Warning Signs

by Stephen White

  "Pleased to meet you," he told her. "I'm so sorry about your husband. I admired his work."

  Admired his work? Sam was a private but vocal critic of the dead district attorney's proclivity toward plea bargains-on more than one occasion, I'd heard Sam call Royal Peterson "feckless"-though I didn't think it would be consistent with my role as a can of WD-40 to remind him of that at that moment.

  "Yes," she murmured, sighing. "Thank you. It's been a hardship."

  The closest chair was across the room. A stack of old newspapers covered the seat. It was apparent that Susan wasn't accustomed to welcoming visitors to her bedside. I cleared off the chair and carried it across the room. I moved an aluminum walker and a fancy carved cane out of the way to make space for Sam before I retreated into the shadows.

  "I wish my children were closer," Susan said. "I really shouldn't be alone at a time like this…"

  I thought the obvious, that Susan's children had moved from her vicinity as soon as they were able-and that Susan bore some significant responsibility for their migration.

  "It has to be hard having them so far away," Sam said. "Especially during a time as difficult as this."

  I should have warned Sam to use a light hand when offering sympathy-that Susan was capable of sucking up compassion like a big tornado in Oklahoma sucks up trailer homes.

  "I feel like I've been deserted. I'm so alone here."

  Her words were weepy. My own compassion reserves were running dry and I didn't plan on using what I had remaining in the tank on Susan Peterson. I wondered if it would be considered rude to go back out the door and check out the operation of the lift on the staircase. But I reminded myself of my role as a can of WD-40.

  Sam was searching for words. I chimed in. "Susan? It's funny that you're thinking about your children tonight, because that's what Detective Purdy needs to discuss with you. He has some questions about your first child, your daughter Lucy. From your first marriage."

  Susan paled.

  She looked away from Sam and me before she spoke again. "All day the phone is ringing. All day. People have questions, questions, questions. They don't even ask how I am. I'm a sick woman who has just lost her husband, lying here in the bed where I'm probably going to die, and everyone has questions about something that happened so long ago. It makes no sense to me. None."

  Sam jumped right back in. "The questions I have aren't about long ago, Mrs. Peterson. That's your business. My questions are about the last few days. I'm just wondering if you've spoken to your daughter Lucy recently, if maybe she called you after the story came out in the newspaper."

  Susan hesitated before she said, "No. You'd think a daughter would, wouldn't you? I mean call her own mother after something like that shows up in the newspapers." With each word, she sounded older.

  Sam straightened up on his chair. The gnome was gone. Sam was now as big as Shaq. "That answer covers today, Mrs. Peterson. What about yesterday? Did you speak to your daughter yesterday?"

  "Well, um, let me think. No, no, she didn't call yesterday either." Susan actually smiled, as though she was proud of her answer. I felt myself cringe. I was riding shotgun with Sam now, and saw the transparency of Susan's protestations. If Susan thought she could play Sam for a fool, she was in for a surprise.

  She probably couldn't recognize the signs, but I could. She'd pissed him off. Sam pressed her without mercy. His voice was now as intimidating as his posture. "She didn't call. That means she came by, doesn't it? Lucy came by to see you, Mrs. Peterson? When was that, exactly?"

  She lifted a bell from beside her bed and shook it vigorously. I imagined it was an effort to summon Crystal. Susan winced and moaned like an old dog sighs. "The pain… I'm not sure, I'm not sure."

  Sam stood. "When was she here?"

  "I take a lot of medicine."

  "And I eat too much food. When was she here?"

  Her eyes flashed at Sam, the message behind them volatile. "Last night, about this time. It was the first time I'd seen her in a long time."

  Sam ignored her threat. "How long a time?"

  She hesitated. I couldn't decide whether she spent the moment trying to remember or whether she used it up manufacturing a lie. "Over a year."

  Crystal walked in the door, smiling, and said, "Yes, dear?"

  I said, "We'll just be a little while longer, Crystal. Susan will be fine until we leave."

  Susan looked as though she wanted to disagree, but after a glance at Sam she wisely chose not to protest. She just looked pitiful.

  Crystal was unsure what to do.

  "Really," I told her, "it's fine. I'll let you know when we're leaving. If she needs anything I'll come find you."

  Crystal retreated out the door. I closed it behind her.

  Sam hadn't turned away from Susan. He asked, "And what did Lucy say when she was here?"

  "She warned me."

  "Yes?"

  "She warned me not to talk to anyone about… the family. About her, or me, or Royal. Or her father."

  "Did she threaten you?"

  "No. Well, kind of. Maybe."

  "How did she threaten you?"

  Susan considered her answer before she said, "It's not important."

  "Then tell me what she didn't want you to tell anyone."

  With no hesitation, Susan said, "No." She added, "You can't make me, Detective. I know my rights. My husband was the district attorney."

  Sam stepped closer, eliminating the space between him and the edge of the bed. If I'd been the one gazing into his eyes at that moment, I would have told him exactly where the treasure was buried.

  Sam said, "Mrs. Peterson, your daughter is missing. I'm trying to find her. I need your help."

  "My daughter? You mean Lucy? Sorry, you're going to have to do better than that, Detective. She's been missing most of my life. She's a worse daughter than I am a mother. Regardless, I don't know anything that will help you find her. She's probably hiding somewhere. I know I would have if I'd done what she did."

  "What's that? What did she do?"

  Susan smiled. "No, Detective. I'm done talking to you. Alan, please ask that girl to come back in here."

  B efore Sam had a chance to voice his opinion about Susan Peterson, his cell phone beeped in his pocket. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Peterson home as he flipped it open.

  "Purdy," he said.

  For about a minute he listened, nodding, occasionally saying, "Yeah." Once he said, "They did that?"

  He closed up the phone and said, "That was one of my buddies at the department. He just got a call from the Denver Police. They think they found Ramp's car. It was towed out of the alley behind his apartment building after six o'clock tonight. He'd left it double-parked for some reason. They're still busy getting warrants to search his apartment and to search the car, and they're still trying to get one to search that damn ranch out in God-knows-where."

  "Agate."

  "Yeah. Agate."

  "Lucy's car? Anything there?"

  "No, no sign of Lucy's car. Thing's as bright as a fire truck, you'd think it would show up on someone's radar."

  "What do you think of Susan's theory that Lucy's just gone into hiding to avoid the press?"

  "I don't buy it. She called me this morning, told me she'd be back in touch early this evening. If she went into hiding, she'd call and tell me where she was. I'm sure as hell not going to tell the press. And that message she left for you? Why would she have left that message if she was going into hiding?"

  I limped back toward the Cherokee. Sam was next to me. I said, "You guys finish the search at the Bigg home, Sam?"

  "Mostly."

  "Did you find anything?"

  He shrugged. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer my question.

  I said, "I don't like this, Sam."

  "I don't either. Come on, I'll take you home." He stopped. "Did you know Lucy had visited Susan here?"

  "No, Sam, I didn't. She didn't tell me."

 
He studied my face in a way that left me convinced that he was deciding whether to believe me or not.

  I said, "What do you think of Mrs. Peterson?"

  "I have trouble believing she's related to Lucy. I now know exactly where I come down on the whole nature/nurture debate. That's what I think. How's your ass holding up?"

  "Not too good. I think maybe I should've borrowed some of Susan's pain meds."

  "That's a felony. I would've had to take you in for it. Come on, I'll drive you home."

  Before he had a chance to fire the car's ignition, Sam's phone sounded again. He flipped it open and said, "Purdy."

  I shifted my weight to take the pressure off my wound. It didn't help.

  Sam's eyes were open wide as he listened to the phone call. After about a minute, he said, "Be right there."

  "Be right where?"

  "Marin Bigg is awake and talking. We're going to Community, see if she has any insight into anything."

  "Like who murdered her mother?"

  "Yeah, like that."

  "Drop me off at the Boulderado on the way. I'll get a cab home."

  "Sorry, this game has gone into overtime and you're still in the lineup. I want your opinion of her. We're still not sure if she's part of Ramp's crew or if she's a victim."

  CHAPTER 39

  L ucy spent the night in a filthy construction trailer in Denver's Central Platte Valley, not too far from the REI that had taken over the old Forney Train Museum. A quick glance at the painting on the sign that graced the entrance to the construction site left her thinking that the building that was being framed was going to be some overpriced loft development.

  Her hands and ankles were bound by plastic handcuffs that Ramp had discovered in the trunk of her Volvo after he'd parked it in a big shed in an industrial neighborhood on Denver's west side, somewhere between Broadway and Interstate 25. Ramp waited until after dark before he drove them in a gray Ford truck a mile or two to the construction site.

  Since they'd arrived he'd only removed the bindings on Lucy's wrists and ankles twice, each time to allow her to use the portable toilet outside the construction trailer. He'd covered her with her own handgun the whole time. When she was done in the toilet, he'd had her rebind her own ankles and then lie prone on her abdomen before he recinched her wrists. Each step he prefaced with "please" and closed with "thank you."

  Ramp fed Lucy a dinner of Slim Jims and Dr Pepper. She declined dessert, which was Little Debbie's oatmeal cookies, even though she'd adored their supersweetness when her dad had given them to her as a kid. Ramp allowed Lucy the small sofa that was tucked into one end of the trailer while he curled up on an army-surplus cot ten feet away. The sofa smelled. When Lucy commented on the odor, he told her that he'd smelled it, too, and thought the aroma was from construction adhesive.

  Some kind of radio transmitting device-it looked to Lucy like a garage door opener-was taped to the inside of Ramp's left wrist. He demonstrated how he could hit the button with either hand at any time he wanted.

  She'd asked him where the bomb was.

  "Close by," he'd responded.

  "A shaped charge?"

  His eyes twinkled. "You've been talking to my grandma," he said. "She's a piece of work. I love that woman to death."

  Lucy said, "Yes, I talked to her this morning."

  "She tell you where to find me?"

  "No. She didn't. I asked, but she wouldn't tell me. She wanted to talk to you and your dad first."

  "That sounds like her." He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. "She's gotten bitter. It's been hard to watch."

  "Your grandmother's had a lot of loss recently. Her husband, your uncle, your mom-it's a lot for someone to deal with."

  "I know," he acknowledged. "It's still been hard to watch. When you love somebody, it's hard to watch."

  She noted the empathy. Lucy hadn't yet heard a word of malice from Jason Ramp Bass. Not one.

  He was a cute kid with tousled blond-brown hair, good skin, and a single silver earring in his right ear. He was also blessed with his grandmother's dazzling blue eyes and the kind of fetching smile that probably opened a lot of doors with girls while he was in high school, which Lucy figured wasn't too long ago.

  "What do you like to be called?" she asked him after he told her it was time to get some sleep, that tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  "Jason. I like that best."

  "Not Ramp?"

  "Nah. My friends hung it on me, but I never loved it."

  "Is tomorrow going to be busy for me, or just for you?"

  "Both of us. I didn't originally plan on it, but I'm beginning to see how having a hostage might be helpful."

  The word sent chills through Lucy. She was the hostage. "What's going to happen? What are your plans, Jason?"

  He didn't have to think long before he answered her question. "My plans? I want to get a dialogue going."

  "A dialogue?"

  "A dialogue. About justice in America. The way it works, the way it doesn't. I have a friend-he's black, a guy I went to high school with-who's doing more time for selling speed than the murderer who killed my mom got for killing his first victim. Is that right? I want a dialogue about stuff like that. I think it's time that we had a dialogue about that. As a society. About sentences and judges and courts and parole. About protecting innocent people. About malpractice in courts the same way we talk about malpractice in hospitals."

  "The inequities," Lucy said.

  "Yeah, the inequities," he repeated. Lucy thought he seemed pleased at her choice of words.

  He stood and moved across the room to the sofa. "I'm going to have to tape you down so I can get some rest without worrying about you trying to get away. What position do you want to be in?"

  She thought about it. "On my back, I guess." She could only imagine how sore she would be by morning.

  "You want to go to the Super Bowl first?"

  "What?"

  "The plastic head outside. It's called the Super Bowl. You want to go again before I tie you down?"

  "I just went."

  "Whatever."

  He grabbed a huge roll of duct tape and wound it individually around her ankles and then under and around the sofa. He repeated the procedure twice more and moved up her torso. She could tell that the proximity to her breasts made him uncomfortable. With her manacled hands she held them up and out of the way so that he could wrap her around her rib cage.

  "Not too tight, please. I need to breathe."

  "I'll be careful," he said.

  "Thanks."

  He returned to his cot. "Don't know if you noticed, but there was an actual dialogue for a while after the shootings at Columbine, and again for a little while after the thing at Santana, that high school near San Diego. About bullying, and cliques, and jocks and freaks, and insiders and outsiders in high school, how destructive it all is. It got drowned out by all the hoopla because those kids were so angry and so stupid about what they did, so the dialogue didn't do enough or last long enough to accomplish what it could've. The Columbine kids and that boy at Santana were more interested in the killing than the talking. I'm more interested in the talking. I want this dialogue to last longer. And I think it will. I hope it makes a difference, though I doubt I'll be around to see it when it does."

  Lucy had a hard time finding a position where she could see her captor across the narrow trailer. But she knew she'd just heard him predict that he wasn't likely to survive whatever was about to happen. "You're sure that you're not just trying to get even? To get some retribution for what happened to your mother?"

  His hands were locked behind his head and he was staring up at the trailer's ceiling. "You ever notice how this country doesn't seem to pay much attention to anything important until somebody dies? It's the funniest thing. Whether it's putting in a traffic light after a kid gets killed on the way to school or something like Columbine or the terrorists who blew up that ship-what was it, the Cole? Then it seems we for
get about it just as fast as we remembered. Is that human nature, you think? I wonder about that a lot. The more spectacular way somebody dies, though, the longer we seem to talk about it. It's a peculiar thing in this country but I'm willing to take advantage of it. That's for sure.

  "Tomorrow's going to be spectacular. There's no doubt about it. People will talk for a while. I just hope it's the right kind of dialogue."

  Lucy was aware of parallel instincts. The part of her that was the hostage wanted the captor to fall asleep. The part of her that was a detective wanted to burst from her bonds, overwhelm him, and interrogate the bastard to find out his plans.

  Ramp continued. "I don't feel good about what I did today, in case you're wondering. I didn't know how I'd feel if it came to that. But I do, now. I don't feel good about it."

  Lucy wondered if he was talking about kidnapping her or if he was talking about something else.

  "You mean kidnapping me?"

  "No, no, no. I mean, I haven't even thought about how I feel about that. Not yet. I don't know if I will think about it for a while. I'm talking about the bomb in Boulder. Killing Marin's mom."

  Lucy's heart felt like it hiccupped. "Marin's mom? You killed Naomi Bigg with a bomb?"

  He sat up on his elbows. "You hadn't heard? It's been all over the news since this afternoon."

  Her voice was fragile. "I hadn't heard anything about it. I've been avoiding the news because of…"

  He finished her sentence. "The thing with your mother."

  "Yeah, the thing with my mother."

  "What is that? I don't understand. What is that thing with your mother? You've been like ignoring her or something? Pretending she wasn't your mom? I can't… imagine it. I'd give anything for a chance to spend another day with my mom. Anything."

  "I envy you that. That she was so special to you."

  "Your mom wasn't?"

  "She left me and my dad when I was little."

  "She just left?"

  "I didn't see her or even hear from her for years, then I tracked her down when I was an adult, hoping for a reconciliation. But it didn't work out the way I wanted. We never got along. The police think that the fact that she and I had such a difficult relationship might have given me a motive to kill her husband. He was the Boulder County district attorney." Lucy suspected that Ramp knew all about the murder of Royal Peterson, but she kept her suspicions to herself.