October 7 (Friday)
Kaser was back in his modest hotel suite in a quiet part of Nashville. It fit his needs, with sufficient space for his spread-out files and folders, his laptops, and all the other operational gear. He allowed the cleaners in only at specified times, after he’d thoroughly stowed anything he didn’t want seen. Kaser tipped well and had every expectation the staff would adhere to all of his non-standard stipulations.
Presently, he reviewed his progress and planned future activity. Most of his travel had been to the west end of Tennessee and Kentucky, with a few excursions into Arkansas. But he’d already made a visit to California and knew there would be at least one more trip there soon.
A seasoned investigator, Kaser had mainly expected hazy oral history and typically innocuous family legend, but this case had taken interesting twists and turns. To use a hackneyed image Kaser actually liked, these were smoking guns in terms of his primary assignment. Old man Barkley had been meticulous with his Vernon family correspondence, so Kaser presently had the names of several people who’d been given this incriminating information by the Slate family. During Barkley’s lifetime, he’d tried valiantly to sway the Slates from their ardent beliefs and rather talkative habits. Of course, most of those correspondents were dead... or soon would be. And if still living, their insistence about the Vernon family would most likely be viewed as senile dementia. But Kaser still had to find out if they’d shared their knowledge with any descendents who believed it. In one case, so far, he’d already located a granddaughter of a Vaudeville entertainer who’d been told the Vernon saga.
Kaser looked over the notes from his September twenty-third conversation with the granddaughter, Helana Ross. She’d been extremely cooperative, providing Kaser with all the dates and information he needed for his subsequent steps, including a probable trail of certain material which might include some of those smoking guns.
Nobody but Kaser could have found those sources, those problems—for the ambitious politician—which only Kaser could make disappear. Any other operative would have let things drop with the death of Barkley, the Vernon family descendant who knew too much. But not Kaser. Thorough was his middle name. Obsessive result was his game.
Kaser also examined his notes from a few days after his phone conversation with the actress’s granddaughter, Helana. But he didn’t actually need his eleven-day-old notes—Kaser remembered the convenience store conversation, practically verbatim.
It was a small neighborhood grocery a few blocks from Helana’s grandmother’s former home in North Hollywood. A throwback from the more modern 7-Eleven stores, this place had likely thrived in the Forties and Fifties when the grandmother lived there.
Kaser asked the Saticoy Grocery owner/manager if he’d been around about five years ago.
“Yeah... an’ a lot longer,” said Ramirez.
Kaser asked when were the dumpsters were emptied.
“Thursday mornings. Always been Thursday.”
Had Ramirez ever seen a cleaning crew dropping off a lot of papers?
“People do that all the time, man... an’ I have to chase ‘em off. I pay rent on that dumpster, man. It’s not a public service. Let ‘em drive out to the dump in South Pasadena.”
“Is that where everything goes?”
“Everything that’s left after those divers get through,” Ramirez replied.
Kaser inquired who he meant.
“Divers, man. They hit every dumpster in this neighborhood, and maybe more. Those druggies go through everything on Wednesday night. Used to leave a stinkin’ mess.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I had a cop friend talk to ‘em, man.” Ramirez gestured as he spoke. “He told them it ain’t against the law to go through the garbage after it’s been thrown out... but it is against the law to litter. So they had to keep my place nice and neat.”
Kaser asked if that had worked.
“Even drug-heads understand plain talk, man. They didn’t want no trouble with cops. After that, they left the place cleaner than before they got here.”
“Did you know any of those divers?”
“Just druggies to me, man. All look alike,” Ramirez had replied.
Kaser asked if it was different divers or the same ones repeatedly.
“Same ones every Wednesday. After they got straightened out by my cop friend, they started comin’ while it was still daylight.”
“If they all look alike, how do you know these were the same each week?”
“They had a girl with ‘em, man. Pretty blonde. Well, she used to be pretty, until the drugs ruint her. Not much more than a scarecrow now.”
Kaser asked if he knew their names.
“Druggies don’t have names, man. They’re all just zombies.” Then Ramirez thought a second. “José might know them. My cop friend.”
“What precinct is your buddy with?”
Ramirez told him.
Kaser had looked down the alley. “So these drugged-out divers came here every Wednesday evening and went through this dumpster. What were they looking for?”
“Beats me, man. I didn’t care. It’s either my garbage or stuff other people sneak in there when I’m not looking. Long as they don’t leave a mess, I’m good.”
“Those divers have a truck or something?”
“Van. Ugly... old,” he’d replied.
Kaser asked about the year, model, or color.
“I ain’t the DMV, man. Light color, but bad paint so there was patches of bare metal... rusted. Maybe nineties. Not sure. Check with José Metoyer at the precinct.”
“Anything else you can remember that might help me find these divers?”
“I think they live in Long Beach, man. I heard ‘em say they sell some of this junk down there on the weekends.” Ramirez chuckled. “You believe stupid tourists would buy stuff from a few druggies that pulled it out of my dumpster?”
Kaser had seen stranger things. He thanked the manager.
“Hey, man, why you need all this? Somebody stole your stuff five years ago?”
“Well somebody took what I’m looking for. I’m pretty sure it landed here. I’ve got to figure out where it is now.”
“Good luck with that, man. Some tourist stopped at Long Beach an’ probably took it back to Wyoming.”
It was a day after the Ramirez conversation that Kaser had located Ricks in Long Beach, his brain fried like a double-yolked egg on a flat desert stone. After he’d found out what Ricks knew, Kaser figured that meth-head seemed a good candidate for a few little jobs which needed doing.
****
Shane sat in his recliner and stared toward the television. If asked what was on, he wouldn’t have known—it was just noise and movement.
His house in Long Beach was mostly straightened since the ransacking. Though the porcelain bird was in a safe place, Shane had left its broken case and the empty picture frame on the floor where they’d fallen. Wasn’t quite sure why. A few different times, Shane had started to deal with them... but they’d have to be discarded.
Though not a particularly deep philosophical thinker, Shane was occasionally introspective. Since he had not dealt with those two items, there must be a reason. The frame had held Bethany’s photo; the box once housed the ornament he’d never had opportunity to give her. Neither of those aspects of his life were over. The broken frame and cracked box would remain where they were, at least until Bethany was safe again. Then Shane could decide whether to deal with them.
But was Bethany in danger? Most certainly. Even if Ricks was not in the Nashville area, Bethany was already being followed by one person after being robbed by another. A few days apart, and just days after the burglary at his place. It was all connected somehow. But what could involve both of them that anybody would want? Doesn’t make sense.
It would kill Shane to wait two thousand miles away—he had to go to Tennessee.
He’d been terribly lonely since Bethany first left, but continued to hope she’d return. Somehow, even though Bethany never said so, Shane had always believed that she’d come home once her brother didn’t need her anymore. Why remain in exile after the reason for her departure had... departed? Surely, she was supposed to return. But that had been nearly a year ago and there wasn’t even a hint that Bethany was considering a move back.
It was wonderful to finally hear her voice again in those recent phone calls, even though at least one conversation had seemed rather terse. Was Bethany angry that he’d called or upset at how long it took him to call again? Had he erred in not continuing to attempt contacts? He didn’t think so at the time: he’d leave voicemails and she wouldn’t get back. He’d write short notes but she wouldn’t respond. A long distance relationship was tough enough if both parties were working on it, but impossible if the effort was merely one-way. So Shane had lost hope.
Now things ought to be better—right? Shouldn’t Bethany be pleased to hear from him? Shouldn’t she want him to come for a visit? Didn’t appear so. She still seemed angry and tense. Possibly even hostile. Was most of that because of the break-in and stalker? Possibly. But Shane felt like it was aimed at him. Maybe it was. Maybe Bethany still hadn’t forgiven the way he’d handled her departure. It hadn’t made any sense at the time—leave your lover, your job, and the wonders of Southern California for a Podunk exit on a nondescript Tennessee Interstate. Whoever heard of Verde-town anyway?
And weren’t small towns supposed to be safe? Obviously, not this burg. So, after nearly three years of trying to get her day-to-day safety out of his mind, Shane worried again—and realized, with some conviction—it must be one of his purposes. Everyone had a few purposes on this earth, and one of Shane’s was to protect Bethany. He’d lost someone dear several years before. If he’d only been there, maybe he could have saved her. But he wasn’t, and didn’t... and Sophia had died. Shane couldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t lose another lover.
He’d been with Sophia about two years—not all that long, but their relationship was intense. Sophia’s insight and compassion—and TLC, of course—had helped chase away some of Shane’s demons from Desert Storm. Ah, but those old demons never went too far. And they always knew their way back into Shane’s mind—awake or asleep.
He opened a gaudy Cuban cigar box made of smooth, soft wood. Inside, on top, were two unframed five-by-seven photos. The first was Shane in full battle dress uniform. He could barely distinguish the blacked-out 82nd Airborne Division patch—he’d been in the 1st Brigade Combat Team. He was understandably proud of his jump wings and his unit.
The second photo was taken when he received the Bronze Star for his role in the ill-fated rescue on the outskirts of Kuwait City. Shane often revisited that nightmare and how horribly wrong everything went... mostly because of timing.
But he couldn’t let his mind be cluttered with Desert Storm. As Shane put both photos back into the wooden box, he spotted a snapshot of three grungy dumpster divers. He kept that out and replaced the box on the mantel. “It’s always about timing. And if I don’t get to Bethany before somebody else does...” He didn’t complete the thought.
Just as Sophia had helped chase away Shane’s deeply-entrenched demons after Kuwait City, Bethany had helped chase away the equally pernicious demons after the loss of Sophia. But nothing on earth could give Shane any peace if he somehow lost Bethany forever.
He had to ride to Tennessee. Doc, the owner/manager of Major Daze Choppers, Inc., owed him two weeks of paid vacation—and Shane finally had a reason to use it.
Not only was Shane worried about Bethany’s safety, but he fully remembered again how much he wanted to hold her... touch her... make love with her. How much he needed her. Craved her, loved her—and truly had never stopped.
Two thousand miles or two hundred—whatever it took to close the distance between them.