“The night of the Fowler shooting at the college. I was on scene when you found the shooter’s car. I watched your emergency lights cut clear across the valley as you chased him. He cranked off a round. You got on the radio just as calm as you please and called out shots fired. It was one of those summer nights that sound travels forever, and I’m stuck on that goddamn ridge listening to some asshole take three more shots, wondering if one of his bullets had your name on it.”
All the bluster left Jo. She came up behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders and kneaded his ropy muscles. “I’m good at what I do, Dad.”
“You’re not just good. You’re better. That’s the problem.” He brushed aside her hands. “None of them boys want to be shown up by a girl. They’d rather fuck you than follow you. You out catting around at night is only going to make that worse. Now this.” Before she could respond, he whirled out of the chair and picked up the newspaper, shaking it in her face. “I can tell you exactly how this is going to unfold. Guys are going to be slow to back you up. Maybe not show up at all. Chief isn’t going to be none too happy either. No sir. Not when he has his sit-down with the mayor and tries to explain why he’s got an upstart causing trouble and tattling to the goddamn newspaper.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with this article,” Jo said. Her father opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Not a damn thing. The reporter stopped by my table at Finnegan’s. He already had a copy of the promotion memo, and I sent him packing. You think I’m stupid?”
“No one’s going to believe that.”
“I don’t care.” She stormed toward her room.
Her father dogged her heels. “You better well should. Because life as you know it just ended.”
She spun, and her father ran into her. The rush she felt when she was about to go toe-to-toe with a suspect pulsed through her body. “I’ve never once complained. Not when someone hung a tampon from the rearview mirror of my patrol car. Not when I was denied the out-of-town training I’d requested because the department didn’t want to pay for two hotel rooms, so instead they selected a second guy who didn’t even want to go.” Her speech slowed. “No. I learned to roll with the punches. Be one of the guys. The third time Estes called me ‘squaw,’ I told him to fuck off. He laughed and never called me that again. In defensive tactics, I always went up against Bull.”
“He kicked your ass.”
“Yes, he did. But no one can accuse me of trying to take the easy route. I never expected the job to be a cakewalk, but I expected to be treated fair.”
“You didn’t grow up brawling. I had to make sure you were tough enough to go home at night.”
“Oh, you toughened me up all right.”
“This is different, Jo. These aren’t the mopes on the street. These are the guys you work with. They’re not going to take kindly to this article. And it worries me I’m not there to protect you.”
She suppressed the urge to laugh. “Don’t kid yourself, Dad. You never were.”
33
Jo ran.
The trail wended through a collection of maples, elms, and oaks, their bare limbs jutting skyward in tortured twists. She should have warmed up, started slow. Instead she pushed harder, ignoring the hitch in her side. Her winter trail shoes bit into the snow as she chewed up the miles. A small incline rose before her and she leaned into a sprint. Her lungs burned, but she had to keep moving or she’d explode.
By the third mile, she was willing to concede that her father was right. It wouldn’t matter that she’d had nothing to do with the article. She wasn’t the only female officer mentioned in the article, but her story claimed the most column inches. Her life was going to be hell moving forward until it all blew over.
She spent the next mile blaming Dakota. Why had she spoken to Everett Cloud? Had he contacted her for the story, or had she approached him? It took Jo another half mile to realize it didn’t matter. The article was out there. There was no way to unring that particular bell.
Without breaking stride, she peeled off her outer jacket and tied it around her waist.
From the moment she’d raised her hand and taken the oath, Jo had known she’d have to prove herself. Every rookie did, but women had to do it over and over. Every scuffle, every chase, every damn investigation. Even the Tye Horton case illustrated how quick people were to second-guess her. And now she was back to ground zero. Her credibility shot—for something she hadn’t even orchestrated.
The thing that chafed the most was that the department trusted her enough to train its rookies and investigate major crimes, but not enough to wear stripes.
She’d tested once before, more for the experience of going through the test than because she thought she was ready. She’d done well, but it hadn’t surprised her when someone else was selected.
This time around was different. Only two people had put in, and they both resided in the same household. The department made it clear that neither would be able to directly supervise the other. Not a big deal if Cameron promoted. Patrol and investigations were different divisions. More of a problem if she promoted. But as a newbie sergeant, she’d be assigned to graveyards. That meant Cameron could choose either day shift or swings. Again, nothing insurmountable.
They’d studied for the test. Or more honestly she’d busted her ass and Cameron had occasionally cracked the book and scanned her notes. At first she didn’t mind. They’d told each other it wasn’t a competition, that regardless of who was selected, there would be a sergeant in their family. It sounded good, but the reality couldn’t compete with their intentions.
It was her fault, really. The harder she studied, the more she wanted the position.
Cameron didn’t care. She was the one who convinced him of the value of a dry run. What’s the worst that could happen? they joked.
The day of the test, she entered the room with confidence, and by the end of the day she’d tested highest on the written and aced the scenario-based questions. She thought she’d nailed the oral board, but the expressions of the four men across the table from her had made it hard to tell. It wasn’t until the chief’s interview that she learned the panel had unanimously endorsed Cameron for sergeant.
The more she considered her performance in light of what she knew her husband to be capable of, the less she was able to rationalize his selection. Was she delusional or just blind to her own shortcomings? She had the experience, the tenure, and the personnel file of a future sergeant. Cameron had less time on the job and had never held a specialty position. Plus, he’d had more than one closed-door conversation with a supervisor that ended up documented in his personnel file. She tried to placate herself with the reminder that she was a detective. Yet an assignment wasn’t the same as a promotion. And the truth was, she wanted to be the department’s first woman sergeant. Make her father proud.
Fat lot of good that had done. But it was only a half-truth anyway. The full truth was more complicated.
The trail cut through a shaded area, and she adjusted her neck gaiter to ward off the sudden chill.
The more she contemplated her motivations, the clearer it became that she was lying to herself. Making sergeant was less about earning her father’s respect and more about outdoing him. He’d made sergeant in under ten years. She’d missed that deadline, but she was playing the long game, and her sights were set on outranking him. The problem was, without sergeant’s stripes, she’d never be able to earn her lieutenant’s bars.
The hills were suddenly too steep, the snow too deep, and her muscles ached with more than fatigue. She should call in sick tomorrow. Avoid the drama. Let the hullabaloo die a natural death without her. But even as she considered it, she knew she wouldn’t. She’d man up. Just like always.
The trees thinned as she descended toward the river basin. Poplars lined the water, looking as if someone had stuffed giant peregrine falcon feathers quill-first into the snow. She picked up her pace, and her feet pounded across the plank bridge that spanned t
he Animas River. The Spaniards had dubbed it the Rio de las Animas Perdidas—the River of Lost Souls. How annoyingly apropos. A cross-country skier poled toward her, and she edged closer to the rails to avoid his narrow skis.
A man in waders stood in the river, fly-fishing with graceful casts. She was almost upon him before she recognized the district attorney. He acknowledged her on the backstroke of his cast. She fluttered her fingers and kept running. The trail climbed. A hundred yards later, she slowed. At the top she stopped, bent over with her hands on her thighs, her breath frosting the air in steam engine puffs. The chance to talk to the DA outside the office was too good to pass up, and she clasped her hands behind her head and retraced her steps.
There were people, mostly in the temperate zones of the United States, who thought running in the snow was a couple of degrees south of crazy. Clad in a beanie, several thin layers of tops, leggings, Gore-Tex shoes, and merino wool socks, she was toasty. The person who had lost his senses was the man in the frigid waters of the river wearing a cap, jacket, and waders that Jo fervently hoped kept the water at bay. His hands were bare, the knuckles a bright shade of chap.
The burble of the river masked the crunch of her steps as she left the trail and picked her way toward the rocks that lined the riverbed. She wanted to ask him about Quinn. Still, a pang of guilt stopped her midstep. The DA and Xavier Buck were close. His friend had just lost his son—a boy who had also been his own son’s best friend. Perhaps Walsenberg needed to fly-fish as much as she’d needed to run.
“Something on your mind, Detective?” With his thumb on top of the rod, he smoothly accelerated through the back cast, watching the line unspool. After the slightest pause, he snapped the rod forward and stopped, casting his fly into the center of the river.
Jo raised her voice only enough to be heard over the wash of water. “Nothing that can’t wait. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“The fish are sluggish today. I’m just practicing my cast.”
She chose her route carefully and moved closer so she could lower her voice. “I’m really sorry about Ronny. I know your families are close.”
Sadness settled on the DA’s face. “The boy always drove like the laws of physics didn’t apply to him.”
He made it sound as if it was Ronny’s fault. Hadn’t the sheriff’s office briefed him? Or Xavier. She’d figured that the moment he was informed someone else might have contributed to his son’s death, he’d be on the phone pressing for answers. If not Xavier, certainly Alice. She’d seen the crime tape. She knew it wasn’t an accident. She’d even offered up Quinn as a possible suspect.
“There might be more to it, sir. Deputy Garibaldi is handling the investigation.”
“Another suicide that isn’t?”
If his smile was meant to soften the dig, it missed the mark. Her guilt about disturbing him on a Sunday dissipated. “Did you have a chance to talk to Quinn on Friday night?”
He reeled in his line in preparation for another cast. “I spoke to a lot of people that night. Can you describe him for me?”
“Quinn is a woman. She was assisting your wife.”
“Ah. No, sorry. I’m afraid I never had the chance to actually meet her. Alice was so busy, I just tried to stay out of her way. Still, the event was a rousing success, don’t you think?”
“You knocked on Quinn’s hotel room door early Saturday morning.”
“That’s quite possible.” He lowered the rod. “I’m afraid I celebrated Alice’s success a little too much. I tried to open the door to the wrong room. When my key didn’t work, I knocked. No one answered. I didn’t realize I’d disturbed someone.”
He initiated another back cast, then flicked it forward. The movement reminded Jo of the tail of an angry cat.
“By the way,” he said. “I saw the newspaper.”
Her face flamed, and she imagined the snow around her melting from the heat. So this was what it was going to feel like. Uncomfortable, but she’d survive.
“About time someone rocked the boat.” He laughed. “You remind me of Alice. You both appear to be so nice.” He popped the tip of his reel against the surface. “But heaven help the person who underestimates either of you.”
She refused to be sidetracked. “Quinn said you called her by name. Wanted to ask her something about Derek.”
“Derek?” He blinked. Unlike Jo, Walsenberg wasn’t wearing sunglasses, and the action appeared exaggerated. “He’s been dead a year, Detective.” His words had turned as deliberate as his blink. “I don’t know what this Quinn Kirkwood is playing at, but I most certainly was not wandering around the resort asking strangers for information regarding my son. What is this really about?”
“Tye Horton.”
“That case is closed.”
“Not quite.”
“My son died over a year ago. I fail to see how he is germane to the discussion.”
The next question was indelicate, but he’d already lied once and it was time to push. “Did you know your son was gay?”
He swung the rod around and pointed it at her. “You overstep, Detective. My boy is none of your concern, and I’ll thank you to honor that.”
She stood her ground. “Do you still have Tye’s belongings?”
“His family is picking up his effects tomorrow. I suggest you contact them.” He turned his back to her. “If you need anything else, make an appointment. Good day, Detective.” The rod swished the air, and the fly nearly landed on the other bank.
“Again, my apologies, sir.”
Jo traversed the rocks back to the trail and reined herself in to a demure jog. Once out of the DA’s sight, she picked up her pace, eager to finish the loop back to her car. She had work to do, and topping the list was finding out why the district attorney was lying.
He had said Quinn’s last name unprompted. He might have remembered the name as the reporting party on Tye Horton’s police report, but Jo’d seen the resort’s surveillance tape. Seen Zachary Walsenberg standing in front of Quinn’s door with a drink in his hand, talking to the person in the room. He’d clearly mouthed the name Quinn.
34
Quinn glanced in her rearview mirror. Was that truck following her?
The Mini Cooper clanked as she accelerated to a fast crawl, the front quarter panel held on with duct tape and a prayer. Circling a city the size of Echo Valley didn’t take long. Every time she considered stopping somewhere, she’d slow down like she was casing the place to rob. Then she’d see someone and wonder if he was the moron making her life miserable and she’d keep going. At least behind the wheel, she controlled something—even if it was only which direction to turn as she put more miles between her and the Stu/Stans of the world.
She was already on her fourth lap. Only this time, she had company.
Her phone lit up in the cup holder. Another unknown number. “Jesus H. Christ!” She flipped it so she couldn’t see the screen and almost overshot the curve. The Mini Cooper hobbled up the hill. The truck closed the distance between them until it rode her bumper. Filled her mirror with grille. Quinn mashed the accelerator, and the Mini Cooper wheezed. “Come on, baby.”
The road straightened. The truck revved his engine, a deep diesel growl louder than her clacking fender. Outrunning the beast was impossible. The best option she had was to choose a driveway with lots of cars in the hope that someone would help her out if she needed it, but the ranches in this part of town were sprawling. Not a damn driveway in sight.
The truck crossed into the other lane behind her, tucked back in. Taunting?
Another curve. Another straightaway. This time the truck surged forward. Drew next to her. Quinn braked and the truck shot past, the driver not even glancing her way.
She raked her fingers through her hair. She was seriously losing her shit.
Her stomach rumbled as she neared the college. She’d kill for some dim sum and green tea from the little place on Jackson Street in Chinatown where she and her sister used to eat a
s teenagers. Might as well add that to the list of things that ain’t gonna happen. It was a long list. Her apartment complex was a block away and she inventoried her culinary options. Not many, but cheap. She slowed down to casing speed. Since yesterday, an alarming number of strangers had landed on her doorstep thinking she was open for business. No one was at her door at the moment, but a strange blue Explorer was parked ass-first in the space next to hers.
Time to make a run for the border.
Out of her periphery, she saw the Explorer pull out of the parking space.
Her hunger dissipated. The fender flapped in the breeze as she sped downhill. Maybe she could pull around the back side of the strip center at the bottom of the hill without being seen. Her car was distinctive in the best of times. A hangnail fender only made it more memorable. Two curves later and the SUV was on her.
Just like the truck. Her paranoia had spiked to the point that every car on the roadway was a threat. She really needed to get a grip. Get some food. She was the epitome of hangry.
The headlights on the Explorer flashed a friendly Hey pull over pattern.
Not a chance.
Glare on the windshield prevented Quinn from seeing the driver. Her frustration surged. The lights flashed again, accompanied by a quick horn toot. She’d had enough. This was going to end now. She fumbled with her cell phone and turned on the camera.
The light at the bottom of the hill turned green as she hit the intersection, and she barely slowed before whipping into the gas station. The Explorer pulled in behind her, boxing her in by the pumps. The driver door opened.
Quinn burst out of her car and charged toward the Explorer. Phone high. Recorder on. “What the fuck do you want?”
She barreled into the door, trying to pin the driver, but the driver sprang aside and the door slammed against empty air. Unable to check her momentum, Quinn slid the length of the Explorer and landed on the ground. Her cell phone skittered under the SUV. She rolled and came up in a crouch, slush dripping off the back of her jacket.
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