by Jeff Carson
Wolf nodded and stepped toward an open gondola, “Thanks. You don’t mind if we head up, do you?” Wolf asked.
The two operators shrugged. “Go ahead, all yours.”
They stepped inside and sat, and the doors clacked shut, cutting out the loud industrial sounds outside. After another few seconds they whipped up the side of the slope on the bouncing cable, and the base complex came into view below them, getting smaller by the second.
For a few minutes they sat in silence, all eyes glued to the bright peaks and landscape below. Corduroy groomers and steep powder-buried runs slid by beneath them.
Wolf stared down, picking lines he would ski, and then picking lines he would have skied fifteen years ago. Patterson and Rachette seemed to be doing the same thing, though Rachette with much more trepidation than Patterson.
“How’s the skiing coming?” Wolf asked, pulling off his hat. It was getting warm inside the heated car.
“Not bad, if I do say so myself,” Rachette said nodding to Patterson.
Patterson glanced at Rachette. “Yeah. Not bad,” she said with little enthusiasm.
Wolf sensed Rachette’s nervousness, and by the way he looked down and gripped the bench when they bounced over the rollers on the lift towers, Wolf knew he didn’t like the lifts. The interesting part was Patterson looked nervous as well, but not about movements of the gondola car. It was something personal, Wolf decided.
At the top of the mountain the gondola swung into the upper terminal and slowed to a crawl, and the mechanism in the door knocked and it split open.
Rachette was out first, all but diving out the door, and Wolf followed Patterson out.
Wolf looked at the clock mounted above the lift operator’s office and saw it said 8:20.
Bob Duke, the head of ski patrol, was outside laughing with Scott Reed – both men that Wolf had known for a number of years as fellow residents in town.
Duke turned to them. “Hey, there they are.”
Wolf smiled and shook his hand, and then Scott Reed’s.
Patterson watched Wolf smile at Scott Reed and give him a hearty handshake, as if they’d known each other for years.
“How’s it going, Dave?” Scott said.
“Not bad. You?” Wolf said.
Patterson kept back, shook Duke’s hand, and then Scott’s only because it would have been causing a scene if she didn’t.
Scott’s hand was warm and big, just like she remembered it last time. But now his touch sent shivers of revulsion up and down her spine, and his genuine smile seemed to magnify the effect. She decided that for the remainder of her time with these two men she’d keep her sunglasses on.
She followed in silence, taking in the vast view as she always did, and once again she peered at Aspen Mountain and wondered what her family was up to this morning. With the amount of snow dropped Saturday night, her dad would probably be playing hooky from work and hitting the slopes until lunch.
They walked toward Scott’s cat that waited on the freshly groomed snow.
Patterson took up the rear, and then sped up at the end and slipped into the back hold of the cat before anyone else. Bob Duke took shotgun and Wolf and Rachette sat back with her.
Wolf eyed Patterson suspiciously. She ignored him and looked out the scratched rear window.
“We need to speak to Matt Cooper,” Wolf said.
“I know. I can’t get him on the radio right now,” Duke shook his head. “Probably has his flight headphones on. We’ll just drive over there.”
The cat vibrated and the diesel engine sputtered loudly, but Wolf continued his conversation with the men in front.
Patterson leaned forward and looked out the windshield, ignoring Scott’s green eyes glancing at her in the rearview mirror. The bright red helicopter she’d seen many times this year—either on the top of the ridge where it sat now or thumping in the sky as if flew back and forth between peaks—sat on the far end of the ridgeline past the Antler Creek Lodge. It hadn’t been there yesterday. Probably hadn’t been the best business for helicopter rides when perfect powder had been right here on the mountain for no extra cost.
“How’s Hillary?” Wolf asked leaning toward the front.
“Oh, I split with her last year. Geez, I haven’t talked to you in that long?”
Patterson kept her gaze out the windshield, ignoring her urge to look over at Rachette.
“Yeah, I guess it’s been a little hectic for me. I haven’t been out much,” Wolf said.
“Well, I heard about the whole deal you and Jack went through last summer, and what Deputy Rachette here did, getting shot and all?” Scott shook his head. “Wow.”
Patterson finally sat back and looked across the hold at Rachette.
Rachette glanced at her and then leaned forward to speak over Wolf’s shoulder. It would have made more sense to perhaps mouth the word sorry—To apologize for making your partner look like an idiot for being interested in a married man, a married man who in fact had split up from his wife so it wasn’t as awkward as her partner had made it out to be, but that wasn’t Rachette’s style.
The pieces fell into place, though, and she was seeing Scott Reed in a whole new light. Scott didn’t wear a wedding ring for a good reason.
She looked in the rearview mirror and locked eyes with him for a few seconds, then looked out the windshield again. Now she felt bad for being so cold toward the man, when he’d been so clearly interested in getting to know her.
Could she date someone with two kids, though? She barely thought of herself as a grownup as it was. And how old of kids were they talking about? By his youthful looks, she couldn’t picture them being much older than five or six years old. Then again, he could have been a teenager when he’d had his kids, and then they’d be almost her age. Two kids? Could she do it?
One more time she looked at Scott’s face in the bouncing mirror, and once again they locked eyes. Probably, she thought as she marveled at his green eyes for the tenth time. I could probably do it.
Chapter 17
Charlie Ash parked his Land Rover and stepped out into yet another cloudless morning. He shut the door and wiped his wet fingers off on his pants, and then stepped along the driveway to the house that he could only describe as a Frank Lloyd Wright rip-off. Ash could think of a lot better ways to wipe your ass with a few million dollars than to erect a piece of crap like this.
The gutters plunked and trickled, and the snow under his boots was turning to slush. Branches sagged, and a small stream had already started forming along the road on the drive up. The day was unseasonably warm for late February, and he loved it. It reminded Ash of Tahoe, where the warm temperatures often melted the snow just as fast as it dropped. Thank God. It was getting unbearable breathing through his mouth so his boogers wouldn’t freeze up. Humans weren’t meant to endure cold temperatures like they’d been having. At least he wasn’t meant for it. In fact, he’d already vowed to himself that when the Klammer payment went through it would go toward a country club membership and winter house in Scottsdale.
As he stepped onto the porch and pushed the doorbell, he longed for the days of Lake Tahoe once again, with his lake house, and his boat, and his Treasurer position in city government, people lining up for favors. Those were the heydays, when he was like the godfather, before things pushed him and Kevin east. That was when he had been on top. That was when everything he touched turned to gold, and when everyone respected him for the savvy businessman he was. Until his wife went and fucked it all up.
The door clicked and opened, and a white lady dressed in sweatpants stood in the opening. She held a feather duster and had some headphones hanging from the neck of her sweatshirt.
“Hello Mr. Ash,” she said.
“Hello,” Ash said, excluding her name, because he had no clue what it was nor did he care.
She smiled at him for a second, like he was going to say something else, like her name or something.
“The mayor!” He yelled, satisfie
d at the way she jumped and opened the door wide.
“Yes, sorry. Come in, he’s in his office,” she said.
Ash walked past her and across the little rug without wiping his feet, and then onto the hardwood floors and down the hall. Over the squeaking of his boots he was pretty certain he’d heard the woman call him an asshole under her breath. Maybe one day he could figure out how to make her regret that.
He stopped at the closed door to Wakefield’s home office and stepped onto the carpeted alcove. He turned the knob and walked inside, not bothering to knock.
Wakefield was already staring straight at Ash when he went in. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he sat board stiff with both palms on the top of his mahogany desk. He wore a wrinkled long-sleeved polo shirt. There were no lights on, just the half-closed blinds letting in too little sunlight. It was silent as a vault.
Ash looked around and closed the door behind him. He noticed that the computer on Wakefield’s desk wasn’t turned on, and there was nothing in front of him. Ash took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the corner that was made of old skis, and noticed Wakefield tracking him with his unblinking gaze.
Ash walked to the desk and sat down. He sighed and sat back, crossed his legs. “You wanted to speak to me?”
“She’s fucking dead?” Wakefield blurted.
Ash popped his eyebrows and stared at Wakefield for a few seconds. Was he drunk? Had he been staring at the wall, drinking all night?
“Yes,” Ash said slowly. “As I said before, I was so sorry to hear about your wife.”
Wakefield narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “What?”
Ash stared at Wakefield. The man was unstable. Ash couldn’t tell what this was. Was Wakefield acting like he didn’t know his wife had offed herself until now? Did he forget the reason why she had? How far off his rocker had he gone?
“I’m sorry”—he sat motionless—“you’re confusing me.”
“You don’t know?” Wakefield asked.
Ash kept silent.
Wakefield stood up from his chair and leaned forward, pressing his hands into the desktop. He studied Ash with comical intensity, like Ash was a half-opaque ghost sitting in his midst.
Ash felt his skin crawling, and decided now was a good time to leave. He began to stand up.
“Stephanie Lang,” Wakefield said.
Ash froze and then sat back down. “What?”
Wakefield stared at him for another second and then sat down. “You’re serious!” He yelled, and then he exploded into laughter.
Ash held up a hand and looked back at the closed door. “What are you talking about?”
Wakefield stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “Stephanie Wakefield is dead. A plow dug her up out of the snow yesterday morning.”
Ash leaned forward. “What?”
Wakefield closed his eyes and his leather seat creaked as he sat back.
Ash looked around, thinking. Then he walked to the office door and opened it. Poking his head outside, he was startled to see the housekeeper a few feet away wiping water footprints off the floor with a rag. She had white headphones jammed in her ears.
She looked up and sucked in a breath, then pulled out a headphone. “Can I help you, sir?”
Ash glared at her and then closed the door. He walked back to the desk and sat down.
“What the hell are you doing to me, Charlie?”
Ash sat forward on the seat. “First of all, quiet down. Second of all, I don’t know anything about this. This is news to me.”
Wakefield didn’t blink. “So you strangle her, and make it look like I did it? Then what? What’s next for good old Mayor Wakefield in your plan? Somehow the X is supposed to lead the cops to me or something?”
“The ex?” Ash squinted and shook his head. “Ex-what? What the hell are you talking about. I…she was strangled?”
“You’re a good actor, Charlie. I’ll give you that.”
Ash stood up to think, and paced behind his chair. “Who the hell?” he murmured to himself.
Wakefield sat back and leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair, all false amusement drained from his face. “You really don’t know who did this?”
Ash ignored him and walked to the coat rack. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Where are you going?” Wakefield asked. “Who the hell did this? Do we have to be worried? Was the X a signal to us? You’re telling me this is just a coincidence that she’s been killed?”
Ash put on his coat and then stopped, narrowing his eyes. “For the last time. What do you mean, the ex? Who are you talking about?”
“There was an X drawn on her forehead.” Wakefield put his index finger to his forehead and crossed two lines.
Ash’s face dropped. His pulse raced and his skin crawled, itching as sweat leaked out of every pore on his body.
“I have to go,” he said, and walked to the door. He opened it and hurried out, and then almost stepped on the maid. Twisting in mid-stride to miss her, he slipped on a wet spot and fell hard, planting his elbow onto the wood floor with a loud knock. Pain shot up and down the bone of his arm.
“Ah!” he yelled.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry Mr. Ash!” The maid said.
Ash got to his knees and bent over gripping his elbow, grunting through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Ash slapped it off and stood up, and then made his way carefully down the hallway and out the front door. He climbed into his car and pressed a number on his phone. It rang six times and went to voicemail.
“Shit,” he breathed, and then he dialed another number. When it went to voicemail after one ring, he knew his call had been screened, and then he knew exactly what was going on. He was in trouble.
Chapter 18
“A Bell 212 Twin Huey,” Duke yelled back to them. “Can hold twelve passengers.”
Wolf nodded, looking out the window of the snow cat as they pulled up next to the helicopter. He’d been in them before while in the army, but where those were painted camo, this one was painted a glossy red with a yellow stripe, and had metal meshed baskets the size of coffins on each skid for ski gear.
The long main rotors twisted lazily, like Cooper had landed a few minutes ago and was powering down.
“When does he do the first flights of the day?” Wolf asked.
“This weekend he didn’t fly much,” Scott said. “There was enough good stuff right here on the mountain.”
“On a busy day, he’ll start flying at about nine am, get done in the early afternoon before the light gets too bad,” Duke said.
Wolf leaned forward and peered out the window. “Stop the cat!” He yelled.
Scott twisted and looked at Wolf with a confused look. “What?”
“Stop!”
Scott stopped the cat on a dime, and Patterson slid into her side on the bench, catching herself before toppling onto the floor.
“What’s up?” Duke asked.
Wolf looked at Patterson and Rachette and then leaned up between Scott and Duke. “Stay here.”
Wolf stepped out of the snow cat and his boot sank up to his knee in the wind-crusted powder. He stepped back up onto the hardened snow, and looked around.
“What the hell?” Rachette whispered, now seeing what Wolf had a few seconds ago.
The rotor blades whipped by overhead and the engine whined at a steady low pitch. If it idled any slower, Wolf thought, it would have been shut off.
They faced east, and the morning sun blazed through the glass-enclosed cockpit of the whirring aircraft, lighting it like a light bulb. On the window nearest them, a splash of glowing crimson painted the window, and a red X was scrawled through it.
Wolf took out his pistol and walked to the aircraft, peering through the red tainted glass at the figure inside. A man was slumped motionless in between the two cockpit seats.
The whooshing rotor overhead stirred the air, but otherwise the wind on top of the
mountain was dead calm, and it smelled like jet fuel and the faintest hint of gunpowder.
Beyond the helicopter, there was a drop-off into Brecker Bowl, the terrain that had been bombed yesterday morning, sending a mountain of snow down onto the highway far below.
To the south (their right) was Williams Pass, and to the north the ridgeline they stood on continued all the way to Antler Creek Lodge, which sat in the distance reflecting the sun off its windows. Below was Rocky Points, the vast open valley beyond it to the north, and Cave Creek Canyon over thirty miles away. It was all a majestic view, but the grizzly sight on the window hooked their eyeballs and reeled them closer.
Wolf noticed that the blood spatter was on the inside of the window, and the red X was scrawled on the outside. It was drawn with an oily red paint, or lipstick, just like the mark drawn on Stephanie Lang’s forehead.
The movement of the rotor blades gave Wolf the sense that the shooting had happened mere seconds ago. Of course, the engine could have been idling for quite a while.
He stepped up next to the window and looked in at the slumped body, and then looked down and saw he was standing on top of a ski boot print in the snow.
“That Cooper?” Rachette asked, coming up behind Wolf.
“I don’t know,” Wolf admitted.
Wolf popped open the door and studied the man. He was wearing lace-up hiking boots and ski pants. Wolf looked back down at the snow, and saw the disturbances in the snow were from this man’s boots, and ski boots, the latter presumably from the killer.
Inside the ski pants was the bulge of a wallet. Wolf dug inside his pocket and pulled it out. His action moved the body just that little bit, which unleashed a fecal smell that was stirred by the rotor wash.
“Oh,” Rachette said covering his nose.
Wolf opened the wallet and looked inside. The ID said Matthew Cooper. The picture showed Cooper tanned with a shaved bald head, smiling wide with a malicious grin.
Wolf handed it to Rachette. “Looks like it’s Cooper.”
