Stolen Dream

By Bill Nash

Dreams die hard. One of those dreams becomes a nightmare for the small town of Los Robles. A brilliant young man turns to murder to seek revenge against those he holds responsible for ending his dream. The wife of once-promising reporter Tommy Upton becomes the first victim in the series of brutal attacks. Seeking redemption and justice, Upton assists the town Sheriff to catch his wife's killer and end the community's worst nightmare.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill Nash is a veteran newspaper columnist, photographer and award-winning writer based in Southern California. He also writes occasional feature stories and has published nearly 50 travel destination pieces on locations around the world. His first novel, "Fog Delay," was a thriller set at the San Francisco International Airport. As a non-fiction author, his is also known for writing "Oil, Orchards and Flames," a history of the fire department in Santa Paula, California. He has a background in journalism, public relations and advertising; and has won numerous local, state and national awards for his work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Nash
• Release date: May 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311752215

Bill Nash

Bill Nash is a newspaper columnist, freelance writer and photographer based in Southern California. He writes a weekly column for the Ventura County Star and occasional feature stories. He also both writes and takes photographs to illustrate travel articles. He has published nearly 50 travel destination pieces on locations including California, Florida, New York, Hawaii, Tennessee, Arizona, Oregon and international destinations in Mexico, Canada, Chile, Italy, Korea and Australia. Also a non-fiction author, Bill wrote Oil, Orchards and Flames, a history of the fire department in Santa Paula, California. He has a background in journalism, public relations and advertising.

Book preview

CHAPTER

ONE

An empty can of Diet Coke rolled out onto the dirt road as Tommy Upton opened the door of his Jeep and climbed out. He looked at the can for just a moment, wondering if it was worth the effort of picking it up. Then, with a soft grunt, bent over, grabbed the can and tossed it into the back of the Jeep where it joined five others and a collection of junk food wrappers.

He stared down the long space between two rows of plum trees at the knot of people clustered about a hundred yards down the row. Looking left and right along the road, he made a mental note of the police, fire and rescue vehicles parked along the shoulder with his Jeep. There was a story here. He wanted it. He needed it.

He inhaled deeply. It smelled good out in the orchards. Away from town. Away from everything. It smelled wholesome and pure—earth, water, tree blossoms. Smells too nice for what he knew awaited him down in the orchard.

He pulled the brim of his fedora further down over his sunglasses. The hat was light gray felt with a black satin band. The gray soiled easily but he thought it brought out the blue in his eyes. The sunlight hurt. The hat was mostly an affectation, but today it helped his eyes. They had been bloodshot and burning since he quit drinking, almost two weeks earlier.

With a small sigh he started walking toward the emergency personnel in the orchard. He knew what he was about to see. It wasn’t his first crime scene, it wasn’t even his first murder scene. It wasn’t even his most recent murder scene. He had visited that one about a week earlier and, about five days before that, almost too drunk to stand, another one where he had seen his wife, Jen, lying in a pool of her own blood. Even that would never quite take away the initial shock of seeing a body once full of life and then suddenly empty of it. The shell of a person, the life emptied out of it by the hand of another. By the time he reached the body, the wet grass had already soaked through his running shoes and his jeans were moistened by the moisture up to his knees.

There was no yellow crime scene tape. There were no TV station satellite trucks or pretty reporters with microphones. The only photographer there worked for the Sheriff’s department. Upton was the only media there and he was uninvited. It was a small-town crime scene in a secluded orchard. Regardless of who it was lying in the wet grass, there would be no film at eleven.

Sheriff Dave Miller was squatting by the body. He always went into a squat at a crime scene. He claimed it gave him a different perspective on the evidence. His deputies said it was a good thing he didn’t wear spurs or he’d give himself hemorrhoid surgery. He stood as Upton approached and now towered over the crime scene. The early morning light put golden highlights in Miller’s smooth, black face. At well over six feet tall, he had been a starting tight end at UCLA and he looked like he could still play.

He watched as Tommy Upton shuffled through the wet grass to the crime scene. A career in law enforcement often meant seeing people at the worst time of their lives. But he had never seen someone fall so hard, so far and so fast as Tommy Upton. He looked like he always did, a fedora hat pulled down low in front, just above black sunglasses, a flannel shirt worn open over a beige T-shirt. He wore jeans, but not the kind sold down at the farm supply store. Upton’s jeans were the kind big-city people wore to night clubs. Miller knew Upton’s look was carefully calculated, and it worked for him in the past, when he was the talk of the journalism world. But now, it was kind of pathetic. Like an aging actress trying to look like a starlet.

You’re up early, Tommy. Have trouble sleeping again?

Not again. Still. I heard the call on the scanner and, since I couldn’t sleep anyway, I thought I might as well come out.

We don’t know much yet. You can stay, but no pictures.

Deal.

Upton worked his way around the outside of the crime scene to get a better look at the body, being careful not to step on the small, numbered tent cards that marked evidence. The body itself was unremarkable. A male, maybe a teenager, lay face down in the grass. He was dressed like many of the town’s teenaged boys; an unbuttoned shirt over a black T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. That stopped Upton for a moment. Except for the fedora and sunglasses, he was wearing almost the identical clothes. It might be time to grow up, he thought. There wasn’t much more to see except for the black, bloody hole in the back of the boy’s head. Evidence marker number 33 sat beside his right ear. Upton could see flecks of bone and brain matter in the matted blood and hair around the wound. He saw a deputy he knew with a clipboard taking notes, so he asked the obvious question.

What happened?

Oh, hey Tommy. Don’t know yet. Obviously shot from behind, and there’s a baggie with a few meth crystals in it next to the body. Other than that, we’re still trying to figure things out.

Any chance it was self-inflicted?

Doubt it. Angle doesn’t seem right. The Medical Examiner can help figure that out.

What about the evidence marker?

What do you mean?

Number 33. Isn’t the wound the most important piece of evidence? Shouldn’t it be number one?

Doesn’t work that way. When we arrive, we start at the outside of the crime scene and work our way in, marking evidence as we go. Same thing with the photos. We start wide and then zero in on specific pieces of evidence.

The deputy had to move around to the other side of the body, so Upton stepped away. This wasn’t the first murder in Los Robles, just the most recent, but it was too many too soon in a town of their size. Jen had been the first. It was why he was here. He needed to know who had done it and why.

Upton looked at the trees surrounding him—plums, the purple lifeblood of Los Robles. The town’s veins had first been filled with black gold when oil was discovered in the valley and on the hillsides overlooking the valley. But as the oil dried up, the fertile soil and mild climate proved perfect for growing plums and agriculture sustained the town.

Local growers were split almost evenly into two camps. Half grew Japanese plums that were sold as fresh fruit. The other half grew European plums that were dried and sold as prunes. Although they aren’t called prunes anymore. A great marketing mind somewhere decided that dried plums sounded more appealing than prunes, and the Food and Drug Administration granted the California Prune Board permission to change the name. A prune by any other name is still a prune, thought Upton.

Looking at the trees now, Upton couldn’t tell what types of plums were on the trees. Most of the beautiful white blossoms had come and gone a month or so ago and the fruit had been thinned by the growers. Now it was almost time for the harvest to begin.

The harvest would begin at the south end of the valley, near the Derrick Grade where the highway ran over the hills into the next valley. As the fruit ripened, the harvest would move slowly north past Los Robles and finish around October at the north end of the valley near the town’s largest packing house, Plumrite Packing. Every orchard would be picked about three times over a ten day period as the fruit ripened through the season.

Looking at the trees around the crime scene, Upton could see plums, but they didn’t look like they were ready to harvest. Probably too far north in the valley, he thought.

Dave Miller stood up from his crouch near the body. Upton walked closer.

Do you know who he is?

Think so. Local kid, but not a trouble-maker. Doesn’t make sense.

Doesn’t the meth kind of explain things?

Well, I can’t say that it isn’t a possibility, but the kid doesn’t seem like a meth-head. None of the scabs or rashes usually associated with meth use, clean, well-nourished. Not your typical druggie. Either way though, it looks like you’ve got another obituary to write.

Great. I’m not really looking for that kind of work you know.

I know.

Upton nodded a goodbye and started trudging back towards his Jeep. Miller watched him go, marveling at how far the man had fallen and wondering if he had enough spirit to pull himself back up.

As a cop, Miller had seen just about everything life could do to a man, and life seemed to have done it all to Upton. When he moved to Los Robles, Upton had been a respected investigative reporter who had just come off a successful book tour. The book had exposed corruption in the politics that brought Northern California water to farmers in Central and Southern California. Upton and his wife, Jen, had settled in Los Robles figuring the quiet, small-town lifestyle would be a perfect atmosphere for a promising new author. But success only fueled Upton’s passion for alcohol and soon his trademark fedora and ever-present sunglasses hid a disheveled man with the red, teary eyes of an alcoholic. The book deals dried up and Upton survived on royalties and freelance pieces he wrote for the Los Robles Register. If it wasn’t for Jen’s success in local real estate, they probably would have lost their condo. At least that was what he had thought at the time. The investigation into her murder had disclosed Jen came from money and had lots of it. For a while, that had made Tommy Upton a suspect. But his alibi had been confirmed by a dozen people drinking with him in Louie’s Bar. She didn’t have to sell real estate, she wanted to. And she was good at it. In fact, she was good for the whole town. She got involved and she gave both time and money. Then, Jen was murdered. When she died, Tommy inherited the fortune. Her parents weren’t happy. That was the day Upton stopped drinking, but he had already lost everything he loved.

Miller watched as Upton slowly made his way up the road to his Jeep. Upton had taken his hat off and was wiping his face with his other hand. Miller could see the start of a bald spot on the back of Upton’s head and noticed a slight paunch on the man’s medium build. He was trying to get his life back together, but the man was in bad shape.

By the time he reached his Jeep, Upton was slightly out of breath. He put his hand on the side of the Jeep and bent over slightly to catch his breath. He glanced back down into the orchard and saw Miller striding up the row towards him.

Jesus, Tommy. Are you OK?

I need to get in better shape.

Miller glanced at the wrappers in the bed of the Jeep. Well, a diet of Slim Jims, Pringles and Diet Coke isn’t going to help. What, do you drink the Diet Coke to be healthy?

Thanks, mom. I’m going through some things, you know?

Yeah, I know, Tommy. Sorry. We have a positive ID on the kid. I’m going to make the notification to his family. Do you want to come along?

Why would I want to do that? It sounds horrible.

It is horrible, but you always tell me you like to make the obituaries as personal as possible. It doesn’t get any more personal than this, and I thought since you were here anyway, you might gain a few insights.

Upton stared at Miller for a moment to make sure he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t.

Where does . . . where did he live?

South of town. Park in front of the newspaper. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go together.

Upton left his car at the curb and climbed into the front seat of Miller’s patrol car. There was barely room to move on the passenger’s side. The center console between the front seats was crowded with radio equipment, flashlights and office supplies—a cop’s rolling desk. A short-barreled shotgun mounted barrel up pushed against Upton’s left shoulder and a computer keyboard and display screen were attached to a brace that hung over his knees.

I take it you don’t have a lot of passengers.

Not up front.

So you give kids tickets for texting while they drive and you’ve got a whole keyboard and monitor in here?

Funny.

The grin left Upton’s face as he remembered their destination.

You do a lot of these family notifications?

Seems like it lately.

Miller didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, not that Upton could blame considering the chore ahead of them. So he pulled out his pad of yellow, lined paper and looked over what Miller had already told him about the boy.

Paul Mendez shouldn’t be dead. He hadn’t been a spectacular student, but he was active in the campus life and, by all reports, well-liked by his classmates. He played on the basketball team, was class secretary during his senior year and had been named the student representative to the Petrolia Club, earning him a fancy lunch at the Orchard Hotel downtown every Tuesday when the service club held its weekly meeting. There was nothing to indicate he had ever experimented with drugs. After graduation he had started his own landscaping business and had done well enough that he had started apartment shopping. That all ended with him face-down in the orchard.

Miller and Upton sat in the car at the curb looking at the small house where Mendez lived with his parents.

Raul and Paula Mendez both worked at Plumrite. Raul had been there more than twenty years, Paula almost as long. Their house was just south of the downtown area, near the railroad tracks. The home was in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Los Robles, but not one of the nicest. The houses had been built just after World War II. They were small wooden boxes, usually two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a large room that doubled as a dining room and living room. The Mendez house sat behind a freshly painted picket fence with a well-groomed lawn and a neatly painted exterior. Upton suspected the lawn was Paul’s responsibility.

Miller pushed through the gate up the walk to the front door with Upton following a step behind. Upton could see the reluctance in Miller’s body language as he knocked on the door.

Mrs. Mendez? I’m Sheriff Miller and this is Tommy Upton. May we come in?

There was fear in her face as she stepped aside to let them in. Wordlessly she gestured them toward the living room as Raul Mendez came out of the kitchen.

Is this about Paul? he asked.

Let’s sit down, said Miller. There was already shock showing on the faces of the Mendezes as they sat on the sofa, clutching each other’s hand.

I’m sorry, Paul is dead. He was murdered, sometime last night, we think. I’m very sorry for your loss.

Tears rolled down Paula Mendez’s face, but she didn’t make a sound. Raul’s eyes welled up and his upper lip quivered.

What happened?

We’re still investigating the details, but we know he was shot.

When can we see him? asked Paula.

Soon, said Miller. After we’ve collected all the evidence and the medical examiner is done, we can release him to you.

She nodded and stared down at her hands, folded in her lap. Miller looked at Raul.

When we came in, you asked if it was about Paul. Why?

He didn’t come home last night. He’s been seeing this girl, Rita Flores, sometimes they stay out late, but he always comes home. He has to go to work.

Did your son have any trouble with drugs?

No. Never. He was too smart for that. Why do you ask about drugs?

Drugs, methamphetamine, were found next to his body.

Paula Mendez leaned forward on the sofa, eyes glaring at Miller. They weren’t his. He was a good boy. He had his own business. He didn’t need drugs.

I understand, Mrs. Mendez, but since we found drugs, I have to ask.

Who did this to him?

We don’t know yet. Was he having troubles with anyone? Customers, old friends, people like that?

No. He would have said something.

Do you know where he was last night?

No. We just assumed he was with Rita. She was starting to calm down and finally took notice of Upton.

Who are you again?

"I’m Tommy Upton, ma’am. I work for the Register."

The newspaper? What are you doing here?

Well, ma’am, it’s my job to write about Paul, his life I mean, and I just thought I might get a better idea of what kind of young man he was if I visited his home.

She eyed him suspiciously, then the light in her eyes went out and her shoulders sagged. You want to see what kind of boy he was, go look in his room. She nodded to a closed door across the room. You’ll see. No drugs. Clean. He was a good boy.

Holding his hat by his side, Upton stood up and walked to the door as Miller resumed his questions. Upton put his hand on the old brass door knob, turned it slowly and opened the door.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leaving it open of a couple of inches. He didn’t want Mrs. Mendez to think he was up to anything sneaky. It wasn’t the room of a tweaker. It was neat, well-organized and the bedspread still had an impression where Mendez had sat to put on his shoes. A laptop computer and a few manila folders were the only things on a small corner desk. Upton carefully fanned the folders. Each was labeled with a street address. Landscaping customers, Upton assumed. The top of the dresser was equally uncluttered—a nice watch, a pocket knife and a framed photo of a pretty girl. It had to be Rita. The walls held a few sports posters, a couple of achievement certificates from the high school and, above the dresser, an 11 x 14 family portrait.

Miller stuck his head through the door.

Well?

This looks like the room of a nice kid. Not the kind of kid we expect to find shot to death in an orchard.

Let’s go. I think Mrs. Mendez has had enough of me.

Both men nodded to the Mendezes on their way out and put their hats on before they reached the car.

Drop you back at the office?

Yeah, I might as well get started.

CHAPTER

TWO

Tommy Upton sat in front of his computer at his desk in the office of the Los Robles Register staring at the screen. A photo of Paul Mendez stared back. It was his high school graduation picture, now it would run with his obituary. His editor, the paper’s owner, walked up behind him.

That the Mendez kid?

Yeah. That’s why I can’t sleep at night.

That photo?

All the photos, Vic. They haunt me. They float around in my head and when I close my eyes, they play like a slide show.

Vic Yanuzzi sat down on a corner of Upton’s desk and stared back further into the newsroom.

Tommy, maybe you should get some help.

I don’t need help, Vic, I need time.

Yanuzzi looked like he should have been working in a newsroom thirty years ago. He wore a white shirt with a button-down collar, the sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms and a plain black tie loosened at the neck. His hair was still jet black despite being in his sixties, and Upton didn’t think it was dyed. It was combed back from his forehead and held in place by some kind of shiny hair product. A pair of half reading glasses hung from a chain around his neck and rested on a belly that strained the lower buttons on his shirt.

You’ve been through a lot, he said. Jen’s murder, your battle with the bottle and everything that goes along with all that. I’m just saying maybe you should see somebody.

Thanks, Vic. I’m doing alright. I just need some time.

Yanuzzi shook his head and walked away, giving Upton’s shoulder a pat as he left.

Upton opened the drawer at his knees and pulled out a manila folder. It was labeled Jen. It contained everything he knew about his wife Jennifer’s murder.

It wasn’t much. She had died brutally, her body found face-up on the sidewalk in a cul-de-sac where she had a listing. As always, she was immaculately dressed and, even in death, looked perfect and beautiful, except for the ugly halo of blood around her head on the sidewalk. There was no sign of a struggle and no apparent motive. The coroner called it blunt force trauma, but to Tommy, it was just a violation. A complete contradiction to everything she was and everything she believed in.

After they arrived in town, it hadn’t taken long for Jen to become one of the top real estate agents in Los Robles. She was a petite, green-eyed blond with a no-nonsense business attitude. She was fit, trim, energetic and loved him unconditionally. Not that he made that easy.

Upton actually remembered the day they first met. It was in an early-morning English Lit class. He was seriously hung-over, she was amazingly beautiful. Yet she was attracted to him, mostly because while he had dreams of becoming a great novelist, she could only see as far as graduation. She treasured his limitless vision and dreams of success. She was already too much in love when they graduated and the reality of paying rent turned him from his novels and he found work at a newspaper, writing whatever was needed.