The Summerland Page 2
Tony set the phone back on the bedspread, his hands beginning to shake more violently as each second passed. He heard the front door bang as his kids filed in from an afternoon of play. Their clear, innocent voices jarred him back to reality, a world that he had been absent from the moment he discovered that bag.
Chapter Two
The upended San Jose State Spartans football helmet teetering on the thrashed generic metal desk was full of messages—full to overflowing—even at eight a.m. Sheriff Bill Ashton knew that one of the weak-in-the-knees, traffic-control, auxiliary deputies had blabbed, and blabbed as soon as his shift was over. God damn it! He had five dead bodies on top of all the other bullshit he dealt with on a daily basis as Sheriff. Now he would have to talk to the press and probably the goddamn FBI before this bitch of a day was through. What a way to start a Tuesday morning.
He ran a large, work-roughened hand through his light brown hair, teasing it out of it’s careful comb-down and warily eyed the mountain of messages and hastily scrawled crime scene observations scattered across the battered Army surplus desk. His office always resembled carefully choreographed chaos, and as the old saying went, he knew exactly where everything was. Buff manila folders were everywhere, strewn haphazardly throughout the room, leaving only two clear spaces, his creaky, battered swivel chair and the seat opposite his desk. The lilting strains of the Dixie Chicks crooned from one corner of the pile, muffled by two layers of files and a windbreaker.
Gail, the department secretary, had once attempted to tame the mess he called a filing system and had thrown everything out of whack for weeks. It had never happened again. Messy or no, it was his office and he’d keep it as he damned well pleased.
Bill Ashton was a large man, even in this day of big men. Two hundred and twenty pounds rode easily on his six foot, two inch frame, but there was no escaping the fact that too many beers during football season and fishing had contributed to the beginnings of a mini-Michelin. The soft, barely noticeable paunch beginning to develop around his midsection had become his latest obsession.
He knew that at thirty-five he was a far cry from over the hill, but he was also no longer the trim, fit athlete he’d been throughout high school and in college—never mind the fact that he ran at least four times a week and did enough sit-ups to make Stallone look like a puss. Then again, reaching your mid-thirties tended to do that to a man. It was just one of those facts about the universe that sucked. These days he was just happy he didn’t look like crap in his uniform when he wore it. Lately he’d tended more toward jeans and western shirts, and knew, without a doubt, that he was turning into his grandfather.
Irritably shifting his shoulder holster, he folded himself into his cheap office throne, bumping into a mammoth stack of Policeman’s Quarterly magazines and leaving them tottering precariously behind one of the squeaky, stubborn wheels of the chair. Grabbing a handful of the pink flimsies from inside the football helmet, he sifted through them, groaning inwardly as he read. They were all there, from the city fathers to the goddamn governor. He would gladly relinquish that reply to the mayor.
Rooting out the duty roster, he noted that the patrol officers he had put on containment had all reported for duty and were on station. He had put only his most trusted deputies on the scene, holding it until the crime lab specialists could get there from Modesto. Placing a call late last night to his sister office requesting assistance with the processing of these crime scenes was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He expected them at any time this morning and would drive them out to the mountain himself.
Though he would never have used the words to describe himself, Bill Ashton was a cautious, careful man. He’d be damned if he would put a bunch of unseasoned hometown deputies on the task of collecting evidence on a case as big as this one looked. Even he was uncomfortable touching anything, and he’d pulled Homicide for five years. No, the most the Mariposa County Sheriff’s Office could or would do right now were the basics. Secure the scene. Investigate any leads. Crowd control. Media handling.
Sifting through the piles of paper, he came up with the first of the neighborhood interviews. The area the bodies had been discovered in was so sparsely populated he doubted anyone had noticed anything, but then again, it was a small town, and small towns tended toward minding each other’s business. Regardless, it was one of those steps every law enforcement officer was trained and required to take. Reaching blindly for the cup of coffee he’d placed somewhere on the desk, he settled back in his chair and began to read.
* * * *
The Sheriff’s response to Gail’s polite knock on the door was anything but civilized. She cautiously poked her head into the office, giving him the eye as only a trained secretary could. Her once-over glance, honed after years of practice, showed exactly what state of mind her boss was in. Pasting on an apologetic smile, she entered the office, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry to interrupt you Bill. I know it’s been a hell of a morning, but I really think you need to see this.” At his curt nod, she reopened the door and gestured into the waiting area.
Tony Ortiz entered the office, visibly trembling. Ashton had known him for a few years, ever since he and his kids had moved to the area from Fresno. In all his years as a cop, he’d never seen a man as scared as Tony was now.
He waved him to the ancient wooden chair opposite his desk, noting as he did the Gucci sports bag that the mechanic was toting. “What can I do for you Tony, we’re kind of busy around here, you know?”
Tony sucked in a deep breath. “I know I shouldn’t have taken it Sheriff, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself. It was there, and no one else was and I kept thinking how my kids could go to college and have nice clothes and maybe we could buy a nicer house and…”
Bill’s raised hand stopped the torrent. He leaned across the desk, looking Tony straight in the eye. “Slow down man. What exactly are we talking about here?”
Tony bit his lip, then lifted the sports bag onto the Sheriff’s cluttered desk. He unzipped the top and let Bill see the extent of his turmoil. The Sheriff whistled, long and low. “Holy shit Tony.” He looked back up at the troubled man. “I think you’d better start from the beginning.”
* * * *
Ashton wanted a look at that car himself. His drive down the hill to the rest area was as uneventful as a normal day in Mariposa should be, except that the images of those dead women kept playing across the windshield, like a dark and gory movie. Over and over again until Bill thought he would scream. He knew he should be sitting at his desk right now, preparing a statement for the press, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d never been a public speaker and talking about something like this over the hum and lights of a dozen cameras scared the crap out of him. This field trip was simply a diversion; something to take his mind away from the brutality he’d never thought would come home.
And then there it was, sitting right in the middle of the otherwise empty parking lot, like a bright and sparkling toy. He stepped slowly out of his Blazer, walking around the Miata like he might some exotic snake, eyeing it with a distinct unease. He didn’t know what was making him so edgy, causing his hackles to rise. Sure, finding that much money in an abandoned car was unusual, damned unusual.
Shit, to be honest it was suspicious as hell, but other than the fact that Tony had taken the cash home, no real crime had been committed. The telephone call Tony had received was just that, a telephone call. He had no reports of a missing person and didn’t see any immediate evidence of foul play. He had an abandoned car and a whole lot of money. So why was it making him just as nervous and jumpy as the five women laying in cold storage in the county morgue?
He finally approached the passenger side of the vehicle, snapping on a latex glove as he did so. He knew this was a job for the crime lab, but they were all busy up on the mountain collecting evidence and hopefully giving him something concrete to go on.
Muttering under his breath, he popped the latch
to the glove compartment and pulled out the registration paperwork. Registered to Arden Jones of Torrance, a suburb of Los Angeles. Aviator’s Ray-Bans and eleven black government ballpoint pens. Assorted paperwork, including a copy of the Los Angeles Air Force Base biweekly, the AstroNews, with a by-line by Captain Arden Jones. His left eyebrow climbed an inch. An Air Force officer carrying that much cash disappears in the middle of Nowhere, California. He wasn’t buying it. Puffing his cheeks out in a withheld breath, he contemplated the registration and shiny car sitting before him, then walked to his truck.
* * * *
Technology never failed to amaze him. Within thirty minutes of contacting the local cellular company he’d tracked down the owner of the flip phone, even pinpointing her address. Samantha Henning of Hollywood, he thought, you have some serious explaining to do.
Chapter Three
To say that Arden Jones was pissed would have been an understatement. It was telegraphed to the whole world, from the people she dealt with in the office to the poor, unsuspecting dupes on the phone. It was drawn in every line of her lean body, from the ash blonde hair she’d ruthlessly hauled into a French twist to the ‘go to hell’ heels on her long legs. It was bad enough that she’d been transferred to this hellhole of a base in Los Angeles, of all places, but yesterday when she’d opened her door, her brand-new car was gone. She’d saved her money the whole two years she was overseas so she could buy the damn thing in cash, and poof, it was gone. More than anything, she’d bought it as a symbol that her life was starting anew, as an older, wiser woman rather than the naïve girl she had been. So here she was. And Torrance was supposed to be such a good little city. Shit.
She scowled out the window across from her cubicle, looking glumly at the demarcation line separating the clear blue sky and the smog, wondering why the planes taking off from LAX didn’t get stuck in it and wishing she were back in the Azores. At least there had been no smog, no pollution, and best of all, no crime. She’d been spoiled on that little Portuguese island and every day she was here made her wish for the ‘boredom’ that she’d felt while stationed there.
Breathing a deep sigh, she pushed up her glasses and focused her hazel eyes on the article she was proofing and the handful of archive slides accompanying it. It was a pain in the butt to be the Air Force liaison to the stars, and coordinating the escorts for this charity event was no exception. She just knew she’d end up being one of them, dressing up in the monkey suit the military called ‘mess dress.’ Lord, all she ever did was make a mess when she wore the damn thing. And, to make it even worse, she was always taller than the Hollywood type she was escorting and it just looked plain dumb on camera. With a frown creasing her forehead and pulling her well-sculpted brows together, she attacked the article with a ferocity that no newsprint deserved. The third and fourth rings of the telephone in the lobby got her attention, and she snagged the line before the caller could hang up.
“Good Afternoon, Los Angeles Air Force Base Public Affairs, Captain Jones speaking. May I help you?” God, she winced, I should be a receptionist, I sound so disgustingly perky.
“Captain Arden Jones?” queried the deep, masculine voice on the other end of the line.
“This is Captain Jones.” She cradled the telephone between her shoulder and ear, then squinted at the slide she held between thumb and forefinger. Shifting back in her chair, she held it up to the light streaming through the grimy window and grimaced. It was crap, utter crap. “What can I do for you?” she muttered, her ‘legendary’ patience already beginning to wear thin.
“Captain Jones, my name is Bill Ashton and I’m the Sheriff for Mariposa County, up in Northern California. I understand from Torrance PD that your car’s been stolen. Could you give me a brief description please?” The voice at the other end was crisp, professional, and hummed along her nerve endings like a low-voltage shock. Held in its thrall and startled by her gut-deep reaction to a simple voice, it took her a second to realize exactly what he had asked. Then it hit her and blanked everything else out.
“Oh crap, how bad is it?” she moaned, her overactive imagination already painting the worst picture possible. “Sorry, sorry, it’s a candy apple red Miata, California plates, number 4E59436. Mariposa, you said. Where’s that?” She searched her memory, knowing the name was stored somewhere.
“Mariposa is right outside of Yosemite, ma’am. Did you have any personal effects in the vehicle?” He asked hopefully, but without much conviction, toying with the arm strap of the exercise bag. He was afraid he could see where this was leading.
“No, just the stuff in the glove box. What kind of personal effects?” Arden rubbed her temples, ineffectually brushing back the strands of hair that had fallen out of her twist, then drummed her fingers impatiently on the desktop, the clicking of her unpainted nails rapping a staccato rhythm. “And what shape is my car in? How trashed is it?”
“Um, your car is fine, but there are some circumstances surrounding it. Do you have the time to make a brief statement about its theft? Just for our records here.”
Arden grumbled inwardly for a moment, then acquiesced. As she finished telling him exactly the same thing she’d told the Torrance cops she blurted out, “So, who took my car? Did you catch them?”
There was silence on the other end of the line as the Sheriff debated dropping the name of their suspect. What the hell, he decided, it couldn’t hurt. “We haven’t caught the person, but we think we may have a name in connection. A sports bag and cell phone registered to this person were in your car. Do you know a Samantha Henning?” He heard the quick intake of her breath and knew he had something. “You know her, don’t you?”
The quality of her voice, when it did come back on the line, was so flat, so cold, so devoid of emotion that for an instant he thought it was computer-generated. “She’s my sister. Henning was my maiden name. Look, I’ve got a few things to tie up before I can get there. What’s the closest airport?”
“Hold on there for just a second…” he began before he was cut off.
“You don’t know my sister. Something is wrong, very wrong. What ‘circumstances’ were you talking about, and how do they tie in to Samantha?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that, it’s part of an ongoing investigation.” He answered stiffly, his own annoyance at her interruption beginning to show.
“I don’t know that you can offer us any assistance in this matter Captain Jones, except to give us background, and we can do that over the phone.” He was moving fast, trying to cut her off before she got a full head of steam. It was already bad enough with the press, the last thing he needed was relatives underfoot, especially a pushy military officer used to getting her own way. And a public relations officer at that! “I can keep you updated on any developments as they occur.” Apparently he hadn’t moved fast enough.
“Sheriff, I’ll be there by close of business tomorrow. I’ll expect to speak with you then. What is the closest airport?” She used her best ‘officer’ voice, hoping against hope that the Sheriff respected the authority her rank carried.
* * * *
His day didn’t get any better after that. At nine o’clock he called a conference for the city fathers rather than saying the same thing ten different times over the telephone. He also had much more control with all of them sitting right in front of him. To a man, or woman, they were worried about how the news of five dead bodies would effect tourism. Visitors to Yosemite were the lifeblood of Mariposa proper and the county as a whole. If tourists stopped coming, the town was in a world of hurt. It was no surprise that each of the Supervisors tried to distance themselves from the district where the murders occurred. Then the representative from the Yosemite area reluctantly voiced a concern that hadn’t even entered the Sheriff’s overtaxed mind.
Yosemite National Park was federal land, and the murdered women had been found right on the border of the park. Since it was unclear where the murders had actually been committed, it was a damned good bet
that the FBI was already on their way. To top it all off, the media had begun camping out in front of both the courthouse and the Sheriff’s Department, waiting for a statement. Ashton hadn’t seen that many TV trucks since the other Yosemite murders a few years ago. They had been committed by a deranged handyman with a grudge the size of Texas against women. He hadn’t been on the force then, thank God. The press had ripped apart the Sheriff’s Department and the FBI when another murder had been committed after the suspect had been initially questioned. This was going to be an even bigger circus, he could guarantee it. He sent the Supervisors on their way with a promise to update them if anything new surfaced and to hold a brief press conference in several hours.
* * * *
In the two hours before the press conference, the crime lab reported in with a disquieting detail—a liberal amount of green silk fibers had been found at the Jane Doe Five crime scene. The lab techs also reported what seemed to be unusual care in the placement of the bodies, indicating that they hadn’t been dumped, but precisely placed instead. He charged the investigators with finding anything and everything about the site before they reported again tomorrow morning.
Chapter Four
The Sheriff’s return to the office that afternoon was nothing short of a skirmish through enemy lines. The reporters followed him from the staging area, shouting questions over each other, totally oblivious to the fact he was ignoring them. He closed the outer door to the Department with a relief that was palpable. Walking straight to his office door, he unlocked it with the only key in the department. It was this security measure alone that had allowed him to leave the bag in the safe in his office while he soothed the savage media beast. He trusted his men with his life, but not necessarily with the amount of cash he was pretty sure was stashed in that bag. On any other day his first priority would have been getting a handle on the mystery behind the money, Samantha Henning, and Captain Arden Jones. Not so today.