Chapter Twenty-Three Margo Angelhart
Chapter Twenty-Three
Margo Angelhart
I had never worked directly with Nate before, and I’ll admit it was weird. Nate had worked part-time for Angelhart Investigations
since he left the Navy, but I only started working with my family six months ago.
Nate didn’t talk much, and he had an aura of both confidence and deep stillness. He reminded me of a couple of the guys I’d
worked with in the Army, the type who excelled in the military, but maybe for the wrong reasons. I hadn’t enlisted to escape
demons; Nate had. I hoped he had left them on the battlefield, because when you couldn’t, it caused untold problems in civilian
life.
He seemed to be doing okay.
I showed him Novak’s photo, before and now. “I reached out to his daughter earlier, she didn’t answer. She’s twenty and at
ASU. Honor House told me she wanted to know where her father was and she might be in a position to help him.”
“He might not want her to see him the way he is.”
“True, but having support helps.”
Nate grunted noncommittally, then stopped talking.
Maybe I should have brought Jack.
The Scatter Wash came off the mountains, went under the 101 freeway, and cut through neighborhoods until it met up with Skunk
Creek. It was usually dry, filled with trees, broken branches, shrubs, and lots of rocks and boulders of all sizes. Wild animals—coyotes,
javelinas, and the occasional bobcat had been seen in the area. And snakes, which I detested after I’d been bit by a rattlesnake
when I was a kid.
A path was built along the southern edge of the wash, which was primarily for flood control. Years ago a homeless woman who
had been sleeping in a culvert had been washed away during a flash flood, so law enforcement tried to keep people from camping
there, but it still happened with some regularity.
We parked at a turnout near the wash on Forty-Third Avenue, which would give us easy access both east and west.
It was a fifteen-mile walk from the VA medical center to the wash. It could be done in a day, but it would be exhausting,
even now in November when the weather was mild. There was no guarantee that Novak was here.
We first walked east using the jogging trail. Fenced yards backed up to the wash, which was a good ten to twelve feet below
street level and between 200 and 250 feet wide, filled with scraggly bushes, a few stocky trees, and lots of rocks and debris
from the last monsoon. We passed a lone jogger, an older couple walking and holding hands, a couple of young teens who were
clearly up to no good—probably smoking pot—and skirted away when Nate gave them the evil eye. We edged around a big hill of
black rocks that would be interesting to anyone who cared about geology. Which wasn’t me.
Not only did we not see Jim Novak, but we didn’t encounter any homeless. Once past the rock outcropping, the wash was barren—no
shade, no place to camp. So we stood there and surveyed the edge, where the trees and shrubs ended.
“There,” I said, gesturing to the opposite side of the wash where I saw a glint of metal. “Is that a shopping cart?”
Nate nodded, and we carefully scrambled down the side into the wash and crossed to the other side.
The camp was empty. A grocery cart with a sleeping bag, wool blanket, a couple bags that might contain food, a half-filled
liter of cheap whiskey. Cans and bottles were in one black garbage bag; another bag was tied closed. All partly concealed
by bushes.
“Think that’s his stuff?” I asked Nate.
“Could be,” Nate said. “It’s packed fairly neat, someone who wants his space kept clean, no garbage lying around.”
We both looked across the wash. This was a good place to stay, I thought, one of the few sections that didn’t back up to someone’s
property. Instead, it backed up to a field at the edge of a school. A place to avoid confrontation, and if neighbors didn’t
see a homeless guy, they wouldn’t call the police to have him removed.
“We’ll check out the other side, then come back here,” I suggested.
Nate didn’t argue and followed me as I walked down the center of the wash, mindful of ankle-breaking rocks and rodent holes.
We climbed out near Forty-Third Avenue, encountered a lone man in shorts and a sweatshirt fast-walking with two shiny Irish
setters. Nate nodded appreciatively at the beautiful animals.
“Why don’t you get a dog?” I said. “You’re all alone in that big house with that huge backyard.”
He shrugged. “I’ve thought about it,” he said. “When the right dog comes along.”
He said it as if he was talking about marriage and finding the right woman.
“Heard you got a cat,” he said.
“It was foisted upon me,” I said. “He likes Cal more than me.”
Nate stifled a laugh.
We crossed the road, then went back down to the wash. This side was twice as wide and the houses came right up to the edge
because the raised pathway ended just after the road. There were worn trails throughout and signs of recent dirt bikes. We
walked four blocks until we hit where the wash merged with Skunk Creek.
There was no water in Skunk Creek now, but during heavy rains it came down from the mountain on the north side of the 101.
This intersection would bring in heavy water that would eventually be channeled to New River. We lived in a desert. Most of
the year these channels, canals, and washes were bone-dry. But when it rained, we needed them to prevent the entire valley
from flooding.
Lying under a tree was a man who was clearly homeless, his head on a jacket. Sleeping off a binge? Maybe. He wasn’t Jim Novak—this
man was darker with black hair.
Nate and I glanced at each other, and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. We approached the man but stood several
feet away to give him space so he didn’t feel threatened.
“Hey, sir,” Nate said in a voice that was firm but kind.
He opened his eyes. “Not bothering anyone.”
“We’re looking for a friend and thought you might be able to help.”
The man coughed, rolled to his back, didn’t say anything.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “I’m Margo, this is Nate.”
“Gene.”
“Hi, Gene,” I said. “We’re looking for a man named Jim.”
My phone vibrated with a text message, but I ignored it.
“Don’t know.”
“It’s really important that we find him,” I said. “He’s a veteran, his daughter is looking for him, she’s worried.”
Gene grunted.
“We found his camp on the other side of the wash,” I said, though I didn’t know for a fact it belonged to Novak.
“Then why ya bugging me? Go ’way.”
“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, were you in the service?” Nate asked. “I was Navy myself.”
Gene opened his eyes, then put his arm over his forehead to shield them from the early-afternoon light.
“Did a couple years in the Army, back in the day,” Gene said. “Long, long time ago.”
While the homeless crisis was complex, my heart went out to people like Gene who had served their country and then came back
to a changed world and little help to cope.
There were programs, there were opportunities, but I thought back to the PTSD drug trial that failed and how there would always
be greedy people who took advantage of those who needed help.
“Margo here was Army,” Nate said. “Fort Hood.”
“Humph,” Gene said. “Irwin.”
Irwin trained for desert warfare, and Gene looked about the age to have served during Desert Storm. Older than me, older than
Novak.
“You can go now,” Gene said.
“Have you seen Jim in the last couple days?” Nate asked.
“If I say yes will you leave me be?”
“Only if you’re telling the truth,” Nate said.
“Yesterday. We shared a pint here, he went up to his camp, I stayed. Now go.”
“Thanks,” Nate said. He stood, reached into his backpack and pulled out a water bottle and an energy bar. “For after your
nap,” he said and put them on a large rock. “If you want a room, let me know.” He slid his business card under the water bottle.
We walked away.
“He’s not going to take you up on it,” I said.
“Probably not,” Nate said, not looking at me, his shades concealing his eyes.
“It’s fucked,” I said.
“Yep,” Nate said.
We headed back toward Forty-Third. I looked at my phone. Luisa wanted to talk, said she had an idea to get info out of the
VA and needed my help. I pocketed the phone.
“What?” Nate asked.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You have that thinking look on your face.”
“We should wait for Novak. He’ll come back.”
“Yeah, he will, but we don’t know when. I’ll wait—you have other people to find.”
“It could take all day.”
“Do you think that Jim Novak has information that’s going to help your dad?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Then I’m staying. Give me that information about the place in Cave Creek you mentioned.”
“How are you going to get him there?”
“I’m keeping your Jeep.”
“You are?”
“Yep. You can Uber back.”
“You’re annoying,” I said.
“Well, I figure getting Novak to get into a stranger’s little Kia is going to be a lot more difficult that telling him I’ll
take him someplace.”
“You think he’ll go with you?”
“Yep.”
“Cocky.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll stay until he gives me the information you need. It’s important, Margo, and truly, I’m going to have more success with Jim than you.”
He was right, though I didn’t like to hear it.
Nate was a complex guy.
I pulled out my keys, took off the key to the Jeep, and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed.
“Good luck,” I said, pulled out my phone, and ordered up an Uber.