Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) (2 page)

3

When Ethan Baudin had first walked into the Cheyenne Police Department, he thought the building looked like an ugly box. Two stories with a blue and black sign that read Police Department on the south end of the building, it looked like something built fifty years ago that just hadn’t decayed quite enough to be torn down.

He marched up the steps and found the detectives’ division on the second floor. In Los Angeles, everything was compartmentalized into subdivisions, units, and cells. People developed specialties over years, and that brought a certain something—instinct, maybe. But the detectives also lost the freshness the rookies had. Hardened homicide detectives with a decade of murder under their belts tended to see the world a specific way, and it was almost impossible for them to see it any other.

CPD, though—this would be something new. The days, at least Baudin hoped, would be varied and interesting. No two days alike.

After Dixon had stormed out, Baudin went back to his desk and sat down. He looked at the murder board up on the far wall. A white SMART board had the names of victims written in columns with updates on the case in various cells across the board. CPD had exactly two open homicides right now. When he had left the homicide table in West Hollywood, they had had seventy-six.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Jessop said as he sauntered over and leaned against Baudin’s desk.

“I’m good. We all have bad days.”

“His last partner, the man you replaced, was shot and killed on duty.”

He was silent a moment. “Oh. I wasn’t told that.”

Jessop nodded, looking down at his shoes. “Why’d you come out here, Ethan? No one from LAPD applies to come out here.”

“I have a daughter. Just didn’t want her raised in LA. I wanted someplace quiet where everyone knows everyone else.”

He grinned. “Careful what you wish for.”

The first day in most new jobs consisted of meetings to go over sexual harassment policies, vacation time, retirement, and the myriad other things the department felt it needed to cover. That was all given to Baudin in a single packet, and he was told to consult the packet should he have any questions. He was also told he probably wouldn’t be catching any cases today. He was put into the rotation but would have to wait until his name was called.

So he spent his entire first afternoon online reading about Cheyenne and its history. He’d done research back home, a lot of research, and spoken to a cousin who lived here. Everything seemed to indicate that it was a quiet city where not much at all happened—exactly what he’d been looking for.

When six o’clock rolled around, Baudin headed to the parking lot and found the Mustang he’d had for almost ten years. When he pulled out of the lot, a few detectives were milling around in front of the building. He waved hello, but they didn’t wave back.

The cost of living was cheap enough that Baudin could afford a rambler with a fence for him and his daughter, and enough yard for a dog. He parked in the driveway and stared at the home for a minute. He’d lived in condos and apartments so long that he hadn’t been sure he’d ever get into his own house. But there it was.

Baudin got out and sat on the porch for a while, staring at the cars passing by. Children played at one of the houses, and their squeals echoed around the neighborhood. A neighbor across the street, a woman in flood pants and a tank top, waved to him, and he smiled and waved back.

The bus dropped his daughter off a few minutes later not half a block from his house. She stared at the sidewalk as she walked, her black hair falling forward, and danced with the motion of her awkward teenage gait.

“How was the first day?” he said.

“Fine,” she mumbled and went inside.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He looked over at the school bus and watched as it pulled away before he rose and went inside.

The house was clean. He considered himself a minimalist and tried not to have clutter because he thought the external world a person saw every day influenced the internal. Messy homes would lead to messy thinking.

“Did you make any friends, Heather?” he said as he sat at the dining table.

She pulled out a half gallon of almond milk and poured a glass before searching the cupboards for snacks. “Not really. The kids here are weird.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. They all know each other from church or something.”

“You wanna go to church?” he said, taking out a package of cigarettes and lighting one.

“No.”

“Let me tell you something, Heather, if someone tells you they know the secrets of the universe and all it takes is sacrifice, you run the other way. ’Cause you can bet your ass that sacrifice will be yours, not theirs.”

She found some Oreos and put a few on a plate. Carefully, she took out each cookie and spread them on the plate evenly. Seeing her like this, in the kitchen, felt like a weight bearing down on Baudin’s chest. An ache he neither acknowledged nor denied.

“Molly’s coming over to babysit tonight,” he said, pulling an ashtray close.

“Who’s Molly?”

“My cousin. You’ve met her. You were just young.”

“Why’s she coming to babysit?”

He tapped the ash off his cigarette and took only one more drag, knowing how much it annoyed Heather when he smoked in front of her. “I have to go out for a minute. Won’t be long.” He rose and kissed her forehead. “I love you, baby.”

As he was leaving, she said, “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t like it here. Are we ever gonna go back home?”

He hesitated. “This is our home now, baby. For better or worse.”

When night had fallen, Baudin dressed in jeans and a tank top, exposing the myriad tattoos that sleeved his arms. He tucked his badge away in his pocket and put on the ankle holster with its Smith & Wesson before pulling the jeans over.

Molly pulled up just then and limped across the yard to the front door. He answered before she rang the doorbell.

“What’s wrong?” Baudin asked.

“Damn gout,” she said, brushing past him and sitting down on the couch. “They call it rich man’s disease, but I got it without the riches.”

“You sure you okay to do this?”

She waved him off. “Fine. Just get me the clicker.”

He handed her the remote to the television. “She’s watching TV in her room. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. Make sure she does her homework.”

“Where you goin’?”

“To make some friends.”

She guffawed. “Shit. Since when do you need friends?”

“Since I moved to a new city and the only person I know is my crippled-ass cousin.”

She cackled and looked at him. “Stay outta trouble, Ethan. This ain’t LA. The people in charge here ain’t scared of the common folk like over there.”

“I will. Thanks for doing this.”

The night air was warm and stuck to the skin. He pulled out his cigarettes again and lit a fresh one, letting it dangle in his mouth as he got into his Mustang and pulled away.

The city was small but spread out to make it appear larger than it was. Like any other city, night was when the real inhabitants came out. The ones who were all smiles and goodness when the sun was out but who changed when darkness came.

Some of the research he’d done at the precinct was related to the prostitutes in Cheyenne. Going on to some local forums, he had discovered that the best place to find them was a Motel 6 intersection in the heart of the city.

Up until the 1960s, prostitution had been legal in Cheyenne. The locals were long-haul truckers, ranchers, miners, and laborers, with few women residing there back then. The powers that be had decided the men needed their release, and prostitutes from all over had flooded the city only to find the population was, by and large, broke. Slowly, the prostitutes left, and eventually the practice was technically outlawed, though Baudin doubted the law was ever enforced.

Back in Los Angeles, he’d had a network of contacts. The three most valuable types were crime reporters, drug dealers, and prostitutes. The prostitutes were the best of the three. They were always on the streets with their ears to the ground, always knew what was going on in their neighborhoods.

The Motel 6 looked shabby and rundown. Up the street was a group of half a dozen women. A few were wearing little more than lingerie. He put his hands in his pockets and approached them.

“You lookin’ for company?” one of them said as he walked by.

He stopped and looked them over. Some were grizzled veterans with vacant eyes, and some were fresh out of the box, looking as though they’d just woken up in a dream but didn’t know they were dreaming. A girl in white clothing leaned against a lamppost, her long blond hair past her shoulders, her arms folded. A little gold purse dangled from her fingers.

Baudin brushed past the others and went to her. She watched him with blue eyes, a blue he could clearly see in the dim light of the street lamp.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She stared at him a moment. “Whether we’re fuckin’ or drinkin’, it’ll cost you the same.”

He grinned. “There someplace close we can go?”

She hesitated before looking over at someone, a woman sitting in a car. “Down here.”

They strolled along the sidewalk to a bar with a neon sign out front. She didn’t speak a word to him until they were inside and sitting down.

The bar was barely lit, and the bang of pool balls echoed behind them. Baudin ordered two beers, and the bartender set them down over napkins. He took an ice-cold sip that made his teeth hurt.

“So you just looking for a party?” she asked.

He lit a cigarette, offered her one, and lit that as well. “No, not exactly. I’m a cop. I’m surprised you didn’t make me.”

“Everyone’s odd here, honey. That don’t mean nothin’.” She exhaled a puff of smoke through her nostrils. “I ain’t broke no laws.”

“Even if you had, that’s not what I’m interested in.”

“What you interested in, then?”

He inhaled the smoke softly, letting the tobacco flavor whirl around in his mouth. He’d been trying to quit for the better part of six months, but when he moved out here, he’d quietly started again and didn’t know why. “Information, from time to time.”

“What kind?”

“Nothin’ that’ll get you in trouble. There’ll be cases where I’ll need to know what’s being said on the street.”

“The street, huh?” she said with a grin. “You talk like you on a TV show. You don’t talk like no cop from around here. And I know all the cops around here. They my best customers.”

“I bet.” He took a long drink of beer then went back to his cigarette. “I’m from LA.”

“California?”

“Yeah.”

“I been tryin’ to get to California for a long time. Leave this place and just go somewhere where the sun don’t stop shinin’.”

“Whatever problems you got here, they’ll follow you there, too. Movin’ don’t solve ’em.”

“Then why’d you move?”

“This ain’t about me. You interested?”

“I don’t know. What do I get for what’s bein’ said on the street?”

“I’ll help you out whenever you call me. Nothing too serious. You get busted dealing dope, you’re on your own. But solicitation, possessing pot, DUIs, violent johns, things like that, you call me.”

She nodded, holding the cigarette up and staring at the tip. “Had this trick once that burned me with these. Burned me all up and down my back. He was just laughin’ like it weren’t nothin’.”

“Now that’s exactly the type of thing you call me for. I’ll make sure he never does something like that again. What’s your name?”

“Candi.”

“Your real name.”

“That is my real name. Candi-Jean Carlson.”

“Candi-Jean. I like that.” He held out his hand, leaving the cigarette between his lips. “Ethan Baudin. Pleasure.”

She shook, a smile on her face. “No, you definitely ain’t like the cops out here.”

“No, I definitely am not.”

4

The church had nearly emptied. Kyle Dixon chatted with a few other volunteers. After serving the food, he’d decided to stay and help them clean up. The homeless in Cheyenne weren’t numerous, but they were needy. The city had no shelters since the Comea House closed, or food kitchens, so the local churches were the only way they got fed.

Dixon took off his apron and walked back to the altar. He knelt, made the sign of the cross, and prayed for his family and friends and the homeless who froze in the winter and starved in the summer. When he was through, he rose and left the church without looking back.

About halfway to his neighborhood he had to flip on his headlights. His home sat in the middle of a partially finished development. The developer had run out of money and was in bankruptcy proceedings.

He parked in the garage and got out. A child’s bike, still in the box, leaned against the wall. He’d bought it last Christmas. His wife, Hillary, had told him they shouldn’t buy anything for the baby at only four months, but he couldn’t help it. The bike spoke to him when he saw it.

Inside, he was met by the smell of cooking meat. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the dining table. Hillary had a pot and two pans going on the stove. He quietly came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. Her neck smelled like lotion, something fruity, and he kissed it and nibbled on her ear.

“Oh, mister, please stop. My husband will be home soon.”

“Well, he’s got a fight on his hands then, ’cause I ain’t lettin’ go.”

She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck. “How was work?”

“Good, I guess,” he said, kissing her then pulling away and going to the fridge. “Got a new partner.”

She turned back to the food. “Yeah? Who?”

“Ethan something. He used to be LAPD, and now he’s out here.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting. You two hit it off?”

He popped the top on an apple juice and took a long pull. “More or less. Where is he?”

“He’s sleeping. Don’t wake him up.”

“I just wanna see him.”

Dixon rounded a corner and crossed the hallway. He came to a bedroom and poked his head in. His son, Randy, was wrapped up tight and lying on his back in a crib. Dixon had built the crib from scratch. It had taken him three months to do it because he didn’t want any imperfections. He enjoyed the fact that his boy slept in something made with his own two hands.

He crossed the room and peered down at his boy, with his cherubic face—chubby cheeks and little nose. Dixon kissed his own finger and then placed it on the boy’s forehead before leaving the room.

Hillary was setting the table when he got back to the kitchen. He leaned against the wall and watched her. She hadn’t changed much since college. Same figure, similar clothes, but her hairstyle had completely changed. He watched her until she noticed and smiled.

“Dinner’s ready.”

He kissed her again and sat down at the table. As he sat, he caught a reflection of himself in the balcony’s sliding glass doors. Though she looked the same, he looked older and tired. She sat across from him and served the food.

“Ain’t we forgettin’ something?” he said.

“What?”

“Grace.”

“Oh,” she said with a grin. “Yeah.”

They both bowed their heads, and Dixon said a quick prayer thanking the Lord for the food. He then took up his fork and dug into the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes.

“What’d you do today?” he said.

“Nothing much. Went shopping with Brianne, cleaned the house… nothing worth talking about. Do you have any new cases?”

He shook his head and lifted a piece of steak to his lips. “Not really. Been slow the past couple of weeks.”

“That must be nice.”

He chewed a moment before saying, “Well, it has—”

The home phone cut him off. He looked over at it, waiting to see if it would ring again. When it did, he laid his silverware and napkin on the table and rose. The phone—which they only had because their alarm system, installed by the only company that served the area, required a home phone—never rang. He answered.

“Hello?”

Silence on the other end.

Dixon waited a moment. “I can hear you breathing. Just tell me what you want… hello? Hello? I can hear your damn breathing.”

The line clicked. He pushed star six nine, but the digital voice said that the last incoming call was a blocked number.

“Third time this week,” he said.

Hillary was staring down at her plate. He sat back down and watched her a moment.

“You okay?” he said.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just weird.”

“Just some pervert hoping you’ll answer. If we could get any other alarm company out here, I’d toss that damn phone. Maybe just don’t answer it anymore. No one we wanna talk to calls on that line anyway.”

She nodded, sipping her water, not meeting his eyes.