by Peg Brantley
Once she hit the driveway she broke into a jog, exhilaration bubbling out of her in bursts of giggles. Angela rounded the bottom curve of the drive and saw Heather’s silver Jetta. The car actually belonged to Heather’s older sister, who let her borrow it once in a while for a fee. At fifteen, Heather only had her learner’s permit. Well, almost.
Angela hopped into the car and she and Heather both broke into hysterical laughter.
When the headlights from a car parked facing the other direction cut through the night, the girls stopped laughing. Had they been caught? Then Heather giggled. “You’d think they could have found a better place to make out.”
The car pulled out and drove away, leaving Angela wondering why it had been sitting at the bottom of her drive. Had she seen that black Mustang before?
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Waters Home
Tuesday, September 25
The next morning, Chase sat in his quiet den, the door closed, his family preparing for their individual days. He needed some seclusion for a few minutes.
He steeled himself, then picked up the phone to make the call he dreaded. The private line in Chicago rang. Twice. Three times. Stuart Wentworth worked long hours and Chase felt certain he’d be in his office before eight.
“Bond, is everything all right?” The caller ID made Chase feel bad. Clearly he didn’t call his father-in-law often enough.
“It’s me, Stuart. I don’t want to alarm you. Your daughter is physically fine but she needs you right now. Can you catch a flight out this morning?”
“What’s happened?”
“She needs to be the one to tell you, not me.”
“Well put her on, dammit.”
“No. I will not put her on. She needs you to be here.”
“Have you called Celeste? Is she packing?”
“Stuart, you have to trust me on this one. Not only do you need to come by yourself, Celeste can’t know the reason. I don’t want her calling Bond. I don’t want Bond speaking to her mother until the two of you have had a chance to talk.”
“What the hell is this all about, Chase?”
“Trust me. It’s for Bond’s benefit.”
“Hold on.” Concern made Stuart’s voice gruff. Chase heard a click followed by the sound of a Beethoven bagatelle through his phone. Für Elise, one of his favorites. When the song ended Chase experienced a ghost of a smile to hear Dave Brubeck’s Take Five. The last time he’d been with his father-in-law he’d introduced the man to jazz in a way the wealthy businessman had never taken the time to experience. Up close, relaxed and personal. The music stopped abruptly.
“My personal plane is being readied. I’ll tell Celeste I have an emergency in the Denver office but don’t expect to have to stay the night. That way she won’t want to come since she wouldn’t have time to get to Aspen Falls.”
“Thank you, Stuart.”
“I’ll call you before we land in Aspen.”
“Someone will be there to meet you.”
“It had better be you.”
Chase hung up the phone and hoped he’d made the right decision. Stuart Wentworth might never forgive him if he made the trip and it didn’t help. Even more important, Bond might never forgive him.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Mex Anderson’s Home
Tuesday, September 25
Chase pulled up the long circular drive to the front of the gray stone house and parked behind a lime-green VW bug. A three-car garage could be seen in the back of the house—someone else must be visiting. People in this part of town didn’t leave their vehicles out.
Smaller than any of its ostentatious neighbors, the home exuded charm and refinement. Hardy fall blooms filled a berm where the trees and large rocks left room. Sunlight glinted off windows and Chase heard the sound of a waterfall.
It looked as if Mex Anderson had a few more secrets.
A stone bridge connected the drive to the entrance. Part of the water sound became obvious as a man-made stream rushed from somewhere in the back of the property. Chase noted deep hollows where fish would be able to winter. It wouldn’t surprise him if a heater kept the water flowing year-round.
He tried the knocker first. An enormous double door made with eight-inch hand-hewn planks bore one of the largest cast-iron knockers he’d ever seen. A few seconds later he pushed the doorbell. Impatient, he pulled his cell and began a search for the number Mex had called from last night. Before he finished, a beautiful woman with the same eyes as Mex answered the door.
“May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.
Chase’s quick glimpse of the interior behind her gave him the impression of leather, fine rugs and light. He focused on the Mex-replica who stood in front of him.
“My name is Chase Waters. I’m a detective with the Aspen Falls Police Department. Mex asked me to drop by this morning to see him.”
A strange look passed over her face.
“Do I have the right house?” Chase asked. “Does Mex Anderson live here?”
“Excuse me. One minute please.” She closed the door.
Chase paced. He inspected the grout holding the stone together at the entry; then the perfect exterior lighting that complemented the high-country elegance the rest of the house displayed. He saw those things and then he paced some more.
His gut told him that unless they stopped this killer now they’d have at least one more victim by the end of the week. Time was not on their side. There were a lot of pieces that needed to come together and a lot of secrets that needed to be revealed. Fear had a way of masking things beyond recognition, and it was the people who were living with fear that were the most vulnerable. He heard the sound of a waterfall, but rather than relaxing him as the sound usually did, it seemed to underscore the situation. He was anxious to get whatever information Mex had for him and then put it to use. He waited for the woman to come back. Or Mex. Preferably Mex.
Damn, I’m going in. He reached for the handle.
The door swung open. The woman held his card in her hands and wore one of the saddest expressions he’d ever seen.
“I’m sorry, Detective Waters. My brother is not available this morning.”
“And you are?”
“Sedona will do for me as well as Mex does for my brother.”
“Sedona, did you ask him? He told me this morning would be a good time to see him.”
The gorgeous woman’s shoulders raised and held tight for a moment. When they fell, air escaped her lungs. She inspected him for a moment. She held the door wide inviting him in.
In addition to Chase’s initial impression, he added fine works of art, slate and hardwood floors, and a view out the backstretch of windows that would make Midas envious. The mountains appeared like they were literally in the backyard.
“Please wait here, Detective. My brother is ill but I will ask him one more time if he can speak with you.”
Ill? Mex had sounded fine last night. Abrupt maybe but that could be his style. If there had been any sign of illness Chase had missed it completely.
A few minutes later and Sedona returned. “I’m sorry. Today isn’t good. My brother will contact you when he’s feeling better.”
Regardless of the intriguing Mex Anderson mystery the morning had opened, Chase saw it as a monumental waste of his time. He nodded to the woman and turned toward the door. “Tell your brother not to bother unless he has something that will actually help. And he can come to me next time. I don’t have time for this.”
Chase walked across the bridge to his car. Sitting behind the wheel, he took a minute to check his messages. His father-in-law had texted him earlier to tell him he’d arrive at the Aspen airport at about eleven-thirty. Whit had requested a face-to-face when he got in, and Samuel Carlisle’s sheet was in and matched his brother’s and then some for priors.
He twisted the key in the ignition, then glanced back at the beautiful wood door. Open. A figure in front.
Chase had to look twi
ce to recognize Mex Anderson. He looked ten years older. Faded. Worn. Wrinkled.
He turned the engine off and opened the car door, then stepped out and turned to face the specter.
Chase pushed the door closed with a gentle shove. He didn’t want to make the apparition in front of him vanish.
“You wanted to see me?” Chase asked.
“Might have something.”
“Okay.” Don’t waste my time, he wanted to say. Mex looked a little like every user Chase had ever seen, regardless of the digs they lived in. But something was different. Off. Desperate in a different kind of lost way.
“Look, today isn’t good,” Mex said.
“I can see that. But you called me, remember?”
Mex disappeared back inside the shadows of the house, but left the door open.
Pissed and curious. One or the other usually got Chase’s attention. Both at once? No way could he drive away now. Instead he walked back across the wooden bridge.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Mex Anderson’s Home
Tuesday, September 25
Chase entered a living room that blended the best of Mexican and mountain in a refined—expensive looking—kind of way. Who did Mex’s decorating? Maybe his sister? Did Mex have a wife?
Who is this guy?
Chase turned to his right. It seemed as good of a direction as any to head off in to look for his host.
“Please, Detective Waters. A minute?” Sedona called from behind him. “Please? Follow me.” She spoke over her shoulder, long hair slipping around her waist. “There are things you need to know and Mex has allowed me to tell you.”
The woman led him to a kitchen that Bond… hell he… would consider killing for. More than the slab granite, phenomenal cooktop, wine keeper, walk-in pantry with crackled glass doors and other appointments; more than the designer lighting and hardwood floors and damned good use of space… more than any of that was the view. The windows were floor to ceiling, wall to wall. What appeared to be a seamless piece of glass, curved around three walls, actually had some kind of grout that was almost as clear and transparent as the glass it supported.
Cobalt Mountain was the most prominent but at the right angle, Chase thought he picked up part of Burnt Mountain near Snowmass. And below those timeless mountains of stone, almost breathing with life, Chase could see the valley with a river flowing not far away. The source of the water sound in the back was real, not manmade. Chase looked around the space to see if he could squeeze in a john, a shower and a flat screen. He would never want to leave this room.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Chase could only nod.
“When my brother built this house he knew where he would spend his time and he knew it needed to be spectacular.” Sedona moved to a built-in Keurig system and pulled a cup from the nearby cabinet. “Coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
“What kind would you like?” Sedona pulled out the kind of wooden box teas are kept in and opened it for Chase.
He thumbed through the options for his cup of coffee. “Promise me,” he selected some kind of double shot Hazelnut espresso hoping he looked like he did this all the time, “Promise me you will never show this machine or these options to my detectives. Unless you’re prepared to donate one to our squad room—and keep it supplied.”
Sedona almost smiled and Chase watched the action take incredible physical features and make them radiant. She came closer to Bond’s beauty than any other woman Chase had ever met, but something seemed a little strained. “You remind me a little of my wife.”
A russet blush perfumed her cheeks and she turned away. Chase had the good sense to shut up.
After a moment of silence while the coffee maker pressed the rich aromas into his cup, she gestured to the table that sat in an optimal position to enjoy the view. “Please sit. I’ll bring your coffee to you.”
Chase chose a chair and spent the next few seconds breathing in the color and sense of drama the panorama provided. The coffee, whatever he’d chosen, would be like icing on the cake.
Sedona set his coffee in front of him. In addition she’d plated a selection of warm muffins. Chase had no idea where they’d come from or how they’d gotten warm. The pull from the window didn’t allow for trivial things.
“You know Mex was a chief of police in Mexico, right?”
Well, if the vague statement that he’d been in law enforcement meant he’d been a chief, yeah. Chase nodded and took a sip of coffee. Rich.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess he hasn’t told you anything more. Am I right?”
“You are.”
Sedona nodded, as if she placed a finger on the page that told her that this was where she needed to pick up the story.
“Mex, Francesca—his wife—and their two children were living the perfect life in the country he loved. Mexico. Francesca had told him that afternoon that they would soon grow their family from four to five. Mex called me with the news. His heart sang louder than his words.”
The woman pushed unseen crumbs from the table into her palm and rose to walk to the sink. Brushed her hands. She turned her face to the amazing landscape but Chase knew she didn’t see it. Mex’s sister stood silent. Not moving. Remembering the details of whatever came next.
“When my brother called me again I couldn’t understand him. He didn’t make any sense. He told me his family—his entire family—had been murdered. Tortured for hours then killed. He said he’d refused to sell out to the drug cartel. The destruction of his life, of everything he loved, had been the price. In one afternoon my brother went from being on top of the world to being buried somewhere deep beneath it.”
Chase’s internal note-taker dropped his pen, his notepad—everything—as he envisioned the horror.
“They also killed our parents.”
“Everyone?”
“No one in my brother’s family lived. Except for the two of us. Why they let me live I’ll never know.”
Chase thought he knew. To hold her over him at a later point if they wanted. Now Mex knew what horror they could wreak. Leverage.
“What did your brother do?”
“He hunted them for as long as he could follow a trail. The cartel was one thing… and logically beyond one man’s reach. But the doers? Those he felt he could deal with? They became his target.”
Two deer meandered into the view close to the house. Calm and deliberate, they foraged on the natural grasses seemingly oblivious to danger. Chase knew better. One quick move on the inside of this window and they would take off.
“Mex followed the men directly responsible for the murders first into southern Mexico, then to Texas, then Venezuela and finally to Honduras. That’s where he lost them. That’s where he also lost his spirit. He believes the men were killed by their own organization. Mex came home broken—a heavy depression settled onto his soul.”
“Depression?”
“My brother suffers from situational depression. Something triggers it, and for a short period of time his strongest instinct is to withdraw. It all relates to the murders.”
“How does he come out of it?”
“Meds. They help him get back in control. Back to himself. He’s learned it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It just is.”
A thought slashed through Chase. David. The son he’d lost. The guilt and shame that had hounded him ever since the day David died. The guilt and shame that landed him frequently in a place where he wanted to withdraw from the world. Withdraw from life and from everyone he loved. Withdraw into a sort of temporary death of his own.
A movement caught Chase’s attention and he turned.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mex Anderson’s Home
Tuesday, September 25
“You need to do something today,” Mex said from the entrance to the kitchen. He still looked disheveled. Not quite the put-together man with creased jeans Chase had only recently met.
The detective watched th
e man about whom he’d just learned something significant. Something personal and painful. The loss Chase had experienced, as horrible as it was, couldn’t compare to the loss this man had endured.
“I have some names for you.”
“Names?”
Mex walked into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. “The boy in the dumpster? His name is Miguel Martinez. I have his toothbrush.” Mex stopped speaking and Chase imagined the last time that toothbrush had been used. A private moment simply dealing with the normal hygiene of an ordinary day. “His brother brought it to me and I have no doubt that’s who your murder victim is.”
Sedona came and pushed him away from the refrigerator. Her brother moved like a zombie. “Would you like some tea?”
Mex didn’t answer her. Instead he shuffled over to a chair near the window. “I also know the name of the woman. The one you found at the Ute burial grounds.” Mex fell into the chair.
Chase understood that as hard as the information relating to the male was, this was infinitely more difficult. He waited.
“The woman’s husband came to me. She was a young mother of two toddlers. He brought me her hairbrush but when I reached out to accept it he couldn’t let it go. It was a part of his wife. Of the woman he loved. The mother of his children. His grip tightened on that hairbrush until I reached for an envelope to pull a few strands for samples. His tears were flowing down his face.” Mex’s voice trailed off. Chase knew he was remembering his own loss. “Her name was Anna. She was not only a wife and a mother, but also a resource in the undocumented community for assistance and counseling. Her husband told me she was responsible for at least a dozen young people graduating from high school.”
Chase accepted both evidence envelopes, clearly marked with dates, times and names. “Thank you.”
