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

  “Hopefully he saw me all dolled-up and thinks he knows exactly what I do. The man lives with venery in his floppy balls.”

  Schlep shook his head, trying to shake off my crass remark. “What about that new case?”

  “I sent you the file and some of my notes. Giles versus Vickery. I’ll call you later. Need to run.”

  Chapter Twenty

  THE CABIN PROVED easy to find on Upper Loma Linda Road. Every interior light appeared to be glowing, if not glaring, from inside.

  Conspicuous by its absence was the for sale sign at the driveway. I saw it clearly in the exterior photographs on the MLS information page. I had learned that the home was built by Cozzetti, which meant it was first class with a price tag to match. Not what I could afford for a cabin.

  Several large prickly pear plants marked the driveway entrance on both sides. Using my flashlight, it was easy to spy the for sale sign stashed behind a dense and tangled mass of the cacti.

  An unexpected and unwelcome chill ran through me. Not a Cassidy thing, I thought.

  Listening to my instincts, I called Schlep before proceeding up the drive. My call went to voicemail. Good. The kid had a life, after all.

  “Hey, Schlep. I’m at the cabin. I’m leaving you the address. A prudent thing to do, you know. Yeah. I know. You already asked me for it. But, on the off chance I don’t call you in an hour, I might need back-up.”

  An hour was about the amount of time I calculated I needed to get a feel for this man and survive being alone with him should things go south.

  Casual enough? No way. Schlep would correctly ascertain the hesitation in my voice to be the uneasiness I felt churning in my stomach.

  I wished there was a delete button for voicemails. Schlep would hear my heebie-jeebies.

  Adjusting my long red wig, I lacquered my lips with red gloss as thick as Silly Putty, and breathed. I thought I was profiling this guy in his own environment. Clearly, with the real estate sign stashed, and the enormity of the house, this was not exactly owner-occupied.

  I rang the bell.

  I rang it again.

  I pounded on the door. And then I tried it. Unlocked. I let myself in. I was invited, after all.

  I heard a back door slam.

  With my hand in my purse in control of the Glock, I said, “Hey. You got me all the way up here. Where the hell are you?”

  Nothing.

  I looked around the mansion of a cabin. No personal items. No framed photographs. No mail. No nothing.

  “Mr. Marks. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I like to play games, but not hide and seek.”

  I had to keep playing my role. Call me a loose woman, a tramp, a whore. Whatever would work for this undignified occasion.

  I HEARD A CAR SPEED AWAY. No car was in the driveway when I pulled up but the garage was on the east side of the house and out of my sight. Why the hell would Marks pull out of here?

  Still calling out for the man, I drew my weapon and cleared the main level. No sign of food. No sign of alcohol or drugs. No dust. The place looked like a model home, ready for many years of happy memories for the next owner.

  Ascending the knotty pine staircase, I knew I was in for trouble. Why would the asshole drive away once I arrived? Maybe he made me?

  “Karl. I’m here to play.”

  “Where are you? Don’t care much for hide and seek.”

  Nothing.

  “Come out. Come out. Wherever you are.”

  I cleared the most uncluttered den I’d ever seen in my life. A couple of plants lined the upper hallway. Someone was taking care of the dust and the watering of live flora.

  Two more bedrooms, staged to perfection. Hell, I wanted to buy the place, move in and never come out.

  Until I walked into the master suite.

  It was time for more than backup.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “JUST WHAT THE HELL are my people walking into?” Manning demanded.

  “Your ordinary dead guy, swaddled in a white pillowcase to look like diapers. And before you ask, I don’t know if the linen is soiled, but I’m betting on it.”

  “Weapon?”

  “It looks like someone had some real fun or couldn’t make up their mind. I see three bullet holes, no obvious shell casings around, multiple stab wounds and a deep ligature mark at his throat. Someone wanted our man dead. Really dead.

  “Damn it, Cassie. I’m on my way.”

  TRUE TO HIS character, Manning was the first to arrive at the cabin. He asked me, “What did you see?”

  Not wanting to look again, I told him I saw one eye open and one eye shut.

  “And?”

  “That means death came swiftly.”

  “Very quickly, even for a thug like this who thought he was invincible.”

  After the forensics team arrived I took off, knowing sleep would be a good thing before my inevitable morning review meeting with Chief Manning.

  THAT MORNING CAME all too quickly. Schlep wanted to join me, sick that he had taken one night off and found himself away from the phone. I told him no.

  My greetings were in the form of a stern question from Chief Manning. “What does this Marks guy have to do with our missing people?”

  “You know the answer. Most likely he doesn’t. They’re unrelated. I’m no shrink and no clinician, but I can tell you Marks didn’t appear to be a classic erotomaniac. He didn’t have a clue what love is, real or delusional, and he didn’t care. He was what I would call an extreme narcissist. He was into his exceedingly good looks which was his first big enigma. His claimed successes were all false. He needed grandiose attention from females, but he isn’t—wasn’t getting it. He didn’t lust after women, per se, but lusted after himself.”

  “You got all that from one night at a bar?”

  I grinned, too silly a grin for the occasion. Then I lifted my shoulders and shrugged. That turtle thing. I didn’t believe a word I said.

  Uninvited, Schlep slipped in and took a chair next to me, pulling up his tablet without saying a word.

  “So we have another unrelated murder in Tucson,” Manning barked out regarding Karl Marks.

  “Correction,” I interjected. “The women may still be alive. Statistics tell us that the period for successful rescues for a child, found alive, is within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. This is not true with adult victims.”

  “Back to our captivity theory?” Manning asked.

  I continued, “With no bodies it’s certainly a viable hypothesis. Correct me if I’m wrong, Chief, but there has been no credit card or bank activity for any of the missing women.”

  He nodded. They had vanished.

  A sergeant interrupted our convention, pulling Chief Manning out into the hall. In less than five minutes he returned to the kitchen where I now sat at one of two bars, ashen faced and with clenched jaw and fists.

  “We have another one.”

  “A missing?” I asked.

  He shook his head with a curled lip as he wrinkled his nose. “Last night between eleven-thirty and midnight, a thirty-one year old woman, Caucasian, left a fundraising shindig at the Lowe’s Ventana Canyon Resort. No one has seen her since. She valet-parked her car. The car sat, unclaimed. Not that it doesn’t happen, but the hotel is very aggressive with caring for their guests, and Mrs. Lori Shields is an active member of the private club. We may have an eye-witness. Hotel cameras don’t have the shot but we have someone saying that they saw a white panel van pull out, about the same time, and in a hurry. And she’s sure it wasn’t a passenger van. White panels.”

  “Mrs. Shields? Where’s the husband?” I asked.

  “She’s married but arrived alone. Husband filed the report from San Diego. She’s a well-known, well-respected interior designer.”

  “And don’t tell me. She’s beautiful, I’m guessing,” I said.

  CHIEF DAVID MANNING called for a press conference, but not before personally calling the G.M. of the television station where both Jessica
Silva and Michael Scores were evening anchors. Manning told the G.M. of his plans to meet with the press outside Tucson City Hall. He made a special request that only Silva was to cover it. No Scores.

  Manning wiped the sweat from his upper brows and the nape of his neck as he stood before the crowd of reporters. Looking at their hungry, if not livid faces, he tossed his notes aside. He stated, “We have six reported missing women. Their disappearances may or may not be related. There is a paucity of information but you can be assured we are working every angle of these cases.

  “The names and photographs of all of these women will be provided to you.

  “Every city has unsavory areas that should be avoided, especially for young women, alone, and at night.

  “Be prudent. Be aware of your surroundings. Report any suspicious behavior, which is what we asked you to do yesterday and will ask of you tomorrow.

  “Our community remains a safe place to live and work.”

  The raging interruptions voiced from several reporters called out,

  “But these women weren’t on the south side.”

  “Why didn’t you inform our citizens earlier?”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Are you telling us we have a serial kidnapper on the loose?”

  “How can your department justify keeping this information from us for so long?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I LOVE TOHONO Chul Park. A degustation of supreme dishes, served at the restaurant surrounded by patios, desert gardens, sculpture and art.

  Getting a brunch date could be tricky. My little black book held the names and numbers of my plumber, gardener, pool boy and acupuncturist. Oh, and my shrink.

  I called Chief Manning.

  “Come on. Your wife is visiting your grandkids in Seattle. It’s going to be a beautiful morning on the patio. And I’m buying.”

  “All right. But I’m ordering big. And when my wife gets back to town I’m asking her to work on your social life.

  “And dress up for me. You got good legs. Put on a dress and punch up your make-up. No almost-date, no-date of mine, is showing up at my side looking frumpy.

  “Oh, and Cass, you’ll like this. We’ve released the information regarding the sighting of the white panel van and the possible crime that may be associated with it to the press.”

  “Keeping them informed. Finally.”

  “HOW’S IT GOING WITH our new case, the Giles man?” I asked Schlep.

  “We have our top surveillance guy on it. Pretty quiet, but I did get a report that the woman, Sandra Vickery, managed to lose him last night. He’s not sure it was anything suspicious. The monsoon took out a power line at Broadway and Swan and she drove off on a side street. Our man was too far behind in traffic to catch up.

  “I spoke with Mr. Giles this morning. Set up a time for us to meet and reevaluate the perceived threats and our tactics,” Schlep reported.

  “We have a new missing person,” I said. “The husband was on business in California but called it in when the house sitter freaked out because his wife never came home. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. It sure as hell smells like another one.”

  I tossed the file onto the table in front of Schlep.

  He thumbed through it and said, “Fits the profile. Pretty woman. Successful. And no connection to anyone on our list. This could be an escalation.”

  “This cycle needs to stop. My gut tells me these are not crimes of opportunity. There has to be some connection between these women. What about the owner of that Mount Lemmon cabin?”

  “You always do this. Switch cases on me midstream. The cabin is owned by an LLC. It’s temporarily off the market in lieu of its recent hosting of events. I’d guess it smells like bleach right now,” Schlep commented.

  “Do you want to meet me tomorrow morning over at the station? See what we can pick up on the latest disappearance once the husband is interviewed?”

  “Sorry. I have a mid-week brunch to go to,” I said.

  “You’re the third person to tell me that. I guess brunches are back in vogue. Can we meet this afternoon?”

  “Not available. I have an appointment.”

  “Anything I should be concerned about, Cass?” Schlep said.

  “I have an appointment with a hypnotherapist.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think she can help me recall some details from the night I was at the cabin. And shut up.”

  And shut up, he did. For a first, the man shut up.

  I didn’t tell Schlep that my hypnotherapist was also a shrink. No point, but he probably knew.

  DR. JEAN CLANCY was my friend. Sort of. As best a friend a shrink could be to a patient.

  I trusted that under her care and confidentiality, I could relax and get to the point with her, which usually involved hypnosis.

  Knowing all of that, I was a great subject. She kept referring to me as psychic or a seer. But every time we met, I told her I needed her help to really see something.

  Even though I was deep under her ether of spinning words, I remembered every session in detail when she brought me out of it. That went a long way toward my trust in her, as she encouraged me that I was the one who was gifted.

  She said, “You want to go back to the cabin at Mount Lemmon. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re there now.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do when you walk to the front door?”

  “It’s a beautiful cabin. I ring the bell. I knock. Then I realize the door is open.”

  “You enter?”

  “I announce myself. But, yes.”

  “What do you see?”

  “It’s a fabulous home without being one. No framed photographs. No personal papers or anything. It’s like a hotel suite. Nice. But vacuous.”

  “Breathe in. What do you smell?”

  “Maybe pine. Maybe just Pine Sol. I don’t know, but it’s pleasant.”

  “How do you feel, Cassidy?”

  “On guard. The hairs on the nape of my neck almost hurt. I grab my gun.”

  “Do you say anything?”

  “I’m playing the role. Perfectly. I’m nothing but an expensive whore. I call out to Marks. Nothing. Again, playing the tramp thing, and nothing.”

  “You hear nothing?”

  “Nothing. No. Wait! I hear a back door closing. And I hear a car diving away. Way too fast. Speeding down a rock driveway.”

  “Listen, Cassidy. What kind of car?”

  “I just saw Jessica Silva and her vintage Porsche. We laughed. I told her Porsche’s purred but my Mustang roared.”

  “Cassidy, what engine do you hear? Listen.”

  “The engine sounds loud, but it’s an American engine, I think. It’s not distinct.”

  “And what do you do next?”

  “I still have my weapon drawn. Still playing a role, but I see the staircase. And I enter the master bedroom. Then blood. Blood splatter everywhere. The man is dead.”

  “Cassidy, breathe. Now, look around the room. What do you see?”

  “Blood. So much blood.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing is disturbed. Nothing. I see a wallet and a cell phone and a stack of business cards on the nightstand.”

  “Is the phone on? Is the wallet intact?”

  “How the hell would I know? The police know.” I guess I curse even under the spell of deep hypnosis.

  “Cassidy, you’re doing well. Real well. Can you tell me anything about that stack of business cards? What do you see?”

  “Thirty, maybe forty cards. They could have been his. They’re in a neat stack. Everything is so neat. The police know.”

  “After you call the police, what do you do while you wait for them?”

  “I put on latex gloves. I carry them in my purse like any normal woman would.

  “I look around the house and outside. I don’t understand why there is no car in the garage. How the hell did h
e get there?

  “The house is neat. Marks was expecting company. There is a bottle of red wine on the counter near one of those fancy brass bottle-opener stands. Two glasses. Two folded cloth napkins.

  “Even with the gloves on I don’t want to touch anything. I hear Chief Manning’s SUV pull up the drive, his forensic guys right behind him.”

  “Okay, Cassidy. I want you to wake up. Slowly. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE MORNING DRIZZLE of the early summer’s monsoon left a crisp edge to the air and a slightly slower warm-up for the day, which meant at ten o’clock the temperature had not yet reached eighty. A ‘wow day’ in the desert.

  Arriving early at Tohono Chul, I wandered through the gift shop, and walked around the fountain that filled the entry patio, before finding Tracy and her date out on the back patio, under the dappled sunlight the foliage of the gardens provided. She had not told me I would recognize Michael Scores instantly, Jessica Silva’s sidekick anchor on Tucson’s most popular news station. Chief Manning sat next to Tracy, sporting a sour look on his face. Hopefully, the presentation of the menu and daily specials would alleviate that situation.

  I exchanged kisses with Tracy, although she always managed to give me a squeezing hug. I saw the two empty chairs but didn’t ask. My mind was stuck on chair number two. Tracy’s dream man was Michael Scores? Handsome enough. Not a brilliant news anchor, in my opinion, and one who tried to up his storylines any way he could, even without merit. I knew some were exaggerated and some were balls-out fabrications. Not my business. What was my business was to be on guard. Scores was always about ramping up his popularity and I was always about negating mine.

  The other news anchor, the one whom held my deep respect, Jessica Silva, joined us with her guest. I recognized him. Awkward.

  Tracy read me. “Do you two know each other?”

  I bowed my head. It wasn’t my place to explain, but Jaxon Giles divulged that he had retained my firm to help him with a domestic situation.