Raul leaned back against the sofa and crossed one long leg over the other. “I wanted to give you guys a little insight into my relationship with Ranger O’Bryant. We hate each other.”
Instead of saying, That’s blatantly obvious to anyone who has eyes, Dee went with “Thank you for the insight. Go on.”
Raul did so. “O’Bryant treats me like an annoyance, not a colleague. It gets to me.”
“Sounds like he’s jealous,” Dee said.
“Of what?” Raul shook his head, perplexed.
Dee eyed the smart young officer at the beginning of his career and thought of the paunchy ranger inching toward retirement. The contrast gave her a good inkling of why O’Bryant was jealous. But maybe it was something more obvious to a woman, because Jeff also looked mystified.
“The Goldsgone substation is small,” Raul continued.
“I rotate with one other deputy sheriff, Gerald Tejada, and there’s a civilian office manager. It’s meant to handle crimes like drunk-and-disorderly conduct, petty theft. Sometimes we tackle bigger crimes, like theft or domestic disturbance. And drugs. No matter how small a station is, that’s a chronic problem. The main sheriff’s station is in West Camp, the county seat. They work with Majestic Park law enforcement on bigger cases, like this one. They’re only letting me stay on it because they figure O’Bryant’s doing the heavy lifting. And it frees up all the guys in West Camp to focus on cases like busting meth labs and illegal grows in the backcountry.”
Hearing this, Jeff leaned forward. Dee knew him well enough to assume they were thinking the same thing: Michael’s murder might be tied to an illegal marijuana operation. The deep country of the state’s national parks was peppered with the operations, often run by dangerous cartels. “Maybe Baker was looking for a new source of funds,” Jeff said. “It’s possible he got on the wrong side of an illegal grow.”
Raul appeared doubtful. “I grew up on Mirror Lake. My family ran a bait-and-tackle shop and rented boats. At least during the summer. During winter, my parents led cross-country ski tours. But we barely got by. So Dad took over a plot of land in the backwoods and grew weed. Before it was legal. That is, until a cartel threatened to do away with him and his crop. Baker was older than me, so I don’t remember much about him. But what I do remember tells me he’d be too scared to get involved with a cartel.”
The sheriff had a point.
“You’re right,” Dee said. “Baker could be a bully, but he was also a coward. He’d be terrified of making up a fake cartel for a script.”
Raul adjusted his duster. “This flipping coat is a pain. I wish they’d let me wear a bomber jacket, like a normal sheriff.” He addressed the others. “I know you’ve been nosing around town trying to find other suspects in the murder. I get it. You need to clear your names and save your investment in the Golden. I can’t actively condone amateur sleuthing, but I’d like to solve this case and prove to certain people—okay, Ranger O’Bryant—that I’m an actual law enforcement officer and not some kind of cartoon character. If you come across any promising leads, feel free to share them. On the down-low. This is between us.”
Dee and Jeff responded with nervous nods. “Got it,” Dee said.
“Good,” Raul responded. “So, have you come across anything worth a closer look?”
Dee relayed what she’d garnered so far from inserting herself into the business of Liza Chen, Shawn Radinsky, and the Oakhursts.
“Be careful with Shawn,” Raul warned. “He’s got a temper on him. Brian Oakhurst is another story. He never liked Baker, because he felt like he could never live up to him in his mother’s eyes. Millie is okay, but she works part-time at the mercantile, and anyone who spends too much time with Verity Gillespie starts absorbing her poison. And forget about Liza. She’s good people.”
“From what I hear, Michael treated her badly,” Dee said. “She could have snapped.”
“Never.” Raul spoke with such vehemence, it took Dee aback. “Liza’s an incredible woman. She’s so much better than that piece of sh . . . that piece of dirt . . . deserved. Even if she was angry with Baker, she’d never give him that kind of power over her. Snoop elsewhere. She’s a dead end.”
It took enormous willpower on both Dee and Jeff’s parts not to exchange another discreet look.
Raul stood up. “You’ve got my number. If you run into anything that’ll put this case to bed, text me.”
Dee and Jeff let Raul out with a promise to do so.
“Wow,” Dee said as soon as she was sure the sheriff was out of hearing distance. “He is so in love with Liza.”
“From what you said, she’s beautiful, she’s nice, and she’s a good businesswoman.” Jeff grew wistful. “Sounds like my type.”
“Nah.” Dee shook her head. “She doesn’t seem psychotic.”
“Shut up,” Jeff said. But he said it with affection.
Dee wrinkled her brow as she pondered their conversation with the sheriff. “If Michael’s death wasn’t related to an illegal grow, it still could be related to money in some way. It’s very possible he was looking for a new source of income. His career was in trouble. He burned enough bridges to make it tough to get a staff job or even a one-off pilot deal. A lot of writers like him are too full of themselves to think they have to worry about offers drying up. They assume they’ll work forever. But unless you have a hot credit, one that’s evergreen, every sitcom writer’s career has an expiration date.”
Jeff glanced at her with a quizzical expression. “And you went into this business, exactly why?”
“Because you’re in the trenches with the funniest people you’ll ever meet. You hear your words coming out of the mouths of actors you can’t believe you get to work with. And when someone out there has a bad day, you hope that when they turn on their TV, the script you wrote will give them a break from it. And, hopefully, they’ll get to laugh.” Dee felt herself choking up. She coughed to clear her throat and contain her emotions. “With all the dysfunction and terrible hours and competition, I don’t regret a second of it. I’m so lucky I got to have the career I did. But I’m ready for a change and the Golden Motel is my future. Our future.”
Dee strode into her bedroom. She pulled open the whitewashed oak door of the closet and took out her carry-on suitcase. Jeff watched confused as she opened the dresser drawers and began extracting clothing she placed inside the suitcase.
“Whoa. What’s going on? Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles. Which means that instead of a semiprivate training session with Shawn Radinsky, you now get a one-on-one with him. Dig up whatever you can on him, or from him. But be subtle about it. I second what Raul said. Radinsky reads like a guy with a very short fuse.” She went back to the closet and dug around for her sundry bag. “I’m going to hit up a few acquaintances of mine and Michael’s to see if I can find out anything about his financials.” She hunted for her phone, which was buried under a T-shirt. “I better call Dad and tell him I’m coming down for a night. Maybe two.”
“Are you sure about this?” Jeff asked, concerned.
“With what happened to your mom . . . your relationship with your dad . . . going to the studios—it’s a lot of triggers for you.”
Dee stopped her whirlwind of activity. She gave Jeff a hug. “Thank you for worrying about me,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
She spoke with a confidence that belied her own fears.
CHAPTER 17
Dee texted the emergency contact Michael Adam Baker listed as his emergency contact on his motel registration form, a woman named Pria Hart. Having no idea what kind of relationship they had, she kept her message succinct. After she offered condolences, she used the return of Michael’s clothing—law enforcement was still holding tight to his electronics—as an excuse to meet in person and have a brief chat.
She then texted Mindy Baruch, a sitcom writer friend she’d made while working in the trenches at On the John, and then worked with on Duh! Mindy had also done punch-up for Michael on two pilots he wrote, which were shot but never picked up to series. Dee hoped Mindy, who knew Michael better than she did, could offer insight into his recent behavior and mindset.
Finally Dee texted the one person she found it hardest to communicate with: her father. He texted back a GIF of a cartoon ship’s captain clinging to the mast of a boat rocking on a high wave and the message: It’ll be great to “sea” ya! Dee expected the goofy response. Sam Stern was a voice actor who’d created so many cartoon characters in his long career that he’d earned the nickname “The Man of a Million Voices.” Dee loved him dearly, but as she read the meme, she thought with sadness that she could always count on her dad to hide his emotions behind a GIF, a meme, or a goofy cartoon voice.
