Murder Unleashed Read online

  Murder Unleashed is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Rita Mae Brown

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of

  Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Illustrations © Laura Hartman Maestro

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53017-2

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Jacket design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Jacket art: Jamie Warren-Youll

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Afterword and Aftermath

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Magdelena Reed, “Jeep”—Born into poverty in 1924, she’s now one of the wealthiest women in Nevada. Always a trailblazer and a high-spirited lover of life, Jeep was a WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilot) in World War II. A lifetime of smarts, hard work, and a little luck has yielded her a comfortable life on her sprawling Wings Ranch, but dust doesn’t settle on this octogenarian: when someone needs help, she’s ready, willing, and able.

  Magdalena Rogers, “Mags”—After the death her parents, she was raised by her great-aunt Jeep and taught the importance of honest labor and common sense. Despite this, Mags toiled for years on Wall Street until her career as a stockbroker went down in flames. Far from being a freeloader, after returning impoverished to Wings Ranch at age thirty-two she’s hard at work blazing a new path; it may be that her passion for revving car engines and a certain cop will help Mags find the fulfillment she seeks.

  Deputy Peter Meadows, “Pete”—Reno police detective with a strong pitching arm and a good nose (for a human) for detecting the truth. Divorced from local TV reporter Lorraine Matthews, this tall drink of water has caught the eye of Mags, who thinks he’s something special. A razor-sharp mind, a dogged devotion, and a rugged jaw are among Pete’s notable qualities.

  Officer Lonnie Parrish—Pete’s twentysomething partner on the Reno PD, Lonnie is eager to learn the art of detection from Pete, though he’s easily distracted by bacon cheeseburgers and beautiful women. Still, it’s sometimes surprising what the kid picks up.

  Barbara Gallagher, “Babs”—In her late forties and impeccably coiffed, she’s the owner and chief broker of Benjamin Realty. Boldness, intelligence, and a “can-do” attitude have brought her business success and many admirers. Though hardly a political person, a heart of gold and a strong social conscience lead Babs to come up with innovative strategies to help her ailing community.

  Howie Norris—Ex-v.p. of Reno National Bank, chairman emeritus of the city’s annual Bus Expo, irascible Howie takes justifiable pride in the annual convention’s rollicking, utterly eccentric bus parade. Howie’s ranch is just four miles from Jeep’s and the two go way back (and that means way back). A man with few enemies, it’s hard to figure why anyone would sneak up behind him with a rock.

  Donald Veigh—Unable to earn a working wage to pay for a roof over his head, he squats in an abandoned foreclosed house on Reno’s Spring Street. The young man keeps an eye on his neighbors—both defensively and protectively. It’s tragic to see a smart young person unable to get a job, yet Donald refuses to give up.

  Michelle Speransky—The gorgeous and successful senior loan portfolio manager at Reno Sagebrush United, it may be that she understands the ongoing housing crisis better than anyone in Reno. Many seek Michelle’s guidance, and Mags looks up to her.

  Bunny Matthews—A fortiesh hardworking employee of Silver States Resource Management (SSRM), Bunny has a sharp mind and great skills with a wrench, though he’d do well to keep his temper under control and his mouth shut. It just might be that the love of a kind woman could sand down those sharp edges.

  Twinkie Bosum—Two years older than Bunny and his partner at SSRM, “there ain’t nothing Twinkie can’t fix,” though it’s no easy task keeping Bunny out of hot water.

  Patrick Wentworth—You know the type: a local politico running for Congress, this blowhard’s undisguised ambition and misguided crusades rub a whole lot of folks the wrong way.

  Teton Benson—A disgraced rich boy, ex-thief, and ex-drug addict, he’s got a penchant for bestowing lavish gifts on big-busted, inattentive strippers. When the going gets tough, Teton heads for the hills.

  Lark XX—A hardworking employee at Reno’s Black Box, she’s kind to lovestruck Teton, but has plans to escape the topless life. Appearances deceive, as she knows, and if anyone fails to see the brains behind her more obvious assets—well, their mistake.

  Tu’Lia—Most strippers are in it for the money, but Lark’s best friend, the gregarious and ever optimistic Tu’Lia, craves the attention. Unfortunately, such an ardent desire for the spotlight can land a person in deep trouble.

  The Deceased (or some of them)

  Robert Dalrymple, “Bob”—Smart, but not smart enough, this ex-gambler and ex-banker was in his mid-thirties when a love of money led him to the wrong side of the tracks and a spectacularly bloody end.

  Dorothy Jocham, “Dot”—With an exquisite eye and a great passion for art, Dot exposed Jeep to the finer things in life, artistic and otherwise. Jeep’s greatly cherished life partner, Dot didn’t live into the twenty-first century, though her loving presence and keen wit are dearly missed every single day.

  Daniel Marks—An ex-fighter pilot, Jeep’s other life partner died in 2001. A rough-hewn man who helped build a business empire with Jeep. Until the day he died this remarkable man revered Jeep and her huge capacity to love. When big-hearted people meet big-hearted people, amazing things can happen, and do.

  The Saviors

  King—A somewhat arrogant Shepherd mix who thinks he knows best—as he often does. Handsome, strong, and frequently baffled by the foibles of humans, if Jeep would only let King sleep on her bed more often, life woul
d be perfect.

  Baxter—A Manhattan transplant to the Nevada desert, this pint-sized, wire-haired dachshund has managed to win King’s respect after some not insignificant friction. Unflaggingly loyal and brave, size doesn’t matter—or so he tells himself.

  Ruff—Hard to trust a coyote, but it turns out he’s a fairly straightforward canine—as long as one steers clear of his bones. Also, Ruff’s in possession of a valuable secret that a good many others would love to know.

  Toothpick—You’d be timid and jittery, too, if you were homeless and starving. After tragedy strikes, the skinny Manchester Terrier is hoping for a miracle to save him, and hope’s a powerful thing—for dogs, humans, and all animals.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Waiting for spring in Reno, Nevada, is like playing weather roulette. Just when you think the ball will drop on your lucky number, the winds pick up, the mercury plunges, and the odds turn against you one more time.

  Tuesday, March 15, dawned promising, but that promise was soon dashed as low clouds rolled over the Peterson Mountains. Babs Gallagher—late forties, owner and chief broker of Benjamin Realty—drove past the Aces baseball park toward one of Reno’s modest working-class neighborhoods. She noticed the darkening skies, flicked on the SUV’s radio for a weather report, and instead heard an ad for a used-car dealer.

  Like many other real estate agents, Babs had computer files chock-full of old, possibly expired listings. She had printed some out, and decided today to visit a neighborhood especially rife with them. As she was the listing agent, she wanted to see firsthand if there remained any hope of future sales. She could have sent out another agent from Benjamin Realty, but one of the reasons Babs had succeeded over the years was that she did her own homework.

  Street after street of abandoned homes signaled the hard economic times assaulting her state. Nevada led the nation in foreclosures and unemployment, although sometimes it shared the dubious distinction of the highest unemployment statistics with other benighted states, such as Michigan.

  While not a political partisan, Babs kept up with newsworthy events. Unlike the government in Washington, D.C., the state government of Nevada couldn’t print more money. Nevada would need to be resourceful and make unpopular, unpleasant decisions if it was to crawl out of this economic morass.

  She pulled over on Spring Street. Keeping her motor running to ward off the cold, she propped her folder onto the steering wheel and flipped it open to the first page: 267 Spring Street. There were a number of expired listings on this one block alone.

  Buttoning her coat, and taking her folder of listings, she stepped outside into the chilly air. Walking up the sidewalk to the front door of 267, she noted the real estate office’s lockbox was missing. Gingerly, Babs tried the doorknob. The door opened.

  Stepping inside, she was surprised. Even with the busted door, the interior remained in good shape. As she went room to room, she noted on her sheet that the appliances were missing. Other than that, nothing was destroyed. She flicked a light switch. Nothing. Tried a faucet. The water had been cut off.

  Making a few more notes, she left, walking down the street to another expired listing. She passed empty house after empty house. Some were boarded up. No “For Sale” signs in what was left of these front yards. Other sellers and real estate agents had given up.

  As she opened the door to 232—lockbox also missing from the doorknob—Babs heard someone in the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Babs called out, voice friendly.

  A young man, perhaps twenty, stuck his head around the doors then stepped into the living room. “Are you the owner? I haven’t taken anything.”

  “No. I’m the real estate agent.”

  “Oh.” Sandy-haired and slight, the young man wore only a sweater, inadequate against the cold.

  “You have no heat?”

  “No. There’s no heat, electricity, or water. But it’s better than sleeping on the street. Are you gonna throw me out?”

  “No,” she answered, unsure what to do. “How do you keep warm?”

  He pointed to a small ceramic chimenea, an outdoor stove that he’d placed in the living-room fireplace. Focusing only on him, she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “At night I put wood in. Most everyone down here has something like this that they light up once the police patrols pass by. They don’t usually come back after nine. So we start fires. It helps.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just put wood in the fireplace?”

  “The ceramic holds the heat better.” He smiled.

  “Light?”

  “An oil lantern. Smells a little.”

  “I see.” She looked him in the eye. He looked like a decent enough guy. “How did you come to this?”

  He shrugged. “I was working my way through UNR, lost my job and had to drop out. I couldn’t get another job and I don’t yet have my degree.”

  “I’m not sure it would help in these times.” She held out her hand. “Babs Gallagher. I own Benjamin Realty.”

  “You’re not throwing me out? Are you going to report me? The cops don’t like squatters.”

  “Actually, I’d rather have someone inside the house who isn’t destructive than for it to be empty. Here’s my card.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How many people are living in the neighborhood?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of houses have somebody in them. Some have whole families.” He paused. “If you go three blocks east it’s full of crack dealers, meth dealers. I hope they don’t move into our neighborhood. It’s the end when they do.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “Your name?”

  “Donald Veigh.”

  She headed for the door. “I promise not to tell.”

  Once back in her SUV—a good vehicle in which to haul clients, especially if they were tall—she sat for a moment. Then she started the motor, turned the vehicle around, and drove to 141 Spring.

  Again, the lockbox had been removed. Opening the door, Babs surprised a little girl, who was bundled up and riding a pink tricycle around the living room. The chill in this house was sharper than that in Donald Veigh’s.

  Smiling, Babs asked, “Where’s your mommy?”

  “Out? Who are you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Gallagher. That’s a nice tricycle.”

  “Uncle Bob bought it for me. I have lots of uncles. Do you?”

  “I did.” Babs’s voice sounded soothing. “Are you here alone?”

  “Mommy told me never to answer that.”

  “I see. Do you have any idea where Mommy is?”

  “She’s next door. She works there and I have to stay here while she works.”

  “I see.” Babs walked into the kitchen. The child followed, nearly running her over.

  The kitchen counter held bottled water neatly lined up, canned food, and a small camp stove. A skillet rested on the one burner.

  A cooler was on the floor.

  “Honey, when was the last time you ate?”

  The little girl shrugged.

  Babs then asked, “Are you hungry?”

  The child, not fearfully but forcefully, replied, “Mommy told me never to take food from anyone.”

  “Your mommy told you some important things. I’ll go next door and talk to her.”

  “She’ll get mad.”

  With that warning in her ears, Babs left the little girl to her tricycle and walked across the denuded front lawn to the next house, which wasn’t her listing. She noticed a few cars parked farther down the street.

  She was going to knock on the door but then she thought better of it. Carefully, she opened the door. It was warmer in this house. Unlike Donald Veigh, whoever lived here wasn’t worried about smoke. Perhaps they had made some sort of deal with the police.

  Babs listened. The unmistakable sounds of sex filtered down the stairs.

  Sighing, she let herself out. Maybe crack dealers hadn’t moved in yet but other dysfunctions had.

  She thought about the child in 14
1 and wondered if she should wait until her mother finished up and joined the little girl. She thought better of it. The child seemed fine, knew her mother was next door, and Babs had nothing to offer the little girl. Even if she’d bought food, the kid would not have eaten it. She seemed clear about her mother’s orders.

  Back in her car, she removed her coat and turned on the ignition. The heat was welcome.

  If she reported these people, they’d be thrown out—and they’d go where? The shelters were jammed. They might be turned away, banished to the cold.

  As numerous courses of action ran through her mind, she noticed several children coming home from school. She watched as they entered various abandoned homes. Opening a front door, a haggard mother hugged a boy with a heavy backpack.

  How did these people survive? No water. No heat. No electricity. How did they bathe?

  Donald Veigh had no furniture that she’d seen. Perhaps some of these people slept in beds, sat at kitchen tables.

  How had it come to this? Who knew about this hidden segment of society, and more to the point, who cared?

  For professional reasons, Babs worked hard to cultivate good relationships with bankers. She always tried to steer her clients toward the responsible banks but people, being who they are, jumped at low rates, low down payments without considering the fine print. Babs called those kinds of loans “Liar’s Loans,” because the loan officials making these offers invariably knew that sooner or later the mortgagee wouldn’t be able to make their payment. Three missed payments and you’re out.

  What the banks had never foreseen was these same people, disenfranchised by these upside-down mortgages, simply walking into the bank and handing back the keys. There was no longer enough value in those homes to fight for ownership.

  Still sitting in her SUV, Babs spotted the woman she assumed to be the tricycle child’s mother in her rearview mirror. The woman left her place of employment and headed to 141. Of medium build, in her late twenties, she was raven-haired and attractive.

  About to pull away from the curb, Babs stopped when a Silver State Resource Management truck rolled down the road. She put the car in gear and followed.

  The truck stopped in front of a house with a blue door. The SSRM driver, Twinkie Bosun, got out.