Under Cold Stone: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Novels)

by Delany, Vicki

  The chief, frankly, looked like hell. Bags the color of fresh bruises lay under his eyes and the eyes themselves were flat and empty of light. Dressed in black slacks and a brown sweater rather than his neat tailored uniform, he appeared smaller than she remembered, insignificant almost. The scent of fresh tobacco smoke hung around him like an aura. Everyone at the station knew he was trying to quit. He’d obviously fallen off the wagon.

  She didn’t bother to try to be cheerful, just let Lucky know that Sylvester was safely snoozing in the car and Adam was cooking their turkey. Other than that, they didn’t have much to say while the waitress—Maura, Scotland—greeted them in a deep Highland burr and brought drinks. A German beer for the chief, the local Kokanee brew for Smith, water for Lucky.

  They placed their food orders and then Smith turned to Keller. “What have you learned?”

  “Not a lot. Matt’s description has been circulated to the park wardens and a BOLO put out on him all over the West and down to the U.S. border. No sign of him. I don’t have to tell you that a heck of a lot of transport trucks pass by on the highway, heading to points all across North America. He might have hitched a ride, could be on his way to practically anywhere by now.”

  “Did he take his wallet with him?”

  “Probably, as it isn’t in the apartment or in his car. Meaning cash, if any, and credit cards. Driver’s license. If he tries to use his cards, he’ll be spotted.”

  “Was he likely to have much money on him?”

  The chief took a long swallow of his beer. “Don’t know. His roommate said he paid cash mostly, but they have no idea if he had any last night. His job said he was paid about a week ago, but he makes good tips and apparently the bar was busy last night.”

  “Last night,” Smith said. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  She listened while Keller told her about the phone call and what they found at Matt’s apartment. Lucky didn’t interrupt, but her face was pale and grim.

  “How’d Matt know you were here?”

  Lucky and Keller exchanged glances. Then the chief sighed and told her the story. Smith winced. At first telling, she’d pretty much assumed that the chief’s son, a guy she’d known in her own youth, had happened upon a killing and, frightened, had run for his life. The story of the bullying of Lucky, first at the coffee shop, which didn’t matter all that much, but then the deliberate escalation at the restaurant, put a new sheen on things. If Matt Keller was the sort to threaten a middle-aged woman like Lucky Smith, who the hell knew what else he could be capable of? Or what sort of crowd he ran with?

  “We,” Lucky said, “left that part out when we spoke to Karen.”

  “She wouldn’t believe it in any case,” Keller said. “Nothing Matt ever did was his fault. Not in Karen’s eyes.”

  “Bratwurst?” The waitress arrived, bearing plates piled high. Keller leaned back. Smith accepted her burger, and Lucky had the Caesar salad. At the next table two couples were digging into a pot bubbling with cheese fondue.

  Lucky lifted her water glass. “I suppose I should say happy Thanksgiving.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “Maybe it will be, Mom. Thanksgiving Day isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Lucky gave her daughter a world-weary smile.

  “What’s forensics come up with?” Smith asked as she wrestled her burger, two-handed, trying to keep the juices from dripping down her chin.

  “Going through that apartment’s like searching for fingerprints on the Walmart sale counter at the end of Black Friday. At least ten individual patterns have been found. So far. Four men lived there. They had friends, girlfriends, and let’s say dusting wasn’t one of their main priorities. The neighbors reported parties, musical jam sessions, fairly constant changeover of residents. The place probably hasn’t been properly cleaned for years.” Keller lowered his voice, although the noise level in the crowded pub was high enough to ensure their privacy. “The only blood in the living room was Caseman’s, the dead guy. He showed no defensive wounds. The knife, an ordinary kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, quite sharp, found at the scene, got him first in the lower back. A strong enough blow to drop him, and then they finished the job with a slice across the throat. The body was not moved after the attack. It was about two feet into the apartment. Possibly he’d opened the door, admitted his attacker, then turned and was knifed in the back as he walked away.” Keller’s voice had turned firm, no-nonsense. He was talking like a cop, relating facts without emotion or speculation. Molly Smith’s chief was back.

  “A friend or acquaintance, then.”

  “Looks that way. Someone he was expecting, at any rate.”

  “You think he answered the door? Means it wouldn’t likely have been someone who lived there. They’d have a key.”

  “Good point. But easy enough to argue that the roommate had lost his key, or had his hands full. Plenty of reasons Caseman would open the door. This is a low crime town. People don’t have multiple locks on their doors. Plenty of people, young men anyway, aren’t likely to bother to check who’s there before opening up. It’s also possible he was walking the other way, showing his guest out the door, then forgot something, turned his back for a moment, maybe.”

  “Did the knife come from the kitchen?”

  “Hard to tell. Everything in that place is a mishmash of cheap stuff left behind over the years. The guys who live there seem to have no idea what implements belonged in the kitchen or if anything was missing. Unlikely the kitchen’s ever been used to cook anything more substantial than the odd piece of toast or reheat pizza in the microwave. They couldn’t say if they recognized the knife or not.”

  “Prints on the knife?”

  “Several, all still unidentified. Not Matt’s.”

  “That’s one good thing.” Smith did not say that he could have been wearing gloves. “The prints might not be significant. That sort of place, girlfriends come and go. At first they want to clean up, cook their new guy a nice dinner. Then they give up, and usually move on. Has the autopsy been done yet?”

  “It found a moderately high level of alcohol consumption, not enough to incapacitate him, but sufficient to make his reactions slow and instincts stupid. Caseman was a healthy, well-fed individual with no substantial health problems, other than a prodigious consumption of both alcohol and all sorts of drugs over many years. His teeth were in poor condition, probably had some niggling pain from a broken filling, indicating either no money for a dentist or content to self-medicate. He’d smoked a joint within an hour or so of his death, but had not engaged in sexual intercourse recently.” Keller stopped talking abruptly. He turned to Lucky, and concern crossed his face. “Are you okay with this, Lucky? Molly and I can talk about it after dinner, if you’d prefer. For a while there I forgot where we are.”

  She held up her fork, speared with a chunk of dressing-covered romaine. “You’re not ruining my appetite, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw that man. I have that image in my head, and nothing you can say can be harder than that.”

  Molly put down her burger and touched her mom’s empty hand. Lucky gave her a sad smile.

  “Okay,” Keller said. “The end of his most recent joint was found in an ashtray in the apartment. It was the only end there. Quantities of marijuana, enough to indicate regular consumption, although not dealing, were found in Caseman’s room. And, I must add, in Matt’s.”

  “One joint only, means he didn’t entertain his guest.”

  “Or the guest didn’t indulge. There were so many used beer bottles in that apartment it’s hard to tell how much was drunk last night. But forensics think they have three that had probably been consumed within the previous couple of hours. Caseman’s prints on them all.”

  “Three beers isn’t much, not for a regular drinker.”

  “Right. So far we can’t trace his movements since he left work at around six the evening previous.”

  “Where’s he work?”

  “He’s a li
censed mechanic. Works at a garage not far from town.”

  “Regular employment?”

  “He’s only been there a couple of months. Blechta tells me that that’s the way it is here, lots of transients, seasonal jobs, young people drifting through.”

  “Sounds like Trafalgar.”

  “Yes, except that they have a much higher percentage of foreign students coming to work for a season or two. Makes it hard to conduct an investigation when your witness might have gone back to Australia or Austria.”

  “Cry me a river.”

  Keller laughed and Smith was pleased to hear it.

  “John dug up some info on Caseman. Small-time troublemaker by the sounds of it. Certainly the sort to have enemies.”

  Otherwise, Keller had little of significance to report. No one knew, or was saying, what Barry Caseman had done between leaving the garage shortly after six and being found by Matt Keller just before three in the morning. Matt had worked at Reds Wine Bar until it closed at two, helped clean up, and left around two-thirty. He phoned his father from the apartment at quarter to three. He had not been seen since. The two men who shared the apartment with Matt and Caseman had not been home since the previous morning until the police escorted them in. When asked if anything was missing from Matt’s room, they said they thought he kept camping equipment but couldn’t remember when they’d seen it last. They knew nothing about Matt or Caseman’s movements or activities. “We weren’t, like, buddies, man, we just shared this shit-hole,” was how the musician Alistair put it.

  Matt’s phone had been left behind in the apartment and it showed that all his recent calls were to and from his girlfriend, Tracey McMillan, his roommates, Reds Wine Bar, and the offices at Sunshine where he was scheduled to begin work as a ski instructor as soon as the hills opened for the season.

  “Why would he leave his phone?” Smith asked. “Most people these days, it’s like an extension of their arm.”

  “It was found under a dresser next to the door. We can only speculate he had it in his hand. He dropped it, and it bounced. Shock, perhaps, on seeing the body.” Keller looked away. He cleared his throat. “Or dropped it when he went for the knife.”

  “Tell me about the girlfriend,” Smith asked, running her last sweet potato fry through a smear of garlic aioli. The burger had been fabulous, the fries even better. “What’s her name?”

  “Tracey. She says she last saw Matt when she popped into the wine bar that evening. She didn’t stay long and he was working when she left. She heard about the killing when she got to her own work at seven, tried phoning Matt but he didn’t answer.”

  “What sort of a relationship do they have? Close, casual, romantic, or simply for sex?”

  Keller looked confused. “I’ve no idea. Why?”

  “If they were close, in love, say, he’d be more likely to confide in her than if she were a casual lay.”

  “My impression,” Lucky said, “is that she’s in love with him, or at least thinks she is, but is highly insecure in the relationship. That could be because he doesn’t return the feelings, or because she’s simply an insecure person. Which I suspect she is.”

  “Insecure in what way?”

  “She’s young and could be pretty, but her makeup’s cheap and her hair’s limp and badly cut. I suspect she trims her bangs herself. She’s of normal weight, as far as I’m concerned, with a bit of a round tummy, but not skinny or fashionably fit and toned. Not much money, I’d guess, and probably not educated. She told me she’s jealous of the women Matt meets at the wine bar. What are you thinking, dear?”

  “I’m thinking I’d like to talk to her. With your permission, chief. She might confide better in me than in Sergeant Blechta. I assume he interviewed her?”

  “He did. He didn’t learn anything. If you think you can help, go ahead. As long as you remember you’re here as a friend, not as a police officer.”

  “No worries. Sergeant Blechta made sure I know exactly where I stand on that point.” Smith glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eight. I’ll give her a call, ask if she wants to go out for a drink or something.”

  “She works at a car rental company in the evening,” Lucky said. “Don’t they usually close around nine or so?”

  “Good timing then. What’s her number, Mom?”

  Lucky pushed her empty plate aside and scrambled in her bag for the scrap of paper. She handed it to her daughter.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Maura, Scotland, asked.

  Smith would have loved another beer. She reluctantly passed, thinking she’d better not if she had to take this Tracey out drinking.

  Chapter Thirty

  GLOBAL CAR RENTAL. BANFF, ALBERTA. SUNDAY EVENING.

  The print on the computer screen shifted and wavered as Tracey blinked away tears. She wiped her eyes with a tissue, torn and damp from overuse. She’d managed to get through most of the day without thinking about Matt too much. She had to do her job, first at the restaurant, and later here at the car rental agency. Sure, Kevin had told her she could go home early if she needed to, but he didn’t mean he’d pay her if she took time off. The boss of the car place was a right prick at the best of times so she wasn’t about to ask him for any breaks.

  The bell over the door tinkled to announce new arrivals. Tracey gave her eyes another wipe with the back of her hand, and tried to force her face into a smile. The couple leaned against the counter. “We’re here to turn the car in. Glad we made it before you closed. There’s a bear sitting at the side of the road up by Lake Louise and the traffic’s stopped for miles as everyone tries to get a look.”

  “Did you see it?” Tracey asked.

  “Yup. A big black bear. Just beautiful.”

  “Nice.” Tracey completed their paperwork. She could see Tom outside, checking over the car, before getting into it and driving it to the back of the lot. This car was booked out again tomorrow.

  The couple left and Tom sauntered in. He went into the cramped back office and came out with a mug of coffee. He hadn’t offered to get her one. Not that he ever did.

  “Heard anything more?” he said, sipping his drink.

  She didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. She shook her head and felt the tears gathering once again. “I’m so worried.”

  Tom shrugged. “You think Matt did it? Whacked old Barry?”

  “Of course not. How can you say that?”

  “I didn’t say it, just asked what you think.”

  Tom had been edgy all evening, edgier than usual. He tried to hide it, but Tracey could tell he was spooked. Whether by the death of one of his roommates and the disappearance of another, or by the police attention, she didn’t know. When she asked, he’d told her the cops had been around earlier, asking questions about Matt and Barry. He tried to play it casual, as if he’d brushed them off, but she recognized the bluster for what it was. A good deal of her childhood had been spent around men who got edgy at police attention.

  Sometimes they had no reason to be, but often they did.

  Tracey hadn’t worked here for long before she started to wonder if Tom was up to something. Something not quite aboveboard. That business yesterday with the Japanese couple and the chip in the windshield and the way Tom occasionally hustled a car to a space at the back of the lot, against the fence, even when there were plenty of spots closer. When she was alone in the office and things were slow, she spent her time poking around on the computer. She was pretty sure the boss was involved; he wasn’t a total fool. At best he turned a blind eye to Tom’s activities, skimmed some off the top. Not that she intended to do anything with what she learned. She wasn’t going to jeopardize her job by letting anyone know her suspicions.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Tom snapped.

  “Nothing.”

  “Make sure you aren’t. Fuck, but I need a drink.”

  Her phone rang, and she had it instantly in her hand. She checked the display—number withheld—and punched the button to answer, her h
eart racing. “Matt!”

  “Uh, no. Sorry,” a woman said. “This isn’t Matt. Are you Tracey?”

  Her heart dropped back into place. “Yeah.”

  “My name’s Molly Smith. I know Matt’s dad, Paul Keller, and I was hoping you and I could meet for a chat.”

  “Why?” Tom was listening, his face curious. He’d never paid any attention to Tracey before, except to sneer if he thought she was watching him. She turned her back.

  “I’d like to help with the search for Matt. You met my mom earlier.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you at work?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s eight now. When do you get off?”