David Wolf series Box Set 2

by Jeff Carson

  “Is that a question?”

  “And from what we’ve been able to gather, it looks like Carter Willis and your ex-wife hugged at that encounter, and you overreacted, causing a scene.”

  “I reacted the appropriate amount.”

  “Out of jealousy?”

  “The guy was a sleaze ball. He was groping my date in front of me.”

  Frye nodded. “I’m just going to cut to the chase, maybe save us all some time here. Did you kill Carter Willis and your ex-wife, Mr. Wolf?”

  “No.”

  “Because it looks like you did.”

  “Can’t arrest someone for looking like they might have murdered someone. Listen, I’ve got some Rifleman to catch up on, so if you guys don’t mind leaving and lifting your legs on some other tree? Thanks.”

  “What are these?” Frye slapped a manila folder on the plaster cast that covered Wolf’s lap.

  Wolf stared at it but didn’t move.

  Frye opened it and tipped out a stack of photographs.

  They were photos of his deputy, Tom Rachette, and the girl they’d come to know as Gail Olson. They were familiar—Gail Olson handing Rachette a bag, Rachette hugging the woman, Rachette putting the bag in his car, Rachette and Gail driving their separate ways.

  They were an innocuous set of photographs under normal circumstances, but Wolf knew Gail Olson had been caught months earlier by the Ashland PD with marijuana and money in her car, lots of both, and these photos were supposed to implicate Wolf and his department in the smuggling of drugs.

  When Wolf kept silent, Frye picked up a photo and studied it. “Sheriff Will MacLean of Byron County told us that he brought these photos to you. He knew all about Gail Olson’s past and mentioned that he might make these photos public. He said you freaked out and dropped out of the race. He’s done right by giving up the pictures to us now.”

  “Yes,” Wolf said, “these photos were a blackmail attempt by Sheriff MacLean, who set up Gail Olson to make this fake drop while he took these pictures to make my deputy and my department look bad.”

  Frye straightened with a confused look. “MacLean set the whole thing up, which you figured out, and yet you dropped out of the race? So the blackmail attempt worked? I’m confused. You say it was a set-up, but you dropped out of the race to keep these photos under wraps.”

  “I dropped out of the race because I didn’t want the job.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I learned I didn’t fit the job description. MacLean did perfectly.”

  Frye laughed. “That’s an interesting angle.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that’s not what we heard.”

  Wolf leaned back. “Heard about what?”

  Frye smirked and walked away from the hospital bed. He picked up a sheet of paper and studied it, set it down, and moved on.

  “Hey, why don’t you take a look around?”

  “Thanks, I will,” Frye said, his voice coming from inside Wolf’s bedroom.

  Cumberland stood motionless, gazing at Wolf.

  Engines revved and tires rumbled on the drive out front, getting louder as they approached.

  Frye appeared next to Wolf and gestured to the window. “The rest of our crew.”

  “Why?”

  Frye stepped to the window and forked open the blinds with his fingers. “Did you kill Gail Olson, Sheriff Wolf?”

  Wolf frowned. “What? No.”

  Frye twisted and stared at him.

  Wolf looked at Frye and Cumberland in turn. “Gail Olson’s been murdered?”

  Both agents held their stares.

  Frye blinked first. “She’s been missing since the night of Carter Willis and Sarah Muller’s deaths. Vanished.”

  The vehicles outside came to squeaking stops and car doors opened and closed. Chattering agents and squawks of radio static filled the silence.

  “You guys seriously think I shot my ex-wife, Carter Willis, and Gail Olson?” Wolf tried to counteract his escalating blood pressure with deep breathing, but it wasn’t working.

  Frye gestured toward Wolf’s bedroom. “Could have been with that Walther PPK sitting in your nightstand drawer.”

  “The bullets that killed my ex-wife and Carter Willis were nine millimeter parabellum. Since a blown-off right hand isn’t one of my current injuries, clearly, I didn’t use the PPK to fire those rounds. You got a warrant inside that empty head of yours? If not, then get the hell out of my house.”

  “And your department-issue Glock 17?” Cumberland asked.

  “My deputies already checked to see if my piece was fired the day we discovered the bodies.”

  “We discovered the bodies?” Frye asked. “They. Your deputies discovered the bodies. You were supposedly here with a psychotic serial murderer at the time, doing hell-knows-what kind of sick things in that bedroom of yours—or at least, you say you were here. And when your deputy checked your weapon? We heard about that visual check and sniff. That’s not going to cut it. We’ll need to do some ballistics.” Frye slapped a folded sheet of paper on his bed. “And here’s our warrant. We’re going to take a look around now. You just sit here and make yourself comfortable while we do.” Frye pulled a radio from his belt. “All right, let’s move.”

  Calls and responses echoed outside and the front door blew open. Two male agents entered in full stride.

  “Go ahead, make my day.” Wolf leaned back, his confident words sounding not so confident to his ears. Because the truth was, he remembered little of that fateful night a few weeks ago, when Sarah and Carter Willis were shot dead and left in a BMW sedan.

  There were still unanswered questions about that night—as in all of the questions.

  “Agent Frye.”

  Frye paused in mid-conversation with an agent and stepped close to Wolf. “What?”

  “Carter Willis.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’ve been looking into him. Who the hell is he? Aren’t you guys worried about that? He’s not in any of the databases, no public record, nothing. He doesn’t exist. He’s a ghost. And you guys are worried about me?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Not my concern? He was found dead with my wife.”

  “Your ex-wife.” Frye squinted and tilted his head. “Is that all, Mr. Wolf?”

  Wolf leaned back and closed his eyes. “Is Special Agent Luke here?”

  Nobody answered. When Wolf cracked his eyes open, Agent Frye was gone.

  Wolf looked on his bedside roll-table for his cell phone but it, too, was gone. A young-looking FBI agent was dropping it in a plastic bag.

  “Is Special Agent Luke here?” Wolf asked the agent.

  The agent kept silent, but after a quick glance around the room he nodded.

  “Tell her to come talk to me.”

  The agent ignored him and stepped away.

  Wolf sat back and pulled up his bed sheet, feeling exposed in more ways than one. There was nothing he could do but breathe and remain calm.

  He leaned back and racked his brain again, like he’d done in every waking moment between pill and Scotch-induced sleeps the past couple of weeks.

  He’d relived every memory from the night of Sarah and Carter’s deaths countless times, but the problem was that the memories were few. Wolf had been having drinks with a woman he’d thought to be Kimber Grey when Carter Willis had come into the bar with two of his cronies. It had been only a few minutes until Carter Willis had approached Wolf, leaned close, and told him his ex-wife was an unforgettable piece of ass. He remembered that clear enough. And then Wolf had attacked him without hesitation.

  Wolf had gotten some good shots in, and taken a few, too. But the lights had gone out when he’d taken a pool cue to the head from one of the two men with Carter.

  From that blackout moment onward, Wolf had been at the mercy of a woman who had murdered an unknown number of young men, mutilated their bodies, and dumped them into Cold L
ake, south of town. The rest of that night had been erased from his mind, if it had ever been there to begin with. He’d had more than a few whiskies at the Pony Tavern before the action ensued.

  Then there were the memories of the past few weeks since his plummet off a cliff. Those were chopped and jumbled, and remembering anything in any order was like trying to put together a thousand-piece puzzle with the pieces turned upside down.

  “David.” The voice in his ear was feminine and full of concern.

  Wolf opened his eyes.

  “You look like shit,” Special Agent Kristen Luke said.

  Luke’s brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her face chiseled, yet soft. Her wide cinnamon-bark eyes were bleary but still as stunning as ever.

  “You look good,” Wolf said.

  She darted a glance toward the nearest agent and waited for him to move on. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I can’t really … talk to you.”

  He nodded. “Deputy Baine has proof that MacLean was behind those photographs with Rachette and Gail Olson—a video interview Baine conducted with Gail. Which makes me think MacLean might be behind her disappearance. Get to Baine, and get that video file he has.”

  “Of course I …” she stopped talking and stepped away.

  A few seconds later she came close, this time avoiding eye contact with him. “Go ahead.”

  “MacLean also said he had photos of me and Hannah Kipling here at the house that night. Those photos might be my alibi.”

  She walked away as if he’d said nothing.

  Agent Frye appeared next to Wolf, his eyes trailing Luke. “She tells me you’re innocent.”

  “She’s a smart agent.”

  “So am I. That’s how I became ASAC. And I know that when emotions get involved, investigations go sloppy. So I’m not listening to a thing she says.”

  Wolf closed his eyes. “Let me know what you find. I’m confident I’ll see you again soon, and you can apologize to me then, okay?”

  When Wolf opened his eyes, Agent Frye had gone, back to the bustle of agents ransacking his home.

  Chapter 2

  Three months later—Tuesday, September 9th

  The Sluice–Byron Sheriff’s Department SUV rocked back and forth as it passed through the headgate of Wolf’s ranch.

  Shiny new turret lights topped the spotless rust-brown vehicle, and as it slowed into the circle drive the logo stamped on the door came into view. It was key-shaped—Sluice County represented by the jagged blade, and Byron making up the boxy bow at the bottom.

  Wolf was still not used to the new look.

  He put his hands in his jacket pockets and tucked his chin under his collar. The September morning air was chilled and smelled like wood smoke, pine, and wet earth.

  Peaks that had been bare rock all summer were dusted today with lace yarmulkes of snow from last night’s monsoon storm that had dumped hours of roof-rattling rain.

  A pinprick reflection sparkled in sunlight halfway up the mountain slope.

  Wolf dismissed the anomaly and focused on his approaching visitors.

  The SUV splashed through a puddle and rocked to a stop. The passenger-side door opened and Deputy Heather Patterson approached with quick strides.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Hello to you, too. Like a new man, thanks.” Wolf smiled against her look of concern. “Aren’t you going to close your door?”

  She walked back and shut it.

  Wolf stepped forward onto the muddy drive and shook her hand.

  As always, Wolf’s hand dwarfed the much shorter deputy’s, but, as always, her grip sent electricity up his arm.

  Patterson was like that, tiny in stature but large in presence, and that’s why Wolf had hired her on the spot after meeting her once, and had never regretted the decision in the years since.

  Her granite physique told she worked out seven days a week, every week, every month, every year. Her tanned, freckled skin told of her willingness to be out doing the job. One look at her hardened blue eyes told of her intelligence. And one look at her smile told anyone with a brain that she was a real catch.

  Scott Reed, a snowcat operator for the Rocky Points Ski Resort, was a lucky man to have caught Patterson. She and Wolf were on strict professional terms, though if he’d had to stretch their relationship to something more, he would have said he looked on her as the daughter he’d never had. A daughter who carried a pistol and had a fifth-degree black belt in Kenpo karate.

  Patterson eyed him suspiciously for a second and then turned at the sound of the SUV door slamming shut behind her.

  Deputy Baine stepped around the vehicle, shoving a phone in his pocket. “Sorry. Had to send a message to Andrea.”

  Wolf nodded and shook the deputy’s hand. “How’s Andrea doing?”

  “Great, great.” Baine shook his head and sagged his shoulders, his posture all apology.

  “It’s not your fault,” Wolf said. “Forget about it.”

  “Shit. I just can’t believe it. It was frickin’ locked. The drawer was locked.”

  Patterson looked between them. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Wolf waved a dismissive hand. “How’re things at the department?”

  Patterson and Baine gave each other meaningful glances.

  “Interesting,” Patterson said. “There’s a definite division between the two groups of personnel. MacLean hasn’t been exactly present during the whole change-management process.”

  Baine snorted. “He’s got every Sluice deputy paired up with a Byron deputy. I’ve got a douche bag who reminds me of regulations all day, and Patterson, well you’ve heard about Patterson.”

  Wolf nodded. “Undersheriff Lancaster. Nice draw you got there.”

  Patterson looked at her watch. “I figure we’ve got about fifteen minutes. Then we’ve gotta run.”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Wolf walked toward the red barn that sat on the north side of his one-story house. Patterson and Baine followed close behind.

  He led them past the old roll doors, past the work-shed entrance, and out into the woods along a path that had been there since the days of Wolf’s first memories.

  “So what’s up?” Patterson finally said when they’d walked a hundred feet. “You sounded a little skittish on the phone this morning.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I just want to show you guys something, get the latest news.”

  “The news is, the FBI has been talking to me,” Patterson said.

  “Me too,” Baine said.

  Wolf kept walking.

  “Sir, you don’t seem surprised that the FBI are talking to us.”

  “You don’t need to call me sir anymore, Patterson. I’m not your boss.”

  “Whatever, sir. The FBI? You don’t seem surprised.”

  He glanced at Baine. “I’m sure that ever since you were supposed to produce that digital file of you interviewing Gail Olson and couldn’t, you’ve made yourself pretty well known.”

  “Wolf,”—Baine crunched to a halt—“you know that wasn’t my fault, right? I swear it was in the top drawer of my desk. And I erased the YouTube file because I didn’t want random people watching it. I should have just changed the settings and kept it there. Someone frickin’—”

  “Relax. I’m not saying it was your fault. Someone clearly removed the file from your desk. Someone who knew about it, and had something to gain by getting it. Someone like Sheriff Will MacLean. I’m just offering up reasons why the FBI is all over you now.”

  Baine nodded and looked at his feet.

  “What interview file?” Patterson asked. “An interview with Gail Olson? Because they’ve been asking me about her.”

  Wolf turned and started walking again. “Ignorance is your best defense in all of this, Patterson.”

  She huffed and followed him.

  “Yeah, Patterson. You’re ignorant. So that’s going to—ah!”

  Wolf smiled at the sound of Patterson�
��s hands thumping against Baine’s chest.

  “Shhhh … damn.”

  Wolf veered off the trail into the woods. “Follow me. Gonna make it, Baine?”

  “Yeah. Shit, Patterson. Joke much?”

  A few minutes later, Wolf reached a rise in the forest floor and paused.

  Ahead was a small hill by any Coloradan’s standards—it always had been—but recently it was looking like a mountain to Wolf. His body ached already, and he’d only been up from bed and moving around for an hour.

  For over a month now, he’d been climbing up and down the smaller hills and mountains behind his property, taking in the clean air and building his strength, but it seemed to be an exercise in futility rather than exercise for his body.

  The muscles in front of his right hip were knotted painfully, a side effect of his healing broken pelvis after the fall.

  His right femur, having been cracked diagonally, jarred sharply with every step, and in between paces was a dull ache that registered at least a seven out of ten.

  The three compression-cracked vertebrae in his lower back were almost fully healed according to the doctor, but there was a nagging stiffness now, and he was far from confident that the occasional arcing pain up his spine would stop in his lifetime.

  His ruptured spleen? That had healed and he was still the proud owner of the organ. He wondered why the doctors hadn’t simply taken it out, but in the end, he’d kept it. Score one for Wolf.

  Tack on the other dozen or so minor to major injuries in various stages of healing, and Wolf figured he’d been telling the truth to Patterson earlier about feeling “like a new man.”

  Despite the pain, Wolf led at a good pace up the hill, and Patterson and Baine followed.

  A few minutes later, flushed with sweat and suppressing a maniacal urge to cough, Wolf reached the clearing of the trees and crested the hill.

  “Wow, it’s beautiful up here.” Patterson whistled and turned full-circle.