In the wake of it, neither of us had said a word for several full minutes, Serra superimposing the new information onto the parts she already knew, me running it back through my head, placing it against the questions I still had.
Not until she had everything in place did Serra finally lift her gaze. Looking my way, she pressed her lips tight together, drawing in a quick breath.
“I’ve already been through this a couple of times, so forgive me if it comes off sounding rehearsed,” she began.
“Since hanging up his badge three years ago, Shawn had been consulting with a company over in Seattle. Private sector, running security for office buildings across the country.
“Most of the time, he was in the city a couple of days a week, worked remotely the rest. Every now and again, he would have to be on the road, going to help with an installation or to troubleshoot a problem.”
Flicking her gaze upward, she continued, “This past week, he was down in Houston.”
Careful not to react in any way, already I could guess what the police behind me were probably thinking. Just in the first couple of paragraphs, already Serra had mentioned what most investigators would see as a primary motive.
Martin had been a consultant for a company that worked in security. There could be upset clients or someone that was looking to gain access to one of the facilities he oversaw.
A hundred red herrings that would keep them guessing for ages.
“Yesterday, he landed back in Seattle early evening. Made it home in time to have dinner with all of us, spend some time with the kids before putting them to bed.”
At mention of their children, a veneer of moisture came to her eyes. Shifting her gaze to the side, she stared resolutely out, her head quivering just slightly as the moment drifted past.
“A few days ago, the client had taken them out for dinner,” Serra began anew. Unlike a moment before, her voice was softer, the narrative sapping her strength bit by bit. “Steaks and lobster, and at the end, champagne.”
Again, she lifted her focus, looking over to me. “You know he was never much of a drinker. That night when he called, we joked about it, how he was down there enjoying the high life while I was here with the kids.
“Got to be this thing, so we hatched a plan that as soon as he got back, we would get a bottle and sit out in the hot tub together.”
Fixing her attention on a spot in the middle of the table, I watched as one corner of her mouth lifted.
Far and away the saddest smile I had ever witnessed.
“So we did. Or, at least we tried.”
Once more, she paused. Her lower lip quivered, her cheeks bunching slightly. Moisture pooled along the underside of her eyes, her hands clutched in the pit of her lap.
Remaining fixed in such a position, she waited a full thirty seconds before again drawing in a deep breath through her nose, the effort accompanied by the sound of phlegm catching.
“We were both underwater when it happened. We’d both set our champagne along the side and slid in, going straight to the bottom. Like always, we had a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest.
“And, like always, I won.”
The last word was not even loud enough to be considered a whisper. Nothing more than a murmur, her face crinkled again, remaining as such for several moments.
This time, gravity proved to be too much, forcing the moisture collected along the underside of her eyes down over her cheeks.
Never did she attempt to stop it, not even wiping away the twin trails cleaved across her skin.
“When I came up, the water around me was already red, the jets just swirling it around, dyeing the entire thing within seconds.”
Flicking her gaze up, she added, “At that point, I didn’t even see what had happened. All I saw was the blood and screamed. That’s when things went black.
“Wasn’t until I came to that I saw Shawn floating beside me.”
Start to finish, the story represented what was essentially a worst-case scenario. It hinted at a combination of skill and luck that would make gleaning anything beyond what I already knew almost impossible.
Someone had clearly been tracking their movements, just as they obviously had been mine. They’d known exactly where to be, aided by the Martins deciding to get in the hot tub and even submerging themselves in the water.
From there, they’d been able to use surprise and stealth to perform the act, virtually undetected.
“Did you happen to see anything?” I whispered.
“No,” Serra said, twisting her head slightly. “I was mid-scream when something hit me in the back of the head, and everything went dark.”
The statement told me two things instantly. The first was that the placement of the wound was why I hadn’t noticed anything. To look at her head-on, one would not even know she had been hit.
Until she mentioned it, I’d almost forgotten it even happened.
The second was that the attacker had made a point to spare her. Not only by refusing to simply shoot her, but from the fact that he likely had to prop her upright to keep her from falling face-first into the water as well.
Both things further guaranteeing that Martin was the target, the point likely being the message I’d found on the entertainment center.
“The kids?” I asked.
Sliding her focus from one side of the table to the other, Serra shook her head slightly. “That was the very first thing I did after coming to and checking Shawn. Before I even called 911.
“Scrambled upstairs to find them both sleeping. Didn’t look like the...” she said, pausing before saying the word killer. “Like they even went into the house.”
So many more questions came to mind, things that if I was running a basic interview on someone I might want to ask, but in this instance, there was no point.
Asking if Shawn had seemed worried, had mentioned anything troubling, was futile. If he had, he would have taken necessary measures. At the very least, he would have made sure his family was safe.
Sure as hell wouldn’t have made himself an obvious target by climbing into a hot tub unarmed.
So was asking about the kids, both likely with her parents, or officers, or a trusted friend, Serra making sure they were cared for.
Odds were, the attack had come from just as far afield as the one that had landed on my doorstep. It had been a sneak approach, at a single individual, with the point of making a very specific statement.
Reaching into the front pocket of my coat, I slid out the two objects I’d found at their house. Placing them side by side on the table, I was careful to keep them tucked close to my body, hidden from view by anybody in the police station that might be walking by.
The only things I had touched from the home, I knew they wouldn’t be missed, apparently not even noticed on the first pass by investigators.
“Serra, have you ever seen either of these things before?”
Lifting her gaze slightly, Serra used her heel to roll herself forward a few inches. Eyes narrowed, she peered at the two items, staring for a moment before lifting her gaze to me.
“No,” she replied. “I mean, not those two specifically, I don’t think. Why?”
“They were found on the mantle of your entertainment center a half-hour ago,” I replied. “Are you absolutely sure you’ve never seen them before?”
“Like I said, pesos and bullets were around all the time back when you guys first started, but not since the kids were born. And damned sure not on our mantle.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The official recommendation from the doctor was that surgery was needed. The blow that had crushed Luis Mendoza’s nose had managed to splinter the delicate bone structure, creating a trio of long fissures the length of the bridge. Given the direction of the hit and the time that had passed since, the underlying cartilage had also been mangled in ways that were never intended.
A combination that was at first and most obviously extremely painful. Even m
ore concerning, though, was the underlying formation. The septum had been deviated, effectively blocking the passageway, meaning that drawing air in and out was an impossibility.
Once the initial findings were disclosed and the x-ray board along the side wall turned off, the doctor turned to the room. A middle-aged man already fast losing twin battles with a receding hairline and an expanding waist, he delivered each word as if sighing.
A tired man just wanting to go home.
A home, Tres Salinas got the impression, that was just as hectic as the clinic, the man’s features and demeanor both seeming to exude exhausted resignation.
A look that mixed perfectly with the motif of the clinic as a whole.
The room they now stood in was standard examination fare, or at least what Tres would imagine the Montana equivalent to be. The few times he had ever been inside such a space, it had always been at an emergency department of some sort, usually at a county hospital or worse.
The kinds of places where anything less than a gunshot wound barely earned a passing glance from any of the attending personnel.
Where something like the state of Mendoza’s nose might earn a question or two from a gawking child, but nothing more.
A far cry from that, this place could almost pass for an elementary school room. Larger than needed, a hospital bed was fitted against one wall, Mendoza currently sitting on the edge of it, feet hanging down.
On the opposite end were an array of cabinets, a wash basin serving as their centerpiece.
The wall to one side was replete with framed prints of outdoor wilderness scenes. The other had a pair of windows, their blinds closed, the faintest hints of cool air seeping through them.
All things Tres took in, filing away in the back of his mind. Information that was vital to his true interests, even as he stood playing the part for a little longer.
Forcing himself to pay attention, to at least feign interest in what was happening, he listened as the doctor went on to state that he would prefer to put Mendoza in an ambulance and transport him directly to some town called Big Sky. Seeming to know that two of the three men before him weren’t from the area, he then went on to explain it was a town fifty miles north.
The closest location with a major facility equipped for facial surgery, the doctor was certain they could get him in by morning.
The longer they waited, the more likely the concern for permanent damage.
Throughout every word the doctor stated, Tres continued to do as expected. Dressed in his charcoal Brooks Brothers suit, he had lugged his briefcase in from the car with him, the item now heavy with one extra provision.
A provision that was currently equipped with a full magazine and a sound suppressor screwed down on the end. Practically calling to Tres, it had taken everything he had to listen intently as an examination was made and the doctor stated his case.
Especially as he endured the steady onslaught of sideways glances from Deputy Ferry, the man barely capable of keeping his wariness from spilling out.
The only thing that wasn’t quite as obvious was the source of it, be it racism or simply a distrust for anybody that wasn’t born and raised into the tiny map dot they called a town.
But now, at last, after forcing himself to remain resolute, to not do anything foolish, he was being rewarded with an opening.
“Absolutely not,” Ferry replied, jumping in, anxious to be the first to respond to the doctor’s suggestion. “This man was arrested last night for destruction of property and attempted murder. Do what you can to stabilize him, and then he is going back to his holding cell.”
Feeling a spike of ire that had nothing to do with the role he was playing, Tres glared at Ferry.
“The law clearly states that my client is entitled to medical treatment for any obvious injuries. Common sense says there is an injury and the doctor here has now confirmed it, recommending surgery.”
What the law actually stated, Tres had not a clue. He’d heard something similar spouted by a blowhard attorney once on one of his previous trips to the emergency room.
It had worked then, just as it had worked back at the Sheriff’s Department.
No use trying to come up with something new on the fly now.
Looking from Tres to the doctor, blood rushed to Ferry’s cheeks in response. His eyebrows lifted, the rosy pallor moving to encompass his forehead, his features a harsh contrast to the brown uniform he wore.
“An injury he received while in the act of committing a felony,” Ferry spat back.
Seeing the obvious state the man was in, unable to keep himself from taking an additional jab for sport, Tres countered, “Or so you say.”
Flicking his gaze to the deputy, Tres made no effort to walk the comment back. Instead, he merely stood and gazed at Ferry, watching as the man’s features trended from pink to crimson.
His mouth sagged as he pulled in air. His chest swelled in kind as he raised an index finger, thrusting it out before him, a tirade ready to be unleashed.
The mere thought of which made the gun tucked away in Tres’s briefcase call even louder.
Fortunately for both men, the words never made it as far as the surface.
Seeking to diffuse the situation, the doctor took two strides forward, standing directly between them, interrupting their line of sight.
“Gentlemen, please.” Keeping his body at ninety degrees, he made no effort to look at either one. Gaze aimed straight ahead, he kept his attention on the cabinets along the far wall, making Tres and Ferry both look at the side of his head. “Let’s remember, we’re all professionals, and we’ve already got one injury to deal with here.”
Delivered in an even monotone, he waited several moments, allowing the opportunity for either side to object further. When none came save the near-panting of Ferry, he added, “I have made my recommendation. I realize there is more to this than simply a medical diagnosis, though, so I’ll leave you two to hash it out.”
Moving slowly, he eased back into his original position. The slip-on shoes he wore scuffled across the tile floor as he retreated a step before turning, headed for the door.
“Please let one of the nurses in the hall know when you’ve decided what you want to do. Either way, we’ll need to prepare the patient for transport.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Every single thought I’d had listening to Serra tell her story was mixed into an amorphous blob in my head. Added to it was a hundred other questions I’d already been harboring, a combination of what happened at my office and what had happened in Baja eight years before.
Forming a sum total that felt like a hurricane circulating within my skull, I paused just two steps beyond the front door of the Snoqualmie Police Department. Sensing the cold evening air hit me flush, I could feel it picking at perspiration I didn’t even realize I had.
Filling my lungs with it, I allowed my chest to expand, the chill cooling me from within. Like a bull about to charge, I pushed it out through my nose, a plume of condensation extended almost a foot before me.
What was happening was a mess. Nothing short of a shit show.
And I couldn’t help but think that it had a long way to go before it got any better, let alone was finished.
In front of me, a truck rumbled past, engine revving hard. Lights sweeping by, it disappeared as fast as it had arrived, leaving me standing in silence beneath the overhead light of the front door.
Positioned on a corner at the far end of the main drag through town, already I could see businesses shutting down for the night. Instead of the glow of interior lights, most ambient illumination was now provided by stanchions equally spaced the length of the street.
Standing there, it wasn’t hard to imagine the place decked out in Halloween regalia just a week prior. Just as clearly, I could imagine six weeks later bringing about red and green, everything done in anticipation of Christmas.
As Americana as existed, a visual carefully curated and maintained, bringing in tourist
s by the droves.
An effort that was completely lost on me, the scene barely even registering. Instead, I stood with features scrunched, my thoughts still inside the conference room not ten yards behind me.
“Bad luck and timing,” I muttered. “Two things that can destroy all the preparation in the world.”
To anybody listening, they would probably think I was speaking in some sort of code. Broken sentences, meant to obfuscate.
In reality, nothing could be further from the truth, largely because I wasn’t really trying to communicate. Merely thinking out loud, I was replaying what Serra had shared, bemoaning what it likely meant.
Making no attempt to move, I continued to chew on things, in no particular hurry to head to my truck. Without a clear next step, it was better for the time being to stand in the cold, letting it work on the mixture of emotions sitting just beneath the surface.
The obvious grief for my friend and his family. The confusion of Junior Ruiz and what he could be playing at. The adrenaline and hostility of having received his message.
The initial reaction of wanting to tear straight ahead into the night until I found him, extracting every answer I needed before paying full retribution for what he had done.
In the absence of doing that, trusting it would be nothing more than wasted energy, I waited and processed, staring out, looking without actually seeing.
Entranced in thought, peering into the night, I barely even felt my cellphone buzzing against my ribcage. Not until the fourth or fifth pulse did it register enough for me to blink away the confluence of thoughts at the front of my head. Snapping myself back into the moment, I jammed a hand down inside my coat. Pulling the device out, I stared down at the screen, eyes narrowing slightly at what I saw.
My first thought had been that Pally was finally hitting me back, filling in the blanks after his sudden disappearance earlier.
After that in order came Diaz, having done some digging after what I’d shared before stepping inside.
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