The Doomsday Girl Read online

  Shrugging, I tapped the redial function for the number beginning with zero. It immediately went to a recorded message saying the call could not be completed as dialed.

  I checked my watch and swore under my breath. I’d spent more time here than I meant to, and would be late getting back to the clinic. Hurrying, I locked the house and hit it down the dirt road. But after a minute I slowed, my mind preoccupied with the text messages. A dock and a berth obviously indicated a body of water. It could have meant any number of lakes in the western U.S. There were two, both fed by the Colorado River, that came to mind. Lake Mead was in Nevada and a short drive from Las Vegas, less than an hour. It would no doubt offer plenty of docks and boat slips, as it was popular with recreational boaters. The same could be said for Lake Powell, which was a couple hours east of Cedar City, in southern Utah. Hell, it could even mean the Great Salt Lake up north, but the water was far saltier than the ocean and I doubted it was desirable for boating.

  “Pola,” I muttered. It was an acronym or an abbreviation. It could mean Lake Powell, although Lapo would have made more sense.

  Confident and pleased I was making progress, I looked down at my speedometer and saw I was poking along at 35 MPH. At that moment an air horn blared and lights flashed in my rearview mirror. An eighteen-wheeler barreled by me, its tires crushing the snow and spraying blasts of icy crust against my quarter panels. It was towing a white forty-foot container that said “China” on the side in bright red letters.

  The truck swerved in front of me and I slowed to give it some distance. The driver seemed intent on making time, even if it meant driving at an inadvisable speed through the wintery darkness. If he jackknifed, I wanted to be well behind him.

  The taillights on the trailer dimmed quickly, and I accelerated. It was no longer snowing and had turned colder, as it often does following a storm. My digital temp gauge read 24 degrees. I let off the gas and cruised at forty. The road was slicker than it had been two hours ago. These were black ice conditions and required caution, even on the straights.

  If the doctor said Melanie was okay, my plan was to pick her up and return to her place, where hopefully she could get a good night’s rest before we left for Vegas. As for her parents, I anticipated they’d meet us there sometime tomorrow. They needed to care for their daughter, but I was still waiting for their return call.

  About two miles from the city limits, the road swerved gently to the right. I eased off the pedal and steered along the two black tire paths cut into the thin coating of snow on the highway. I could feel my tires slide and then regain traction on the thicker snow along the edges. I slowed to thirty, and in the distance I saw what looked like headlight beams perpendicular to the road. As I drew closer, there was a series of diagonal skid marks on the ice, followed by dark furrows in the snow field aside the road. It was the big rig that had passed me. It had slid off the highway, and the cab was in a shallow ditch. Behind it, the trailer was upright in the brush.

  I pulled over and stopped near the cab. I could see the driver in my headlights. He wore a cap and was pounding his palms on the steering wheel. I got out and walked up to him. He glanced at me with jittery eyes. His unshaven cheeks were hollow and his jaw was knotted as if his molars had been clenched for hours. He rolled down his window.

  “I don’t see any damage. Think you can drive out?” I asked.

  “I intend to,” he said. “I’ve got to be in Port of Los Angeles by morning or my ass is grass.”

  “Best take it easy. It’ll be dicey until you get farther west.”

  He shook his head at me. “I’ve made the drive before, pal.” I saw a dusting of white around one of his nostrils.

  I looked toward where his headlights illuminated the white flatlands. Then I turned and started back to my pickup.

  “Hey,” he said loudly. “You don’t need to make a phone call on this. Right? We clear on that?”

  I looked back at him and smiled. “Cedar City’s a small town, full of god fearing folk. So you best check your attitude, and hide the coke.”

  “What? What kind of wiseass crack is that? You some kind of poet?”

  “Sure, why not?” I said, then I left him to his issues and drove away.

  ******

  The emergency room nurse told me Melanie was sleeping, and they’d wake her shortly. I sat in a chair in the deserted waiting room. It would be close to midnight before I got her home. I worked on my smartphone while I waited, searching for information on Lake Powell boat slips or berths. I couldn’t find any reference to a berth 207.

  I leaned my head forward and shut my eyes, declaring I was done for the day. Every thought that entered my mind, I tried to shove aside. I should have called Candi, just to check in, but that could wait until tomorrow. She was good that way; for the most part, she didn’t worry or pester me while I was working. I think she acquired this from her mother, who was married to a career sheriff in Texas.

  After a few minutes of concentrated effort at keeping my thoughts at bay, I began to drift off. Images of the eighteen-wheeler deep in the sagebrush danced on my eyelids, and I saw the jagged angles of the man’s face and the white rim around his nostril. Then I heard him speak, and I jerked awake, stunned for a moment.

  “Port of Los Angeles, pola,” I said out loud. “I’ll be goddamned.”

  The receptionist looked up. “Sir?”

  “Just talking to myself, it’s an old habit,” I said, but she’d already turned her eyes back to her computer screen. I did the same, working my phone again. It didn’t take long this time. The site for the Port of Los Angeles included various maps, including one of the port cargo terminals. Berth 207 was near the far end of the complex. It took some searching, but I finally found a map showing the waterway that hosted berth 207. There were probably massive cranes there, positioned to hoist containers from the ships and lower them onto railroad cars.

  At that moment the door opened and Melanie came into the waiting room. She looked sleepy and a little disheveled. The same lady physician I’d spoken to earlier was by her side.

  “She should be okay now,” she said. “Acute migraines can happen for any number of reasons. I can’t say if it’s related to her injury and coma. You should have her looked at by a specialist.”

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “Here’s some pain pills. If she feels the slightest onset of more pain, have her take two. With migraines, you have to catch the pain early.”

  I stuck the bottle in my pocket. “Thanks, doctor.”

  She left us, and I turned to Melanie, who stood holding her hands and looking at the floor.

  “Better put your jacket on,” I said. “It’s cold out.”

  I led her out to my truck and we drove down Main Street. “You’re feeling okay?” I asked.

  “My head feels empty. It’s like the pain was replaced by this big emptiness.”

  “It’s probably the drugs. You look a little pale.”

  “I feel very relaxed, actually. It’s like everything’s in slow motion.”

  We reached the end of town and I turned onto the highway. There was no moon and I drove carefully, expecting black ice, sometimes driving on the white rather than risking dark portions of the road that might be treacherous. We forged ahead without speaking, my tires popping and spitting, the engine a steady drone.

  I glanced at her and saw her eyes were wide open. “Do you remember Jeff being in Los Angeles recently?’ I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “He had jobs there.”

  “Right.”

  I passed the section of road where the eighteen-wheeler had slid off the pavement. The truck was no longer there. “Do you remember him saying anything about meeting someone at the Port of Los Angeles?”

  “No. I don’t remember anything like that.”

  My cell chimed, and I saw I’d received a text message. It was from Walter McDermott, and read: Landing in LV tomorrow 11am. Please meet us then. Will call you.

  “I
f you’re up to it, you should pack your bags tonight,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “We’re driving to Vegas in the morning, to meet your parents.”

  “Huh? What for?”

  “The doctors who cared for you need to do a checkup.”

  “Oh. What will you do, then?”

  “I’ll be working,” I said.

  ******

  When I woke the next morning I opened the front door and saw that much of the cloud cover had dispersed, and a portion of the sky to the southwest was a pale blue. The sun was mostly hidden behind a bank of low clouds, but I guessed it would break through shortly. The weather had passed; it would be a good day to drive.

  I made coffee and sat in the kitchen and worked on my PC while I waited for Melanie to wake. I found some more detailed maps of the Port of Los Angeles, which were easier to view on my larger screen. Berth 207 handled containerized cargo that could come from anywhere and contain anything. The number of freight and logistics companies that frequented this berth and those near it seemed virtually limitless.

  I spent half an hour searching, looking for any detail that might provide some clue as to why Jeff Jordan had a clandestine meeting with an unknown person near this particular berth. I closed my screen just as I heard Melanie’s footfalls.

  “Good morning,” she said. She was dressed and looked ready to go.

  “Morning,” I said. “Coffee’s hot.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll make breakfast then. I’m all packed.”

  “Great. How’s the melon?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your head. Any pain?”

  “No, not a bit. I feel really good, to be honest. I slept straight through, eight hours, didn’t wake once.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, then I pulled her ex-husband’s cell from my pocket. “By the way, I found Jeff’s phone last night, crammed in the couch frame.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I went through it and found a curious text conversation. I’d like you to take a look.”

  She came to the table and stared down at the screen. Then she picked up the phone and spent a minute reading before she said, “I have no idea what any of that means.”

  “Do you recognize the number?”

  “No.”

  I took the phone from her. “Best I hold onto it for now. Your folks will be landing in Vegas at eleven. If we leave soon we can get there by noon.”

  Twenty minutes later we got into my truck, and if Melanie was hesitant to leave the place where she’d lived with her daughter and late husband, I saw no sign of it. The sun had risen above the clouds and bathed the house in light. Water was trickling beneath a band of snow that lay in the sun’s path, and it was warming quickly. It was the type of day that may have held promise for many, but it offered no cheer to me, for at that moment I felt the weight of a widow with a missing child. I also had the beginnings of a plan in place, but Melanie’s presence would only impede my efforts, and I was anxious to leave her in the care of her parents.

  The highway was still icy, but easier to drive in the daylight. Once we were south of Cedar City, the road turned wet in the sunlight. I made good time on the straights, until Melanie asked me to stop in Saint George. While she used the ladies room at a fast food joint, I stood near my front fender, breathed the brisk air, and stared at the surrounding red rock formations. Then I took a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and dialed the number I had for the Utah State Police.

  “Detective Batterman,” a voice said.

  “Hello, detective. My name’s Dan Reno, I’ve been hired by the family of Melanie Jordan to look into her husband’s murder, and the disappearance of her daughter. I’d like to compare notes with you on the case.”

  “Down in Cedar City, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I understand. Have you interviewed Melanie Jordan yet?”

  “She was in a coma.”

  “She was released from the hospital two weeks ago. I’m with her now.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. You work out of Salt Lake, correct?”

  He paused, and when he replied his voice sounded constricted. “What’s your point?”

  “Have you been to Cedar City recently?”

  I heard him take a breath. “Their local force is handling it.”

  “They said Utah State Police has taken charge of the case.”

  He paused again. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Reno.”

  “Okay, Mr. Reno. I’m going to conclude this conversation now. But first I’ll leave you with two things. One, Salt Lake is dealing with a huge gang problem. If you were unaware of that, feel free to pick up a newspaper.”

  When he didn’t continue, I asked, “What’s the second thing?”

  “Don’t call me again,” he said, and the line went dead.

  I put the phone in my pocket, leaned against my fender, and watched Melanie come out of the restaurant. “Prick,” I mumbled.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “Nothing. Just talked to a Salt Lake cop about your case.”

  “What’d he say?” she asked, climbing into my cab.

  “Not much.” I pulled out of the parking lot. “It doesn’t sound like the state police have done much of anything.”

  “That’s exactly what my mother said.”

  I steered back onto the highway, and ten minutes later we crossed into the northwestern corner of Arizona, a few miles north of the Grand Canyon National Monument. The winding road followed the Virgin River Gorge, a deep canyon carved from limestone. In places, the iron oxide content was so dense that the serrated cliffs looked almost a fluorescent orange.

  “This scenery is awesome,” Melanie said.

  “Jeff would have driven this way,” I said. “It’s the quickest route into California.”

  We came out of the canyon and the cliffs became small hills, and then flattened entirely as we entered Nevada. It was sunny and the road was dry and we were now in the Mojave Desert. The flatlands stretched for miles to distant ridgelines that barely dented the horizon. As we drove, Melanie seemed alone with her thoughts.

  I left her to her contemplations, and fell into my own. The tone of the conversation with the Utah State detective hadn’t surprised me. In general, cops view private investigators dimly. We have the potential to interfere with their work, or worse, make them look bad by solving cases they’ve neglected. In many instances, I’d seen police forces lack the desire, tenacity, or resources to effectively address their caseloads. But that certainly didn’t motivate them to welcome private eyes into their domain.

  Of course, not all cops are created equal. I’ve run into detectives and patrolmen who are overzealous, sometimes fiendishly so. I’ve also dealt with those who are lazy, corrupt, or just putting in their hours and waiting for their pensions to kick in. While not all fall into the latter categories, a fair amount do. It was hard to completely blame them, I suppose. The common citizenry rarely consider that cops spend the bulk of their hours dealing with pissed off, resentful, drunk, or desperate people. And that’s on good days.

  On the bright side, I was fortunate to enjoy a positive working relationship with the top cop in South Lake Tahoe, Sheriff Marcus Grier. I’d saved his ass a few times, and in return he treated me fairly, and sometimes as an ally. Although Grier was a strict nine-to-fiver, he worked hard during those hours, and did his best to serve the community. And I couldn’t blame him for wanting to get home on time; he had a loving wife and two teenage daughters who worshipped him.

  And then there were cops like Cody Gibbons had been. I shook my head, rejecting the thought. No, there were no cops I’d ever met who behaved at all like Cody did during his seven-year stint as a San Jose officer. Cody didn’t just scoff at the rule book; he lit fire to it.

  An
hour later we reached the northern outskirts of Vegas. The densely clustered mega-resorts on Las Vegas Boulevard rose from the desert floor like a cosmic oasis. If the gods had dreamt up this place, they definitely had a warped sense of humor. I always thought of Las Vegas as a place where people went not to find anything, but rather to lose themselves. And if Sin City failed to claim their souls, they could always wander off and surrender to the unforgiving vastness of the desert.

  Las Vegas had grown immensely since 1960, when less than 200,000 people lived in the greater Las Vegas area. Today the population is over two million. The bulk of the tenfold increase occurred after 1989, when the Mirage, the first mega hotel-casino in Vegas, was built. Many more casinos followed, and the number of hotel rooms in the city grew to over 150,000.

  Of course, where growth and prosperity occur, crime always follows closely behind. Criminals are no different than honest citizens; they go where the money is.

  We passed the old downtown district and a mile ahead the thin parabolic structure of the Stratosphere casino rose 1100 feet, overlooking the section of South Las Vegas Boulevard known as The Strip. Home to Vegas’ most famous and extravagant hotel-casinos, The Strip does its best to paint the hard core business of gambling as glamourous and thrilling. Talk to the poor chump staggering out of a casino in the wee hours of the morning, drunk and wondering how he’ll pay his mortgage, and you might get a different perspective.

  My phone beeped with a text message. It was from Walter McDermott: Just checked in at the Hampton near the airport.

  I continued south for a few miles. To our left, the hotels on The Strip glittered in the cold sunlight, their glass walls rising into the sky and sparkling with gold and silver reflection. I took the exit for the airport and drove past it to the Hampton Inn, then parked and lifted Melanie’s suitcases from my truck bed.

  “What now?” she asked, standing at the tailgate.

  “Your mom and dad are going to take care of you for the time being. You should go see your doctors here.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  I looked over to the hotel lobby entrance, and saw Lillian McDermott open the door.