by Jeff Carson
“Excellent metaphor, sir.”
MacLean stood and went to the window. “You think I’m kidding? Listen, Wolf—”
There was a knock at the door.
Patterson poked her head inside. “Oh, sorry. I’ll come back in a few.”
“What’s up?” Wolf asked, ignoring MacLean’s staring at the side of his face.
“I have the cell activity from Lorber.” She held up a stack of papers.
“Good. Wait, sir?” He looked at MacLean. “You wanted to speak about something else?”
MacLean sighed. “Get in here. Show us what you got.”
Rachette and Yates appeared behind Patterson and they streamed into the office. Patterson walked up to the desk and set down the sheets next to each other, one by one in a matrix. Some were lists of text, others were color print-outs of ping maps and GPS location lines.
“According to Chris Alamy’s statement, Warren Preston left work that day like any other normal Friday. Then Warren called him Saturday morning, wanting to speak to him Saturday night in the office. According to Chris, he went into work to speak to his boss at 6 p.m.”
“We’re talking about this last weekend?” Wolf asked.
His detectives looked at one another.
“No,” Patterson said, flicking a quick glance to MacLean. “The Saturday they met was the weekend before last. According to Alamy, Preston’s been missing for … eleven days now.”
Wolf nodded as if he remembered the detail. “Right.”
She continued. “During the meeting that Saturday, eleven days ago, Mr. Preston revealed to Chris that he was going on vacation, apparently down to Arizona for some camping in the Superstition Mountains.” Patterson flipped a page. “Alamy said he and his boss discussed upcoming work issues for that next week, and that was that. Chris left to go home. Then he told us he went to the Pony later that night and shut it down.”
Wolf leaned forward and looked at the sheets of paper Patterson had organized on his desk to evade the stares beaming into him.
“I’ve written up the warrant for Chris Alamy’s cell logs and GPS locations,” she said. “I turned it into White’s office and I’m just waiting to hear back. But, in the meantime, you can see we have a list of calls Mr. Preston made for the last few weeks, taken off his phone. Most of the numbers were listed with contact names, and those that weren’t we tracked down via the number-lookup system.”
Rachette scoffed. “Meaning we called half the numbers and saw who answered.”
“Right,” Patterson said. “Anyway, it looks like, on that final day of work on Friday the seventh, Warren Preston made a series of calls. One to a company called Hood Rock Supply up in Brushing. One to another supply company called Herald Flagstone and Rock Supply in Fort Collins. Two calls to a woman named Betsy Collworth. Goes on and on … as you’d expect from a busy business owner during a day’s work. I have a list of employees of his right here. Betsy is an employee. This call is an employee … this one … all of these.”
She picked up a GPS map. “On Saturday the eighth, I have Preston’s location coming from his house up the canyon, down to his work that evening. He stayed at the rock yard from 6:17 p.m. to 9:28 p.m. He made no calls during that time.”
“And Chris Alamy says he met with Preston at work during that time,” Wolf said.
“Correct.”
MacLean scoffed. “Looks like we have an official person of interest.”
Patterson shrugged. “I’d say so.”
“What about Preston’s vehicle?” Wolf asked. “Any clues found in there yet?”
“Lorber’s still drying it out,” Patterson said.
“Keep me posted.” MacLean left the room, but not before shooting Wolf a look that said he was disgusted, or concerned, or both.
“Let’s get Chris Alamy back in here,” Wolf said.
“Right.” Patterson collected her papers. “We’ll get on it.”
Wolf stood and put on his coat.
“Where are you going?” Rachette asked.
Wolf’s stomach churned, demanding food. “Out.”
Chapter 3
Wolf considered taking the back exit, but even with a hangover he was not one to run from a good scolding, especially one he deserved, so he took the front entrance out to Main Street.
Surprisingly, as he walked through the glass-enclosed front waiting area to the county building, Tammy ignored him as if he were an apparition.
She was good.
He went out onto the sidewalk and into a stiff breeze. He put the wind to his back and headed down the sidewalk of Main.
Rocky Points’s main thoroughfare had been covered by a few inches of packed powder by the plows. Dozens of people milled about, making preparations for the festival—erecting tents, hanging flags, setting cones for the skijoring course. It was a feat the town was, and should have been, proud of, but it left little impression on Wolf.
The sun had risen fully, and the glare off the thick coat of snow on the western valley wall of mountains stung his eyes. He cursed himself for forgetting his sunglasses yet again.
When his eyes had fully adjusted, he snuck a glance at the resort. Skiers meandered down the slopes like slow-motion ants. Season-pass-holders were getting their money’s worth this year, or so he’d heard.
He walked past the store fronts, keeping his head down to minimize the damage to his retinas, and skidded to a stop, almost passing the coffee shop.
If Wolf had had his pick, he’d have been sitting down for a full plate of breakfast at the Sunnyside Café, a few blocks in the opposite direction, but a quick stop at Dead Ground would do for a dose of grease and caffeine to battle the hangover.
He walked inside, happy that today’s employees had picked a sane volume for their music. He joined a line of six people and stood with half-closed eyes. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans did little to perk him up, but the promise of ingesting the caffeine lifted his mood.
“David!”
He recognized the woman’s voice and turned around to see Margaret Hitchens sitting at a table along the wall. Across from her sat James Pritchard, an ex DA from Denver turned Rocky Points local, turned current county-council member with more than a little clout, if MacLean’s ramblings had any truth to them.
Wolf nodded and faced forward in the line.
A minute later, he grabbed his large dark roast and a sausage breakfast burrito and stopped at their table on the way out.
“How are you, David? You remember Mr. Pritchard?” Margaret blew on a steaming cup, her eyes on the rippling liquid.
Wolf nodded at the man and sipped his own coffee through the sliver in his to-go lid, scalding his lip.
Pritchard nodded and averted eye contact. He made no move to shake Wolf’s hand, and Wolf felt the better for it.
Margaret looked uncomfortable.
“Well, you two have a good day.” He nodded and went out the door.
The breeze blowing through the old buildings felt good now as it cut through his hair to the scalp. With the sun at his back and his vision restored, the Margaret Hitchens for Mayor posters appeared as if out of nowhere. Every lamppost had one, every store window.
“Hey!”
Margaret marched around him and stopped, blocking his path.
“What the hell is your problem?” Her eyes bugged. The curly silver locks poking out beneath her knit cap blew away from her face on the breeze, adding a touch of wrath to her expression.
He wanted to make a smart quip but his hungover brain came up with a single syllable response instead. “Huh?”
“Jesus. You’re drunk. Last time I saw you, you were drunk. The time before that you were drunk. You sit up there in that office of yours, or in that house of yours, and drink.”
“I don’t drink at work.” Wolf sipped his coffee.
She put her hands on her hips, narrowed and widened her eyelids, and turned away. “Shit.”
He took that as permission to go, so he did.
<
br /> She gripped his arm and spun him around. “Don’t you walk away from me.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t okay me.”
He blinked. “What would you like me to say, Margaret?”
“How about something of substance? Like, I don’t know, I’m devastated about Lauren and Ella leaving me, and I’m getting drunk every day to cope with the pain, but it’s really, really not helping, so I …” She stopped and studied his face with glistening eyes. “So I need to stop.”
He turned and studied the ski slopes again.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she said.
He smiled. “About what?”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Listen.” He put on a concerned face. “There’s a case, okay? I’m just a little preoccupied.”
She stared at him, clearly unconvinced, then nodded. “Okay. A case, huh? What’s going on?”
“You know Warren Preston?”
“Yeah. Preston Rock and Supply.”
“What do you know about him?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Sells rock. A lot of rock. He supplied those boulders in the center of Ski Base Village. Took special trucks and a crane to place them. Other than that … I’ve sold a dozen or so of those condos next to his rock yard.”
Most real-estate agents saying they’d sold a dozen or so of something was an over-estimation, but Wolf knew Margaret often undersold herself when it came to already impressive sales statistics. Wolf suspected this was so that when the person inevitably found out the truth at some later time, from an online search or word of mouth, said person would be doubly impressed by her actual numbers. She was good.
“What’d he do?” she asked.
“Why would you think he did something?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t he? You brought him up.”
“Can’t really talk about it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bastard.”
“Had to shut you up somehow.”
She stared blankly at him, then shuffled close and wrapped her arm around his bicep.
They turned down the sidewalk and walked toward the county building.
“How’s the campaign going?” he asked.
“Very well.”
“Of course it is.”
“But it’s no done deal,” she said.
But it was. She was running against Trip Wellmont, a former cattle rancher with his finger on the rear-end of the county, trying to find a pulse. He guessed it was good she was working so hard to ensure victory, though. To have Wellmont in power would have been a major disruption to the standard operations of the department. The man wanted cuts across the board, in a town seeing record growth. Of course, Wolf had no doubt that to have Margaret Hitchens in power would be no less earth-moving. He had yet to sit down with her and discuss her agenda. He’d been busy with other things.
They walked in silence until they reached the county building.
He pulled away from her near the sliding doors.
“Listen,” she said. “My sister’s coming into town tonight.” Her sister, meaning Detective Patterson’s mother. “We’re getting a whole crew together tomorrow night and going to dinner at Black Diamond Pizza, then we’re coming down here for the race.” Meaning Margaret Hitchens was standing on the music stage behind him, yelling into the microphone about responsible progress, and other hot-button topics.
“No thanks. But thanks.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then nodded and walked back up the street.
He watched her go. The rapidity of his answer had surprised him, but the quickness of her giving up was something else.
He headed back inside.
Tammy was on the phone, ignoring him as he strolled in on a gust of wind.
He made his way to the third floor without further social distraction. Once in his office, he locked his door and ate, letting the caffeine, protein, and ibuprofen battle against the alcohol in peace.
Chapter 4
Wolf woke with a start, wiping a stream of drool from his chin and the desk.
The doorknob rattled, and someone knocked.
“Come in!”
The knob rattled again.
“Just a second!”
The light streaming through the blind slats was brighter and coming in at different angles from the last time he remembered.
Had he slept here last night?
Details came to him, but it was like trying to recall the memories from the prior year.
More knocking.
“Yeah!”
He stood up and walked around his desk, planting a hand on the wood to keep his balance. My God, his throat. He picked up an almost-empty water bottle from the desk, sucked down the warm liquid, and threw it toward the trash, missing the bin.
He unlocked the door and cracked it open.
Patterson stood with a concerned face. “Sir?”
He turned around and made his way back to the desk, picking up the water bottle and trashing it on the way past.
There was silence for a few more moments, then she shuffled inside after him.
He sat. “Yeah?”
“We have Chris Alamy down in Interrogation B.” She walked inside and placed a large, twenty-ouncer bottle of water on his desk and dropped a pile of pills next to it.
“Thanks.”
“You have a bunch of lines on your face where you’ve been sleeping.”
“I do?” He sucked down half the bottle and the pills. The liquid was sent from God. “Oh, thanks. I needed that.”
She stared at him through half-mast lids.
“Interrogation B?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll be right down.”
“You want me or Rachette in there with you?”
“Yes.”
She stood still. “Which one? Me or Rachette?”
“You. I’ll see you there in a second, okay?”
She left, leaving the door open. A pair of deputies walked past, staring at him intently, like he was a zoo animal on display.
He rolled his neck to straighten a kink, ignoring the kick of pain in his skull. He sucked in a deep breath and almost gagged on the vapor as he exhaled. He rifled through his drawers and found a single piece of gum in the back corner. He unwrapped it, removed flecks of dirt from the green rectangle, and shoved it in his mouth.
Willing the spearmint to wash away the stench, he chomped away and walked down to the squad room.
The vaulted ceilings echoed with hushed conversation. Patterson, Yates, and Rachette stopped talking and turned to him.
“He have a lawyer?” Wolf asked.
“No, sir.” Rachette sipped some coffee and lifted it. “You want a cup?”
“No, thanks. Let’s go over what we have.”
Patterson picked up a stack of papers and read from the top. “Chris Alamy’s initial report from the other morning states that he was aware that Warren Preston was planning on taking a camping vacation in Arizona. Chris Alamy said that when Mr. Preston never came into work the following Monday he was suspicious, but not overly concerned. When he never showed up Tuesday, however, he became anxious. Drove up to his boss’s house. Found the vehicle wide open and filled with snow. Found the keys, wallet, cell phone inside, but no sign of his boss. Came down the valley and gave his report to Rachette.”
Wolf looked at Rachette with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s about it,” Rachette said.
“Okay. Patterson, you’re in there with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wolf forked his fingers and pointed at Rachette and Yates. “You two watch carefully, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Rachette smothered a jealous expression behind his Styrofoam cup.
Chris Alamy wore a purple-and-white checked flannel buttoned to the mid-chest, untucked and draping over well-worn jeans. His brown hair was long, hanging in shampooed waves that splashed on his shoulders. A beard trimmed to perfection framed an o
val face. The mustache had been grown longer than the rest of the hair and curled up at the edges, like an old-timey barber-shop quartet singer. He stood up from the plastic chair upon their arrival and nodded.
“Mr. Alamy,” Wolf said, shaking his hand.
“Yes, sir.”
Wolf studied Chris’s eyes and saw a hint of fear peeking out. “I’m Chief Detective David Wolf. Please, take a seat.”
Patterson pressed a button on the audio recorder mounted in the center of the table. “This is Detective Sergeant Heather Patterson, here with Chief Detective David Wolf, speaking with Chris Alamy …”
Wolf watched Alamy as Patterson spoke. The man sat down and nodded, looking little fazed by the audio recorder and two video cameras mounted in the corners of the room.
“So, for the record, Mr. Alamy, do you agree to have our conversation audio and video recorded today?” Patterson asked.
“Yes.”
Wolf and Patterson sat.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” Wolf said, not recognizing the man’s face, which was rare. Wolf had been born in County Hospital and, other than his years in the army, had lived every year of his life in Rocky Points.
“I grew up north in Brushing.”
“How long have you lived down here in Points?”
“Three years.”
Wolf nodded. A long time to not see the guy around. But people could go years keeping a strict routine, and clearly their routines had failed to cross paths.
“So, you went up to Mr. Preston’s house,” Chris said.
“Yes, we did.” Wolf nodded.
Patterson pulled a legal pad onto her lap, crossed her legs, and scribbled to get the pen flowing.
“Nobody’s told me what happened,” Chris said. “Did you find him?”
Wolf took his time answering, noting how Chris’s skin flushed red.
“No, we didn’t find him.”
Chris leaned back hard in his chair, as if he’d been waiting on the outcome of that question for days. His thumb and forefinger came up beneath his mustache and he petted his beard.
Patterson gestured to a piece of paper. “It says here in the report you gave Detective Rachette that you went into work Saturday, March 8th to meet Mr. Preston.”
