Sweetie and the Stranger

By Emory Cosgrove

Jeff Fletcher retires young and seeks peace and quiet in Scottsdale, Arizona. But when he meets up with his old dream girl, he finds mayhem in a dark world of deception, corruption, blackmail, murder, and sexual exploitation. The key players in this world aren’t what they seem. Some are better, but many of them are much worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emory Cosgrove
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310410260

Book preview

A Death in the Desert

2005

Saturday, September 3, 7:00 a.m.

Trini Martinez was a deputy with the La Paz County Sheriff’s Department out of Parker, Arizona. He had a pretty wife, a racy-looking ATV, and two children—a boy and a girl, ages four and six. On this particular morning, he was spending time with his ATV. His wife, Linda, was at home packing a picnic lunch. The family had plans to spend a pleasant afternoon at the city park, enjoying one another’s company.

As he went airborne over a rise in the rolling terrain, he caught a glimpse of what looked like an abandoned automobile in his two o’clock direction. It was in a wash under some mesquite trees. He wound his way down to the wash, dismounted his ATV, and approached the automobile on foot. It was an older-model Nissan four-door. It looked as though it had been torched, but not completely incinerated. The driver-side seat was littered with bones. When he recognized the largest one as a pelvis, he knew that the bones were human.

He swallowed hard and returned to his ATV quickly. He sped back to the pickup truck he’d left at the trail head, grabbed the microphone of his police radio, and put in a call to the Sheriff’s Office in Parker. The family picnic was about to be postponed.

Within an hour, several deputies were on the scene, including the watch commander, Lieutenant Merle Winters, a tall man in fancy cowboy boots and a chamois-colored Stetson hat. He surveyed the scene, rolled himself a cigarette with one hand, and appointed himself lead investigator. Winters was accompanied by a roly-poly Medical Examiner named Phil Ashton and a nondescript newspaper reporter/photographer.

Ashton conjectured that the bones had belonged to a Caucasian male in his late twenties or early thirties and that the man had died some years before: He’s prob’ly been parked here for at least three years, just where Martinez found him. During the decomposition process, the victim’s skull had toppled off the spine and onto the passenger-side seat. It was badly disfigured and dentition was obliterated. I’d say his teeth’ve been shot out. We’cn forget about comparin’ dental records, Merle.

The trunk of the Nissan was littered with seared shell heads, which suggested that a box of shotgun shells had exploded in the fire, but there were no remains of a shotgun anywhere. Winters theorized: The victim was shot in the face with a shotgun—prob’ly more than once—and the shooter must’a took the weapon with him for future use.

That was a good guess, and everyone nodded in agreement.

There were no pieces of identifying information in the vehicle. No signs of a wallet, no jewelry, and no papers in the glove box—not even ashes. The Arizona license plate and the VIN number of the vehicle indicated that the Nissan was registered to a man named Robert Driscoll, a resident of Quartzsite with no known occupation. Winters theorized again: Driscoll was prob’ly a drug smuggler and what we’re lookin’ at is just another drug deal gone bad.

That was another good guess, and everyone went along with that one, too.

Martinez and Winters had their picture taken together beside the charred Nissan—pointing at the driver-side door, with serious expressions on their faces. The picture appeared on the front page of the Parker Pilgrim the next day. The accompanying story was entitled No Clues in Three Year Old Drug Murder.

Trini’s wife cut the picture and headline out of the newspaper and pasted the clippings in the family scrapbook carefully. That was that.

It was going to be a long time before anyone would give this another thought.

Part I

The Dream Girl

That was a dream girl. Some of her was here and now, but a lot of her was there and then.

Detective Lieutenant Bernie Ohls, The Long Goodbye

Raymond Chandler

Chapter 1: Mistakes

2012–Six Years, Eleven Months, and Five Days Later

Tuesday, August 7

Jeff Fletcher had reached a point in his life at which he had more money than he would ever spend. He had no heirs and no inclination to buy a private jet airplane, a fleet of classic automobiles, or a dozen waterfront homes in a dozen different countries. He liked nice things, but not in superabundance; so he decided to retire while he was still in his early 40s, young enough to pursue the things he enjoyed most—playing golf, reading the Greek and Latin classics, and thinking deep thoughts. He turned over his half of the business to his friend and partner, Jarvis Jarret, and in so doing turned the page to a new chapter in his life.

Seattle had been good to him and his business had flourished there. But he was a sunny-weather person both by birth and by choice; and the dreary skies of Pacific Northwest had never suited him. He set his sights on Scottsdale, Arizona, and on this day he was boarding a Boeing 737 that would take him there.

He was flying first class, which he’d never done when he traveled on business for his own company or for Cunningham Aerospace prior to that. He settled in his seat and opened his copy of Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War. Everyone could learn a great deal from this history. Thucydides was a shrewd observer of life who understood many important things about human nature, including the fact that most people are more inclined to repeat their mistakes than to learn from them.

As he began reading, an attractive woman boarded the plane and took the seat next to his. She said: I recognize you, Jeff Fletcher! Put that book down and say hello. He was astonished to see that the woman was Nora Neal. He’d neither seen nor heard from her for over twenty years, but he’d thought of her often—far too often, in fact. Without hesitation, he did as she’d told him to do.

He put the book down and said hello.

"You look good, Jeff. I haven’t seen you since who-knows-when. I remember you joined the Marines or something after we graduated from high school. She glanced down at his book. Are you taking a history class or something? Give me an update."

No, I’m not taking a history class. As for the update, after you and I lost touch, Uncle Sam sent me to Kuwait. I served in the First Gulf War. When I came back, I returned to school on the GI Bill—UC Irvine for my bachelor’s and UCLA for my doctorate. I was a math professor at Harrison State for five years but I decided academia wasn’t my thing. Through a friend, I landed a position as director of software R&D at Cunningham Aerospace in Seattle. After five years at Cunningham, a young engineer and I started our own software company and made a lot of money. I recently left my half of the company in the hands of my partner and retired. Today, I’m headed to Arizona for good.

Her eyes lit up like roman candles when he mentioned his money, but all he could notice was how pretty she was and the impression she gave that she was interested in his life.

Sounds like an eventful life, Jeff. She paused and glanced out the window, then turned her face back toward his. My life’s been more linear than yours, she went on. It would never’ve occurred to me to join the Marines, and mother wouldn’t have liked that anyway. She gave him a clownish, crooked smile and a gentle tap on the knee. As she cocked her head to one side, her silky black hair fell slightly forward, partially covering her right eye. She turned her face toward him again—a raven-haired seductress with pouty lips. As I’m sure you remember, I went straight to university after high school. Pre-med at USC, then med school and a residency in psychiatry at UC Santa Clarissa. —What’s the name of your company?

"It’s not exactly my company any longer, he said. The name is Data Morphology, but we call it ‘DataMorph.’ We started with engineering and manufacturing software mostly, but in the past few years we’ve branched out into other applications. —But enough about me. I must say, you look great, too. Do you practice psychiatry now?"

Yes, in Scottsdale. I share a practice with another psychiatrist, Eliot French. Our practice is known as the Southwest Mental and Emotional Health Clinic. The staff calls it ‘Southwest Mental.’ She winked playfully. I’ve been in Seattle for a conference, and I’m just flying home. She handed him her card. —Is your company publicly traded or privately held?

Privately held.

And you still have a financial interest in it?

Yes, but I’m no longer involved in day-to-day operations or decision-making.

* * *

Their conversation lasted throughout the flight. They talked very little about old times because their old times had come to a very bad ending indeed. They talked about less sensitive things—the excellent service they were receiving in first class, what life is like in Arizona, what a success she was, and so on. She also sprinkled in a few more questions about Data Morphology and its financial status.

He struggled with the urge to ask a question. He expected an excuse-laden negative reply, but he had to ask. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?

Nora hesitated with her response. Anticipation. He was about to repeat his question—or change the subject altogether—when she said: That would be nice, Jeff. In fact, I left my car in long-term parking at the airport. I can drop you off at your hotel on my way home. After you unpack and get settled, I’ll come back and pick you up for dinner.

"That would be nice. You choose the restaurant."

Their flight landed on time at Sky Harbor Airport, Terminal 2. They collected their belongings from baggage claim and carried them to the street, only a hundred feet or so from the carousel. Nora took the courtesy van to claim her car while Jeff waited at the curb with their things. Within ten minutes, a copper-colored Range Rover came purring up to a stop with Nora behind the wheel. Jeff had no intention of returning to where he’d come from, so he’d brought a fair amount of luggage. He was grateful for the Range Rover, and eager to spend the evening with his lifelong dream girl, Nora.

* * *

The ride to Jeff’s hotel took forty minutes or so. More inconsequential chitchat. When the hotel valet finished removing his things from the Range Rover, Jeff walked over to the driver-side to thank Nora for the lift. She touched his forearm with her right hand, and said: I’m really glad we ran into each other, Jeff. It’s been way too long.

Yes it has. And whose fault was that?

She patted his arm, whispered I’ll pick you up right here at five-thirty, and dove away.

He checked into his room, took a shower, and put on a fresh change of clothes—a tropical print shirt, khaki trousers, and saddle oxfords. He’d visited the Phoenix-Scottsdale area many times, and he knew that casual dress was generally accepted evening wear, especially on a Tuesday night.

Nora picked him up at 5:30 sharp, but in a different car—a red Jaguar F-Type coupé. She’d ignored the local rule about casual dress. She was wearing large hoop earrings and bright red lipstick that matched her shiny car. Her shoes matched her lipstick and had five-inch heels. Her skirt was short and tight and her blouse silky and slinky. She suggested that they go first for cocktails at the house of her business associate and colleague, Eliot French. She gave Jeff a slow, seductive wink and said: After some socializing at Eliot’s house, we can duck out for dinner, just the two of us.

He had no idea what to make of her vampy clothes and her coquettish behavior, but he had no objections to either one.

Eliot French’s house was situated on a large piece of property. The structure was also large, and beautiful—whitewashed art deco architecture with pastel accents, a lot of huge windows, and interesting combinations of straight and curved lines running at unusual angles. There was a sweeping semi-circular driveway in front that defined a large, lush lawn that ran back down to the street. At the apex of the driveway, the main entrance to the house was protected by a sleek, eye-catching porte-cochère that jutted out at right angles from the front of the house at least thirty feet. It was attached to the house somehow, but it seemed to be suspended in air, like a levitation trick in a magic show.

They met in what Arizonans call the great room: Nora, Jeff, Eliot French, and French’s wife, whose name was Connie. Like the house itself, this room was spacious and nicely appointed. But at the far end of the room was a life-size replica of Seward Johnson’s Forever Marilyn. Jeff wondered who had decided to put it there, and why. It was too kitschy for this elegant room, and this house.

Nora introduced Jeff to Eliot as the gentleman I told you about. Eliot had jet-black hair, fine features, and gleaming white teeth. He was tall, dark, and handsome—obviously aware of these qualities and very pleased with himself for possessing them. He looked and acted like a PR man for a political big-wig, or the CEO of a large corporation that takes people’s money but doesn’t produce anything that people need. His clothes were informal but very expensive-looking, and he appeared ridiculously overdressed for a casual get-together like this one. His silk shirt looked like it had come off the same rack as Nora’s blouse, as though the two of them had gone shopping together. Eliot’s dress and demeanor answered Jeff’s question about who had selected Forever Marilyn for the home décor. Eliot was a bona fide Ken Doll, and Jeff was leery of him from the get-go.

After Eliot, Nora introduced Jeff to Eliot’s wife, Connie, as an old friend of mine. Connie appeared to be eight or ten years younger than Eliot. She was of average height, had medium-length coppery blond hair, bright hazel eyes, and rose-petal lips. Her face had a light spray of freckles along the upper cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. The face was rather striking in an interesting, understated way; but it was hard to judge her overall appearance. She was dressed in a pair of baggy sweat pants and an XXL t-shirt that said: I ♥ Cats & Dogs. The small print beneath this message indicted that her love for the animals was certified by the Healthy Farms Pet Food Company, Inc.

Nora mentioned that Connie was a veterinarian, apparently in an attempt to explain her shabby clothes.

Do you have any pets, Jeff? Nora asked.

I had a dog for several years, but he died six months ago.

Nora showed no particular interest in four-legged friends, and she didn’t follow up on Jeff’s answer to her question. But Connie asked: What kind of dog did you have?

A large mixed-breed dog. He died of malignant lymphoma.

I’m sorry to hear that, she said.

Connie seemed to have no idea who this stranger was, or why he was there. She guessed that he might be another psychiatrist and asked: Do you also work with the mentally and emotionally disturbed?

No. he said. I’ve worked with many disturbed people, but I’m not a physician, so they were my colleagues, not my patients.

She suppressed a smile in a way that suggested she found this remark rather funny, but for the most part she maintained a stolid poker face. She was quiet and very undemonstrative. As hard to read as the Egyptian Sphinx.

Eliot, on the other hand, was very easy to read. He was the man who wanted to be in control of things. He immediately took charge of the conversation by asking a lot of questions—many of them pointless and inappropriate. About fifteen minutes into his interrogation, he started quizzing Jeff about the First Gulf War.

Nora says you were in the First Gulf War. Were you an officer or something?

No. I was just an ordinary rifleman.

What is that like—being in a war, I mean.

"It’s a grim business, in my opinion. But what is it like? That’s a question of perception. As a psychiatrist I’m sure you can appreciate that. The perception of war—or any other stressful situation—is different for different people. So being in a war isn’t really like anything in particular. I’m not trying to avoid your question, Eliot. I just can’t answer it."

"What I mean is, are people afraid?"

"People who are unafraid in war are fools. I believe Aristotle said that, and I believe it’s true. Most people feel fear in some sense. But fear comes in many flavors and many degrees. Some people turn and run away, although I never actually saw that happen. At the other end of the scale, a few people actually enjoy the thrill.

"But since you’re asking, fear isn’t really the main topic, if you want to understand the psychology of war. The worst thing is a bad feeling you can get. You wake up in the morning, go about your business, and by the end of the day, some of your friends are dead or seriously wounded. That gives you a very bad feeling that you can’t avoid. It builds up over time, and it doesn’t go away easily. But it’s not fear, and it doesn’t have anything to do with fear."

"But isn’t what you’re talking about just a special kind of fear? I mean, you see your comrades killed or wounded, and that makes you afraid that the same thing can happen to you. Isn’t that it?"

"I suppose there is some of that, but that’s not what I’m talking about…. I once had a conversation with a crusty old World War II veteran named Ray Cassidy. In 1993, he was awarded the Silver Star for heroic actions he performed in the Battle of Tarawa, which took place in 1943, fifty years earlier. Over a thousand Marines were killed at Tarawa in a period of three days—hundreds were killed in the first few minutes. He started to describe to me the first wave of the amphibious landing. It was a mess.

"The Navy had miscalculated the tides and the water was too shallow for the landing craft. Most of them got stuck fast on the reef, more than a hundred yards from the beachhead. Like most of the landing craft, Cassidy’s was made of wood and had no armor. When they came under fire from the shore, the men inside were being shot through the hull of the boat. Cassidy and the rest of his platoon jumped overboard and began wading to the beachhead, waist-deep in the water—slow-moving target practice for the riflemen and machine gunners who were dug in along the beach. His two best friends were shot alongside him, about fifty yards from shore. One of them died instantly, the other was badly wounded. Cassidy dragged his wounded friend toward the beach, but by the time they reached the sea wall, his friend was dead. He closed his friend’s eyelids and looked back out toward the landing craft. From shore to the reef, the water was littered with the bodies of dead Marines, and red with their blood. —He broke down crying before he could finish his story.

"He had a bad feeling about what happened to his friends—because of what happened to them, not because of some imaginary fear for his own safety, fifty years after the fact. There’s a fundamental difference between caring about others and caring about oneself. The bad feeling I’m talking about comes from caring about others."

Eliot’s body language sent a clear message that he wasn’t buying any of Jeff’s do-gooder ideas about caring for others. He didn’t budge, and he stayed on topic. He said: Not many US servicemen were killed in the Gulf War, I think.

About a hundred and fifty soldiers and Marines. But the Gulf War lasted only about six months, not twelve years. If you want to minimize it further, you can also add in the fact that we weren’t fighting a very formidable enemy. But if you extrapolate and multiply one hundred and fifty by twenty-four, you’ll get a body count similar to what we sustained in Iraq. And by the way, those one hundred and fifty are just as dead as those who were killed in other places.

"Did you kill many people?"

Several, I think. As I recall, that was my purpose in being there. But I can’t give you an exact number.

Did you enjoy it—the killing, I mean?

The questions were becoming more and more ghoulish. Jeff brushed this one off by saying: That was a long time ago, Eliot. I don’t remember how I felt about what I did. At any rate, I’m housebroken now, so you’re all safe.

Eliot seemed to sense that this line of inquiry was making everyone uncomfortable, so he ended his questioning and began to describe his own theory of geopolitics, diplomacy, and warfare in general: The world is a dangerous place. Diplomatic solutions are always best. But sometimes, one must do what one must. And so forth.

As he spoke, he spread his feet apart and put his left hand in his trouser pocket. He joined the thumb and forefinger of his right hand in a flattened out variation of the okay sign. The three remaining fingers stood out, parallel to the metacarpal. He used this gesture to emphasize each point he tried to make. Occasionally, he paced back and forth while doing this. He acted as though he were instructing a group of undergraduates from the stage of a lecture hall somewhere. His dog-eared clichés and professorial affectations made him look foolish. But Jeff was sure that Eliot was no fool. He was clearly something else.

Something worse.

Eventually, Nora looked at her wristwatch and reminded everyone that