David Wolf series Box Set

by Jeff Carson

  “Tell her ‘hi’ from us,” Patterson said cheerily, and turned and walked to the SUV.

  Rachette watched her leave and then looked back at Wolf.

  “Antler Creek,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah,” Rachette said, and turned around and left.

  Chapter 8

  Patterson, Rachette, and Deputy Brent Wilson sat in the six-person gondola car, suspended at least sixty feet over the flat slope below. As it traveled over the wheels on the tower, it pulled up and bounced, and then dropped back down.

  As this happened, Rachette closed his eyes again, a prolonged blink that was much more than an involuntary movement to moisten his eyeballs.

  It was not lost on Patterson that Rachette was scared to death of the gondola at Rocky Points. Each time they rode it, he would pause every sentence, straighten his posture, and fake every smile as they bounced past a tower or swayed in a particularly strong gust of wind. At least it beat the catatonic state he got into when, God forbid, they went on a chairlift without a safety bar to pull down.

  Wilson looked at Patterson and grinned, seeing the same thing Patterson had, and they exchanged knowing smiles.

  Patterson liked Wilson, and was glad Wolf had radioed for them to pick him up at the station on the way to the mountain. Wilson was only two years in the department, so he was a relative rookie, just like Rachette and Patterson. But he was at least ten years their elder, and with two kids, so he brought a completely different, more mature perspective to the table. Patterson, for one, welcomed Wilson’s adult sensibility. Being stuck with Rachette, day in and day out, took its toll on her.

  Wilson was a quiet man, tall and gentle-looking like a big teddy bear. Just like his physique, his face and expressions were always soft—a constantly friendly guy. But she knew his physique belied his strength. Everyone in the department treated Wilson as their resident strongman. His thick limbs lent tremendous lifting, pushing and twisting power.

  “How’s your skiing coming, Rachette?” Wilson asked, his blond mustache bouncing on his face when he talked.

  Rachette sucked in a breath and looked out the window, then put on a cool look and shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Patterson.”

  Wilson turned to her and raised his eyebrows, the side of his mustache curling up.

  “He’s doing very well for his first year skiing,” she said. And she meant it. “With his bum leg, I didn’t expect him to improve as quickly as he has.”

  Rachette smiled and nodded to Wilson. “There you go.”

  The gondola entered the top terminal, plunging them into shadow. It slowed from full speed to almost a dead stop in less than a few feet, sending Rachette grabbing for the bench he sat on. Since he was sitting facing downhill, he’d really been caught off-guard this time.

  Patterson and Wilson laughed and buried their faces in their hands.

  Rachette’s face reddened as the doors opened, and Patterson got out quickly to help him save face. She stepped a few paces, turned around, and slapped him on the shoulder. “The lifts take a little getting used to,” she said.

  Rachette gave her a deadly look, and she knew immediately that she should have just ignored the whole thing.

  They stepped out of the terminal and into the thin, bright air at the top of the mountain. The view was spectacular, with all the peaks coated in white as far as the eye could see in all directions, save the south where miles beyond Williams Pass the terrain flattened into a vast plain valley lined by tall mountains on either side, like a half-pipe for the gods. Up to the north, they could see past Cave Creek and beyond. To the west stood peak after peak, and she picked out the ski runs of Aspen Mountain and Snowmass, looking like powder-green sundaes drenched in streams of white chocolate.

  The sight gave her a tinge of homesickness and, at the same time, comfort that she could see home at that very second. She loved it up here.

  “Howdy, Deputies.” A tall man with mirrored glasses crunched toward them with an outstretched bare hand.

  Patterson took off her glove and shook hands. The man pulled up his sunglasses, revealing beautiful sea-green eyes set under thick, dark eyebrows.

  “I’m Scott. Scott Reed,” he said.

  “I’m Heather. Heather Patterson.”

  His smile seemed to brighten the day even more, and she was glad she had her sunglasses on because she was certain she was staring like an idiot. They parted grips, perhaps a second too late, and he swiveled to Rachette and Wilson.

  “Hey Tom, hi. I’m Scott,” he said.

  Patterson raised an eyebrow. Apparently Rachette knew this guy. How come she’d never seen him before?

  Scott led them toward the snow cat parked near a trail sign a few hundred paces away.

  Patterson followed behind in silence, watching Scott converse with Wilson and Rachette. They swerved between throngs of skiers dropping skis, clacking boots in bindings, and clanking poles, but Patterson didn’t hear or notice any of it. She found herself entranced with other things, a rare occurrence for her.

  Reaching the snow cat, Rachette and Wilson stepped inside the side door and sat down along the benches on either side of the rear hold.

  Scott turned to Patterson. “You want to sit up front with me, Heather?”

  She shrugged and tried to look nonplussed. “Sure.”

  Scott smiled at her, looking at her like he knew she was hiding something, or maybe it was like he was looking into her soul. She felt her breath accelerate as she sat down on the cold torn leather of the seat.

  “How fast can this puppy go?” Rachette said, thankfully drawing any awkwardness in the situation toward himself.

  Scott turned the key and the engine growled to life, rattling the interior. He slapped the steering wheel and turned to Rachette with a serious look. “Twenty-one miles per hour.”

  Patterson laughed aloud. Scott glanced her way with a smile and then shifted into gear.

  “Aw, weak,” Rachette said.

  Scott turned the wheel and started down the catwalk, which ran straight ahead along the ridgeline toward a big pine-log structure perched in the distance. It was a flat trek on skis, and a long walk on foot, which was the reason for Scott Reed’s employment, Patterson mused.

  “Yeah. It’s not the top of the line,”—he knocked on the dashboard—“like most of the stuff we’re working with at Rocky Points, but she does the job.” He flicked a glance at Patterson again.

  Patterson smiled easily and looked out the passenger window, admiring the view of the peaks to the west.

  “Not a bad office you have up here,” she said.

  “You got that right,” he said. “The view is amazing today.”

  She nodded and then looked over at him; he was staring at her with a look as serious as a heart attack. She rolled her eyes a little, looked back out the window, and felt her skin go red hot.

  Patterson rode the rest of the few-minutes’ ride in silence, listening to Rachette’s incessant questions and Scott’s patient answers. At one point there was a lull, and Patterson half-expected Rachette to whine, “Are we there yet?”

  When they stopped, she got out and gave a quick wave to Scott.

  “I’ll wait here for you guys,” he said.

  She didn’t look back as she walked to the lodge, fearing she might reveal her growing infatuation for him in a one-second glance, and he would think she was desperate or plain psycho.

  Instead she exhaled and studied the building in front of them.

  Antler Creek Lodge was tall, made of sturdy logs that must have been taken from hundred-year-old trees. Though unseen from the front of the building, she knew there was a roomy lower level that opened to the rear of the building, housing the top-of-the-mountain ski-patrol station. She had heard that one of the major perks of a patroller being assigned to the Antler Creek station was the availability of gourmet coffee and leftover world-class dessert pastries.

  It was empty of skiers, in stark contrast to the other lodges around the mountain at noo
n on a weekend, because it was only open for après ski and dinner, and only then by reservation. Patterson had eaten there once a few years ago with her father and Aunt Margaret. She hadn’t paid for a cent of the meal, and she wouldn’t have been able to afford it if she’d tried.

  Rachette stepped up next to Patterson. “You like that guy?” he asked.

  She frowned. “What?”

  “That guy, Scott? I’m just asking. It looked like you might have been a little into him. He seemed to be into you.”

  She looked at Rachette for a few seconds and then shook her head. “Whatever, I don’t know. He seems like a nice guy, I guess.”

  Rachette huffed and looked ahead.

  “What?”

  “He’s married.”

  Patterson felt her stomach drop. “What?”

  “Yep. Married. Has two kids.”

  Patterson looked over at him again. Rachette was staring at the snow and shaking his head.

  “You’re full of shit,” Patterson said.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Ask Wilson.”

  Wilson looked over with wide eyes. “I have no clue. I just met the guy.”

  “Well, he is,” Rachette said.

  Patterson shook her head and looked forward, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. Then she slowed a bit and glared at Rachette’s back. She felt like an idiot for letting herself swoon like a high-school girl so quickly, and now a bigger idiot that Rachette had seen through her so cleanly.

  She guessed she had to be grateful to Rachette, though. Her partner had her back, and now she knew, sooner rather than later, that Scott was a scumbag, before he had become some full-blown romantic fantasy.

  The doors to the Antler Creek Lodge were at least fifteen feet tall, and both of them looked like one solid piece of wood, each with a rack of antlers burnt into them. They were behemoths, Patterson thought, but they swiveled easily as Rachette pulled them open.

  Inside, a hostess podium stood underneath an enormous elk-antler chandelier suspended from the ceiling with a heavy-gauge rusted chain. Beyond that was a vast room filled with round and square tables, each draped with a white tablecloth and topped with understated fresh floral and candle centerpieces.

  Thick logs spanned the A-framed ceiling, and on the far wall were floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view from Williams Pass to the south to the town of Rocky Points below, Cave Creek Canyon far to the north, and the snow-covered peaks of the continental divide behind all of it.

  Soft jazz played through invisible speakers, and the air smelled like spices and roasting meat.

  “Ah, hello, Officers,” a man said. He turned away from one of the tables with a hand flourish and walked toward them. He was medium height and heavy-set, dressed in a white button-up shirt and black slacks pulled high on his torso.

  Identical attire to their victim, Patterson noticed.

  “You the manager?” Rachette asked, and shook the man’s hand.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “I’m Deputy Rachette. These are Deputies Wilson and Patterson.”

  “Welcome to Antler Creek. I’m Terrence,” he replied in a sing-song tone. “It’s nice to meet you. I have to admit, I’ve been wondering what’s going on ever since you called.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions about Stephanie Lang. Is she one of your employees?” Patterson said.

  Rachette glanced at Patterson and then back to Terrence. “It’s part of an investigation we’re conducting.”

  Terrence nodded, and his slicked-back hair didn’t move a millimeter. “Okay.”

  “What time did she leave last night?” Rachette asked.

  “Oh dear,” Terrence said, allowing his voice to take on a more-pronounced effeminate quality. “Come with me.” He stormed off with a deep, hip-swaying walk toward two swivel doors that had submarine portholes, bashing through with stiff arms.

  Rachette jogged to catch them before they swung shut, and Patterson and Wilson followed, looking at one another. They all stopped, almost barreling into Terrence, who was standing just inside the door, pressing his finger against a sheet of paper taped to the wall.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “She left … with the first cuts. So about ten-thirty?” He looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds. “Yeah, probably about then.”

  “Isn’t that a little late for the first cut?” Patterson said, thinking about a summer job she’d had waiting tables for a restaurant in Aspen.

  “Normally, yes,” Terrence said, “but last night was not normal now, was it?” Terrence zigzagged his neck a few times and then stared at Patterson.

  “No,” she said, “I guess not.”

  “Those people stayed way too long for the type of weather we were having. It was like they wanted to be stranded here overnight. They don’t even know how lucky they were.”

  “Have you ever been stranded here?” Patterson asked, her curiosity piqued.

  He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

  Rachette crossed his arms and looked between them. “Did you see her leave?”

  “Pssh, I had plenty of other stuff going on.”

  “Who else was let off work at the same time?” Patterson asked.

  Terrence twisted toward the sheet of paper again and pointed at the list. “All these with the number one next to them. Nine people.”

  Patterson pulled out her notebook and started writing down the names. “Can we please get their phone numbers also?” she asked.

  Terrence kept his eyes on Patterson and put his finger on the sheet of paper underneath. It was a roster of the employees, with phone numbers next to the names.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Just write down the men,” Rachette said.

  Patterson ignored him. Just because the text message had said she was with two men didn’t necessarily mean that she’d left the restaurant with them.

  “How many servers were working last night?” she asked.

  “All those you see right there,” Terrence said.

  Patterson stopped writing on the third name and sighed. “Can we please take this schedule?”

  Terrence shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  Patterson pulled the sheet off the wall and folded it. “So what was the process last night for the servers? Did each server have a section? Or certain tasks?”

  “They each had a specific section to keep track of. Within each section, some were in charge of drinks only, while the others took care of the food and everything else.”

  “And which section was Stephanie in?” she asked.

  Terrence rolled his eyes. “You’re killing me. Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” His attitude was pure sass, but somehow he used a light, sincere tone of voice that came across as friendly.

  “It’s just a part of an investigation,” Rachette said quickly. “Now, please, the section?”

  Terrence turned and walked away at full speed again, clicking on the tile floor and swerving his ample body between a few cooks who were preparing things on the stainless-steel counters.

  They followed him, this time in less of a rush.

  Terrence stopped at a door at the end of the kitchen and inserted a key. Pushing open the door and flipping on an interior light, he started whistling a vibrato melody and dug through a mess of papers on a desk. Then he picked up a sheet, stepped out, and slammed the door behind him.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  Rachette took it and Wilson and Patterson gathered to look. It was an overhead diagram of the dining hall, and every seat was labeled with a name written on a line next to it. It only took a few seconds for Patterson to spot Wolf’s name, seated next to Sheriff Harold Burton.

  Terrence poked his finger on the sheet on the opposite side of the room from Wolf’s table. “She was in section two, drinks. These two tables.”

  There were six people on a table, so twelve people in total. All in all, a heck of a lot of people Stephanie could have left with, and a heck of a lot of people
to interview.

  “Are there any servers from last night here now?” Patterson asked, slightly dejected.

  Terrence shook his head with a sympathetic look. “Not for another couple of hours. Sorry.”

  Wilson cleared his throat. “How do you guys get down from the mountain at night?”

  Terrence looked up at Wilson and leaned back, as if startled that the man could talk. “Same way you guys just got up here. The gondola.”

  “Thank you,” Patterson said, and she turned and left the kitchen.

  She heard Rachette and Wilson wrap up the interview as she pushed through the swivel doors and into the dining room.

  “Hey, wait up!” Rachette said.

  Wilson and Rachette jingled and thumped up behind her, catching up to Patterson as she went out the front door and back into the glare of the afternoon sun.

  “What’s the hurry?” Rachette asked.

  “We’ve got a funeral to go to in an hour,” Patterson said, not breaking stride.

  They walked in silence toward the parked snow cat.

  Scott Reed sat on one of the snow tracks with his elbows on his knees, taking in the sun with an upturned face. He spotted them coming when he heard the crunching footsteps and smiled.

  “You guys ready to get back—”

  “Do you know who Stephanie Lang is?” Patterson asked, stopping in front of Scott.

  Scott stood up and pulled his coat down. “Yeah, she works here.”

  Scott gestured to the lodge behind them, and as he pointed with his left index finger, Patterson realized he wasn’t wearing gloves. Neither was he wearing a wedding ring.

  “Everybody knows her,” he said with a small chuckle.

  Patterson narrowed her eyes, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean. They kept hearing about Stephanie’s promiscuity. Was Scott saying he knew her in that way? Giving a little nudge-nudge, wink-wink to Rachette and Wilson? This guy with his dreamy green eyes oozed scum to her now.