Murder Untreated

By D.B. Stephens

Mason Tully didn't take it seriously, not at first; leave the beautiful southern California coast to track down a missing wife in the summer heat in Arizona? The would-be client made a hefty cash offer. The answer was still no. Tully was about to hang up when the caller told him the one thing that would take the ex Phoenix police detective back home after four years, the identity of the missing woman.
The Buick Roadmaster rumbled over the aging two lane highway between Yuma and Phoenix, its sleek black surface gleaming in the late morning sun. Mason Tully sat behind the wheel, oblivious of the tedious desert landscape split by the ribbon of pavement racing at him. His mind, instead, was mired in the past.
Four years ago, his marriage over, his career no longer important, he walked away. Ninety hour work weeks were soon replaced with intermittent stints as a bouncer in a never-ending series of dives along the coast of Mexico for drinking money.
A year later, deciding enough was enough, he made his way up the coast to Los Angeles. He spent the last of his fortune on a presentable suit and the first month's rent on a small apartment above a dive shop near the pier. Tapping into an old friendship from his days as a cop, he started working as a private investigator. Eighteen months later his friend was shot twice in the back by an embezzler unwilling to repent. Paralyzed from the waist down, he sold the agency to Tully.
The highway doubled to four lanes as the outskirts of Phoenix approached, bringing Tully back to the present. He turned the powerful convertible left onto Camelback Road and drove east through town to the hotel where a suite had been booked for him by his well-heeled new client.
Shortly after dark, braced by dinner and three fingers of whiskey, Tully waited at the hotel entrance for the car that had been sent to pick him up. The more he thought about it the more this seemed like a bad idea. Two hours later, on his way back up to his suite, he was sure of it, but there was no going back. The pooch had been screwed.
His client's story wasn't adding up. Maxwell Stone told him he had returned home from a friend's birthday party four nights ago to find his wife gone. "We have been going through a rough patch lately but i know we can work it out. Find her and bring her back Mr. Tully."
Before leaving Tully searched Stone's expansive ranch style house. Despite a herculean effort to conceal it he found traces of blood in the bathtub drain and damage to the arching faucet in the master bath that indicated someone had taken a hard fall, hard enough to kill.
'Why would Stone hire me to find a wife he probably murdered himself, or had murdered? She's probably pushing up cactus somewhere in the desert, that is if the coyotes and the buzzards haven't managed to dig up the body,' he wondered.
Tully cringed. One way or the other he had to know what happened to Sara.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.B. Stephens
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310057137

D.B. Stephens

My previous book, Limited Liability, a Novel is available everywhere in print or ebook form.

Book preview

Prologue

October 1950

John Roskelley walked his beloved orange groves late in the afternoon inspecting the irrigation system. The weather would be cooling soon and he would have to adjust the water flow. John was a second generation farmer who had taken over the family business when his father, Atticas, died suddenly of heart failure four years earlier. Atticas had purchased the initial thousand acres of navel orange trees in nineteen twenty eight with money his wife had received from her late father's estate after his death. With hard work and vision he and John had been able to expand their holdings all but the most difficult years of the early thirties.

John loved wandering the groves at this time of day. Memories of working alongside his father passed over him like shade from the trees, his and his father's trees, as he walked. He remembered 'the Legend of Eliza Tibbets and the Magic Tree' his father had told him as a young boy, a legend that embraced much of the truth: the immaculate mutation which produced the seedling at a monastery in Brazil which produced the tree grown in a small town in California that became the mother of all navel orange trees in America. The sweetest fruit on earth still grows on that tree to this very day, he would tell the enraptured boy.

Reluctantly, as always, he turned and walked back to the old pickup, driving the dirt roads in the general direction of the small house they had built on a rise overlooking the property that first year. Now the greatly expanded house stood guard over thirteen thousand acres of producing fruit trees and another five hundred in saplings on the last parcel purchased three years earlier.

The sun began its extravagant display as it slipped beneath the tree tops. Clouds turned bright yellow, then coral, before fading into gray in the dusk. He was late for supper, as usual. His wife Peg and their teenage daughter Mary would not be surprised.

The truck bounced the work hardened farmer around as he traveled alongside the Grand Canal, one of nine canals that made up the Salt River Valley Water User's Association bringing life giving irrigation water to the desert valley floor. The summer monsoons had brought heavier than usual rainstorms to Arizona through mid July and August. As a result, water would be plentiful for a change, promising a bountiful harvest if they could avoid a hard winter freeze like the one that had cost them nearly everything many years ago. He could see Phoenix, only a few miles away, creeping slowly toward them like molten lava, consuming everything in its path. It was still a small city but growth was its fever. John knew someday, sadly, it would swallow his land; the question was how long could he hold out. He had already had offers to buy him out but he was not, and would not, be interested any time soon though pressure had been mounting the last few months. The last offer, a fair one, but nothing compared to its personal value, had come with a less than veiled threat. A few of his neighbors had already sold and moved on. But most felt like him, this was their home and though they knew their fate was inevitable they were determined to stay as long as they could and sell for top dollar when the vultures began to circle. He felt uneasy as he pulled into the circular driveway in front of the house but the sound of his daughter's laughter as he entered quelled any concerns for the moment.

It was almost midnight. John was sitting on a large tree stump near the well a few yards from the tree line. His pipe glowed as he inhaled the smooth, sweet tobacco. His wife and daughter had gone to bed over an hour before; light coming from the kitchen window the only sign of life beneath a moonless sky. The only sound he heard was the breeze as it sifted through the stand of old Eucalyptus trees near the barn. He had finished his day sitting on that old stump so many times over the years he was sure the rings on the surface were permanently imprinted on his backside.

I have a new boyfriend Daddy, his slender daughter had told him earlier. He grinned patiently as he watched his wife Peg's bottomless brown eyes crinkle up in a smile of motherly affection. No Daddy, this one is serious, emphasized the thirteen year old, a flock of freckles dancing across her nose and cheeks as she giggled helplessly. 'This would be the second serious boyfriend already this school year,' he thought, taking another puff. I'll want to meet this young man, Mary. I will need to know his intentions. And tell him to bring his report cards for the last two years, he said sternly.

She had thrown her arms around her father's neck. Oh Daddy.

Thoughts of his little family faded as he organized the next day's work in his head, a habit passed down from his father who had spent many nights of his own on that same stump. Finally ready for sleep, he stood and tapped his pipe on the side of the well, tamping out the glowing embers in the dirt with his boot when he thought he saw something pass in front of the lighted window. He froze, alert for any further movement. Nothing. I must be more tired than I thought, he muttered, starting for the house.

The force of the explosion slammed into him like a freight train, driving him backward off his feet. The fireball that was his home bleached the darkness as it rose like Lucifer spreading damnation over the land. Stunned and bleeding from the force of the blast, he did not hear the terrible hiss as fire devoured his life.

John staggered to his feet minutes later dazed and uncomprehending. Flaming debris from the explosion had ignited the barn behind him. Suddenly consumed by panic, he charged the house screaming, Peg, Mary, dear God! but the intense heat drove him back. He ran wildly around to the front of the house, then to the other side and back again crying out their names, searching frantically, praying for this not to be happening until exhausted, he could run no more.

Despair drove him to his knees as the truth could no longer be denied. His wife and daughter had died horrifically in the blast. He put his hands together and prayed for their souls, begging their forgiveness for not being able to protect them. Silent tears streamed down scorched cheeks. Grief sapped his will to live as the crackling barn melted behind him.

John Roskelley did not hear the sound of feet moving quickly toward him. He did not feel the hard gun barrel press against his temple. And he never felt the bullet tear through his brain, exploding out the other side of his skull in a shower of blood and matter.

Chapter One

May 1953

The big Buick Roadmaster convertible rumbled along the narrow two lane highway through the California desert toward Phoenix. Mason Tully sat behind the wheel scarcely aware of his surroundings as he mulled over the phone call that was taking him back after four years.

Mr. Tully, I'd like you to find my wife. Maxwell Stone's request itself was not an uncommon one. Tully started his business tracking down missing spouses and other divorce related work. It still paid a lot of the bills. What was uncommon was that the potential client was calling from Arizona.

Why use an agency in L.A.? Tully had asked. Someone there in Phoenix would have a big advantage over an outsider. I would be starting out cold.

Mr. Tully, Phoenix is a fast growing city but it is still a relatively small one with small town characteristics. People like to talk. But then you already know that having been born and raised here. A man in my position can be hurt by gossip. It wouldn't take long for the newspapers to find out I had hired a local private investigator to find a wife nobody knows is missing.

Just exactly what position would that be? Tully asked, suddenly aware that Stone hadn't just found him in the yellow pages.

I am in a high profile position as a member of the Phoenix Growth Council. I can't afford even a hint of personal scandal, particularly at this time in the city's history. There is a lot going on right now critical to Phoenix's future that could be derailed by short sighted opponents of change. I need someone who can be discreet.

When was the last time you saw her?

Three days ago. We were at a dinner party at a friend's house when she told me she wasn't feeling well. 'You stay Max,' she whispered in my ear as I was about to make our apologies, 'I'll go home and slip into bed. You can have someone drop you off later.' I walked her to the car and kissed her goodnight. When I got home about two hours later she was gone.

Were any of her clothes missing?

I don't know for sure. I don't keep track of her wardrobe but it would only make sense.

What makes you think she left of her own accord?

There were no signs of a struggle, no security breach.

This wasn't adding up. His wife vanishes. There is the possibility she could have been kidnapped yet he doesn't go to the police, doesn't do squat for three days?

Mr. Stone, I suggest you go to the police or at least hire a local P.I. I'm not interested in driving all the way to Phoenix to find an unhappy wife. I have plenty of them here in L.A.

I'll double your usual fee Mr. Tully plus a retainer. I'm desperate to find her. You are my best chance. I know you still have friends in the police department as well as the D.A.'s office here. You wouldn't be starting out cold and you would be able to keep a lid on things.

There's more isn't there Stone. What aren't you telling me? Tully asked bluntly.

Stone hesitated before speaking. You know her better than anyone else. Before she was married to me Sara was your wife.

Tully pulled into a gas station in Yuma just across the Arizona border. A fresh-faced young gas jockey who looked like he had just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover filled the tank and cleaned the windshield while he got out of the car and put the top up. It was hot and dusty and was only going to get worse. He removed his jacket and threw it in the back seat, went inside the station and paid for the gas and a cold bottle of Pepsi. Back outside, he used the rest room before giving the boy a dollar. Thank you sir, the boy said brightly as he drove off.

Tully hadn't seen Sara for over four years. The last he heard she had moved back east, New York, he thought.

She had been finishing up med school when they eloped. Graduation had been followed by an exhausting two years of residency at Good Samaritan Hospital where she spent many nights sacked out on the couch in the doctor's lounge after pulling a twenty four hour shift, too tired to make it home before her next shift. After her residency she remained on staff as she and a colleague, baptized by the same fires, started their new practice together.

During that same time he attended the Phoenix Police Academy, graduating first in his class. Two years as a uniformed officer was followed by promotion to detective at twenty seven and detective lieutenant at thirty. His fellow officers in the department referred to him simply as 'The Prodigy.' He was going to law school at night when their marriage, withered by long hours apart, finally dried up and blew away.

Fed up with the ninety hour work weeks and the collapse of his marriage he resigned, effective immediately, packed up and walked away, winding up in L.A. a year later. And now he was on Arizona highway 69 within twenty miles of the city.

Stone's story didn't feel right but if Sara was in trouble, or worse, Tully needed to know.

It was late afternoon when he pulled into the parking lot of the Biltmore where Stone had reserved a room for him. It's only a short distance from my home. Give me a call when you get here, he was told before leaving LA. We'll talk then.

His 'room' turned out to be a two room suite. It's his dime, Tully said to himself before calling room service and ordering dinner and a bottle of Bourbon. Then he stripped and took a shower. A light knock on his door fifteen minutes later announced the arrival of his meal. Throwing on the lightweight fleece hotel robe, he answered the door. Two minutes later the waiter, ahead by two dollars was gone.

How do I find your place? Tully said into the phone after finishing his dinner and washing it down with the reassuring Bourbon.

I'll send a car. Be ready in ten minutes Mr. Tully, was Stone's terse reply.

Maxwell Stone was a slender man of average height, tennis player fit with a square jaw full of Chiclets for teeth. He was casually dressed in tan slacks, sandals and pale yellow polo shirt. Vanity Fair was missing a cover boy.

Good evening, Mr. Tully, he said as his eyes took Tully's measure. Please come in. The rolling ranch style house seemed to go on forever as Tully followed him toward the back and finally outside to the pool area. Tully sat on a bright blue webbed chair while Stone made drinks. Bourbon, I believe? he asked rhetorically.

You know a lot about me Mr. Stone. You've done your homework.

There has been no homework involved. I've been married to your ex wife for three years, he said tightly. All I had to do was find you.

They drank quietly while Tully wondered why in the hell he had gotten himself into this. Sara wasn't the type to dredge up old business, least of all him. Stone was lying.

I'll be honest with you Mr. Tully. Sara and I haven't been getting along well lately. We've had spats before but this time it was much more serious. Stone paced as he spoke. I love her very much and I want her back. I know we can work this out.

'Don't hold your breath,' thought Tully. If Sara left of her own accord Stone was pissing up a rope. He might as well get used to life without her. I'd like to look around if you don't mind.

Of course, this way, he said rising from his chair. He led Tully through the west wing of the house to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. You can start here. You have the run of the house.

What was she wearing the last time you saw her? Tully asked casually.

A light blue cocktail dress. It's hanging on her side of the closet back that way, he said gesturing behind Tully.

This will take a little time. I'll find you when I'm done. Stone backed out reluctantly and disappeared down the hallway they had come from.

The room was spotless. Fresh vacuum tracks made a perfectly symmetrical pattern in the pearl white carpet. The bed was made with precision; 'tight as a teenager,' as the old army saying went, he remembered. The tiled dressing area to his left gleamed. If there was any sign of a struggle it had been scrubbed away. In the years he and Sara had been married he never entered the bedroom without smelling her perfume. The only scent here was the barely perceptible odor of disinfectant.

Tully stepped into the large walk-in closet. Stone's clothes, along one side were organized according to purpose; suits followed by dress shirts, a pullout tie rack, casual slacks, shirts etc. His shoes were perfectly placed on a two tiered rack beneath their respective clothes. A belt rack at either end of the closet distinguished their purpose. A light wave of claustrophobia washed over him.

Stepping to her side he saw the Sara he knew. Organized chaos was the rule, like items generally together, more a case of circumstance than design, shoes scattered on the floor below. He smiled. The faint scent of perfume on her clothes stirred something in him. He found the blue dress hung at the end of the closet in a dry cleaner bag, clear except for the company logo. Tully wasn't happy.

Back out in the bedroom he started in the west corner of the room and worked his way around. Opening drawers, pulling furniture away from the walls and looking behind pictures, he finished on his hands and knees under the bed. Light tracks indicated the bed had been rolled away from the wall and rolled back into place. Tully examined the frame and box springs underneath as well using a small flashlight.

He stood and went back into the dressing area to the sinks. Twisting the metal drain in the one closest to the door he wiggled it until it slipped out and ran his middle finger around underneath the inside lip. He replaced the stopper, repeating the process in the second. They were clean. The tile bath tub was next. This time when he removed his finger from the drain it was tipped in dark red. Moving carefully around the edge toward the back, he noticed a slight indentation at the top of the high arching faucet. Between the faucet and the hot water knob he spotted tiny black flecks in the grout. He scratched at it with his fingernail. More blood. Something hard had hit the faucet, maybe a skull. No one could survive a blow hard enough to leave a crease in the chrome. Someone was most likely dead, probably Sara.

Suddenly Tully felt leaden. He sat down on the edge of the bath tub. The sense of loss that had dogged him for four years dead ended in stark finality.

Back out in the bedroom he stooped and flipped the edge of the rug at the end of the bed over and examined it and the carpet below as an afterthought before stepping into the hallway where a series of wedding pictures lined one wall. As he looked at Sara standing next to Stone, smiling in her pearl colored dress regret stabbed at him.

Tully wandered through the rest of the house, a cursory search more or less designed to kill time. He didn't expect to find anything helpful and wasn't disappointed. Whatever happened to Sara had been confined to the master bedroom suite. Finding his way back to the patio, a fresh drink waited inside a circle of condensation on the glass table top next to his patio chair. Stone was on the phone.

Yes, yes. I'll call you back tomorrow. We can run the numbers then. Goodbye.

Well Mr. Tully? he asked as he put the receiver down.

I assume, knowing Sara, that she still has her medical practice?

Yes, she rejoined her old practice right after we got back from our honeymoon. Dr. Swan called the day after she disappeared. I told him she had had a family emergency back east and would be gone about a week. I didn't know what else to tell him.

What about bank accounts, any large sums withdrawn in the last month or two?

Not from our personal accounts but Sara kept separate business accounts because of her practice. I don't have access so I have no way of knowing.

Did you put together that list of friends I asked you for?

Yes, it's in my office. I'll get it while you finish your drink. Do you need anything else while I'm inside?

Yes, a current picture of Sara, head shot if you have one.

Stone disappeared into the house, returning several minutes later as Tully drained the last of the liquor. He handed over a neatly written list and a snapshot. This was taken in Carmel last summer. It's the latest one I have.

Tully glanced briefly at the photo. This will work.

Remember Mr. Tully, discretion. There are some pretty influential people on that list.

Any of these out of state, back east maybe? he asked as he scanned the list.

No, but now that you mention it she did have a friend in New York City, someone she met shortly after she moved there, Kay something or other I believe. I may be able to find out for you. I have business contacts in the area.

Tully pocketed the list. Call me when you get the name.

A narrow strip of light escaping beneath the door to his suite and the smell of cigarette smoke made him regret leaving his .38 in the night stand. Tully turned the key and pushed the door open slowly, standing next to the doorway, just in case.

You should know better than to leave your piece behind dick head, ricocheted into the hallway. Are you planning on coming in any time soon?

Smiling, Tully stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Hello Mace, long time no see, came from the shadows in the sandpaper voice of a man with a longstanding two pack a day habit.

Hello Mac. How did you know I was back in town?

I'm a cop, remember? he said, as if talking to a moron.

Vaguely, said Tully, sitting across from the barrel chested ex marine as smoke leaked out of his nostrils.

I helped myself to some of your Bourbon while I waited. He paused as he poured another drink. Now tell me, what would you be doing back in Phoenix, Princess? I thought you said goodbye forever when your old lady dumped you. He paused. Wait a minute. I think I know.

Tully leaned forward in his chair. Enlighten me.

Detective Lieutenant Pat McCann smiled. I believe said ex wife is missing.

How would you know that?

You figure it out, you're the private dick.

There's only one way, you've talked to her.

I see your instincts haven't been dulled by cheap wine and California pussy, or is that California wine and cheap pussy? Sara called me four days ago out of the blue, said she needed to talk to me but wouldn't tell me anything else over the phone. She sounded scared. We were supposed to meet the next morning but she never showed.

Tully mulled that over while he poured himself a Bourbon.

I called her office after I had cooled my heels for an hour or so. She hadn't shown up for work either. Called back yesterday, still no Sara. McCann lit another cigarette. So what's going on?

I don't know yet but it isn't good. I just finished going over her house. The dressing area in their bedroom has been scrubbed but I found traces of blood in the tub along with some damage that looked like someone had taken a hard fall, probably with help. My guess is somebody died that night, more than likely Sara.

If that's the case she's probably pushing up cactus somewhere in the desert, that is if the coyotes haven't gotten to the body... Sorry Mace.

After a few painfully quiet seconds, How did you find out she was missing?

Her husband hired me to find her, said they'd been fighting lately and she'd run off. He wants her back, wants it kept quiet.

Jesus, why would the number one suspect call the ex husband to find a wife he may have snuffed? questioned McCann aloud.

Exactly, and if that's the case, why?

Maybe she was screwing somebody else, he finds out, loses his temper and bam, she wakes up with her head caved in.

Tully thought it over for a minute, What about this guy Stone. Who exactly is he anyway and what is the Phoenix Growth Council?

It's a group of businessmen who, in a nutshell, own the Mayor and the city council. The Growth Council runs the city, he runs the Council.

Any mob ties?

I doubt it Mace. The only Mafia in Arizona is limited to a few old geezers who've had their teeth pulled and been forced into retirement in Tucson.

He must be connected somewhere Mac. This was no amateur and Stone didn't kill her in a fit of rage. It was too neat.

McCann took a final swallow from his glass before unfolding his six foot four inch frame from the inadequate chair. It's been a long day and you look like shit. It's been lovely.

Do me a favor Mac...

Favor? McCann blurted out. I don't remember owing you any favors.

How about I owe you one, a big one? See if you can find out if Sara withdrew any cash from her business accounts in the last month or so. There are only two big banks in town, Valley and First National; it's probably one of them. Both must have a branch somewhere near her office.

I don't know if you remember how it works but that would take a court order. I thought he wanted it kept under wraps?

Are you telling me you can't squeeze some little shit banker into a giving up a little information? And you call yourself a cop?

McCann's face went red. You owe me big time for this, prick. The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter Two

The following morning Tully was waiting for breakfast in the restaurant just off the main lobby of the hotel when the maitre de approached his table. You have a call Mr. Tully. Would you like to take it here?

Yes, thank you.

The phone was placed deftly in front of him.

Good morning, Mr. Tully. This is Maxwell Stone. I have a name and phone number for you, slid from the receiver in a smooth, practiced tone. Do you have something to write with?

Just a minute. Tully no sooner looked up than the maitre de laid a pen and pad on the table in front of him. 'How in the hell did he do that?' he thought. Ready

Her name is Kay Bailey. The number in New York is Murrayhill four nine one three two.

Got it. I'll call you when I have something. He set the phone back in its cradle just as breakfast was placed in front of him. The phone vanished in a quick and practiced hand.

While he ate he scanned the list of names and addresses Stone had given him. Some of the names were familiar, names that would have been known to anyone living in the valley over the last ten years, old names with old money, old for Phoenix, that is. The Mr. and Mrs. Whoevers he skipped over looking for women listed separately; her personal friends, thinking he might find someone from her past, someone he knew. He found two.

As he underlined their names and numbers he remembered Midge, another name from their past. Midge Blair and her husband Graham owned the Gilded Cage, a bar on Central Avenue where he and Sara used to hang out. She and Sara had become friends after Midge offered her a job as a stripper while he and Sara were sitting at the bar one night. Sara had been sober enough at the time to decline a permanent position but not enough to prevent her from taking a stab at it that night purely as an amateur. She had been well received.

'The Cages,' as it was known, opened at four in the afternoon, giving him time to make a few calls and maybe run down at least one of the two women he knew. Calling everybody on the list would not be wise. These people would be part of the same social circle. Discrete would die badly in the Arizona sun. Besides, he hated talking on the phone, especially to strangers. It was harder to read people he wasn't facing.

Waving the waiter over after he finished his breakfast, he asked for the phone again and more coffee. He didn't really expect to find Sara alive but something wouldn't let him write her off,