Terry Odell - Mapleton 02 - Deadly Bones

by Terry Odell

  Colfax chuckled. “No, I haven’t figured out a way to hide that in the expense reports yet. Luckily, these guys like cheap beer.”

  Gordon turned his attention to the names on the board, along with location and approximate dates they went missing. No two at exactly the same time. Two were from Texas, but from different cities. One from Pagosa Springs, Colorado, which had been outside his original search parameters. Two from Wyoming, again from different parts of the state. One from Utah, one from Nebraska. Dates ranged from 1972 to 1982. He frowned. Stepped forward. Tapped two names. A Ruth Polaski from Laramie, Wyoming and a Jane Dougherty from Cedar City, Utah. “These women disappeared a month apart. I’m not familiar with the geography. Could there be a connection?”

  Colfax had his work face on again, and he beat Gordon to the computer, pulling up a map. “That’s why I love my guys. Give ‘em an excuse to play on Google, and they’re in hog heaven.”

  “Did they look in NamUS?” Gordon waited, wondering if Colfax had heard of the database.

  “I didn’t ask where they got their data, but I presume they’d have looked there, yes.”

  So he had. Then again, given the size of his jurisdiction and the cases he dealt with, it wasn’t surprising that he’d be on top of that. Gordon had still been a street cop in 2009, and Dix had been battling his health issues. Given Mapleton’s low crime rate, Gordon understood how it might have been a low priority. “Do we know anything more about these women?”

  “Give me a break, Hepler. An hour ago, we had nothing. We now have eight leads. This is where the real work begins.”

  “Speaking of real work,” Gordon said. “I’ve got to check in with Solomon and see where he is on what’s a much more typical case for Mapleton.” Knowing that both computers in Dispatch were likely jammed with fire traffic, he called Solomon on his cell. “Any leads on our vandals? Someone wants to know.”

  “Two bricks, three rocks,” Solomon said. “No prints.”

  “Neighbors see or hear anything?”

  “The usual reliable descriptions of cars. Best we can piece together is that it’s dark colored, dirty, and maybe a small SUV or Jeep. Or a panel van. Looks like they peeled away from one of the houses. We have tire marks that might help. Assuming we find a vehicle to match them to. I’ve got pictures, I’ll bring them in.”

  Gordon laughed. “At least you can eliminate pickups. That should cut out about a third of the vehicles in Mapleton before you start.”

  “There is that.” His tone sobered. “How’s the fire situation? You sure I wouldn’t be of more use there?”

  “Not now. I need you to prove to our favorite someone that I’m putting our top man on what he thinks is a home invasion crime wave. Wrap it up ASAP, and then you can work the fire perimeter.”

  “Do I get a cookie, too?”

  “No cookies. Bring me some evidence. Preferably a suspect.” Although he knew Solomon needed no incentives, he thought of what Colfax had said. As long as he wasn’t on the radio, he added, “If you do, first beer is on me.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Chief.”

  Gordon disconnected. Something niggled at the back of his brain, but with everything else swirling around, he let it slide. If it was important, it would come back. Right now he was dealing with what looked like two attempted homicides.

  He called Davey Gilman. “You heard about Doc Evans, right?”

  “Did I? Man, I was the one who transported him. He’s lucky to be alive. Seatbelts and airbags. Don’t leave home without them.”

  “Do you know how he’s doing?”

  “I checked on my last hospital run. He’s in ICU, but he’s stable.”

  Gordon debated telling Gilman about the security measures, then decided against it. Although he trusted the paramedic’s integrity, the best way to keep a secret was to keep it to yourself, and there were already enough potential leaks. “Thanks, Gilman. “

  Laurie appeared in the doorway carrying a stack of envelopes. “Got your pictures, Chief.”

  Chapter 32

  Megan slotted the key into the ignition of her rental, sorting through the possibilities vying for attention in her brain. Priorities? Should she simply park herself at Angie’s and wait? See if she could sneak into Rose’s house, get everything she thought they’d want to save? Should she call Sam and Justin? Let them know about the evacuation order? Find out what Rose and Sam deemed priceless—and where they kept them? Would they have heard about the fire yet? She doubted they’d be watching television.

  Or should she go back to the hospital and let them know in person? If everything turned out all right, and the evacuation was a precaution, as Gordon had suggested, then she’d be upsetting them unnecessarily.

  She rested her hands on the steering wheel. What if it was her apartment building on fire while she was away? Would she rather know she might lose everything if there was nothing she could do about it? Or would it be better to come home and deal with the aftermath? Either way, she knew the “if only” game would go on forever. She resigned herself to making a wrong decision no matter what she chose to do.

  Her earlier excitement that the bank had approved her small business loan had been short-lived, gone as soon as she’d heard about the fire. There would be time to celebrate later. When everyone was together again.

  For now, she’d see how close she could get to Rose and Sam’s house, and decide what to do then. With a plan of action in place, she twisted the key and the engine growled to life. Five blocks from Rose and Sam’s house, at the only entrance to the neighborhood, traffic slowed. Megan leaned out the window to get a better view. Two yellow-and-black sawhorses blocked the road, and two police officers stood in front of them, stopping cars and turning them around. She counted six cars between hers and the barricade. She pulled to the curb, watching to see if any cars were allowed through. When all the cars had been refused entry, Megan figured there was no point in trying to talk her way past the blockade. She scratched Plan A off her list and did a three point turn. Plan B, she decided, was to call Justin.

  Twenty minutes later, she sat cross-legged on Angie’s sofa, explaining the situation to Justin. “What do you think I should do?”

  “You can’t get to the house?” he said.

  “Nobody can get in until the evacuation’s lifted. And yes, I asked if Gordon would pull strings, but he’s playing it by the book.”

  After an uncomfortable pause, Justin went on. “Much as I’d like you here, I agree you’re better off staying in Mapleton. I’ll let Rose and Sam know.”

  Would she have felt better if he’d have begged her to join him at the motel? And would she have gone if he had? She switched gears. “Have you heard anything about who tried to kill Rose? And how’s Dr. Evans?”

  “As far as information goes, everything is locked up tight. If the nurses know that Mildred Billings is really Oma, they should be nominated for Oscars.”

  “What about the decoy? Anyone tried anything?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. It’s hard to ask questions, or get answers, when you’re trying to keep things secret. I plan to ask the hospital doctor when he makes rounds tonight. I know you’re doing the right thing by staying at Angie’s, but—” His voice had gone deep and husky.

  “Yeah, it would have been a nice last night. And if they lift the evacuation soon enough—”

  “I’m in room twenty.”

  Megan hung up before she changed her mind. She was staying in Mapleton, and as long as she was, she could get some work done. Thinking about Justin would be counterproductive.

  She tried to recreate some of the elation she’d felt when she’d opened the bank’s email, but it still eluded her. That was a job. Right now was her life.

  Angie burst through the door, a bottle of champagne in hand. “I know you don’t want this yet so I’ll put it in the fridge for later. Might not be how I’d planned to spend the night, but getting wasted on champagne is a decent substitute. You have some time?”


  “I guess. What do you need?”

  “Help me with a care package run to the fire and police stations.”

  * * * * *

  It was almost four by the time Megan and Angie were finished bringing cases of Gatorade, water, Power Bars and assorted snacks to the fire station. Trays of pulled pork sandwiches, coleslaw, urns of coffee, and pastries went to the police station, to everyone’s delight. Gordon hadn’t even come out of his office to acknowledge either the food or Angie, and Megan knew her friend had been irked, but Angie had waved it off. “He’s Chief of Police, and there’s a crisis. He’s got more important stuff to do.”

  Angie buckled herself into the Daily Bread van’s seat. “That should keep them functioning for a while.”

  “You really are a caterer,” Megan said when they were back at Angie’s apartment. “If you can handle these kinds of things last-minute, I know you’ll be able to manage a few special events on the side.”

  Angie flopped onto the couch. “Maybe. Please, don’t think I’m not thrilled you want me to work with you.”

  Megan’s heart sank. Was Angie going to say no?

  “It’s—” Angie continued. “It’s that I can’t rush into things. It’s only been a few hours since you asked me.” Her blue eyes were moist when she raised them to Megan’s. “I need time. How soon do you need an answer?”

  Megan tried to hide her disappointment, although she could certainly understand Angie’s hesitation. She shrugged. “I don’t have a deadline.”

  “Does a week sound reasonable?” Angie asked.

  “I think that’s plenty of time.” Not that she wanted to wait that long, but she couldn’t bring herself to pressure Angie.

  Angie hesitated. “Do you have a backup if I say no?”

  Another wave of apprehension surged over Megan. “Angie, what’s important now is that you do what you need to do for you. If my business doesn’t have your food, I’ll find someone else to help with the catering end. Of course you’re my first choice, and the door will always be open for you, if you change your mind.”

  “Hey, I haven’t said no yet. I’m collecting facts, as Gordon would say, not deciding anything.”

  “If you have any other questions, ask away.”

  “About the partnership? Not yet. But I have another one. It’s a three-parter, but I think if we answer one, we’ll answer them all. Who do you think tried to kill Rose, Dr. Evans, and set the fire?”

  Chapter 33

  Gordon cleared a spot on his desk and motioned Laurie inside. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  Laurie arranged six envelopes on the desk. “Two per month. These cover September through November. I hope you find what you’re looking for in one of them.” She turned to leave.

  “You mean you didn’t look at the pictures?” Colfax said. “A stroll down memory lane?”

  Over her shoulder, Laurie shot him a look of exasperation. “The chief asked me to sort by date. He didn’t tell me what he was looking for. Since the dates were on the back, it wouldn’t have been an effective use of my time to dwell over the pictures.”

  “Let’s look now.” Gordon intervened before Colfax’s offbeat sense of humor pushed Laurie too far. He moved five of the envelopes to his credenza, opened the first September envelope and dumped the contents on his desk. He shoved them in Colfax’s direction and pointed to the white board. “Start with finding the original of that hunting picture.” As the thought occurred to him, he added, “Or anything else with Fred Easterbrook or Doc Evans.”

  “What’s the good doctor’s first name?” Colfax asked.

  Gordon had to think for a moment. The man had always been Doc Evans in his mind. He visualized the lettering on Doc’s office door. “Otis.”

  Colfax grunted. Gordon noticed that Colfax was scanning the backs of the photos, not looking at the front, despite having teased Laurie about doing the same thing. But Gordon wanted to find the hunting picture, and since he knew what it looked like, he tackled the images, not the descriptions. The faster he found the one Megan had sent him, the sooner they could move to step two.

  Gordon took the second September envelope and removed them in a neat stack. Moving quickly through them, he found nothing related to hunting, much less the picture he was looking for. He shoved the pictures back in the envelope and set it aside for Colfax to hit next.

  “Lots of damn society crap,” Colfax said.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Our paper’s small now, and it was probably even smaller then.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. In 1975, there was no Internet, and no CNN. People actually got their news from newspapers. The printed kind, delivered to the door, or sold at newsstands. Of course, a town like this, society crap is all that passes as news.”

  Gordon refused to take the bait.

  Colfax thumbed through more pictures. “Looks to me like the photographer made everyone happy by snapping pictures, but most of them never made it to the paper, if the codes on these pictures are right.”

  Gordon left Colfax to his work, opened the next envelope and leafed through another stack of photos. About a third of the way through, he stopped. “Got it.” He flipped it over. Fred’s name was there, along with that of Doc Evans, as expected. What he hadn’t expected was to see Roger Ignatius in the picture as well. Was there some sort of connection? And could it have anything to do with the bones? The other names were unfamiliar. He passed the picture to Colfax and searched for the Weekly issue referenced in the photograph.

  Sneezing, blinking, and wiping his eyes as the dust from the stack of newspapers dispersed into the air, Gordon found the stack encompassing the date the photo had denoted. Suppressing a momentary curiosity to sit down and read up on Mapleton history, he leafed through the yellowed pages—suffering yet another attack of dust—and found the right edition. He took it to the multi-purpose room where he’d be able to spread things out. Carefully, he set the brittle Weekly onto the table and lifted the pages, seeking the one with the photograph.

  His pulse quickened as he spotted it, although if it was quality he wanted, he’d go back to the original. Irritation washed over him as he realized the article wasn’t an article at all, but simply a caption. He stared at it for several minutes, hoping more would appear.

  Winner of the Tri-County Hunt Club team competition, with a six-by-five buck, was Fred Easterbrook along with his teammates, Otis Evans, Roger Ignatius, Bob “Mad Dog” Browning, and Harold “Hal” Osterback.

  Another Osterback? Clark’s brother was Gordon’s guess. Seemed logical from the age, but who knew? Gordon made a note to check. Judging from the way the other hunters were in the background, Fred had been the man to bag the prize. Had the teams been randomly assigned, or did they come in as already formed partnerships?

  Again, he asked himself how—or if—this really had anything to do with the bones. The picture was taken in 1975, and Sam bought the land in 1980. Gordon made a mental note to confirm the date with Sam.

  Too many possibilities. Clark could have suggested his brother—if Hal was his brother—take part in the hunt. Or, perhaps Clark had suggested to Roger that Hal join the firm, and the hunt served a dual purpose—competition plus closed-door business meeting. But what about the other man? He seemed much older, judging from the full, gray beard.

  He took the paper and headed back to his office. “What year was Roger and company founded?”

  “Huh?” Colfax was clicking away at the computer. Had he found something in one of the pictures?

  “Never mind.” Gordon skirted the desk and found the folder Laurie had given him. He plucked the Articles of Incorporation page from the stack. Laurie hadn’t been kidding when she’d said there were legibility issues. He squinted, blinked, and willed the tiny numbers to come into focus. The one and the nine were clear enough, but he couldn’t tell whether the next was a five, six, or eight. Couldn’t be an eight, he decided, since the company was already established in the seventies. The last d
igit might be a three or an eight. He nudged Colfax out of the way of his desk drawer and found his magnifying glass. The blurred numbers were larger, and he went with 1963. Even 1968 meant an existing connection between Ignatius and Osterback. But where did the others fit? Especially Doc Evans.

  And did it matter?

  “Who’s your guy at the hospital?” Gordon asked Colfax. “I need to ask him to ask Doc Evans some questions.”

  “Huh?” Colfax said, still engrossed in whatever he was doing on the computer.

  “Never mind. I’ll go after work.” He’d be able to check on Doc, and get answers first-hand. Angie wasn’t available tonight anyway, so why not?

  Colfax grunted, clicked some more, and shoved back from the desk. “Sorry. You got something?”

  “The names from the picture.” Gordon strode to the white board and added the new ones. “Sadly, the Mapleton Weekly didn’t deem the hunting competition worthy of an article. But with Roger Ignatius and another Osterback on the team, there might be a link to the real estate corporation. Can you plug Hal—Harold—Osterback into the system and see if he’s related to Clark?”

  “DOB?” Colfax asked. “Age range?”

  Gordon studied the picture and did some mental calculations. “The picture was taken in seventy-five. He looks mid-twenties, early thirties, maybe. I’d start with fifty to seventy.”

  Colfax reached for the mouse and called up a database. “You said you found the others. Names?”

  “The three I gave you plus a Bob Browning. Try Robert. Older, probably in his fifties then. Full beard, gray, in the photo. Nickname Mad Dog.”

  Colfax clicked more keys and rolled his chair away from the desk. “While we’re waiting for the magic, you’re going to tell me you want to see if there are any more pictures of these guys, aren’t you? And wade through newspapers, since not every article has a picture associated with it.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”