Defiled: The Sequel to Nailed Featuring John Tall Wolf (A Ron Ketchum Mystery Book 2) (11 page)

“Not too much. Would have be a lot more if … you know.”

“The bomb went boom and I made a sudden departure?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, that would have been news. Right now, we’re at about the level of when the FBI finds a wannabe jihadist and sets him up with a phony bomb, lets him try to set it off.”

“Yeah, they’re good at that,” Keely said.

The words were complimentary. The look she directed at her female counterpart said Benjamin should be plying her trade in Washington or New York right now.

“We do our best with whatever task we’re given.” Benjamin replied, looking at Keely.

In other words: Fuck off, honey.

Ron and Tall Wolf kept straight faces.

Annie said, “Well, I’ll let you know if you need to watch out for reporters.”

Ron thanked Annie and let her make her escape.

He opened the envelope with the photos of Hale Tibbot that Sergeant Stanley had sent his way. He put them up on the white board positioned at the far end of the conference table. The top row featured shots from the crime scene. The bottom row exhibited photos culled from the public record.

Ron saw what he was looking for immediately. He took a post-mortem crime scene close-up and centered it beneath the two rows. To the right of that shot, he put a photo of Tibbot that had been taken at a costume ball of some sort. The late real estate tycoon wore a narrow mask over his eyes, but the rest of his face was easily recognizable. To the left of the center photo, Ron placed a shot that had the air of a CEO’s portrait, all business and steely eyed intensity.

Turning to Keely, Ron asked, “What do you see?”

“The death picture and the party shot have the same hairstyle on the vic; the other one has the part on the other side. It’s a more severe look. Meant to intimidate,” she said.

Tall Wolf added, “The business look is the norm. The party shot is the exception.”

Ron offered Abra Benjamin the chance to comment.

She gestured at them to continue.

Keely gave a shake of her head and contributed a further thought.

“No way the killer restyled the vic’s hair.”

“Right,” Tall Wolf said. “The way we think he killed Tibbot, he must have mussed up the man’s hair.”

Ron articulated the logical conclusion.

“Someone brushed or combed Tibbot’s hair after he died. But I don’t get the feeling it was Glynnis Crowther.” Ron turned to Benjamin. “Ms. Crowther was Mr. Tibbot’s housekeeper.” Looking back at Keely and Tall Wolf, he continued, “What I think, there was a person who was in the house at the time of the murder. Maybe someone who saw the killer come and go.”

“But didn’t expose his or her presence to the killer,” Tall Wolf said.

Keely gave Abra Benjamin another look, as if challenging her to say something.

The FBI special agent chose to remain silent.

Keely turned to Ron and Tall Wolf. “You look at how neat the late Mr. Tibbot’s hair was before he got shorn, it’s clear his hair had been restyled. If Tibbot was gay or bisexual, the gesture might have been made by a gay man. But if you look at the picture of him in costume, it looks like that’s a woman’s hand on his shoulder.”

The photo had been cropped to leave only Tibbot in view, but the hand on his shoulder did look feminine. Ron called Sergeant Stanley, described the photo in question and asked if the sergeant could find an uncropped version.

“Right away,” came the response.

Ron asked Keely, “Would a woman make that mistake? Putting the part on the wrong side.”

Keely deferred to Tall Wolf who said, “Maybe that was where she wanted to see it all along.”

Keely nodded and gave Tall Wolf an approving smile. She asked, “Do we know if Tibbot was single?”

“He was,” Ron said, “and if he wasn’t straight, he at least liked to play the part in public. He had female companions at campaign appearances.”

“Well, maybe he also had someone in his life who was more discreet. Say a married woman,” Keely said.

“If not a married woman,” Tall Wolf said, “maybe someone who worked for him.”

“Or maybe the answer is a lot simpler,” Keely said, looking as though an idea had just occurred to her.

Ron and Tall Wolf waited for her to explain.

When she didn’t, they both understood why.

She didn’t want to share with Abra Benjamin.

Sergeant Stanley, stepping out of character, was slow in providing the photo he’d promised to produce quickly. Maybe he was being intentionally unforthcoming, too. Ron turned to Special Agent Benjamin.

“Have you had the chance to check into your hotel yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Hilton.”

Keely let just the hint of a smile show. The Hilton was okay. In Goldstrike, it was probably better than that. But no way would Benjamin’s lodgings be anywhere nearly as swank as hers.

Chalk one up for the local copper.

Ron said, “Would you like me to drop you off there?”

“Are we done here?”

“I think so. For the moment.”

“Then I’ll take the ride.”

Benjamin gave Keely and Tall Wolf a farewell nod, but no one said goodbye.

On the way to the hotel, Benjamin told Ron, “Ms. Powell doesn’t like me.”

“She thinks you’re holding back. I think Special Agent Tall Wolf feels the same.”

“And you?”

“Well, you told me how helpful you’re going to be.”

“I was just trying not to be the pushy FBI type from Washington.”

“That’s one possibility,” Ron said.

“What’s another?”

“You’re willing to listen to anything useful we might think of, but you want to keep your good ideas to yourself.”

“I’m really not like Francis Horgan. A local homicide doesn’t interest me.”

“We’ll see,” Ron told her.

“I’m here about that bomb you found.”

“Oh, well. I’ve turned that investigation over to Tall Wolf.”

Benjamin’s skeptical look said she didn’t believe him.

“You’re not going to make things easy for me,” she said.

“We’ll see what we can work out,” Ron told her.

An hour before sunset, Ron took one of the police department’s patrol craft out onto Lake Adeline. He’d asked Keely if she’d like to come along, but she said she wanted to go for a walk around town, get a feel for the place, maybe spot someone wearing a T-shirt that said, “Bad guy. Arrest me now.” If things weren’t that obvious, she’d told Ron, maybe she’d just see some creep whose looks she didn’t like, follow him back to his den of iniquity.

Keely liked to joke, but there was some truth to her jest.

Goldstrike wasn’t a gated community.

It would be good to know of someone who stood out for the wrong reasons.

As long as the cop involved didn’t get accused of profiling.

Ron had asked John Tall Wolf if he’d like to go for a cruise. He’d said he had enough of the lake from his previous night on the water. Besides that, his boss had just arrived in town. He’d have been happy to blow her off for a good reason but that would just delay the inevitable.

Ron asked, “You think maybe she wanted someone like Special Agent Benjamin to wind up here?”

John gave the question some thought. “Maybe, if she thought some hard charging feeb might take me down a notch.”

Ron laughed. “You said you wouldn’t want to be in my position. I think I feel the same way about you.”

The chief told the special agent about Abra Benjamin wanting to eat his lunch.

Tall Wolf said, “She can eat whatever she wants. What interests me is doing the work.”

Ron nodded. He liked that.

He could have called Benjamin and invited her along for a sunset tour. Only he didn’t trust her, not yet, and he’d lied to her about turning the bomb investigation over to Tall Wolf. Lying to a federal agent was a crime, a favorite avenue of prosecutors to obtain a conviction when they otherwise might come up empty. Ron had always thought the right to lie, except under oath, was a part of free speech.

Not that he’d want to use a Constitutional argument if he had to defend himself in court.

The Supreme Court had broadened not narrowed the federal government’s claim on honest statements from anyone speaking to its minions. Highly ironic, Ron thought, when you considered how many whoppers the White House and Congress foisted on the public.

If Benjamin ever called him on lying to her, he’d cover his jaunt on Lake Adeline with a claim he’d just been going about his normal duties, serving and protecting his community. He liked his chance of that playing well with a jury. He was sure he’d have Mayor Steadman in his corner.

Assuming Clay hadn’t been convicted of playing a role in Hale Tibbot’s death.

That was a thought that continued to torment Ron. Whether Clay or his own father had anything to do with Tibbot’s murder. Maybe the whole idea of Clay wanting to do a movie based on the life of Walter Ketchum was a hoax, something that might be validated only by the writing of a screenplay that would never go anywhere.

Homeless scripts outnumbered people without shelter in Hollywood.

Any L.A. copper knew that. Even an old timer like Walt.

Maybe the real reason Clay had brought Walt to Goldstrike was to help him find a hitman. Sure, if Walt had killed Tibbot, he would have done it with a gun, but maybe the old man knew someone who worked in a kinkier style.

Or maybe his father only knew a guy who knew a guy. Could be neither Walt nor Clay knew the name of the killer or cared how Tibbot met his end. The result, not the means, was what mattered. If Walt had set the machinery in motion, he’d have held up his end of the bargain.

Ron’s old man had told him how much money Clay had given him, allegedly for participating in the development of a movie. The figure was a real jaw-dropper. Chances were if a contract killer was involved, he’d have hit the jackpot, too.

As far as hiding the blood money went, Hollywood accountants were the most creative people in town. They could make the national debt disappear in an afternoon, if they wanted. Nobody would ever connect Clay Steadman with a murder for hire.

Nobody would prove Walt Ketchum hadn’t found the hitman for Clay.

But if for some reason suspicions were ever raised, Ron thought, investigators would probably think
he
had a hand in Tibbot’s demise, too. Being close to his dad and the mayor. He might even have been scripted as the fall guy.

He didn’t want to think about that.

He turned his thoughts to pondering what the hell Tibbot’s killer had done with all the blood he’d taken from his victim, without spilling a drop of it. Six pints were a hell of a lot of blood. California and FDA regulations did not allow for compensation to blood donors; hadn’t permitted that for years. So it wasn’t like the killer could sell the stuff.

What did that leave?

Cooking with it?

Ron had heard of European recipes that used blood from farm animals. In the army, while stationed in Hawaii, he’d even heard that some Asian dishes used snake blood. He’d thought that was stomach turning. But human blood? That would be —

Damn. With the prevalence of vampires in popular culture and the suggestibility of cretins with minuscule IQs, would somebody actually mix human blood into their food or drink? The thought was revolting but …

He didn’t see a killer sophisticated enough to pull off a murder like Tibbot’s as someone so deranged he’d consume blood and pretend he was Bela Lugosi or whoever it was that played teenage vampires these days.

Still there had to be a reason the blood had been taken.

Or maybe it hadn’t been taken. Might have been flushed down a toilet. Right there in Tibbot’s house. Pour a gallon of household bleach in after the blood. Flush again. Who would ever know?

Ron decided to ask Officer Benny Marx, the department’s crime scene specialist, if there would be any way to detect blood in the plumbing of the Tibbot house. Then he tabled that matter, too, and looked at the other boaters out on the water with him.

Many of them waved when they saw him looking their way.

They were glad to have him out there.

Presumably ready to risk his ass for the town again, should the need present itself. Ron had thought that maybe the bomber wouldn’t want to risk taking the chance of being the only unauthorized boat on the lake after dark. At the very least, the cops would give chase. Whoever they caught, even if he was just a joker, would have his life turned inside out.

Maybe the better bet would be to do your dirty work while the sun was shining, pretend to be just one of the many innocent boaters on the lake. A bad guy would have to be subtle about his malice, but if he could manage that hiding in plain sight might be just the thing.

Ron didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously, and as the sun lowered every boater in sight headed back to their marinas. He didn’t know how long the community would put up with the boating curfew but for now the mayor’s edict appeared to be one hundred percent effective. The threat of incurring Clay Steadman’s wrath was still potent.

Ron brought the patrol craft’s bow about and headed for the police dock.

Keely Powell strolled along Lake Shore Drive in the last rays of daylight. The main commercial thoroughfare in Goldstrike wasn’t Rodeo Drive or even the Century City Mall. The town’s population was too small to pull in that concentration of name-brand boutiques. Still, there was enough opportunity for high-end consumption to tide the overprivileged over until they returned to greater hubs of self-indulgence.

The retired LAPD detective tried to decide if living in a high-altitude jewelry box like Goldstrike would drive her crazy within a week. Whole divisions of L.A. cops left town within days of retiring. Many of them headed to mountain communities, though usually not places as glitzy as Goldstrike. Just somewhere the air and water were clean and the predators got around on four legs instead of two.

She could understand why Ron Ketchum had come to Goldstrike. Clay Steadman had offered him not just a job but a chance at redemption. Ron had made the most of it, too. Catching the killer of Reverend Isaac Cardwell despite all the craziness that got in his way.

An old lady cursing his town.

A lawyer with a grudge taking another shot at him.

A mountain lion preying on the citizenry.

Keely was ready to drive up to Goldstrike right then and congratulate Ron. Only she thought he should have been the one to make contact. Invite her to come visit and celebrate. They’d been partners for six years. They’d shared everything but a bed.They might have shared that too if Ron had ever been able to make a clean break of it with Leilani.

He’d wanted kids; he’d told her so. Leilani had wanted her career as an actress, an idea that had seemed to be a joke, until she made it real very late in the day. The two of them had stuck together through the wrongful death suit brought against Ron by the family of Qadry Carter. Soon after that, Ron was gone. Off to the Sierra Nevada and Goldstrike.

He’d never thought to ask Keely if
she
might like to have kids.

That had hurt, and now it was too late for her. Most likely.

She’d told herself if she ever heard from Ron Ketchum again she’d close her door in his face. Drive away. Hang up on him. Never saying a word. Like he was a robocalling telemarketer. So when he finally did call and asked for help what had she done? She’d not only had talked to the SOB, she must have waited six whole hours before hitting the road and heading north while it was still dark out.

To see what she could do to help him. What a wuss.

But only up to a point.

No way she was going to work under him.

When they finally got into the sack together after all those years — that was great restraint, too, wasn’t it — she at least made sure she was on top.

Now, she was asking herself whether she could stand to live in this gilded bird cage.

She’d been born and raised in L.A. Bought her parents’ house on North Genesee Avenue after
they’d
left town. Moved to Naples, Florida for the slower pace of life. Well, she certainly wasn’t ready to slow down. The city was what she knew and she liked it. Walking over to the Diamond Bakery on Fairfax in the morning, getting her pastries, kaiser rolls and loaves of rye. Picking up her newspapers at Sheltham’s in the Farmer’s Market. Finding new books at the Beverly Hills Public Library. Sunning herself on the beach in Santa Monica.

If she
had
to go to the mountains, never a favorite destination, there was always Big Bear or Arrowhead. She didn’t need no stinking Goldstrike, and the sooner she told Ron Ketchum —

Well, that would have to wait until she let him know about the idea she’d had at the morgue. A notion of who might have combed Hale Tibbot’s hair so neatly. It was really a matter of answering a simple question: Who did the best job of combing anyone’s hair?

A hair stylist.

Say a woman who’d been cutting Tibbot’s hair for a while and had been trying to cajole him into adopting a style she thought suited him much better than his old look. Tall Wolf had figured that out right away. Maybe she should ask if
he’d
like to date her.

Nah, the fed had to be ten years younger than her.

Wouldn’t do to think of herself as a cougar.

Anyway, if the stylist was a looker, and more than a few were, Tibbot might have taken a personal interest in her. For recreational sex if nothing else. He might even have let her have her way about the new hairdo. Once. A harmless indulgence at a social gathering where he’d been wearing a costume and a mask.

And the redo at the scene of the crime?

A final gesture of affection after finding Tibbot’s body.

What else did you happen to see, honey, Keely wondered.

After Ron had taken Abra Benjamin to her hotel and the coast was clear, Sergeant Stanley had brought in the picture Ron had requested, the one that showed the woman who had her hand on Tibbot’s shoulder. She was, big surprise, a blonde with a sculpted figure. Her face was hidden forehead to nose by a costume mask. Marie Antoinette, Keely thought.

Keely had no sooner decided that she could never live in Goldstrike than she saw a photograph in the window of a hair salon called Locks & Bangs. Corny, Keely thought, but more upmarket than chain-store stylists. There were three photos in the window. Gorgeous young women in your favorite flavors: blonde, brunette and redhead.

Under the photos, a sign said: Our Stylists.

Veronika, Jolie and Siobhan, respectively.

If Keely wasn’t mistaken, Veronika had the same mouth and jaw line as the masked woman with her hand on Hale Tibbot’s shoulder. Had the salon been open for business, Keely would have stepped inside, asked if Veronika had the time to give her a cut, taken the opportunity to see if she had a picture of herself with Hale Tibbot at her workstation.

Making do, she used her cell phone to take a photo of Veronika’s portrait. She thought it would be good enough for a side-by-side comparison with the picture Sergeant Stanley had turned up. Who knew, maybe the Goldstrike PD had the facial recognition software to do a digital identification.