Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) Read online

  Jaxon pulled her body toward his chest. “Our schedules aren’t the reason we wouldn’t get any sleep, Babe.”

  She laughed, telling him to shut up and pour the margaritas.

  They sat under the evening sky. The bright stars seemed close enough to snatch with outstretched arms. Early blossoms from the jasmine vines fragranced the air. Jaxon tore open the bag of tortilla chips, his contribution to the meal.

  “Tell you what, let’s stop talking about security or lack thereof or your deranged ex-wife. At least for a night, but preferably for a lifetime,” Jessica pleaded.

  “What would you like to talk about? I’m a great conversationalist.”

  “I don’t know. The chubasco coming in this summer. The fire burning up near Sedona.” Pausing for effect, Jessica said, “I know. Let’s talk about your ex-girlfriend.”

  Jaxon gagged, “Who? You mean Connie?”

  “Yeah. Connie. I’m sorry. She’s been on my mind today.”

  Jaxon matched the intensity in Jessica’s brown eyes with an equal focus.

  “I had one brief relationship after divorcing Sandra and before meeting you. She wasn’t a rebound. I would call it more like my get out of jail card. She’s a lovely woman, and was one of the top residential agents in the valley.”

  “Why did you break up with her?”

  “We knew our relationship should have stayed on the platonic side. There was no chemistry between us. She broke it off with me.”

  “Why, my handsome prince?”

  “One guess.”

  Jessica blurted it out, “Sandra. Oh my God! What the hell did she do?”

  “Connie’s not—how can I say this? She’s not a real looker, but she’s very smart. Sandra’s threats were directed toward Connie’s teenage daughter who had won a beauty pageant in San Diego.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would she be more interested in the daughter? What did she do?”

  “Connie and her daughter were with me in the parking lot of Hacienda del Sol, when Sandra walked up to me. That woman, whom, by the way, we weren’t going to discuss, has this uncanny ability to find anyone’s Achilles’ heel. She had to know there wasn’t anything serious between me and Connie. But she didn’t know about the teenage daughter. She started threatening the girl. She told her, in Sandra’s own malicious way, that she needed to get out of town.

  “What I didn’t know was that Connie’s 18-year-old girl had run away three times. The girl, maybe heeding Sandra’s words and maybe not, took off. A while later, Connie packed up and moved to Houston. She told me it was in search of a more lucrative real estate career but I knew why she moved. The girl’s father lived there. She assumed the daughter might be with him.”

  “I know it’s an unapproved topic, but since we’re on the subject, has Sandra ever dated since your divorce?”

  “I know Ms. Prim and Proper had a fling on a beach in Mexico, in an old van, and with a Mexican. She dated a married man for a while but he ditched her as soon as he recognized her twin sister She Devil.

  “When she and I married I was upset that she didn’t take my last name. Not even hyphenated. She obviously needed to hold on to her legacy of being the heir to the Vickery Pools fortune. Now I’m grateful to all the heavens that she never took my name.”

  When Jessica finished the last of her green corn tamale, she stretched her arms above her head, nodding toward the pool. “How about we go skinny dipping?”

  Jaxon sipped down the last of his margarita and took off his blazer. “First, you broke the rules talking about my ex, so it’s my turn.”

  In response, Jessica pulled her legs up to her seat to sit Indian-style, and folded her arms against her chest, saying, “Go for it.”

  “I told you our stake-out guy is off the job, at least for now. I’ve engaged someone else.”

  “You told me. The author. Cassidy Clark.”

  “Right. Her time is limited, but she has a team. Even though she tries to keep her identity under wraps, her reputation in town probably keeps some of our traveling criminals driving straight through the valley. She or her main sidekick, Shepard Brown, will be calling you.”

  “I’m good with that. I’ve already researched her. Now, take off your pants. The water is perfect.”

  TRACY MCCLENDON CALLED me on my cell as I arrived at The Dancing Saguaros to ask if I would meet her for a double-date. Actually, a triple-date.

  “Because of our schedules, we need to do a brunch? Are you in, Cassie?”

  “First of all, I’m not dating anyone.”

  “So what. You have a few friends, don’t you?”

  “A few, and you’re one of them. And why brunch?”

  “Easy answer. I’m working tons of evening hours with my new position as an investigative reporter. One of our evening news anchors, Jessica Silva, and I have become close. And to boot, I’d be taking the entire top crew of reporters from the station. I’m dating one of the guys from her station. Don’t remind me what I told you about a black woman dating a white man. I’m head-over-heels for this guy and to hell with all my old taboos.

  “Tohono Chul? Say ten-thirty on Sunday? They serve the meanest Eggs Benedict.”

  “Good on all counts. Welcome to the 21st century.”

  SURVEILLANCE IS A necessary evil. As often as I’d assign the task to someone else, I pulled my fair share of boring hours.

  Mingling near or with the suspect is another thing. My blood starts pumping faster, my senses are on steroids and my mind is crystal sharp. I can dress up and slip into full character, like when my idiot ex-husband dressed up like a gynecologist, speculum and all, and made a complete ass out of himself at a Halloween costume party.

  I entered The Dancing Saguaros with my best southern drawl, ready to charm. Even if Marks had caught a glimpse of me down at the station, he would never recognize this southern belle.

  The appealing dialect, or the red dress or the long red hair, did the trick. Ten minutes after finding a free table, the goofball suspect slowly meandered my way. The small slab of rough mesquite wood table I rested my elbows on felt sticky from spilt drinks. The four men and the woman who soon surrounded me didn’t seem to notice.

  The woman was probably a skank like me as I presented myself. Even though she didn’t have red hair she certainly was dressed like me.

  “May I buy you a drink?” the fatso with the too-short tie and crappy hat with a broken feather asked me.

  “I don’t know. You can see I have a full glass on the table with another on its way from one of these guys hanging around me. Truth to tell, there are more pricks inside this bar than on the marquee of dancing saguaros outside.”

  “And all the saguaros in the desert.” He extended his hand. “I’m Karl Marks.”

  “And I’m not interested.”

  “I love a pretty lady and I’m up for the challenge. Come on. Let me buy you one drink.”

  Putting my hands on my lap, I looked the man directly in the eyes of piercing steel he wore as a mask. Not a good mask if you were trying to avert the clear presence of malevolence.

  “My name is Amy Goodwill.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you, Amy?”

  “Now, how the hell do ya’ll know that? Every man in this place has guessed I’m a Texas foreigner. I’m from Lubbock.”

  The self-anointed stud-muffin whispered in the waitress’s ear. She reappeared with a cheap bottle of champagne. Offering my best fake smile, I accepted the glass he poured with very few bubbles. Those few bubbles were big. Very cheap champagne.

  “What do you do, Karl?”

  “I do a mean dance and can bring down the bedroom walls, but I think you want to know what I do for a living. I’m an international software designer.”

  First lie.

  “International? That must be exciting.”

  “I just got back from Japan,” he said with a rictus smile. Almost a sneer.

  “Youkoso irasshai mashita,” I said.

 
“I didn’t catch that.”

  “I just offered you a traditional Japanese greeting of welcome.”

  “Oh. Not geared that way. I know English and software. Get picked up by English speaking chauffeurs, wherever I land.”

  This cat and mouse exchange went on for twenty minutes. I was getting nowhere.

  “You’re something, Karl. Almost delightful.”

  “Let’s get out of here. Show me some of that good will, Ms. Goodwill.”

  Did women really do that anymore? Maybe at one of the casinos where the handsome man flashed a lot of chips. Not in this dive. Not with the fat guy. Of course, I had to remind myself I was dressed like a tramp out for fun.

  “Your house?” I asked.

  “My home is being remodeled. Beautiful granite counters. Travertine floors. Not an option.”

  Lie. His home would never be remodeled. It would be bulldozed in order to turn a scant profit on the dirt.

  I gave him my best look of puppy-sad eyes, flashing to bad eyes, saying nothing.

  “I have a cabin on Mt. Lemmon.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, to be honest, I own it with a couple of other guys. But it’s empty this weekend.”

  That had to be a lie. The spring weather was warmer than usual. Anyone with any means already sought out the cool temperatures nearby at Mt. Lemmon. Three owners would be scrambling to get their due time in the fresh pine-filled mountain air.

  “We’ve both had way too much to drink to drive up to Summerhaven. That’s crazy.”

  Did I hit a nerve?

  Another one of my unwanted drink-buying fans stepped in to vie for my attention. I gave it to him. Fully.

  Karl Mark’s face reddened, then the crimson color spread down to his neck and what must have been a pumping heart under his too-tight shirt.

  He leaned in to my face. “I gotta go. How about I get your phone number and address?”

  Red flag. My address?

  I slipped him the number to the disposable cell phone I had purchased earlier that day.

  “Sayonara,” I said.

  How long would it take to receive a call from the snake that took after any reptiles he might have sold?

  Chapter Nineteen

  JESSICA SILVA WALKED toward her desk, intent on getting updates on another breaking news story. One more near drowning and it was only the first of May, but this child wasn’t out of the woods. His parents had been partying with neighbors. No one saw him slip under the sheet of illuminated water as the adults focused on the fire in the kiva and the waning ice in their cocktails.

  Michael Scores stood. “I’m sorry I keep lashing out at you, Jessica, and for no good reason. It’s my own insecurities acting up when I see you come up with these amazing stories. You are such a rising star. I know you’ve had it rough with your debut photos splayed all over the Internet.”

  Jessica didn’t flinch but her fingers dug into her thighs.

  “Thanks, Michael, but it hasn’t been rough at all. I’ve raised almost $72,000 for my causes around town without even trying. I guess that old adage is true. Bad press is better than no press. By the way, another new suit?”

  “Nice, huh?”

  IN THE MIDDLE OF AIRTIME, Michael Scores made his move with his story.

  “Tucson women are panicking and rightfully so. We have a hunter in our midst. We don’t know who's imprisoning these women or if, indeed, they have been killed. Confused? So am I! Take a look at these three women's photographs. Do you know where they are?”

  Three women’s faces appeared, in full color. Scores, off camera, straightened his tie and planted a grin aimed toward Jessica Silva.

  “Apparently our police department doesn’t know anything.

  “Three local women are missing but there’s not a word about them except a quick ten second report in the media.

  “Women in our city need to be extremely cautious. A predator is out there.”

  Scores’ story ended with him looking down at his hidden mirror. He was there to play the fame game. Jessica Silva knew there were more than three missing women.

  The Chief of Police had confided the details, imploring her not to release the story. With the slight crackle of a dry throat, Chief Manning told her they needed time to gather more information before a media frenzy induced a citizen panic. As a reporter, Jessica knew her job was to report the news. Not speculation. She worked and lived in the small city of Tucson. But she wouldn’t ruffle any feathers, especially those of the Tucson Police Department.

  At home, Jessica immersed herself in the splendor of her backyard. While she missed the gorgeous sunset while working, nighttime was the right time for the fragrant spring flowers of jasmine and citrus trees. Cold nights were long gone. For a moment, she considered skinny dipping but didn’t have the energy. She looked up at the night stars that ranked Tucson as one of the most popular observatory-enriched cities in the country. Brilliant stars. She was quick to find Jaxon’s favorite constellation, Orion, whose belt pointed to her favorite, the Seven Sisters, or Pleiades. Funny how they found that out on their third date. With one deep breath of joy and appreciation, she retreated to her chaise lounge and pulled up Michael Scores’ home page on her phone.

  Scores posted scant information, not even including the names of the missing women. The city would be rumbling, if it weren’t already, she mused.

  SCHLEP MET ME at my makeshift office in the back of a used bookstore that I visited way too often. I was welcome as long as there were no author book signings or the Alcoholics Anonymous group that met there once a week.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “You saw the news. Manning is pissed but the reporter has a point. The public should know what’s going on. I’ve been begging Manning to conduct his own press conference.”

  “I heard the broadcast. The anchor is trying to get some notoriety the old-fashioned way, by scaring people to death. But I agree with you. Why the plug on the media?” Schlep asked.

  “Politics, as usual. The mayor and his reelection. All this nonsense being bad for tourism. Sucks.”

  “What are you thinking, Cassie?”

  “Sometimes I do my best thinking when I’m not thinking. Which happens a lot these days.”

  “But, if it were up to you?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. That verdict isn’t in. The FBI is silent because they have nothing. And they still refuse to consider that the congresswoman’s disappearance may be related to our cases. That works for me. They stay out of our way.”

  “I don’t understand why the FBI isn’t more involved with these other missing persons,” Schlep said.

  “Something called politics. They have priorities. Top of their list is terrorism and protection, cyber-attacks, public corruption and civil rights. This includes an adult’s right to disappear.”

  “You sound like Manning. They also investigate serial killers, gangs, online predators and kidnappings.”

  “Bingo. We have no evidence of any of those things. The civil right to leave life behind trumps all. Except for the good congresswoman, of course.”

  “Idiotic.”

  I folded my head into my palms and mumbled, “Asinine.”

  “What happened on your rendezvous with the pervert?”

  I tossed the disposable cell on the table. “If this phone rings, and it will, it’s our guy. I’ll need to get into motion.”

  “God, Cassie. Tell me you have a plan.”

  “Nope. Not this time. I don’t have a fucking clue where I go from here.

  “I need you to go over the photos we have from Marks’ home. Pour over them. And any extraneous evidence, including the drug paraphernalia they found.”

  “Consider it done,” Schlep said.

  “I don’t think he’s anything close to suffering from Erotomania. It’s more like he has a Casanova condition. He wants to stick his dick into some place warm and moist. I wish I could offer him some warm superglue.

  “Meanwhile, so
mething else. Run all the ownerships for cabins in Mt. Lemmon.”

  “Easy.”

  “Look for those that may not have occupants. Maybe cabins for sale.”

  The magic disposable phone rang. Only one person had that number. I scribbled down the address Karl Marks gave me to his cabin. Schlep already had an answer for me This time he was wrong.

  “There are no matches to our Marks’ guy listed as an owner, but several are owned by LLC’s. Just a call to the Corporation Commission. At any given time, there are around sixty cabins for sale.”

  “Lord. I had no idea they had sixty cabins up there,” I said, as I grabbed his Realtor data sheet on Mt. Lemmon homes listed for sale.

  I hadn’t given the specific address to Schlep. But there it was. On the For Sale list.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like this, but I ran into Chief Manning today outside a coffee shop,” Schlep said.

  “You’re right. I don’t like it already.”

  “He asked me what we had and I told him you were working the Marks’ angle.”

  “No way. I need some space on this one,” I admonished.

  “I don’t like the idea of you going up there by yourself.”

  “Up where?”

  Schlep stood, not quite formidably, with his entire five-foot-four frame. “You know where. A cabin at Mt. Lemmon. Which one, Cassie?”

  I ignored the question. “I have my Glock and my wits. I’ll be fine. Meanwhile I need you to work this new case of ours.”

  “Boring. Seriously? A stake-out on a loose cannonball of an ex-wife? If we wanted that business, we’d have them lined up outside our door.”

  “Then hire out any surveillance. God, we’ve worked five cases at a time, Schlep. Loosen up and get with it. We have a new client and my gut tells me he needs us.”

  “Your gut is good enough for me.”

  “And your mind is good enough for me.”

  I TEXTED BACK Karl Marks. I would meet him at his cabin. After I asked Schlep for the full search report, I didn’t share the exact address.

  “I don’t like it,” Schlep said. “Did he even ask you what you do for a living?”