by Alex Barclay
‘Billy,’ shouted one of the old guys at the bar, waving a drunken arm around, ‘keep your mind on the job. People need beers.’
Billy smiled tightly and pushed himself upright. ‘People need beers,’ he said.
‘They always do,’ said Ren. She followed him back to the bar. He looked at her like she was nuts.
‘OK,’ said Billy. ‘Was I the last person to see her alive? Maybe the last you know of. Maybe the ninth last you know of. You know the killer is the last. And I, at least, know that’s not me. You’ll get there, though.’
‘You think so?’ said Ren.
‘You look smart enough,’ he said. ‘Sheriff Gage’s a good guy. Between you – who knows?’
‘You have got to give me more,’ said Ren.
‘I can give you my view of Jean Transom. Brisk –’
‘Do you mean brusque?’ said Ren.
Billy stared at her. ‘If you see a major difference between the two words …’
She looked at him. ‘You have a point, there.’
‘Thank you. OK, Jean, from my point of view, was business-like: no small talk, ordered a Diet Coke, asked me what she needed to ask me, sometimes came in with that blond dork, but I think trusted me enough not to have him there all the time. Leave him home to go brush his big teeth.’
Ren tried not to smile.
‘When she was alone, did she ever talk to anyone else while she was here?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Did you always just meet here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because no one bothers me here.’
Ren glanced out toward the customers. The lights above her head were tilted backward, the customers were shielded by darkness, like she was on the stage and they were the audience.
‘I’m it,’ said Billy. ‘I’m not the boss, but I’m like the boss. And I couldn’t give a shit what any of those losers out there think. Same as they couldn’t give a shit about me. I’m the man who gives them beer.’
‘Oh – do you ever get a guy in here called Salem Swade?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Gets a little out of hand if he drinks too much, but he’s a good guy. He’s always welcome here. Makes me laugh.’
‘Is he in here a lot?’
‘It’s the closest bar to his cabin, so he comes in quite a bit.’ He shrugged. He was eager to turn away.
Ren smiled extra-wide. ‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Sure. Whatever.’ His sneer unsettled her. But he held her gaze. And he didn’t give her the eye-fuck … which most guys in a power play do. Even if they have no weapons, they’ll always have the eye-fuck.
But then, maybe Billy Waites has an arsenal.
27
It was early enough that everything seemed wrong – the color of the sky, the silence, the sharpness of the trees and the leaves. Ren was hit with the sensation of walking through a bright airport after a long-haul flight; weighed-down, cold, disorientated.
The first time she woke in the middle of the night to study, she was seventeen years old and motivated by fear. The alarm went off and she wanted to stay in her bed and have the whole world disappear around her. But she got up and realized that, once the coffee kicked in, her brain had a strange alertness she could use. So for years, around exam times, she would get up, sick and dry-eyed at six a. m., and take her textbooks down to the sofa while her family slept. She needed to find the quickest way to process the information so that the answers would be right. She never imagined her interrupted sleep would take her, twenty years later, on to the snow-covered streets of a Colorado morning with the same plan.
Her skin felt tight. Vincent used to tell her how her face could transform depending on her mood, that when she was angry she looked like a different person – an ugliness came out. Ren hated when he said it, and could never see it herself, but she knew that every time he said it, she felt the same as she did this morning. She didn’t want to eat. Her breakfast would be coffee and case notes.
When she got into the office, there was a message at reception for her to call Margaret Shaw, Jean Transom’s neighbor. Ren sat at her desk and dialed the number.
‘Hello, Margaret? It’s Ren Bryce here. You left a message for me.’
‘Yes, I did. I didn’t want to call your cellphone. I thought that might be too personal.’
‘Oh, you can call that any time,’ said Ren. ‘How’s your dog?’
‘He’s getting there. I’m just not quite sure where “there” is …’
Ren laughed. She pulled a Post-It pad toward her and grabbed a pen. ‘Now, what can I do you for?’
‘I feel dirty,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m an old hippy. And here I am helping the Feds.’ She paused. ‘I took down someone’s car registration last night. For you. Can you imagine? It was the lady I told you about, the one who visited Jean.’
‘Really? That’s great, Margaret. Shoot.’
Margaret called it out. ‘Now, I only saw her leave. I was nervous enough about my carpets with the dog. The spying nearly killed me.’
‘Well, the FBI – your favorite – thanks you very much.’
‘I would say it was a pleasure, but it was really terrible,’ said Margaret. ‘I couldn’t do what you do.’
Colin Grabien sat at his borrowed desk, scrolling rapidly through a screen of numbers. On the wall beside him, the regular owner of the desk had created a beautiful world of kittens hanging out of buckets, tugging on balls of wool, hanging off tables, licking ice-creams.
Ren walked up to him. ‘Hey, P. asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk Magnet.’
Colin looked up at her. ‘What?’
‘I can’t use bad language in front of Robbie.’
Colin paused, then laughed. Cliff joined in. Robbie was not so sure.
‘How can people look at that shit all day?’ said Ren. ‘Sorry, Robbie.’
‘Same way I can sit opposite you in Safe Streets,’ said Colin.
Gary Dettling walked into the room. ‘Listen up. I just got a call from Denver PD. There was a robbery at Washington Mutual on Colfax one hour ago. Same freaks with the celebrity mug shots…’
‘Who was it this time?’ said Colin.
‘Paris Hilton,’ said Gary.
Yesss. ‘Were they violent?’ said Ren.
‘Along with their guns, they had some nice big sharp knives,’ said Gary.
‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘What happened?’
‘Two of the tellers are seriously ill from knife wounds, massive blood loss, etc., but at least it looks like they’re going to pull through.’
Ren let out a breath. ‘They know enough that they’re not going so far as to kill.’
‘I’m heading back to Denver,’ said Gary, ‘to hook up with Denver PD. Is everyone OK here?’
They nodded. Gary left the room.
‘I’m very OK,’ said Ren, pulling out her notebook. ‘Right – Colin, you said Robert Downey Jr.; Cliff, you had Larry King – hello? showing your age. Robbie, you had Lindsay Lohan. And I, gentlemen, had Paris Hilton. Five dollars from each of you, thank you very much.’
‘Paris Hilton was way too obvious,’ said Colin.
‘Exactly,’ said Ren. ‘Double bluff … or jeopardy … or whatever. Are you guys sticking with the same choices?’
‘I’m going to change mine,’ said Cliff.
‘Hallelujah,’ said Ren. ‘Larry King …’
‘To Dudley Moore,’ said Cliff.
‘Who?’ said Robbie.
‘Are you for real?’ said Ren.
‘I am,’ said Cliff.
‘You’re like the anti-better,’ said Ren. ‘It’s not even, like, you go for the underdog. It’s like you go for a completely different animal from a different galaxy where betting doesn’t exist.’
She sat down at her computer and ran the license plate that Margaret Shaw had given her. Caroline Quaintance, twenty-seven years old, a radiologist with an address in Silt.
Ren grabbed her bag and her jacket and left. Outside, Ollie Haggart, the ADA, stood in the porch, smoking, kicking at a wedge of ice.
Shit. ‘Hi, Oliver.’
‘Oh, hi.’ He had an expectant look in his eyes.
Deflect. Ren glanced at the steps. ‘You can relax. I’m not planning on slipping today.’
‘So, no bodily fluids on your boots this morning.’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry – I haven’t had a chance to take a look at that for you. You can understand, with the investigation …’
He nodded. ‘I know. I just … you know the way you can’t help thinking about something…’
Silt was a two-hour drive west of Breckenridge. Working in Colorado meant driving … a lot. ‘Go check a map,’ Ren would say to East Coast agents asking her to follow up on a lead in Colorado that they thought she could take care of in an hour.
Ren pulled up outside a pale green stuccoed house on a quiet avenue in a nice neighborhood. She rang the doorbell, but by the time Caroline Quaintance came to the door, Ren was already halfway down the path to the Jeep.
‘Oh,’ she said, turning around when she heard the porch door open.
The woman standing there was tall and thin, with light-brown shoulder-length hair. She was dressed in tan pants, brown hiking boots and a navy blue zip-up fleece.
‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Caroline Quaintance?’
‘Yes.’
Ren walked up to her and flashed her creds. ‘My name is Ren Bryce. I’m with the FBI. I’m here to ask you about Jean Transom.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can I come in?’ said Ren.
‘Sure.’
She showed Ren into the living room, a tidy room – one sofa with a Native American throw, one battered chair, a tiny television, a guitar, a chest. Ren badly wanted the sofa, but she took the chair.
‘How did you know Jean Transom?’ said Ren.
‘We worked at the same animal shelter in Rifle – Homeward Friends.’
‘When did you first meet?’
‘She started volunteering about a year ago. I had already been there about a year before that. We’ve been friends ever since.’
‘How often would you see each other?’
‘Every two weeks or so, on weekends at the shelter.’
‘And did you spend time in her home?
Caroline paused. ‘Yes.
‘How often?’ said Ren.
‘Maybe once a month, something like that.
‘When did you find out about her death?’ said Ren.
‘I guess, a few days ago.’
‘So last night, you visited her home because …’
Caroline looked at her. ‘Last night? I …’
Ren nodded. ‘Don’t worry – I’d just like to know why that was.’
Caroline opened her mouth, but paused. ‘Here’s where I sound nuts.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Ren.
‘Jean had a cat, McGraw, that she really cared about.’
Ren nodded. ‘I heard about McGraw.’
Caroline smiled. ‘I went to Jean’s house to check if he was OK. If a family member hadn’t taken him, I was going to take him in or take him to the shelter, make sure he was being looked after. I didn’t go into the house or anything. I mean, how would I?’
Ren nodded. ‘That doesn’t sound too nuts to me.’
‘I guess it’s because I feel I’m better with animals than I am with humans.’
Nuts.
‘Am I going to get in a lot of trouble for this?’ said Caroline.
‘For looking for a cat?’ said Ren. ‘No. We’re not in the business of putting resources into attempted cat rescue … we’re too busy monitoring civilian cellphone calls and emails.’
Caroline smiled. It lit up her face.
‘When was the last time you saw Jean?’ said Ren.
Caroline let out a breath. ‘It was a Saturday, at the shelter. It would have been … January sixth.’
‘And how was she doing?’
‘She was good,’ said Caroline. ‘A dog she had been looking after had made great progress. He’d been abandoned, but could do lots of tricks. It was weird because his owner, obviously, had put a lot of effort into the dog and he was –’ She paused. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent …’
‘Not a problem,’ said Ren, ‘but I’m afraid I do have to make tracks.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Caroline.’
‘That’s OK. I wish I could be more help.’
Ren handed her a card. ‘Who knows? Maybe you can.’
Maybe if you decide to tell me some of those things you are hiding behind those pretty brown eyes.
28
Ren went back to the office and sat at her desk. She quickly typed as much as she could of her conversation with Caroline Quaintance. Paul Louderback wasn’t just her PT instructor. He had given her advice across the board. He always said to write everything down verbatim. Skim over what an interviewee is telling you and you miss vital verbal clues. ‘Put something into your own words,’ he said, ‘and you put yourself into the frame. Never forget that you’re supposed to be the one looking at the picture.’
Ren thought of Terrence Haggart being put in the frame of a missing person’s case and, by association, Oliver Haggart. Maybe her first encounter with Oliver Haggart had influenced her empathy; a man who had come to her rescue after her icy fall. That was a weird day. And gradually, something about it started to tug at her. Crooked man. Bodily fluid. Boots. Misty the dog …
* * *
Salem Swade sat on a stool at the bar of the Brockton Filly, looking like there was nothing in the world that could ever trouble him. Ren wondered what medication he took. And where can I get some? Misty lay quietly beside Salem, her leash tied around the base of the stool.
Ren walked over and put a hand on his forearm. ‘Hello, Salem,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me? I’m –’
He gave her a broad smile. ‘My John Prine buddy.’
‘Yes, sir. Would you mind if I talked to you a minute?’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
She nodded toward a booth. ‘You can take Misty with you.’
He untied Misty and they went to sit down.
‘No barking at me today, Misty,’ said Ren, smiling, rubbing the dog’s silky head, massaging her back. ‘Salem, how long have you had Misty?’
‘I want to say five years. Maybe more?’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘I got her from the shelter.’
‘Was it by any chance from Homeward Friends in Rifle?’
‘No. It was a shelter out in Frisco. That I do know.’
‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘OK.’
‘She was in great shape, I’ll tell you that much. She wasn’t a scraggy thing.’
There was something in the lines in his face, the brightness in his eyes when he spoke. There was a lost boy inside Salem Swade who Ren wanted to wrap her arms around.
‘I think Misty’s got a special talent,’ she said.
‘She sure does,’ said Salem.
‘Well, even more than what you think,’ said Ren. ‘I think your little pal there is a very well trained dog.’
Salem’s eyes shone. ‘Well, how about that, girl?’ He ruffled Misty’s coat, pulling her gently toward him, hugging her tight.
Ren’s gaze was drawn to a man who stood up from a booth in the corner and walked up to the bar. He was heavily built on top, his neck and shoulders broad, his biceps pushing his arms wide of his body, his legs short. He was wearing a white vest with baggy green and pink work-out pants and white sneakers. His hair was pulled back tight into a thimble-sized pony-tail. He brought a bottle of Bud down to his booth with the stiffness of a man whose muscles wanted to pay him back.
Ren turned to Salem again.
‘Do you remember the day the FBI agent’s body was found on Quandary?’ said Ren.
Salem nodded. ‘I do. Same day I hitched a ride to Fairplay.’
‘Nope – the next morning. Cop cars everywhere. I had to go the back way to the cabin.’
‘What back way?’ said Ren.
‘The way that meant I didn’t have to go through the trailhead.’
‘You’ll have to show me. Was Misty with you?’
‘I left her in the cabin. Not a lot of people want to take you with a dog.’
‘Was she chained up?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I left her food and water, too.’
‘Of course you did. She’s a very loved little lady. And when you came home, was she where you left her?’
Salem nodded.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘No, thank you, ma’am.’
She placed a hand on his and squeezed it. ‘You take care.’
‘Hey,’ he called, ‘what do you think she’s trained in?’
Finding dead people.
Ren smiled. ‘Karate.’
Ren walked up to the bar and took a stool. She thought about Robbie’s beautiful, arctic photo and the possibility that they were Misty’s paw prints across the snow. Had Misty gotten free of her chains that night and someone had tied her up again? Had Salem? Had he forgotten? Had he deliberately lied? Or had someone else taken Misty, untied her and brought her out into the snow to find a dead body?
Officers were at the trailhead that night, but because of the avalanche threat, no one was right up at what had been the scene. And Salem had said there was another easy route up to his cabin …
Ren watched the guy with the ponytail in the mirror behind the bar. She waited for Billy to come over and ordered a Coke.
‘Hi,’ said Ren.
‘Hi,’ said Billy.
‘Who’s this guy behind me?’
‘Which one?’ said Billy, not taking his eyes off her. Amazing eyes.
‘The opposite-of-a-Minotaur guy.’
Billy paused, then laughed when he realized who she was talking about. ‘Head of a man, body of a bull?’
Ren smiled and nodded. ‘That’s the one.’ She felt bad that she thought he might not have known.
‘I don’t know. He’s Mexican, doesn’t speak a lot of English.’
‘Does he come in here a lot?’
‘Once or twice a week.’
‘Anything I need to know?’
