Lauren stopped in her tracks and pointed at some birds flying in formation across the valley.
"It's interesting now that I hear you talk about Dell and where his memories take him. Because Cathy's memories take her someplace else.
She focused mainly on Tami playing around with adult things. Not kid things.
Alcohol, sex. Maybe Cathy wasn't comfortable with the child and adolescent part of her daughter." "Or maybe," I said, "she just needed her to be an adult."
"Maybe."
"Dell describes his daughter as strong-willed. Says Tami demanded an explanation for 'every damn thing' he ever wanted her to do or not do. Said she'd argue about anything. She'd hear the news on TV and she'd bark at the screen arguing with Larry Green about the five-day forecast. But Dell didn't think Tami was out of control. Far from it. In fact, he said that in many ways Joey was a tougher kid for him to raise. I'm left wondering what Cathy felt she was protecting Tami from. You know, why she felt she needed to keep so much from Dell? She say anything about discipline? Any problems? "
"What do you mean?"
"Any issues between Tami and her father?"
"You wondering about abuse?"
"I guess. Mostly I'm just trying to explain to myself why the parents ended up approaching this kid so differently."
"Well, Cathy didn't say anything about any concerns in that area, but I wasn't really asking. Did you hear anything from Dell about Mariko?"
I nodded.
"Dell liked her a lot. He called her Miko. Same as Tami did. Said she was polite, friendly, grateful. Full of life. He said if you took away most of Tami's orneriness and stubbornness, you'd end up with Miko Hamamoto."
"That's funny. I got the impression that Cathy wasn't too fond of Mariko. She calls her Mariko, by the way, not Miko. Told me that Mariko was one of Tami's projects."
"Projects?"
Lauren grabbed my wrist.
"Yeah, like the friendship was some kind of a charity thing. And I almost forgot. At one point she said that Tami adopted her, Mariko.
Said she was like a stray puppy that Tami brought home. Cathy said the friendship wasn't going to last."
After lunch Lauren napped. She didn't want to nap. But she napped. As soon as we got back to the room she kicked off her shoes, took off her bra, and pulled on a T-shirt. She claimed the middle of the queen bed, curled up, and slept.
She considered her almost daily afternoon sleep a reluctant sacrifice she offered to the MS gods. The interlude helped to refresh her only slightly more than half the time. The rest of the time, she woke from her nap groggy and disoriented, and the process of reacclimating to the day would debit another hour from her useful life. One hundred percent of the time, the absolute necessity of the daily interlude infuriated her.
We were staying in a bed-and-breakfast below Howelsen Hill. Our room was small and had big dormers on two walls. Everything that could be plastered with wallpaper was. The paper had an abundance of stripes that seemed to go every which way around the dormers. I found myself tilting my head involuntarily to try to straighten out the lines. The room also had a pleasant balcony that was about the size of an old clawfoot bathtub. While Lauren curled up, I squeezed a chair out to the deck and pecked out notes on my laptop, sipping occasionally on a diet soda I'd claimed from the downstairs refrigerator.
The air in Steamboat was light-almost feathery-and the blue hue of the sky seemed less fierce than it did in the resorts farther south in the Colorado Rockies. The almost inevitable afternoon summer thunderstorms were skirting north of town that day, and the distant thunder that they generated reminded me of the muted booms I would hear as I was trying to fall asleep while a fireworks show was still going on during some past Fourth of July.
I filled five pages with notes before I read them through once. I made some changes and easily typed three more. The excitement I felt at what we'd learned at the Franklins' ranch felt almost visceral. Tami was becoming real to me much faster than I'd anticipated, and the questions I had about her relationships with her parents-and their relationships with each other-felt swollen with possibilities that might lead to further discoveries.
At another level, I was aware that I'd already decided that I needed to talk with Joey Franklin. Not because I couldn't rule him out as a suspect-which, of course, I couldn't-but because I knew that by speaking with him, I would gain even greater perspective on the Franklins as a family. I needed Joey's perspective to try to sort out the discrepancies between Cathy's and Dells perspectives on their daughter. I assumed that A. J. Simes would have no objection to my expanding the horizon of my piece of the investigation a little.
Lauren walked out on the balcony just before four. She hugged me from behind, one of her breasts heavy on each side of my neck.
I liked the way it felt. I was about to tell her that I liked the way it felt when she said, "Before it gets dark, I want to go see the ranch."
I was surprised.
"You want to go back to the Franklins' ranch?"
Her voice was husky in my ears.
"No. I want to go see the Silky Road Ranch. The one where Gloria was killed. I don't know why, I just want to see it. It feels like, I don't know, a family thing. It feels unfinished."
I hadn't conjured up any plans for the late afternoon. Another drive in the country sounded fine.
"You know where it is?"
"Not really." I said, "Shouldn't be too hard to find out. I'm sure the owner of the B and B will know."
The owner of the B and B did know.
The Silky Road Ranch was up the same county road along the Elk River as the Franklins' ranch, but much closer to town. The directions she gave us were straightforward. I only got lost once, having to double back to the entrance to the Silky Road after crossing the bridge that ran over Mad Creek.
The ranch abutted the western-facing slope of a wide horseshoe canyon below Hahn's Peak, and most of the ranch's acreage was gently rolling high prairie.
How high? I was guessing it was about the same elevation as the base of the ski area at Mount Werner, which was about sixty-nine hundred feet or so. The setting, on this late spring day, was sublime. The southern sun lit green fields, set trees to shimmer, and sparkled off the ice-cold snowmelt in the Elk River. A serene quiet filled the narrow valley, broken only by an occasional gust of wind.
Along with directions, Libby, the owner of the B and B, had provided an abbreviated version of the ranch's recent history. Raymond Welle never sold the Silky Road after Gloria was killed by Brian Sample in 1992. After the murder Raymond lived in a rented condo near the ski area for a year before he felt that he was able to return to the ranch. He continued to practice clinical psychology but was also getting more and more involved in his radio show, which had been picked up by a few dozen small stations and was gaining a regional audience.
Within another year the show had gone national.
Ranelle and Jane-the "girls," our hostess called them-stayed on and looked after the big house at the Silky Road while Ray was living in town. But Raymond, who had never shared his wife's great love for horses, sold Gloria's herd and closed up the stable within a month or two of her death. The two cowboys moved on. Libby didn't know where those boys had gone.
Raymond did some minor renovations to the ranch house and moved back in quietly.
According to Libby, some said that the first night he slept there as a widower was the first anniversary of the day that his wife was murdered. Our hostess couldn't confirm that. The bunkhouse and stable had fallen into disuse. Raymond had never had any use for them. Eventually, Ranelle and Jane were let go.
Even though she knew that her onetime brother-in-law was still single, Lauren asked if Raymond had ever remarried.
"No, he never showed much interest in the local ladies. If he ever comes back here with a bride, you can bet it'll be some Jane Fonda type. Some society or Hollywood thing. You watch-when we're not looking he'll show up with some city girl and the two of them
will go and fill the whole damn Elk River Valley with buffalo and ostriches.
Maybe even emus" She made her pronouncement with disappointment and a tiny hiss of venom, as though she was one of the local ladies who had been scorned by Raymond Welle.
I pulled in front of the main gate to the ranch and parked on the dust in the shadows of the trees that lined the Elk River. Traffic on the county road was sparse. After a minute or so, I killed the engine.
The gate was unassuming enough, a couple of long triangles of steel tubing that came together in the center. The structures that supported the gates were less modest, however. They were built of a rich red stone and they were big. Each footprint was at least four by four, and I knew if I stood next to one it would soar above my head.
A brass sign on one of the structures read
"Glorias Silky Road Ranch-No Visitors."
A box recessed into the other structure had a buzzer and a speaker on a stainless-steel plate that was about the size of a microwave oven.
Lauren and I both got out of the car. She pointed north and said, "I think that's the house Gloria built. Way back there. See? By the woods?"
I saw some structures and nodded.
"Were you ever there? At their home?"
"No. Not once."
A gust of wind kicked up a dust devil down the dirt lane that led into the ranch and we were both distracted watching it flourish and die.
I asked, "Do you want to see if we can drive around the perimeter? Doesn't look like we're going to be invited in."
"No, I don't think so. We can leave in a few minutes. I just want to get a feel for it."
I was listening to the wind whisper to me when the speaker in the far gate support blared.
"You are on private property. Please leave. Repeat:
You are on private property. Please leave immediately."
After my pulse subsided a little I looked around for a lens or an infrared sensor or something. I couldn't find a thing but didn't feel much confidence that we weren't on candid camera. I asked, "Do you think that was a recording?
Or was it a real live person?"
Lauren raised her eyebrows and shook her head incredulously.
"Not sure. But I'd guess it was a recording. Just know it was the voice of Big Brother."
The same voice belted out the same tune again.
I said, "Apparently Big Brother would like us to move along."
She turned her back on the ranch and mouthed words to herself that I interpreted to be her thoughts about something Big Brother could just go ahead and do to himself instead.
A minute passed. Maybe two. I wasn't sure what Lauren was up to. She wasn't a pacer. But she was pacing.
"Company's coming," I said, pointing up the dirt road that snaked away from the gate toward the house, the same road that the dust devil had been teasing a few minutes before. In the distance, a fresh cloud of dirt was rising behind a dark speck that I guessed was some kind of pickup truck. It was coming our way.
Lauren watched the vehicle approach for a good ten seconds. I watched her watch it. I didn't really want to have to explain to Raymond Welle's security people why we were hanging out around the entrance to his ranch. Certainly not a few days before I was scheduled to meet with him in Denver about an old murder case.
I said, "I don't think I really want to get to know those people, honi'd rather have a clean slate when I meet Dr. Welle next week. Do you see anything to gain by hanging around?"
She ran her fingers through her hair and buttoned the top button of her shirt.
Finally, she said, "No, nothing to be gained. Let's go then." She climbed into the car and waited till I joined her before she continued.
"I want trout for dinner. And a big salad. Spinach. That sound okay to you?"
We stopped back at the B and B and I used the communal phone in the downstairs parlor to check my office voice mail and the answering machine at home. The messages were all mundane except for two. The first unusual call had been from Mary Wright. She asked that Lauren get in touch with her at the Justice Department the following Monday. The second call that drew my attention sounded almost British in its formality. Taro Hamamoto had returned my call from British Columbia. His message informed me that he would be interested in speaking with me further. Would I be so kind as to call him back? He left a number that was different from the one that A. J. had given me for him. The area codes were the same though: 604.
I returned the call right away.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"Yes," he said.
"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Hamamoto, please?"
"This is he. Dr. Gregory?"
"Yes, this is Alan Gregory. I want to begin by thanking you for returning my initial call. The circumstances-a stranger calling about your daughter after so many years-must feel peculiar."
"That's a good word. Yes. It is peculiar. Perhaps you would take a moment and familiarize me, once again, with the organization that you represent. On your message you said it was called…?"
"Locard. It is named after a nineteenth-century French detective. He was an early forensic scientist, a pioneer. The current Locard is a volunteer organization of forensic professionals dedicated to solving what are sometimes called cold cases."
"And in your message you said you are revisiting the circumstances of Mariko's murder. That is correct? Her death is the cold case? Yes?"
"Yes. Her death and that of Tami Franklin."
"And you have chosen to focus on my daughter and her friend precisely… why?"
"A few months ago Locard was approached by the Franklin family-Tami's parents-and by the new police chief of Steamboat Springs, a man named Percy Smith. They petitioned for Locard's assistance. Obviously, they are hoping that Locard will be able to uncover new information that might lead to the apprehension of whoever is responsible for…"
"Killing my daughter."
The words exited his mouth with a facility that was unnerving to me. I replied, "Yes."
"And from me? You wish…?"
"I am a clinical psychologist, Mr. Hamamoto. My role in the investigation is limited. I've been asked to try to get enough of a social and psychological history of Tami and Ma-riko"-I stumbled over his daughter's name, almost calling her Miko-"to understand what might have brought them in contact with their killer, or killers."
Taro Hamamoto was silent for at least half a minute.
"You are… in the process of dissolving an assumption, Dr. Gregory."
I waited, unsure what he meant.
"Back then, there was an assumption that a stranger, perhaps a, a… drifter was… responsible for the murders. You are proceeding as though that hypothesis may lack merit."
"Yes, Mr. Hamamoto, I suppose I am proceeding as though that hypothesis may lack merit."
Again he paused, this time for even longer.
"I am intrigued by what you are proposing. I would like an opportunity to meet with you to discuss your ideas in more detail. Personal contact is important, I think. Don't you? I will make a decision at that time whether or not I feel it is proper to assist you in your new investigation. Unfortunately, I am unable to leave Vancouver at this time, so you will need to come to Canada. I can arrange to meet with you for two or three hours." I heard him pecking on a keyboard.
"There is a United flight into Vancouver from Denver that will have you arrive at twelve-thirty, Monday through Friday." More keyboard tunes.
"A return flight departs daily for Denver at four-ten. I will meet you in between the two flights in the Air Canada departure lounge. Pick a day next week and leave me a message as to your choice. Tuesday is inconvenient for me.
Is that acceptable, Dr. Gregory?"
"Tentatively, yes. But I am required to clear any travel plans through Locard.
In advance."
I thought I heard him scoff before he said, "I will be waiting to hear from you with your choice of dates."
I was off the phone in plenty
of time to join Lauren for an early dinner at Antares, where my wife, true to her word, ordered trout and spinach salad. We spent the rest of the mild evening driving and then walking the trail that led to the Strawberry Park hot springs, the popular spot that Tami had told her brother was her likely destination the night she disappeared with Mariko.
The last time I'd been in Strawberry Park it was a hippie hangout. Now it was a tourist attraction with a gate and an admission fee. Despite the artificial accoutrements, I still would have been up for a soak in the natural springs, but hanging out in hundred-plus-degree water wasn't an option for either pregnant women or people with MS, so I was content to enjoy the sights and the air and the company.
"Have you decided? Are you going to go to Vancouver?" Lauren asked. During dinner, I'd filled her in on my conversation with Taro Hamamoto.
"If A. J. says yes, I'm going. I need to talk with him."
"And if A. J. says no?"
"I'll probably go to Vancouver anyway."
She said, "We can afford it"
"I know we can. That's not it. I'm beginning to feel some compulsion about all this. I don't know exactly what it is, or why it is, but I can't stop thinking about those two girls."
Lauren laughed gently.
"Me neither. This work really hooks you, doesn't it? I feel the same tug that you're feeling. I can't wait to talk to Mary Wright and find out what she wants. I'm ready to dive in headfirst. I think I'm beginning to understand why all these high-powered people donate time they don't really have to organizations like Locard and Vidocq." I said, "It won't feel so good if we don't figure it out, though."
"You mean who killed the girls?"
"Yes. I mean who killed the girls. I hope I can help, hope we both can help.
But my assumption is that Flynn Coe and russ Claven and the forensic types hold the key to this one. Not us." e decided to drive home to Boulder late Sunday morning on Highway 40 instead of Highway 9. The route would take us through Granby, past Winter Park, and over Berthoud Pass before it intersected with 1-70. For the first hour that we were on the road the traffic was minimal, the air outside was more warm than cool, and the midday sky above us a pale and soothing blue that was the color of glacier ice.
Cold Case Page 8
