Three Sisters (31 page)

As the long ribbon of blacktop slipped under the Cadillac, Scott Parris was in the driver’s seat. But despite his confidence, the chief of police was not quite in the catbird seat.

Cassandra Spencer was at his elbow, arms folded, looking straight ahead. Since being informed that Daisy Perika was not coming along for the ride to Granite Creek, the professional psychic had not uttered a solitary word.

Now and then, Parris would steal a glance at the attractive woman.
Even a dope would know something’s up.
Despite her deficiencies, Cassandra had an IQ of 132.
Well, I might as well get this over with.
Realizing that the conversation might take a while, he slowed to fifty-five. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Nicholas Moxon.”

“You talk. I’ll listen.” She brushed a raven lock away from her left ear.

Okay. Here goes.
Deep breath. “When’s the last time you saw your business manager?”

Her chin rose in a defiant gesture. “I cannot see why that is any of your business”

“Humor me.” Parris turned his head long enough to flash a smile. “I’m a curious sort of fellow.”

“I was with Nicky yesterday afternoon.” She made a fist of her right hand, pretended to inspect her manicure. “We were discussing the fact that Daisy Perika’s guest appearance produced a huge spike in the ratings. It was a no-brainer that we should bring her back.”

“And you haven’t heard from Moxon since?”

“On the contrary. While I was at Daisy’s home, Nicky called on my cell phone.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.
“What time was that?”

“I did not look at my watch.” A shrug. “An hour or two ago, I suppose.”

“Where was Moxon when he called you?”

“Oh.” Frowny-eyed pause. “Let me think.” Longer frowny-eyed pause, accompanied by a tapping of fingertip against lower lip. “Nicky was with an attorney.”

That figures. The bastard’s been tipped that the state cops are looking for him on a homicide rap, and he’s already hired himself a lawyer!
“This attorney—anybody I know?”

“I imagine so. Nicky was at Mr. Boxman’s office. He handles all the legal issues for the television show. And if you must know, he and Nicky were working on a contract for Daisy’s future appearances, which will involve a fee.”

Parris knew Roderick Boxman quite well. The highly respected, semiretired attorney dealt with the occasional will or contract. But not criminal cases. And Boxman’s office was in his home, which was only a couple of blocks from Moxon’s house.
Maybe Moxon walked over to the lawyer’s office to help hammer out the contract. If that’s where he’s been all day, then he doesn’t know we’re looking for him.

Cassandra kicked off her shoes, put her long, silk-stockinged legs onto the seat, hugged her knees. “Why are you asking me all these questions about Nicky?”

“Ahh…maybe to pass the time of day.”

“Right.” Her lips curled in a smirk. “Now tell me what this all about.”

Parris had a choice to make. He decided to give it to her straight. “Mr. Moxon is what we refer to as a ‘person of interest.’ State police would like to have a talk with him.”

The smirk slipped off her face. “About what?”

“A homicide.” After a suitable pause, he added, “He’s the suspect.”

She blinked. “You must be joking.”

“Not a chance. There’s nothing funny about gunning a man down.”

“Who?” She shook her head. “I mean who is Nicky supposed to have…” She could not get the word out of her mouth.

“You remember that
vision
you had during your TV show—the one where the fella at the truck-stop lunch counter got shot in the back?”

Cassandra felt her head nodding.

“The Huerfano County Sheriff’s Office and the state police have interviewed an eyewitness to the shooting.”
An eyewitness who doesn’t believe the earth is round.
“This citizen is ready to testify in a court of law that he saw Mr. Nicholas Moxon pull the trigger.”

“That is totally absurd!” As if she had caught a sudden chill, Cassandra was trembling. “Nicky is not a murderer!”

Parris approached a huge RV with Florida plates. “If Moxon didn’t shoot the trucker, he’s got nothing to worry about.” He passed the motorized behemoth. “And if he’s not in serious trouble, neither are you.”

Her face blanched. “What do you mean by that?”

As if he had not heard her, the chief of police watched the RV recede in the rearview mirror. Dead silence is potent stuff.

When she posed the next question, the elegant brunette’s manner was wary, suggesting a sleek, black cat stepping her way across a rushing stream on slippery, wet stones. “This shooting—what could it possibly have to do with me?”

“Don’t bother playing dumb, Cassie.” His pale face was like marble. “Your business manager’s number one job is to take care of his client. One way Moxon does that is by providing you with information about breaking news while you’re on the air.”

“If you’re daring to suggest that I would—”

“Moxon’s been feeding you hot news for months. It’s a fact and you know it, and I know it.”

“What, precisely, is it that you ‘know’?”

Time to lower the boom. “For just one thing—I know about that TV monitor in your parlor.”
Thanks to good ol’ Charlie Moon.
“The one under your coffee table.”

The psychic opened her mouth. Started to say something. Shut it.

“I also know that Moxon was
making
bad things happen.”

Cassandra found her voice. “That is an absolutely outrageous charge. I cannot believe Nicky would commit an act of violence.”

“Believe whatever you want, but your business partner’s responsible for at least one murder, probably three. Plus two counts of felony arson. And he’s going down for it.” Parris slowed for a half-dozen deer that were crossing the road, chose his next words with particular care: “Which, if you knew what he was up to, makes you an accomplice.”

“Well I certainly did not—
do
not know of any such thing!”

Parris watched a six-point buck lead his harem into the underbrush.

She reached over to touch his sleeve. “Scott—I swear on my mother’s grave—Nicky never tells me anything about what he’s doing.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve got to believe me!”

“What I believe don’t matter. You—more likely your lawyer—will have to convince the Huerfano County DA you’re not involved in Moxon’s felonious activities. My job is to make sure you live long enough to have your say.”

“Are you suggesting that my life is in danger?”

“Use your head, Cassie. All the DA needs to put the rope around Moxon’s neck—figuratively speaking—is a witness who can testify as to how he was passing information about the trucker shooting to you while you were on the air—
at the same time the victim was shot.
” He waited for that to sink in, then: “If I was in Mr. Moxon’s shoes, I’d be awfully worried about Miss Cassandra Spencer telling the authorities what she knows.” An Elk Crossing sign flashed by. “And I’d be tempted to make sure she didn’t.”

There was a taut-as-a-banjo-string silence before she replied, “I know quite well how the police use every means imaginable to intimidate innocent people. But it is quite pointless, attempting to frighten me.”

“Well, I gave it my best shot.”
And I’ve pretty much shot my wad
. But then he had a tantalizing thought: “You’re bound to have Moxon’s cell number. Why don’t you give him a call.”

Her words lashed out at him: “And tell him what—that you have accused him of murder?”

Parris realized that once again, his big mouth had gotten ahead of his brain.
If Moxon don’t know about the eyewitness that’s fingered him for the trucker shooting, Cassie spilling the beans could mess things up proper.
But the chief of police had started this dangerous game, and was committed to play it till someone made the final score. “It don’t matter a particle to me what you two chat about. The weather. County politics. The price of crystal balls in Rumania.” He managed a weak grin. “As long as you find out where he’s at.”

Cassandra Spencer hesitated, then shot the cop a venomous look. “Very well, I will do just that.”

As he stared at the caller ID on his cell phone, Nicholas Moxon was mildly surprised.
Cassie should be on the way back to Granite Creek. Why would she be calling me now?
There could be a hundred reasons, ninety-nine of them of no great importance. He was tempted to answer, but thought it best not to.
If and when I want to talk to the silly bitch, I’ll do the calling.

After ten rings, Cassandra Spencer got Moxon’s voice mail.
That’s odd. Nicky always answers his cell phone.
She decided against leaving a message.

Scott Parris took another risk. “You could give Rod Boxman a call—maybe Moxon’s still there.”
But if he is, please don’t tell him you’re with me.
He crossed his fingers. Mentally, so she could not see.

The well-organized lady also had the attorney’s number stored in her telephone.

Mr. Boxman answered on the second ring. “Hello, Cassie—how in the world are you?”

“I’m fine. But I need to get in touch with Nicky. I assume he’s not still with you, but do you have any idea where he might have gone after he left your office this afternoon?”

After a momentary silence, the kindly gentleman’s voice said in her ear, “I have not seen Nicholas Moxon for almost a month.”

Her hands turned cold and clammy. “But surely he called you yesterday or this morning, about preparing a contract.”

“No, he did not.” A small, sad sigh. “Perhaps he has seen fit to consult with another attorney.”

The psychic—who was having an off day—did not pick up on Mr. Boxman’s feelings, and provided a reply that was insensitive to his professional self-esteem: “Another attorney? Yes, that must be it.” After exchanging a curt goodbye, Cassandra returned the phone to her purse.
What is going on?
Deep, deep down, she knew.

His gambit having paid off big-time, Parris relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. “So Moxon didn’t pay a call on his lawyer today?” He feigned a puzzled expression, shook his head. “Now why would a man lie to his client about a little thing like that?” Another brothy question was beginning to simmer in his mind:
If the contract story was bogus, why did he send Cassandra to bring Daisy to Granite Creek?
If Moxon merely intended to drop out of sight, why not drive into Denver, leave his car in one of those umpteen-acre mall parking lots, take a taxi to the airport, a plane to some distant destination. But Moxon had left his wheels at home. Which raised two important questions: (1)
What’s he using for transportation?
and (2)
Where is the guy?

Proper questions have answers. In this case: (1) humongous big pickup truck; (2) not very far north of the black 1957 Cadillac, approximately a hundred yards off the paved road.

Nicholas Moxon was manning his post behind Hurricane Hazel’s steering wheel, the corpse of the truck’s owner curled up near his feet. He had removed a fine pair of 1940s-era German military binoculars from his knapsack, focused the precision optics on the highway that snaked along below the wooded ridge where the monster truck was concealed from passing traffic. In the slant of the late-afternoon sun, he saw a small flash of silvery chrome bumper and glistening black tail fins. His smile exposed a display of well-kept teeth, some capped with Mexican gold crowns. He whispered past his precious-metal bicuspids, “Here she comes.”

Hanging out of sight behind the 1957 Cadillac, Officer Elmer Jackson was bone-tired, hungry enough to eat a triple burger and double-size fries, and feeling more than a little foolish.
I don’t know why I thought I should ride rear guard for Scott Parris.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
But we’ll be in Granite Creek in a few minutes, so I might as well follow him all the way there before I turn around and head for home.
Home. Such a happy word. It seemed so very far away. It was not.

From his high perch on the east side of the highway, Nicholas Moxon could not see the occupant of the driver’s seat; only the passenger side was visible. He had expected to see Daisy Perika seated next to the driver. What he saw instead was his young, attractive client.
What’s Cassie doing on the passenger side? Where’s the old Indian woman? Who’s doing the driving?
Even for a man of Nicholas Moxon’s mental capacity, three questions at once were a bit too much to deal with, so he summed them up succinctly:
What the hell is going on?

As he pondered this conundrum, the venerable Cadillac passed from view.

And then, tagging along a mile behind Cassandra’s sleek black automobile, Moxon spotted the state-police unit.
Uh-oh.
What was this—a tail or an escort? Which raised an earlier question:
Why was Cassie calling me on my cell phone?
This turn of events was perplexing.
Okay, I’ll start with what I know
.

Number one:
Somebody else is driving Cassie’s car. And she never, ever lets anybody drive her daddy’s ’57 Caddy. Not even me. Which means something is wrong here.

Number two.
Cassie’s got a cop on her tail
.

Adding up one and two, what he got was:
Somehow or other, the cops have got something on me. Could be the fire in that south-Denver warehouse. Or that fat tourist I pushed into the river. Or the trucker I shot over on I-25. And when they couldn’t find me, the cops picked up Cassie, hoping to pump her for information. And that probably happened after I called her at the Indian woman’s house
. Which brought him back to the psychic’s telephone call a few minutes ago.
And now Cassie calls me from her car, which somebody is driving for her, and while she’s being escorted by a state copper
. The critical question was
why
had she called.
Most likely, she’s working with the cops. Trying to find out where I’m at.

There was another possibility:
Or, Cassie might be trying to warn me that I’m in big trouble.

Hmmm.

Either way, I ought to get rolling away from here while the getting’s good.
But not without knowing what his client was up to. Moxon picked up his cell phone. Dialed Cassandra’s number.

The psychic’s slim pink telephone was programmed to play a few bars of “Jingle Bells” when Moxon called. Yes, “
Jingle Bells.
” Go figure.

Scott Parris asked his passenger who was calling.
Santa Claus?

Cassandra: “It’s
him
!”

The cop did not need to ask who “him” was.

Second Jingle Bell.

Cassandra waggled the instrument at her chauffeur. “What should I do?”

“Answer it.”

“What should I say?”

Third Jingle Bell.

Charlie Moon’s best friend effected a nonchalant shrug. “Say ‘hello.’ Then let him do the talking.” After a hopeful afterthought, he added, “But if you can work it into the conversation, ask him where he is.”
Fat chance he’ll tell you
.

“But if I cross Nicky, he might
kill
me.”

Fourth Jingle Bell.

She’s admitted he’s a killer
. This witness was in the bag! “Don’t worry about Mr. Moxon. You’re under police protection.” Parris’s smile was all over his face. “And if you help the DA put your business partner away, you’ll be in the clear.”

Fifth Jingle Bell.

Nicholas Moxon heard the familiar voice in his ear.

“Hello, Nicky.”

“Hello yourself, babe. How’s it going?”

“Oh, fine.”

You don’t sound fine
. “You back in town yet?”

“Not quite. I just crossed over Little Elkhorn Pass.”

That was perfectly accurate. “How’s the old Indian gal doing—excited about being on the show tonight?”

“I hate to tell you this, but she’s not coming. Changed her mind at the last minute. Something about an upset stomach.”

So far, so good.
“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, it’s too bad.” Cassie gathered up all her courage. “Especially after you went to the trouble to have Mr. Boxman draw up the contract.”

“Ah—that’s no big deal. We’ll change a couple of lines, specify a new schedule. Granny’ll probably be up to doing the show next week.” Moxon watched the state-police car disappear from sight. “I hope you’re not too lonely, driving back all by yourself.”