The Only One Left

by Pamela Beason

  “I’ll send you the reports. Those posters of her are everywhere. We’re keeping an eye out for your girl.”

  That sounded like a dismissal. “She disappeared in your county,” Finn reminded him.

  “Well, yeah, we’ll help where we can, but you’ve been assigned. I hear you’ve got the FBI on it, too. Hope you find her alive, like the other one,” the sheriff told him. “I saw the news. Your department found one of Todd Sutter’s old victims?”

  “Magdalena Aguilar,” Finn confirmed. “Buried in the latest arson-burned barn.”

  “Interesting,” the sheriff commented. “Over here, we expect that one of these days we’ll run across a skeleton or two from Sutter’s collection. But so far, we’ve been lucky.”

  Todd Sutter. The name kept coming up, and with the discovery of Magdalena Aguilar’s remains, the local media’s interest in Sutter’s past crimes had been revived. The similarity of Magdalena’s disappearance and Mia’s troubled Finn. Sutter had lived and worked within two adjacent counties. It was possible, even probable, that others in the area knew about his activities and associates. Pulling out the paper file again, Finn thumbed through it, searching for background information. There was little beyond Sutter’s address at the time of his arrest in Moses Lake, his wife’s name, Deanna Morris Sutter, and the fact that he had worked as a mechanic for a farm equipment manufacturer outside of town.

  Firing up his computer, Finn located and skimmed the transcript from Sutter’s trial for the murder of Angela Albro. The file contained little about Sutter’s life, just the facts of the crime. Since Sutter had been caught with Albro’s body in his car and his DNA all over her corpse, the case was pretty cut and dried. Sutter was clearly a scumbag of the first order. A charge of kidnapping and rape against Sutter had been dismissed eighteen months previous to his murder charge because the victim, Heidi Skouras, had vanished. Odds were good that Skouras’s body was buried somewhere within Sutter’s territory.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sara Melendez was leaning over his shoulder, staring at the paper file on his desk. She’d obviously showered and changed her clothes, but she still smelled vaguely of smoke.

  “I saw your fire last night.” He picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip of the lukewarm brew.

  She straightened, let out an exasperated snort, and waved a sheet of paper in the air. “The tips that have come in are useless—Mister Smith burns illegal garbage, Grandma twice set the house on fire with a candle, my neighbor hates my dog so I’m sure he’s an arsonist, et cetera, et cetera. I want to round up every male in two counties, age sixteen to thirty, and grill them. Somebody—more than one somebody, too—knows who is setting these fires.”

  “Any skeletons in this latest one?”

  She shrugged. “It was too hot to check last night. I’m going back with the GPR unit this afternoon.” She lifted her chin toward his computer screen. “Didn’t you say Grace’s barn came up clean? Why are you checking out Sutter?”

  “His name keeps cropping up,” he said. “I figured I should educate myself about the creep.”

  “Old news,” she said. “Sutter’s been in lockup since 2006. We might stumble across one of his victims now and then, but how could he have a connection to your missing girl?”

  “He probably doesn’t,” Finn acknowledged. “But there are coincidences—the Gorge concerts, young girls . . .”

  “You think you might be chasing a copycat?”

  The thought had occurred to him, even while he suspected he was grasping at straws. And Agent Foster had suggested the possibility, too. It seemed unlikely that Cooper Trigg had a relationship with Todd Sutter, but there was always that “six degrees of separation” theory . . .

  Finn considered trekking over to Walla Walla to interview Sutter in the state penitentiary, but odds were good that the scumbag wouldn’t tell him the truth, since Finn had nothing to bargain with. Better to talk to someone who knew Sutter but wouldn’t necessarily feel loyal to him.

  His desk phone buzzed. He didn’t pick it up. Probably another reporter. The calls had lessened as Mia Valdez became old news, but they still came in now and then. Let them leave voicemail messages.

  Melendez sat down in her chair and turned on her computer. As soon as her email came up, she swore. “Damn it! Sarge just dumped another case in my lap. Drug theft, veterinarian office. Seems more like your kind of thing, Finn.”

  “Nope.” He was grateful the assignment had ended up in her inbox instead of his. “It’s all yours. Do you know what happened to Sutter’s wife?” Finn checked the file again. “Deanna Morris Sutter?”

  “I remember she filed for divorce as soon as he was convicted. Smart woman.” Melendez hesitated. “Well, maybe not so smart. She married the pervert, after all.”

  His cell phone buzzed.

  “I’ve got Cooper Trigg,” Agent Foster announced.

  “Where are you?”

  “Spokane Municipal Jail, for now,” she told him. “Of course, Trigg claims he’s innocent, doesn’t have a motorcycle, was never at the Gorge Concert, doesn’t know who Mia Valdez is. But get this: he had a pair of women’s panties in his jacket pocket.”

  “Mia’s?”

  “No way to know. They’re clean, so I don’t know if any DNA will show up. I’ll send you a photo that you can have Robin look at.”

  Finn wasn’t sure he should do that yet.

  There was a rustle of paper on her end of the conversation. “And I checked the names of the ticket buyers that you got from Boylan. Trigg’s name is not on the list. But he did have a credit card in his pocket that’s stolen from one Sharon Waverly, so we can hold him for that as well as his bench warrant.”

  “I seem to remember a few ticket purchases were flagged as invalid.”

  “These checked ones, I’d guess.”

  “Yeah. Boylan’s scarily efficient.”

  “I see where you’re going,” she murmured, then, “Yes! Sharon Waverly’s name is flagged on the purchase list. With Robin Valdez’s recognition of him on the video, this is definitely corroborating evidence that Trigg was there. I’ll keep holding this dirtbag’s feet to the fire.”

  “Be sure to find out if he has any connection to Todd Sutter.”

  “You’re still thinking copycat?”

  “The Gorge connection,” he reminded her. “I’m still pursuing that angle. Even if Trigg didn’t kidnap Mia Valdez, he might still be involved.”

  “Agreed. I’m on it.” She hung up.

  Finn turned back to his computer, feeling that his team might finally be making progress. He switched to the departmental database used for general background information, and typed in Deanna Morris Sutter. Since he didn’t have a date of birth or social for her, he typed in the qualifier of the Moses Lake address to be sure the correct record would be returned.

  And there it was, only now she was Deanna Hansen, age fifty-two, married to Jeff Hansen and half owner of Hansen’s Feed & Farm Store in Quincy, Washington. Less than two hours away.

  He perused the long list of her previous addresses and bank information. It didn’t appear as though Todd and Deanna Sutter had ever purchased property. They’d probably always rented. Many of the addresses were only post office boxes: Vantage, Moses Lake, Othello, and one from 2001 to 2006, in Evansburg.

  He decided to drive to Quincy and talk to Sutter’s ex-wife. It would be faster just to call her, but a detective always gleaned more from in-person interviews. He shut down his computer, swiveled in his chair. “I’m off to Quincy to interview Sutter’s ex.”

  “Going to tell Sarge?” Melendez asked.

  They both knew the sergeant was unlikely to approve of a trip that right now seemed like a wild goose chase.

  “No,” Finn said. “And you’re not telling him, either.”

  “Course not.” She pressed a final key combination and then shut down her computer. She sighed as she stood up. “I’m off to the old barn and then to see a vet about some mis
sing drugs. Do we really still have ten days until Kat and Perry get back?”

  “Eight days for Kat, but Perry’s got medical leave for another two weeks. And then he’ll probably ride a desk for another month.”

  “Yeesh,” she said. “Makes me want to get married or blow out a knee, too.”

  “Aren’t you already married?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “So that’s who the old man and those rug rats were this morning. They seemed vaguely familiar.” She pulled her service weapon from her desk drawer, slid it into the holster at her waist.

  “Good luck catching the bad guys, Sara.”

  She snorted. “You too, Finn.”

  * * * * *

  As Finn entered Hansen’s Feed & Farm store in Quincy ninety-five minutes later, the balding man behind the cash register looked up. The place smelled like grain dust. Finn swallowed a sneeze. Baldy wore a nametag that proclaimed him to be Jeff, so Finn guessed that he was Jeff Hansen.

  “Howdy,” Hansen said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Deanna around?”

  “I think she’s in the storeroom.” He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the building.

  An elderly man approached the counter with a shovel in hand.

  Jeff slid out from behind the counter. “Can I tell Dee who’s asking for her?”

  Finn turned away from the older customer, flashed his badge, and quietly said, “Detective Finn. I just want to talk to her.”

  Jeff’s forehead creased and his mouth opened as if to ask something, but he apparently thought better of it. “Wait here,” he told Finn. “Be right back to ring you up, Fred,” he said over his shoulder as he headed for the back of the store.

  He returned with a woman in tow. Deanna Hansen wore a canvas apron over a T-shirt and jeans. She was in good shape for fifty-two, with a trim build and muscular arms that probably came from hefting bags of livestock feed.

  Her husband slid back behind the counter as she placed herself in front of Finn, her cheeks pink from exertion or anxiety. “What’s this about?”

  “I want to talk to you about Todd Sutter.”

  She immediately grabbed his arm and hauled him away from the counter. “Let’s chat in the break room.” After pulling him a few steps, she flashed an apologetic look at Finn and let go of him. “Sorry. But please . . .” She gestured toward a door in the far wall, and then preceded him and opened it.

  “Sorry,” she apologized again, shutting the door. “Hardly anybody here knows about Todd, and I want to keep it that way.” She pulled a chair out from the small table.

  “I suspected that.” He sat down. “I don’t blame you.”

  Once Deanna started talking, she couldn’t stop. She told him how revolted she’d been at discovering what her former husband, Todd Sutter, had been up to when he was out of the house. “I believed he was just riding around the countryside, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.”

  Finn straightened. “Riding?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “He had an old motorcycle he loved a lot more than me. I made him keep it at work, though. I didn’t want it around the house.”

  Neither the file nor the court transcript had mentioned a motorcycle. Finn made a note.

  “Do you know a young man by the name of Cooper Trigg?” he asked. He patted his pocket for the photo and then realized he’d left it in his jacket at the station.

  Deanna’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t think so.”

  “He’d be about twenty-two. Blond. Earring in one ear.”

  “No, I don’t know him. But Trevor or Sienna might.”

  “Trevor? Sienna?”

  “Our kids.”

  “Kids?” The database files indicated the Sutters had no children.

  “Foster kids. But of course, we—I—lost them after the arrest. The poor things. They had to live with other families until they aged out at eighteen. They just toss them out into the world; isn’t that horrible?”

  “It’s a cruel system,” he agreed.

  “But they turned out all right, amazingly enough.”

  “You’re still in contact?”

  “Well, with Sienna, anyway. She’s married, has two children, lives in Boise.”

  Finn dismissed Sienna as irrelevant for his purpose. “And Trevor? How old was he when you lost custody?”

  “Seventeen, and halfway through his senior year.” She gave a shake of her head. “When Todd was arrested, Trevor was crushed. Of course, we all were shocked and horrified, but especially Trevor. He worshipped Todd. Todd was the only male role model Trevor ever knew. Lord!” She put her head into her hands for a moment.

  “Did Trevor believe Todd was innocent?”

  Deanne raised her head. “How could anyone believe that? There was a corpse in Todd’s car.” She shuddered. “Trevor was a lost soul for a long time after that.”

  Finn nodded, trying hard to suppress his growing excitement. He had to talk to this kid. Odds were good that Trevor would know a lot of Sutter’s former associates. Trevor could very well provide the key that would unlock this case.

  “You’d think the state would have let Trevor stay until he graduated, wouldn’t you? But no . . .” Deanna scowled. “All because of Todd. I hope that filthy asshole dies in prison. That goddamn lying pervert, pardon my language.”

  “No problem,” he said mildly. “You said Trevor turned out okay?”

  “Trevor went into the military after he graduated high school.”

  Finn’s enthusiasm dimmed a little. “Is he still a soldier?”

  “No, he’s out now. He runs a rock shop in Vantage and has a little apartment in the back, does a variety of things around Evansburg. I think he has a new job with the county there. I’m sure he’d talk to you.” Her expression clouded. “But I’d really rather you didn’t look him up. None of us want to be reminded of Todd.”

  “I get it. Do you have a photo of Trevor?”

  She shook her head. “Not here.”

  “What’s Trevor’s last name?”

  “Vollmar.” She spelled it. “Trevor Lee Vollmar. Everyone likes Trevor; ask anyone. I just wish he could find a nice young girl and settle down like Sienna did.”

  Finn was tempted to leap up and gallop out the door to research Trevor Lee Vollmar, but he made himself focus on the list of questions he’d brought with him. “I see you and Todd had a post office box in Evansburg for a while,” he remarked. “So you lived in that area?”

  Deanna nodded. “On Old Forest Road.”

  Finn’s pulse sped up. Old Forest Road ran behind Grace’s compound. Even if this didn’t lead to Mia, he might be close to tracking down the bones Grace had found. “That’s a farm area, right?”

  “Yeah. We rented a small farm there, about forty acres, kept a few cattle and sheep and a horse. The kids loved it. I loved it. But then Todd got a job in Moses Lake. He only came home on weekends.”

  Trevor. Old Forest Road. Clues? He hoped so. He closed his notebook and stood up. “Thank you for talking with me, Mrs. Hansen.”

  She slid back her chair and stood up, too. “You’re welcome. But I still don’t understand what this is about. Todd, may he rot in hell, is in prison for good.”

  “We found a skeleton in an old barn,” he told her. “We think it’s one of Todd’s victims.”

  She raised a hand to her throat. “Dear God. May she rest in peace.” She swallowed, took a deep breath. “I’ll walk you out, Detective.”

  As they passed through the store to the front door, she asked, “Have they found out anything more about that girl missing from the Gorge concert?”

  Finn was grateful that she didn’t know he was the “they” she was asking about. “Nothing more, for now.”

  As soon as he was in the car, he called Miki at the station and asked her to research Trevor Lee Vollmar, age thirty.

  “Where the heck have you been?” she asked. “Sarge is having a fit. The media keeps asking about the Mia Val
dez case, and you’re not even around to make a statement.”

  “Research 41 Old Forest Road, too.”

  “What does that mean, research?”

  “Get me a map of the property, and sales records.”

  “But where have you been? Plus, Sarge has a suspected livestock poisoning case for you.”

  That’s all he needed, dead cows to worry about on top of a missing teenager. “I’m working, Miki. And you should be, too. I’ll expect that research on my desk by the time I get there in”—he checked his watch—“ninety minutes.”

  On his way back to Evansburg, he stopped in the tiny hamlet of Vantage. The rock shop had a big red closed sign on the front door, but he knocked anyway, then walked around the building. The blinds were all pulled. Nobody seemed to be inside. Where was Trevor Lee Vollmar right now?

  Chapter 22

  Friday

  Seated on a bench in the barn, Grace held Kanoni in her arms, trying to get the baby gorilla to take a bottle filled with a mix of juice, cough syrup, and Tylenol. The vet had confirmed that the little ape had a fever, and the discharge that streamed from her flat nostrils was ample evidence of a bad cold. Grace’s shirt and pants were streaked with greenish snot. Kanoni still wore a diaper, and both Grace and Robin were tired of changing her.

  Nothing was worse than when one of her gorillas was sick. They were sullen and uncooperative, and there was no way to explain the problem to them or tell them it would get better, and there was always the danger of violence from a miserable, frustrated ape.

  Neema hovered next to Grace, worried about her baby. Kanoni cry, she signed. Give.

  The mother gorilla repeatedly pulled on Grace’s wrist, trying to take the bottle. Grace knew that if she got it, Neema was likely to drink it herself.

  “Medicine for Kanoni,” Grace told the big gorilla, but doubted Neema understood the concept.

  After signing Baby sad give me, Neema tugged on Kanoni’s leg. The baby gorilla whimpered. Her little ape fingers tightened, clinging to Grace’s arms, but Kanoni’s hot body seemed limp.