SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) (10 page)

CHAPTER 16 - SAVE THE TROUT

Detective John Tyrone was seated behind his desk, sitting straight up with his elbows on the desk and his hands clenched in front of him. He gave every indication of being someone waiting to do something he’d been told to do but didn’t like. He was a solidly built, good-looking guy maybe a couple of years older than me. Even though he was sitting, I could estimate he was about my height. His head was shaved and his brown uniform was so pressed and starched it looked like the creases had creases. He wore a Glock high up on his left hip. I resisted the urge to give him a Nazi salute. I spotted a small tattoo on his right forearm. It was an Army unit designation, but I couldn’t make it out. He didn’t stand. I stuck out my hand anyway and said my name. He hesitated, then reached across the desk and gave me a perfunctory shake. He didn’t tell me his name, but since I knew it and it was on a black nameplate in front of him I didn’t let that bother me. He didn’t ask me to sit. That did bother me. So I sat. That bothered him. Something told me there was going to be a lot of mutual bothering over the next few minutes. I thought I’d make an effort to break the ice, anyway.

“What was your outfit,” I asked, nodding at his tat.

He eyed me coldly. Then he told me. I told him what mine had been.

“I was an M.P.,” he said. “You Special Ops guys were nothing but trouble to us. Thought you were God’s gift. Spent half my time locking up you assholes.”

Well, so much for comradely discourse.

“Look, let’s cut the friendly chit-chat,” I said. “I’d like to ask you about the Salazar murder.”

“Confidential.”

That was a new one to me.

“It’s been in the papers. And on TV.”

“Then go read a newspaper and watch TV.”

“Didn’t your boss tell you to see me?”

“Yeah. I see you. She didn’t tell me I had to talk to you.”

“I thought that was probably implied.”

“You thought wrong. My ‘boss’ should have been more specific.”

Tyrone said ‘boss’ so dismissively I suspected he didn’t like Noyce. I wondered whether it was because she was a woman. Or black. Or both.

“Why are you being such a pain in the ass? Maybe we can help each other out.”

“I’d love to help you out,” he said, nodding at the window behind him.

He actually smiled at the witticism. Maybe if I slapped my knee and guffawed, he’d warm up to me.

“I don’t know how to guffaw,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I might be able to manage a chuckle, but even that would be forced.”

He gave me what I presumed was his hard stare. I stared back at him. I’m a world-class starer. The secret is to think of something else. I started to mentally list the Yankee players who were too injured to play. I knew that could take me into the night. Finally, he blinked.

“You got a permit for that piece under your jacket?” he said, trying to regain the high ground he’d just lost.

I nodded.

He smiled.

“California isn’t reciprocal with any other states,” he sneered. “So you probably brought it out here illegally. Or got it locally. Either way, it’s a felony. So, hand it over. You need a lawyer.”

Tyrone was the first cop to roust me about my gun. The Worcester detectives hadn’t. He was just dying to lock me up. Instead of giving him my gun, I pulled out my wallet and opened it to my latest credentials. I threw it on his desk.

“Read it and weep, Kojak.”

He did. Not the weeping part, which was a bit disappointing.

“How the hell did you swing this?”

“I always buy a table at the Policeman’s Ball.”

“Goddamn New York cops.” He threw my wallet back to me. “Well, I still don’t like private investigators, which is all you are, despite that fancy I.D. All you jerks do is fuck up cases. Why don’t you stick to peeking in windows trying to catch homos corn holing each other.”

I smiled and pointed a finger at him.

“Gee. I thought I recognized you.”

His face got very red. He stood up so quickly his chair fell over.

“Get the hell out of here.”

Another cop stuck his head in the door.

“You OK, John?”

“I think your murder may be tied to three others,” I said.

That seemed to get Tyrone’s attention. He dropped his arm, and most of the attitude.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Bobby. No problem.”

The other cop looked at me. Another hard stare. They probably taught it in the police academy.

Tyrone righted his chair and sat back down.

“Keep talking,” he said reluctantly. “Tell me about them.”

I looked at him and said nothing.

“And I’ll fill you in about the one here in Windsor,” he finally said.

“And if I nose around some,” I said, “and people get annoyed, I can tell them to call you and you can say what a swell fellow I am.”

“I can force you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

He knew I had him. His mouth actually turned up in what I assumed was almost a smile.

“Yeah. OK.” He reached into the left-hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad. “Spill it.”

“All I have on the ones in Denver and Chicago I got off the Internet. Those are my next stops. The one in Massachusetts is the most recent. Just came from there.”

I told him everything I knew. Gave him Broderson’s phone number. He wrote everything down on the pad. When I finished he looked up and said, “So, basically you and the locals cops have shit. Sounds like you were their best suspect.”

“And a dandy one at that, until I proved that at the time of the murder I was staking out a motel love nest, which should make you happy. But things may pick up now with the Feds on board.”

“The serial killer thing.”

“Yeah.”

“If it is a serial killer, you’ll never get him if he stops killing.”

“They rarely do.”

“You clear the victim’s family?”

“Not entirely.”

He looked startled.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s only a brother, who disappeared years ago. Might be dead for all I know. He’s probably not a viable suspect anyway. Too much time has passed. No indication of contact between them. And what would be the motive? Have to be pretty powerful for a brother to kill his sister. That kind of thing is very rare and it usually involves a domestic dispute, a crime of passion. This was cold-blooded murder. No. I think we have a serial killer.”

Tyrone nodded.

“Looks that way. But are they at least looking for the brother?”

“I’m sure they are. But nothing so far. I wouldn’t know where to start. He dropped off the grid.”

“What did you tell Noyce?”

“Just what I’ve told you.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Don’t you get along?”

“She’s OK, I guess. For a political appointee.”

Now, I got it.

“Affirmative action, huh.” I thought I’d play along. “That’s a kick in the ass.”

“You better believe it.”

He realized he might have said too much.

“
Not that it bothers me, mind you. I’m close to putting in my papers. Then I’m out of here.”

Gee, everyone seemed like they were ready to retire. I thought about my IRA account. Oh, well.

“The Salazar case?” I prompted.

Tyrone went over to the file cabinet I’d seen him bending over when I walked by earlier. He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder and handed it to me.

“You can read it in here and make notes. But it doesn’t leave this room. You have 10 minutes.”

He started to walk out.

“I’d like your impressions, too,” I said.

He seemed annoyed. I think it was his regular look.

“Salazar was found lying on his back next to Pomo Indian Creek, about a mile from his church. It’s a pretty good trout stream. His fly rod was next to him, still in his hand. He still had his creel around his waist.” Tyrone paused. “There were two trout in it, both legal size.”

Tyrone struck me as the kind of cop who regretted that the poor priest was dead and couldn’t be fined for a gaming violation. For my part, I felt an affinity for a fellow fisherman. Especially one who seemed to know what he was doing.

“He had been stabbed once, right through the ticker,” Tyrone went on in his monotone. “Sharp, cylindrical blade, probably an ice pick. At first, we thought it might be gang related.”

“You have a gang problem in Sonoma County?”

“Not for a while. And we aim to keep it that way. But his parish is full of Mexicans, lots of illegals. They work the farms and vineyards. Who knows what those people are up to? But it was a dead end. Then I thought it might be a sex killing. But the Mex priest was apparently not into that kind of thing. He kept it in his cassock, or whatever they call those things they wear.”

I was getting awfully tired of Tyrone.

“Did you check out the local Save the Trout chapter? Tree-huggers can be violent.”

“You got 10 minutes,” he said, walking out.

“Black, no sugar,” I called after him.

“Eat me.”

It didn’t take me 10 minutes to realize that I wasn’t going to get much of anything from the Salazar file. Not that Tyrone had done a bad job. On the contrary, his investigation had been comprehensive, even obsessive. He may not have liked “the Mex priest” but it appeared he took the murder seriously. He hadn’t been kidding about checking out a gang angle. There was an old newspaper clipping describing a 1996 beating and robbery of a teenage boy by members of the Nortenos-affiliated Varrio West Side Windsor gang. The Nortenos, the clipping explained, was a Hispanic gang powerful inside many of California’s prisons. There were a couple of crime scene photos in the file. They showed Father Salazar, a small, dark-haired man with bushy eyebrows, lying on the bank just as Tyrone had described him. The priest had been discovered by two other fishermen working the other side of the creek, who called 911.

The dead man was dressed like a trout fisherman, right down to his rubber waders and yellow, wide-brim fedora with several trout flies attached to its black band. Tyrone noted that Salazar was on his back with his head pointing toward the creek. The lack of expression on his face, the fly rod in his hand and a pattern of footprints leading from the water, strongly suggested that someone may have called to him while he was wading. He then presumably walked out of the water to meet his killer, who had obliterated his own footprints. Tyrone speculated that it was someone the priest knew, perhaps one of his parishioners. But so far he had been unable to find anyone with a motive. No motive, no weapon, no witnesses.

“Time’s up,” Tyrone said walking back into his office. He didn’t have any coffee. “Solve the case, yet?”

“You said you looked at the sex angle, but only from the perspective of this single killing. If someone is targeting Catholic clergy in general, it might not have anything to do with one priest’s lifestyle. Maybe you should cast a wider net.”

“Anything else, pal?”

“Yeah. If it is a serial killer, then obviously Father Salazar was the first of the four. That could mean that the killer lived here. Maybe still lives here. Maybe by comparing the dates of the other murders with the times someone local left town, you could come up with some suspects.”

“How? By car, train, airplane? Lots of ways to leave town. Sonoma is a big county. People travel in and out all the time.”

“I’d just do the major airports. San Francisco, Denver, Chicago and Boston. They’re the most likely. You’re a cop. You can probably get passenger manifests and check them against the dates, see if you spot the same name.”

“And if this alleged serial killer has moved?”

“Then you won’t find anything. But you’d have covered one more base.”

I could tell Tyrone didn’t like being told how to do his job. But he wrote something down on his pad.

“Anything else?”

“No. Thanks for your time, Detective.” 

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

CHAPTER 17 - GATES OF HEAVEN

Windsor, where Father Salazar was killed, is only seven miles from Santa Rosa, 15 minutes up Rte. 101. I checked into a Holiday Inn Express and asked for a dinner recommendation. It is wine country and I was hopeful. The desk clerk directed me to the Harvest House, a restaurant attached to a working vineyard. In honor of Father Salazar, I ordered the Trout Almondine accompanied by roasted potatoes, garden vegetables and a glass of the house white, a very good Viognier, a wine I don’t often see on the East Coast. One of my rules is to avoid house wines when possible, except when the wine is produced by the people feeding you. There is little chance that they will serve you anything that they aren’t proud of. Then, exhausted by travel, I went back to my room and promptly fell asleep.

I got up early the next morning and started my first search. For a Dunkin’ Donuts. But before I was successful, I came across a place actually called “Mom’s Diner.” I have an unwritten rule. Never pass up a “Mom’s Diner,” especially for breakfast. There may even be a law against it. I suddenly was ravenous. The trout the night before had been wonderful, but, after all, it was a trout, not Moby Dick. I went into Mom’s and ordered the $3.33 special: three eggs, three sausages and three buttermilk pancakes. And lots of coffee. I consoled myself with the knowledge that my motel had a decent gym.

My next stop was the Catholic Church where Father Salazar was pastor, Puertas del Cielo, Gates of Heaven. It was a one-story wooden building that could have passed for a barn but for the large cross on its roof. A mass was ending, with a couple of dozen people streaming out to the parking lot. A few elderly women, but mostly working men in overalls and ball caps who piled into pick-up trucks. I went into the church, which had an ornate altar that clashed with the simple wooden benches where the congregation sat. The only person left inside was an old woman lighting some candles by the rail near the altar. Real candles, not the electric ones that I find somewhat sacrilegious, as if I have a right to even think that. I asked her where the priest who served the mass was. She didn’t speak English and my Spanish really only works in Mexican restaurants where I use the menu as a crib. But I got through to her and she pointed out a window at a small trailer.

“Sacristía.”

I thanked her and started walking away. Then I turned back and put $20 in the collection box and lit a candle for Ronnie. The old woman smiled at me and said, “Eso es un buen chico.”

When I got to the sacristy the door was closed. I knocked and a white-haired man wearing a Roman collar opened the door. I had my fingers crossed that he spoke some English. I needn’t have worried.

“What can I do for you, laddie?”

“Thank God,” I said.

“Yes, you should, every day.”

I introduced myself.

“I’m Father Michael Walsh.

“Are you the new pastor?”

“No. I’m from Seattle, by way of County Mayo and Baltimore.” He still had the hint of a brogue. “I’m just filling in at Gates of Heaven until they find a permanent replacement for Father Salazar, God rest his soul.”

“It’s a long drive, isn’t it?”

He laughed.

“Come on in, and I’ll explain. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. Black.”

The interior of the trailer was sparse but spotless. There was a pot of coffee percolating in an electric pot sitting atop a small counter by the sink. I had noticed an electric cable running from the church to the trailer. The coffee smelled delicious. Percolated coffee is far superior to the drip kind in my estimation, especially when fresh. A woman was on the far side of the trailer buffing a table.

“That’s Carmelita,” Walsh said as he brought over two mugs of black coffee. “She keeps things shipshape here and in the church. Wonderful woman.” We had sat at a small folding table. There was a plate of cookies on the table. “She made these. They’re called galletas de azúcar.”

I was about to take one, just to be polite, when he translated.

“Sugar cookies.” 

“I’m fine,” I said, quickly sipping my coffee. It was fresh. “You were going to tell me how you wound up here.”

“It’s very simple. This parish is poor, as you can tell by the facilities, but serves a devoted flock. But given the shortage of priests, it may take some time for a permanent replacement to be found. The nearest Catholic Church is only 10 miles away, but that would still pose a problem for many of our parishioners, who are quite set in their ways.” He looked at me. “And, sad to say, it might pose a problem to the people who go to that other church.”

His meaning was clear. Those other “Christians” might not be too happy to find themselves in a pew next to the people who tended their lawns and worked their fields.

“Someone should probably tell them that St. Peter won’t be as choosy at the real gates of Heaven,” I said.

“Maybe he will be,” Walsh said, “but not in the way they expect. But don’t get the wrong idea, the pastor of that church comes here to minister as often as he can, but it’s not enough. So, the call went out up and down the West Coast, for any priests who could get away from their own parishes, or retirement homes, to fill in a month here, a month there. I’m an assistant pastor at St. Benedict’s in Seattle and I told the Monsignor that I could use a break.”

“This is a break?”

“It never stops raining in Seattle. Besides, I like these people. They have a generosity of spirit that is refreshing. At this stage of my life I think they do more for me than I do for them.”

I asked Father Walsh what he knew about the murder.

“Only what I’ve been told. I didn’t know the man. There have probably been six other priests filling in, and I don’t think any of them knew him either. He was killed before any of us arrived. I can say that the parishioners thought the world of him. He apparently gave wonderful sermons.” Walsh laughed. “I understand that when he spoke about the miracle of the loaves and fishes he always bragged about the latest steelhead he’d caught. Apparently they were the size of a submarine.  But, say, you should talk to Carmelita. She worked for Father Salazar for years.”

He called the woman over and explained, in English, who I was.

She was a grandmotherly type, short and sturdy in a shapeless blue print dress that was frayed but very clean. Walsh fixed her a cup of coffee.

“Policía?” she asked.

“Detective privado,” Walsh told her.

“Si,” she said, smiling. “Like
Magnum, P.I.
”

Obviously, she was devoted to TV reruns. I wondered if she knew Tom Selleck had since been promoted to New York City Police Commissioner on
Blue Bloods.
I thought it best to move on.

“What can you tell me about Father Salazar?”

Carmelita started crying. Wonderful.

Walsh patted her on the arm until she composed herself. And then, over three cups of coffee, she told me, in passable English, nothing I didn’t already know. Salazar was a saint. The old people loved him. The young people loved him. The kids loved him. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. She hadn’t noticed any strangers lurking about. Father didn’t appeared concerned about anything and was looking forward to getting the new fly rod he had ordered on Amazon. Whoever killed him should burn in hell with his gónadas cut off.

“Carmelita!”

“Lo siento, padre,” she said.

Walsh patted her arm again.

***

I spent the next two days trying to find anything Tyrone missed. I sorely wanted to find something. It didn’t even have to be a smoking ice pick. Just a clue I could throw in his obnoxious face. I know it was childish, but childish doesn’t mean unsatisfying.

I borrowed Carmelita for almost a full day as a translator when I spoke to farm workers and their wives. Many were initially suspicious until I convinced them that I wasn’t interested in their immigration status. Even then I had to swear that they would never be called to testify on anything. Not that they knew anything other than that father Salazar was a saint.

I walked the trout stream where he was killed and spoke to every fisherman I found. I visited the town’s barbershops, taverns and general stores; anywhere people gathered and gossiped. All I got for my efforts were some exaggerated fish stories, a decent haircut, some hefty bar bills and an “original Pomo Indian beaded bracelet” I thought Alice might like. There was a Walmart. Where isn’t there a Walmart? But I knew that would be waste of time. 

On my last night in Windsor, I was sitting in the Harvest House trying to talk myself into dessert. When I find a great restaurant in an unfamiliar locale, I usually stick with it. What are the odds of finding another? I had just finished my steak with a cabernet and anchovy reduction sauce, and was savoring my second glass of the house red when an attractive young woman came by my table and asked if she could join me for a minute. I’d seen her several times greeting people coming in and assumed she was an employee.

“I’m Laurie Gibbons,” she said, extending her hand. “This is my restaurant.”

“Your winery, as well?”

“My family.”

We chatted for a while and then she said, “I understand you are looking into the murder of Father Salazar.”

That didn’t surprise me. Windsor wasn’t that big a place and word gets around to the locals. I guessed I had been making a nuisance of myself.

“That’s right.”

“Do you really think a serial killer is responsible?”

That did surprise me. I didn’t recall telling my theory to anyone except the local cops. In fact, I’d made it a point not to, lest it color how people reacted to my questions.

“Who told you that?”

“Detective Tyrone told some friends of mine that the police had this new theory and the F.B.I. was involved. He also said that it was OK for people to talk to you about it if you came around.”

Tyrone had kept his word to me, but I was a little annoyed that he had poisoned the well, although I suspected I’d spoken to most of the people before he had, since none of them had mentioned the serial killer aspect to me.

“It’s possible,” I said, carefully. “But it’s still just a theory.”

“Well, I hope they get whoever did it,” Gibbons said. “Father Salazar was a wonderful man. He used to bring us the fish he caught and barter them for some wine and Gravensteins.”

“What’s a Gravenstein?”

“It’s the local apple. This area was famous for them. But most of the land has gone over to vineyards. One of the few large orchards left is on our property. Very tart, but they make the best apple pies. Father Salazar loved them.” She laughed. “He always arrived around dinner time, so I’d also cook up one of his trout or bass for him. I really miss him.”

Naturally, I asked her if she had any ideas about the murder. She didn’t. We spent a few minutes talking about my exciting life as a private eye. I left out a lot. If you tell someone that you’ve almost been cut up by a chain saw or poisoned with nerve gas, you’ll be there all night.

“Your life really isn’t all that exciting, is it?” she said.

“I do get to eat in a lot of terrific restaurants.”

Someone from the bar area called her name and she excused herself. I ordered coffee, and when it came the waiter also put down a large piece of apple pie.

“Compliments of the house.”

“Gravenstein, I presume.”

“Of course.”

I’ll keep looking, but, to date, it is the best apple pie I’ve ever had.