“Afraid not.”
Through the phone, he heard the sound of car doors opening and Rose’s muffled, “Let’s go.”
“I have to—” Zoe said.
“I know. I heard. Call me if I can help.”
The call went dead, and he let his phone rest on his lap. What help could he be from more than a thousand miles away?
The phone rang again. Had Zoe forgotten to tell him something? But no. Instead of her name, the screen displayed “District Attorney.” When Pete answered, he expected to hear the county DA’s secretary’s voice. Instead, the man himself was on the line. “What’s going on with the Dale Springfield investigation?”
Admitting the lack of progress to Zoe was one thing. Coming up blank for the DA was another. “Still following leads, Mr. Fratini.”
“Not good enough. We’re talking about a county commissioner, Chief Adams. This is the highest profile case we’ve had in quite some time, and I don’t want it dragging. The media and the public are demanding results.” Fratini rambled on, spewing more political rhetoric.
Pete waited for him to take a breath to interrupt. “I’ve been working on the drug OD this morning. I may have found one of the distributors bringing heroin and meth into the area—”
Fratini cut him off. “That’s great. Turn it over to the task force and let them work it. Look, Chief, I know you prefer to do your own investigations. Because of your history, I’ve given you more leeway than I probably should. But I’m afraid you’re in over your head. I’ve assigned Detective Baronick to the Springfield case.”
“Isn’t he already leading the drug task force?”
“Yes. All the more reason to have him take point on Dale’s murder too. You and your department are already working with him on the ODs. He can set up a base of operations at your station and oversee both cases. With your assistance, of course.”
Assistance? Base of operations? Pete bit back a string of expletives.
Fratini must have read his mind. “Do you have a problem with that, Chief?”
A problem with having to report to that cocky young detective? Hell yes. But to the DA, Pete said, “No, sir.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. And I’ll be even happier to hear your progress report first thing tomorrow morning. I expect you and Detective Baronick to have a prime suspect in the commissioner’s murder by then.”
Eight
Rose stood outside the rental car in front of the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office, one of several earth-toned brick buildings in the municipal complex. A moment ago, she’d been prodding Zoe to get moving, but now she appeared frozen in place. Through that door lurked answers.
Not necessarily the answers they wanted.
Rose tugged her jacket down over her hips and headed for the entrance.
“Wait,” Zoe called after her. “Pop the trunk.”
“What?” Rose turned, face flushed. “Why?”
Zoe thumbed toward the rear of the vehicle, hating to say the words. “Dental records.”
“Oh.” Rose held up the key fob opened the locks. “I’ll be inside.”
Zoe watched her frantic friend charge into the building. Alone in the parking lot, she took a deep breath. Not only was the scenery different in New Mexico, the air was too. Drier. Thinner. She gazed across an expanse of flat brown earth to the rocky hills in the distance. None of the towering snow-covered peaks here. And none of the woods and rolling pastures she was used to either.
A minute later, dental records in hand, Zoe found Rose waving her arms at a stolid uniformed deputy.
“I’ve just travelled over four hours, plus an hour layover in Denver, to get here from Pittsburgh, and you’re telling me you can’t help?” Rose’s voice probably carried into the bowels of the sprawling building.
The deputy, however, kept his tone low, calm. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Detective Apodaca isn’t available right now—”
“Then let me talk to someone else. Certainly there’s more than one person familiar with my son’s case.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t anyone who can speak with you right now.”
“How can that be?” Rose gestured at a group of deputies who entered the hallway behind the stony-faced young man and rushed off in the opposite direction. “There seem to be quite a lot of officers around.”
Zoe put a hand on Rose’s arm, but she shook it off.
“Ma’am, I understand your frustration, but it’s a little crazy around here this afternoon.”
“I’m gonna be more than a little crazy if you don’t let me talk to someone about my missing son.”
Zoe took her arm again, firmer this time. “You’re gonna be locked up if you don’t calm down.”
The deputy shot a look at Zoe that she thought might be gratitude, although he appeared totally unrattled by Rose’s rising volume. Zoe wouldn’t want to include this guy in her poker circle.
“Ma’am,” he said to Rose, his voice dropping even lower, “we had an officer-involved shooting this morning. Most of our top deputies are out working on it. Detective Apodaca is currently in the hospital being treated for a gunshot wound.”
Rose staggered as if he’d shoved her. “Is he—is he going to be all right?”
For the first time, Zoe spotted a flash of emotion cross the young man’s dark eyes. “It’s too soon to tell.”
Zoe put an arm around her friend. “Deputy,” Zoe said. “I have Logan’s dental records. Mrs. Bassi was asked to bring them.”
The young man extended a hand. “I can see the detectives get them. And if you give me your phone number, I’ll have someone call you as soon as they can.”
“Thanks.” She gave him her cell number and then turned Rose toward the doors. “Let’s go check into the hotel.”
Rose nodded. She dug the rental car keys from her pocket and handed them to Zoe. “You drive.”
Pete expected Baronick to call any second. He’d be itching to take over and give Pete marching orders. Fine. He set his phone on vibrate and tucked it into his pocket, already hearing himself tell the smug detective, “I didn’t hear my phone ring.”
Let Baronick and his task force take over staking out the Fort. Pete headed for Hope Springfield’s house.
Not much had changed in the two days since his previous visit. The Ford F-350 with the expensive tires had been unhitched from the trailer and moved to a different spot. The mushy Jack-o-lanterns were gone. But the same rollicking country music drifted through the walls. Pete pressed the doorbell and waited. Nothing. He pounded on the door. Still nothing. He was about to beat on it a second time when it swung open to reveal Hope wearing a lush white robe belted tightly around her trim waist. A matching towel was wrapped around her hair.
She clutched the robe tighter at her throat. “I was in the shower.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Springfield. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Embarrassment widened those liquid brownish-green eyes. “Would you mind waiting until I can put some clothes on?”
He noticed she didn’t insist he call her by her first name this time. “Of course not.”
She left him in the living room and disappeared up the stairs. The music continued to blast.
In Hope’s absence, Pete explored. The chrome and glass end tables and coffee table were spotless. Not a fingerprint, not a coffee ring. Several large flower arrangements had been added since his earlier visit. He touched the card still attached to the bouquet on the end table. “With deepest sympathy from the DA’s office.”
In spite of the chill, the fireplace looked like it had never been lit, and there was no wood-smoke odor. The mantle served as a display shelf for nearly a dozen identically framed photographs. There were several professional shots of Hope and Dale smiling. The epitome of marital bliss. One showed Dale alone in the same pose Pete had seen on the man’s campaign
posters and in news articles. There were a pair of faded photos of a much younger Dale with a small boy. Posed, but not professional. Another showed a young man in a cowboy hat, standing in front of what looked like an oil rig. The landscape was definitely not local. Hadn’t Hope mentioned an estranged son living in Texas?
Pete’s thoughts leapt to Zoe in New Mexico. But he forced his mind to the task at hand.
A final photograph was another professional studio shot of a young family. The father resembled the man in the cowboy hat, and he was joined by a smiling blonde holding an infant in pink. An unhappy toddler squirmed in the man’s lap.
The rest of the living room was bland. Spotless and impersonal as a doctor’s waiting room. A door to another room was left ajar. Pete eased it open wide enough to see a polished cherry desk without so much as a paperclip on its surface. Matching cherry shelves filled with what appeared to be leather-bound volumes lined the wall behind the desk.
Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his snooping. He partly closed the door the same way he’d found it and strolled back to the fireplace.
Hope breezed into the room, fussing with an earring. Her still damp hair was bound in a ponytail. She’d changed into a pair of snug jeans and a form-fitting black long-sleeved sweater. Pete turned his gaze to the framed photos before she busted him for gawking at her again.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed her pick up a small remote. The music fell silent.
He faced her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I should have turned it off as soon as you got here. But the music…well, I was trying to drown out all the stuff.” She aimed a finger at her temple and made loops with it.
“Does it work?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.
“Not really. Anyhow, thanks for waiting. Do you have any leads on Dale’s murder?”
“No, unfortunately.” Pete shifted back to the pictures. “Nice-looking family.”
She moved to his side and reached up to adjust one of the portraits a fraction of an inch. “Thank you.”
Pete pointed at one of the older photos. “Is that the son you mentioned before?”
“Dale’s son. From his first marriage.”
Pete picked up the photo of the cowboy with the blonde and two kids. “This him too?”
“Yes.” She took the photo from Pete. “Scotty blames me for Dale leaving his mother. The only reason we have this photo of the grandchildren is because Scotty’s wife was kind enough to send it to us.” Hope replaced the frame on the mantle and carefully positioned it. She aimed a finger at the picture of Dale’s son with the cowboy hat. “That one too.”
“Is that an oil rig?”
Pete noticed her eyebrow twitch. “Yes,” she said. She walked to the leather sofa and sat. “But you didn’t come here to talk about our family portraits.”
“No, I didn’t.” He crossed the room, took a seat in a matching overstuffed chair, and pulled out his notebook. “I’ve been told your husband had been receiving threats before his death.”
She lowered her face as if studying her nail polish. “Yes. We didn’t think anything of it at first. Every time Dale took an unpopular stance on an issue, there were always threats. Change your mind or else. Vote the way I tell you to or else. Support my cause or else. This time it was don’t stand in the way of the gas industry.”
“Or else,” Pete added.
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Or else.”
“I gather all these assorted threats over the years came from different sources.”
“Yes. As far as I know. Only a few had the stones to make threats to Dale’s face or to sign their letters. Mostly they were anonymous.”
“You said you and your husband didn’t think anything of them at first.”
“Yes.”
“That changed?”
A pair of deep lines creasing her forehead. “Yes. The last couple of weeks, Dale seemed jumpy. He didn’t want to tell me why, but I pressured him. He finally admitted he’d received a couple of letters—unsigned with no return address—at his office. I never saw them. And he got some rather ugly calls on his cell phone too. But they were blocked numbers.”
Pete jotted a note to check with the wireless company. These days, remaining truly anonymous was difficult. “What about your home phone?”
“Not that I’m aware. If anyone called him here, he didn’t tell me. And we’re both very careful to not give out this number. I think he may have gotten some irate emails too.” She gestured toward the room with the cherry desk and shelves. “The county detectives have already been here and took a bunch of his papers and his computer.”
Sifting through the emails and tracking down the senders of anything perceived as suspicious was another chore Pete would gladly surrender to the county guys.
“So you never actually saw or heard any of the threats against your husband?”
Her eyes glistened. “No.”
“You worked closely with your husband on this issue. Can you think of anyone you’ve encountered who seemed especially frightening? Who might have taken their rhetoric to a more dangerous level?”
A sad smile tugged at her lips. “You can say it, Chief. Can I think of anyone who would want to kill Dale?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to ask without being too insensitive.”
The smile faded into a thoughtful frown. “I hate to say it, but quite a few of the local farmers have been rather vocal. They act like we’re trying to take food off their tables. And of course just about anyone at Federated Petroleum Resources.”
Pete studied her. She’d just narrowed his suspect search down to several hundred people. “But are there any farmers or gas company employees who seemed particularly angry?”
She fingered a loose strand of damp hair and tucked it behind one ear. “There was one man. A farmer. He stopped us once outside the Post Office and launched into a rant. Got right in Dale’s face and said some horrible things.” Her hand covered her mouth, one finger tapping her upper lip. “What was his name?” she said to herself.
Pete waited and watched.
Finally she lowered her hand, her eyes sparking. “Moore. His name was Moore. His first name was…Lester? Levon?”
“Leroy?” Pete offered.
“Yes! Leroy Moore. I honestly expected him to take a swing at Dale that day.”
Pete made a note to visit the man who used to be Zoe’s neighbor and then met and held Hope’s gaze. “I apologize, but I have to ask. Where were you Sunday morning while your husband went riding?”
She didn’t flinch or look away. If anything, her face relaxed. “I was here. I slept in. But I think I told you that before.”
“You did. Is there anyone who can confirm it?”
The sad smile once more played across her lips. “You mean, do I have an alibi?”
That was exactly what he meant, but he gave her a sheepish grin. “Busted.” Again. “Sorry. Just doing my job.”
“I realize that, Chief.”
Still, she hadn’t answered the question. “So, is there? Anyone who can provide you an alibi, I mean.”
“Actually, yes, there is. The land man from Federated Petroleum Resources stopped by looking for my husband.” Hope stood. “Excuse me a moment. I have his business card.” She crossed to the door to the cherry room and pushed through it. “Ah. Yes. Here it is,” her voice trailed out to Pete. She returned, holding out the small white slip. “Cody Bodine.”
Pete took the card. “The guy who spoke at the meeting last night?”
“That’s him. He wanted to sway Dale’s opinion, but since my husband wasn’t here, I discussed our views with him.” She returned to her spot on the couch. “It was useless, of course. But he was here for almost an hour.”
Bodine was on Pete’s list to talk to anyway. He tucked the card into his pocket. �
��Mrs. Springfield—”
“Hope. Please.”
“Hope.” Apparently she’d forgiven him for interrupting her shower. Pete leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “One last question. Can you think of anyone who knew your husband would be out in those woods Sunday morning?”
She appeared caught off guard. Pete watched the surprise dance across her expressive face before being replaced by deep consideration.
“Dale told Joe Mendez he planned to go riding early in order to still make their meeting at Parson’s. Joe may have told some of the others. But none of them had any reason to want Dale dead.”
Pete jotted down the supervisor’s name. Maybe he’d mentioned Dale’s early solo ride to someone who did want the commissioner dead.
“And of course, anyone who was at the barn that morning would have known,” Hope added. “Zoe Chambers could probably tell you who all was there.”
Pete closed his notebook and stood. “I’m sure she can.” If only she wasn’t half a continent away at the moment.
Nine
The generic chain hotel room Rose booked for them could have been in Pennsylvania or Florida or Timbuktu. The décor was the same beige walls, beige and white bedding, beige and brown carpeting that Zoe had seen in every other hotel at which she’d stayed. At least until she looked out the window at the trucking company next door and the rocky New Mexico bluffs beyond.
Rose burst from the bathroom dressed in clean jeans and a sweater. “You ready to go?”
“Go?” Zoe had just gotten comfortable on the window seat—a nice touch to the otherwise ordinary room. “Aren’t we stuck until the sheriff’s department gets back to us?”
Rose shoved the clothes she’d worn on the plane into an empty drawer. “I’m not sitting on my hands while Logan’s out there somewhere. We’re going to see Kayla’s parents.” She planted her fists on her hips. “Or at least I am.”
So much for Zoe’s plan to get a hot shower before changing out of her travel attire. She swung her feet down to the floor and stood. “I’m coming.”
No Way Home Page 8
