A young deputy with the name tag MARTINEAU stood on the porch. He had close-cropped hair and the stern bearing of a man who took his job seriously. “Ma’am?” he said. “Are you the one who made the phone call?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes.” Maura wanted to throw her arms around him, but he did not look like a cop who welcomed hugs. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you!”
“Can I have your name, please?”
“I’m Dr. Maura Isles. I believe there’ve been premature rumors of my death.” Her laugh sounded wild, almost unhinged. “Obviously, it’s not true!”
He peered past her, into the house. “How did you get into this residence? Did someone let you in?”
She felt her face flush with guilt. “I’m afraid we had to break a window to get in. And there’s some other damage. But I promise, I’ll pay for it.”
“We?”
She paused, suddenly afraid that she’d get the boy into trouble. “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “I needed to get to a telephone. So I broke into the house. I hope that’s not a hanging offense around here.”
At last he smiled, but something was wrong about that smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s get you back to town,” he said. “You can tell us all about it.”
Even as she climbed into his backseat, even as he swung the door shut, she was trying to understand what bothered her about this young deputy. The SUV was a sheriff’s department vehicle, and a metal grate isolated her in the backseat, trapping her in a cage meant to hold prisoners.
As the deputy slid in behind the steering wheel, his radio crackled to life. “Bobby, this is Dispatch,” a woman’s voice said. “You make it up to Doyle Mountain yet?”
“Ten four, Jan. Just checked out the whole house,” Deputy Martineau answered.
“You find her there? ’Cause this Boston cop’s on our backs.”
“Sorry, I didn’t.”
“Anyone there at all?”
“Must’ve been a hoax, ’cause no one’s here. Leaving the scene now, ten seventeen.”
Maura stared through the grate and suddenly met the deputy’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The look he gave her froze her blood. I saw it in his smile. I knew there was something wrong.
“I’m here!” Maura screamed. “Help me! I’m here!”
Deputy Martineau had already switched off the radio.
She reached for the door handle, but there was nothing to grab. Cop car. No way out. Frantically she pounded on the windows, shrieking, oblivious to the pain of her fists slamming against the glass. He started the engine. What came next, a drive to a lonely spot and an execution? Her body left to the mercy of scavengers? Panic made her claw at the prisoner grate, but flesh and bone were no match for steel.
He turned the SUV around in the driveway, and abruptly slammed on the brake. “Shit,” he muttered. “Where did you come from?”
The dog stood in the road, blocking the vehicle.
Deputy Martineau leaned on his horn. “Get the fuck out of the way!” he yelled.
Instead of retreating, Bear rose up on his hind legs, planted two paws on the hood, and began barking.
For a moment the deputy stared at the animal, debating whether to simply hit the accelerator and run over him. “Shit. No point getting blood all over the bumper,” he muttered, and stepped out of the SUV.
Bear dropped to all fours and inched toward him, growling.
The deputy raised his weapon and took aim. So intent was he on hitting his target, he didn’t notice the shovel swinging at the back of his head. It slammed into his skull and he staggered against the vehicle, his weapon flying into the snow.
“Nobody shoots my dog,” said Rat. He yanked open Maura’s door. “Time to go, lady.”
“Wait, the radio! Let me call for help!”
“Are you ever going to listen to me?”
As she scrambled out of the SUV, she saw that the deputy was on his knees and had retrieved his weapon. Just as he lifted it, the boy flew at him. The two went sprawling. Rolled over and over in the snow, wrestling for the gun.
The explosion seemed to freeze time.
In the sudden silence, even the dog went completely still. Slowly Rat rolled away and staggered to his feet. The front of his jacket was splattered with red. But it was not his blood.
Maura dropped to her knees beside the deputy. He was still alive, his eyes open and wild with panic, blood fountaining from his neck. She pressed against the wound to stop the arterial gush, but already his blood soaked the snow. Already, the light was fading from his eyes.
“Get on the radio,” she yelled at the boy. “Call for help.”
“Didn’t mean to,” the boy whispered. “It went off by itself …”
Gurgling sounds came from the deputy’s throat. As his last breath fled his body, so, too, did his soul. She watched his eyes darken, saw the muscles in his neck go slack. The blood that had been surging from the wound slowed to a trickle. Too stunned to move, she knelt in the trampled snow and did not hear the approaching vehicle.
But Rat did. He yanked her up by the arm with such force that she was wrenched straight to her feet. Only then did she glimpse the pickup truck turning into the driveway.
Rat snatched up the deputy’s weapon, just as the rifle blast slammed into the SUV.
A second rifle blast blew out the SUV’s window, and pellets of glass stung Maura’s scalp.
Those aren’t warning shots; he’s aiming to kill.
Rat took off for the trees, and she was right behind him. By the time the pickup pulled up behind the deputy’s vehicle, they were already scrambling into the woods. Maura heard a third blast of the rifle, but she did not look back. She kept her focus on Rat, who was leading them deeper into cover, loaded down with the ungainly backpack. He paused only to hand her the snowshoes. In seconds she had them strapped on.
Then they were moving again, the boy leading the way as they headed into the wild.
JANE STARED DOWN AT THE SPOT WHERE THE DEPUTY’S BODY HAD been found, and she tried to read the snow. The corpse had already been removed. Personnel from both the county sheriff’s office and the Wyoming Department of Criminal Investigations had searched the site, trampling the snow, and she could distinguish at least half a dozen different shoe impressions. What caught her attention, and the attention of the other investigators, were the snowshoe tracks. They led away from the dead deputy’s SUV and headed toward the woods. Moving in that same direction were a dog’s paw prints, as well as a set of boot prints—a woman’s size seven, possibly Maura’s. The trio of prints led into the woods, where the boot tracks later stopped. There a second pair of snowshoe tracks began.
Maura paused among those trees to strap on the snowshoes. And then she kept running.
Jane tried to picture the scenario that would explain these prints. Her initial theory was that whoever had killed Martineau had then taken the deputy’s weapon and forced Maura into the woods with him. But these tracks didn’t fit the theory. Staring down at the snow, Jane spotted a boot impression that overlaid the snowshoe track. Which meant that Maura had been trailing behind her presumed captor, not pushed in front of him. Jane stood mulling over this puzzle, trying to match what she saw here with what made sense. Why would Maura willingly follow a cop-killer into the woods? Why did she make that phone call in the first place? Had she been forced to lure a deputy into this trap?
“They’ve picked up fingerprints everywhere,” said Gabriel.
She turned to her husband, who’d just come out of the house.
“Where?”
“On the broken window, the kitchen cabinets. The phone.”
“Where she made the call.”
Gabriel nodded. “The cord was wrenched out of the wall. Obviously someone wanted to cut off the conversation.” He nodded at the slain deputy’s vehicle. “They lifted prints off the car door as well. There’s a good chance we’ll know who we’re dealing with.”
“She sure as hell didn�
�t act like a hostage,” a voice insisted. “I’m telling you, she ran for those trees. No one was dragging her.”
Jane turned to watch the conversation between the Wyoming DCI detective and Montgomery Loftus, who had reported the slaying. The old rancher’s voice had risen in agitation, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I saw them here, bending over his body like two vultures. Man and a woman. The man, he picks up the gun and turns toward me. I figure he’s gonna try to blast my truck, so I got off a shot.”
“More than one shot, it looks like to me,” said the detective.
“Yeah. Well, might’ve been three or four.” Loftus eyed the SUV’s shattered window. “Afraid that there’s my fault. But what the hell’d you expect me to do? Not defend myself? Soon as I got off the first few shots, they both took off for the woods.”
“Independently? Or was the woman forced?”
“Forced?” Loftus snorted. “She ran after him. No one was making her do it.”
No one except a pissed-off old rancher shooting at her. Jane did not like the way this story was being spun, as if Maura was one half of Bonnie and Clyde. Yet she couldn’t contradict what the footprints in the snow were telling her. Maura hadn’t been dragged into the woods; she had fled.
Sansone said, “How is it you happened to be on this property, Mr. Loftus?” Everyone turned to look at him. He had been silent up till then, an unapproachable figure who had drawn curious glances from DCI personnel, but no one had dared to challenge his presence at the crime scene.
Though Sansone’s question had been asked in a respectful tone, Loftus bristled. “You implying something, mister?”
“This seems like a rather out-of-the-way place to just show up. I wondered why you happened to be here.”
“Because Bobby called me.”
“Deputy Martineau?”
“He said he was up on Doyle Mountain, and he thought he might have a problem. I live just east of here, so I offered to come by in case he needed a hand.”
“Is this normal procedure, for a law enforcement officer to call a civilian when he needs assistance?”
“I don’t know what it’s like in Boston, mister. But out here, when someone gets in a jam, folks are quick to step in and help. Especially when it’s a lawman.”
Sheriff Fahey added, “I’m sure Mr. Loftus was just trying to be a good citizen, Mr. Sansone. We’ve got a big county to cover, a lot of territory. When your closest backup is twenty miles away, we’re lucky to have folks like him to call on.”
“I didn’t mean to question Mr. Loftus’s motives.”
“But that’s what you were doing,” said Loftus. “Hell, I know where this is going. Next you’ll ask if I’m the one who killed Bobby.” He strode over to his pickup and pulled out his rifle. “Here, Detective Pasternak!” He handed the weapon to the DCI detective. “Feel free to confiscate it. Run it though your fancy lab.”
“Come on, Monty.” Fahey sighed. “No one thinks you killed Bobby.”
“These folks from Boston don’t believe me.”
Jane stepped into the conversation. “Mr. Loftus, it’s not like that at all. We’re just trying to understand what went down here.”
“I told you what I saw. They left Bobby Martineau bleeding to death. And they ran.”
“Maura wouldn’t do that.”
“You weren’t here. You didn’t see her take off into those woods. Sure as hell acted like she did something wrong.”
“Then you misinterpreted it.”
“I saw what I saw.”
Gabriel said, “A lot of these questions might be answered by the dash camera.” He looked at Sheriff Fahey. “We should take a look at the deputy’s video.”
Fahey suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there’s a problem with that.”
“A problem?”
“The camera in Deputy Martineau’s vehicle wasn’t recording.”
Jane stared at the sheriff in disbelief. “How did that happen?”
“We don’t know how it happened. It was turned off.”
“Why would Martineau shut it down? You must have regulations against that.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it,” Fahey said. “Maybe someone else turned off the dash cam.”
“Don’t tell me,” she muttered. “You’re going to blame this on Maura, too.”
Fahey flushed. “You keep reminding us that she works with law enforcement. She’d know about dash cameras.”
“Excuse me,” cut in Detective Pasternak from the state’s Department of Criminal Investigations. “I’m just getting up to speed on who Dr. Isles is. I’d like to know more about her.”
Although he’d introduced himself earlier, this was the first time Jane had focused fully on Pasternak. Wan and sniffling, his stork-like neck exposed to the cold, he looked like a man longing to be in a warm office, not shivering on this windswept driveway.
“I can tell you about her,” said Jane.
“How well do you know her?”
“We’re colleagues. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“You think you can paint a full picture for me?”
Jane thought about how easy it would be to skew this man’s impression of Maura in one way or another. It was all in which details she chose to reveal. Emphasize Maura’s professionalism, and he’d see a scientist, reliable and law abiding. But divulge different details, and the portrait became murkier, the features obscured by shadows. Her dark and blood-splattered family history. Her illicit affair with Daniel Brophy. That was a different woman, prone to reckless impulses and destructive passions. If I’m not careful, Jane thought, I could give Pasternak all the reasons he needs to treat Maura as a suspect.
“I want to know everything about her,” said Pasternak. “Any information that can help the search team before they start off tomorrow. They’ll need to be briefed, when we convene back in town.”
“I can tell you this much,” she said. “Maura’s no outdoors-woman. If you don’t find her soon, she’s not going to survive out there.”
“It’s been almost two weeks since she went missing. She’s managed to stay alive this long.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Maybe it’s because of the man she’s traveling with,” said Sheriff Fahey.
Jane looked at the mountain, where ravines were already darkening into shadow. In just the last few moments, as the sunlight had dipped below the peak, the temperature had plunged. Shivering in the cold, Jane wrapped her arms around herself and thought of a night spent unsheltered on that mountain, where the forest had claws, and the wind could always find you. A night with a man they knew nothing about.
What happens next may all depend on him.
“HIS FINGERPRINTS aren’t new to us,” said Sheriff Fahey, addressing the law enforcement officers and volunteers who filled the seats in the Pinedale Town Hall. “The state of Wyoming already has the prints on record. The perp’s name is Julian Henry Perkins, and he’s compiled quite a rap sheet.” Fahey read from his notes. “Auto theft. Breaking and entering. Vagrancy. Multiple charges of misdemeanor theft.” He looked around at his audience. “That’s who we’re dealing with. And we know he’s now armed and dangerous.”
Jane shook her head. “Maybe I’m a little jaded,” she called out from her seat in the third row. “But that doesn’t sound like much of a rap sheet for a cop-killer.”
“It is when you’re only sixteen years old.”
“This perp is a juvenile?”
Detective Pasternak said: “His fingerprints were all over the kitchen cabinets, as well as on the door of Deputy Martineau’s vehicle. We have to assume he was the individual whom Mr. Loftus saw on the scene.”
“Our office is familiar with the Perkins boy,” said Fahey. “We’ve picked him up numerous times for various infractions. What we can’t figure out is his connection to the woman.”
“His connection?” said Jane. “Maura’s his hostage!”
In the front row, Montgo
mery Loftus gave a snort. “Not what I saw.”
“What you thought you saw,” Jane countered.
The man turned and gave the three visitors from Boston a cold stare. “You people weren’t there.”
Fahey said, “Ma’am, we’ve known Monty all our lives. He’s not going to go making stuff up.”
Then maybe he needs glasses, Jane wanted to say, but she swallowed the retort. The three Boston visitors were outnumbered in this town hall, where dozens of locals had assembled for the briefing. The murder of a deputy had shocked the community, and volunteers had streamed in, eager to bring the killer to justice. Volunteers with guns and grim faces and righteous anger. Jane looked around at those faces and felt a premonitory chill. They’re spoiling for a kill, she thought. And it doesn’t matter that their quarry is a sixteen-year-old kid.
A woman suddenly called out from the back row. “Julian Perkins is just a boy! You can’t be serious about sending an armed posse after him.”
“He killed a deputy, Cathy,” said Fahey. “He’s not just a boy.”
“I know Julian better than any of you do. I have a hard time believing that he’d kill anyone.”
“Excuse me,” said Detective Pasternak. “I’m not from this county. Maybe you could introduce yourself, ma’am?”
The young woman stood, and Jane immediately recognized her. It was the social worker they’d met at the scene of the Circle B double homicide. “I’m Cathy Weiss, Sublette County Child Protective Services. I’ve been Julian’s caseworker for the past year.”
“And you don’t believe he could have killed Deputy Martineau?” said Pasternak.
“No, sir.”
“Cathy, look at his rap sheet,” said Fahey. “The kid’s no angel.”
“But he’s no monster. Julian is a victim. He’s a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to survive, in a world where nobody wants him.”
“Most kids manage to survive just fine without breaking into homes and stealing cars.”
Rizzoli & Isles [08] Ice Cold Page 21
