The Watchman (4 page)

A stiff, cold wind blew a giant trucker into the entrance. He wore a Stetson and a heavy down-filled jacket. With long strides, he crossed the black-tiled floor to the counter and took the stool next to me.

The waitress placed a menu and a steaming cup in front of him. “How's it going, Howie?”

He took a long drag on the coffee. “Going good, Maybell. But it'll be better after you feed me.” He handed the menu back.

“The usual?” she asked.

“Yep, and keep the caffeine coming.”

“Where you headed?” I asked.

He shot a friendly glance my way. “San Francisco, and I can't wait to get out of this weather. It can get cold there, but nothing like this. I hate Wyoming in the winter, and it's always winter.”

“I hear you. It's something you get used to but never learn to like.”

I had a light-bulb moment. A long shot. I needed a minor miracle, but if I made this guy mad, he could sweep the floor with my broken body. “Howie, how would you like to do a favor for an abused woman and child, and make a little money on the side?”

His eyes narrowed, and then he arched an eyebrow. “You peddling something illegal, mister? I don't kill people.”

I shook my head. This wasn't going well. “No, I'm a detective.” I reached into my jacket pocket, took out a card, and handed it to him. “I work for a lady who has an abusive husband—a powerful man. Her son made a call on her cell phone that could help this man find them.”

The skeptical expression never left his face and his clenched jaw made me nervous. “So where do I come in?”

I pulled Rachel's phone from my pocket. “I'd like you to take this and make as many calls as possible along your journey. When you get to California, toss the phone into the bay. I hope to throw her husband off the trail. Think you could help me?”

Howie removed his Stetson, replaced it, and furrowed his brow. “I guess I could do that. Can't see how it would be illegal.” He pulled out his own phone, looked down at my card and punched numbers. My phone rang.

He grinned. “Just checking to make sure the card is legit. What are you driving?”

I pointed to my black Ford Explorer XLT parked out front.

Howie walked over to the window and wrote my license plate number on the back of my business card. He returned to his seat. “Let me see your driver's license.”

When I gave it to him, he scanned it, listed the number, and handed back my ID.

He nodded. “Give me the phone.”

I handed him a hundred dollar bill along with the phone. “You need a charger? I've got one in the car.”

“Nope.” He took the phone, but waved the money away. “Don't want the cash. No man worth his salt beats women and children.”

I finished my meal and then slapped the trucker's shoulder as I left. “Thanks. And, Howie, if you ever decide to change careers, I could use a good man.”

Howie would keep a GPS trace on Rachel's phone busy for quite a while.

God loves me.

 



 

Hebron, Wyoming

At the Hebron exit, I took a right and drove under the bridge to the city's main drag. Hebron is not a pretty town except in winter. Carved out of the mountain in layers with evergreen trees scattered in patches across the landscape, it only shines when covered in a white blanket, and that happened often at an altitude of seven thousand feet.

After a stop at Walmart to pick up a throw away phone, I arrived at the office around one o'clock to check my mail and messages. The woman who runs the employment office across the hall stuck her head out.

“Morning, Mrs. Davis,” I said.

She closed the door. No good morning. Still sore because I haven't hired a secretary from her. What Mrs. Davis didn't understand is that I would love to have a sexy blonde to answer my phone and greet clients. But a private detective was the only profession society deems lower than lawyers, and the pay wasn't as good.

Ergo, I couldn't afford to hire extra help. If business didn't pick up soon, I couldn't even afford the office space. I depended on the telephone and voicemail to keep in touch with clients. It might not be sexy, but it was cheap.

A burst of cold, tropical scented air filled my nostrils as I pushed open the office door and entered the empty reception area. My Hawaiian air-freshener still worked.

It felt like forty below as I flicked on the foyer lights and heat. I picked up the mail from the faded blue carpet under the letter slot. Mail in one hand, overcoat in the other, I shivered down the hallway past the bathroom on the left to my private cubbyhole. I placed the letters in the in-box and put the coat back on. With luck, the heat would overcome the chill before I froze to death.

The letter-opener sliced easily through the envelopes as Cody's call buzzed through my mind like a persistent bee, zeroing in for a sting. I grabbed my newly-purchased cell phone and called the ranch. While I waited for the call to connect, I put away the mail in the desk file. All bills.

Emma answered, and I asked to speak to Rachel. She picked up the extension. A click signaled Emma had disconnected.

I cleared my throat. “You haven't heard from Harry, have you?”

A slight tremor entered Rachel's voice. “No. I guess we dodged the bullet one more time. I've forbidden Cody to go near any of the house phones.”

“How are things at the ranch? I'll find another safe house whenever you're ready.” I wanted them to stay put, at least until we knew what her husband's next move would be.

“Emma and Bill are wonderful hosts, and Cody loves it here. He would hate to leave.”

Cody and Bill's laughter rang in the background. Tense muscles in my neck relaxed, and I exhaled a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Looked like the family had settled into The Hand Me Down's peaceful rhythm. Maybe they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. If my luck held, the ploy with Howie and the cell phone would keep the judge far away from them.

My backup plan included asking a police detective friend, Amos Horne, to let me know if the judge asked for a trace on Rachel's cell calls. From my days on the Hebron police force, I knew tracing wouldn't take much time. Maybe an early warning from Amos would give me enough head start to move the family if needed.

After I finished the conversation with Rachel, I checked my call center and found a number of hang ups. Only one message recorded. Wealthy industrialist Lincoln Webster Armstrong left his cell number. A call from Armstrong equaled a summons from the White House—not an everyday occurrence for a lowly P.I. A national mover-and-shaker, Armstrong headed Hebron's short celebrity A-list.

From the middle drawer, I retrieved a yellow legal pad and pen. The room had warmed enough my hand had stopped shaking. I punched Armstrong's number, and he picked up on the first ring. No pretense, no call screener. I could learn to like this guy.

“This is Noah Adams, sir, returning your call. How may I help you?”

“Thanks for getting back to me so promptly. Mayor Thornton suggested I contact you. He told me about your rescue of that child in Texas and assured me you were the best. I need the best.” There was a slight pause. “I'd like you to look into the death of my wife.”

A vote of confidence from Mayor Thornton surprised me. We had a history that didn't include being best buddies. “Thank you. That was kind of the mayor. The Texas thing was a lucky break, and please, call me Noah.”

“Fine,” he said. “But no false modesty, Noah. You insult my intelligence. I never take someone else's word on anything important. I did a comprehensive background check on you.”

All right.

“Can you meet me at my home this afternoon at two o'clock? I'll fill you in on the details then.” He gave me directions and ended the call.

After disconnecting, I scurried across the street to the
Hebron Herald
office to scan back issues on the Armstrong case. A small newspaper, it hadn't yet gone digital. The newspaper morgue was small, crowded with file cabinets and dusty back issues. But everything was well organized, and I soon found the back issues I needed.

The disappearance of Abigail Armstrong made national headlines for months when she vanished three years ago. Blood covered the interior of her abandoned car, but the police never found a body. Officially, she was still a missing person. Curious that Armstrong wanted me to investigate the case now.

After the prominent socialite vanished,
The Herald's
front page
screamed:

 

WIFE OF TYCOON MISSING

ARMSTRONG A PERSON OF INTEREST IN WIFE'S DISAPPEARANCE

 

The last word on her turbulent life rested in a dusty cold-case file in the basement of the County Courthouse. It appeared Abigail's husband no longer accepted that as the final word on his missing wife.

Copies of pertinent articles in hand, I returned to the office and made a case file.

Skepticism was a by-product of my profession, and statistically speaking, the odds weighed against finding out what happened to Abigail Armstrong. Three years can be a lifetime in a missing person case. However, if I determined Armstrong hadn't been involved in his wife's disappearance, I would take the case. The idea of anyone getting away with murder, no matter how famous or how wealthy, stuck in my craw.

 

Lincoln Armstrong's Home

The Armstrong mansion sat on prime lakefront property almost ten miles from the city. At a distance, it appeared half the size of the Biltmore Estate, the mansion that formerly belonged to the American Vanderbilt family, which was now a tourist attraction. Which made it a thousand times the size of my digs.

In this part of the country, only fashionable neighborhoods bothered with landscaping—and there were few fashionable neighborhoods. Most residents left their tiny plots of land barren. Why bother with a lawn covered in snow ten months of the year? Armstrong must have spent a small fortune on his. Terraced rock gardens led to the front door where hearty shrubbery and foliage struggled valiantly against layers of snow. Pushing aside the comparisons to my place, I rang the bell.

Armstrong opened the massive door, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved sweater, denim jacket, and boots. I must have missed the casual-dress memo. A little insecure in my business suit and overcoat, I shook his hand.

My touch let me see the man perhaps better than he knew himself. I'd met few with his credentials. An honorable man with a strict code of ethics and living proof that wealth doesn't guarantee happiness.

Armstrong stepped outside, and the door made a soft click behind him. “Let's walk.”

In silence, he led me to a pathway that meandered toward the lake through tall ponderosa pines and mountain cedars. As we walked, the lake played peek-a-boo through thick snow-laden limbs in the dense woods.

The spectacular shoreline came into view. The smooth surface showed only an occasional ripple as snow sludge washed ashore, the water so blue it looked unreal against the white backdrop. A light breeze tickled the tips of branches and left a whiff of cedar in the air. We reached a sheltered redwood bench close to the lake's edge. Armstrong dusted snow away with a gloved hand and motioned for me to sit.

He remained standing. “Abby and I came here often before her...” He paused. “It may sound irrational, but I feel her presence when I come here.” He turned and gazed at the horizon for a moment.

I took the time to study him. Distinguished best described Lincoln Armstrong. Refined, not handsome. Neat gray hair covered a well-shaped head. His confident, direct gaze spelled power in capital letters.

“When we met, Abigail was this frail, ethereal beauty with lovely, haunted eyes. She brought out the knight-in-shining-armor in me. Before we married, Abby never spoke about the past, but I knew she'd lived a hard life. I wanted to protect her, to erase the shadows in her eyes. I succeeded for more than five years.” He expelled a deep breath. “I let her down in the end. Someone got to her, and I wasn't there to protect her.”

Perhaps if she had confided in Armstrong, he could have prevented the tragedy. “I doubt you could have done anything to stop it.”

He shrugged. “For more than two years the authorities tried to pin her disappearance on me. By the time the police decided to look elsewhere, any trace evidence had long since vanished. Witnesses disappeared or their memories dimmed. Six months ago, after I realized the police had given up, I investigated Abby's past on my own.”

“The authorities still have her listed as missing.” I stated the obvious.

Armstrong shook his head. “If Abby was alive, she would have contacted me.”

“You think someone from her past killed her?”

“That was my initial thought. It seemed the logical place to start. Now, I'm not sure.” Armstrong tore his gaze from the view, punched his hands into his jacket pockets, and sat beside me. “My contact in California couldn't find anyone there who wished her harm. At that point, I realized I needed a professional investigator. That's when I decided to hire you.”

He shifted his position on the seat, and his features tightened—a sea of sorrow in his gaze. “Abigail was married before we met. She had a son. At first, she wouldn't talk about that part of her life. Over time, I learned the ex-husband died in a riot while a prisoner at San Quentin and her five-year-old son was killed in an auto accident in San Francisco.”

“I'll need copies of any reports you have. Who handled the California investigation for you?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “A friend in the San Francisco district attorney's office, for all the good it did. You're welcome to the report, but I doubt it will be of much help.”

“Did you notice any change in your wife's behavior before she disappeared?”

He heaved a deep breath and nodded. “I covered all that with the police when she first went missing. Four days before Abby vanished, we went to a charity dinner at the country club. About an hour after we arrived, she asked me to take her home, said she had a headache. We left right away.” Armstrong rose from the bench, paced a few steps, and then turned back. “The old haunted expression was back in her eyes. I asked what happened, but she wouldn't tell me. For the next four days, she took all meals in our bedroom. On the fourth day, she received a phone call and left home at noon. No one has seen her since.”