Desert Kill Switch: A Nostalgia City Mystery, Book 2

By Mark S. Bacon

A Deadly Vegas Pursuit—with a Twist…On an empty desert road, stressed-out ex-cop Lyle Deming finds a bullet-riddled body next to a vintage mint-condition 1970s Pontiac Firebird. When he returns to the scene with sheriff’s deputies: no car, no body. Does the answer lie in Nostalgia City, the retro theme park where Lyle works? Nostalgia City VP Kate Sorensen, a former college basketball star, is in Reno, Nevada, on park business when she gets mixed up with a sleazy Las Vegas auto dealer who puts hidden “kill switches” and GPS trackers into the cars he sells to low-income buyers. Miss a payment—sometimes by as little as a few days—and your car is dead. Maybe you are, too. When Kate’s accused of murder in Reno, Lyle rushes to help his blonde not-quite-girlfriend. Kate and Lyle plow through a deadly tangle of suspects and motives, hitting one dead end after another, as they struggle to exonerate Kate, catch a blackmailer, save a witness’s life, and find the missing car and corpse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626947184

Book preview

A Deadly Vegas Pursuit—with a Twist…

On an empty desert road, stressed-out ex-cop Lyle Deming finds a bullet-riddled body next to a vintage mint-condition 1970s Pontiac Firebird. When he returns to the scene with sheriff’s deputies: no car, no body. Does the answer lie in Nostalgia City, the retro theme park where Lyle works?

Nostalgia City VP Kate Sorensen, a former college basketball star, is in Reno, Nevada, on park business when she gets mixed up with a sleazy Las Vegas auto dealer who puts hidden kill switches and GPS trackers into the cars he sells to low-income buyers. Miss a payment—sometimes by as little as a few days—and your car is dead. Maybe you are, too.

When Kate’s accused of murder in Reno, Lyle rushes to help his blonde not-quite-girlfriend. Kate and Lyle plow through a deadly tangle of suspects and motives, hitting one dead end after another, as they struggle to exonerate Kate, catch a blackmailer, save a witness’s life, and find the missing car and corpse.

Desert Kill Switch is the second novel in this mystery series set in Nostalgia City, an Arizona theme park that re-creates—in every detail—a small town as it would have appeared in the mid-1970s.

KUDOS FOR DESERT KILL SWITCH

"In Desert Kill Switch Mark Bacon weaves a fascinating mystery around murder, a missing body, and a beautiful woman racing against time to clear her name of a crime she did not commit. Antique cars, fast cars, and the threat of death in the desert between Las Vegas and Reno combine to give readers a thrilling ride."

~ Bourne Morris, author of The Red Queen Rules and the Red Solaris mystery series

I love this. It’s the kind of book where you keep saying ‘just one more chapter.’

~ Anne Saller, owner, Book Carnival mystery bookstore, Orange, Calif.

"In Desert Kill Switch, Lyle Deming, an ex-cop who drives a cab in a retro theme park, and co-worker Kate Sorensen, are unexpectedly thrown together again when Kate becomes a murder suspect. If you like fast-paced mysteries, nasty characters, and enough twists and turns to keep you guessing to the end, this is a must read!"

~ Linda Townsdin, author of Blow Up on Murder and the Spirit Lake Mystery Series

Mark. S. Bacon serves us a compelling second helping of mystery and mayhem in and around the fictional 1970s theme park, Nostalgia City. Readers will find themselves smiling and nodding in appreciation as twists and turns are revealed in the multi-layered mystery that protagonists Lyle and Kate find themselves racing to solve. The fast-paced plot-line is both creative and timely, a nod to Mr. Bacon's critical eye gained from his experience in journalism. I am looking forward to reading the next installment in this series!

~ Carrie C. Wolfgang, owner, Novel Destination ~ Used Book Emporium, Jamestown, New York

Desert Kill Switch

A Nostalgia City Mystery #2

Mark S. Bacon

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2017 by Mark S. Bacon

Cover Design by Jacci Larsen

All cover art copyright © 2017

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626947-18-4

EXCERPT

The closer they got to finding the real killer, the more apparent it became that he’d kill anyone who got in his way...

Lyle wondered why Kate had not called back, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off the road or the computer screen to grab his phone and redial her. He’d seen only one other car since they turned off the highway. He let the truck get farther ahead and followed the GPS indications. When Lyle saw the truck’s signature on the map pull off on a side road, he looked ahead and through the gloom saw a cloud of dust. A dirt road.

Lyle pulled over. According to the map, the truck had turned onto a dead end, but Lyle could see lights on structures scattered to the base of distant mountains. Obviously, not all the dirt trails appeared on the GPS map. If he turned off to follow the truck, his lights could easily be seen. He’d already made note of the truck’s make, model, and license number and even squeezed off a few shaky exposures of the truck on the freeway. This should be enough to identify the blackmailers--if they needed to. The stern warning in Kate’s note was their real ammunition to dissuade the extortionists from sending the video to the police.

But what could it hurt to be seen? If the driver thought he was being followed, that would simply reinforce Kate’s note saying they had enough information to identify their tormentors.

Lyle turned on the dirt road and rumbled ahead. The roadway narrowed. Before he’d gone far, the computer screen told him the pickup had stopped and turned around.

When Lyle heard the first shot, he jammed on the brakes. It was impossible to see a bullet fly past your windshield, but Lyle knew the second shot barely missed him.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Denise Harrison, a gifted writer and editor and a friend whose suggestions, encouragement, and professionalism over the years made me a better writer.

Chapter 1

Lyle Deming braked his Mustang hard and aimed for the sandy shoulder of the desert road. Luckily, his daughter Sam had been looking down and didn’t see the body.

He passed a thicket of creosote and manzanita and pulled onto the dirt as soon as he could.

Stay in the car, he told Sam in a tone that precluded discussion.

He trotted 200 feet back on the road, around the brush, to reach the parked vehicle--and the unmoving, bullet-riddled body he’d seen next to it. The young man, clearly dead, was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Still-damp blood surrounded the bullet hole in his head and speckled his white shirt where other bullets had slammed into him. Instinctively, Lyle scanned the entire scene. Several sets of footprints in the dust circled the vintage Pontiac. Brass shell casings lay in the dirt. With the car’s door wide open, Lyle saw no one inside.

He turned and looked from the ground to the rocky bluffs on the other side of the road. A familiar, anxious feeling started to overtake him, but he shrugged it off and stepped back to the pavement so he wouldn’t disturb the footprints.

No use checking for vitals--that was obvious. He wanted to search the man’s pockets to find an ID but knew he should preserve the scene.

Startled by a sharp noise, Lyle spun around. The cactus wren’s rapid chirping stopped then started again. Aside from the birds, and the wind stirring mesquite trees, nothing moved. Lyle’s senses told him to get out of there--get Sam out of there.

Jogging back to his Mustang, he hopped in, slammed the door, and started the engine in one continuous motion.

What’s going on? Sam said. She twisted around to look out the rear window.

Lyle crushed the accelerator and the car kicked up dust as it jumped from the shoulder to the pavement. Something I’m glad you didn’t see, he said.

Steering down the road, Lyle glanced in his mirror. The road rose and fell as it wound through rolling desert hills punctuated with prickly pear and red-orange cliffs. The sun rode high in the sky.

Sam put a hand on his arm. What was it? Tell me. Her voice trembled as she looked up into his dark brown eyes.

The road curved in and out, then hit a straightaway. Lyle headed for a nearby intersection he remembered. He handed Sam his cell phone, then put both hands back on the wheel, giving the mirror another look. See if you can get any bars on that thing, will you?

What was it back there? she said. It looked like an old car. She activated the phone. We don’t have a signal here.

Keep trying, Lyle said.

He and Sam had been off on an afternoon of exploring northern Arizona back roads and taking pictures for her university summer class. A cab driver in Nostalgia City, the world’s most elaborate theme park and resort, Lyle worked a rotating schedule with varied days off, so he was happy when he could spend one of them with Sam. But he relished his job driving tourists around the park in his 1973 Dodge taxi. He felt at home in the new retro theme park, a meticulous re-creation of a small town from the mid-1970s. He could forget his former ill-fated career that he dumped as it dumped him.

No signal, still, Sam said in a wavering voice. What’s going on?

It was a murder. Someone shot, next to that car. A young guy. Not pretty. We need to get through to the sheriff.

Murder? Who--what?

I dunno. The sheriff’ll have to find out. He glanced over at Sam.

Actually, Samantha was Lyle’s stepdaughter, but he loved her with an intensity that almost scared him. He’d known her since she was five, before Lyle and her mother got married, and he soon became attached to Sam, supplanting her biological father who rarely saw her. When Sam’s mother divorced Lyle, he remained Sam’s backstop, emotionally and financially, as she worked her way through Arizona State.

Just before they reached the intersection Lyle was looking for, another car passed them going the other way. Lyle wondered if the driver would continue straight ahead, see the body, and call it in. Lyle turned left. Got a signal yet?

This is a bad area. I’ve been here before. Past that hill up ahead, maybe.

In a few minutes, Sam looked at the phone. We got a signal. Do I call nine-one-one?

No, call the San Navarro County Sheriff. It’s in my contacts.

When the phone started ringing, Sam handed it to Lyle.

Let me speak to Rey Martinez. This is an emergency. Lyle steered with one hand while he talked. He’d only seen the one car since they left the murder scene, not unusual for this open, scrub land.

Rey, it’s Lyle Deming.

"Lyle, I know. How many people you figure I know named Lyle?"

Okay, Rey. I got it. Look, there’s been a murder out on Wagon Trail Road. About two miles east of Broken Bend. Near the top of a hill.

Yeah?

A shooting. Looks like an execution. Semi-auto. Shell casings around.

Okay, Lyle, who was killed? You got bodies?

Just one. Young guy, twenties or thirties. Dark hair, light complexion. Shot in the head and chest. Looks recent. Blood was fresh.

Is he alone?

Yeah, he’s alone. I didn’t see anyone else. And there’s a car, an old one. Nostalgia City vintage. A 1974 or ’75 Pontiac Firebird. Dark blue. Great condition. Looks new. Sorry, I missed the license.

Are you there now?

No. Heading back to my condo. I got a funny feeling. Like there was someone around. You know I don’t carry a weapon, and I have my daughter Sam with me. I wanted to get her the hell out of there.

I’ll dispatch a car right away, and I’ll head over. It’ll take me twenty, twenty-five minutes to reach the spot. You going to be there?

Chapter 2

Kate Sorensen hated grand entrances, and she felt she was making one now. Bathed in sunlight, like theatrical spotlights, streaming through broad windows and skylights, she rode down a long and otherwise unoccupied escalator from the mezzanine of Reno’s Gold Mountain Hotel. She’d planned a grubby work day, so she compromised her business wear with designer jeans, a short-sleeved, casual blouse, and low-heeled boots. Looking down, she saw dozens of people standing around tables set with cups, plates, pots of coffee, and trays of pastries. Above the food hung a sign, Rockin’ Summer Days 20th Anniversary -- Welcome Vendors.

The escalator brought her down ceremoniously into the middle of the group. More than a few men looked up and stared. Kate’s height drew attention, but so did her long blonde hair, lithe figure, and other movie-star qualities it had taken her years to recognize and accept. Most people were casually dressed, some wearing red polo shirts with the Rockin’ Summer Days RSD logo and a picture of a hot rod embroidered on the front.

Kate started to hurry through the crowd but paused when she saw a familiar face.

A man dressed in a shirt, tie, and slightly rumpled sport coat saw her and grinned. He excused himself from a small group of people and walked over.

Kate, you’re looking wonderful. I haven’t seen you since you left Las Vegas.

Journalist Gale Forrester wore silver wire-rimmed glasses and his perpetual three-day growth of beard. His hair, thinning prematurely, obviously had only a brief encounter with a comb. Forrester’s syndicated column ran throughout the state and he hosted a news-talk radio program in Las Vegas.

Gale, good to see you. What are you doing at a car show and street fair? You usually cover politics.

There’s politics everywhere my dear, he said, looking up at her. You should know that. Rockin’ Summer Days is a big-money event. And the northern Nevada power structure is much in evidence.

I’m not in that loop, Gale. I’m just here to promote my employer.

Out of the loop? I don’t think so. You were one of the hotshot PR people in the Vegas casino business. And now you’re here for Reno’s RSD event. Has a good deal to do with demographics, right?

Good guess, Gale. Kate didn’t exactly follow Forrester’s train of thought, but demographics was exactly the reason she and an assistant were in Reno for its annual, ten-day celebration of classic cars and rock and roll. Kate had read that the city-wide event attracted more than 6,000 classic and historic vehicles and a half million people, many in their fifties, sixties, and beyond. Sponsoring a booth here offered a perfect opportunity to showcase Nostalgia City--the sprawling new 1960s-1970s retro theme park in Arizona--to people in their target market. It also gave her a chance to see how the Nevada nostalgia event operated, what kind of promotions they did. Everyone in the PR biz borrowed from everyone else, and Reno seemed to have done a good job establishing itself with the same people Kate hoped to attract to Arizona. I’m just on my way to see about our credentials and our booth, she said.

Could be fun, interesting. Forrester’s almost-smile hinted at something. Some people considered him a gadfly, but Kate knew he had an uncanny ability to break stories ahead of other media.

Interesting yes, she said, but standing eight hours a day in an exhibit booth is not exactly my idea of a good time.

One of the people Forrester had been talking to, a thin man, almost as tall as Kate, wandered over. Marshall, said Forrester, I’d like you to meet someone. Or do you already know Kate?

Kate didn’t recognize the man but extended her hand and started to introduce herself.

Oh, I know who you are, he said, introducing himself as Marshall Jacques. You’re Kate Sorensen, head of PR at Nostalgia City. I’m a member of the Rockin’ Summer Days board of directors. We’re glad to have you here.

Was Kate’s history in Nevada or the uniqueness of Nostalgia City the reason an RSD board member would know her? The name Jacques sounded familiar. Should be a good event, she said. I’m on my way to set up our booth.

So, if you need help with anything, let us know. Our offices are close by, and we’ll have a desk staffed all week long in the hotel to assist vendors. Details are in your packet.

Kate thanked him, told Forrester to stop by their booth, then excused herself and headed down a broad concourse toward a hotel meeting room. An oldies rock song Kate couldn’t quite place spilled out into the hallway. She followed the music into a crowded convention room. Tables lined three of the walls where men and women, mostly in jeans or shorts, queued up in rows to collect registration materials. Signs along the walls, A-D, E-G, H-K, and so on, organized the queues by the names of exhibitors’ organizations.

Kate scanned the room looking for her assistant, Amanda Updike. Kate had inherited Amanda, as she had the rest of her staff, when she took over Nostalgia City’s PR department. Kate chose Amanda, a PR rep and copywriter, to help staff their booth. Attractive and outgoing, she had an easy way with people--when she showed up. Amanda had issues, it seemed, with punctuality.

After a few moments, Kate saw Amanda come bustling in from the hallway juggling a leather case, her purse, an armload of folders, and a cardboard cup of coffee.

Sorry, I’m late.

Did you bring the extra brochures?

Yes, the box is in my room. I can go get them.

Never mind that now. Why don’t you wait in line over there and pick up our registration packet? See if there’s marketing data included. They were supposed to mail us results of their visitor survey, but it never made it. I’ll go see if our display has arrived and get set-up help. Meet you at our booth space. It’s just down Virginia Street from here. Do you have the map they sent us?

Amanda looked at her case and purse. Yes, somewhere in here.

An hour later, Kate watched workers uncrate the Nostalgia City display panels. They had been assigned a space in a large park-like area downtown--turned into an outdoor exhibit hall. The booth stood in a row in the middle of the lot, but only one booth away from North Virginia Street where classic cars and hot rods would be parked for viewing.

Nostalgia City’s booth included a curved, backlit backdrop, self-standing display boards, racks for literature, plus seats for Kate and Amanda. The backdrop featured a map of the park with panoramic pictures of each area. Centerville, an historically accurate re-creation of an entire small town from the mid-1970s, sat, appropriately, in the center of the park. Photos showed shops and restaurants with vintage neon signs, streets lined with ’60s and ’70s cars, plus other details that made visiting Nostalgia City a trip back in time. Surrounding Centerville, connected by roads radiating out, were a golf course, dude ranch, a collection of hotels and restaurants, and the Fun Zone, an amusement park filled with rides, some themed for period movies and TV shows.

Kate started unpacking artwork and signs and attaching them to the display boards. Some showed photos of the classic cars available for rent and the vintage excursion railroad that connected Nostalgia City with a new Indian casino. As she attached photos of slot machines and craps tables to the display board, Kate thought local casino officials might not be happy with Nostalgia City touting its nearby gambling. Indeed, with its meticulously re-created ’70s environment, the park itself could be seen as direct competition for Reno’s Rockin’ Summer Days.

As her booth took shape, Kate watched two people across the aisle setting up a booth that sold what looked to her like tacky mementos and souvenirs: plaques, miniature street signs, plastic statues of Elvis, ashtrays, hats made out of beer cans. Was Reno the right demographic after all? And where was Amanda?

Chapter 3

No question Lyle was going back out to the scene.

He dropped Sam off at her car, parked in front of his condo, and saw her safely on her way back to Arizona State. He paused only to consider if he should pick up one of his two handguns. He decided he probably didn’t need a weapon now, so he cranked up his Mustang and pointed it down the main street in Timeless Village, the collection of houses, condos, and apartments--mainly for Nostalgia City employees--that bordered the high-desert theme park. When he reached the county highway, he turned east to retrace his steps. After he had gone several miles, he called Undersheriff Rey Martinez.

Rey, are you there yet?

Not quite, but I got a call from a deputy. He can’t find it.

"What? Is the body gone?"

No body. No car. Nuthin’.

Is he on Wagon Trail Road?

Yeah, east of Broken Bend, like you said.

Lyle hit the accelerator and his Mustang responded with a growl and more speed. I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes. Meet you at that intersection.

***

From a distance, Lyle could see the erratic pulsing of red and blue lights on two sheriff’s cars. He pulled up, got out, and walked over to Rey’s cruiser.

It’s just down that road, Lyle said pointing west. Less than two miles. On the left.

Martinez looked up from his driver’s seat. He wore his tan uniform and gun belt. We’ve been down there. But okay, let’s look again. Lead the way.

Lyle didn’t say anything. He tried not to think anything. He just got back in his car and drove along Wagon Trail Road. In his rearview he saw Martinez had turned off his flashing lights and slowed down, giving Lyle plenty of room. How could Martinez have missed the shiny blue Pontiac with its door open and the body by the road? Lyle crept along looking left and right, searching for the right spot. He recognized a curve in the road and, off to the right, a red rock formation in the shape of a giant igloo. The murder scene should be just ahead. Quarter of a mile passed. Half a mile. Where was it? The road now headed downhill. How did he miss it? And why hadn’t he noted the location more exactly on his GPS?

Lyle remembered having to pull off the road past the Firebird because of thick brush in the way, but that didn’t help. He looked back and to the left and saw the low, brush-covered bluff above the spot where he found the body. He’d passed it.

Pulling a swift U-turn, Lyle drew up next to Martinez, facing the other way. They both rolled down their windows.

We just passed the spot back there, Lyle said.

How far?

I dunno. Thousand feet. Maybe two.

Wagon Trail Road, right? Martinez said.

Uh huh.

Lyle now traveled uphill in the same direction he had been about two hours earlier only now he slowed to a crawl with the black and white right behind him. Plainly, the car and the body weren’t there.

It was the right road, the right spot. But where the hell was the body?

He passed the top of the rise where he knew he’d seen the car and almost pulled over where he’d parked earlier. Instead, he drove ahead a few hundred feet and nudged his car into a patch of hackberry, getting all but his left wheels off the pavement. He wiped sweat from his upper lip. The car thermometer said ninety-five. Martinez drove past Lyle and parked in a wide dirt area off the shoulder on the other side of the road.

Lyle walked purposefully along the edge of the blacktop looking for his tire tracks in the light terra cotta earth. He looked for twigs he might have broken when he’d pulled off the road with Sam. He saw nothing.

He shook his head slowly as he walked around the creosote and manzanita that bordered the road. The expanse of desert dust, rocks, and dry grasses ahead gave no hint that a car had been there earlier that day, or any day. No blood. No brass. Shit, this has to be the place. Lyle turned to look at the rocky outcrop he remembered above the other side of the road. He saw Martinez slowly looking from one side of the road to the other.

This is the damn spot, Rey. Right here. Lyle walked into the dirt. He waved his arms, making parallel arcs. The car had pulled in at an angle like this. The door was open and the body was here. He kicked the sand with his running shoe.

We looked down the road another three or four miles and didn’t see anything, Martinez said.

It wasn’t down there. It was right here. I remember that little cliff and these bushes. Sweat soaked the back of Lyle’s shirt and it stuck to him as he stood in the late afternoon sun. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand then interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on top of his head. He paused to take deep breaths, smelling sage and desert soil.

He looked down. The dirt, uneven and windblown, showed none of the footprints he thought he’d seen. If someone had cleaned up the mess, he did a hell of a job. Lyle looked over at Rey and for a fleeting second thought he saw disbelief on the face of the tall San Navarro Sheriff’s Department’s second in command. But now Martinez’s expression showed simply raised eyebrows and tight lips.

Lyle came to know Rey when someone sabotaged theme park rides at Nostalgia City. Drafted, almost against his wishes, to help investigate, Lyle became friends with Rey when he helped Martinez out of a tight situation. That counted for something. Rey would cut him some slack on this--what was it--a false alarm? But Rey also knew about Lyle’s Phoenix background before he went to work at Nostalgia City.

Lyle stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and paced the ground, no longer worried about disturbing the scene. He stopped at the spot where he thought the body had been and knelt down. Spreading the gritty soil with his fingers, he looked for traces of blood, or anything. Then he got up and walked farther off the road through the brush, hoping to see something out of place, a piece of clothing, a stray shell casing. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand in disbelief as