Guilty by Association: A Henry Wright Mystery

By Albert Simon

Henry Wright, retired from the police and living in Palm Springs, California, is asked to help identify a body found in the desert. He and his fiancee, Gloria, set out on an adventure that takes them from the remote desert in the Coachella Valley to the Pacific Ocean and San Diego. Can they identify the mystery woman and more importantly find her killer? Join the pair as they unravel this latest mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ocotillo Books
• Release date: Jul 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780976200307

Albert Simon

Albert Simon has been writing most of his life, creating and illustrating his first book in his native Dutch at the age of seven. His success with the Henry Wright Mysteries continue to win praises from his readers. His writings are available as eBooks for all major eReaders. Simon's short essays have been published in the local newspapers, and he has written a number of short stories. Henry Wright, who Simon created for the current mystery series, allows him to be creative and have fun with his fictional characters' personalities and adventures. He is a member of the California Writers Club and was a frequent reader at Open Mic Night hosted by the Peninsula Chapter. He is involved with the founding of a Mother Lode branch of the CWC. Albert and his wife have four daughters and live in Palm Springs, California with their two miniature Dachshunds.

Book preview

Guilty

by

Association

a

Henry Wright Mystery

by

Albert Simon

Other books by Albert Simon

The Henry Wright Mystery Series:

For Sale in Palm Springs

Springtime in Sonora

Mystery on the Tramway

Drama in the Mother Lode

Coachella Valley Traffic Jam

Guilty by Association

a Henry Wright Mystery

by

Albert Simon

ISBN 0-976200-31-7

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2009-2018 by Albert Simon

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. This e-Book is licensed to the user that purchased it for reading on any computer or eReader.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

For information, contact: http://www.ocotillobooks.com

For all the volunteers who work thanklessly on behalf of Homeowners Associations around the world.

Chapter 1

The desert retained the heat of the day and though the sun disappeared behind the San Jacinto's peaks hours ago, the rocks and desert sand were still hot from the day’s punishing rays, and it remained warm out here. In the old truck bouncing through the desert, the man’s throat felt dry and his lips were covered with dust as he licked them for the umpteenth time. The passenger window was down; its mechanism frozen in place and it would never roll up again. Through it came the dust and it went straight for the man’s face. More dust filled the cab, but was seemingly attracted most to the man’s exposed skin.

The pickup rattled and complained as it made its way along a barely visible track and climbed deeper into the desert. The man inside the cab fought with the wheel as it bumped and jerked along what must have been a wagon road long ago.

The man driving took one hand off the steering wheel and searched for the bottle of water that he had put on the bench seat next to him when he set out. It had slid towards the passenger door and he reached it as the truck jerked the steering wheel out of his hand.

He abandoned the idea of the water bottle and put both hands back on the large steering wheel. He wasn’t a weak man by any means, but the muscles in his forearms tensed as he fought the truck’s tendency to follow the ruts. It seemed like the truck conspired with the desert to keep him from making this night trip. The old pickup had finished its life's duty and preferred to stay in its normal parking space outside its owner’s place of business. The ancient machine liked the regular task it was given, a billboard with garish signs advertising a business on its wooden stake sides.

Finally, after what seemed like two hours, but was really half that, the truck stopped next to a small shed in the middle of nowhere. The man got out, fished in his pockets for a single key amongst his change and unlocked the old padlock on the metal door. As he struggled in the faint light of the truck's six-volt headlights to put the key in, he thought why bother with a lock? Who would want to come way out here anyway? And what are they protecting, there’s just a bunch of electric motors and crap inside this old shed.

As he twisted the lock open, he smiled. This place was actually perfect for his task. He’d have to hand it to the boss, he’s always thinking. Like assigning him this little errand instead of one of those other idiots that he worked with that couldn’t even put a sentence together. He didn’t think his boss knew about his previous experience, but he had still picked him. Surely, it showed a level of trust, didn’t it? He’d probably get a little bonus for this, maybe even a promotion.

The door creaked open and he looked inside, the equipment hummed quietly and the digital displays glowed with a faint green. He didn’t know what all this stuff was, but it didn’t matter. Everything appeared normal and it was a great place for his mission. He walked the few steps back to the truck and worked the rusted chains that held the tailgate on out of their sockets.

The package in the back was awkward and the tarp was tied with heavy nylon trucker’s rope. It had bounced towards the front of the bed and he had to put his knee on the tailgate to reach it and pull it out. He shoved one of the advertising stake sides out of the way and grabbed the bundle by one of the ends of the rope. Despite its weight and bulkiness he casually slung it over his shoulder and carried it towards the open door of the shed.

As he stepped in the doorway, he heard a sound and looked over his shoulder. No one would be out here now, would they? Yet there it was again, at first it seemed like a car thudding along the same set of tracks that he had just come upon, but he held his breath, listened more intently and thought he could identify the sound. He’d heard this many years ago in a different time in a different place.

He’d been out at night also at that time, but instead of being selected he’d volunteered for the task. It certainly had not been as hot there as here, but it was just as barren. He remembered standing still then, waiting for the approaching sound and the relief and help it would bring. He shook the memory from his head and decided that if it was the same sound, it would definitely not be a relief here. No, not at all, in fact, it was trouble if it was what he thought.

He decided not to linger and dropped the bundle inside the shed, closed the door and put the padlock back on. He covered the short distance to the truck in three strides, slammed the tailgate shut and started wrestling with the chains to get them back to their original rusted out spots.

Just then the sound reappeared and not a hundred feet over his head, a helicopter with its unmistaken whoosh-whoosh of large blades blew right over him on its way to somewhere beyond the next ridge. The man didn’t even really see the chopper, all of its navigation lights were off and it appeared as a darker spot against an already dark night sky.

What kind of idiot was flying a chopper without lights in the middle of the night in the desert, and where were they going? He was miles away from the nearest town or location. It had to be a stunt by the crazy pilots from the Marine base at Twenty Nine Palms.

He flashed back to a world away the pilots were a little crazy and enjoyed showing off their night gear and how they could sneak up on a platoon on patrol in total darkness and practically make them wet their pants. Bastards! He thought. This isn’t a war zone; they’re just a bunch of macho showoffs, buzzing over the desert as if it were a foreign country. At least it had kept going on its own mission, it would not have been good for the man if the chopper had hovered and checked on him.

As he opened the pickup door, he thought back again to his other mission. There were a lot of similarities here in the desert of California to the mountains of Afghanistan. Barren, inhospitable, dangerous, except over there it was always cold at night while it was the exact opposite here. Shaking off the memory, he climbed back into the pickup, found his bottle of water rinsed out his mouth and spit out sand. Then he took a long drink before putting the truck in gear to start the long bumpy ride back to the home base.

A little more than an hour later the truck reached the pavement where the tires left gray dusty tracks on the black asphalt as he headed back. Another twenty minutes and he parked the truck in its usual spot, pulled the stake sides out of the bed and put them back where they belonged. He lifted up the driver’s side floor mat and dropped the truck’s key onto the metal floorboard. Fishing in his pocket for the padlock’s key he gently put it down - almost reverently - before dropping the mat back into place.

He dusted his clothes off the best he could. Looking down at his seemingly ruined sneakers the thought entered his mind that he probably should have worn the surplus desert boots he kept in his apartment's entry closet. He probably should have done a lot of things differently tonight but he took a risk and it seemed to have paid off.

He walked over to his own car, started it up with a new appreciation for its air conditioning, power steering and the stereo he had just upgraded last month. He was back at his apartment in another ten minutes and looked at the digital clock that reminded him of the displays in the shed. It read three fifteen AM, he was going to be late for work in the morning but he knew the boss would understand.

Chapter 2

The digital watch started beeping and he didn’t reach for it right away. It seemed to get more insistent the longer he ignored it, but he knew that was impossible. When he reached the wall at the end of the pool he stopped, put his feet on the bottom, flipped his goggles on top of his head, squinted in the bright sunlight, and pushed the button on the watch which seemed happier now that it was silent. He wiped the water off his face, blinked his eyes and saw his fiancée Gloria sitting on a chaise lounge next to the bougainvillea, wearing a big fluffy white towel around her, rolled down over her velvety shoulders, and holding a steaming mug of coffee.

He climbed out of the pool as Gloria stood up, set the mug down and proceeded to wrap the towel around his waist.

Good morning honey. She said as she dried some water droplets off his chest.

Hmmmmm, he answered as he took his first sip of coffee. An hour before she had been asleep in their bed as he kissed her hip before rolling out of bed and making coffee in the kitchen. While it was brewing, he had grabbed his watch, set the stopwatch for its usual forty-five minutes and walked out through the French doors in the kitchen to the pool to start swimming his morning laps.

They exchanged places and he sat down on the chaise lounge sipping his morning coffee while watching Gloria swimming more relaxed slow laps than his had been. His eyes were now used to the bright sun that had been up less than half an hour and he pulled the swim goggles from the top of his head and put them on the small table next to the chaise lounge. Taking his eyes off Gloria, he looked around the garden oasis he had created.

He’d moved to Palm Springs after retiring as Chief of Police from the small force in Eagle Lake, Wisconsin. Shortly before he retired, his wife Irma unexpectedly died while they were house hunting for a place where they could live for the rest of their lives. They were in Las Vegas when Irma suffered a stroke and collapsed in their hotel bathroom. After that, the thought of living in Las Vegas repulsed him and at the invitation of his old friend Wayne Johnson, Henry came out to the Southern California desert and he bought a house on Mel Avenue in old Palm Springs.

It was older, what’s called mid-century here, meaning that it was built in the nineteen fifties when Henry was still in grade school. The curb appeal wasn’t great, just a flat low roofed façade, with a two car garage facing the quiet street. Like most homes in Palm Springs, the house turned its back on the street; it was designed so that the owners would do their living in the backyard.

The home was in the shape of a U, with the kitchen and living room in the middle connecting two wings. A hallway ran down either end of the house and each wing had two bedrooms. All of the rooms had French doors that opened to the backyard and its large pool. He, and now Gloria, resided in one of the wings where in addition to their bedroom, Henry had a modest office.

It needed work when he first moved in, something he did with total focus. The home improvement project became his therapy to work through the loss of Irma. He’d started with the master bedroom and made that livable. Then, before tackling the rest of the house he reworked the backyard into the lush tropical garden that surrounded the pool. There was so much about gardening in this climate that he didn’t know then. The crew he hired to help him showed him which plants were best for the desert climate and though his Spanish was worse than their English, Henry received a great education in desert gardening in the twelve months it took to transform the once dying, barren yard into the tropical oasis that now surrounded them.

As an addition to the therapy the garden provided, it bloomed as well, as he planted more plants and ran lines for his extensive drip irrigation system, and began to feel like he was getting over the loss of Irma. He did become a bit of a hermit while he was working on the house, only going out to get more potting soil or groceries to keep him going.

The home’s other wing was occupied by his roommate, Charles Knightly III, a retired high school history teacher from San Francisco. Wayne Johnson and his wife, Elliot, became concerned about Henry shutting himself out from society, and suggested he visit the local senior center to, as they said, just see what is going on in your neighborhood.

Henry met Charles in the game room where Charles was the only one that could either tie him, or sometimes beat him, at a game of pool. Charles had been looking for a place to live that would