by Terry Odell
“Sir? I thought you weren’t listening to the radio.”
“I wasn’t. Why?”
“You said you were going to Craz—to Mr. Easterbrook’s. I thought you must have heard the call.”
Gordon reached for the radio as if he could rewind it like a DVR player. “What call was that?”
“Mrs. Blanchard’s on the rampage again. Said Mr. Easterbrook was shooting, or blowing things up, and she thought she heard someone moaning. Female, she said.”
“When did the call come in?”
“Maybe five minutes ago, tops.”
Gordon didn’t think his heart could bounce around any more than it had today. Then again, Roberta Blanchard reacted to anything, and a car backfiring or a wolf howling would send her dialing Mapleton’s emergency number.
But, given the circumstances, he wasn’t taking any chances. His brain whirled. Was this nothing but another distraction?
“Colfax, I want the bone site covered like ants on a picnic. I also need coverage at Easterbrook’s place. How many of your units are still in the vicinity of Mapleton?”
Colfax held up a finger and reached for his cell phone. While he was talking, Gordon went to Dispatch. “Connie, what’s the status at Easterbrook’s place? You think it’s for real this time?”
“She was making less sense than usual,” Connie said. “Although that isn’t saying a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter a calm, rational sentence.”
“What did you tell her?”
“To go into her bedroom and stay away from the windows. I dispatched a unit to her place. McDermott should be there in twenty.”
“Code?”
“One,” Connie said, already reaching for the radio. “You want two or three?”
“Two—if something is going on, I don’t want to make it obvious we’re coming. How are we on manpower? I need the bone site covered with at least three units. Colfax is checking on county resources.”
“You think Fred has Angie?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. Someone seems to be manipulating our personnel so when they need to be somewhere, they’re somewhere else.” He told her about Irv’s collusion with the mayor, and his retirement announcement.
Connie sighed. “Frankly, I’m relieved that we won’t have to fire Irv. But the mayor? I may think the man’s politics are counterproductive to running the city, but I find it hard to believe he’s crossed the line into arson. Or vandalism. Or grave robbing.”
“Right now, he’s a person of interest, nothing more. I know you can’t coordinate routing the force via cell phone, but try to be as vague as possible over the radio. At this point, who knows how many people are listening in on scanners and reporting to the mayor.”
“Understood.” Connie flipped open the duty roster notebook. “On it.”
Gordon left her to do her job, itching to get to Fred’s. But when he got to the office, Colfax stopped him.
“Hang on a sec,” the detective said. “You’re not going to believe this. We may have found that key puzzle piece.” Colfax turned from the white board where he’d added not only the mayor’s name, but a new, unfamiliar one with two bold lines connecting them.
“At this point, I’ll believe anything. Who’s Sunny Flores and how’s she connected to the mayor—assuming she’s a she.”
“She’s a she, all right, and is—was—the mayor’s wife.”
“What are you talking about? His first wife died a little over a year ago, and her name was Jenny—Jennifer. I don’t know her maiden name offhand, but I’m sure you can look it up.”
“Immaterial for now,” Colfax said. “But she was wife number two, not number one. Martin Alexander and Sunny Flores were married in 1974 in a quickie ceremony in one of those Vegas chapels, said chapel no longer in business, of course.”
Gordon stood in front of the white board. “How long did it last?”
“That’s the strange part. We can’t find any record of a divorce.”
“So the mayor married Jenny when he was still married to Sunny? I can see him trying to cover up bigamy, but—” Gordon ground out the possibilities. His eyes widened.
“But the light bulb shineth.” Colfax tapped the board. “Sunny Flores was sixteen when she married Martin Alexander. He was barely out of high school. She was someone his family wouldn’t approve of, although based on what we could find, his family wouldn’t have approved of him at that time in his life, either. I called in a few favors—and we’re talking single malt again, Hepler—and found young Marty was picked up several times for drugs, both doing and distributing. Not the kind of thing someone trying to get into law school would want people to know about. It appears that Sunny was a poor influence on him. Living on the street, partying, hooking. Took some doing to keep that all off the radar, but Marty’s parents had clout.”
“So if Martin Alexander killed her all those years ago, and it’s her bones—at least one set of them is hers—buried in the Kretzers’ woods, how does this connect to Fred Easterbrook?”
Given this new information, Gordon thought Roberta Blanchard’s call was more likely to be one of her usual alarmist reactions to nothing. But if that were the case, then he was back to ground zero in finding Angie. It wouldn’t matter if they got a DNA sample from the bones. DNA profiling hadn’t come into the picture until 1984. Without a previous sample from Sunny Flores, it would be fruitless.
Even knowing the answer, he had to ask. “Do we have DNA, or anything else to match? Fred Easterbrook has a virtual shrine to the memory of his daughter. Maybe Sunny’s parents did the same. If they saved her hairbrush, or toothbrush—” Gordon cut himself off before he sounded too much like a blithering idiot.
“If we’re looking at the Easterbrook connection, you said his wife and daughter left him.” Colfax backed away from the board, still studying it.
“You think they’re the other two,” Gordon said.
“We haven’t been able to trace her. If she’s buried there, that might explain it. Ages match.”
Gordon wrapped his head around that one. Crazy Freddy was Crazy Freddy, a few steps over the line from eccentric. But a killer who might have Angie? He reached for his keys. “I’m on my way to his place.”
“Let me call for backup,” Colfax said. “No offense, but we have a highly-trained Emergency Response Team. If things hit the fan, they’re who you want covering your six.”
Gordon paused at the door. “How fast can you get them here? Because if Fred’s killed before, then he’s more likely to do it again. And if he has Angie—”
“You know how the ERTs operate. They don’t rush in blindly. I’m going to say an hour, and that’s being optimistic.”
“I’m going to be there in half that. Or less.”
“Take someone with you. I’ll follow when I set things up.”
“Tell Connie to roll Solomon, and if he’s not close enough, she’ll find someone else. And if you can keep the call ordering ERT to Fred’s place off the radio, that will help. I’m leaving.”
Colfax looked as though he was going to add another comment, but he turned and left. For Dispatch, Gordon assumed. He checked his weapons, made sure he had extra ammo, and left the parking lot Code Three. If anyone was waiting for him to leave, they’d have no trouble knowing where he was going. He clenched his fingers around the wheel.
Bring it.
His lights and sirens cleared the remaining morning traffic as he left downtown for Fred’s place. Checks of the rearview told him he hadn’t been followed—at least not by another vehicle. He set his cell phone to speaker and turned the radio volume up.
About five miles from Fred’s property, he killed the lights and sirens, flashing his lights only to move the vehicles he encountered out of the way. He thumbed the radio. “Under five to destination.”
“Be there in six.” Solomon’s voice came through loud and clear, and Gordon was grateful for that. Reception in this area was dicey at best.
Gordon acknowledged the call with a quick ten-four. He slowed as he approached Fred’s property. He’d been so busy getting there, he hadn’t done the smart thing—figure out exactly what he’d do when he arrived. As Colfax had pointed out, going in without a plan was stupid. And could be deadly. Radio traffic had told him Vicky McDermott was with Roberta Blanchard, but beyond that, he knew nothing other than things must be all right, or it would have been all over the airwaves.
He pulled over and punched Connie’s number into his phone.
“Yes, Chief?”
“Update on McDermott’s call.”
Connie repeated what he’d already heard—that McDermott had arrived and there was no emergency.
“She say anything about Mrs. Blanchard being loopier than usual?” Gordon asked.
“No, Chief. Seemed like another routine call.”
“Tell McDermott to call my cell when she’s done, or if things look hinky. I’m parked at the end of Fred’s drive, waiting for Solomon.”
Gordon ended the call and set the phone back in the console. Waiting sucked. The minute or so it took before lights brightened his rearview seemed like hours. The lights disappeared and Solomon pulled alongside him. Together, their vehicles effectively blocked the drive from Fred’s, although on foot, there were countless paths through the woods. Gordon got out of his car and walked over to Solomon.
“What do we have, Chief?” Solomon asked.
“Colfax is calling out an Emergency Response Team, but they won’t be here for a while.”
“Should we storm the house?” Solomon asked. “Fast and sweet, grab Angie, and it’s over and done with?”
“We don’t know what we might find. Other than some loosely connected facts, there’s nothing to prove Angie’s inside. I don’t want to risk it, especially without paper.”
“Risk what? That she’s in there and he hurts her, or that she’s not in there and you’re leaving yourself open to entering a house for no reason? Or that Fred files a complaint, and you-know-who is all over you?”
Trusting Solomon to keep his mouth shut Gordon said, “Except you-know-who might be in this up to his eyeballs himself.”
“Whoa.” He squinted against the sun flooding through the trees. “You’re not kidding.”
Gordon laid out the sketchy facts he and Colfax had uncovered.
“So, Crazy Freddy and the mayor both had wives who disappeared around the same time,” Solomon said.
“And Fred’s daughter, too.”
Solomon rested his palm on the butt of his gun. “Two women, one kid missing. Two women, one kid’s bones found. Sounds like probable cause to me. Enough to go in and ask Fred a few questions. What are we waiting for?”
“We’re not. You’re waiting here. I’m going in.” He went to his truck for his cell and placed a call to Solomon’s number, saying, “Keep the line open. As good as a wire.”
Solomon’s phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Assuming the signal doesn’t drop.”
“A risk I’m willing to take. Don’t use the radio unless it hits the fan. If it does, let Connie know. Vicky McDermott’s at the Blanchard house, so she can be here in two minutes.” Gordon pocketed his phone. “Can you hear me now?” he said in the conversational tone he’d be using with Fred.
Solomon snorted. “Yes, five by five.”
The only flaw Gordon saw in his plan was that Solomon would have to use the radio to communicate with Connie or Colfax’s ERT team. But he was willing to accept that. With luck, he’d go in, talk to Fred, and either Angie would be there or she wouldn’t. If she was, he’d get her out. If she wasn’t, and Fred had any involvement, Gordon would see to it that he talked. He muted the volume on his radio—no point in distracting Fred—or himself. He’d rely on Solomon if things went south.
“Ready?” Gordon asked.
“Do it.”
Gordon strode up the driveway, keeping close to the edge. Solomon followed until they were about fifty yards from Fred’s house. “What’s your time in the fifty?” Gordon asked.
“When? I ran the hundred in eleven point three seconds in high school.”
“Now would be more meaningful.”
“I suppose I could do fifty in under ten, since you’re talking uniform and utility belt. Over rough terrain. And uphill.”
Gordon shook his head. “You and Colfax. Always with the smart mouth.”
“Just lightening the mood. You call, I’ll be there. Adrenaline ought to cut a second or two off my time.”
“How about you tuck yourself somewhere five seconds from the house.”
Solomon looked at the house, then at Gordon. He took about ten long strides, then left the drive for the cover of a clump of juniper. Gordon approached the house, stopping short of the front porch where something shiny glinted from a scrawny potentilla branch. He stopped. Found a twig. Got down on one knee and poked it free. A necklace.
A lapis pendant on a silver chain. Angie’s.
Chapter 42
Gordon’s heart stopped. Ducking out of sight of any windows in the house, he told Solomon to move it. “Stealth mode.”
“Ten-four,” Solomon responded.
Gordon slipped the necklace into his shirt pocket. As far as he knew, since he’d given it to her, Angie had never taken the necklace off. Had it fallen off? Had Fred tossed it aside after—Gordon refused to think that. Or had Angie left it as a clue?
Solomon crouched beside him. “What?”
Gordon produced the necklace. “It’s Angie’s.”
“What’s your plan?” Solomon asked.
“Not much different, although I now have more reason to believe Angie is in there. I’m going to knock on the door and see what I can uncover. You wait outside. Get Connie to send McDermott here.”
Instead of some wisecrack about how he could cover Gordon’s six by himself, Solomon reached for the radio on his utility belt. Gordon listened, making sure nothing critical had happened in the short time since he’d turned off his sound.
“Repeat,” Solomon said. He stepped farther from the house.
Gordon followed, and once they were out of earshot, Solomon turned up the volume. Colfax’s voice came over the radio. “Is Hepler with you?”
“Affirmative,” Solomon said.
“Tell him to call me. Now.”
Gordon disconnected his call to Solomon and punched in Colfax’s number. “What do you have?”
“Olivia Easterbrook.”
“Where?”
“Let me rephrase that. We found her death certificate under her maiden name. In New Mexico. Signed by one Otis Evans, M.D. Cause of death, natural.”
Gordon glanced back at the house, needing to find out if Angie was all right, but he forced himself to focus on Colfax’s words. “When?”
“In 1972.”
“The daughter?”
“Nothing on her. Yet.”
So Olivia had died in New Mexico? And Doc had signed the death certificate? Was she buried in some cemetery out there? This was getting too convoluted for him to work out in his head. “Anything else? And make it quick. I’m at Fred’s house, and there’s a good chance Angie Mead is inside. I need to deal with that first. You can keep Solomon up to speed.”
“Emergency Response Team will convene at your location in thirty.”
“Which could be thirty minutes too late. Have them report to Solomon if I haven’t come out before they get here.” Gordon disconnected. “I’m going in,” he said to Solomon. “Enough waiting.”
“You going to call me for an open line?”
Gordon thought for a moment. Was there a point in keeping this off the radio any longer? None he could think of. He was here. If someone was going to come after him, Solomon and McDermott had his six. “No. Make sure you’re close enough to hear me. If I need you, code word is”—he thought for a moment, wanting a word that wasn’t likely to come up in a conversation with Fred.
“What about something easy? Help comes to
mind,” Solomon said.
Gordon grimaced. “Scrabble.”
“Scrabble?”
“Yes. Now, let me go do my job. You do yours.”
Solomon rested a hand on Gordon’s biceps. “Make sure it’s the job you’re doing in there. You know you’d never assign anyone to a call out if they had a personal involvement.”
Gordon met Solomon’s gaze. “I’m doing this.”
“I’ll take a quick trip around the house,” Solomon said. He set off in a duck-walk.
Gordon strode toward the house. With each step, his mind cleared, his focus returned. Paperwork and desk duty be damned. He was a cop. A trained officer. He released his holster.
He marched up the porch steps to Fred’s front door and gave it three sharp raps. “Fred? It’s Gordon Hepler.” He winced and added, “Gordie. Can I come in? We should talk.” He strained to listen, heard muffled voices, but not Angie’s.
The voices stopped. Heavy footfalls clumped across the floor. Gordon’s heart seemed to echo their rhythm. He released the catch on his holster. His fingers flexed, ready to reach for his weapon. Hoping he wouldn’t need to. The door opened.
Fred, looking—and smelling—much the way he had the last time Gordon had visited, but minus his Mossberg 500, stood there, scratching his belly. “You’re a little late.”
Gordon ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, suddenly dry as paper. “Late for what?” His words were almost a croak.
“I’m almost out of beer. You didn’t happen to bring any, did you?”
“Sorry, no.” He peered around Fred, but aside from a muted television playing some game show, and four empty beer bottles on the coffee table, there was no sign of anyone else in the room. Was he too late for more than beer?
Fred squinted at Gordon. “You said you wanted to talk. Why don’t we get that over and done with?” He clumped to the sofa, flopped down, his bony knees protruding from the holes in his jeans, and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
Part of him wanted to race through the house, but Gordon managed to shove that part aside, along with the part that wanted to grab Fred by the throat, slam him against the wall, and force him to talk. He sat in the same chair he’d occupied last time, across from the sofa. Calm. Rational. But his emotions roiled like the lava in a volcano about to erupt.
