobby and back to work.

Jake inclined his head toward Armstrong's disappearing form. “Why don't you ever bring me clients like that?”

“Because he keeps a battery of attorneys on staff.”

Jake shrugged and looked up at me. “Where are you staying?” He wagged his hand. “Don't tell me where you moved to…I'm better off not knowing.”

Jake followed me to valet parking. While we walked, I told Jake about my brush with the low-life in the alley.

“Any idea who set him on you?”

“I'm sure Harry London gave the marching orders. The thug's only interest was Cody's whereabouts.”

Small lines formed at the corner of Jake's eyes. “Well, take care of yourself, kid. My life would be infinitely boring without you around.”

“I'm touched by your concern. Any news on Rachel's situation?”

“Without the jailbreak charges, I could get everything she wants from Harry London. And if the federal boys find her, I'll have to go with what I've got and pray for a jury of battered women.”

We reached the exit. “You coming or going?”

He stopped beside me, searched his pocket, and produced his valet ticket. “I'm headed home. Met some old partners here for lunch.”

We handed our stubs to the attendant. While we waited for the cars to appear, I told him about Thornton's offer to give me the London security tapes.

Jake turned toward me in slow motion, mouth agape. “You've got to be kidding me.”

I shook my head.

“Any way we could steal them?”

I contrived a shocked expression. “You, an officer of the court, are asking me to steal evidence? Besides, I haven't a clue where Thornton might've hidden them. Can't say I didn't think of that myself but dismissed it. If those disks disappeared, he'd know who snatched them. That kind of trouble I don't need.”

Jake released a deep breath. “Yeah, it sounded too good to be true. That would make my job too easy. What I wouldn't give to have those puppies though. I could make a jury of terrorists weep.”

His BMW and the Jeep appeared at the curb. Jake opened the driver's door of his Beemer and called to me. “Hey, you plan to keep my Jeep?”

I laughed. “Yeah. I kind of like it.”

He rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “Good, I'll send you a bill.”

 



 

Hebron, Wyoming

For obvious reasons, I couldn't go to the police with the Marshall information. So I did the next best thing. That afternoon, I called Amos to meet me at a hangout for hunters outside of town.

Amos arrived ten minutes after me and settled into the seat across the table. The waitress placed mission jars filled with soft drinks on our table. Later she returned with chips and salsa. Waiters, with platters of sizzling fajitas and steaming enchiladas, passed our table and Amos's gaze followed the food. It was authentic Tex-Mex fare, and it was good eating.

“Order if you want to. I'm good with the appetizers.” I dunked a chip in the salsa while he ordered. Then I told him about Ben Marshall being alive.

Amos's black eyes widened. “How'd you find that out?”

“Great detective work.”

He hammered a fist against his chest.

I gave him a break. “Actually, the information came when I ran into Goldie Marks.” I explained how I'd met her and that she spotted Marshall in San Francisco.

Amos shook his head. “You're on the side of the angels, my friend.” He hesitated. “Guess I shouldn't sell you short. You're the one who found the Marks woman. None of our guys ever checked Abigail Armstrong's past. They got hung up on the husband as her killer.”

I shrugged. “Your guys went with the odds, and they were right. Just picked the wrong spouse. I don't care who gets the credit for discovering Ben Marshall's resurrection as long as we find the guy.”

I slid John Tyler's number at San Quentin across the table. “Tyler will confirm everything in case your boss needs proof. If you speak to Tyler, he knows me as Sam Spade.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

Amos rolled his eyes and then shook his head. “I won't ask.”

 

 

 

 

17

 

Bridger Mountain Lodge

I'd spent yesterday evening tightening hinges, unsticking windows and putting washers in faucets at the lodge. Paying for my keep. I needed the down time to unwind and work the kinks out of my mind. Manual labor cleared the cobwebs.

When the phone rang, I'd just taken the last bite of my fourth blueberry pancake. I reached across the red-checked oilcloth, grabbed my cell phone, and mumbled, “Hello.”

A woman's voice asked, “Noah Adams?”

I swallowed the mouthful “Yes.”

“Mr. Adams, my name is Barbara Nelson. I'm Goldie's sister. She told me you're a detective...I found your number in her phone book” She inhaled an audible breath. “Goldie returned to California yesterday to see her insurance agent.” There was a pause. “She's been depressed over the loss of the antiques since she came home. I told her to handle it over the phone, but she refused...you can't reason with Goldie when she gets in one of her moods. I'm terrified something happened to her. I tried all day yesterday and this morning to reach her. She's not answering her phone. That's not like Goldie.”

All the horrible possibilities ran through my mind. Why didn't she listen to my warning?
Forcing a calm into my voice, I asked, “Did you try her friend, Judy?”

“She hasn't seen Goldie.”

I took a last gulp of coffee. “I'll check it out. She probably just switched off her phone. I'll fly back to Frisco today.” Even I didn't believe what I just said.

The line became silent for a moment. “Thank you. I'd go...but I wouldn't know where to begin. I really appreciate—”

“Don't worry. I'll call when I find her.”

I hadn't planned to return to California so soon, but Goldie had placed herself in more danger than she could possibly imagine. And if I found her safe, I intended to send her a whopping bill for my services. I charge a higher fee for stupid. “Barbara, if you hear from Goldie in the meantime, call me right away.” My anger at Goldie was tempered by my fear for what she might have wandered into.

I really should move to Salt Lake City. I'd spent more time in their airport than I had in Hebron.

Three hours later, I arrived at the terminal and caught the earliest flight out. My frequent flyer miles were going up faster than my blood pressure.

 



 

San Francisco, California

In Frisco, I rented a car with the credit card Armstrong sent and found the nearest police station to Goldie's condominium. I had no reason to believe the California justice system had me on their radar, and the old Sam Spade ID would ensure I kept it that way.

Visitor parking contained only one empty spot. I slid the sedan into it and killed the motor. The building sat low and sleek, palm trees and red and yellow flowers hugged the structure's perimeter. Not the Taj Mahal, but compared to Hebron's police headquarters, it was a giant step forward. Inside, the government-issue furniture appeared new, not like Hebron's rejects from a WWII clearance sale.

The desk sergeant gazed into his computer monitor. I cleared my throat. When he looked up, I handed him my business card and asked to speak to a detective. He pointed me to one of the colorful chairs against the wall.

Soon, a trim Latina ventured out. We exchanged introductions, and Rena Chavez led me back to her cubicle. Two small boys smiled at me from a silver frame on her desk. With only a trace of an accent, she offered me a seat.

I explained about the fire and told her Goldie's sister hadn't been able to contact Goldie. Chavez pulled a yellow legal pad from a drawer and took down the information.

I leaned forward. “I think she may be in serious trouble, Detective Chavez. I'm sure a man named Ben Marshall is responsible for the explosion that destroyed her townhouse on—”

Marshall's name made her eyes widen. She sat up straight in her chair and gave me her full attention. “You think Benjamin Marshall might be responsible for your friend's disappearance? What makes you think so?”

“I can't prove it, but Goldie is the person who identified Marshall, and her condo burned to the ground shortly thereafter. You can verify this with the fire marshal who filed the report.” I gave her Goldie's description and the color, make, and model of her car.

Chavez stood and shook my hand. “Thanks for coming in. We'll put this information out on your friend. Where can I reach you?”

Her touch told me she was just what she seemed to be, an effective law enforcement officer and working mother. But suspicious, very suspicious.

“I came here straight from the airport. Haven't booked a hotel yet.” I gave her my card, wrote my cell number on the back, and left to find accommodations for the night.

My stomach growled. It had been a while since the blueberry pancakes. I grabbed a bite at the coffee shop next to the hotel.

The chicken sandwich tasted like rubber. It was probably my anxiety, not the food. I couldn't sit by and do nothing while the police put Goldie in their queue behind a hundred other missing persons. Bureaucratic wheels turned too slow. I needed to find her
now
.

Leaving the unfinished sandwich on the table, I hurried across the parking lot to my car.

My mind ran through all the possibilities, and it occurred to me Goldie could have returned to the condo to try and salvage some of her treasures.

It was as good as any place to start.

I activated the auto's GPS and drove to the charred ruins of what was left of Goldie's home.

The security guard I'd met earlier was on duty at the gate. I described Goldie and her car. The guard leaned closer to the open window. “Yeah, Ms. Marks came by earlier today. But she left around one thirty. Said she might be back later.”

“Did she mention where she was headed?”

The guard shook her head. “Sorry.”

I asked for permission to look around, and the gate slid open. In the dim afternoon light, the property damage looked worse than it had at my last visit.

The strong smell of smoke and chemicals mixed with damp air burned my nostrils. The sky grew dark and waves of fog washed in from the sea, chilling the air. I sauntered around the deserted lot and hoped to find something that would suggest where Goldie had gone.

I kicked the mounds of ashes with the toe of my shoe without any idea of what I was looking for.

In a spot near two scorched bushes lay a red bird from her Christmas tree and a brass cherub doorknocker—untouched by the explosion. What were the odds?

Guilt gnawed my gut. Goldie got into this mess because of me. She hadn't known about Marshall's supposed death until I told her. That knowledge may have cost her life. Fear for her safety welled inside my chest and wouldn't let go. Goldie exuded an almost inextinguishable vibrancy.
Please, God, don't let that light go out
.

Where to turn next?

Back in the car, I drove down the hill toward the city. The gray mist thickened making the journey more hazardous. The mountain on one side, a steep drop off on the other. Mind preoccupied, I almost missed a hairpin turn that loomed unexpectedly through the fog, and I stomped the brakes.

Wrong thing to do on a slick highway. The tires skidded on the damp pavement and hurled the car into the mountain wall.

Annoyed at my stupidity, I jumped out and checked the right front fender. It rested resolutely against the wall of dirt, some of which dumped onto the car's hood. The fog and lack of light impeded my inspection, but the automobile appeared unharmed. I exhaled a deep breath and scurried back to the driver's side door, expecting a motorist to rear-end me any second from around the blind turn.

I flung open the drivers-side door when a double-line of black skid marks in the northbound lane caught my attention. The tire tracks ran onto the narrow shoulder.