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        Again, I apologize for not posting on Wednesday (or Thursday as a back-up).   I'm opening Shakespeare's comedy Much Ado about Nothing tonight at The Elite Theatre Company and I've spent much of my spare time in a darkened theater.
        
        Well, after over 10 months of posting chapters of The Plunge, this will be the final free chapter.  If you would like to read the final ten chapters, click on HOME at the top left of the blog and go to the Web site link to purchase the last ten chapters for $3.99 using PayPal, which will be e-mailed to you as a PDF.

        Thank you for your interest; your comments and criticism are welcomed.  And now, without further ado. . . .   

                                            CHAPTER FORTY

                                                Odds and Ends

10:15 a.m.

The police station was more like a morgue. Even the attractive desk officer was absent. A bald, bulldog of a man who had a habit of sucking his teeth and called himself Sargent Sikes took Joe's statement and released him.

He stood in the parking lot, viewing the valley, when he thought about Lee's story. Tooley brings Jackie to the station, they try talking her into finishing the rape set-up, she refuses, they let her go, she leaves–on foot. She missed the two o'clock shuttle to Barstow, Teddi thinks she's coming in to L.A. Maybe she tried to call. Maybe somebody saw her walking.

At the bottom of the hill from the station, Joe parked and canvassed the residential neighborhood all the way down Paley Hill. No one saw her. From Paley Hill, he headed east along Paley Parkway. On the south side was the Paley Park and Museum and the golf course. For five blocks on the north side was a promenade of shops that ended at Gratzke. He went in each shop–jewelers, ice cream, records and tapes–showing Jackie's picture, and tried to stimulate memory. But Paley detectives had already questioned shop owners and customers on Sunday after her body had been discovered. Assuming that the police might know something and hadn't told him, Joe stuck it out. No one remembered her; there were no pay phones. Until he reached Gratzke Avenue. Across the street on the wall below the windows of the Mojave Mini Mart, where he'd bought the snorkel set, was a pay phone. The receiver had been ripped off. He showed her picture to the owner and the clerk. They shrugged and shook their heads, and when he asked about the pay phone, they informed him it had been vandalized back on Thursday.

He went south on Gratzke to Paley Lake Blvd. and turned west, figuring he would cover the shops on one side back to Old School Road and circle around the west end of the park and museum to Paley Hill to get his car.

* * *

Reggie waited. The aroma of Lucilva's flavored coffee filled the kitchen, where he sat across a table in the breakfast nook from her. She stared out the window at I.Q. at the car. Quinn stood beside the statue of Sam Lee, one of the Mojave desert's pioneers, its arms raised in exhortation, gazing over the town like some stone angel. He was trying to talk to I.Q., who was ignoring him.

"So what about Quinn?" Reggie said finally. "If Josh didn't do it, and Quinn was up here that night–"

"Maybe he did, I don't know, but I'm certainly not keeping anything from you."

"And Paul Tooley?"

"To think I'm conspiring with him to cover-up a rape is ludicrous. He's harmless."

"Then who raped her?"

"Maybe no one."

His impatience jumped to silent anger. "You're saying she made it up. Took her clothes off, beat her own head against a tree, jumped in the mud and waited for Josh to come by so she could accuse him
of–"

"I don't know what I'm saying."

"I think you do." She sipped her coffee. "You want to know what happened to your mother or not?"

Her eyes shifted indecisively from her coffee to his face. She nodded. "You ever use any of this information against me and...well, just don't." It was a threat backed by a guarantee.

"If you want to find out about your mother," Reggie said, "I want everything."

She set down her coffee cup and hesitated. "The Resolution Trust Corporation, once they're done with me, will have everything," she began, as if reciting the Gettysburg Address. "Chris took loans from his own bank, invested the money in S & Ls in L.A., Houston and Miami. Not one survived. I hate to admit it, but he was a second string Little Leaguer pitching against the pros." Reggie took note that she had called her father Chris. "I tried to tell him, but his ego didn't let him see it. Until he struck out. None of the loans were collateralized. I don't understand all of this yet, but the government can come in and–wham!–take what they want from us to repay depositors. Chris knew this at the beginning of their investigation, so he did the only thing he knew would pull him out of this without it coming back to haunt him later." She grinned slightly, took a cigarette from the pack on the table. "He wasn't the smartest man around, but he was clever as hell."

She lit the cigarette, glanced out the window and continued. "After September 30th, we don't have to renew the leases. But if we sold to private investors, the sale could be held up by the government. After the sale, the government could rescind the deal and take it themselves.

"Chris figured out there was only one way to get his money out of the land, keep it secret, and avoid abrogation of the sale." She dragged on the cigarette, shook her hair back off her face. "Guess how."

Reggie shrugged. He wanted answers, not questions.

"You're no fun."

"I'm not trying to be."

"Think," she said. "Who'd keep it secret? And stop any government stooge who wanted to come along later and kick it back in our faces?"

Reggie thought all of five seconds. If not a private investor...who?

"It's so easy," she crooned. "Picture...picture, say, an octopus. All these arms–or tentacles–whatever. One tentacle feels around in this cranny, one tentacle pokes around in this one. Until something is pulled into the open, the head doesn't know what it's got in either tentacle."

Reggie sorted that out. He got it. "The government."

Her eyes lit up. "As they say on the reservation: Bingo!"

"What's this got to do with Jackie?"

"I'm getting to it."

Her sigh was a segue in his own thoughts. Rifling through Paley's office early Sunday morning had left one thing out of place in his own mind. And what he'd determined now made sense.

"That look mean something?" she asked, cocking her head and blowing smoke to the ceiling.

"This is about the collider. That molecule basher. Stanford wants to build another one–here in Paley."

"Now you're getting it."

"I already figured that part out. But something someone told me makes sense now. About the deer."

"The what?"

"A female deer is a doe. D-O-E. The collider is a program of the Department of Energy."

"You've been in the office, haven't you? What else did you find?"

"Nothing. You still haven't said what this has to do with Jackie."

"A secret citizen consortium is trying to find out our plans. They want the town for themselves. Quinn and Tooley are part of this group. So is Walter Doone, who's on the city council."

"You know about the meetings?"

"Apparently, so do you."

"Do they know you know?"

She shook her head. "John"–she lowered her voice–"thinks I'm giving back his father's tract. Chris, Phillip Quinn and eight other men bought the valley back in '57. They all sold their tracts back to Chris–except Phillip Quinn. I hate to admit it, but he cheated Phillip. He could have researched it like Chris did, so it was his own fault."

"Interesting moral justification."

She ignored his comment. "Chris needed Phillip's tract to create The Plunge–the river runs under it. Without it...." She raised her eyebrows, as if signaling the obvious. "Chris demonstrated with a phony survey that there was no way to get water there, so Phillip sold it to him."

"Chris was a crook. What's new? What's the point?"

She snubbed her cigarette out, restraining a response to his remark. "John doesn't really...trust me."

"Wonder why."

"He's tried for years–through me–to get back at Chris and discredit him. There was a time when I...was...." She looked out the window and finished her thought. "In love with him. It was a rebellious lust, really. My father and I...were at odds with each other. Over many things." She looked Reggie in the eye. "Knowing he was...dishonest...hurt. I worked it out, though. It was simple really. I became...like him."

"But you still sleep with him."

She nodded. "Can't trust myself with any other man." She chuckled. "You don't understand that, do you? I know I could never love him again. It's just sex. If another man came along, well...I might get involved, then...hell, I'm not in any position to love someone. Not in this world." She took her cup to the sink, continuing. "Morning after you found Jackie up the hill, John showed up to talk about today's council meeting, and when I told him you and Jackie were here and that Jackie accused Josh of raping her, he said he'd talk to her. He didn't seem to care if she was hurt, how she was doing, or anything. Awhile before you woke up, John went in and talked to her. I didn't think about it much at the time, but he...he closed the door. Then later, while you went up to get the motorhome, they were talking. He must've thought I was still outside. I didn't hear much. But I heard him tell her, 'Good job.'"

"What job?"

"I think the rape was a set-up."

That's what Joe was talking about. A set-up. "For what?"

"To find out our plans. I think Quinn's group is behind stealing Chris's body. One of the demands in the ransom says I have to offer a plan for turning over the town to private ownership at today's council meeting. It isn't too surprising that the police haven't found who took Chris's body, since some of them are part of Quinn's group. But this goes to the top–maybe to the Chief, I don't know."

"If this is true, and Jackie was helping Quinn...." Reggie paused and looked out the window, wondering if he was Jackie's murderer.

"He's a conniving schmuck–not a killer."

"So if you're selling the land," Reggie said, trying not to sound too judgmental and make her defensive, "why would you need me?"

"There were so many loopholes in the DOE negotiations, and then Josh came up with the meth connection in Oregon, so I told Chris it might help pull us out of debt. He was against it. He had no trouble with certain gray areas of business, but...drugs...not his bag. Things got worse. The DOE deal was going sour. He pulled me in on it–in fact...uh, I was in Washington, D.C., when Chris...died. Anyway, when he thought the DOE deal wasn't going to work, he changed his mind. That's when he brought it up to you." She returned to the breakfast table and sat down.

"Then he kills himself," Reggie said. She nodded. "And you needed to...what?"

"Become mayor." She explained the town's charter and how it included a clause allowing a designated Paley family member to take over the mayorship upon the death of Christopher Paley with the majority of the council's approval. "I have the votes. John. Malcolm Rendquist. I know Walter Doone and Geraldine–detective Lee's sister–won't vote for me, but all I need is two votes because I inherit my father's proxy. I vote for myself."

"If you're going to sell the town, why would you want to be mayor?"

"The mayor has control over the agenda. I need to keep the council from interfering in my negotiations with DOE–which are going better."

"And Quinn?"

"He's important. Peripherally. His vote. His silence."

"His silence," Reggie repeated.

"He knows my father killed himself. He knows Malcolm–Dr. Rendquist–lied on the death certificate. I need the insurance money."

"How did he find out?"

She hesitated. "I told him."

Reggie wondered why. And what could she do with the money after she sold the land to the government? Couldn't the feds appropriate the proceeds of the sale? Before he could question the bends in her story, she asked:

"Tell me about my mother."

Reggie folded his hands, stiffened his back in preparation for his disclosure. There was no putting it off. She sat there ready.

"To keep her from getting custody of you, your father...your father got rid of her." Her face twisted in a sickened expression. "Put a contract on her," Reggie said, watching how the truth waded into her blood and bloated the veins in her temples. "Otto arranged it. Her...her body wasn't found."

She stood and wandered to the back of her chair, shaking her head.

"He made it seem like she abandoned you and him. She had no family. No one cared."

Petrified by what he said, Lucilva stared at him, waiting, it seemed, for a different truth, gripping the back of the chair, then began to sway to the rhythm of some inner argument. Angry tears filled her eyes.

The instant Reggie stood up, Lucilva viciously hurled the chair across the kitchen, where it crashed against Mr. Coffee and shattered the pot, spraying coffee across the counter.

She heaved a deep breath, as if exorcizing a demon, swung around, pointed a finger in his face, opened her mouth and...closed her eyes to hold back tears.

* * *

Joe waded through a sea of old furniture and collectibles. Joe surprised the hefty old woman who owned Odds & Ends Antique Shop next door to the barber shop as she stepped through a screen of black beads hanging in the arch between the main room and a storage space.

"Holey-moley!" she gasped, slapping her chest and puffing her wrinkled rosy cheeks. "Scared the living daylights out of me." She laughed and peered across the shop at the front door. "Dang clanger jammed in the bell again."

Joe glanced back at the bell over the door. "Sorry."

"Ain't your fault," she said, waving a hand in the air. "What can I find for you?"

"I'm an investigator, ma'am, looking into the murder of a teenage girl. This one." He showed her Jackie's picture. "Seen her?"

She leaned her plump frame against a six-drawer dresser and set a pair of reading glasses that hung around her neck up onto her nose. Tilting her head to the side, she studied the picture. She handed it back.

"Matter of fact, I did. Spoke to her."  Joe's heart leapt up and kept any words from forming. He managed to ask her when.  She put a finger in her scalp and scratched, thinking.  "I was closed yesterday–Sunday's the Lord's day, not mine–had to be...not Saturday–I closed early for my grandson's birthday–six years old. Must've been...Friday."

"What time?"

"She was in here about...three...maybe four. Asked to use my phone."

"Who'd she call?"

"Whoever she called didn't answer. She let it ring and hung up. Asked me if there were any taxis in town. Told her there wasn't and suggested she take the six-o'clock shuttle to Barstow. She thanked me and left."

Disappointment returned. It must've showed in his face.

"She got a ride, though." The woman pointed to the street. "Saw her out front thumbing it. I used to hitch-hike myself back in Missouri as a girl, but I never got a ride as fast as she did. But the boy who picked her up didn't look like the killer type."

Joe looked outside to the curb area. She was blind as a bat. From here, how could she see well enough to make that distinction?

"You saw who picked her up?"

"Met him. Boy came in earlier in the day."

"What did he look like? What was he driving?" Joe could barely keep from grabbing and shaking her.

"Teenager. Generic-looking kid. Nothing special about him. Except his acne. She acted like she knew him."

"How?"

"Body language, I suppose. You can tell when people know each other. Is that important?"

"What did he drive?"

"You're asking the wrong old lady. All these cars look the same to me. If it were a '44 Ford or a '52 Chevy, I'd know it. But this was just some generic-looking thing–maybe Jap-made. Right size, anyway."

"What color?"

"Oh, boy, let me see. This is important, huh?"

"Very."

"Wasn't paying much attention. Busy thinking how lucky the girl was to find somebody she knew all the way out here."

How could he help her remember? "Think," Joe urged.

"Could've been orange, but...then again I can't tell orange from brown sometimes if the light's too bright, and it was pretty darn sunny out, and–"

"Dark orange, faded orange? Please, ma'am. Picture the car in your mind–this is very important." She closed her eyes. "Picture it orange. Dark orange, light orange. Does it look right? Does it–"

"Red," she stated. She opened her eyes. "It was red."

"You're sure."

"Like a fire engine."

The immediate picture made him shudder. But it had to be so.

"You said he was in here earlier on Friday."

"Made a purchase."

"Remember what?"

"Sure do. Bought an old pair of handcuffs."

* * *

The scream from outside sounded to Reggie like a goose's honk with a hand gripped around its neck.

I.Q. had Quinn on the ground, strangling him. I.Q.'s face was red, Quinn's was turning blue. Saliva strung down from I.Q.'s lips and his head shook from the strain to squeeze the life out of him. Quinn kicked and thrashed, his fists banging against I.Q.'s arms and face with no apparent effect, but then he managed to reach up and snag a lock of I.Q.'s hair. He pulled so hard, I.Q.'s chin smashed against his chest.

Reggie grabbed I.Q. by the back of his belt and collar, lifted him off, but I.Q.'s hands wouldn't let go of Quinn's throat, and his head followed, eyes bulging, his tongue thrusting through his lips like a dead dog. Reggie wrenched I.Q.'s hands apart, pushing him off the gagging man with his knee. I.Q. rolled over and zeroed in on him again, ignoring Reggie who stood over them. He wasn't going to stop. Reggie caught him by the throat, pushed him back with all his strength.

"What's going on here!" Reggie screamed, standing between I.Q. and Quinn on the ground.

"What did you do, John?" Lucilva said.

"What did I do?" Quinn panted, his voice strained. "He tried–he tried to kill me!"

"And what did you do?" Reggie insisted.

"Nothing," he moaned, massaging his throat.

I.Q. was still furious, breathing heavily through his teeth, glaring murderously at Quinn.

Lucilva asked I.Q., "What did he do to you?"

Reggie rested his hand on his friend's back.

"He said...he said that meth-heads die young anyway."

Reggie was glad I.Q. put the fear of death in this cocky son-of-a-bitch.

"He accuses me of killing her," Quinn whined. "Me! A killer!" He snorted incredulously. "Thanks to you, he believes I raped her, then killed her to keep her quiet. He thinks I transported her body from the lake in my van. No one believes me. But that shape, that wet spot, is not what you think. It's an illusion put there by events in your imagination. Last night I picked up dry ice for the play, to create the fog effect–I told you already–check it out with my stage manager. It is the truth. I am not a monster. I have not raped anyone. I have not killed anyone. And that little–"

"Shut up," Reggie said, believing him–and hating it.

I.Q. drifted off towards the Oldsmobile, shaking his head. Reggie knew him well enough to know that he regretted attacking Quinn. Violence just wasn't in his veins. Losing Jackie had affected him more than Reggie had figured.

Lucilva sidled up to Quinn, asking him if he was all right, trying to show sympathy. She caught Reggie watching her. Her frustrated look verified for himself that she was only interested in John Quinn's vote.

* * *

Joe jogged back to his car and drove along the foothills to the Paley estate. Passing two tall trees on the right, he spotted Leah's white Mustang tucked between them.

He parked across the street. Her head lolled to one side against the window post. His nerves shivered with the thought that she was dead. He approached. Her window was down. Her bee-like snoring calmed him a little, but then let loose his anger.

Slowly, he reached passed her, shimmied the stick-shift into neutral, and released the handbrake. Facing downhill, the car rolled without help. Joe walked beside it, waiting until the tires hit the pavement, then he stooped over and put his mouth near her head.

"Rise and shine, sugarbear!"

Her snore stuttered. Her eyes popped open. Joe stopped in the street. And then he watched her panic as she shook off the nightmare he'd created and woozily groped for the wheel and the brake as the Mustang cantered towards a tree.