by Terry Odell
“So, while you’ve been here stuffing your gut, some of us cops have been working,” Colfax said.
“Try that one again when you don’t smell like fried chicken,” Gordon said.
Colfax grinned and plunked himself down in the chair. “Busted.”
“And, for the record,” Gordon continued, “I’ve got a strong lead on a connection to Willard Johnson.”
“Great. Who is it?”
“According to this—” Gordon handed the spreadsheet to Colfax. “The highlighted calls, all forty-six of them, were either incoming or outgoing to one Albert Norton Stein.”
“Albert N. Stein? You’re kidding.”
“People do have unusual names. Maybe his parents thought he’d grow up and be a genius.”
Colfax rolled his eyes. “Have you run him?”
“Address is somewhere in the sticks beyond Steamboat. Three hours, give or take. Certainly doable. I’m trying to get the cell carrier to pin down the location of the phones for the last few days. Still waiting on that.”
Colfax nodded his approval. “Yeah, if the guy was nowhere near here, it’s not likely he killed Franklin.”
“Or, there’s a third player in the mix. You have a response from ViCAP?”
“This quick? You jest. Frankly, I’m not optimistic. Hell, half the cases we input haven’t given us squat. But it was worth a shot. If nothing else, we’ve added to the database.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Going on with what we have, which are reports from the CSR techs and the M.E. The autopsy showed the victim was hit on the head.”
“Can you match whatever hit her on the head?”
“Yes,” Colfax said. “For all the good it did.”
“Why?”
“Because it was something found in the store—some kind of doohickey that goes up the butt of a manikin. No prints. And not the cause of death. Probably used it to subdue her.”
Knowing Betty Bedford, that made perfect sense. “So our guy wore gloves, but was opportunistic. What about the knife? You think he brought it with him? Or the duct tape, for that matter?”
“I talked to the employees. Blue-haired church ladies, not happy about the blood. They promised to search the back areas, where it was just a mess, not a bloody mess. Mrs. Bedford kept knives in the kitchenette, and duct tape in the inevitable junk drawer. Our techs didn’t find any bloody knives, but if the suspect took it with him, we wouldn’t know. The employees are going to see if one’s missing. Likewise with the duct tape.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Colfax flicked a crumb from his jacket, wiped it, and frowned at the grease stain he’d created. “Damn. This’ll have to go to the cleaners now.” He fixed his eyes on Gordon. “Oh, and your man. Solomon. He’s got the chops.”
Gordon refused to acknowledge the comment. “We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Megan stood as Gordon approached. From his expression, he wasn’t happy about being interrupted for a second time today. “Megan. Justin. What do you need?”
“I’m sorry,” Megan said. “Should we come back later?”
Justin jumped to his feet. “Actually, Chief Hepler, it’s important that we speak to you now. Alone, if possible.”
Gordon’s gaze moved from Justin to hers and back again. His lips flattened. “This way.” He spun and walked away. Megan grabbed her purse and hustled after him, Justin behind her. Gordon opened the door to his office, where Detective Colfax was marking pieces of paper with a yellow highlighter.
“Give us a minute.” Gordon said.
The detective looked up, first at them, then at Gordon. Without bothering to question Gordon’s directive, he stuck the papers in a folder and stood. “I’ll be in the war room.”
“Sit,” Gordon said. He moved more papers aside. His expression shifted, as if he’d realized that she and Justin wouldn’t have barged in unless it was related to the case. “Have you found something?” he said.
“Not exactly,” Megan said. “But there’s some information we think you should have.”
“I’m listening.”
“Please,” Justin said. “I withheld it to protect my grandparents, and we’d appreciate it if you don’t say anything unless it’s absolutely necessary. I didn’t think it was relevant to the case.
“Withheld what?” Gordon said.
Megan took a breath. “We think whoever is behind all these crimes is looking for an old journal. As of now, I don’t think you need to know more than someone apparently wants it badly enough to kill for it.”
“And you’re certain the journal exists?” Gordon asked.
“Not one hundred per cent positive.” Justin said. “But even if it doesn’t, the break-ins indicate that someone else thinks it does.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Megan said. “Because we think the guy who bought Sam’s store has it. And he probably doesn’t know someone wants it. And that whoever wants it might kill him, although we think he didn’t intend to kill Mrs. Bedford, but she’d seen him, so she could identify him.”
Gordon’s lips twitched. “Good to know you’ve confirmed what we figured out from the evidence.”
“Oh,” Megan said, knowing her cheeks were bright pink. “Of course. So, do you think the killer is on his way to Fort Collins to find the guy Sam sold his store to? And what if the guy doesn’t even know he has the journal, and then the killer gets mad and kills him too?”
Gordon narrowed his gaze. “You said you didn’t know him.”
“We don’t, but Justin—”
“I have his name and address,” Justin said, handing him a slip of paper. “I found it in my grandfather’s files. I can’t promise it’s current.”
Gordon took the slip, and copied the information onto his tablet. “Thanks.” He flashed her a quick smile. The kind she used on clients when they tried to tell her how to do her job. “We’d probably have figured this one out, too, but you saved a few searches.”
“So, I take it you haven’t found him yet. It’s not like I think you can’t do your job, but if our theory is correct about why he killed Mrs. Bedford, and if it’s the same man who grabbed me, and if he thinks I can identify him—”
Justin grabbed her thigh and squeezed. Hard. She slid her glance to him, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh. Gordon had pretty much the same expression.
“Hey,” she said, mollified. “This isn’t exactly the sort of thing I’m used to.”
Gordon immediately put on a cop face. “I understand. And we’re doing everything we can to keep everyone safe. You were smart to go to Denver. But it might help if you tell me why you have to keep the journal’s existence away from Rose and Sam. Or what it looks like, what it says, so we’ll be able to identify it.”
She turned to Justin. He squeezed her hand. “Can I have your word that until it’s absolutely necessary, you won’t tell anyone?” he said to Gordon.
Gordon’s cop face went into uber-cop mode. “If you understand that the definition of ‘absolutely necessary’ is mine.”
“We don’t know what the journal looks like,” Megan said. “Mostly, it’s Rose and Sam we’re concerned about.”
“Go on,” Gordon said.
With a nod, she deferred to Justin, afraid she’d already sounded like enough of a ditz. Probably because deep down inside—well, not so deep—there was this fear that someone might be looking for her with killing in mind. The cool, calm, professional demeanor she wore like an expensive suit when dealing with clients had moved into thrift shop territory.
“The gist of it is,” Justin said, “it’s possible my grandfather had a brother.” He paused, as if the next words pained him more than they would pain Rose and Sam.
Gordon’s face showed compassion now, tuning in to Justin’s obvious discomfort. “And there’s a reason you can’t ask him?” Gordon said.
“You tell me,” Justin said. “Maybe I’m being too overprotective her
e. You and Megan have probably spent more time with my grandparents than I have. But somehow, telling them my grandfather’s brother might be a Nazi war criminal is something I don’t want to contend with.”
###
Aware he was gaping, Gordon snapped his mouth shut. “A Nazi? Sam’s brother? Sam has a brother?”
“You see my point?” Justin asked.
Gordon let it grind around in his head. “I do. But I also think Rose and Sam are two very strong people. If this journal could put them in danger, why not tell them? They might be able to help.” Justin’s gaze kept darting to Megan. Even a rookie would know he was hiding something.
“Justin, we have resources you can’t tap,” Gordon said. “If you’ll tell me the whole story, I might be able to do more for you.”
Justin shared one more lingering, pained glance with Megan. Her eyes held nothing but confusion. Justin rose. “I know. We’re just not ready yet.”
Gordon looked to Megan for help. He couldn’t do his job if he only had part of the story. She shook her head. “If you find the bookstore guy, and he does have the journal, will you please let us know first?”
That he could agree to. Whether he’d turn the journal over to her and Justin was a question he’d answer should the need arise. He tried another tack. “What’s this supposed brother’s name? Let me see what I can find in our databases.”
Megan and Justin locked eyes again. Justin nodded. “Heinrich Kaestner.” Megan spelled it for him. “Or Henry Carpenter.”
“You talking one or two people here?”
“One,” Justin said. “We think. One’s the Americanized version.”
“Older or younger than Sam?” Gordon asked.
“Older,” Megan said. “We’re not sure he’s alive.” To Justin, she said, “We should give him your papers. He does have more resources. And he’s promised to keep things quiet.”
Justin stood, staring out the window. “They’re in the car. I’ll go get them.”
With Justin gone, Megan seemed reluctant to do more than stare at her hands, which she kept clasped in her lap.
“I’m on your side, Megan. Rose and Sam were always special to me. Remember that time I broke my leg? I was nine.”
“Vaguely.” She twisted her hands. “I hadn’t been living with them long then. A lot of those first two years are fuzzy.”
“Well, Rose brought cookies over almost every day. And she’d bring books, read to me, trying to keep my mind off not being able to play ball with the other kids. And she insisted I kept up with my schoolwork.”
Her gaze finally lifted. Her cheeks darkened. “I used to resent the way she took care of everyone. I wanted her to myself.” She uttered a forced laugh. “Although since I was always out playing, I don’t know why. In denial that my parents were gone, I suppose.”
He leaned forward. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course.”
“I couldn’t read. Not worth a damn, anyway. Hated school. Rose made me see the magic in stories, in books. Without her, I might have been one of those kids who ends up in a school like Justin’s. Trust me, I wouldn’t want to hurt Rose or Sam.”
Before Gordon had to deal with where this conversation was going, which was way too far down a dark and rocky memory lane, Justin strode into the office and handed him an envelope, then turned to Megan.
“Did you forget to lock the car?” Justin asked.
“You’ve got the remote.” Megan said. “Was it unlocked?”
“I remember locking it. I heard the beep,” Justin said. “It’s a reflex. Like putting on a seat belt. You do it without thinking.”
“What happened? Did someone break into your car?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know. The door was unlocked.”
“Which door?”
“Um…backseat, passenger side,” Justin said.
“Wait here. One minute.” Gordon hurried to the supply cabinet and got an evidence kit and one of the point and shoot cameras they kept there, then went to fetch Megan and Justin.
“Where did you park?” he asked.
“Out back,” Justin said.
“This way’s faster.” Gordon unlocked his back door. “Which is your car?”
Megan pointed to Sam’s blue Impala. Gordon judged the position of the car against the surveillance cameras. Not the best angle, but there was a slim chance they’d caught someone breaking in. He approached the car, motioning Justin and Megan to stay behind him. After snapping pictures, he pulled on a pair of gloves from the kit and went to the door Justin had indicated, then walked around the car checking the other locks.
“I think someone popped the lock on this door. Did you have any valuables, anything tempting on the backseat?”
“Nothing,” Justin said with a headshake.
“Did you notice anything missing?” Gordon asked. “Anything out of place?”
Again, Justin shook his head.
“What about when you were here earlier?” Gordon asked.
“We parked on the street.”
No surveillance cameras, then. “And when you were at Rose and Sam’s?”
“In the garage,” Justin said. “Do you think the killer was looking for the journal?”
Gordon got out his fingerprint kit and went to work on the rear door and handle. They hadn’t found prints anywhere else, but it was another step he had to take, just in case. “I’d say no, because based on the other two scenes, he’d have ripped the interior apart.”
“So maybe it wasn’t the killer?” Megan said.
“I’m going to assume someone got into the car,” Gordon said. “Beyond that, the possibilities as to why, when, and where are up for grabs. Our suspect might have been scared away before he got past popping the lock.”
“What if he planted something?” Megan said. “A bug. Or a bomb? Shouldn’t you call the bomb squad, or the dogs, or whoever finds stuff like this?”
Gordon stifled a laugh, then rethought it. Remote, but it was definitely a T-crossing, I-dotting issue. “Why don’t you go inside?” he said. “Give me your keys. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
They left, and he called Colfax. “Come out to the back lot. Bring a flashlight. And an undercarriage mirror.”
While he waited for Colfax, Gordon printed the outside of the car. Nothing on the rear door area, but he went ahead and checked the rest of the exterior. He already had elimination prints from the Kretzers and Justin and Megan. The valets at the hotel probably would account for the rest.
“Whatcha’ got?” Colfax said.
Gordon took the flashlight and used the mirror to check for surprise packages. “Nothing, I hope. But there’s a question of an unlocked door, and given it’s one more connection to the Kretzers, we should investigate.”
“One door?”
“Yes. Rear passenger side. Everything in the car looks normal. Do me a favor. Go inside, check the surveillance videos. If our guy was trying to break in, maybe he’ll show up.”
Colfax scanned the area for the camera, caught it. He walked around the Impala, evaluating the line of sight between the camera and the vehicle. “Not likely.”
“But we have to check. I’m going to bag what’s in the car and we’ll go over it with Megan and Justin. See if we can figure out what someone might have wanted.”
“Any recent history of kids breaking into cars here?”
Gordon lifted his eyebrows. “Most of our kids are smart enough not to break into a car in the PD parking lot.”
“On a dare, maybe? Initiation? Rite of passage?”
“If so, this would be the first.”
“I’ll see what they’ve got.”
Gordon gathered what was in the car. A map, some receipts, the valet ticket from the hotel. Two empty water bottles. And a sweater, probably Rose’s.
He brought everything to his office, where Megan and Justin waited, and spread everything on the desk. “This is what I found. Anything added? Missing?�
�
The two of them verified that the sweater belonged to Rose, and that the water bottles were theirs. They examined the assorted papers.
“I can’t think of anything else that should be here,” Megan said. “What does it mean?”
Justin paled. “It means we need to get to Denver right away.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Engulfed by a sense of urgency, Justin grabbed Megan by the wrist and jerked her to her feet. He reached for the envelope on Gordon’s desk. “I need these back.”
“Two minutes to make copies,” Gordon said. “What’s the rush to get to Denver?”
“My question, too,” Megan said. “Rose and Sam are on a tour, perfectly safe.”
“I’m counting on it,” Justin said. He collected all the bits of paper from Gordon’s desk, and handed Megan Oma’s sweater. “If someone broke into the car, they didn’t have to take a thing. The valet parking stub told him exactly where we are.”
Gordon nodded and snatched the envelope. “Two minutes.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.
Megan took Justin’s hands. Hers were frigid in his. “Do you think that’s what happened?” she asked.
He expelled a slow breath, trying to relax. “We’ve agreed it’s not likely the journal is in the house. So, there’s no reason to stay here, and I’ll feel a lot better when I see my grandparents are safe. Since we have to go back anyway, I say the sooner the better.”
“Do you think we should change hotels? Maybe even leave Denver? Find some out-of-the-way motel?”
Thank God she had a head on her shoulders and could think clearly. All he could see was Oma and Opa being dragged off at knifepoint when they got to their hotel room. Not likely, but tell that to his stomach and the adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. Megan’s eyes, worried as they were, showed strength as well. And trust. He squeezed her hands, trying to set up some sort of conduit between them. Her strength when he needed it. She seemed to understand, because she smiled.
“We’re a team,” she said.
