Nailed Page 4

  Nobody had ever seen a good guy bare his soul to the bad guy before, explaining how things had been tough for him. And when the arsonist laughed at the good guy’s vulnerability, as the bad guy’s character dictated he must, that made it all the more satisfying when Clay pitched him into a blast furnace for the finale.

  From the very first screening, the buzz was about Clay Steadman. He was the guy who got the word of mouth. He was the one people came to see in droves. He was the one who got the best supporting actor nomination.

  He was on his way.

  As part of his compensation for The Fire Within, Clay was given five net points of the profit. A novice, he didn’t know that a studio’s job was to keep a movie from ever showing a profit, no matter how many millions of dollars it took in at the box office. He learned.

  When the studio asked the picture’s producer and director to take Clay on a deep-sea fishing trip off Baja California, in the hopes of getting him to sign a multi-picture deal, Clay was only too happy to accept. The trip lasted only one day, and nobody caught any fish. But when the three sportsmen returned to port in Cabo San Lucas, Clay Steadman’s five net points in The Fire Within had been miraculously converted to five gross points. Starting from the first dollar of box office receipts.

  The gross points came equally out of the director’s and producer’s pockets, and nobody ever revealed the reasoning — or threat — that Clay used to bring about such unprecedented generosity. But in Hollywood circles, it conferred an immediate sense of awe upon the new actor that only helped his legend grow over the years.

  The other thing that day at sea conferred upon Clay Steadman was a taste for a brand of stout he’d never had, or even heard of, before. Walsh’s Private Reserve.

  The producer told him he had the stuff flown in from a little place up in the Sierra.

  A town called Goldstrike.

  Chapter 5

  After the body had been taken down and the crime scene taped off, Ron and Oliver drove back to police headquarters.

  “This is the first homicide in my two years here,” Oliver said. “I thought I was leaving this shit behind in L.A. Come to think of it, I can recall just about any kind of killing you can name in L.A. except a crucifixion.”

  Ron replied, “It’s my second homicide here in three years. The other was a domestic.”

  “A domestic?” Oliver asked incredulously. “What the hell would anyone have to fight about up here? Somebody serve the wrong wine with dinner?”

  Ron shook his head. “Wounded pride. Can happen anywhere.”

  “Somebody steppin’ out on somebody else? Hanky panky?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He was a director and she was an editor. He had the contractual final cut on a film they’d both worked on, but she went back in on the sly and did a little more cutting and splicing. He found out and went ape. They yelled and screamed, and he summed up his argument by hitting her over the head with his DGA award. She died the next day.”

  “Why do I think this SOB’s not on death row?”

  “He copped to manslaughter. He’s at a medium security facility teaching theater arts.”

  Oliver Gosden shook his head. “People are fucked.”

  “Must be why the courts are, too,” Ron opined.

  “I want in on this one,” the deputy chief told his boss bluntly.

  The chief looked at his second-in-command with an air of assessment.

  Oliver Gosden’s interest in the case might have been purely professional, a desire to expand his base of experience. Or his feelings could be a lot more personal than that. You didn’t have to be Joe Friday to see the anger in those dark brown eyes. In either case, Ron knew he’d have to trust him.

  “I didn’t bring you up here to ride the bench,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “But insofar as possible, Oliver, you’ve got to keep an open mind about the case. You prejudge things, you might step on your dick.”

  The deputy chief chose to remain silent.

  The two men pulled into the police garage at the Municipal Services Complex. The Muni was the mall for governmental services in Goldstrike. One stop shopping. Located in a campus setting on the shore of Lake Adeline, the police and fire departments anchored the ends of the complex. The mayor’s office, the town council chamber, and the municipal court formed the centerpiece. The health department, building department, parks and recreation, and street maintenance all had offices there. The public library and the center for the performing arts had the best views of the lake. The mayor and town council were considering the addition of an outdoor ice skating rink.

  All of the buildings were connected by tree-shaded paths and an underground complex which included spaces leased from the town for private restaurants and shops.

  The whole idea — Clay Steadman’s idea — was to make town government as accessible and welcoming as possible. His philosophy of governance was to make sure the people who paid the taxes got the biggest bang for their buck. The motto for all municipal employees was: Be citizen friendly. The Or else was clearly implied.

  Police headquarters was carpeted, furnished in gleaming oak, provided with all the latest communications and computer technology, and nearly as quiet as the town library. The chief’s office had a view of the lake, and if the ice skating rink went in, he’d be able to watch the skaters, too. Rumor had it that the striking shade of blue of the tailored police uniforms was the result of the designer matching the color of the mayor’s eyes. There were six holding cells that smelled of fresh, unmarked paint rather than urine, vomit and despair. Prisoners were rare commodities.

  When Ron first took Oliver on a tour of the facility, the police officer who had worked inner-city L.A. was agog. “Man, Disneyland don’t have a cop-shop this nice,” he said.

  Now, as Ron and Oliver entered the chief’s office, it was time to see if a twenty-four officer police department that worked in such genteel surroundings, in such a gilded community, had the smarts, stomach and will to solve a truly vicious murder. Probably the town’s first since local prospectors stopped settling claim disputes with pickaxes.

  Ron took a seat behind his desk, buzzed his secretary, and asked her to send in Sergeant Stanley. The door opened immediately and Stanley walked in like he’d been standing there all along, just waiting for his cue like some kind of comedy gag.

  Casimir “Caz” Stanley was fifty years old. He was the longest-serving officer in the department, a man entirely sure of himself, and not about to be bothered by two younger outsiders being brought in to fill the two top slots.

  But then, while Ron and Oliver set policy and made command decisions, Sergeant Stanley was the one who ran the department on a day-to-day basis, and the boys from the LAPD were smart enough to let him do it. He nodded politely and greeted his superiors.

  “I was just on my way in to see you, Chief.”

  “You heard?” Ron asked.

  The sergeant’s reputation for omniscience, regarding both the department and the town, was the stuff of legends. Clay Steadman had once told Ron that Caz and God drank at the same bar. Caz bought the drinks and God dished the dirt.

  But Stanley was smart enough to admit the occasional development that slipped past him. “I have big news, Chief. But I’ve got the feeling you have some of your own.”

  “We had a homicide, Sarge,” Oliver said. He plugged the digital camera into Ron’s computer and brought up a full-body shot of the crucifixion victim.

  Sergeant Stanley blinked once as he absorbed the gruesome image. Then he nodded briefly to himself. “I recognize that tree. It’s on Highway 99, about a mile down from the Tightrope. Got hit by lightning last summer, went up like a torch. Only reason it didn’t char half the mountainside is because rain swept in right behind the lightning. Came down in buckets.”

  Oliver clicked his way through several more images of the victim. He stopped on a close-up of the victim’s face. “Use this one?” he asked the chief.

  R
on nodded, and Oliver started the image printing out. The deputy chief handed the first sheet to Sergeant Stanley and he looked at it.

  “You recognize him, Sarge?” Ron asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you think of anyone in town who might do this?”

  Sergeant Stanley rubbed his hand across his face and thought. Then he shook his head. “The thing that bothers me — other than that poor sonofabitch getting killed — is that a guy twisted enough to kill someone like this should stand out like he’s wearing a neon hat. But I can’t think of anybody. And I know just about everybody.”

  “Are there any hate groups in town?” Oliver asked.

  The sergeant gave his superior a tight grin. “Come on, Deputy Chief. An organized hate group? That shows its face? You really think the mayor or the chief — or I — would stand for that?”

  “Even racists have constitutional rights.”

  “The thing about rights is how they’re interpreted,” the sergeant shrugged. “I can tell you for a fact, though, there are no known hate groups in town. Never have been. Never will be as long as Clay Steadman is mayor.” The sergeant gave the chief an inquiring look, and Ron nodded. “Now, I can’t say there aren’t some people who don’t like it that Goldstrike isn’t as lily white as it once was, and maybe they’d like to see it that way again, but if people want to be assholes in the privacy of their own homes, so to speak, that is their right.”

  “Sarge, how many of our people are out sick,” Ron asked, “and who’s on vacation?”

  “Nobody’s sick. Hopkins, Mulroy, Barzov and Tall Elk are on vacation. Per our contract with the sheriff’s department, four deputies are available to cover for vacationing personnel at the agreed upon per diem, should the need arise.”

  “Skip the sheriff’s people for now. Leave four officers on patrol. Everyone else, have them here within the hour. The mayor says he wants the bastard who nailed this man to that cedar tree.”

  “I bet he does.”

  “So do the deputy chief and I. Patrol function goes on skeleton staff until further notice. The homicide gets top priority.”

  Ron saw unexpected hesitation in Sergeant Stanley’s eyes. “Something wrong, Caz?”

  “Remember I said I had news, too, Chief?”

  Ron nodded. “It’s important enough to bring up now?”

  “Yes, sir. This morning, a woman by the name of Mary Kaye Mallory was jogging out on Highway 38, about two miles northwest of town, when she was attacked by a mountain lion.”

  Ron knew that only five years ago a female runner had been killed by a lion in the foothills of the Sierra. That death had frayed a lot of nerves in the nearby resort communities. And, now, the idea that there might be two fatalities in his town on the same morning stunned the chief.

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, sir. She fought off the attack. I was at Community Hospital with her. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear about the homicide.”

  “A woman fought off a mountain lion?” Oliver Gosden asked in disbelief.

  “Pepper sprayed it, Deputy Chief. But the cat slashed her belly and legs pretty bad. The wounds aren’t life-threatening, but … ” The sergeant looked at his watch. “She’s due to be airlifted out to San Francisco in thirty minutes. The docs at Community said her best chance for scar revision is to get her to the specialists right away. I thought you might want to talk with her before she left, Chief.”

  “I do. But I still want everybody here within an hour. I’ll be back. Oliver, you get the troops organized as they come in. Sarge, walk out with me.”

  Ron and Caz Stanley walked quickly toward the police garage.

  “Do we have anybody in the department with hunting skills, Sarge?”

  “Barzov says he hunted wolves in Siberia as a kid, but Barzov says a lot of things.”

  “Is he vacationing close by?”

  “Tahiti.”

  “Due back when?”

  “Not for 10 days, Chief.”

  “And there’s nobody else?”

  “Maybe forty years ago you’d have had a chance of finding a hunter or outdoorsman in the department. Nowadays, leisure time activities for our personnel run more to mountain biking and snowboarding, depending on the season. Weightlifting and tanning are year ‘round.”

  “Anything to catch the eye of a passing producer, huh?” Ron asked.

  The sergeant just grinned.

  Ron said, “Okay. We have to report the incident to the state fish and game people, anyway. Tell them the mayor and I would appreciate it if they could send out one of their best people right away.”

  Sergeant Stanley saluted and left the chief at the doorway to the parking structure.

  Clay Steadman was going to love this, Ron thought as he got into his Explorer. A mountain lion attack on top of a crucifixion. He tried not to wonder how things could get worse. Then he snorted to himself as he nosed the patrol unit onto the street.

  One way he could have made things worse would have been to voice the idea that had immediately occurred to him back at his office. A mountain lion attack? Call Tall Elk back from vacation. Who could track a wild animal better than an Indian? Except he remembered Donald Tall Elk was only half Native American and would probably do better tracking a stock fraud than a mountain lion.

  Oh, what grief Oliver would have given Ron had he opened his mouth.

  A little more than four years ago, a lawyer Ron had hired to defend him in a wrongful death suit had described then-Lieutenant Ketchum of the LAPD as a “recovering bigot.”

  The label had shocked Ron the first time he’d heard it. Then he came to realize the characterization had a grain or two of truth to it. Possibly several grains of truth. And at moments like this, he wondered just how far his recovery had progressed. But he didn’t have time for introspection right now.

  He had to talk to the woman who was 1-0 versus a mountain lion.

  Chapter 6

  Mary Kaye Mallory lay on a gurney in a curtained-off corner of the Community Hospital emergency room, clad in a hospital gown from which the sterile dressings on her legs protruded. Her ginger-colored hair stood on end as if from fright, and she had a large gauze pad taped to each of her elbows. But she hadn’t withdrawn behind a wall of shock. Her green eyes gleamed, and she was speaking to the ER physician with animation in her voice when Ron stepped into the enclosure.

  A smile lit her face when Ron first entered, and then slipped back into an grin of self-satisfaction, the corners of her mouth turning up just enough to be noticed.

  “Ms. Mallory, I’m Chief Ketchum, Goldstrike PD,” Ron said with a nod of greeting. “Sorry if I’m not who you were expecting.”

  “I just thought someone might come see me before I left,” she answered. “But I’m not sure if he even heard what happened.”

  “If there’s someone you’d like me to contact …”

  The thing was, Mary Kaye wasn’t sure if she wanted Brad or Carter to rush to her side. And how would they even know what had happened to her? And why would she want either of them to see her looking the way she did? Then it occurred to her that maybe a brush with death was something of an aphrodisiac. But she wasn’t about to say so.

  “No thank you, Chief. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  The ever-efficient Sergeant Stanley had radioed Ron on his way to the hospital and gave him a brief sketch of Mary Kaye Mallory’s background. A millionaire businesswoman, she could have played the prima donna. But she looked like the kid sister who early on always wanted to play ball with the guys, and later on you warned your no-account buddies to stay away from if they knew what was good for them.

  Ron liked her immediately.

  “If you feel up to it, Ms. Mallory, I have a few questions.”

  The ER doc smiled and told Ron, “Oh, she’s up to it, and it’s a helluva story.” Then he excused himself.

  “I got that sonofabitch good,” Mary Kaye said with a hard smile, as if she’d just humble
d the neighborhood bully. “I only wish I’d had sulfuric acid in my canister.”

  She then proceeded to describe in detail the events of that morning.

  “How are you able to recall so precisely where the attack occurred?” Ron wanted to know.

  “I parked my car at the scenic overlook at Alpine Glen, the way I always do. I run a seven and a half minute mile. When the cat ran back into the woods and I started back to my car, I looked at my watch. Ten minutes had passed since I’d started out. Ergo I’d run about a mile and a third, minus a little for the time the actual confrontation lasted.”

  She grinned and added again, “I really kicked his ass.”

  “What was the animal’s coloration, Ms. Mallory? And did you notice any unusual markings or features?”

  Mary Kaye looked inward, remembering. A slight trembling started in both of her feet that she didn’t seem to notice: the subconscious urge of the body to flee from the power of the memory. The first sign of a chink in her bravado. Ron decided to ask again at the end of the interview if there was anyone he could contact for her.

  “He was the usual tawny brown color. The eyes, I remember the eyes — I don’t think I’ll ever forget them — were a malignant yellow.” She furrowed her brow in concentration. “And above the … the left eye he had a jagged scar.”

  The tremor in her feet started working its way up her body. Ron knew he had to ask the rest of his questions before she got too upset.

  “Can you estimate the lion’s size?” He realized he was asking the same questions he’d ask if the assailant had been human, but that was what he knew.

  Mary Kaye Mallory’s teeth started to chatter as she considered the question, and that was when she became aware of the dread that had slipped past the drawbridge of her conscious mind. It was also when Ron saw just how strong this woman was. She might actually have been somebody’s kid sister, but she needed no one to watch out for her. The look of determination that came into her eyes was so fierce that he had no problem understanding her professional success. She made a tooth-grinding effort to master her fear. A long moment and several controlled breaths later her trembling stopped.