Chapters 5 through 11 of The Loner
Chapter 5
Harriet Mayweather held the phone to her right ear and then slowly lowered the phone to its resting place. “This is Royce Reirdon. I’m sorry, but I’m currently unable to come to the phone. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”
Royce had missed his final appointment. For two years, the likable anchorman had been punctual…always on time for their hourly meetings.
They had become good friends…maybe too good. Maybe four or five “friendly outings” — which you could call dates — dinner mostly, maybe attending two or three nationally renowned plays held on campus at the University of Arizona, and another outing to Tombstone — a lovely afternoon cruising around the town too tough to die.
Royce referred to those times as “dating.” Still, Harriet, because of her professional position, was trying desperately to consider all the meetings as harmless get-togethers — although, down deep, she knew it had become more than that.
She had never been to Royce’s home, but after two days of listening to the same recording over and over, it was time to make a move. They’d discuss this “dating thing” at a later date. Now was the time for action. Harriet knew deep down that she wouldn’t be able to relax until she saw him face-to-face.
Harriet knew where he lived, knew the subdivision, knew the street, but she wrote down the address on her day-timer anyway.
She notified her secretary, Julie, that she’d be gone for an hour, grabbed her car keys, went out the side door of her office, took the elevator to the first floor, and jumped in her 2011 BMW. She left her office on River Road, turned north onto Campbell, weaved her way to Sunrise, and turned left.
She had just seen Royce in late October. She recalls it was two days before Halloween. His progress over the last two years indicated he was on the road to recovery, and his previous visit turned out to be the best session of all. He was on the verge of reconciling with his family, coming to grips with his depression, and looking forward to the next stage of his life. Royce Reirdon was back among the living. Her job was almost complete.
Harriet turned right on Windspur Lane, curled around two giant saguaro, and pulled into the circular driveway. She stepped out of the BMW, hit the lock button on her key chain, and walked to the front of the patio home.
The front door was unlocked. She entered. The sliding glass door was open in the back of the home. She could hear the pool skimmer gurgling.
She raised both hands to her face. Papers were thrown everywhere. Every drawer of Royce’s desk was ajar. A wall safe to the left of the desk was open.
“My God!” She screamed.
Harriet reached for her cell phone and called her office. Julie answered. “Julie, I know you are dating Detective Drummond….”
Julie interrupted her. “How did you know that?”
“I have my ways,” was Harriet’s first response. She shook her head. “Quickly, Julie. I need you to call him personally. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sure!”
“Explain to him that you’re calling for your boss and that he could go to 10321 Windspur Lane as a favor. It’s one of my clients. There’s been a crime committed.”
Detective Charlie Drummond has been on the force for 23 years, with 10 years of detective experience. He was well-respected by his peers and a meticulous individual who paid close attention to detail. Most of his cases involved “the missing” — a disappearing spouse, an elderly man or woman missing from a local care home…and more times than he wanted to think about — a missing child, abducted from their home or grabbed right off a Tucson street by some low-life scum.
The call was from his girlfriend, Julie Webster, the secretary of Harriet Mayweather, a well-known shrink in town. The call seemed innocent enough, but his intuition caught hold of him right away, and for some unknown reason, he decided to clear his desk — the paperwork could wait.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the Campbell Plaza, quickly made his way to Mayweather’s office, and hugged and kissed the very nervous and flustered blond and blue-eyed secretary.
“She’s never done this before. There’s a lot of crazy people out there, and during regular business hours, we usually keep in constant contact.”
Drummond could see that Julie was upset. He had been dating Julie for over a year, and he wanted to be of help. Drummond gently touched Julie’s cheek with the palm of his left hand and held her close.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry. I’ve sent my partner to the address you gave me. I’m on my way.” Drummond looked at his watch. “I should be there in ten minutes.”
Harriet shuffled back and forth in the driveway. A detective by the name of John Avery was inside the house. “Lt. Drummond is on his way,” he had told her. “It’s best you stay outside near your car. He should be along in a moment or two.”
Harriet saw a black SUV appear at the entrance of the driveway. The red siren on top of the car wasn’t blaring away, but it was pulsating, validating her agony that trouble was ahead.
A tall, dark-haired gentleman in a suit and tie got out of the car, walked up to her, and said, “I’m Charlie. You must be Harriet?”
At that moment, Harriet broke down and started to cry. “There’s something wrong here, Detective Drummond!”
“You can call me Charlie. My partner just radioed me. It’s safe for you to go back in. Let’s see if we can go in there and piece things together.”
“All right, Charlie. All right.”
Avery met Drummond and Harriet in the hallway. “It looks like the lock on the front door was picked clean. Somebody knew what they were doing.”
“The sliding glass door was opened from the inside. The bedrooms and bathrooms are all intact, as is the kitchen. Whoever did this was in and out of here in less than an hour.”
Charlie eyed the photo of Royce on the wall with his two boys. “Isn’t that Keith Jackson…no, not Jackson…that’s Reirdon…Royce Reirdon!”
Charlie looked over at Harriet. “That’s your client. The NFL announcer, Royce Reirdon?"
“That’s him.”
“Well, I’ll be. I knew Reirdon had a place in town…been here about ten years. Ran across the guy at the Omni a few years back. I was playing in a foursome just behind him. I understand he was a scratch golfer or close to it.”
Drummond walked over to the desk. “Someone did a number on this desk as he surveyed all the drawers, some of them splintered. The robber must have found what he was looking for…got away with what was in the wall safe, too.”
Avery surmised, “It was as if the thief or thieves knew Reirdon. It was a rush job, for sure. Charlie, I’ll check with the neighbors, see if they heard or saw anything.”
“Thanks, John. I’ll get a forensic team out here and see if we can develop some prints. In the meantime, I’ll see to it Ms. Mayweather gets back safely to her office.”
“Good,” said Avery. I’ll check with the neighbors on both sides and then hang tight until the team gets here.”
Drummond followed Harriet back to her office, provided Julie with some of the particulars, and informed both women that he’d keep them updated.
“We’ll get busy on this. You can count on it. I’ll be in touch. Why don’t you two close up shop and go home, get some rest? Take a day or two off.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” Julia said, giving him a giant hug.
“Yes, thank you, Lt. Drummond,” Harriet said in a concerned voice. “Please let me know the first you hear of anything.”
“I will. Now, both of you go home and get some rest.”
Chapter 6
“Frankie, give the man a sandwich and a beer. We don’t want him dying on us.”
Frankie quickly put a ham sandwich together, threw on some mayonnaise, popped a beer, and went outside and walked a hundred yards to the bunkhouse.
“Who are you?” Reirdon questioned as Frankie pushed open the bunkhouse door and entered.
“Oh, we’re just your buddies from Santa Fe, old man.”
“Who am I…please…who am I?”
“You don’t know who you are? Well, I’ll be. We have a man here who doesn’t know who he is?”
Frankie Ray loosened the rope just enough to allow Royce to eat the sandwich and take a sip of beer. He surveyed the cut on the side of the old man’s head. “I guess I walloped you more than I thought. Are you sure you don’t know who you are?”
Royce reluctantly took a bite of the sandwich and shook his head. “No. I’m trying to remember. Why am I here, and who the hell are you?”
“Enough questions,” Frankie Ray warned as he took back what was left of the sandwich and retied the rope. “Here, drink your beer. I’ll be back.”
Royce watched as the door slammed shut, and he heard the rustling of keys. Royce dropped the beer bottle and slowly lowered his body to the bed, resting his head on the pillow. His mind was blank. He dozed off, hearing nothing but a gust of wind swirling from just outside the building.
Frankie Ray hustled back to the ranch house and bolted through the door.
Bobby Jo grabbed his .45 off the nightstand and took a deep breath. “Jesus! Frankie Ray, don’t do that again!”
“Bobby Joe…Bobby Joe, the old man, doesn’t know who he is?”
“I told you not to strike him,” scolded Bobby Joe. “Wait, that might work to our advantage. Grab me a beer, Frankie Ray, and sit down. Please give me some space. Let me think.”
“Sure, Bobby Joe. Sure.”
Chapter 7
Maria Consuelo Sanchez had been on the road all night. She was used to it. It was part of the job — a dangerous job — running drugs and collecting the money. She was more afraid of the latter.
After all, if she got caught with the drugs, it would be all over for her, but eventually, she’d get out of the slammer and be back at it. Losing the money once it was in her possession was another story.
She was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. She would turn twenty-seven on Christmas Day. She had plenty of money, not in the bank, but hidden in a handful of spots on her property — albeit a dusty forty acres with a handful of rustic buildings, located twenty miles from the nearest store and close to fifty miles from a town of any size — Lordsburg, New Mexico.
She has an old generator that keeps the lights flickering, with just enough juice to keep the fridge cooled so the food she has on hand won’t spoil. She had her well and a top-of-the-line windmill, which has never failed her…plenty of water… and plenty of lighting when she needed to live it up.
She heads into Rodeo to do her laundry and has a washer and dryer hooked up in the back room of her shop.
Maria owns an artsy shop in Rodeo, which opens four hours a day, three days a week, during the spring and summer, but she isn’t looking to sell anything. It’s a front and a way to keep a low profile.
She shows up at the cowboy tavern across the street once a week and mingles with the locals, but she makes sure no one tries to get too cozy.
Sure, she has to fight off a couple of drunken cowboys once in a while, but she can handle them. She was a beautiful girl but a tough cookie, and deep down, most of the cowboys who filtered in and out of the bar sensed that and kept their distance.
Maria had filled up in Lordsburg, including a couple of 10-gallon gas cans she had stored in the back of the Jeep. She’d be on her property before the sun came up.
She was tired of it all. Ready for the next phase of her life. Living year-round in southwestern New Mexico was a strain on her body, especially during December and January. The sun shone close to 300 days a year, but in the winter, it wasn’t unusual for temperatures to dip into the mid-20s. But the rest of the time, it was bearable, except for the wind in the early spring and most of the summer.
Her property rested in Hidalgo County on the New Mexico side, and the Cochise County line in Arizona was four hundred yards to the west.
Sure, it was a lonely life, but soon, she’d be able to give it up, move to Phoenix, and get lost in the crowd. She’d give up her dangerous existence and get away from the drug kingpins who show up at her doorstep once a month for their money.
Deep down, Maria knew she was on the wrong side of the law and had learned to block it all out…block the fact she was providing a service for the cartel…a go-between, a middleman — thrusting illegal drugs to those poor addicted souls from California to New York.
Her Jeep was accumulating too many miles. She’d love to spend some of the money she had stashed away to get a new one.
Forty thousand would get her a new, top-of-the-line Cherokee with all the bells and whistles. Forty grand wouldn’t put a dent into the money she had stashed away.
One more year, sell the ranch and her shop to the highest bidder… and get the hell out. As for the Jeep, she couldn’t keep a low profile running around Rodeo in a new rig.
Once she set up shop in Phoenix, then all bets would be off. A life of luxury. Maria fought to stay awake. Enough dreaming. She’d been eating dust for the last thirty minutes. The ranch was just around the final bend of the dirt road. “What the hell! What are the lights doing on?”
Chapter 8
Royce could hear the coyotes in the distance. Just a few hours ago, he could see the moon through an opening in the brown window shade; now, as he awoke, the morning light was filtering through the opening. He could hear yelling…screaming was more like it, coming from maybe a hundred or two hundred yards away…
“What are you two doing here?” Maria yelled angrily. I told you, Frankie, to call me on my cell. You can’t just show up out of the blue…you’re gonna get me killed.”
“I’m sorry, Maria. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Frankie. Dead wrong!”
“But, I thought.”
“That’s what you get for thinking,” chipped in a smiling Bobby Joe. Now, settle down, little lady.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Get your butt up and get out of my house!”
“I said, settle down,” yelled Bobby Joe as he pulled the .45 out of his holster and pointed it at the head of Maria.
Maria inched over to the kitchen table and sat down. “My God! Do you two know the trouble you’re in?”
“We know. We have a package out in the bunkhouse,” Frankie Ray said.
“A package? What are you talking about?”
“We have a mark we picked up outside of Las Cruces. He’s got money in the bank…our ticket to Las Vegas,” said Bobby Joe.
Maria figured it out quickly. Two cars in front of the ranch house, one of them a fancy Lexus. “My, God! What’s he worth to you?”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty grand,” said Bobby Joe, with a nasty grin on his face as he put down the revolver.
“That’s it!” Maria barely got the words out. She thought to herself. Don’t say another word.
“What’s that, again? You got something better, don’t you, little girl?” questioned Bobby Joe. “Frankie, we’ve walked into a gold mine here.”
“You guys are crazy,” Maria said. “Two men from the cartel will be here tonight. “They don’t get their money, I’ll be six feet under, and you guys will certainly not be going to Vegas…maybe to Mexico, but not to Vegas.”
“We’ll see about that.” Bobby Jo mumbled. “The question is, are you with us?”
Maria thought hard before she answered. She was between a rock and a hard place, and she knew exactly what to say next. “I’m in. Hand me a beer.”
Frankie Ray twisted off a long necker and handed it to Maria.
She looked up. “Sorry, Frankie. You guys caught me off guard.”
Frankie Ray wilted as he looked into Maria’s beautiful brown eyes.
Bobby Joe got up from his seat and headed for the doorway. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Bobby Joe looked over at the bunkhouse and then took a look at the early-morning sky. A few stars were still visible…no one in sight for miles, just the sound of a distant coyote or two. He had a plan and was ready to initiate the first step… and just maybe he could kill two birds with one stone or even three. He smiled and looked back toward the bunkhouse.
Chapter 9
Drummond sat at his desk. He had just gotten off the phone. Sounded like a very nice lady. “John, I just talked to Joan Reirdon, Royce’s daughter-in-law, who lives in Conway, Arkansas.”
Avery handed a cup of coffee to Drummond and pulled up a chair. “What did you find out?” The lead detective briefed his partner on the information he had gathered so far.
Drummond had questioned Ms. Mayweather earlier in the day. He found out Reirdon’s first wife had recently passed away, and the Anchorman had driven to Arkansas for the funeral, spent a few days there, and then headed to Denver to be with some friends and former co-workers.
After that, he traveled to Santa Fe and spent the night in the Hotel Santa Fe. Joan got a call the next morning. He was somewhere between Santa Fe and Albuquerque. “She said Royce had told her he was sorry; she didn’t elaborate why, and that he’d be back in Arkansas over the Christmas holiday.”
“Well, we know he was heading home to Tucson,” surmised Avery.
“Yes, we know that much,” said Drummond. “I went one step further and called the hotel in Santa Fe. Sure enough, they had three receipts from Royce’s credit card — one was for his dinner on his arrival, one was for full payment for his room…and one was for just after midnight from the bar.”
“Interesting,” Avery said. “Did you talk to the bartender?”
“That was my next move, but he doesn’t come on until 7 p.m. I’ve got the number to the bar. The bartender’s name is Phil. Maybe he can at least tell us what state of mind the man was in. I mean, a few hours later, Royce was back on the road. He stopped at a truck stop, called his daughter-in-law, and said he was sorry.”
“Interesting,” Avery said.
Chapter 10
Royce had been awake for most of the morning. The same low-life kid had brought him some cold eggs, a piece of dry toast, and coffee, which tasted like it was a day old.
He could hear noise from outside the window. There was just enough of a crack in the window pane, allowing him to hear the “voices” — voices that sounded all too familiar.
It was a football game. The sound was coming through a transistor radio, he surmised. Football! Sunday! Oakland at San Diego!
“My God! I know who I am. I’m Royce Reirdon!”
Royce positioned himself against the wall, pulling frantically on the rope. “Those thugs! They kidnapped me!”
Quickly, the pieces came together. The Funeral…the Denver game…Santa Fe…the letter…Joan…Jake…filling up the gas tank in Socorro…the pain in the back of his head…blood streaming down…the ringing in his ear…a motel room door…the number six on a green door…tied up to a bedpost…darkness nothing but darkness.
Royce squirmed. He could hear the game now. A kickoff…the roar of the crowd. Oakland and San Diego? It couldn’t be!
“The San Diego schedule? They were scheduled to play at home against the Raiders on…on…the twenty-second of December. For some reason, the date stuck in my head. “I’m sure. Yes, today must be Sunday, the twenty-second. My God! That was nine days ago. I was in Santa Fe!”
Think, Royce. Think. His mind is finally in operative mode. “My God. I’ve got to get out of here. Please notify Joan, Bonnie, Jake, and Josh. How stupid of me to let those thugs get the upper hand.”
He reached for his empty back pocket. He didn’t need to find his billfold to find out who he was. He was Royce Reirdon. His buddies were on the radio, announcing the game. The Raiders were getting smacked on their home field…
Bobby Joe was growing restless. The weather had been pleasant for the last few days, but it was turning cold, and Bobby Joe could see lightning atop the mountain range to the south.
“Maria, you have heard the plan,” Bobby Joe said. “I’ll ask you one more time. Are you with us? Can you handle your end?”
Annoyed, Bobby Joe yelled at Frankie Ray, “Turn that game down. I’m surprised you can get any reception out here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Alright, Bobby Joe. I’ll turn it off… the Chargers are killing the Raiders,” said Frankie, an Oakland fan, for no good reason other than the fact he loved their silver and black colors…and they were considered “the bad boy” team of the NFL.
Bobby Joe with his eyes fixed on Maria. “Well?”
“I told you I’m in. You do your part. Get rid of the package in the bunkhouse and make those “goons” who will be here by nightfall disappear. We’ll split up the money and leave this place. Believe me, I have had enough of this rat hole.”
“Yeah!” Frankie roared. “It’s on to Vegas. Just the three of us. Let’s take the Lexus and ride in style.”
“You are one crazy dude,” Maria said. “No Lexus. Think, Frankie Ray. Think!”
“She’s right. I’m beginning to like this girl.” Bobby Joe smiled. Frankie Ray’s eyes lit up as if he had just lost Maria forever.
Chapter 11
“Lt. Drummond, there’s a call for you on line one,” said Sammy Dalton, a rookie female officer, petite and very pretty. Drummond smiled and picked up the phone. He recalled a conversation he had recently had with Avery. His partner had said, “Sammy looks more like a professional tennis player…certainly not a cop.”
“Thanks, Sammy…this is Lt. Drummond.”
“Hello, I was told to call you. My name is Phil Ranconi. I’m the late shift bartender at the Hotel Santa Fe.”
“Thanks for returning the call.”
“My boss insisted. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know Royce Reirdon?”
“Sure…well, not personally, but he was in here Friday night…had one drink around midnight and went back to his room.”
“Anything unusual happens?”
“No, it was a quiet night for a Friday…just two guys guzzling beer in the corner of the bar…and Royce at the bar. That’s it.”
“Did Royce say anything to you?”
“Just the regular chit-chat. I think he was getting up early and heading home…Tucson, I think.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Ranconi. By the way, what did those two fellas look like at the end of the bar?”
“They were actually at a table in the corner of the bar, putting away the beers. Both of them had stringy hair and tattoos up and down their arms. One of them was wearing an Oakland Raiders hat. The one without the hat came up to the bar to get a couple more beers and pestered Mr. Reirdon. That’s about it. Reirdon left right after that, and the two men hung around till closing.”
“Do you think they recognized, Reirdon?”
“They did.”
“Thank you…one more thing, Phil. Could you transfer me to your hotel manager?”
“Certainly.”
“This is Allison Ward. May I help you?”
Drummond had a hunch.
The hotel manager shuffled through ten days' worth of receipts.
“Yes, I found it…that’s strange, no mention of the type of vehicle…can’t even read the plate number, but I recognize the state…Kentucky.
“That figures,” said Drummond.
“I’ll have to scold one of my employees.”
“You do that, Ms. Ward. Thanks for your time.”
Drummond made one more call before calling it a night. He wanted to let Ms. Mayweather know that he was working hard and there wasn’t much to report other than that he had spoken to Royce’s daughter-in-law, and Royce’s last known contact was with a family member early on Saturday morning. He was calling from his cell phone, and his daughter-in-law mentioned he was at a truck stop about an hour west of Santa Fe.
“Bless his heart, he was heading home. I hope he’s…”
“Now, Harriet. You hang in there. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you. I’ll get to the bottom of this. We have an all-points bulletin out for Royce. We’ll find him.”
“Thank you, Lt. Drummond. Thank you.”
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