Читать книгу Drago #5 (#2b) - Art Inc. Spinella - Страница 8

The divot grew the closer Jolly got. First it was only a shadow, then a small, irregular rectangle, but clearly manmade. Jolly was breathing hard. Part the climb. Part the anticipation. The ground leveled, little plumes of dust under each step of his black high tops.

“Ohmygod. Ohmygod,” he repeated with each step, eyes locked on the ever-growing rectangle. The trees, scrub brush, time and the hand of men virtually hid the boards from view, even at 20 yards. Only luck and the angle of the sun on this particular day at this particular time revealed the treasure.

Jolly stumbled over an old sign. Wiping his sneaker across the battered face of the small square of plywood, once black now gray letters.

Jolly bent, wiped more dirt and decades-old coal dust from the face of the sign to show all of the letters.

“Ohmygod,” he said aloud to the dust spools. “Number One.”

In the dry-rotted boards covering the entrance of the mine, a small chunk missing. Jolly walked to the covering, ran a hand slowly over its rough, splintered surface and peered through the chink into darkness. The smell of old air, musty and damp. But he could see no more than a foot or two into the shaft.

But from the bowels of the interior, a moan. Long, reverberant. Deep from the bottom of a barrel. From the belly of a ghost. Fingernails on a chalkboard.

Jolly stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Stopped and stared at the hole.

“Dang. Wasn’t ‘specting that,” he said aloud.

He inched closer to the old, ratty boards, pushing his red hair out of his face; put an eye to the hole.

“Cain’t see nuthin’.”

A puff of air escaped from the opening, stinging his eyeball.

“Dang! That smells like the leakens from a septic tank.” Shaking his head, “Pee-yuuu.”

Another long deep moan. “Heeeere. Heeeere.” At least, that’s what Jolly thought he heard.

Stepping back again, eyes locked on the black hole, “Oh, don’t chu worry, Mister Mine. I’m comin’ back. Just you wait and see.”

Lightfoot jumped to his feet, kicking back his chair, had his Colt in hand and scrambled to the exit door. I was on his heels, my Taurus drawn from its small-of-my-back holster.

“Sal! Check her!”

Sal scrambled to Clarise’s side, felt for a pulse, found none. He yelled to two cowboys at a nearby table, “Get everyone down! NOW!”

Most of the patrons never heard the shot and only a couple saw Clarise hit the floor. One of the cowboys, tall, thin, jeans, John Deere tee, took charge and began pulling people off of their chairs and forcing them to the linoleum. The other raced to the kitchen intent on keeping the staff from going into the dining area.

Lightfoot gave a quick scan of the surrounding. “See anything?” he yelled in my direction.

“A black pickup just stormed out of the Sinclair station!”

We both ran toward the gas station across the road. The pickup was heading east on Colorado Blvd. Lightfoot grabbed the mic attached to his collar. As he walked toward the gas station, “HPD, this is Lightfoot! We’ve had a shooting at Porky’s! Black pickup heading east on Colorado! May be armed. Suspect only. Not sure he’s the shooter. Use caution!”

Only three vehicles were at the pumps, their drivers standing next to their trucks puzzled by the sudden activity.

“Get info from those guys,” Lightfoot said. “I’ll check inside.”

I waved the three drivers toward me as I stood on the apron of the station. Two men. One woman.

“What’d you see? Quick! A woman’s been shot.”

“Heard a pop,” one of the men said. “Didn’t see where it came from.”

“Me, too. Just a pop. Not loud at all. There was a guy in the black pickup…” he waved his arm toward Colorado Blvd. “He just jumped in and took off.”

“Make?”

“Ford. F250. Four-wheel-drive,” the first man said.

“License plate?”

All three shook their head.

“Description?”

The woman jumped in. “Maybe 6 feet, give or take an inch. 175 pounds. Dark hair. Short. Sunglasses. Those yellow kind hunters wear. No beard. No moustache. Big neck. Like an athlete.” She closed her eyes, trying to reconstruct more memories. “No scars, that I saw. Medium complexion, like someone who spends time in the sun, but not a sunbather. Know what I mean?”

She opened her eyes and shrugged. “That’s all I have.”

“Great. That’s great. Stick around.” Walking fast, Chief Lightfoot crossed the concrete, gave me a questioning look. I nodded, “Lots of info.” I filled him in, the three nodded that I had it right. “I’m going back inside. See what we got.”

“Be there in a minute.” He reached for his notepad and began jotting down names and phone numbers. They knew him, calling him by name. Clearly the chief also knew the three, using their names as he wrote. I could hear chatter on his police radio. By the tone, I gathered no one had caught sight of the black Ford.

The dining area was quiet. Someone had covered Clarise with a white tablecloth, but the red stain was seeping through the material. Sal and the two cowboys were standing in a group. The kitchen staff was behind a counter and the remaining customers had returned to their tables, sitting in stunned silence.

I joined Sal. “Anyone see anything?”

The big man shook his head. “All happened too fast.”

“Wound?”

“Through and through.” He walked to the counter that was in line with Clarise’s body and pointed at a hole in the edge of the thick wood top. “Went through her like she wasn’t even there.” Bending down to look inside the hole, “Maybe three inches in.” He stood, turned toward the window. “Glass, Clarise and Oak before it was spent. High powered. Won’t know any more until someone digs that slug out of there.”

Lightfoot came through the door and joined us, shaking his head. “Lost him. Don’t know how. There’s only so many places to hide in this town. Only so many roads to take.” He turned to Sal, “Thanks for covering for me in here.”

Sal just nodded, then showed the chief the hole in the counter’s edge. Lightfoot bent and peered in.

“Serious ammo,” he said. “You boys got some enemies I don’t know about?”

I slipped onto one of the stools next to the counter. “That wasn’t meant for anyone other than Clarise.”

Both Sal and the chief stared at me in silence.

“She was the target, not any of us or the other folks in here. That shot caught her directly in the heart. No multiple shots like a shooter would do if he missed on his first attempt. At that range, almost anyone could have taken you, Sal or me out. We were sitting in the damn window, for God’s sake.”

“Why would anyone want to kill Clarise?” Lightfoot asked.

“Beats the hell out of me. This is your town.”

Lightfoot tipped his Stetson back and scratched his head. “Ex-boyfriend, maybe. She kept mostly to herself. Never had any complaints against her. She dropped in on the local bars occasionally, but not a big drinker, far as I know. Worked here six days and some evenings, but most people hereabouts are pretty decent folks.”

“Has she lived in Holly long?”

“Grew up here, if I recollect. Folks were ranchers. When they died, left her the spread, but she sold it. Too much work, she would say. Went up to Denver a few years back to find work, but came back. Said she missed the small town atmosphere.”

“Any family?” Sal asked getting a quick shake of the head from Lightfoot. “Friends, then.”

“A few.”

The local doctor arrived in a dusty blue Chevy pickup. He was followed by a heavyset woman, gray hair and sharp beady eyes.

Lightfoot said, “Well, gotta help out the doc.” As he walked away, he stopped, turned back to us. “Your Chief Forte said you work for him on occasion. Mind giving me a hand on this one?’

Sal and I nodded.

“Can’t pay you, but I’d be happy to put you up at my place for a day or two.”

“Appreciate that, Chief.”

Lightfoot, the doctor and doughy woman crossed the dining area to Clarise’s body. The woman pulled the tablecloth down to her waist and the three entered into a somber discussion.

A little after 8 p.m.

Lightfoot’s ranch sat in the middle of a dusty 100 acres. The smell of parched dirt still hung in the air and the sun was closing in on night. It hadn’t cooled much, still hovering in the middle 80-degree range.

The Chief’s house was a rambling, freshly painted ranch. A long covered porch with a floor of planked pine held a few white-painted wood lounger chairs and a couple of rough-cut tables. A grill was parked at one end, a light coat of rust on its black steel barrel top and well-worn BBQ utensils hanging from a few hooks on its side. Three rib eyes sizzled under the hood, the smell of steak and Mesquite smoke drifting across the porch.

Lightfoot banged through the wood screen door carrying three long-necks in one hand and a platter topped with metal plates in the other. He dropped it all on the table in front of Sal and me.

“Got nothing green. Hope you don’t mind,” he said, keeping one of the Buds for himself and taking a long pull.

Sal just grinned. “’fraid Nick and I aren’t much into green food.”

Lightfoot chuckled. “My wife woulda killed me if I didn’t eat a salad every night. Now she’s gone and there’s no pressure.” He fell into one of the loungers. “You were right, Sal. High powered ammo. Something akin to what a military sniper might use. Full metal jacket. Clarise didn’t have a chance.”

We all went silent for a second. Being only a few feet away from someone’s life being snuffed out will do that to a person.

I pushed myself back into the chair. “Not something an angry ex-boyfriend would use. She was killed for some other reason.”

“Yeah, but what?” Sal asked.

“Has to do with us, I’m afraid.”

Lightfoot cocked his head. “With you? How so?”

“Every time we get involved with those gold balls and the Tree Man thing, someone gets hurt.” I took a long swig of Bud. “Clarise has been out in the open doing her life for more than a year since Littleton was in this neck of the woods. We show up and Clarise gets murdered. That could have happened anytime in the past 12, 18 months. No, it doesn’t happen till we show up.”

Lightfoot mulled it over. “Yeah, but who knew you were coming? Clearly the person who shot her hasn’t been hanging around Holly for a year or more. So he must have known you were here.”

“True.”

Sal chimed in. “Back home, the only people who knew where we were heading were Tatiana, Frankie, Cookie and Forte. I mean, yeah we filed a flight plan, but I can’t imagine anyone at the airport would say anything or care.”

“On this end,” I interrupted, “the only person who knew we were on the way was the Chief here.”

Lightfoot nodded. “And I didn’t tell anyone because there was no need and I wasn’t even sure why you were coming. I mean, my dispatcher knew I was heading out to the airport, but that’s all she knew. And Hank at the airport knew he was to expect a small airplane today that would need fuel and tie down. He had no idea where from and who you are or why you’re here.”

“We have to check out Clarise’s house tomorrow,” Sal said. The Chief and I nodded agreement. Lightfoot stood and walked to the grill. Swinging open the top, he took one of the utensils and forked the steaks over.

“Three more minutes, gents,” he said rolling the aluminum foil wrapped potatoes onto their sides. “Nick, in the fridge, there’s a tub of butter. Salt and pepper on the counter.”

Four minutes later, each of us had a rib eye on a plate and were cutting open the potato. The three of us must have used a pound of fresh butter. Sal even put a chunk on the beef.

The sky went dark and the only sound beside the crickets was that of three guys moaning their way through cold beer, sizzling meat and pure, lovely buttered potatoes.

One doesn’t associate a restaurant waitress with a Ponderosa-sized house. I was fully expecting a nice little bungalow in the heart of town. This wasn’t it.

“Holy crap,” I said as Lightfoot pulled the Jeep into a long, curving brick driveway. “It’s gigantus. She lived here alone?”

“Yup.”

He pulled the Jeep close to the front porch, a steep affair rising at least 8 feet to the front porch and 10-foot double doors. The house easily spread 120 feet across, the stonework leading to the entrance an intricate mix of tile and cut granite. To the left, a Portico with two-story white columns where, presumably, servants would unload household goods into the side entrance or a driver would pull the Bentley on a rainy evening for the lord and lady of the house to climb aboard without the bother of rain, wind or snow.

“What am I missing here,” I asked Lightfoot.

He chuckled, “Her last name is Holly. As in Hiram S. Holly, the rancher who came here in the 1870s and brought 1300 head of cattle with him. The ranch was handed down and eventually, like I said, became Clarise’s. She sold it for a bunch of bucks and bought this place. Cash on the barrel head.”

Sal asked, “Why’d she work?”

“Had nothing to do, really. Liked people. Still had a boatload of money in the bank she could have lived off of, but decided waitressing would be a way to wile away the time. If you hadn’t noticed, we don’t do opera or cotillions or orchestras ‘round here. She enjoyed just being one of the regular people.”

We climbed the wide hand-cut flagstone stairway to the front doors. The Chief pulled out a key and unlocked it. Walking through the entry, the foyer was as big as my entire house with a pair of sweeping stairways leading to the second floor. The walls were covered in bleached oak with mahogany trim. To the left, wide double pocket doors opened onto a formal parlor, this room in dark mahogany with the requisite Middle Eastern rugs, a marble mantel measuring at least 10 feet across above a virtually walk-in fireplace.

“Let’s separate and see what we can find,” I said.

Sal and Lightfoot took the stairway to the second floor, padding over thick pearl and red runners held in place with a mahogany dowels at each step.

It was hard to know where to start. Furnishings were dust free and polished, but on the wall opposite the fireplace stood an antique desk. I rifled each of the drawers finding little of interest and nothing to give a hint of why Clarise was shot.

Through another set of pocket doors, a dining room, a massive teak dining table with a dozen chairs surrounding its glass smooth surface. A sideboard, made of the same polished teak, held silver services, china plates, cups, saucers and linens.

The kitchen didn’t interest me much since few rich people hid important papers in this work center where hired help spent much of their day.

Back to the foyer and on the opposite side of the grand entry, a study with shelves lined with hardcover books, none of which looked as if they had been opened for years. In an age of Kindle and the Internet, an increasing number of folks were keeping old books for the esthetics rather than the content. It appeared Clarise was among them.

Another fireplace, this one smaller, was fronted by two armchairs and a pair of antique side tables. I opened the drawers of each. Again, nothing of interest.

I saved the large oak desk for last. Having worked in the woods, it was easy to recognize that this oak wasn’t the modern variety. Rather, the grain was tight and straight and easily from an ancient tree cut a century ago and transformed into a work of art.

Sitting behind its leather top, I began opening drawers, putting the contents on the desktop and pulling each out to check both the back and underside. Once out, I peered into the opening to see if there were hidden cubbyholes or unseen levers that might reveal a hidden compartment.

The top right drawer was the winner. It was perhaps six inches shorter than the others and deep inside the pocket was a small false front with a virtually impossible to see fingernail-sized notch. I pressed the compartment face then released it. The front dropped down. Reaching into the compartment, I scooped up two keys and a small photograph. I layed them on the desk top and shook my head in disbelief.

Sal and the Chief came into the den.

“Nicky, there were two people living here. One bedroom, clearly Clarise’s. The second belonging to a man. Pants, shirts, shoes and stuff in the closet.” Sal caught the look on my face. “What’s the matter?”

I slid the photo across the desk, turning it so Sal could get the full impact.

He bent over, looking closely, caught the significance. “Holy Shinola on a bagel.”