by Terry Odell
Gordon let Donna fill his mug—a second cup of the real stuff couldn’t hurt that much could it? He promised himself he’d only drink half. “So, where was the car?” he asked McDermott.
“In the Park and Ride lot.”
A commuter? Or someone who thought a car would be unnoticed there? Not in Mapleton. The lot had been a point of contention when it was established, and to ensure Mapleton residents their vehicles would be safe, officers patrolled the lot regularly. “Let me know as soon as the plate comes back.”
“Will do, Chief.” She hopped off the stool and stepped to the door.
Angie hadn’t reappeared from the kitchen. Gordon finished half his cinnamon roll and asked for a bag for the rest. They’d talk tonight. Maybe the earrings would smooth things over.
At the station, Gordon went straight to Dispatch. “What did you get on the Ford Focus plate McDermott called in?”
Tessa clicked a couple of keys and the printer whirred. “Came back to an Avery Lambert. No wants, no warrants. Properly insured.”
Which was all a routine check would give her. “Don’t suppose you’ve met him?” Gordon asked. Between her church, volunteering, and having an ear on what went on in Mapleton, Tessa knew—or knew of—half the town.
She shook her head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have. But I did check the property rolls. He moved in six weeks ago. Lives out on the far end of Ash. I’ve got a printout of the details. Figured you’d want ’em.” Tessa snagged the pages from the printer and extended them.
“Thanks.” On the stroll to his office, Gordon mulled over what Tessa had said. A local, even a new one, didn’t fit the theory that their burglar was a stranger passing through. He sat down and fetched his readers, perused the forms. Lambert’s date of birth put him in his late forties. Not likely to be an old flame of Angie’s. But he could ask if she knew him.
New in town, wanting to meet people, perhaps? No reason why he couldn’t have stopped at Finnegan’s the other night. Maybe Mick Finnegan knew more about him. If Lambert’s prints were on file anywhere, Solomon would have gotten a hit. But that didn’t mean the prints weren’t his.
Gordon couldn’t justify printing Lambert. Or his car, for that matter. He ran the guy through the social network sites. According to LinkedIn, an Avery Lambert lived in Colorado and worked for a security firm in Denver. If this was Mapleton’s Avery Lambert, it made sense that his car could be in the Park and Ride lot.
Gordon added Lambert’s name to his notes, but as a low priority. Anyone who knew anything about security would have found a much smarter way into Angie’s apartment. Of course, he might have staged the whole thing to prove that Angie needed a security system, but then you’d think he’d have approached her to offer his services. Which, Gordon supposed, might have happened. And if it had, Angie would have told Lambert she’d found another company.
You are going way out there. Get your brain in the game.
The Focus was only one of the unidentified vehicles from Finnegan’s security camera. And his officers had eyes out for all three of them.
He checked his email and found a message from the CBI in his inbox. Their fire victim had been identified. Gordon clicked open the attachment and hit print. He set the printout on his desk, adjusted his readers, and pored over the new information.
Their victim was one Jase Blackhawk. Gordon rechecked his notes. Yes, it was the cell phone’s owner. No known address. Next of kin had reported he’d been in and out of shelters and halfway houses for years, but didn’t stay long because of their strict no alcohol policies. He liked wandering around the countryside. They confirmed he was a smoker. Didn’t do drugs, which agreed with what the doctor had said.
The rest of the pages listed his arrests, which were numerous, but nothing related to arson. Some shoplifting, some vagrancy. In five states. Everything pointed to the guy seeing the unlocked cabin at the Yardumians’ and making himself at home.
Of course, seeing the light from the road was unlikely, but if the guy liked to wander, he might not stick to main roads. According to the report, the Yardumians had never heard of him.
Sometimes the pieces you found didn’t fit any of the puzzles.
He emailed a thank you, asked to be included if they found anything else, and stuck the papers into a file folder.
He looked at his notes, the documents he’d started on vacation. Time to look at the big picture. Or maybe it was nothing more than lots of little pictures. He went to the storage room and wheeled the white board to his office. He divided the board into four quadrants. At the top left, he wrote Angie. Next to that, Wardell. In the box under Wardell’s, he wrote Uncle and put Pickup/Homicide into the last one. He stepped back, studied what he’d written. Should he have included the fire? No, he decided. That one seemed cut and dried. An unfortunate accident.
What about his missing memory card? He wrote that at the bottom corner of Wardell’s box. He started timelines in each box, added names and sticky notes with details.
One at a time. His vested interest was in Angie’s case because it happened in his jurisdiction. He taped the three pictures of the vehicles in Finnegan’s parking lot, adding Lambert’s name to the Focus. With a big question mark. They still couldn’t definitively place him at Finnegan’s, since they didn’t have a clear view of the plate. It’s not like Lambert drove the only Focus in Mapleton. But, Gordon reminded himself, according to his theory, they were looking for a Focus that didn’t belong to someone in Mapleton.
Solomon showed up as Gordon was moving on to the pickup homicide. “Hey, Chief. I’ve—” He stopped. Saw the white board. Moved closer. “Excellent.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Gordon said. “I thought seeing everything would help, but there’s not enough information. It’s not like we can go out and question people all over the state of Colorado. I guess we should stick to finding out who set off the fire alarm and burglarized Angie’s place.”
“No harm in keeping the others up there,” Solomon said. “We might think of the right question, or find the right clue—which, of course, we’d relay to the proper jurisdiction.” Solomon moved closer to the board. “Lambert? His Focus? Who’s he?”
“Apparently someone new to Mapleton.” Gordon explained what they’d learned about the man. “I was going to call Mick and see if he’s becoming a regular. If Mick remembers whether Lambert was at the bar that night.”
“I haven’t had a lunch break,” Solomon said. “I could go ask. Now that you’re handling all the chief stuff.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Gordon said. “I’ll stay here and do chief stuff and see if I can fill in any more blanks on the board.”
Chief stuff kept Gordon busy until almost three. He wondered if he could work something into the budget to pay someone to work on grant applications. Or get a grant to hire someone to work on grant applications. Solomon popped his head in. “I’m on my way out. Now that I’ve seen how the other half operates, I’m not going to ask for overtime. I didn’t realize how close to the bone the department works.”
“Did you talk to Mick Finnegan?” Gordon asked.
“Yeah. Meant to call you, but I got busy doing cop stuff.”
Gordon smiled. “I’ll be looking at your reports, you know.”
“All right. Sneak preview. Three traffic stops, six parking tickets, two rowdy teenagers—”
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Gordon said.
Solomon chortled. “More or less. At first, Mick didn’t have a face to put with Lambert’s name, but checking his receipts refreshed his memory. And yes, Avery Lambert was there that night. Guy’s come in a few times, usually alone. That night, he was with a woman Mick assumed was his wife. Dinner, a couple of drinks. Fits the time stamp on the security footage. Figured that was enough to write him off as a burglary suspect.”
Gordon agreed. But he didn’t get rid of the guy’s name on the white board.
“See you tomorrow,” Solomon said.
Gordon figu
red he’d pop in to the change of shift roll call. He took one more look at his white board, then went down the hall to the briefing room.
Where he found Jost and Gaubatz engaged in a heated conversation.
Chapter 41
As soon as Gordon stepped into the briefing room, Jost and Gaubatz snapped to attention. Jost’s face reddened. He gave the tiniest of nods in Gordon’s direction and took a seat.
“Something I need to know?” Gordon asked.
“No, sir. I can handle it.” Gaubatz stared at a point above Gordon’s eyes.
“Is it about Jost’s new baby?” Gordon asked. “If so, I’ll rearrange schedules. We don’t neglect family in this department.”
“Understood, sir.”
When Gaubatz didn’t elaborate, Gordon said, “I expect to see your report. In full.”
“Yes, sir. Did you wish to address the shift, sir?”
The unusual formality in Gaubatz’s demeanor sent pings onto Gordon’s radar, but he’d let his officer handle the staff. He’d learned enough from Dix, his former mentor, to know that micromanaging never worked. “No, I’m here to observe.” He smiled, hoping to lighten the mood. “Catching up after my vacation.”
Gaubatz strode to the podium and began with roll call, then moved through the business of the day.
“We have a possible ID on the Focus in Finnegan’s lot. However, we cannot ascertain that this is the same vehicle on the video, so eyes out, everyone. Likewise on the Ram and Subaru. I know there are dozens of them around, but check the plates on any matches.”
Gaubatz continued, briefing everyone on what first shift had done, what areas needed extra attention. No leads on their burglar, but Gordon hadn’t expected anything—he knew he’d have been alerted had anything come in. A sense of satisfaction, of comfort, suffused him. His men—and women—knew their jobs, and whether he or Solomon were at the helm didn’t make a difference. It was about the job.
And, since he had nothing new to work with, he could leave on time, get home, clean up, and have a nice evening with Angie. At least he hoped so.
As he drove home, he pondered what he should say. Should he go in apologizing? For what? Wanting her safe? Or should he take a stand? Same reasons.
Men didn’t apologize. Maybe if he did, he’d catch her off guard and they could avoid an argument. He started practicing.
~~~
Gordon felt Angie stir beside him. Instinctively, he knew she was reaching to catch the alarm before it went off. Her body clock knew when it was time to get up, but his refused to adjust to the four-thirty hour when he slept at her place. He contemplated joining her in the shower, but his body craved that last hour or so of sleep. Still hadn’t bounced back from the trials of his vacation. It wasn’t like they hadn’t hit their satiation points last night. He smiled as he drifted under again.
He woke to a soft kiss on his cheek. “Have a good day,” Angie whispered. “Thanks for the earrings, and apology accepted. Breakfast downstairs if you want.”
He smiled again. He waited until he heard the door close—and the deadbolt snick—before throwing the covers aside and getting up.
He showered, found the clothes he’d brought to replace his stolen ones, and got dressed. The aroma of sizzling bacon hit him halfway down the stairs to the diner. He guessed he was truly forgiven—Angie rarely cooked him breakfast in the mornings, given all the work she had to do to get her cinnamon rolls baked before Daily Bread opened. Her newly hired assistant was off today, having pulled extra duty while Angie had been busy with the new catering business, not to mention the time Angie’d taken off to come to Gordon’s rescue.
Gordon held back in the doorway, watching her work. Her expression said she felt the way he had when he’d gone to the briefing room after being away. She loved her work, and to her, this was home.
He crept up behind her and nuzzled her neck. And noticed she was wearing the earrings he’d given her. “I’m wearing your present, too,” he said. The red silk boxers—covered with white hearts, no less—which he’d modeled for all of five seconds before she took them off, felt decadent next to his skin.
She served him a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs with toast on the side. “Regular or decaf?” she asked.
“Regular.” He stopped, a strip of bacon halfway to his mouth. “Wait. You knew?”
She scrunched her face. “Of course I knew. And yes, it bugged me that you never mentioned why you’d switched. I hope after our … discussion … last night, you’ll stop trying to hide things. Cop stuff, okay. But us stuff. No.”
“You’re right.” He knew Angie had respected the privacy of his work, and the little he could share with her, she kept to herself. Which, for her, an inveterate gossip, had been a significant milestone.
She brushed her lips across his. “The security guy is coming at two today, in case you want to be here to make sure he does everything the way you want it.”
He didn’t miss the emphasis on you. And he let it pass, because they’d gone over everything in detail last night, and he knew she agreed. “I’ve got to get to the station,” he said. “Can’t promise I can be here at two. I trust you.”
He was going over the second shift reports, seeking whatever had caused the tension between Jost and Gaubatz, when Solomon came in. He stepped to the white board and drew a huge X through Roni Wardell’s name. “Chief, I think we can eliminate the wife as a suspect in the uncle’s killing.”
Chapter 42
Gordon shoved the paperwork aside. Solomon might enjoy the limelight, but he didn’t make statements he couldn’t support. “Explain.”
“Impeccable research skills. All documented.” Solomon plopped a stack of paper onto Gordon’s desk.
“I have no doubt. Give me the Cliff Notes.”
After helping himself to a cup of coffee from Gordon’s pot—Gordon didn’t bother to mention it was decaf—Solomon yanked the visitor chair away from the desk and made himself comfortable. “First, I assumed Roni was a nickname for Veronica.” He held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say about assumptions, but in this case it was the right one. Anyway, I started looking for Veronica Wardell. No luck.”
“I don’t mean to belittle your storytelling, but I need to get to the elementary school soon. What did work?”
Solomon sighed, clearly disappointed he couldn’t embellish his tale. “The picture looked like a yearbook photo. I backtracked Wardell to Central High in some Podunk town in Oklahoma. Found her picture there. Roni and Orrin. They were quite the couple, apparently. Exemplified the definition of high school sweethearts.”
Gordon tapped his watch. “I bow to your ability to ferret out information using the barest of clues. So, you found her. What made you decide she isn’t a suspect?”
Solomon took a hit from his coffee, then set his mug carefully on the desk. His grin could have split his face. “She’s dead, Chief.”
“What?” That possibility hadn’t occurred to Gordon. “How? When?”
“First, the name I found for her was Veronica LaPort, not Wardell. No evidence of a marriage certificate. Her death certificate, which is in the file, says she died over fifteen years ago.”
“You did notify all concerned agencies, right?”
“Of course, Chief. And they were most appreciative of all the legwork I saved them.” He smirked. “And unless Wardell married another woman named Roni, I’m betting his whole story about his missing wife was bogus.”
“I wouldn’t touch that bet,” Gordon said. “But damn, the guy had me fooled.”
“Would you feel better if I told you some of those pictures of Orrin Wardell and Roni were of drama productions? And that he was a theater major in college? Glowing reviews. Apparently the guy had talent.”
Gordon still had trouble accepting he’d been so far off in reading Wardell. But, he reminded himself, there were plenty of skillful liars out there. Otherwise, scam artists would have to find real jobs.
“So, how did she die
?”
“Traffic accident.”
“Wardell was the driver?” Gordon asked. That would create a bucket load of guilt.
Solomon shook his head. “Nope. It was one of his frat brothers. Wardell knew he’d had a few too many, so he asked one of his pals to drive Roni to her sorority. On the way, some drunk T-boned them. Roni died, the frat brother was messed up, but survived. And, as fate so often has it, the drunk who ran into them walked away with hardly a scratch.”
“So, Orrin’s carrying around a thing for his ex-girlfriend? Doesn’t accept that she’s dead? Thinks she’s his wife?”
“I haven’t dug that deep yet. Thought you’d be interested in what I found so far.” Solomon pushed away from the desk and stood. “Time to get back to serving the citizens of Mapleton.”
Gordon played with those puzzle pieces as he directed traffic and supervised the crosswalk at the elementary school. Orrin Wardell had snapped. But when? What had triggered it? The car accident? Running into the elk unearthed some buried memory, and Wardell transferred it to the accident that killed Roni? Maybe thought he could save her this time?
Didn’t make sense, but the human mind played strange tricks on people.
A message from Laurie sat on his desk when Gordon returned. Officer Jost wanted to see him.
Gordon grabbed the reports and leafed through them until he found Gaubatz’s. A citizen—anonymous, of course—had reported a patrol car parked for over twenty minutes along the side of the road near the edge of town. Said citizen had assumed the officer—later identified as Jost—was either asleep on the job or otherwise shirking his duties. Instead of assuming Jost was working in his car, or that he was on official business, Gaubatz had written him up for it.
Which puzzled Gordon. Gaubatz wasn’t normally so hard-nosed. Gordon assumed Jost’s reason for wanting to see him was to tell his side of the story. But there were always three sides to a story—the first party’s account, the second party’s account, and what really happened. He called Dispatch and asked to see the logs.
