Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7) by Anthony Strong (ebooks that read to you .TXT) 📕

“And where would we find her?”

“Go through that door over there,” Campbell said, pointing across the lobby away from the casino to a door marked STAFF ONLY. “That’s the administrative offices. She’ll be the first door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Barnes said. “Are you going to be here for a while?”

“Until at least six,” Campbell replied.

“Perfect. If we have any further questions, we’ll come find you.”

“Sure.” Campbell shrugged and turned, making his way back into the gutted casino.

Barnes and Decker headed in the other direction and soon found Penny Blake’s office.

Barnes knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said from within.

Barnes opened the door and stepped inside with Decker right behind.

Penny Blake was a rail thin woman in her early fifties who wore too much makeup and obviously bleached her hair. If it surprised her to receive a visit from the FBI, she didn’t show it.

Barnes handed her the search warrant and explained the situation. This time he didn’t hold back the news of Harlan and Wagner’s deaths.

Penny looked shocked. The color drained from her face. “Oh my, that’s terrible.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from a box on the desk, then dabbed her eyes. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen them today. I never imagined they were dead.”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of tragic news,” Barnes replied. “We found them in the desert, near an old mine entrance. You wouldn’t happen to know what they were doing there, would you?”

“An old mine?” Penny shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Harlan wasn’t exactly the outdoors type.”

Barnes nodded.

Penny glanced down at the search warrant. “I suppose you want access to the penthouse?”

“That would be helpful.”

Penny stood and crossed to a safe set into the wall behind her. She dialed a combination and opened it. Decker saw rows of keys hanging on hooks inside. When she turned around again, there was a plastic card in her hand.

“Here,” she said, offering them the key card. “Harlan always keeps a spare in the safe.”

“Thank you.” Barnes accepted it. “We’ll let you know when we’re done up there. I don’t know how long it will be.”

“Okay. I’ll be here for a few more hours, at least.” Penny gave them a sad smile. “Although who knows if I’ll be here tomorrow. Guess I need to look for another job.”

Barnes looked uncomfortable. “If you’re not around when we’re done, I’ll slip the key under the door.”

Penny nodded and pulled another tissue from the box with a loud sniff. A tear ran down her cheek. She was still crying when they left the office, closing the door behind them, and turned back toward the lobby.

Chapter Fifty-Four

The penthouse belonging to the recently deceased Harlan Biggs, on the top floor of the Prospectors Paradise Hotel and Casino, was a world away from what most people would consider swanky living. A set of keys that bore a Porsche logo sat on a side table next to the door, and the living room contained a wet bar fit for an alcoholic, but other than that, the place was tired and old. The furniture, though high-quality, bore the scars of faded opulence. The walls were covered with framed photographs, many of them black and white and obviously harkening back to the glory days of the brat pack. Some were signed. Most were not. Decker recognized such luminaries as Wayne Newton, Sammy Davis Junior, Elvis Presley, and Bob Newhart. He wondered if these performers had any connection to the hotel, or if they were just stage dressing for Harlan Biggs’ ego. Not that it mattered anymore. The man who lived in a faded penthouse suite atop a struggling hotel and casino would never be back.

“What’s that god-awful stench?” Barnes asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Smells like garbage,” Decker said, crossing the living room and approaching the bar. “It’s worse, closer to the window.”

“Some penthouse. Smells more like a flophouse.” Barnes spent a moment studying the collection of photographs, then turned away, his eyes roving around the room. “Doesn’t look like there’s much of interest in here.”

“Agreed. Although I’m not exactly sure what we’re even looking for.”

“We’ll know when we see it, I guess.” Barnes pointed toward a door near the bar, beyond which an unmade bed was visible, sheets ruffled. “I’m going to check in there.”

“Sure. I’ll take the kitchen,” Decker said. He crossed back through the living room to the entrance hall and was about to turn right into the small kitchen, when he saw another door to his left. He poked his head inside and discovered an office with dark wood shelves lining the walls. A desk occupied the center of the room, over which hung a brass ceiling fan.

Decker stepped inside, curious. If Harlan Biggs had left any clues regarding his activities out in the desert, and why he was so interested in the Ghost Canyon Mine, this felt like the logical place for them.

When he saw a leather-bound volume, much older than the rest of the books in the room, his hunch was rewarded. It lay on the desk next to an empty whiskey glass. Decker felt a tingle of anticipation. It was conspicuous enough to be what they were looking for.

Decker approached the desk and sat down. Putting on a pair of nitrile gloves, he opened the book, careful not to damage it, and studied the first page. There was an inscription in spidery cursive.

A TRUE AND ACCURATE ACCOUNT

OF THE EXPLOITS OF TRAVIS WILLIAM BIGGS,

PROSPECTOR AND PIONEER.

BEGUN IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1868.

Decker turned the page, his excitement growing. Travis Biggs was obviously an ancestor of the recently departed Harlan Biggs. That the casino owner was reading this book, clearly a journal kept by his ancestor, at the same time he was skulking around the Ghost Canyon Mine could not be a coincidence. Especially since the man who penned the Journal, Travis Biggs, identified himself as a prospector.

Decker leafed through the pages. The first half of the Journal described the author’s departure from the East