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  That name seemed familiar. “Nick Thayne . . . that hotshot detective from Frisco?”

  “He’s freelance now. Works in Girard, not 60 miles from here. Quit Frisco because of a personality clash with the chief. He’ll help you out.”

  Richard Rollins fiddled with the bleached sheet nearest him, his florid face mirroring his unease. He’d heard about Nick Thayne and the rumors surrounding his dismissal from the San Francisco Police Department. An old friend, Gerald Hopper, who’d retired last year from the force, had joined Richard for some trout fishing last winter and told him all about the renegade.

  “They called him the spook because of his odd methods, but only behind his back. He’d pissed off Chief Martin royally because we nearly had what should have been an airtight case thrown out because of lack of hard evidence. He sent the entire homicide division on what appeared to be a wild goose chase during the Gonzalez murders out beyond the wharf. Lo and behold, there appears the murder weapon. We knew only someone directly connected to the gang could have obtained that information. If it weren’t for a latent fingerprint, we’d have been thrown out of court. That, and the fact Sanchez’s mistress squealed.

  “Figure I know how Thayne got her to squeak, considering his reputation with women. After that, the DA refused to work with him. Everyone swore she’d only put up with his shit until then because he was bonking her, and Chief Martin was livid. Swore Thayne was playing both sides against the middle and fired him. Thayne’s explanation for everything, get this, was that he’d had a hunch. Spooky hunch, I’d say. Same thing happened in that child trafficking case we’d worked on 14 months earlier. Three weeks into the case, and suddenly, he just leads his partner to where the Wiederitz twins were stashed. No one could have known to look in the old warehouse beyond the wharf, but he did!”

  Gerry had spit into the muddy water of the Colorado River and popped more noxious chewing tobacco into his already bulging cheek.

  “Was he on the take?”

  “No one’s positive, but I think so. Sure never seemed to be hurting for money, if his vintage cars are any clue. And you know how cheap they are! Out of a job now, and if he comes prowling around your area sniffing for a new situation, you’d be best to send him packing!”

  Richard shook his head, which was shorn to marine standards, hoping to dissuade Roger. “If he’s not officially working for the police, I can’t use him.”

  Roger closed his eyes for a second trying to think through the haze of painkillers. “I remember now. He’s contracted out to the Girard Police department as a consultant. Girard has only 15,000 inhabitants, and he’s a private P.I. as well. We have that $10,000 for special services right?” It was becoming increasingly difficult to speak, since his lips felt numb.

  The present mayor, Cindy Perez, had allocated the department $10,000 for an emergency. Richard couldn’t think of a bigger emergency than Roger undergoing the knife in 30 minutes and having Bill Peters step in. He could pay the P.I. to head the investigation while Roger recuperated.

  “He’s good?”

  “The best. Of course, you could always use Fox.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “Well then, you have no choice but to give him a call. Susan has his number. We’ve been friends since detective school, so I can vouch for him.”

  “Well, I don’t know. You’re the best man for the job.”

  Roger coughed, his handsome Chinese face contorting in pain. “Probably, but just not at the present moment. Call him, okay? He’ll solve this case. He’s never been known to fail.”

  A white-clad aide rolled in the gurney as Dr. Samson popped in his graying head. “Get him to pre-op right now. Who knows when that appendix is going to pop.”

  Roger gave him dizzy thumbs up while a pretty young nurse with two noses swabbed his arm.

  “You’re still in charge,” growled the chief. “As soon as you’re remotely coherent, he answers to you.”

  Was it his imagination or did Roger grin?

  “Yeah, right,” he whispered as they wheeled him away under the twitching florescent lights. By God, that was rich. Roger chuckled to no one in particular as things began to fade.

  Nick Thayne sounded highly professional on the phone and indicated he could be in Monroe within 90 minutes. Chief Rollins gave him directions to Chester Street and breathed a sigh of relief half-mixed with trepidation. He’d already called the Mayor and explained the situation, and she’d immediately agreed to the temporary arrangement. She didn’t like Bill Peters much, either.

  “Get a handle on this case before the press has a field day,” was her only admonishment. Cindy Perez hated negative publicity, and Chief Rollins had felt the acrid side of her tongue only three weeks ago when his rookie officer had been pulled over on a possible DUI. What a fricking mess that had been. Thank God Phelps had only had the flu. He crossed his fingers and suddenly prayed. Make this an open and shut case, he asked the God, who always seemed to be just around the corner and never quite near enough to help. Richard’s ever-present ulcer flared, and the burning irritation in his rotund stomach indicated that this might just be the case he’d dreaded all his life.

  Nick smiled at his good fortune. With his utility bills directed to a collection agency, the car agency threatening to repossess the love of his life, and his current squeeze dumping him for some middle-aged real estate agent with more money than brains, he was in dire straits. Nick figured he could last another two weeks without real income. The check he had just tried to deposit from one Jason Oswald had bounced. He’d done exactly what that overbearing lout of a salesman had asked and followed his cheating wife around town, snapping pictures. He’d presented Oswald with the torrid evidence, not that he blamed the wife, Beverly, one bit. Her husband was a boor of a man, and he wondered for the umpteenth time why women stayed with men who were bad for them.

  Heading to Monroe on a job not only got him out of town and away from the bill collectors but would legitimately stave off those self-same jackals for a couple of months. For one brief moment, Nick remembered his mother’s offer to help and gritted his teeth. No way! He’d make it on his own, his family be damned. He rubbed the back of his neck and gulped down a migraine-strength pain tablet before tossing his overnight bag, computer, and sketch book into the small trunk. He swung his long frame into his cherished, cherry-red Mustang and checked the map, noting the long, straight highway. If he could avoid the CHPs, he’d sail down the road at 100 miles an hour—this baby could take it! He flipped on his radar sensor and gunned the engine. Things were looking up.

  By the time Nick arrived at the vacant lot on Chester Street at 5:15 p.m., the body had been removed, though several bystanders still stood respectfully behind the yellow tape. Oh, how America loves the violent and ridiculous. From the fascinated stares reflected on the faces of the residents, they probably thought this was just another episode of the Jerry Springer Show. He was slightly irritated that the body had been removed before he’d had a chance to examine it, but didn’t blame the police chief, who’d suddenly had this mess dumped on his plate. Besides, it was blazing hot and no body lasted long in heat like this. A young officer named Randy Phelps followed him about and showed him the Polaroid’s he had taken of the crime scene before Roger had been whisked off to the hospital.

  “So, how’s Roger doing?”

  “Don’t know,” said the rookie. “Getting his appendix out is all I’ve heard. Keeled over right there near the grave. Said the body had been killed elsewhere and was buried here later.”

  Nick didn’t need the rookie to tell him that, since it was so obvious, but he smiled anyway. You never knew who would turn out to be a top-notch investigator if they just got some practice. Nick squatted and studied the freshly turned earth. Police disruption was everywhere, and his irritation intensified. In this dry weather, there might have been a good footprint.

  “So, you’re going to help me out?”

  The young man looked surprised. He had the w
ashed-out, freckled face of the very fair and couldn’t be much older than 25.

  “Sure.”

  The young man followed Nick around like a housebroken puppy. Finally, the substitute detective paused and pointed to a vague indentation resembling a very narrow tire track.

  “Pour plaster of Paris here and search the area for a discarded shovel, though the likelihood is slim.” He faced the opposite direction. “What’s down there?”

  “The onion and potato fields. The field slopes and then runs into some of the Agrit-Empire’s fields just past the river. Of course, it doesn’t have any water in it this time of year.”

  Nick followed the direction of the rookie’s finger and studied the area. The steep incline guaranteed no vehicle could have managed a getaway in the crumbling dirt. He traced the perimeter of the entire field, but no disruptions of the earth were evident. He was positive the killer had not battled the rough scrub but transported the body from the street. He scanned the elite neighborhood. Beautifully manicured gardens, towering trees, and the gentle curve of the cul-de-sac didn’t seem a prime location for a brutal murder.

  “Whose house is that?” he asked the deputy silently following him around.

  The youth checked his notes. “The house to the left belongs to someone named Collins. It’s apparently vacant—from what the neighbors can tell. The body was discovered by the gardener from the house over there, owned by one Edith Simms. She returned home about forty minutes ago from a shopping trip and the news nearly put her under.”

  “Elderly?”

  “Yeah, plus her gardener found the body. She was quite beside herself when the chief spoke with her. We had to let her go inside because of the heat. Thought we might have a third casualty on our hands.”

  Nick enjoyed the young man’s sense of humor. “I’ll speak with her later.”

  “Oh, just remembered. I’m supposed to give you Inspector Chung’s notes and this.” Randy presented him with a small notepad and a hand-held recorder.

  “Thanks. I need to see the body.”

  “Yeah, you’re supposed to follow me to the coroner’s. The chief’s gonna meet us there. He’s at the hospital now, checking on Roger. Oh, and a lady from down the street said to give the investigating officer this.” He handed Nick a scrap of paper with a name and phone number. “Said her daughter saw some activity at that vacant house earlier this week and someone should come talk to her.”

  Nick pocketed the paper and recorder. “I need you and that gent there.”

  “Officer Steele,” Randy volunteered.

  “Yes, Officer Steele. You’re to visit each one of these houses and impound their wheel barrows.”

  “Wheel barrows?”

  “Yeah—the mayor was lugged to his final resting place in a wheel barrow—see that narrow tire track. It could have originated from any of those houses—or none at all. So get cracking.”

  The freckled junior officer appeared like he wanted to salute, but instead, headed towards his ostentatious police car. Nick hated police cruisers. It was one of the reasons he’d quit the force, amongst a hundred others.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, 6:00 pm

  Chief Richard Rollins met Nick outside the coroner’s office. Upon being introduced to Nick, he stammered, “I . . . ah . . . sorry. You’re not quite what I expected. I met your father once.” He flushed and glanced down.

  “Then, I sympathize with you. At least you could keep your association brief.”

  Richard seemed disconcerted by the quip. “I need to say thanks for helping us out. Please keep in mind that Roger will be on his feet in no time, so make sure you take careful notes so he can jump right back in. Right now, the details are sketchy at best and will remain so until the coroner’s report comes back. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Thayne?”

  “Nick. You can call me Nick.” Nick took an instant dislike to the chief, whose agenda was clear. He was to serve as an interim investigator and no more. To top it off, the asshole was probably a closet bigot to boot. Nick’s notorious temper nearly flared, but he managed to keep himself in check.

  The coroner’s office consisted of two rooms filled with the inevitable stainless steel tables, an office, and a tiny lab. No wonder he’d been called in. This was Amateurville. The puffy, decomposing body had been dead for days; it didn’t take the stench or grayish-white tint of the body to tell him that. The coroner was a tall thin Asian-American with pleasant features and opaque eyes named Dr. Koh. After two seconds, Nick had to eat his words about Amateurville.

  “Fourth digit, left hand surgically removed. Finger not found with body. Been dead 72-96 hours, since no rigor mortis is apparent. Appendages are starting to appear mottled, and you can see the veins of his hands are very conspicuous. Cause of death was a blow to the throat with a narrow, blunt instrument. He likely died of massive blood loss, since the thoracic artery was severed. Bled out within a couple minutes. See here. Weapon wasn’t a knife—a screwdriver I’d say—likely a Phillips. I’ll investigate the circumference of the entrance wound to determine the exact shape of the instrument. You can see the weapon was thrust so forcefully it exited through the rear of the mayor’s throat at an upwards angle. The killer was shorter than the victim, but strong and probably right-handed, since the wound is on the left.”

  Dr. Koh changed subjects abruptly after noticing the chief’s pallid face. “This ring was found on the left pinky finger.” He pointed to the braided silver ring already bagged and tagged. “Roger indicated before his surgery that Thad Fisher never owned such a ring.”

  “So his name was Thad Fisher?” asked Nick.

  Richard broke in. “The ex-mayor, of all things. Been missing for quite a while. Everyone thought he’d taken off with his mistress, Connie.”

  “Has this Connie been found?”

  “No. I’ll supply you with all the details I know about her once we finish our examination.” Chief Rollins took out his handkerchief and wiped his pale forehead.

  Pansy, thought Nick. “So, the finger was surgically removed?”

  “Perhaps. I can’t be certain except that no bone or skin fragments were left hanging. Very clean. Removed after death.”

  Nick thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “A good chop of a cleaver could do the trick I’d imagine. Did the mayor wear a wedding band?”

  “Yes. He had a designer ring,” supplied Chief Rollins. “A thick gold nugget band with a full carat diamond in the center. It was a real beaute. Probably set him back eight to ten thousand dollars.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Couldn’t miss it, being so big. Must have had that ring for seven or eight years. Really stood out. Maybe he refused to hand it over and a robber retaliated.”

  “Hmm, Murder itself is not interesting. It’s the reasons for it that are interesting, gentlemen.”

  “What?” said Chief Rollins, clearly annoyed.

  “Just a quote from a book I read once; it discussed why people murder. A must read for any detective, by Ruth Rendall.”

  “Well, glad you’ve read it,” stated the Chief crossly. He didn’t particularly care for smart aleck pseudo-intellectual women who told men how to do their jobs. His Nancy had been quite content staying at home these past thirty years and knew her place.

  Dr. Koh handed Nick a Polaroid. “I took the liberty of taking a candid of the ring. It’s important we discover the real owner, I take it?”

  Nick nodded.

  Dr. Koh smiled. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like to continue my examination further, and you might not enjoy its thoroughness.” His dark eyes playfully pinpointed the aging chief as he reached for the shiny bone cutters atop his metal tray.

  Nick instantly took a shine to the tall, thin coroner. At least he possessed a sense of humor about his morbid profession.

  “Of course. What’s your theory, Chief Rollins, or is it Chief?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can call me either or. Everyone else does.”

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nbsp; They moved away from the examination room, and Nick spied Dr. Koh carefully slicing into Thad Fisher’s chest cavity.

  “I suspect,” said the chief, warming to the subject, “that Thad was mugged, and the murderer couldn’t get the ring off, and therefore had to remove the finger violently. That alone would have been motive enough for the crime, considering the value of the ring.” The police chief kept jingling change in his pocket as if he wanted to say something more but was afraid to.

  “Though you must agree, a screwdriver is a strange instrument for a mugger to choose, isn’t it? And a screwdriver can’t remove a finger, so the murderer must have had access to several tools. Plus, the wound was relatively dry—the mayor was murdered elsewhere. I believe he was buried under the magnolia tree during our full moon this week. The murderer used a wheelbarrow and worked alone. Is there something else you wanted to say, Chief?” urged Nick.

  “You are quick. Roger said you were good. Well, I’m sure it means nothing, but there was another you know,” offered Richard vaguely.

  “Another?” asked Nick blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “Another body we found, twenty-five years ago when Jeremy Fox was police chief.”

  Nick had heard about the legendary Jeremy Fox. He’d been a massive man at 6’5” and totally white-haired by age thirty. The police chief of Monroe for ten years before he’d quit and started his own investigative firm, his integrity and grit were still marveled at by his successors. He’d worked for a while in Berkley and then come back to his hometown of Monroe City. While Nick had never met the man, his reputation had permeated all the law enforcement agencies in the area—that, and his spectacular murder. He and his son Lane had been investigating a Russian gang seeking to infiltrate several of the large agricultural firms that dotted the Big Valley. Jeremy and Lane had been found hanging from a makeshift gallows near Rancho Mandesto, far from their home. The sensational crime had made headlines, even in San Francisco.