A Dead Man's Tale (23 page)

Chico Perez Gets the Message

Times were tough enough already, but what with being unemployed, sleeping in the backseat of his Camaro, and bandaged and aching from Daisy’s violent attack, the former assistant golf-course groundskeeper was—to sum it up in a single syllable—glum. In four more, down in the dumps. And no wonder.

Chico Perez didn’t have enough cash to fill his gas tank, which had about six gallons sloshing around inside. After three days of dining on bland peanut butter spread onto saltine crackers, he was hungry for something a man could get his teeth into. But, like gasoline, beefsteak wasn’t free, and the hard-up fellow needed to find some way of raising enough ready money to feed himself and drive his classic Chevy a long way from Granite Creek, Colorado. Figuring out how to deal with his cash-flow problem would take some serious thought, which was why Perez was doing what he generally did when he needed to think, which was go for a slow drive after dark in some lonely, out-of-the-way place. Which in this instance was Forest Road 1040 in the mountains above Granite Creek, also known by locals as IRS Road.

Mulling over the possibilities, Perez scratched at his bandaged head, which itched like a tribe of hyperactive chiggers had set up camp.
I could pull off a convenience-store robbery
. Any half-wit could manage that, but there was always the risk that some nervous, pimply-face clerk with more testosterone than brains would produce a Saturday-night special and commence to perforate a professional robber’s hide until all the ammo was used up.
Maybe I should break into a rich person’s summer house here in the mountains and steal some stuff I could sell.
He squinted at the dark, twisting forest lane.
Like expensive jewelry and cameras and computers.
But, from previous experience as a burglar, Perez realized that his prospects were not altogether promising.
Most rich folks didn’t get that way by being dopes, so they don’t leave much in their second homes that’s worth stealing.
On top of that, fencing purloined property in a little burg like Granite Creek would be next to impossible. It occurred to Perez that being a thief was not nearly as appealing as some other vocations, like panhandling in Aspen or Taos or rolling drunk college kids in Boulder for the few dollars they had in their pockets.
Or maybe I should—

This latest felonious inspiration was interrupted by the mobile phone clipped to his belt. The distinctively harsh warble of a yellow-headed blackbird—which is not unlike the squeaky creaking of a rusted gate hinge—signaled that he had received a text message. Which was Mrs. Reed’s preferred method of communication. Chico Perez pulled his Chevy to a stop and read the few words. Like other young men who enjoy being right, he was pleased to see Irene’s characteristic salutation and signature.

Perez thumbed in his response:

After making a hard U-turn that startled another young buck (and his equally edgy harem of lady friends), the eager boyfriend was on his way.
This is my chance to make a big score. Irene keeps three or four credit cards in her purse, and I bet she’s got a couple of thousand bucks of spare change in the house. Why didn’t I think of this before?

This was a thousand percent better than knocking off a convenience store or burglarizing somebody’s fifteen-room “cabin.”

I’ll hold a knife to Irene’s throat until she coughs up all the cash in the house, then I’ll snap the rich bitch’s neck and hit the road.

Heading downgrade, the young fellow threw back his head and, in a mellow voice that belied his capacity for cruelty, boomed out, “I’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when I come!”

Granite Creek’s Top Cop Also Gets the Message

As the brutal young bully bellowed at the top of his lungs, Samuel Reed was in the guest-house kitchenette, brewing a fresh batch of high-test espresso while happily humming “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Charlie Moon had left the comfortable stakeout headquarters to make another round of the Reed property.

Scott Parris was at the bedroom window, eyeballing the Reed residence. Barely a minute after Chico Perez had received and responded to the suggestive text message, the chief of police received a heads-up from Dispatch on his GCPD mobile phone. The subject was a “relevant communication” from Mrs. Reed.
I wonder what she’s up to?
His internal query was followed promptly by the text from Irene Reed’s tapped cell phone. As he read it, Parris held his breath.
If that ain’t the “all’s clear” signal for the boyfriend to come over and help her commit a homicide, then I’m a monkey’s favorite uncle.
Parris was rereading the text message when Perez’s reply scrolled onto the screen. The cop’s mouth formed a silent
Wow!

There could be no doubt about it now.

It’s coming down. Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend plan to do away with Sam Reed tonight.
Scott Parris set his heavy jaw like a steel vise.
But it’s not gonna happen on my watch.

Things Get Tolerably Messy

The tribal investigator was on the rocky ridge overlooking Samuel Reed’s residential property when he took his friend’s call on the GCPD portable radio. A virtual shadow-man among the junipers and pines, the Ute listened to Scott Parris’s terse report of the text-message exchange. “Got it,” Moon said, and thumbed the radio off.

Without saying a word to Samuel Reed about the shady character who was coming to pay a late-evening call on his wife, Scott Parris remained at the bedroom window.

Charlie Moon watched a dead-silent Shadowlane Avenue for almost a quarter of an hour before a big-hatted young man in a Dodge pickup older than he was zipped by at about sixty miles per hour. The aged truck rattled at every rusty joint and the right front fender shuddered like it might fall off at any moment.
Knox and Slocum will put a big ticket on that cowboy if he don’t slow down.
Four minutes later Moon smiled at a shiny Volkswagen convertible with the top down—four laughing teenagers were on their way to town. The happy youngsters left an uneasy quiet in their wake.

The Indian’s antenna went up when a pair of headlights appeared almost a mile away on Shadowlane. Moon didn’t know
how
he knew, but he was dead certain that…
this’ll be him.
Sure enough, as the vehicle came closer, it began to slow. The tribal investigator watched a sleek, low-slung Chevrolet sedan pull to the curb about fifty yards from the Reeds’ driveway. Admiring the profile of the classic Camaro, which had been the automobile of his dreams about twenty years ago, Moon watched the driver emerge and waited to get a better look. The fellow fit the general description of Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend…
but it looks like the guy’s head is bandaged. Maybe he’s had an accident.
Or…
he might’ve been in a fight.
The part-time cop smiled.
I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like.
He thumbed the Talk button on the GCPD radio and pressed the instrument against his ear to hear a corresponding click. “Company coming,” he murmured.

Parris’s happy anticipation rang in Moon’s ear. “Our guy?”

“Big fella. About the right age. And he’s driving an old Camaro.”

“Blond hair down to his shoulders?”

“I don’t see any hair at all, pard—his head’s either bandaged or he’s wearing a white turban.”

“Never mind—it’s gotta be Perez.” Parris checked his wristwatch.
And right on time.
“The boyfriend’s been invited, and he’s showed up. Perez is here to help the lady do a job on her old man.”

“You sure Reed can’t hear you?”

“Sure I’m sure.” The cop in the bedroom craned his neck to glance at the entrepreneur in the dimly illuminated parlor, who—apparently oblivious to all else—was busy conducting business. “He’s on the phone again, probably making a deal to buy IBM.”

As the Ute began making his way down the ridge, he was experiencing a touch of the familiar twisting sensation in his gut.
Something’s not quite right about this.
“So we just wait to see what happens?”

“That’s the drill.”

“Our visitor’s headed through the trees toward the back of the house. No…hold on. He’s stopped now…taking a look around.” Seemingly of their own volition, Moon’s long legs stretched to pick up the pace. “There’s still time for me intercept him before he gets there.”

“No way, Charlie—we stay with plan A. Let him pass. After Mrs. R. lets him inside, we’ll watch the house and see what develops.”

I don’t like it.
“What’s plan B?”

“Things get kinky, we’ll improvise.” Apprehension is a communicable illness and Scott Parris was beginning to feel a little feverish.
It ain’t like Charlie Moon to get antsy.
To make sure his deputy didn’t go off half-cocked and muck things up, he added in a softer whisper, “Come inside and help me keep an eye on Mr. R.—just in case he realizes something’s up and freaks out. We’ll watch the show from here in the pent house.” To terminate the discussion, the chief of police shut his radio off.

Samuel Reed pocketed his mobile phone as he entered the guest-house bedroom. “So what’s Mr. Moon reporting—someone skulking about outside?”

He’s got better ears than I figured.
“Just some guy driving by.” Parris faked a yawn. “Charlie’s coming inside for a spell.”

Parris’s cell phone played a few bars of “Golden Slippers.”
That’s Dispatch again
. He snatched the instrument from his pocket and barked, “What?”

Dispatcher Clara Tavishuts told him what.

Parris felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. “Thanks, Clara.” He broke the connection just as Charlie Moon opened the parlor door and stepped inside. As the Ute’s lanky form loomed in the bedroom, the chief of police addressed both men. “Mrs. Reed has just placed a 911 emergency call. She claims somebody is attempting to break into the rear entrance of her home.” Parris took another look at the Reed’s back door.
And there’s nobody there.

Samuel Reed received this piece of news with a cock of his head. “That’s rather peculiar, don’t you think? I mean—there’s obviously no burglar about or you fellows would have spotted him.” The husband rolled his owlish eyes. “Ever since her supposed encounter with the so-called Crowbar Burglar, Irene has been nervous about being home alone. My wife must be hearing things.”

Moon and Parris exchanged edgy looks. And thought identical thoughts.

It’s a long time before eleven o’clock. Something’s gone wrong.

Samuel Reed resumed his pacing and began humming another old tune.

Alerted by a slight jerk of his friend’s head, Moon strode to the window. Both lawmen watched Chico Perez’s bulky form approach the back door of the physicist’s home. The man with the bandaged head did not bother to knock. He fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked and opened the door—and stepped into that final darkness.

A pair of pistol shots popped like firecrackers.

Chico Perez roared like a gored bull.

Simultaneous with Irene’s shrill scream—two more shots.

As the wounded man charged the woman, Charlie Moon was racing down the guest-house stairway four steps at a time. Scott Parris was one stride behind.

As Perez got his right hand on Irene’s throat, the Ute was on a dead run to the Reed residence.

His .38 snub-nosed revolver ready to conduct serious business, a huffing-puffing Parris was coming on like a steam locomotive—but not quite so close now to the rangy rancher.

What the lawmen found inside was more or less what they had expected.

With several bullet holes in his abdomen, Perez was flat on his back, spitting cherry-red blood that dribbled along his chin and onto his neck. “Crazy bitch!” He coughed and gurgled. “She’s gut-shot me—I’m done for.” The dying man waved his hand in front of his eyes…as if to ward off some horrific vision that only he could see. “No—” he rasped, “stay away from me!”

Crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, her pearl-handled Browning .32-caliber automatic death-gripped in her right hand—Irene Reed was likewise
done for
. Perez had snapped her lovely neck.

The summoned ambulance arrived in seven minutes flat. As her two co-workers were loading the cursing, blood-soaked man into the white Ford van, the tight-lipped EMT consulted her wristwatch and pronounced the adult Caucasian female dead at 10:14
P.M
.

While sirens screamed to clear the way to Snyder Memorial Hospital, Chico Perez groaned and moaned away his spirit. He expired as the anxious EMTs rolled the stainless-steel gurney into the ER.

Minutes later, one of the emergency medical technicians who had tended to the wounded man while the ambulance rolled along at seventy-plus miles per hour complained of a headache and knocked off early from his customary 8
P.M
. to 8
A.M
. shift. The seasoned professional did not withdraw to his lonely basement apartment, wash down a couple of aspirins with ten-dollar-a-liter red wine, and hit the sack. He went to his mother’s house, woke the old lady up, and told her about the homicide and how he’d had lots of company on the way to the hospital. No less than a half-dozen “unauthorized passengers” had gone along for the ride, all eager to witness the expiration of the fatally wounded man.

Momma reached out to pat his hand. “Who were they, Sonny?”

“They was all women, Ma—young women.” The EMT cleared his throat and, for the first time since he’d walked through the front door—looked his mother straight in the eye. “
Dead
young women.”

“Oh, my!”

That should have been sufficient.

But when Sonny turned his face away, his mother heard him say, “One of ’em was that dead lady we found on the floor beside the big guy—the one that shot him.”