Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (19 page)

"The one that would let you love."

Sunday Afternoon, 5:45 PM

In the high country, there is a space in the late afternoon where the air hangs heavy and the minutes slow to a crawl. Evening shadows color the ridgeline, as if gathering strength in the mountains before moving down to darken the desert floor. Nothing seems important. Whatever is about to take place has already taken place countless times. The earth is vast, it is implacable, and not in a mood to change.

Hal smiled on the video monitor, and his image was crisp and clean. Jerry seemed proud. "It is nearly midnight here in England, and I may leave for Zurich tomorrow, but I have some more information on the Palmer brood." Hal paused and squinted. "But first, I can't see you very well. Jerry, how is your lower lip?"

"Fine, if I ever want to work as a circus clown. I hit the computer right after Mick called me. I have some stuff to tell you guys about McDowell."

"Then by all means, go first."

I popped a Diet Coke, pushed back the chair and swung my legs up onto Jerry's metal desk. "I'm all ears."

"I hacked my way into the central files of the great state of Texas." Jerry said. "I got the name of a legitimate Texas Ranger and his ID, and then used his identity to poke around. There
was
a Milton McDowell born and raised in Paris. I conned a deputy name of Brewster who didn't have much going on this afternoon. He told me McDowell was born on one of those places where they barely raise enough."

"Explains his love of money," I said.

"There were three brothers in that family, two a lot older than Milton," Jerry continued. "Both brothers did time; one is doing life for a double murder during a robbery, the other got executed six years ago. Deputy Brewster says Milton was kind of a mommy's boy, since his daddy ran off when he was six. He got into trouble all the time, like the other brothers, just not as serious. Milton was always able to snake his way out of it."

"Smart kid?"

"Way smart, the deputy says. To quote him exactly, 'That boy is master of the grip and grin and likeable as hell, but he'll pick your pocket.' Says Loner had a knack for charming cops, judges, and other men's wives."

"Sounds like our boy," I said. "Did he have a rap sheet there?"

"The last screw up was so bad he couldn't bribe his way out of it. Seems he went to work for some old dude owned a body shop and starting doing some radio spots, really funny ones. Only problem is, he was also doing the old man's pretty young wife."

"How colorful," Hal said. His face stretched on the monitor, making him look briefly like a Halloween pumpkin. The screen rolled and settled again.

I raised my eyebrows and Jerry sighed. "That's because I have thousands of dollars of gear plugged into a cheap strip from the hardware store. Give me a break."

"Go on, kid."

"Somebody who didn't like the old man told him all the gory details and sent a couple of photos taken through a motel window, the kind that showed McDowell's butt cheeks and her high heels. The old man goes bonkers. He hires a couple of goons to rip the kid apart like greasy fried chicken. The two big guys corner him at the body shop, but Loner puts both of them away. He finishes up by whacking their hands with a ball peen hammer for messing up his new clothes."

"Ouch."

"I guess he goes back for the young wife, or maybe just for one last piece of ass," Jerry said. "The old man tries to pull a gun on McDowell, and McDowell slaps the crap out of him. And then in front of the wife, who is all screaming and bawling and threatening to call the cops, he spills all the gruesome details of how and when he did the girl so the old man won't ever be able to forget. He steals the old man's new Caddy, beats feet out of town."

I had always known Loner had a shadow. I hadn't realized it was long enough to cover the tri-state area. "They ever catch him?"

"Outstanding warrants for grand theft auto, assault, and if you can believe it, something called alienation of affection. Seems they got a statute of limitations on a lot of stuff down there, though, and the deputy thinks it ran out years ago."

Hal asked, "I wonder why it stays so fresh in his mind, then?"

"Everyone in Paris hated that old man," Jerry said. "His bitchy little wife wasn't popular, either. So the locals still tell that story and laugh about how they both got theirs because of the McDowell boy. In fact, the local law isn't all that inclined to arrest him."

"So the deputy has no legal interest in finding McDowell, assuming our Loner is indeed the same man?" Hal asked. On the monitor, he was rubbing his temples and looking down. I had given up trying to make sense of those images.

"Probably couldn't charge him with anything if he could."

"That would motivate a young kid to hit the road," I said, "and it's just tawdry enough he'd be reluctant to disclose the details. It looks like he was honest when I asked him directly."

"It would appear that way," Hal said.

"What else to we have to go over?" I asked.

"I have some things," Hal said. "Shall I continue?"

"Please do."

"As for Palmer, court records show that there have been seven attempts to prosecute him for fraud but he fought them all off successfully. He also settled three different cases of sexual harassment out of court in the l990s. Also, both Palmers have settled paternity suits out of court. A number of lawyers adore them."

"A lot of expenses for a man who has twice declared bankruptcy."

"Yes," Hal said. "So I began to wonder where in the world these sizable sums could be coming from."

Where in the world?
He had gotten my attention. I swung my legs around and sat up straight. "Go on."

"It was Jerry who found the original accounts and traced them," Hal said. "With the numbers, and by virtue of my connections, I was able to ascertain that Mr. Palmer has a number of offshore accounts in the Netherlands Antilles and the Bahamas. Most of the money came from these foreign accounts; all of which, I might add, appear to be formidable in size."

"Were you able to find out if he has paid taxes on any of that money?"

"Not according to the IRS files," Jerry said. His eyes were red from staring at the screen. He started shuffling papers. "I stole them a few minutes ago. I've got the last ten years printed out in case you want to see them."

I frowned. "Isn't that a felony?"

"Only if I get caught."

"Lastly," Hal said, "if one were to believe the tax forms submitted by his accountant, who appears to have an impressive imagination by the way, old Lowell is poorer than a church mouse. He is practically destitute, except for his land, which is now virtually worthless. The ranch is, of course, locked up in a living trust and thus fully protected."

"I'm with you," I said.

Jerry was lost. He started looking back and forth between the color monitor and me, much like a drunk watching a tennis match.

"So you had better move quickly," Hal said.

Jerry sighed. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"

The room turned red, then blue, and then red again. A horn honked twice in the motel driveway; a siren howled and then went silent. Jerry jumped to his feet and yanked on the blinds. "It's Sheriff Bass!" He started shoving papers into cardboard boxes and shutting down the equipment. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

"Hal?"

"Yes, Mick?"

"We have to run. Go to sleep, and I'll E-mail you or get back to you in the morning."

"All right.
Shalom
."

I turned off the monitor. Jerry closed up the computer gear and we went back into the front office. I took a deep breath and motioned for Jerry to open the front door. I walked out onto the porch, hands in the side pockets of my jeans.

"Afternoon, Sheriff."

Bass stepped out of his patrol car and leaned on the open door. "Callahan," he said, "I need your professional opinion about something, and I'm going to be too damn busy to drive you back here. I want you to follow me."

I grabbed my jean jacket and motioned Jerry into the shotgun seat of the old green Mustang hatchback. Bass sped out of the driveway and I followed. As we pulled out onto the highway, Bass fired up the siren.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Beats me, Jerry. Fasten your seatbelt."

Something was chewing at the back of my mind and a cold chill came over me. We had found some important information, but just a little too late.

Jerry was totally confused. "What's going on?"

"Let me think." I clicked on the radio and let the plaintive wail of Emmylou Harris fill the car. She was singing "Too Far Gone." Jerry made a face, but I ignored him. We drove towards the gathering darkness; it would be sunset soon. As Linda Ronstadt began an old Roy Orbison tune, we hit the turnoff onto Highway 93. After a moment, I recognized "Blue Bayou." I ran the facts through my mind again, backwards and forwards. I went over that initial encounter with Will Palmer. I didn't like what I was thinking.

"Jerry, there appears to be an awful lot of Palmer money offshore. Many zeroes worth of money, hidden God knows where."

"So?"

"The old man may be dying. If the ranch is in a living trust, and that money is outside of the United States in fraudulent accounts, then one person in particular stood to gain a great deal from the death of Sandy Palmer."

Sunday Evening, 6:44 PM

We left the cars by the two-story house. I heard the obnoxious buzzing of flies as soon as we neared the grain silo. Bass walked briskly ahead through the lengthening shadows; past the old barn, then entered the tack room. There were well-worn saddles along one wall and bridles on another. Dust motes, hay, and the odor of horse manure. Leather creaked in the evening breeze. Time stood still.

He swung from the rope like some grotesque piñata, blackened tongue protruding from the right side of his mouth. His eyes were bulging bullfrog-wide, and his nostrils dripped mucous. This had been a bad death, with much struggling and kicking, as if there had been second thoughts. The scuffed wooden footstool lay on its side perhaps one yard away, and his bare toes still seemed to stretch desperately in that direction.

Doc was already on the scene. "I already took a mess of pictures," he drawled, "and measured pretty everything out. I do believe I'm starting to get good at this."

Jerry said, "Oh, Jesus."

"That ain't Jesus," Doc said, "that there is Will Palmer. You recognize old Will, don't you Callahan?"

I swallowed. "He's looked better."

Sheriff Bass and I stared at one another. Was he thinking about the street fight that Will Palmer had orchestrated, and whether or not I seemed surprised enough at finding the body? Me, I was starting to wonder if I'd
trusted the wrong man . . . and how much longer I'd be willing to keep his secret.

Doc spat in the dirt. "Sheriff, has everybody gone plumb crazy?"

Bass seemed weary. "It's beginning to look that way. Has the old man come down out of the big house?"

"Told me he don't want to see it."

"You let me know when you got all your notes, Doc," Bass said.

"Nearly done now. Those facial vessels seem pretty occluded, but that's likely because he fought it so hard after he'd dropped. See there? His face and neck are a pretty red."

"So?"

"So the coroner will want to check for a strangulation bruise on the base of his neck, just to be sold this was really a suicide. Seems pretty damned obvious, though, and the pictures ought to show it."

"Why did you bring me here, Bass?" I couldn't bring myself to look Will Palmer in the face. I kept wondering if badgering him might have contributed to what appeared to be a suicide.

Bass pointed towards a pile of hay a few feet away. A large sheet of plain typing paper lay upon the straw, weighted down by the handle of a pitchfork. "Mr. Callahan, tell me what you think of that, but don't touch it."

I crossed the floor, barely breathing. The hand-printed letters were large and written with a felt-tipped pen. I knelt in the dirt; examined the note and everything concerning its placement.

PLEASE FORGIVE ME POP. I FEEL TERRIBLE ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO SANDY.

In 1957, two researchers named Shneidman and Farberow analyzed the handwriting and content of 66 suicide notes. What emerged is that suicide notes have "positive," "negative," or "mixed" emotional content. Genuine suicide notes had a great preponderance of so-called "neutral" thoughts. The author is already dead inside.

I heard a dry, retching sound. Jerry was outside, vomiting into the dirt. I tried to ignore the foul odor of excrement. The note seemed casually placed, which seemed odd. I read the words over and over:
Please forgive me Pop. I feel terrible about what happened to Sandy
.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," I said. "This boy didn't strike me as having much capacity for remorse. Could you get a sample of his handwriting?"

"Already on it."

"Don't bother," Doc said. "The boy had terrible handwriting. He printed everything, so that somebody else could make sense of it."

I nodded, casually. "And you know that because . . . ?"

"He left me notes on livestock. One about a castration, for example. Hell, if I'd have done what I thought it said, I'd have cut the nuts off
him
and sent the bill to his prize bull."

I stood up and dusted the knees of my jeans. "I want to talk to the father. I'd like to do that as soon as possible."

Bass shook his head. "Maybe you haven't been paying attention, but Lowell Palmer owns this town. If he doesn't want to see anybody, I'm not going to try and make him."