by Jeff Carson
Wednesday, March 19th. 10:45 a.m. Nailed it.
More people scrambled on Main Street below. Two men with snow shovels were slapping one of the jumps, while a woman sprinkled chunks of green pine boughs over the landing zones.
“Sir?” Patterson cleared her throat.
Wolf turned and saw his squad looking at him. “Yes?”
“So? What now?”
Wolf rolled his neck and eyed the couch for the first time. The cloth looked warm and soft.
“Time to go to Preston Rock and Supply.”
Chapter 6
Wolf sat in Patterson’s passenger seat, feeling heat from her glances hitting the side of his face. Or it was the heater, which was cranked on high? He had a vague memory of Patterson being hot her last pregnancy. Now, she apparently liked to sit in a pool of her own sweat for this baby.
“Seems like you’re drinking a lot lately,” she said, breaking the tension with a grenade.
Wolf studied the Chautauqua Valley sliding past his window.
“Even more than the last couple of months. Which was a lot then.”
“I know,” he said. Because not saying anything would have pissed her off.
She huffed, then seemed to give up.
They drove the short distance along 734 North, then turned onto Wildflower Road. A quick right and they were driving along the river. The water ran high, carving into the snow piled alongside it. It had been a heavy winter, and now that spring was here, there would only be more precipitation.
New condominium complexes had sprouted up along the river over the past few years. They were overpriced, and every one of them was either occupied or owned by a Denverite weekend warrior. The properties were appealing to the eye, if one was into tall metal-and-wood structures blocking mountain views.
And then there was Preston Rock and Supply. The business consisted of a large, vaulted metal building situated in the center of five or so acres of land on a bluff raised above the river—a scarred piece of land surrounded by metal fencing, and the stark opposite of the manicured condo properties upstream.
The road turned to packed powder-covered dirt and circled around the space, giving them a good look inside. Concrete retaining walls cordoned off different colored and textured rocks piled in varying quantities.
A large dirt-mover revved, spewing thick diesel exhaust as it rolled on huge tires through the lanes between the retaining walls. A truck billowed dust as it finished dumping a load of gravel into a slot.
Patterson pulled through an open gate, then parked in front of what looked like an office on the end of the metal building.
They stepped out into chilly, damp air. Even after the blast-furnace interior of Patterson’s SUV, the wind cut through Wolf’s clothing and made him zip his jacket to his chin.
Rachette’s SUV barreled into the entrance and parked behind Patterson’s.
While the other two detectives climbed out of their vehicles, Wolf edged to the front bumper and eyed the Chautauqua below. The sound of the river burbled faintly behind the noise of diesel engines. Flakes floated down from the now leaden sky.
“Hello, ma’am.” Patterson said.
“Is this about Warren?” A heavy-set woman had come outside. She wore a red-and-black flannel that hung open, revealing a gray T-shirt that read Sexy over ample breasts. The puffy flesh of her face framed a worried expression.
“Are you Betsy?” Patterson asked.
“Yes.”
“I just spoke with you on the phone. I’m Detective Heather Patterson. And these are Detectives Wolf, Rachette, and Yates.”
Rachette made a show of pacing and observing the premises while Yates stepped up and shook Betsy’s hand.
Wolf had seen Betsy around town. Besides a cordial hello here and there, he doubted they’d exchanged words. He opted to stand mutely and nod, knowing that sometimes the four of them barreling in on somebody could be overwhelming.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am,” Patterson said.
Betsy nodded. “Sure. Come on in.”
Rachette walked to Wolf, pointing a discreet thumb at a window. Wolf had seen it: Chris Alamy inside, looking out through open blinds with an exasperated expression. The man had probably just driven here, maybe gotten a single call in to a lawyer, and now here they were again.
They streamed into an office filled with all the blue-collar furniture one would expect to find inside a rock-supply business—metal desks, file cabinets, a countertop with a drip coffee-maker, faux-wood folding tables surrounded by folding chairs.
Wolf noticed the table top was strewn with papers in much the same fashion as they’d been in Warren Preston’s dining room.
“What’s going on?” Chris Alamy stood in the doorway of his office.
“These are detectives from the Sheriff’s Department,” Betsy said. “They want to ask us some questions.”
“Not you.” Patterson held up a hand, stopping the protest about to make its way through Chris’s mustache. “We’re here to talk to Betsy and the other employees. You don’t have to speak to us any further.”
Alamy shuffled for a few seconds, then backed into his office. He shut the door, revealing a gold name tag that read Chrissy affixed to the wood.
Betsy frowned. “What’s this all about? Where’s Warren?”
Wolf folded his arms and moved to look out a window to the rock yard. Rachette and Yates gave Patterson the floor.
“Betsy, as you probably know by now, we’re looking for Warren,” Patterson said. “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
Betsy looked shaken, then stared hard out of intelligent blue eyes. “Last I spoke to him was Friday. Friday night before I left work. Twelve days ago.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. It sounded like air being let slowly out of a tractor tire. “Twelve days. My goodness.”
“What did you talk about before he left that night?” Patterson asked.
“Nothing much. The usual, I guess.” She blinked as if recalling memories. “I was just telling him how the grandkids were coming over from Grand Junction. You know … ‘Have a good weekend,’ small talk.” She shrugged. “He didn’t talk to me about no vacation.”
Patterson straightened. “He didn’t speak about his vacation?”
“No. Not at all. I had no clue he was even going.”
Wolf studied Betsy’s face. She was telling the truth.
“He never said anything about going to Arizona for camping to me.”
“And that’s strange?” Patterson asked. “Out of character for him to not tell you before he left for vacation?”
“Hell, yeah, that’s strange. He doesn’t do anything without telling me.”
“Chris told us that Mr. Preston told him he was going on vacation. Is that strange to you that he told him but not you?”
She stared at Patterson, then flicked her eyes to Chris’s closed office door. “That’s what he says.”
Patterson lowered her voice. “Are you saying you don’t believe him?”
“Warren never told me he was going to Arizona.” She lifted her chin, using a loud enough voice for Chris to hear in the next room. “Which is ludicrous. I run the day-to-day here. So he goes telling Chris and not me? We have shipments coming in and out of here every day. Pickups and drop-offs change all the time. I run the reschedules.”
Chris’s office door cracked open. The man stood like he wanted to say something.
“Yes?” Patterson asked him.
“He told me,” Chris said in a low voice. “Mr. Preston told me he was leaving for Arizona. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you, Betsy.”
They volleyed their gazes back to Betsy.
She reddened from the attention, defiance in her lowered eyelids, and looked down at her desk.
Chris stepped out from his office door, through the room, and went outside. His feet crunched on the packed powder as he walked to a beat-up Ford Ranger and got in. The engine fired up and he drove away at speed through the g
ate and out of sight.
They exchanged glances while Betsy ran a fingernail over a spot on her desk.
The dump truck outside killed its engine, dropping the office into complete silence.
“What about Saturday?” Wolf asked. “Did you know that Chris and Warren were going to have a meeting here on Saturday night?”
Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “No. They had a meeting? Saturday night?”
“That’s what Chris told us,” Patterson said.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of that.”
“He never told you anything about Saturday?” Rachette said.
“Who, Chris? No! He didn’t tell me anything about Saturday. And Warren didn’t tell me he was going on vacation. He didn’t tell me shit. And now he’s gone.” She opened her mouth and shut it.
“What aren’t you telling us, Betsy?” Wolf asked.
Betsy glared hard at him. “He told me to bring him some brisket on Monday. I mean, it was a joke, but he knew I would if he mentioned it, so I did. I packed up a Tupperware and brought him a couple of pounds of meat that Monday. The way he lives up there in that big old house of his alone? He never cooks for himself, and he knew I would bring it. I made two extra pounds. He would have known I’d go out of my way and make extra. If he didn’t want it, he would have kept his mouth shut.” She shook her head. “Something doesn’t make sense. Something happened to him.” She looked out the windows.
They said nothing.
Her hardened expression melted, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he decided to go after he talked to me. Honestly, he had been talking about camping down there. He goes down to Arizona every year. Looks for gold in the Superstitions on some family claim of his. But … I still think he would have told me. I run the day-to-day.”
“How’s business going, Betsy?” Wolf asked.
Betsy looked up, first startled and defensive-looking, but then her expression softened and she sighed. “I tell you, we’re not doing as hot as other years.”
“And is there pressure on Mr. Preston due to the strain on the business?” Wolf asked.
“Well, of course there is. He’s responsible for feeding a number of families with the income generated here.” She sat back and nodded with narrowed eyes. “But he’s a determined man. His father started this business forty-five years ago. Warren took it over fifteen years ago, and that was after he’d worked for his father for, geez, twenty years? So he’s seen tough times before. He could have sold out to the developers years ago, but he’s determined to continue the business.”
Wolf nodded.
She cocked her head. “Wait. Why are you asking that?”
“I’m just … trying to get a full picture of what we’re looking at here.”
“If you think he ran away, you can get that out of your brain.”
Wolf nodded. He’d seen people lie, cheat, steal, and kill others or themselves over money before. “Was he in any major debt?”
She leaned on her elbows. “Detective Wolf, isn’t it? Warren Preston doesn’t run from debt collectors. He pays them. Mr. Preston did not run away.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “I understand.”
Betsy’s eyes lingered on him.
He leaned and looked into another open door. “Is that Mr. Preston’s office?”
Betsy blinked out of a zone. “What’s that?”
“Is that Mr. Preston’s office?”
“Sorry. Yes, it is.”
Rachette and Yates moved toward it. Wolf kept still, opting to lessen the appearance of a pack of sniffing dogs moving in on a bag of chow.
Wolf cleared his throat. “Do you mind if we take a look, Betsy?”
Rachette and Yates stopped in their tracks.
“No. Go ahead.”
Rachette and Yates disappeared inside.
Wolf followed them in, leaving Patterson and Betsy to converse some more.
The floor creaked under their boots as they paced around a decent-sized office. It looked bigger than Chrissy’s office next door, as the owner’s office should have been, he supposed. He noted the sign on the door. Warry. A lot less clever than Chrissy, and with less backhand.
Rachette went behind the desk and bent close to the desktop.
Yates joined him. “Guy liked to doodle.”
A big paper calendar sat on the desktop, covered in blue, black, and red ink. Cubes, mountains, palm trees, faces, and a hundred other streams of consciousness were etched onto the page between phone numbers, names, and other notes for Warren Preston’s reference.
Wolf read some.
Flagstone—6 yards …
Granite slab—Tony, Wednesday, 12th …
Zack Hood. 20% off first five shipments …
PG 1308, 1309, 1310 …
He pointed. “Granite slab, Wednesday, 12th.”
“Yeah.” Rachette nodded. “That was last week. So what?”
Wolf stood straight, rubbing a kink in his neck, and walked to a bookshelf. Dark-blue binders stacked every inch of the shelving from floor to ceiling. Black writing was scrawled along the bindings of each.
A picture of Warren Preston hung on the wall. He was holding a fat rainbow trout in two hands, a smile plastered on his face. He was dressed in waders and a black Harley-Davidson shirt. According to their research, he was sixty-one years old, and given three chances Wolf would have guessed his age by looking at him. The man’s hair was flecked white, gray, and black, like granite. His eyes were hidden behind fishing glasses. He was clean-shaven with skin like worn, tanned leather. Judging by the belly bulging against his waders, he was thirty or forty pounds overweight.
“Sir?” Patterson stood at the doorway.
“Yeah?”
“Betsy was going to take us outside and introduce us to one of the other employees.”
Betsy stood behind Patterson, leaning to the side and watching Rachette like an old shopkeeper watches a teenager.
Wolf pointed at the pad of paper on the desktop. “Betsy, could you come in here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s Tony with the granite slab?”
She edged past Patterson into the office and came to Wolf’s side. “What’s that?”
“This here. It shows he set up an appointment for the twelfth.”
Betsy planted both her palms on the paper and leaned close. “My eyesight’s crap. Oh, yeah. Tony, granite slab. Delivered on the twelfth.” She straightened. “What about it?”
“Did he tell you about it?” Wolf asked.
She shook her head and poked the paper. “No. See? It’s stuff like this I’m talking about. He never told me about Tony coming. He does this all the time—just writes his little appointments on this paper. Or he’ll shove a Post-it into his top drawer. Every few days I’ll come in and make him tell me what he’s got in the works.”
She stormed around the backside of the desk, pushing Rachette aside. She pulled open the top drawer and looked inside, seemingly surprised by what she saw. “Oh, well, I cleared it out. Well, if you would have been here last Monday, you would have seen a desk drawer filled with a pile of notes. All sorts of delivery orders from the week before. You gotta understand. This business isn’t repeat. Just about every customer’s repeat but the orders are as varied as they come.”
“Okay,” Wolf said.
Betsy’s eyes bulged. “So, if he would have been going out of town, he would have brought me in here and debriefed me. He knows that’s how we work.”
She turned and looked at Rachette.
Rachette backed a step.
“I heard something about you guys finding his car. Chris said it was wide open and parked in front of his house, filled with snow. Now what’s that all about?”
“That’s why we’re here, ma’am,” Patterson said.
Betsy sagged like a deflating balloon.
“Ma’am.” Wolf cleared his throat. “Are there any people you can think of that would want to hurt Mr. Preston?”
She we
nt pale. “No, not that I can think of.”
“Is there anything else he spoke about two weeks ago? Anything at all that you’re thinking might be out of the ordinary?”
She shook her head, then jerked it to the side as if a thought had hit her. “Well …”
“What?”
“Our equipment was breaking down lately. I guess that’s something. Well, maybe that’s not something—stuff breaks down all the time. But his reaction this time was something else. He was paranoid. First, he thought the mechanic was slacking, so he fired him. Then it kept happening, so he thought somebody else was doing it. Somebody, like, breaking in overnight and sabotaging the machines or something.” She shrugged.
“And then what?” Patterson asked.
She gestured outside. “I tell you what, Dennis is your guy if you want to talk about that.”
“Who’s Dennis?” Rachette asked.
“The guy I was just going to introduce you to outside.”
Dennis Lamont was a beefy middle-aged man. Despite the cold rushing in from the north, he wore a thin long-sleeved shirt rolled up to reveal tattooed logs for forearms.
Wolf knew him. The man had volunteered to help set up various festivals and town events. He looked different today, Wolf thought, and realized it was because he was used to seeing the man laugh. Today Dennis’s brown beard seemed to hang lower from his sullen face.
“Hello.” Dennis nodded.
“Dennis,” Wolf said. “Listen, we heard something about equipment breaking down lately.”
Dennis pinched his brows. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You know Warren was all paranoid about it,” Betsy said. “Tell him what he was telling you.”
“I don’t know.” Dennis shook his head. “There were a few times in the last couple of months the loaders were acting up. One day, one of them had a flat tire, and what looked like a cut hydraulic line. Could have been wear—it was a close toss-up. Basic stuff that could have been caused by sitting over the weekend in cold, varying temperatures, like we have here in the Colorado Rockies.”
Betsy scoffed. “But it was more than just that one time. There were more breakdowns.”
“Yeah, fired our best mechanic over it. And the breakdowns kept happening, what do you know?”
