On Deadly Ground Page 8
The implication was clear. Wiggins came out of concern for Ned’s well-being, not his. Although Wiggins didn’t come right out and say it, Books was left with the distinct impression that Officer Wiggins wouldn’t have come to his aid.
“Did you get a look at who did it?” asked Wiggins.
“Never saw a thing. All I heard was the sound of shattering glass and a vehicle making a hasty exit.”
“Too bad,” muttered Wiggins. “Like I said, it’s probably just teenage pranksters out havin a little fun.” With that, he climbed back into his cruiser and drove away.
Books glanced at Ned and shook his head. “Now there’s a piece of police work straight from the pages of Mayberry and Deputy Barney Fife.”
Ned chuckled, “Congratulations, J.D. You just met one of Kanab P.D.’s finest. As you can tell, they’re here to serve and protect.”
Books shook his head and walked back to the doublewide.
He got into his uniform while Ned swept up the broken glass and rigged a piece of cardboard to plug the hole where the front window had been. A record check on Derek Lebeau revealed several prior arrests, all misdemeanors. Most involved alcohol—drunk and disorderly, DUI, domestic violence, and an assault beef resulting from a bar fight. Books also discovered an outstanding $250.00 arrest warrant from Salt Lake County on a traffic ticket Lebeau had failed to pay.
On the drive to Lebeau’s home, Hunsaker broke a long silence. “I know you’re busy as a bird dog right now, but I heard something in town this afternoon that you might want to know.”
Books arched an eyebrow. “And that would be?”
“When I went into the county building this afternoon to renew my truck plates, I ran into Beulah Wood.”
“Who’s Beulah Wood?”
“One of the sheriff’s dispatchers.”
“And?”
“She told me that Becky Eddins filed a police report this morning claiming somebody may be stalking her. It seems she had an unwanted visitor of the two-legged variety at her house last night.”
“A prowler?”
“Prowler, a peeping Tom, I’m not sure which.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t know for sure.”
“Boy, that’s not good,” said Books, “considering she lives alone with her son. I wonder if she got a look at the guy.”
“Don’t know that either. I hear she’s been getting some strange phone calls lately—heavy breathers, no voice, that sort of thing.”
“Maybe she ought to consider moving home for a while.”
“I guess Neil wants her to, but she won’t have any part of it. Stubborn gal, that one.”
“I’ll drop by and see her as soon as I can. In the meantime, I’ll try to keep an eye on her home.”
“I’ll do the same,” added Ned.
Lebeau lived in a mobile home several miles east of Kanab off Highway 89. The lights were still on when Books and Ned arrived. A 2004 Dodge pickup truck registered to him was parked next to the house. The truck was jacked up so high that Yao Ming couldn’t have gotten into it without a stepladder. The truck also had a diesel engine.
“Does this look like the rig you saw running from my place?”
Hunsaker nodded. “Sure does. Tall one, isn’t it?”
“Wait here while I pay our friend a visit.” Ned looked like he was about to argue but changed his mind.
Books ran his hand over the hood of the truck on his way to the porch. The engine was still warm. He climbed two makeshift steps to a rickety front porch and rapped on the front door.
“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Lebeau, it’s the police. Open up.”
Books heard the door unlock and then it opened a crack. Obviously intoxicated, Lebeau stood on the other side of the screen door wearing a white muscle shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He was holding an open can of Budweiser. He hadn’t shaved in several days and reeked of BO and alcohol.
“Who are you, and what the hell do ya want?” slurred Lebeau.
“Answers to a few questions. I’m investigating a vandalism complaint that happened at my home a while ago. Your pickup was observed leaving the scene not more than an hour ago. What can you tell me about that?”
“Bullshit. That truck’s been parked right here since I got home about six o’clock this evening. You’re that new fuckin ranger, aren’t ya?”
Books ignored the question. “That’s odd because the engine is still warm. Somebody drove it, and recently, too. You didn’t happen to lend it to someone, did you?”
“You callin me a liar,” he said, stepping out on the small front porch.
“Yup, as a matter of fact, I am.”
Lebeau caught Books off guard. He lunged at him and threw a wild left hook. Books tried to duck, but the blow caught the top of his forehead just below the hairline. He was thrown off balance and started to bleed where Lebeau’s ring hit him. Books swung his oversized mag flashlight and caught Lebeau flush on the shin bone of his left leg just below the knee. The man cursed and began hopping up and down on his good leg. Books swung the flashlight again and connected with the shin bone on the other leg. Lebeau howled in pain but managed to get off a wild punch that struck Books high on the left shoulder.
Books feinted to his left, came up under Lebeau, and struck him under the chin with the grip end of the flashlight. Lebeau staggered and his knees started to buckle. He cursed some more. Books tackled him and they went down in a tangled mass of arms and legs. Despite the pain, Lebeau still had fight left in him. Ned jumped into the fray and pulled Lebeau away. Together, the men managed to get Lebeau’s hands behind his back and slap him in handcuffs.
Books spent the next two hours getting medical treatment for Lebeau at the community hospital in Kanab and then booked him into the Kane County Jail. By the time Lebeau sobered up and the pain subsided, he’d realize that he was neck deep in cow dung. Besides the outstanding arrest warrant, he would also be charged with assault on a police officer, resisting arrest, and vandalism, assuming Books could pull the case together.
Books made it home at four in the morning, slept for three hours, and was back in his office by eight.
Chapter Fifteen
Chief Deputy Brian Call sat across from Books’ desk in an old beat-up leather recliner that another BLM employee had donated to him. Call looked decidedly uncomfortable. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they hadn’t had time to develop trust in one other and in their new alliance.
Books arranged to meet early so Call would still have time to make the seventy-five mile drive to St. George to attend David Greenbriar’s autopsy later in the morning.
“Heard you had a run-in with Derek Lebeau last night,” said Call.
“News sure travels fast in a small town—not exactly used to it, either.”
“It ain’t like the big city, that’s for sure.”
Call reached across the desk and handed Books a file. “You asked for a list of possible EEWA members. This is what I came up with.”
Books scanned the list. He didn’t bother to tell Call that Darby Greenbriar had provided an official EEWA membership list the day before. Now he would have the opportunity to compare the official list with the one Call had produced. There were about twenty names on Call’s list. Some were familiar, many weren’t.
“Has the sheriff had a chance to see these names?”
“Yeah, I gave them to him yesterday and asked if he could think of anybody else who ought to be on it. He came up with a couple of additional people I wouldn’t have thought of.”
“What was the source of your information?”
Call frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Who gave you these names?”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t follow you there for a minute,” said Call. “The department maintains an intelligence file on the EEWA.”
“That’s good. I assume you have a similar one for the CFW.”
Call drew back. “I don’t know. You’ll have to talk with Sheriff Sutter about that.”
“So you don’t have the CFW list?”
“Uh, no, I don’t. Sheriff Sutter wanted to put that list together himself.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Charley about it when he gets in.”
Call nodded.
“Let’s start with ballistics. We should have one shell casing and a recovered slug from the murder scene undergoing ballistics testing. Is that right?”
“That’s right. I asked them to check the shell casing for prints before it went to ballistics.”
“Good thinking. Glad you remembered to do that.”
Books continued down the list of evidence. “I’m showing that we’ve got two empty beer cans, Guinness, one plastic baggie, and the note that was pinned to Greenbriar’s shirt, all being run for latents.”
“That’s right. What do you want me to do with the soil samples we took from the crime scenes?”
“Nothing for now. Just hang on to them. If we need to have them analyzed later, we can.”
“Okay. While I’m in St. George today, I’ll drop by the lab and press the techs for test results.”
“It may be too soon, but tell’em we needed those lab results yesterday.”
***
Books sat at his desk thinking about the investigation and about Brian Call. Maybe he’d underestimated the guy. So far he was pulling his own weight, showing himself to be a guy with a solid grasp of investigative procedures and a good head for details.
Books had sensed that getting a list of EEWA members from the locals would be a damned sight easier than getting one on the CFW. Charley Sutter had taken it upon himself to put the CFW list together, and Call seemed more than happy to put distance between himself and the sheriff on that issue. How long would the sheriff stonewall him before he produced something?
The phone rang. It was Grant Weatherby from Las Vegas P.D. “Good morning, Ranger Books. I’m having a difficult time getting hold of your new handle.”
“You’re not the only one, Grant. How are things in Sin City?”
“Same shit, different day. Things move so damn fast in this town that it’s impossible to stay ahead of the curve.”
“It’s that kind of town all right. What did you find out for me?”
“Several things. For starters, Darby Greenbriar was a guest at the Hard Rock for two nights, Saturday and Sunday. She registered as a single. Her bill shows several room charges, phone calls mostly, a gift shop purchase, and several meals.”
“That jibes with what she told us. Got a list of the phone numbers she called?”
“Sure do, all right here in front of me. She called Erin Rogers twice, once on Saturday night and again early Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s what she told me, too. Claimed she never got hold of Rogers.”
“That’s true. She left messages both times. Rogers confirmed that. I spoke with her late yesterday afternoon. She just got back from LA, where she’d spent the weekend with her boyfriend. When she returned, there were two messages from Greenbriar, hoping they could get together while she was in town.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“Yeah, one thing, and I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Hmm, and that would be…..”
“Mrs. Greenbriar had a male guest for dinner Saturday night in her room, an intimate dinner for two, or so I was told by the room service staff. Probably a sleepover, I’m thinking. What do you make of that?”
“The loyal wife—husband goes hiking while the Mrs. goes trolling in Vegas—very interesting. You didn’t happen to come up with a name for me, did you?”
“Sorry, hoping you might be able to fill in the blanks on that one.”
“Afraid not, at least not at the moment.”
“It appears that no expense was spared on the dinner—champagne, caviar, all rather pricey, and probably not something you’d do for your Uncle Burt. The whole thing was charged to Darby’s hotel bill.”
“So I take it we have no idea who her knight in shining armor is?”
“I’m working on it. I spoke to the room service attendant who delivered the fancy dinner.”
“And.”
“The attendant said Casanova answered the door in one of the hotel’s fluffy bathrobes. His hair was wet, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. The attendant said he was a Caucasian male, early thirties, slim build, medium height, with short, sandy blond hair. Casino security is checking their tapes to see if the room service staff can identify the guy. I’ll have to get back with you on that one.”
“Not quite as good as a name, but close.”
“My sentiments, exactly.”
“And your take on Darby’s friend, Erin Rogers?”
“A real classy dame, I can tell you that. And a damn fine-looking one too—registered a solid nine on the Weatherby ten-point peter meter. She’s thirty-one, a Las Vegas native, and a show girl at the Venetian.”
“I had her working for the Mirage.”
“Used to, but she moved to the Venetian about two months ago—not unusual for Vegas show girls. They tend to be quite mobile.”
“Any priors?”
“Nothing recent except a couple of traffic tickets. She got popped about seven years ago for possession of cocaine. The charge was reduced to misdemeanor possession. She served a year on probation and paid a fine.”
Weatherby promised that he’d dig a little deeper into Erin Rogers’ background and get back with Books if he learned anything new.
Chapter Sixteen
Alexis Runyon walked in and closed the door. She didn’t look happy.
“Morning, Alexis. What’s up?”
She gave him a curt nod. “When I walked into the office this morning I found three urgent messages, one from Doug Case, another from Lamont Christensen, and the third from Thomas Boggs. I got the general drift of their concerns, but I thought I’d better hear your side before I call them back.”
He knew who Doug Case and Lamont Christensen were, but he’d never heard of Thomas Boggs. “I assume this is more whining about the press conference. Charley wasn’t too happy about it either. Who’s this Thomas Boggs, anyway—afraid I don’t know him?”
“He’s a local attorney hired to represent the guy you assaulted last night, Derek Lebeau.”
“Whoa, time out. You mean ‘allegedly’ assaulted, don’t you? Actually, he’s the guy who was injured last night while resisting a lawful arrest. There was a warrant for him out of Salt Lake County.”
She looked somewhat relieved. “Tell me about it. Who is Derek Lebeau and how did you manage to get tangled up with him?”
Books spent the next few minutes walking Runyon through the events of the previous night. When he finished, she still didn’t look pleased.
“It sounds like we’re on solid ground so far as the treatment of Lebeau is concerned,” said Runyon, “but now you’ve given me something else to worry about.”
“And what would that be?”
“This is the first time we’ve ever had a BLM employee attacked in his own home. That kind of thing has happened in Arizona, Nevada, and some places in California, but never here. It’s a disturbing trend.”
“Let’s not get carried away. First off, it’s not a trend. It’s one isolated incident that may have a lot to do with Greenbriar’s murder and my involvement in the investigation. This is what happens when you stir the pot. Creeps like Derek Lebeau start coming out from under rocks.”
“That’s my other concern. You seem to be a lightening rod for these kinds of incidents. I’m sure you’ve heard the old saying that perception is reality.”
Books nodded.
“This is a small town, J.D. You arrived with plenty of baggage to begin with, and this latest incident only reinforces that perception among locals. Keep that in mind as you go about your business.”
***
&n
bsp; After the exchange with Runyon, Books felt he’d be wise to get on the phone with Neil Eddins and Doug Case to see if he could smooth things over. However, at the moment he had bigger fish to fry.
Books hopped in the Yukon and headed north on Highway 89. Lance Clayburn owned a home in Angel Canyon. His name had come up several times in the investigation. It was time to see what he had to say.
Clayburn owned a large, single-level home that, at first glance, looked like the typical imitation adobe commonly used in the Southwest. Upon closer inspection, Books concluded that the uneven texture was adobe rather than stucco. Building it had to have cost a fortune. The house stood on several acres with unobstructed views of the Grand Staircase to the east. Books could see solar panels on the roof. A Toyota Prius was parked in a circular gravel driveway next to a ratty old Chevy pickup. It was just the kind of home a wealthy trust baby might own.
He parked the Yukon behind the Prius and got out. One bay of the detached double car garage had the door up, and Books could hear the buzz of a power saw cutting lumber. Moments later, a guy in jeans and a black muscle shirt wearing safety goggles appeared. He wiped his sweaty face with the end of his muscle shirt. He gave Books the once-over, and extended a hand.
“Lance Clayburn. And you are?”
Books introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit. Clayburn nodded as if he’d been expecting somebody else. He invited Books inside, leading the way through a long tiled entryway and into the home’s great room. Expensive oriental area rugs provided a pleasant contrast against dark brown Saltillo tile. Books sat in a fine-grain leather chair while Clayburn washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
Grant Weatherby’s physical description of the unknown subject who’d had dinner and breakfast with Darby Greenbriar at the Hard Rock was a dead ringer for Clayburn.
“Can I offer you something to drink, Ranger Books?”
“What have you got?”
“About anything you want—ice tea, soda, water or beer.”