Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

by C. J. Box

  Melissa stood up unsteadily, but I assumed I was the only one who noticed. “Who wants dessert?” she asked. I could tell she wanted to top off her glass again when she went over to the counter.

  WE WERE IN THE LIVING ROOM, and it had gotten dark outside. Tiny little hard balls of snow pinpricked the west windows and melted on impact and slimed down the glass, leaving snail tracks. The second Thanksgiving Day game was in the first minutes of the fourth quarter, with Dallas ahead by twenty and John Madden extolling the virtues of Turducken and eight-legged turkeys. I was frankly surprised the deputies and Torkleson had stayed so long. And they seemed in no hurry to leave. There was still plenty of beer, and Cody had cracked open the Jim Beam Black. I wondered if they’d stay until the end of the game or until the alcohol ran out, and I was pretty sure it would be the alcohol. Angelina was charged up by the company although she was starting to get wild since she’d refused to take her nap. Why nap when there were four men doting on her? Melissa was in the kitchen cleaning up and, I assumed, working a little on the bottle of vodka. I couldn’t get the image of her sitting bedside with her glass, watching our daughter and me while we slept, out of my mind.

  I loved Melissa, and now I knew the depths of her feelings were unfathomable. When—if—we turned Angelina over, I couldn’t imagine Melissa not melting down, and me with her. She said we were disintegrating, and the loss of our daughter would no doubt push her over the edge. I wasn’t even sure I’d know her anymore, just as I was starting to wonder what would happen to me, what I’d become with the loss. I could think of no scenario that wasn’t terrifying.

  I’d read where the loss of a child was the most devastating thing that could possibly happen to parents. I believed that. But presumably the loss in question was due to death or accident. No one had studied what it was like to hand over a child because of a legal anomaly. And to hand the child over to people who might just be monsters.

  “THAT English PERVERT,” Torkleson said to Cody and the deputies. “Did you hear the latest about him?”

  Of course that pulled me out of my reverie.

  “What was that asshole’s name?” Torkleson asked. “You know, the one who was going to move here? He was on 9 News.”

  “Malcolm Harris,” I said.

  Torkleson was obviously drunk. His words slurred, and he was talking too loudly. As were Sanders and Morales. They’d been practically shouting at each other for a half hour, telling cop stories, comparing cop notes. Cops, like ranchers and outfitters of my youth, were generally suspicious and taciturn men, except when they were around their own. Then the yapping began, and it was endless. I had only half listened, spending most of my time worrying about my wife and trying to keep Angelina from acting out. I was hoping Melissa would be done soon in the kitchen so she could take our daughter upstairs and calm her down and get her to bed. But when Malcolm Harris’s name came up, I leaned forward in my chair.

  “What about him?” Cody asked. Strangely, Cody seemed to be the most sober of them all. I’d noted that although he was drinking, he wasn’t pounding them down like usual— or like the others were. I could only attribute his restraint to the “good days” he’d been having. Cody only drank when he was bored, which was most of the time. When he was wrapped up in a case or a project, he restrained himself.

  “Who is he talking about?” Sanders asked Morales.

  “That guy,” Morales said. “Don’t you watch the news or read the memos?”

  “Fuck no,” Sanders said before noting Angelina in my lap, and saying, “Sorry again.”

  I was thankful that at that moment Melissa came into the family room and scooped up Angelina. She said good night to everyone and was lavished with “thank-yous” and overdone praise. Her eyes misted as they thanked her—she cried so easily and quickly now—and she took our daughter to bed. I was grateful she didn’t seem wobbly or lit up, and I made a note to check the level of the vodka bottle behind the micro wave.

  “You know that guy,” Morales said. “The English guy. He was on his way here to move his company or something. I got a call to go to the airport just in case he was on the plane. If he landed, we were supposed to arrest him, but they got him before he boarded, I guess. He was some big-time pervert pedophile.”

  Sanders shook his head. “I never heard of him.”

  “Anyway,” Torkleson said, as tired as I was of the deputy interplay, “it turns out he had a connection to somebody here.”

  That got Cody’s attention, and mine.

  “Aubrey Coates,” Torkleson said. “Coates’s e-mail address and phone number were all over his records. Scotland Yard thinks our man was part of this pervert’s child porn and trafficking network. Can you believe that?”

  “I wish he would have made it here,” Sanders said, “so somebody could shoot the bastard. I hate those scumbags.”

  “I woulda shot him,” Morales said, and I believed him.

  “Hold it,” I said, my head spinning. “Malcolm Harris had a connection to Aubrey Coates?”

  I recalled Harris and the conversation:

  My friends in Colorado say that compared to what I’m used to, I’ll be bulletproof! That’s the term they use, bulletproof. I love that.

  Really? Who says that? I asked.

  Oh no, he said coyly, I won’t reveal my sources.

  So his source was Aubrey Coates? What was Coates talking about? How was Coates bulletproof?

  I looked to Cody for some kind of clarification, but Cody looked as mystified as I was.

  Torkleson said, “But I heard the fucking U.S. Attorney won’t go after Coates again. Not after Coates beat the rap the first time …” Torkleson lurched to a stop, realizing what he was saying and who he was saying it to. He looked over at Cody. “Sorry, man.”

  Cody glared at him with murderous eyes.

  “What?” Sanders said. “What the fuck?”

  Morales leaned back on the couch and beheld Cody and Torkleson. “Let’s be cool, men,” he said.

  “What?” Sanders said again, completely confused.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Torkleson said to Cody. “My mouth was running away with me.”

  Cody said, “It sure fucking was.”

  “Be cool, brothers,” Morales, the peacemaker said, standing up so he was between them. “Everything’s cool here. We got women and babies in the house.”

  Sanders stomped a foot. “Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

  Morales spun on his partner, said, “What’s going on is Thanksgiving dinner is over. Our replacements will be here in twenty minutes, and it’s time to go.”

  Melissa—thank God for Melissa—broke the tension by bringing Angelina down the stairs. Our daughter was in her footie pajamas, and despite the fact that she was exhausted, she beamed at the cops, who were on the verge of going after each other.

  “Angelina wants to say good night,” Melissa said.

  Sanders, Torkleson, and Morales stood up. They thanked Melissa once again and shook Angelina’s chubby little hand. She rewarded them with a squeal each, which made them laugh.

  “She’s so tired, she’s goofy,” Melissa said. “So are you guys.”

  “What a darling,” Morales said.

  I kissed my daughter good night, but she was preoccupied with the men in the room whom she’d charmed to death.

  “See you in a few minutes,” I said to Melissa.

  As she carried Angelina up the stairs, our daughter squirmed her way up over Melissa’s shoulders so she could wave and laugh at the cops in the family room. Morales was smitten, as were Torkleson and Sanders.

  Sanders, aware of why they were assigned to watching our house, said, “It just ain’t right what’s happening.”

  Morales shook his head, said, “No it isn’t.”

  Torkleson quickly shook hands with me and thanked me for dinner, and was out the door into the snowstorm. Cody bored holes into Torkleson’s back the whole way.

  Sanders and Morale
s followed him. All I could think of was what in the hell Coates had told Harris—and why.

  “THAT ASSHOLE,” Cody said, seething, “showing me up like that.”

  “He wasn’t thinking,” I said, “he was just talking.”

  “Which is the problem with the whole fucking department. They don’t think.”

  “Do you want a nightcap?” I asked.

  Cody shook his head. “I’m done.”

  “The connection between Malcolm Harris and Aubrey Coates,” I said. “There’s something going on here I can’t figure out. Something big and awful.”

  “Sometimes,” Cody said, looking over my head, “I wish I had a license to just kill people. I’d kill a lot of them and make the world a better place. I’d start with Aubrey Coates and Malcolm Harris, and move to Garrett and John Moreland. There’s about fifty others on the list I can think of.”

  “Cody …”

  “Don’t ‘Cody’ me,” he said.

  “Brian’s funeral is tomorrow,” I said. “Do you want to go with us?”

  “It’s tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. I still can’t believe he’s gone. It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  He looked at me. “No, I won’t be there.”

  That troubled me.

  “It has nothing to do with Brian,” Cody said. He lifted his hand and pinched his thumb and index finger together. “I’m this close to cracking this thing.”

  I inadvertently took a step back. “You’re kidding.”

  Cody’s eyes blazed. “Nope. I think I’ve got it. I just needed to have the time to go through those call logs and do the police work. I think I’ve just about cracked it.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  He smiled. His smile resembled—unfortunately—his Uncle Jeter’s. “I’ll tell you when I’ve got it,” he said. “I can’t put you two through any more false hopes or bad plans.”

  Cody grabbed his coat from where it was thrown over the couch. He gestured upstairs. “That Sanders guy is a doofus. But he’s right when he says this ain’t right, and it ain’t.”

  He paused at the front door. Snow shot in. “Coates is a dead man walking, he just doesn’t know it yet. But yes, I agree with you that there’s more to it than what we know. This Malcolm Harris thing throws me for a loop, but somehow I think it all connects. I just don’t know how yet.”

  “When will I see you?” I asked. “There’s only three more days.”

  “Not soon,” he said. “I’m going to New Mexico.”

  “Why?”

  “Later,” he said, waving me off. “Keep Melissa off the booze,” he said. “I’m worried about her.”

  Friday, November 23

  Two Days to Go

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE FUNERAL FOR BRIAN took place in Capitol Hill at the largest chapel I’d ever been in, and the place was packed with mourners we didn’t know. The décor was airy and sterile, all light pine and clean lines. Oh, and a small stylized cross hanging from a chain in a corner toward the front, as if placed there as an afterthought.

  “A church designed by IKEA,” I mumbled to Melissa, trying to make her smile. Didn’t work.

  If Brian were in charge of his own funeral—which in some ways he likely was—I thought it would look like this. It was larger-than-life, heavy on the hubris. An alt-rock band played contemporary dirges while a PowerPoint slide show presented shots of Brian skiing, swimming, speaking at a podium, clowning around, dancing, and costumed as both John Elway and Spider-Man at various parties. His remains were in a squarish marble urn on a velvet-covered riser at the front of the church. Brian’s partner, Barry, spoke about Brian’s loyalty, creativity, affection, and “ability to light up a room.” Barry seemed like a calm counterpoint to Brian, and I could see how the two fit as a couple.

  Barry was followed by Mayor Halladay, who gave not only a moving speech and tribute to Brian but vowed to those in attendance that he’d make sure the killer was caught and brought to justice. There was a swell of clapping when the mayor said Denver was no place for hate crimes, and that Brian’s death would forever be remembered as the incident that ushered in a “hate-crime-free zone.” The mayor’s assumption that Brian’s murder was the result of his cruising downtown bars revealed where Mayor Halladay’s head was. It also spoke to the lack of progress in the investigation.

  I found myself looking around at the mourners as the mayor spoke. Many of the faces I’d seen in the society section of the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News, and a few on television news. Brian always claimed he knew everybody who was anybody in town, and the outpouring at his funeral proved it. I was proud of him for making such an impact on this city while still remaining our small-town friend.

  We sat near the back simply because there were so many people already there when we arrived. Sanders and Morales, of course, were with us but, thankfully, in street clothes. The two of them sat directly behind us at the ser vice. I heard Sanders whisper, “World-class fruits and nuts in this place,” to Morales.

  Melissa whispered into my ear, “What bothers me is it’s as if I didn’t know Brian at all. Who are all of these people? The only one he’d ever mentioned was Barry. It seems like Brian had a secret life.”

  “We were his secret life,” I said. “This room was his real life.”

  The mayor finally stepped aside. The band, somewhat inexplicably, played a cover version of REM’s “Losing My Religion.”

  “Goodness,” Melissa said. “Don’t they know they’re in a church?”

  Although Cody said he wouldn’t be there, I kept an eye out for him nevertheless. He’d left me with a strand of hope, and that strand was all I had.

  When the band was through, a hip pastor with long hair and a stylish half beard and open shirt told us that we weren’t there to mourn a death but to celebrate the life of an “awesome” human being. He began telling anecdotes about Brian—all from Denver, where he became public, none from Montana—that apparently had been gathered up by Barry and Barry and Brian’s friends. Some were quite funny, but they were striking to Melissa and me because they were stories we’d never heard before about a friend we knew in a totally different context, and Melissa was soon both laughing and crying hard, which in turn made Angelina cry.

  “I’ll take her outside,” I said, and Melissa willingly let me. Sanders followed.

  The mountains were still shrouded in snow clouds. The ski resorts, from what I’d heard on the radio, were getting hammered. Marketing and PR spokesmen tried to outdo each other on the amount of “champagne powder” that had accumulated over the night. I knew most of the spokespeople personally from my work in tourism and knew they really weren’t as breathless about falling snow as they sounded on the radio.

  Angelina preferred being outside to inside, as she usually did. She pushed away from me as soon as we were outside, wanting to get down. I held her as she tried to push away. I couldn’t let her down because Melissa had dressed her in a velvet dress, pink tights, and a heavy coat. As I struggled with her I found myself directly in front of Jim Doogan, who leaned against the trunk of a leafless tree and smoked a cigarette.

  Doogan leveled his gaze at Sanders, who was a few steps behind me. He didn’t say who he was but apparently he didn’t need to.

  “Give us a few minutes, will you?”

  Sanders turned and walked back to the church and sprawled out on a bench.

  “Is the mayor done in there?” Doogan asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Was he good?”

  I shrugged. “Good enough. He didn’t say any bad things about Brian.”

  He laughed. “That Eastman guy caused us a lot of headaches. He used to drive the mayor out of his mind because he knew how to work the system and work the mayor. I always thought it was sort of personal.”

  “Brian was tough,” I said.

  “He was. And there’s something I want to say to you. This is between
us, okay?” Doogan said.

  “Sure. I always confide with the guy who fires me. Not a problem.”

  Doogan snorted a small laugh. “You know I’m no more than the messenger boy, right? The mayor and the judge are close. The judge’s wife is a major contributor, so the mayor has some obligations, if you catch my drift.”

  “I do.” I fumbled with Angelina, held her tight to me. “But this is bigger than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when we talked about Malcolm Harris?”

  Doogan nodded.

  “Do you know who his connection was here in Colorado?”

  He shook his head.

  “Aubrey Coates, the Monster of Desolation Canyon.”

  Doogan was lifting the cigarette to his mouth, but he froze.

  I said, “Like I told you the other day, the mayor may have a bigger problem on his hands than he realized. If it turns out a major international pedophilia ring is headquartered in this city right under his nose, that won’t help out his political ambitions, plus his pal the judge may be blamed for letting Coates walk. How will that one play on 9 News?”

  Doogan said, “No, no. That wasn’t the judge. That was lousy police work. No way that could be linked back to the mayor in any way. You’re just throwing crap out there.”

  I was just throwing crap out there, but some of it stuck. I could tell his head was spinning a little. He was thinking how to mitigate the situation.

  Said Doogan, “You’re grasping at straws—anything to get back at that judge.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I heard you tried to force your way in to see him the other day,” Doogan said. “And when you couldn’t get in, you called him, using my name with what could be construed to be vague threats. The mayor asked me to look into it, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d suggest not making a habit of that.”

  He turned his attention to Angelina, who was still struggling and had knocked my hat screwy on my head. “This is your little girl, eh?”