Deputy Defender

by Cindi Myers

  “That may have been his intention originally, but after he learned about the auction to raise money for the museum, he seemed okay with that. And he admitted he didn’t have any proof that it ever belonged to him.”

  “Maybe learning someone is threatening me because of the book made him think twice about wanting to own it,” she said.

  “That may have had something to do with it, too,” Dwight said.

  “I still don’t understand how he ended up talking to you,” she said. “Why not contact me directly?”

  “Apparently, Tammy called him for some information for the article she’s writing about the book and the threats to you,” Dwight said. “She found him through an article he wrote about the top-secret government labs in Colorado during World War II and learned he was in the area. He told me he retired here seven years ago. When she learned he knew all about the book, she suggested he get in touch with me.”

  “But he wasn’t able to help you?”

  “He seemed to know a lot about what was in the book, and about the government’s activities in general, but neither of us could think of any reason someone would want the book destroyed. He told me the author used pseudonyms for all the people who were involved in the project, and it’s doubtful any of them are alive anymore, anyway.”

  “So he really wasn’t much help.”

  “No. He doesn’t know where the work was done, although he did say the weapons they developed were never used.”

  “I suppose that’s comforting—sort of,” she said.

  “Everything okay at work this morning?” he asked.

  “Eddie wasn’t there and nothing was missing. No new threatening letters. So I’d call it good.”

  “Have you heard from Parker?”

  “No, but I don’t expect to. He said he had classes today.” She shifted toward him. “I know you aren’t crazy about Parker, but I really like him. I think at heart, he’s a good kid.”

  “There’s such a thing as being too trusting,” he said.

  “And there’s such a thing as being too cynical,” she shot back.

  To her surprise, he grinned. “Guilty as charged. It’s part of the job.”

  He looked so comfortable in his uniform, here in this cruiser, surrounded by the tools of his trade. “When we were growing up, I never would have pegged you as a future cop,” she said.

  “What did you think I would do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know—ranching, I guess. Or maybe business.” He had always made decent grades, and been the serious, thoughtful type.

  “I thought about both of those,” he said. “But I have an uncle who is a small-town police officer in Wisconsin, and I always admired that. And I didn’t want to sit behind a desk at a job where I’d be bored.”

  “I can’t think law enforcement in Eagle Mountain is that exciting—at least most of the time.”

  “Some days are more of an adrenaline rush than others—for me, the pace is about right. And my ranching background comes in handy when we have to put cows or horses back in pastures.”

  She laughed. It was a local joke that the weekly sheriff’s department activity reports printed in the local paper always contained a number of calls to put livestock back in pastures.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh, in spite of everything that’s happened,” he said.

  “I’m still alive. I still have a job and friends, and I’m going to get through this.” Saying the words made her feel stronger—and they were true. The threats were frightening, and she had lost things in the fire she would miss forever, but she still had so much.

  “Yes, you are,” he said. They fell silent as the cruiser headed out of town. Soon houses gave way to a solid wall of evergreens on either side of the road, and beyond that the red-and-gray cliffs of the mountains. “Have you ever been up here, to Eagle Mountain Resort?” Dwight asked.

  “Once—they had some kind of ribbon-cutting or ground-breaking and I attended with Andy. That seems like a lifetime ago.” It had been four years—she had definitely been a different person, then.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “That it was a shame to build fancy houses that would stay empty half the year in such a beautiful spot. I kept that opinion to myself. It didn’t seem wise to criticize the man who was pretty much paying for the roof over my head and the food on my plate.”

  “You haven’t been up here since?”

  “No. Though I’ve heard it’s a ghost town now. Paige and her group think it’s an eyesore. Before Henry Hake went missing, they were lobbying him to restore the property to its natural state.

  “I guess everything is in limbo until Hake is found.”

  “Hmm.”

  It was the kind of non-comment that made Brenda suspect Dwight knew more about Hake’s disappearance—or about the future of the resort—than he was willing to say. That was probably part of being a cop, too—knowing things you couldn’t talk about. But she didn’t care. She had never been particularly fond of Henry Hake, and though she missed his regular donations to the museum, she couldn’t pretend to grieve for him now that he was probably dead. As for his proposed resort, it would either be developed or not, and there were plenty of other people in town—like Paige Riddell and her environmental group—to worry about it. Brenda had other things to focus on—the upcoming auction, securing funding to keep the museum open, and finding a new place to live.

  Dwight pulled the cruiser into a paved drive and parked in front of a pair of massive black iron gates. The gates stood partially open, remnants of yellow-and-black crime scene tape flapping from the crossbars. “Those gates aren’t supposed to be open,” Dwight said. He put the cruiser in Park and got out to examine the gates. A moment later, he was back. “Someone cut the lock,” he said.

  “Didn’t you say the DEA had been up here, investigating?”

  “I don’t think they would have been so sloppy as to leave a broken lock hanging on the gate.” He eased the vehicle through the opening and up the drive. Brenda studied the boarded-up buildings, crumbling foundations and dying landscaping that was all that remained of the proposed luxury development. Dwight steered around a waterfall of rock that spilled down an embankment and she knew without asking that this was where Wade Tomlinson and Brock Ryan had died, after they had left Gage and Maya and little Casey for dead.

  Dwight stopped in front of a Quonset hut partially built into the hillside. “The lab is in here,” he said.

  She followed him out of the vehicle and walked to the entrance. The door—a massive metal rectangle with no window—leaned against the side of the hill. “Travis had that removed,” Dwight said. “He didn’t want anyone to end up locked inside—accidentally or on purpose.”

  Brenda repressed a shudder. “I’m glad he did. I’m not sure I’d want to go in if it was on there.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you the lab.” Dwight switched on his flashlight and led the way inside. The first room was a large, bare space, the dirt floor packed down and clean, save for a handful of dry leaves that skittered across the space, stirred by their entrance. A second door stood open at the far end of the room, and as they drew closer, Brenda realized it had been removed from its hinges also.

  Dwight played the beam of the flashlight into the next room and swore under his breath. “What’s wrong?” she asked, and moved up beside him to look inside.

  “The place is cleared out,” he said. “There was a workbench and tables and lab equipment in here before.”

  The space—with a floor of concrete, not dirt, and chains hanging from the ceiling that might have once held light fixtures—had been swept clean, not so much as a speck of dirt on the floors or walls, which were completely bare, except for a fly that crawled up one wall. “Maybe the DEA took everything away,” she said.

  “They didn’t bother to mention it to us.” He p
ulled out his phone and took several pictures.

  Brenda’s gaze shifted to the opening at the far end of the room. “Is that where Gage and Maya were held?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Dwight led the way across to it. Brenda hung back. “It’s all right,” he said. “There’s nothing in here. It’s pretty much like that first room—empty.”

  He was right, of course. It wasn’t as if she were sightseeing in a torture chamber. Still, she had to make herself cross the room to stand beside him. “Why are these rooms even here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Storage, maybe.” He shone the light through the opening, and they both leaned in to examine the space. The beam of light illuminated a dirt floor, concrete walls—and something suspended from the ceiling—a suit of old clothes or a dummy or—

  “Don’t look.” Dwight shoved Brenda back as the realization of what she was looking at hit her.

  “Is that a body?” she asked.

  He put his arm around her and hurried her toward the door. “We need to get down and call for help,” he said. “I think we might have found Henry Hake.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dwight stood beside his cruiser as the EMTs loaded the body into the back of the ambulance. Brenda sat inside, pale but silent, staring through the windshield toward the emergency vehicle’s strobing lights. She hadn’t said much of anything since they’d driven away from the resort to call for help, then headed back to wait for the sheriff and others to arrive. Dwight had tried to think of something to say to comfort her, but he hadn’t been able to come up with anything. She was shaken but not hysterical, which pretty much described his own feelings.

  When the EMTs had closed the doors behind them and driven away, Travis came over. “What made you think it was Henry Hake?” he asked.

  “The suit,” Dwight said. “Henry always wore those brown suits—I don’t know. Something about it just struck me as him. I probably should have verified before I blurted it out like that.”

  “The coroner will verify, but it’s probably Hake,” Travis said. “There was a wallet in the back pocket, with Hake’s driver’s license. A money clip with the initials HH, but no money.”

  “Where’s he been all this time?” Dwight asked. “It’s been weeks.”

  “The body looked sort of—mummified,” Travis said. “I didn’t do a really thorough examination, but there wasn’t any obvious sign of trauma. We’ll have to wait for the medical examiner’s report.”

  “When we got here, the lock on the gate had been cut and it was open,” Dwight said. “And everything’s been cleaned out of the lab.”

  “I saw that. I’ll contact Allerton, but I don’t think the DEA did that.”

  “Yeah. I’m guessing whoever left Hake’s body cleaned out the lab, too. They must have known we’d find him.”

  “They’ve had plenty of time to cover their tracks,” Travis said. “They could have left the area—even the country—by now.” The ambulance drove past and he signaled the crime scene techs to move in. “There goes my theory that Wade and Brock killed Hake.”

  “You thought that?” Dwight asked.

  “Why not? They killed Maya’s sister and brother-in-law and would have killed Gage and Maya if they’d had the chance.”

  “But why?” Dwight asked. “What was in it for them?”

  “I haven’t come up with an answer to that yet.” He glanced toward Dwight’s SUV. “Why the threats to Brenda? Why burn down her house?”

  “Do you think what’s going on with her is connected in some way to Hake’s disappearance and what happened with Maya and Gage?” Dwight asked.

  Travis rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, but it feels that way. This is a small county—historically very low crime, and nothing very serious. And now we have a crime wave. Everything else has been related to this property, starting with Andy Stenson’s murder three and a half years ago.”

  “Andy is the one who first got hold of that book the guy who’s targeted Brenda wanted destroyed,” Dwight said. “He told Professor Gibson he needed it to research a case. I’m wondering if the case had something to do with Hake—and if Andy was killed because he found out something he shouldn’t have.”

  “Ian Barnes never said why he killed Andy,” Travis said. “But he told Lacy he needed to kill her because she knew too much—something she didn’t even realize the significance of. She has no idea what he was talking about.”

  “We’ve always assumed Maya’s sister and brother-in-law were killed because they saw Wade and Brock with Henry Hake,” Dwight said.

  Travis nodded. “But what if they saw something else?” He glanced over his shoulder toward the Quonset hut. “Something to do with that lab, maybe.”

  “Every time we pull at one thread in this case, everything gets more knotted up,” Dwight said.

  “But we’re going to keep pulling until we find the solution to the puzzle,” Travis said. “I’ll finish up here. You take care of Brenda.”

  Dwight returned to the SUV. “What now?” Brenda asked.

  “If you feel up to it, you’ll need to make a statement. We just need to get down your account of what happened for the case file.”

  She nodded. “I can do that.”

  “It’s better to do it now, while it’s fresh in your mind.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it now.”

  “After that I can take you home. To my home, I mean.”

  “All right.”

  He started the cruiser and headed back toward town. Beside him, Brenda was still as a statue, not making a sound. She was too calm. Finding Henry Hake’s body that way must have shaken her—it would have shaken anyone. It had shaken him. Yet she showed no emotion at all. Not reacting was probably a defense mechanism, especially considering how much tragedy she had faced recently. But walling off emotions never worked for long, and the fallout could be worse than giving in to tears now.

  * * *

  BRENDA DICTATED HER statement to Dwight, getting through the ordeal by pretending the events of that morning had happened to someone else. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see the shapeless figure in the baggy suit hanging there, twisting slowly in the breeze... Then she would snap open her eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on something else—the crooked diploma on the wall behind Dwight’s desk, the chipped paint near the doorway of his office, the dust on the toes of her own shoes.

  When she had signed the printed statement, he ushered her back to his car and drove out to his parents’ ranch. She appreciated that he didn’t try to talk to her. She didn’t have anything to say. She felt empty—hollowed out and fragile, less woman than paper doll.

  It wasn’t until they passed the turnoff to his parents’ house that she stirred. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I’m taking you to my place,” he said. “I thought you might appreciate the peace and quiet there. My mom means well, but she tends to hover.”

  “Thanks.” She had to speak around the lump in her throat. His thoughtfulness touched her. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have work to do,” she said. “I shouldn’t be keeping you from it.”

  “I don’t have anything urgent right now.” He glanced at her. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.” She spoke the automatic lie she had been using for years now. The assurance kept people from prodding too deeply. She was keeping it together so they didn’t have to worry.

  Dwight said nothing, merely pulled up to his cabin and parked. The square cedar-sided cabin featured a porch across the front, and a gray tabby cat asleep in a rocking chair beside the door. The cat stood and stretched at their approach. “This is Otis,” Dwight said, pausing to scratch behind the cat’s ears before he opened the front door.

  Otis purred like an engine humming along and followed them into the cabin, long
tail twitching. “Oh, this is nice,” Brenda said, stopping three steps into the front room. She wasn’t sure what she had expected—something utilitarian and maybe a little worn, filled with hand-me-down furniture and the clutter of a bachelor life. Instead, the open, high-ceilinged room had the comfortable Western vibe upscale design magazines strived for, with a layer of authenticity that welcomed a visitor to sit down and kick off her shoes.

  A Persian carpet in shades of red, black and blue covered the worn wooden floor, and a cast-iron-and-soapstone woodstove dominated one wall, flanked on either side by big windows that offered a view of golden hayfields and the mountains beyond, the peaks dusted with the autumn’s first snow. A caramel-colored sofa and two matching armchairs were arranged around a table made from a slab of wood worn smooth by years of use. A flat-screen TV on an oak sideboard was the chief reminder that this was a modern home and not some backcountry retreat.

  “Make yourself at home,” Dwight said, motioning toward the sofa. “I’ll fix us something to drink.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he headed toward the kitchen, which was separated from the living area by a massive island. Brenda moved to the sofa and sat, looking around at the shelves of books between the windows and the artwork on the walls—pen-and-ink drawings of elk, moose and other wildlife interspersed with paintings of rodeo cowboys. She leaned closer to peer at one of the paintings, of a young man in jeans and chaps carrying a saddle, a number pinned to the back of his leather vest. “Is that you?” she asked, when Dwight rejoined her in the living room.

  “Me a long time ago,” he said. “The artist is a family friend.” He handed her a short, squat glass filled with ice and a dark liquor, and sat on the sofa beside her—close, but not touching.

  She studied the drink. “What is this?”

  “A brandy old-fashioned.”

  “Dwight, it’s only one in the afternoon.”

  “Drink it. You need it after what you experienced this morning. I know I do.” He took a long swallow of his own drink.

  She took a tentative sip. It was sweet—and had a definite heat as it went down. She set the glass on the edge of the table and continued to look around the room.