by Terry Odell
Gordon sucked in a breath and sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about? Who’s we? What camera crew?”
“Mapleton. You remember that ATM scammer? I was right. He showed up in Mapleton, and the local Denver news station did a piece on it. Yours truly was interviewed.”
Gordon visualized Solomon’s beaming face, his puffed-up chest. Unable to speak, Gordon waited out the pause. Solomon filled the void.
“It wasn’t a big deal—not like a homicide, but apparently this guy had taken close to a quarter of a million dollars in little bits and pieces, and we caught him, Chief. Me, McDermott, and Rose Kretzer.”
Gordon jumped off the bed and paced the room. “Rose? You let Rose get involved in an arrest? Solomon, what the hell were you thinking?”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that,” Solomon said. “You know I’d never involve a citizen in a sting. It was a serendipitous moment. McDermott was on patrol duty, and everyone had a heads up about the scammer, especially the bank tellers. Rose was in the bank, and—well, you know Rose.”
“Yes, I do,” Gordon said. “Fair to assume she was aware of the scam.”
“As was everyone who frequented Daily Bread. Angie had the guy’s picture posted next to the register.”
Which would have been seen by over half the town. Gordon gave up his pacing and flopped onto the bed. “She did, did she?”
“Hey, Chief, the guy had no history of violence. And she did ask me first. I approved it. Guy sees his face on a flyer, he’s not prone to pull anything.”
Gordon took a mental step backward. Before he’d left, he’d told Solomon it was okay to alert the bank. Expanding the scope of that approval sounded like Solomon, who considered much of his job to create a citizens’ awareness program. And an informed citizenry was one reason Mapleton had little crime, even if it meant the tip line often overheated with “helpful” calls.
“So, tell me how it went down,” Gordon said, quelling his frustration that he hadn’t been there. And even if he had, he’d have been pushing paper while everything happened—and much better that Solomon had been the one to deal with the press, a task Gordon preferred to avoid whenever possible.
“So, Rose was in the bank, talking with the teller, and she saw this man—our guy—fiddling with the ATM. She walks right over, stopping a few paces behind him, you know, like she’s waiting for her turn. He turns to her, gives her a song and dance about how he can’t figure out how to get money out of the machine. Says it’s jammed or something, and would she mind trying it.
“But she’s no helpless little old lady—”
Gordon’s guffaw cut into Solomon’s recitation. “No, she’s not.”
“See, she’s already told the teller to call the cops, and McDermott’s waiting outside where he can’t see her, but she can see Rose. Rose steps up to the machine, sticks her card in, and McDermott swoops in for the kill. The rest, as they say, is history—or will be as soon as it’s aired on the news. They’re hoping for the four-thirty broadcast.”
“Sounds like you been handling things,” Gordon said, part wistfully, part with pride.
“Yeah, but according to the news, you’ve had some excitement out your way, too. Sorry to step on your thunder with our little scam-stopping. You’ve had a homicide. Much more interesting.”
“No,” Gordon said. “The troopers and the deputies had a homicide. Not my case, not my jurisdiction. I’m on vacation, remember.”
Solomon’s silence indicated he didn’t believe Gordon wouldn’t have managed to insert himself into the investigation—or at least into the information channels.
“We’ve been without power half the time, no phones, no Internet, and no television. The roads are virtually impassible with the blizzard,” Gordon said.
“Blizzard? Nothing like that here. Bet it put a crimp in your vacation plans.”
Gordon brought Solomon up to speed on Wardell’s wife. “I got some hinky vibes from him, but nothing too far outside the scope of someone who’s afraid his wife might be dead.”
“So, you’ve got a homicide and a missing person,” Solomon said. “From what you’re describing, it sounds like the disappearing wife might be worth checking out.”
“And I’m sure the local LEOs are doing exactly that. State Patrol was at the scene a while ago.”
“Oh, c’mon, Chief. What’s wrong with poking around a few databases? Making a few calls? That’s how I found our ATM guy.”
“Solomon, you know the rules. I shouldn’t have to say anything more than that.” Which, as Gordon knew, wasn’t going to stop Solomon from poking around. The man was a good cop, knew what he could and couldn’t do within the system, and managed to ferret out what he needed without technically breaking the rules.
“I’ve been digging a little into your homicide,” Solomon went on. “The victim wasn’t your everyday model citizen. Five DUIs, three failed marriages in which he’s behind in alimony and child support, and he was a suspect in a hit-and-run that killed a kid. No proof, so he walked. There might be someone with a motive to take him out.”
“How long ago?” Gordon asked.
“Eight years.”
“And now it’s a motive? Solomon, you’ve been watching too much television.”
Solomon snorted. “Maybe so. But speaking of television, I have to go make sure the DVR is set to capture my moment of glory.”
Gordon shook his head and ended the call. After staring at the phone for the span of several heartbeats, he punched in the number of the State Patrol.
Chapter 23
Gordon almost hung up—more than once—as he waited to be transferred to the trooper in charge of the Wardell accident, since Kennedy was off-duty. He’d promised himself—more than once—he wasn’t going to get involved. That promise hadn’t lasted long.
He assuaged the mounting guilt by telling himself—more than once—that because he had no authority, he was merely satisfying his insatiable curiosity. Like a dog with a bone, Angie always said. But he wouldn’t get involved. No need for extra stress—he had nothing at stake. No case to clear to keep the bean counters happy with the department’s solve rate. Or his own.
He’d scarcely finished rationalizing when the trooper picked up. “This is Trooper Nottoli, Chief Hepler. What can I do for you?”
Gordon almost hung up again, but took the plunge.
“Touching base about the accident. I noticed a couple of your units pulling away from the scene not long ago. Wondered if you had anything you could share. The Yardumians are concerned about the missing woman. Told them I’d see where things stand.” Okay, so that was a boldfaced lie. But he figured the Yardumians were concerned, and if they’d asked him to, he’d have called.
“First look didn’t indicate the presence of another passenger. We’ll have to send what trace we picked up to forensics, but you know how long that can take.”
“No blood evidence?” Gordon asked.
“Nope. Field tests were all negative.”
“So, she got out before the car went down. Any evidence of what pushed the car over?”
“No dents, no paint exchange. Nada. We’re thinking the vehicle might have slid over the edge when things got icy.”
That made sense.
“Between you and me, cop to cop,” the trooper said, “this Wardell guy bears some further investigation. We have his uncle’s number in Telluride. So far, all we’ve gotten when we’ve called is an answering machine message.”
Gordon remembered the number Wardell had dictated to Kennedy and scribbled it on a scrap of paper before he forgot it. He’d make his own call. Couldn’t hurt to touch base—as someone who’d been involved with trying to help Wardell locate his wife.
The trooper went on. “Wardell’s from New Mexico, so we’ve got all sorts of jurisdictional games going on. Bad enough Telluride’s in another county. Crossing state lines is a whole ’nother ball game.”
“Hear you on that. Although sometimes it’s nice to
farm stuff out.”
“Tell me about it. We’re spread too thin as it is.” The trooper paused. “Anything else?”
“No, although I have to admit the other accident investigation has me curious. Pickup and two vehicles. Pickup driver shot.”
“Bennett Zaminski. Went by Bubba. Right. Scene was a bitch. Blizzard conditions.”
“What can you tell me about the victim?” Gordon didn’t see any reason to mention he’d picked up a few tidbits about Zaminski’s character from another source.
“White male, fifty-three, lived in Boulder. Three ex-wives. None seemed particularly grief-stricken when they were notified. No apparent motive so far. He owed them money, but they’ll never collect now that he’s dead.”
“Not likely to find a million dollars in his will, then,” Gordon said with a quiet snicker.
“That would be a major surprise. Guy worked construction, five companies in the last three years.”
Gordon waited, hoping the trooper would mention Bubba Zaminski’s involvement in the hit-and-run Solomon had referred to, but either he didn’t know or wasn’t telling. Good officer, although Gordon wished they could get together over a beer or two, where information might flow more freely. “Thanks. Good luck with the investigation, and I’ll let the Yardumians know you’re on top of things with Wardell’s wife.”
“Give them my best.” The trooper disconnected.
Gordon smiled at that remark. Small towns.
He went back to his trash examination, dismissing Tyner’s sketches, even the nudes. Two consenting adults, although remembering the overheard heated exchange, he wondered if there had been a difference of opinion to be resolved prior to their consent.
Paula’s trash didn’t give him anything particularly interesting. Tourist brochures, the kind you could pick up in racks at every rest stop, motel, eatery, or other tourist attraction. As he recalled, there was a rack of them in the entertainment center downstairs. Had these come from there, or had Paula picked them up along her travels, kept what she needed, and discarded the rest?
As he pondered the possibilities, Gordon realized he felt calmer than he had in days. Good to be working, and even better to be working when it wasn’t going to impact his job security. It was probably a figment of his imagination, but even his vision seemed clearer. Had he hit the turning point?
When his cell rang and Angie’s number appeared, his spirits brightened even more. “Hey, there.”
“Hey, yourself,” she said. “Sorry I haven’t called. Things have been crazy, between work and—work. Short-staffed at Daily Bread, so I’ve been working extra shifts there, and Megan’s business skyrocketed for Valentine’s Day events.”
Crap. Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t missed it, had he? No, he’d arranged his vacation to be home in Mapleton on the 13th. And Angie’s present was tucked at the back of his desk drawer.
He refocused on Angie’s voice. She was telling him about catching the ATM scammer, and from the excitement in her tone, he didn’t want to tell her he’d already heard it from Solomon.
“Rose is practically a hero in town,” Angie continued. “Of course, she’s pooh-poohing it. Says it was nothing. Doing her civic duty.”
And given Rose had lived through the Holocaust, of course fingering a small-time crook would be nothing to her. Rose did more civic duty than two-thirds of the citizens of Mapleton, combined.
“Tell her I said good job,” Gordon said.
They spent the next ten minutes talking about nothing—the kind of nothing that meant everything—before Angie apologized and said she had to get to work. “Miss you,” she said.
“Same goes.” Gordon disconnected, feeling a warm fullness and cold emptiness at the same time. But he forced his thoughts to his puzzles.
One thing the locals would not be doing was trying to figure out who’d stolen Gordon’s memory card. He remembered having to go to the phone store to have them install it, and it wasn’t something that could have fallen out accidentally. Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to remove it himself. Or even where it was.
But not knowing how to remove the card didn’t eliminate any suspects. The bigger question was still why? Maybe he’d find answers—or at least a clue or two—if he knew more about the people. He might not have access to all the law enforcement databases, but there were plenty of public sites he could dig through. Lacking a motive, he decided to start with Metcalf, who would have had the phone in his possession the longest.
In addition to a website, Metcalf had a Facebook page for his business. Neither revealed much. In fact, they seemed to contradict the Metcalf Gordon had interacted with. The man’s cutting personality didn’t match the straightforward presentation on the sites. Comments were positive, and the site information confirmed what Metcalf had said, that the business shut down for the winter months. Gordon doubted Metcalf had designed either site on his own.
He checked the Better Business Bureau for complaints, and found none. It took a little longer to find the right Metcalf on Google, and when he did, most of the hits were related to his business—pictures of him with happy clients. Nothing Gordon found gave him a reason why the man would have sabotaged his phone.
He moved on. Tyner was easy to find. And, on the surface, easy to eliminate. A mid-level artist, apparently making a decent living, but unlikely to be deemed a master in his lifetime. Work displayed in galleries, a few exhibitions across the country over the last five years, but nothing that said he was anything more than an artist who managed to make a living at it. Unmarried, as far as Gordon could tell.
Paula was next. Although she didn’t use it in her blog, Gordon managed to uncover her last name. Brassington. From there, he found out she was single, born in Cleveland, father was in the military so they moved around a lot, went to Iowa State where she studied engineering, got her degree, but as far as he could tell, never worked in the field. And now, maybe due to all the times she’d moved as a kid, she was a travel blogger. Whatever floated her boat. Which, apparently, included hooking up with people she’d just met. Given her traveling lifestyle, she had ample opportunities for that. So why would she care what was on Gordon’s phone?
That left Orrin Wardell. He’d known Gordon had taken the pictures of the car, but were they the target of whoever took his memory card? His contacts list was missing, too. After grinding that around for a while, he thought the pictures were the more logical target, but he wasn’t ready to rule out anything. Although what anyone would do with his limited number of contacts was beyond him.
Maybe whoever took the phone knew he was a cop. And thought they’d be getting confidential information. They could have taken the card without bothering to look at what was on the phone—after all, the battery was near death.
With a sigh, he went to his computer, blinking, trying to bring the screen into focus. Everything was blurred. He blinked again. The screen seemed to be peeking through a wall of smoke. A chill snaked down his spine.
Chapter 24
Gordon fumbled for his phone, cursing as it registered that his contacts were gone. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again, afraid of what he’d see. The darkened edges of his peripheral vision had receded. He focused on his computer screen. Blurry, but not as bad as before. False alarm?
Maybe so, but his vision wasn’t something he was willing to play games with. He went to his search engines, this time plugging in Dr. Demming’s name. He managed to poke the digits into his cell phone, barely breathing as he waited for someone to pick up. Sweat trickled down his back. His heart pounded as he counted the rings.
Relax. Don’t make things worse.
The receptionist answered on the fourth ring, and immediately put him on hold. Not helping.
He forced himself to even out his breathing. When she came on the line, he identified himself and asked to speak to Dr. Demming.
“He’s with a patient,” she said. “Can I take a message?”
“It’s important I
speak with him as soon as possible. When will he be free?”
A pause. “He’s booked solid with patients until five. He should be able to return a call by five-thirty.”
When Gordon the cop called people, they came straight to the phone. Gordon the civilian didn’t have that kind of clout. “I don’t think this should wait that long,” he said.
“Is it an emergency?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Gordon said. “That’s why I want to speak with Dr. Demming.”
“Maybe I can have his assistant return your call.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Your number?”
Gordon gave her his cell number. “Hang on. Let me give you a land line number. Cell reception here is spotty.”
Damn. He didn’t know the Yardumians’ number offhand. Afraid he didn’t have enough charge, he left the phone plugged in and dashed downstairs to the living room, where he picked up a brochure for the B and B and raced to the phone.
The numerals on the brochure danced, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to give her the right number. He asked her to hold a little longer, went downstairs again, and found Mrs. Yardumian working on the computer in the office, headphones over her ears. He cleared his throat. Stepped closer to the desk.
She tugged the headset down around her neck. “Sorry. I was listening to a podcast. What can I do for you?”
Trying to appear calm, he asked her for the number.
“Of course.” She smiled, wrote it on a notepad, and handed him the sheet. After making sure he could read it, Gordon bolted upstairs.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said. No response. Couldn’t tie up the lines, so she’d hung up. He hit redial and went through the please hold routine once more, telling himself a few more minutes wasn’t going to matter. If only his brain could accept it.
“This is Gordon Hepler again,” he said when the receptionist answered. “I have a second number for you. If there’s no answer on the cell, please have whoever is calling me back use this one.” He read off the number and repeated the urgency of his situation. “I’m stuck out of town, and I need to know what to do.”
