Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  Quinn tilted her head back and rubbed her eyes. “Have you ever played a video game?”

  “What’s that one with the little plumber guy that jumps around?”

  “How old are you?” She hadn’t intended to say it out loud.

  Wyatt scowled. “What’s that got to do with my question?”

  “Dogs of War is a multiplayer game.” She paused for a spark of recognition. “Fortnite?” Nothing. “We meet online.”

  “So, Tye might never have left his house Sunday night?”

  “He plays from the comfort of his gaming chair.” Damn, she still hadn’t gotten used to past tense. “Played.”

  “Is that why there are speakers?”

  “Audio is a huge component of gaming. Tye had a pretty sweet setup. The chair’s a couple months old, but he always had the latest console.”

  “Is that the joystick?”

  “It’s a lot more than a joystick. But yeah. It’s how you control your game, your character, all that.”

  “Did he have a lot of those?”

  “I’m pretty sure he kept every one he ever owned. He was a game designer. Knowing what came before is always a good thing.”

  “Did he have a storage locker someplace?”

  “Don’t you think he’d have stashed all that shit?” Then it hit her. “They weren’t there, were they? The consoles, the computer. That’s why the fifty questions.”

  “It’s too early in the investigation to draw conclusions.”

  “Conclusions? The shit’s either there or it’s not.”

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing—”

  “You never planned to help me, did you?” Quinn reached across the table and snatched the folder containing her emails. “I should have known.”

  “It’s a crime to harass someone in the State of Colorado either in person or by any electronic means. For me to make my case, I have to prove that someone intended to alarm you.”

  Quinn jammed the folder into her bookbag. “This should be a slam dunk, then.”

  Wyatt leaned back. “Why did you send yourself threatening emails?”

  Quinn’s mouth dropped. Was Wyatt really that stupid?

  “I read the email headers,” the detective continued. “The most egregious threats were from your own account.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  The detective’s face softened and she lowered her voice. “You just lost a friend. Your capstone project is missing. Life is rough right now.” She scrawled a telephone number on the back of her business card. “Call them. They’re good people. They can help.”

  Quinn read the words above the number. “You think I need a counselor?”

  “Talking to a professional is never a bad idea.”

  “I thought I was.”

  The display on Wyatt’s phone lit up. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Coffee and anger boiled in Quinn’s stomach. She lurched from the table, leaving her half-empty espresso cup behind.

  The police detective remained impassive as she answered her phone.

  Quinn was on her own, and suddenly everyone in the coffee shop looked dangerous.

  10

  Jo moved the phone to her other ear as if that would buffer the din of the coffee shop. “The district attorney does what now?”

  “Owns the house Horton killed himself in. Well, he and his wife, Alice,” Squint said. “It’s one of several properties they own—in addition to the ranch they have out on East Mesa.”

  “Wonderful.” Jo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Considering they live in one of the Victorians on Broadmoor, any idea who actually lives on Fifth?”

  “Someone who likes chintz.”

  “Don’t forget the gun case.” She flipped her notes closed and slid the legal pad into her portfolio. “How’d the autopsy go?”

  “Nothing unexpected. We’ll know more when the tox screen comes back from the lab. Doc Ingersleben confirmed the identification with a family member. It’s definitely Tye Horton.”

  “Doc offer any conjecture?”

  “Does he ever?” Papers rustled on Squint’s side of the connection. “Do you know a John Dryden?”

  Jo mentally reviewed her caseload. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

  “He’s a poet.”

  “Ingersleben quoted a poet?” She’d have to expand her reading list if this was a new trend. “My meeting with Quinn just ended. I’ll pick you up in five and we can drop in on the DA.”

  * * *

  “Beware the fury of a patient man.” Squint reached for the stately door leading to the district attorney’s office.

  Jo entered the lobby and wiped her feet on the rectangular mat. “I’d be more concerned about the impatience of a furious woman.”

  “John Dryden.” Squint slapped his hat against his thigh to dislodge any errant snowflakes and followed Jo into the building. “You now possess the means to impress Ingersleben.”

  The district attorney’s office occupied space in a two-story building still known as the Old Post Office by the locals despite the fact that attorneys had been discussing cases in the building for more than forty years. The first time Jo saw inside, she’d been awed. She was eight years old and her father had parked her in a wooden chair in the lobby while he conferred with a deputy district attorney about a case. From her vantage, she enjoyed watching the bustle of people going in and out. Even today, the twentieth-century marble floors and gleaming brass banisters impressed Jo. It seemed fitting that the building reflected the gravitas of the few employees in Echo Valley who routinely wore business suits.

  Jo approached the reception counter and greeted a woman behind thick glass. “Hi, Martha. Is Mr. Walsenberg available?”

  “He just got back from court. Let me check.” She phoned his office, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go on up. He has to step out for a moment, but he’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” She pressed a button, and the electronic lock on the security door popped open.

  Jo opened the door for Squint and signaled him through with a grand flourish. “After you.”

  He reached around her with his long arms and grabbed the door. “You know I hate when you do that.”

  “Let it not be said that I don’t know how to act like a gentleman.”

  “I don’t believe that’s ever been a concern,” Squint said.

  The area behind closed doors wasn’t nearly as stately as the lobby. Beyond the receptionist’s station, meeting rooms opened off the main space, which served quintuple duty as conference area, law library, storage repository, to-be-filed zone, and lunchroom. Jo preceded Squint through the room and up the rear staircase to the second floor, where Walsenberg and two of the four deputy district attorneys had their offices.

  The door to the district attorney’s office was open, and they stepped inside.

  A large desk dominated the room, but unlike the chaos downstairs, here nothing was out of place.

  Frost glazed the edges of the large window opposite the door. Plaques and diplomas hung in uniform rows on either side of the glass. For all the times Jo had been in the building, she’d never been close enough to check out the collection. Harvard Law. Assorted awards. Recognition by service clubs. A photo with Xavier Buck, another with the governor, a final one of the DA midcast while fly-fishing in the middle of a river.

  No doubt about it. Zachary Emerson Walsenberg appeared to be as successful as a man with a nine-syllable name should be.

  Artfully arranged personal photographs decorated the credenza under the window. His wife barrel-racing, her head held high, eyes already looking for the next challenge while her chestnut mare tucked tight around the fifty-five-gallon drum. Another of Alice, this time wearing a daring magenta gown and dancing with her husband at some gala.

  In the center of the credenza was a family portrait in an elaborate crystal frame. The photo had been taken by the river, and the district attorney and his wife sat on
a large boulder. They leaned into each other and smiled into the camera as if daring anyone to find fault with their life. Their daughter sat cross-legged in front, not touching her parents, her gaze focused on something low and left of the photographer. Jo picked up a black-and-white close-up of the teenage girl peeking at the camera through a veil of dark hair, noting that it had been grouped with two other photos of the same girl. She must be their daughter, but Jo couldn’t remember her name.

  She scanned the array of photos again. None were of Walsenberg’s son.

  “That’s my daughter, Olivia.” The DA entered the room with his hand outstretched.

  “She’s beautiful.” Jo replaced the photo and grasped the DA’s hand. Warm, with a firm handshake. A welcome relief from men who either felt it necessary to crush her hand in conquest or barely squeezed as if she were a delicate flower, easily bruised.

  “Obviously, she takes after her mother.” He turned to Squint and shook hands, then motioned for them to sit. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Detectives?”

  “We’re investigating an incident that occurred on Fifth Street.” Squint held his hat on his lap. “Records show the property belongs to you, and we are hoping you can provide some information about your tenants.”

  Out of habit, Jo watched the DA closely. She and Squint had interviewed enough people together that they had a routine. One of them took the lead during the interview. The other watched the person being questioned. But talking to the DA was like chatting with another police officer. They were all on the same side.

  Walsenberg took his own seat behind the desk. “I don’t remember seeing a report about anything on Fifth. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Can you tell us the name of your tenants?” Squint pressed.

  So far, neither man had answered the other’s question. Jo bit back a sigh. Typical interview.

  “An older lady. Eva something?” Walsenberg tilted his head back, and his eyes went left while he tried to remember. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Alice manages our rental properties.”

  “We’re more interested in the man renting the converted garage.”

  “There shouldn’t be anyone there. The prior owners never pulled permits when they renovated it. It’s not up to code.”

  “Does your lease allow a tenant to sublease?”

  The DA leaned forward. “What happened?”

  Squint hesitated, and Jo knew he was deciding how much to disclose. “It appears a man shot himself while living in the garage.”

  “That’s horrible. Let me call my wife. If she’s home, she’ll be able to pull the file on the tenants.” He picked up the receiver and punched three buttons.

  “Have you ever met Tye Horton?” Squint asked.

  The DA’s fingers hit two buttons at once, and he clicked down the handset before starting over. “Not that I recall. Is that the young man who shot himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “A shame. Perhaps Alice will know more.”

  The three sat in silence while Walsenberg completed dialing, then hit a final button and placed the call on speaker. After four rings, a recorded voice mail message clicked on, and he disconnected the call.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot she’s spearheading a new project and she’s throwing a stakeholders’ meeting at the house. I’ll speak to her tonight and get the information for you. Will tomorrow be okay, or should I call one of you this evening?”

  “Tomorrow would be just fine, sir,” Squint said, and stood.

  Jo followed his lead.

  “Glad to help.” He retrieved a folder from his briefcase and opened it in front of him as the detectives took their leave.

  Jo paused in the doorway. “How did you know Mr. Horton was young?”

  Walsenberg glanced up from the paper in front of him. “Excuse me?”

  “Detective MacAllister never mentioned anything about Mr. Horton’s age. How did you know to call him a young man?”

  The DA leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the armrests in an attitude of openness. “Well, I guess I assumed that someone living in a tiny garage was just starting out in life. Was I wrong?”

  He wore his prosecutorial face; she’d seen it in the courtroom. Charismatic and charming in the opening arguments, ruthless on cross-examination.

  “No,” she replied. “He was twenty-two.”

  He steepled his fingers. “All right, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jo waited until they were outside before saying, “Why do I think the DA isn’t being completely honest?”

  They stood on the edge of the sidewalk, and Squint settled his hat on his head. “What makes you think that?”

  Fat flakes fell at a steady pace. She ran her hand across the hood of the car and created a small pile. It was good snowball snow. Not too wet, not too dry. “Women’s intuition.”

  “Last I checked, we worked under the probable-cause doctrine.”

  “I don’t know. The young thing bothered me.” She scooped up a handful of the snow. Squint watched her progress, but she couldn’t tell whether he was concerned about becoming a target or merely thinking about what she’d said.

  He shrugged. “It was a reasonable assumption.”

  She tossed the snowball back and forth between her hands before tossing it into the gutter. “Yeah. I know.”

  11

  The centerpiece was off. Alice Ambrose Walsenberg crouched eye level with the top of the walnut buffet and slid the evergreens and white roses to the left until the vase sat evenly between the tiered finger sandwich tower and the antique silver coffee urn. Nestled among the evergreens, the roses gave off an elegant air. She stood back. The footed dishes and china platters coordinated nicely and added depth to the serving station.

  “Do you have a minute, Mom?” Olivia spoke from behind her.

  A holly sprig drooped at an awkward angle, and Alice bolstered it with one of the delicate snow-white buds. “Can it wait? The guests will be here in half an hour, and I haven’t even dressed yet.”

  “No one’s going to notice if every leaf isn’t exactly perfect.”

  “I will.” Satisfied, she turned to her daughter. Olivia wore jeans and a bulky sweater that hid her slenderness. “You’re going to change, aren’t you?”

  Olivia’s familiar exaggerated sigh drove Alice nuts. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Mrs. Baxter is coming.”

  Olivia widened her eyes in mock surprise. Another one of her recent annoying affectations. “Not Mrs. Baxter! Let me get my opera gloves!”

  Alice couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Edith May Baxter was legendary in Echo Valley—and owned the only larger Victorian on the Avenue. To this day the Ambroses and the Baxters maintained the uneasy alliance that had begun in the late 1800s when both families settled in the Valley. The Baxters had made their fortune in mining, first in silver and then in natural gas. The Ambroses had gambled on land, quietly buying up enormous swaths of acreage that held all the resources the Baxters sought. The relationship was at times downright fractious, but always profitable.

  “Why don’t you pull your hair back?” She brushed a strand off Olivia’s forehead. “What’s the point of a beautiful face if no one can see it?”

  Her daughter drew back. “I’m going to the library. No one cares.”

  A flicker of guilt accompanied Alice’s relief. Edith Baxter was a dowager of considerable influence. Her support of this project fairly guaranteed that the other women would fall into line with open checkbooks. Plus, her connections at the state legislature could certainly help.

  “The party should be finished by seven.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve got rehearsal tonight.”

  She had forgotten. The preparations for the meeting had overshadowed everything. “Before you know it, you’ll be thanking the Academy.”

  “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I don’t say a word.”

  Alice should have known that. “Then why do you ne
ed to rehearse?” She tried to make light to cover her blunder.

  “Avoiding Mrs. Baxter seems like a pretty good reason. Can I borrow the car?”

  “No, you may not. You only have a permit.”

  “I’ve been driving for years.”

  Olivia’s pout added a sultriness to her face that Alice hadn’t noticed before. This last year had passed in a haze, and her daughter had grown up while Alice’s head was turned. “On the ranch.”

  “Which is a lot tougher than town streets.”

  “I don’t have time for this conversation. The answer is no.” Alice’s voice was sharper than she’d intended.

  Olivia dipped her head, and her hair cascaded past her cheek. “You always let Derek.”

  “What was that?” Alice asked, even though she’d heard every word.

  Her daughter’s head popped up. “Nothing. You better get dressed. Mrs. Baxter will be here any minute, and your hair’s a mess.” She grabbed a pastel-pink French macaron from a gold-rimmed plate and left the room. A moment later, the front door closed.

  Alice rearranged the remaining confections. Shoot. She’d forgotten to ask Olivia when she’d be back. Maybe that had been her daughter’s plan all along. Distract and evade. As far as tactics went, it was effective.

  Regardless, it was too late to worry about that now. Just enough time remained. She walked down the hall and put her back against the front door. Closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. Lemon oil, aromas from the kitchen, evergreens, and roses. Comforting. Warm. Perfect. She opened her eyes. The twelve-foot Douglas fir dominated the foyer, clear white lights flickering among crystal ornaments. The original parquet floors gleamed. Old and new. Mother and daughter.

  Her fingers wandered across the door molding behind her, searching for the initials she’d carved into the wood when she was a little girl despite knowing they’d been sanded away. At least Olivia had never taken a pocketknife to the walnut panels. Were all mothers and daughters cursed to be at loggerheads?