Signature: A David Wolf Mystery (David Wolf Mystery Thriller Series Book 9)

by Jeff Carson

  The first floor waiting room was deserted, so they went to the far corner near the windows and took a seat.

  Sally Claypool’s mother was the first to sit, and her husband sat next to her. His eyes climbed all over Luke and then settled out the window. He planted a cold, dispassionate hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  Luke sat down in the row in front of them and Wolf sat next to her. His seat rose a little when Hannigan landed in the chair next to him.

  “Ma’am,” Luke said. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

  She dabbed her nose and gazed out the window. “Yesterday. In the morning.”

  “Was that … before she went to work?”

  “She was in between things. Didn’t work.”

  Luke nodded. “And when she didn’t come home last night, did you think anything was amiss?”

  Mrs. Trawler shook her head.

  “We thought she was out with Jeremy.” Sally’s stepfather pointed vaguely at Wolf. “She’s always out with that dude. Don’t see her half the nights of the week because she stays over there.”

  Luke turned her head towards Wolf but kept her eyes on Sally’s mother. “Mrs. Trawler. Who’s Jeremy?”

  “Attack? What’s his—”

  “I’m asking Mrs. Trawler,” Luke said, locking eyes with the stepfather.

  Mrs. Trawler swallowed, wiped her nose again. “Jeremy Attakai. He’s a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  Wolf kept his expression neutral. “She was dating Jeremy Attakai?”

  “Yes. Had been for a few months.”

  Hannigan slid forward on his chair and the plastic seat groaned under his weight. He eyed Luke, who pointedly did not return his gaze. She kept her eyes on Sally’s mother.

  “For a few months,” Luke repeated, and then she slid forward on her seat, too. For a moment her eyes glazed over, and then she stood up.

  Hannigan stood up in unison with her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Trawler looked surprised, and Wolf just managed to hide his confusion.

  “What’s wrong?” Sally’s mother asked.

  “Ma’am.” Luke used her gentle voice, but Wolf could see she was straining. She was itching to move, and nothing was going to stop her and her and Hannigan from leaving right now. “We thank you very much for coming in today to help us. Again, we’re so sorry for your loss. Detective Wolf, will you please join us outside,” she produced a card and held it out. “Mrs. Trawler, please call me if you think of anything else that might be of importance.”

  “Who did this?” Sally’s mother asked. “You’re leaving? You’re all leaving? Tell me who did this.”

  “Ma’am. We intend to figure that out. We just need to speak outside, and these detectives will be back inside shortly to answer more of your questions.”

  Wolf stood and narrowed his eyes at Luke. She ignored him.

  “Jeremy?” Sally’s mother put some pieces together in her head. “You think he did it?”

  She patted Wolf on the shoulder and walked away briskly with Hannigan on her heels.

  “One second please.” Wolf followed behind them into the lobby and out the automatic doors.

  They walked in silence, past Rachette, who was waiting outside, past some people walking in from the parking lot, and then stopped next to Luke’s black Tahoe.

  Wolf stared at her expectantly.

  “We need to go,” she said.

  “What’s happening?” Rachette walked up.

  Wolf studied the agents’ faces. “You think it was Deputy Attakai?”

  “Attakai?” Rachette turned to Wolf. “It was Attakai what? Who killed Sally Claypool?”

  Luke’s face twisted in annoyance and she glanced back toward the automatic doors. “Keep it down. And keep in mind they’re still on the other side of those windows watching us.”

  “So talk without moving your lips,” Wolf said, “I don’t care. Just tell us what’s going on. She said Sally was dating Deputy Attakai and you guys flipped out. Why?”

  “We can’t say. And now we have to go.”

  Wolf and Rachette watched the two agents slip into Luke’s black Tahoe, Luke already talking on the phone as she climbed behind the wheel. With chirping tires, she backed out and drove away.

  “What the hell was that?” Rachette stood next to him.

  “That was us getting pushed out of an investigation.”

  “Why? They can’t just do that. Local law enforcement needs to formally request their help. Not the other way around. That’s bullshit.”

  “You know Jeremy Attakai?”

  “The guy from Durango?” Rachette shrugged. “Talks about hunting and fishing, and that’s it. Why?”

  “He was dating Sally Claypool.”

  “Really? I don’t really hang out with the guy. He used to hang out with Barker. So … screw that.”

  “Wait here.”

  He walked back into the hospital and found Sally’s mother talking to her neighbor in whispers in the waiting room. Her stepfather was purchasing a bag of chips from the vending machine in the hallway.

  For the next few minutes Wolf gave his condolences, his assurances, and his card, and then he left out the front door of the building, and into the blazing sun.

  “What are we gonna do?” Rachette gazed down the highway to the north, as if he could see Luke’s car, which was miles down the road by now.

  Wolf pulled out his phone and dialed Patterson.

  Chapter 6

  Hooooooo! Drink it! Drink it!” Saliva shot from the man’s mouth as he egged on his companion.

  Finished gulping his beer, the man slammed it onto the bar counter and raised his hands in triumph.

  There was a three-deep row of partiers facing the bar with cash in one hand and a dwindling glass in the other. Music pumped out of the speakers so loud it was impossible to hear a scream in your own head, yet everyone did just that—they were leaning into one another, telling stories that took so much effort veins popped from their necks. And they drank. Just breathing the air inside Beer Goggles Bar and Grill gave Wolf a buzz.

  He pushed his way forward, keeping a firm hand on the butt of his Glock.

  “I need to talk to you,” Wolf said, pushing between two college-aged women wearing tight tee shirts with no bras.

  “To me?” The woman on his left looked up, then saw his badge on his belt and looked like she’d been caught cheating on her final exams. “Why? What did I do?”

  Wolf ignored her and nodded at the bar owner, then thumbed toward the front door.

  Jerry Blackman pushed a sloshing beer across the polished stone bar top, wiped his hands on a rag and nodded back to Wolf.

  “Back outside.” Wolf turned, but Rachette was gone.

  “… and it’s really just about helping people,” his detective was yelling into a girl’s ear. She wore a CU Boulder logoed sports bra and leaned away at the same rate Rachette leaned in.

  Wolf slapped his arm. “Hey! Let’s go!”

  Wolf and Rachette wormed their way through the crowd. As detectives, they weren’t obligated to wear uniforms, so they didn’t. But even with button up shirts and jeans, the badge and gun on their hips was enough to get the crowd parting like the red sea, giving them a clear pathway back to the door.

  Patterson had arrived and was milling around outside. “Geez, there you guys are. I was hoping I didn’t have to go in there.”

  “It’s rockin’ in there.” Rachette looked longingly back at the windows.

  “Yeah, so I noticed.”

  “What are the feds doing?” Wolf asked.

  “I don’t know. But I give it a few minutes before they figure out she was here through her phone data.”

  For the moment Wolf and his detectives were running down a lead the feds didn’t have. It was little consolation considering they were no closer to finding Sally’s killer, but it was something to be ahead of the information for once.

  “And what exactly did her phone data say?” Wolf asked
.

  “Called Hal at Summit Wireless, had him access the GPS. The last time it was switched on was last night at 11:42 p.m.” She pointed at the ground. “Here.”

  “Probably in her car,” Rachette said.

  “Have you guys checked yet?” she asked.

  “Nope. Been inside getting Smokey the Bear.” Rachette squinted and toked an imaginary joint. “Speaking of …”

  The noise from inside swelled and Jerry Blackman stepped out. “Hey guys.”

  “Hey Jerry.” Wolf shook his hand.

  Jerry Blackman was the owner and manager of Beer Goggles, which was arguably the most famous business in town. Travel magazines included the log-built tavern in top lists—Top Ten Places to do Après Ski. Top Seven Colorado Mountain Bars.

  How Jerry had made such a thriving business was a mystery to many. But Wolf spent his fair share of time here and knew Jerry was the genuine article when it came to making food, and the atmosphere was second to none, situated right next to the rushing Chautauqua River among the pine trees. The place was clean, and the beer selection was borderline too many choices, and all of that sat well with the locals as well as the visitors from Denver.

  Jerry flinched at a low passing bird and failed to notice Patterson and Rachette’s extended hands. “What can I do you guys for?”

  “We need to ask you a few questions,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Jerry sighed and wiped his forehead. Sweat slid down his face. His ponytail was drenched. “I could use a break. But I don’t have the manpower in there to hold this crowd for long.”

  “Good business, this Adrenaline Games, huh?” Rachette asked.

  “Yeah.” Jerry’s smile disappeared. “Adrenaline games?”

  Two men came out loud as a cannon blast with unlit cigarettes in their mouths. “Hells yes! I don’t give a shit what she says, I’m gonna—”

  “Hey, bro!” Rachette said. “No smoking within fifty feet of the entrance to a public restaurant. So beat it.”

  The two men squared up for a confrontation, then eyed the guns and badges and left into the parking lot.

  “That’s the name of the extreme sports competition we have going on in town this week.” Patterson narrowed her eyes.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jerry said.

  She blinked.

  “Jerry.” Wolf pointed to the parking lot. “Why don’t you come with us for a second.”

  They stepped into the densely packed parking lot, keeping their feet on the rocks and gravel to avoid the puddles, and stopped at a beat up blue Ford Fiesta.

  “You called this in earlier this morning?” Wolf asked.

  There were two bright orange stickers: one on the driver side window and another on the passenger side. The stickers said, Warning, please move this vehicle immediately to avoid towing. They were official SBCSD stickers and had been affixed by a deputy. And in this case, said deputy logged the warning into the department computer system to be checked on twenty-four hours later. If the car was still there, it was to be towed.

  Patterson’s thorough check had uncovered that red flag, which had matched Sally Claypool’s license plate number from the DMV records, giving them the location of her car to add to the last known location of her phone. Both her phone and the car location had been the same place—here.

  Jerry thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I called it in. I don’t like people leaving their cars overnight. I need the space as you can see.”

  “Do you know Sally Claypool?” Wolf pointed at the folder Patterson had brought with her.

  She opened it up and produced a printed picture of Sally Claypool’s driver’s license photo.

  Jerry’s furrowed brow told it all. He was terrible with names. Copious amounts of THC ingested every day for decades did that to a person. He took the paper from Patterson and pulled his glasses down his nose.

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Did you see her last night?” Rachette asked, letting a little impatience creep into his voice. “She was here. This is her car.”

  “She was?” Jerry scratched his beard. “Shit, there were just as many people here last night, too. Well, not as many. But a lot. Tons. It’s the best two days of business I’ve ever had.”

  A car rolled past them, sloshing through the deep potholes. It parked in front and let out a half dozen giggling women.

  Jerry stood on his toes and watched them go inside. Another blast of thumping bass and screams echoed through the trees, snipped short by the shutting door.

  “Who else worked last night?” Wolf asked.

  Jerry went wide-eyed, and just when it looked like blood might start oozing from his ears he said. “Cherry. Veronica. They were here.”

  “And are they inside?”

  “Yeah,” Rachette answered for him. “They’re in there.”

  Wolf took Sally’s driver’s license photo and gave it to Rachette. “Go in there and ask them.”

  Rachette smiled and snatched the piece of paper. Without another word he was jogging back to the front door.

  “Thanks for the help, Jerry. Can you please check credit card receipts for Sally Claypool and give it to Rachette? And otherwise, we’ll leave you be. You can head back inside.”

  “This that girl who was killed last night?” Jerry asked. “That picture? This car?”

  Wolf nodded.

  “So … she was taken from here?”

  “We’re here to find out. We’d appreciate it if you kept this quiet.” Wolf nodded. “Thanks again. Have a good rest of the day.”

  Jerry hesitated for a moment and left.

  Looking in the windows of the Ford Fiesta, Wolf listened to the rhythmic crunching of Jerry’s footsteps recede and disappear into the sea of humanity.

  “This is where she was taken, isn’t it?” Patterson stepped to the other side of the car, looking at the ground.

  The ground on Wolf’s side was a blank canvass, wiped clean by inches of violent downpours over the last twenty-four hours.

  “I’m not seeing a phone in there,” Patterson said. “Could be in the glove compartment. In the center console.”

  “Door’s unlocked here.” Wolf pulled some gloves from his pocket and put them on. “I see her keys on the floorboard by the gas pedal.”

  Patterson put on some gloves and tried her side. “Locked here.”

  Lifting the driver’s side handle, the door popped and sagged open on screeching hinges. It smelled like old fast food and stale cigarette smoke, with a hint of perfume.

  The car bounced as Wolf sat on the driver’s seat and reached over to pop the passenger side lock. He opened the center console and found a fistful of change, small junk—scraps of paper, gum wrappers, a lollipop stick—and a makeup kit.

  Patterson opened her side door and checked the glove compartment. “No phone.”

  “None here either.” He bent over and made to pick up the keys, then thought better of it. “Better get out of here. So far it’s the only piece of evidence that hasn’t been hit by rain.”

  Running footsteps came from the bar, and then a splash. “Shit!” Rachette came up shaking water off his boot. “Cherry says she saw her last night. Says she was drinking at the bar,” he looked at his notes, “with a girl named Gabrielle Hammond. She says she doesn’t remember her talking to any men. Veronica says the same thing. Saw her talking with the same girl, Gabrielle Hammond. Both say they don’t remember Sally leaving. She was there, and then she was gone. Sally paid her tab at 11:40 according to her credit card receipt. I asked if they had her phone number. That was a negative.”

  “When did Gabrielle Hammond pay her credit card receipt?” Wolf asked.

  Rachette’s mouth dropped open. “If she had one.”

  “Go check it.”

  He ran back to the bar.

  Wolf shut the car door and stepped toward the hood, gazing down at a clearing next to the river.

  Patterson mirrored his movements. “What are you thinking?�
�

  There was a short decline in front of them, then flatness covered in long, lush grass, underbrush and pine trees, all soaked and dripping from the afternoon rains. A few paces beyond, the river was a white ribbon of burbling water.

  “If the killer took her phone,” Wolf said, “we’d be able to track it, and track him. So he either shut off the phone and kept it, or left it here somewhere.”

  He sidestepped down the hill and Patterson followed.

  They zigzagged back and forth, their pant legs soaked to the skin after only a few minutes, scanning each square inch of the ground slowly and methodically. Pushing aside long grass with their feet, checking near the stalks of bushes and grass, they also checked in and around the pine trees, getting soaked with a deluge of water on their necks with the slightest touch of the branches.

  “Got it.” Patterson stood looking down with her hand up.

  Wolf walked to her.

  It was an iPhone lodged in the branches of a rock jasmine bush.

  “Bag it.”

  “Might want to make it a bag of rice,” she said. “That thing’s gonna be toast with all the rain.”

  “What are you guys doing?” Rachette was back and standing near the bumper of Sally’s car.

  “Get an evidence bag,” Patterson said.

  Rachette was breathing heavily. “Gabrielle Hammond paid at 12:45 a.m. Over an hour after Sally Claypool. But thanks for asking.”

  “Oh yeah,” Patterson said in a mock interested tone. “Can you please get an evidence bag?”

  Their vehicles were down and out of the lot, across the bridge and a good fifty yards further along the access road that led to the highway.

  Rachette looked like he was going to protest, then turned around and jogged away. Only a few seconds later he came back. “Uh … we have company.”

  Chapter 7

  Wolf hiked back up the incline to the parking lot. A line of black Tahoes were idling behind Sally Claypool’s car, an agent Wolf had never met sliding out of the lead vehicle’s passenger seat.

  “Hello. You must be Detective Wolf.”

  “And you are?”

  The man smiled and nodded, seeming to approve of Wolf’s defiance. Like he was comparing his first impression to what he’d heard. “Special Agent Todd. I’m the new Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Denver F.O.”