The train rumbled on, stopping once at the A Concourse and then emptying at the terminal station. I led her upstairs and across the huge tented terminal toward the parking garage and my car.
As we trudged to my car, she asked. "Should I say I'm sorry? About your wife having multiple sclerosis?"
"Sorry for me?" I asked, surprised.
"I guess."
"No. I don't feel burdened by her. Blessed, most of the time."
"How ill is she?"
"Right now she's pretty stable, the past year has been difficult at times, we're almost there."
She didn't miss a beat. "What kind does she have?"
I reminded myself that I was talking to a physician. "Relapsing-remitting, she's on Avonex, interferon. It seems to be helping, she's been more stable lately. No new exacerbations. This is my car."
"A Land Cruiser. How very Colorado of you." I unlocked the doors and she climbed in. "You need to be a little more honest with yourself, alan. It's not easy having an ill spouse."
"You know that from experience. Sawyer?" I didn't expect her to answer.
"Boy. Do I,” she said.
• • •
It was dark by the time we cleared the lines at the tollbooth plaza. Sawyer was already asleep beside me.
I gazed over at her every chance I had. I'd slept with this woman many times. But I'd never watched her sleep before, the intimacy of that moment unnerved me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sawyer and I arrived at the entrance of the Boulderado Hotel a few minutes after nine.
I found it odd that the green leather bag she carried over her shoulder included a stash of toiletries and a change of clothes. I had considered the Arizona jaunt to be only a day trip.
We said good-bye at the elevators and I returned to the lobby and hunted down a house phone. I hesitated. Whether I wanted to or not. I had to call either Simes or Custer to find out what the plans were for getting together. Ultimately; I chose to ring Custer's room instead of Simes's. Milt was easier for me to talk to, and I was curious about what he had learned in New Zealand.
Simes answered the phone in Milt's room.
"Hello, A.J.?" I said. "It's Alan Gregory. I'm back in town, actually., I'm downstairs. I just dropped Sawyer off at the elevator."
"You're here already? Super. Come on up. What room is Sawyer in? We need her, too."
"She's in 3”. Where are you?"
"We have a suite. 4’6. This is parents' weekend or something at the college, we had to beg for a room, all they had was this suite. But it's a great place to meet. So come on up."
I wanted to ask. "Is it a two-bedroom suite, or one?" I didn't. Instead. I said. "Why don't you call Sawyer yourself? I'll be up in a few minutes. I need to let Lauren know what's going on first."
I moved from the house phone to a pay phone and hesitated again. I decided I needed to reassess my strategy and convinced myself that a little alcohol would enhance the decision-making process.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor and grabbed a small table along the rail of the Mezzanine Lounge, as I often did when I visited the Mezzanine. I wished it had reclining chairs so that I could sit back and gaze in wonder at the stained-glass ceiling fifty feet above my head.
The Boulderado had been built shortly after the turn of the century as one of Colorado's frontier jewel hotels, along with the Jerome Hotel in Aspen and the Hotel Colorado in Glenwood Springs, the most distinctive feature of the Boulderado was the stunning stained-glass ceiling that rose high above the central vault of the lobby, the original ceiling had been destroyed by fire, but an exact replica had been reconstructed during renovations in the ‘980s, the ceiling was an architectural extravagance that I welcomed every time I gazed at it.
A waitress came over to my table and smiled, she didn't say a word, but instead raised her bushy blond eyebrows, widened her eyes, and smiled a mannequin smile.
I smiled back. It took more effort than it should have.
With empty hands she pantomimed writing on a pad, pouring something from a bottle, and then raising a glass to her burgundy-painted lips, she swallowed with great drama.
I ordered vodka rocks, squeeze, and used words to doit.
She spun on her heels and departed. I felt as though I were being waited on by Marcel Marceau's granddaughter. But it had been that kind of day; so I wasn't too surprised.
I rested my head on the back of the settee and stared at the glass panels on the ceiling until the mime arrived with my drink, she made a scribble motion and a checkmark in the clear air with the end of her index finger, she then tried to catch the checkmark because it had, apparently; started to float away.
I paid cash. Just dollar bills. I didn't want to see what she might do with a handful of coins.
My options? Meet with Sawyer and Simes and Custer on my own and immediately relay everything they reported back to Sam and Lauren for analysis. Or invite Sam and Lauren to the rendezvous and gain the benefit of their wisdom and experience directly.
The second option was tactically superior except for one flaw. Inviting Lauren to the hotel would force the first face-to-face meeting between Sawyer and Lauren. Was I up for that?
No. I wasn't.
I downed the vodka in less than five minutes and dropped money on the table to cover the tip. I puzzled momentarily over a larger issue: whether by tipping my server generously I was violating my personal policy never to do anything to encourage a mime. I couldn't figure out that dilemma, either. I returned to the lobby; picked up the phone and invited Lauren, then Sam, to the rendezvous in suite 4’6.
Machiavellian concerns convinced me that I didn't want to be the first to arrive at Simes and Custer's party. I retired to the men's room and peed and washed my hands and face before phoning Sawyer's room to be certain she had already answered a summons that I assumed was as cursory as the one I had received.
She didn't answer. I made my way over the alley bridge to the modern wing of the hotel and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
Simes answered the door in a lime-colored outfit that vaguely resembled a sweat suit. I thought it looked like something an upscale Dallas housewife would have chosen from the Neiman-Marcus catalog in order to appear casual when friends dropped over for canapes, the pair of pine green cowboy boots embroidered in sequins on her chest was a dead giveaway that sweat was never intended to soil this leisure suit.
Milt was across the room in a big chair, talking on the phone, he was dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt and black socks, he waved as though he was glad I was there.
A.J, offered me a drink. I declined and took a seat across from Milt, wondering where the hell Sawyer was.
A.J, lowered herself to a settee and said. "So, you've had a busy day?"
I raised my eyebrows and nodded before recalling my run-in with Ms. Marceau. I quickly added. "So you've heard?"
"Not everything,” she said obliquely.
"Ahh." I said, still wondering where the hell Sawyer was. "So what brings you two back to Boulder?"
"We thought we'd learned enough that it was time to put our heads together again."
"What did you learn?" I was trying to eavesdrop on Milt's telephone conversation at the same time I was trying to hold one myself with Simes. It was not one of my better-developed skills.
"That can wait, we ordered a few snacks from room service. Please help yourself."
Tin fine, thanks." Milt was silent on his end of the phone call. I examined the suite, tried to decide if the design allowed for two bedrooms. I concluded that it did. Offhandedly: I asked. "Is Sawyer here yet?"
One of the doors I'd been examining opened, and Sawyer walked out of a bathroom, she said. "Yes. Sawyer's here. Where have you been?" She was wearing the same cotton top she'd had on all day, but had replaced her jeans with a black rayon wraparound skirt that did nice things for her legs.
I said. "Freshening up." It was apparent to me that she had done the same, her hair seemed slightly damp
. I figured that I looked like shit.
Milt placed the phone back on the cradle and greeted me.
"A lot's been developed, a lot,” he said. Whatever the news he'd just heard was, it wasn't causing him any joy. "A.J.?" He gestured toward one of the bedroom doors, she followed him. I detected a slight imbalance in her gait and considered whether it was from vertigo or a foot-drop.
Sawyer said. "I spoke to the mechanic in Arizona who is going over my plane, he can't find a reason that tha gear wouldn't come down. Nothing, weird, huh? He said the fuel gauge has a minor calibration problem, but there's no evidence anybody tampered with it."
"You believe him?"
"Beechcraft is flying someone out from Wichita to take a look at the gear, we should know more tomorrow or the next day."
"What's this all about?" I opened my arms to take in suite 4’6.
"From what I could gather, it's because of new information of some kind. I also think they missed each other."
Two loud raps echoed from the door. Since Custer and Simes hadn't reappeared. I answered. Sam walked in, nodded a greeting to me, another to Sawyer. To her, he said. "Sam Purdy. You must be Sawyer, heard a lot about you."
"Likewise," she said.
He began examining the tray of snacks that room service had delivered. "There's not a damn thing here I can eat. You know. I'm beginning to think this diet isn't really necessary." He popped open a Coors from the minibar and sat down in the chair where Milt had been sitting. "Glad you two made it home. Sounds like a hairy day."
Sawyer shrugged and gave him an abridged version of the landing excitement. I followed with the tale of oua embarrassment at Victor Garritson's trailer.
"Any chance he was scamming you? Knew you were coming and put together a little charade for you? With the wheelchair and everything?"
Sawyer glanced at me and shook her head. "Anything's possible with a con. But I don't think so."
"Alan?"
"I agree. It didn't seem like an act to me."
A trill of three quick taps came from the door. Sam looked at me. "You expecting someone else?"
"It's probably Lauren."
I noticed that, with my pronouncement, Sawyer improved her already perfect posture and pushed her hair back from her face with her left hand.
Sam got the door. Lauren entered and pecked him on the cheek. I stood and embraced her, and kissed her hello. I wanted to kiss her again. Not a hello kiss. I didn't, she smelled like flowers on the beach.
She let go of my hand and took two long strides across the room to Sawyer, she said. "I'm Lauren, you must be Sawyer. It's nice to meet you." Sawyer stood, they shook hands. I noticed they were the same height.
Lauren looked even more lovely than usual. I couldn't decide whether I was just that happy to see her or whether she had spent an extra few minutes choosing her clothes and touching up her hair and makeup.
Sawyer said. "The pleasure's mine." and sat back down.
Lauren said. "I'm so sorry about what happened today. You certainly handled yourself well."
"Thank you."
Simes and Custer rescued us from small talk by returning to the sitting area. Sam. Lauren. Sawyer and I filled the upholstered pieces, so Milt carried a couple of straight chairs over from a dining table.
Milt offered no preamble. "Lorna's brother tentatively ID'd her remains; dental records confirmed, she died with her husband in New Zealand, the local authorities can narrow down the day the deaths occurred from examining records from the lodge where they were staying." He looked my way before he continued. "Manner? I bet you're wondering about manner. Manner of death on this one is homicide, a rope bridge over a gorge was tampered with. Guy tried to cover his work with fire. Didn't play it very well. No ashes were found below the bodies in the bottom of the gorge. But there were plenty of ashes on top of them, and the fire didn't destroy enough of the rope fiber to disguise the cut marks."
"Fire? Really? You know about last night, don't you?" I asked. "Sheldon Salgado, the forest fire?"
They both nodded. Milt said. "Yes, more fire. It's the closest thing we have to an MO on this guy."
Simes started speaking. "There's more, the cruise ship doctor? Wendy Asimoto? We know more about her death than we did before, the cruise line doesn't think she went overboard, they have a witness who saw her going from the seventh-deck promenade into the main lobby area, that means she was seen going from outside to inside, a few minutes later another witness saw her near the ship's hospital, she wasn't seen after that, that was at one-thirty in the morning."
Sam asked. "Then what do they think happened to her body?"
"That's what I wondered. So I went down to Fort Lauderdale, where a sister ship of the one Dr. asimoto was on is docked. I asked the captain point-blank if there was a way to dispose of a body at sea without going up to one of the decks and pushing it overboard, he immediately said yes, and walked me to the galley.
"The galley was this stainless-steel wonder— equipment, walls, ceilings, everything. Seems these modern cruise ships have advanced, environmentally sound methods of waste disposal. Much of the waste is incinerated in these incredibly hot ovens, the organic waste, though, is ground through this big industrial food processor and allowed to pass into the ocean as fish food."
"You think she became chum?" Sam asked incredulously.
"Actually, no, the head chef disagreed with the captain on the disposal method, he told me that a body would have to have been cut into pieces no larger than eight inches in diameter to be forced into the processor. Would have been messy and would have taken someone without, urn, experience a long time, he said if he was doing it, he would have just used the waste incinerator, a small woman could be placed in there whole."
"Wendy was a small woman." I conceded.
Sawyer nodded agreement.
No one said anything, so Simes continued. "I checked back with the headquarters of the cruise line, they've been cooperative, their records don't show any inspection of the ship's incinerator after her disappearance, their next port was Stockholm. I have a call in to the authorities there, as well, to see if they looked. But I don't imagine they did. Why would they?"
Sam asked. "How many people would have had access to the incinerator area?"
Milt smiled wryly at Sam's inquiry. "Eight total. On that particular shift, overnight, only three."
"You have their names? And. I assume, photographs from cruise line personnel records?"
"Names, ves, they've been more reluctant about releasing photos, we're increasing pressure on them through channels."
Simes said. "But for the time being we have nationalities. One was a Greek national, one a Belgian, the third was an American. But—"
Sam cut in. "You should be able to get immigration records on him. Find out when he went abroad, address, photos, everything."
"Detective." Simes replied, "please remember we are dealing with a sophisticate, the crew member in question may well have used false documents to apply for his job, the name on his cruise ship personnel records was Trevor Elias Cash, a few phone calls revealed that the original Trevor Elias Cash died in Billings. Montana, at the age of three in a farm machinery accident."
"Dead end?" I asked.
"Hardly;" Lauren said, touching my knee, she faced Milt. "You'll be able to get immigration records for passengers departing on the same day or shortly after Lorna and her husband departed for New Zealand, right? The murderer couldn't leave for New Zealand before they did in case they changed their travel plans, he couldn't leave long after they did in case he couldn't find them in New Zealand, after he killed them, he probably began his return home quickly; say within thirty-six hours. Perhaps he traveled through a third country as a diversion."
Milt said. "Very good, and the answer is yes, we are in the process of looking for an age and description
match for the man we know only as Trevor Elias Cash from among the finite number of U.S, citizens who made their way to and from New Zeal
and in that time period."
Sawyer said. "This isn't right, he's leaving a trail for us. Why?"
Simes said. "Most sophisticated criminals want to challenge the authorities in some way, they feel we can't keep up with them, he's underestimating us— didn't imagine any of the deaths would ever be determined to be homicides. It's not atypical."
I said. "Sawyer's right. Something's amiss. It's not only the sloppiness, he used to go years between killings, but in the last twenty-four hours it looks like he's made two attacks. Milt's story says that he was sloppy in New Zealand after killing Lorna and her husband. I think he's deteriorating, psychologically I mean, he's not approaching his task the same way that he was at the beginning."
Simes ignored me. "The good news for now is that after our discoveries in New Zealand, the Bureau is interested— finally. If we can tie any of these two murders, or the recent attempted murders, together with evidence, circumstantial or not, the Bureau will come on board. Milt and I feel that the deaths of Wendy Asimoto on the cruise ship and Lorna Pope and her husband in New Zealand hold the best promise for assemblina documentary evidence to support a link, we should be able to use immigration and passport data to show the same person was in both locations. I've completed a thorough review of all the earlier records and simply cannot identify any solitary piece of evidence we can use to tie any of them together."
"Other than the victims." Lauren said.
"Yes, other than the victims." Milt said.
"He's on our trail, you know." offered Sawver. "He could be here tonight, at this hotel."
Milt said. "You'll be fine, miss. I'm sleeping in your room. You'll bunk here with Dr. Simes."
I thought I saw a look of fleeting disappointment on AJ.'s face. But two seconds later she was acting as though the move was her idea.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning was Saturday. I drove Lauren to her office so that she could catch up on some paperwork and then made my way over to Sam's house so we could walk together. Lauren didn't have much to say about meeting Sawyer. Sam had a lot to say about my procrastinating about learning to use a handgun.
Manner of Death Page 24
