For now, at least I know she did really go to Helena, but in terms of an alibi, it’s still shaky. She could have left and driven to the Flathead. It would have taken her around four and a half hours to reach the cabin. Before she left, she could have mussed up the sheets, splashed a little water around the hotel bathroom sink, torn the sticker off the toilet paper if there was one, and left a few towels off the rack and an empty water bottle or two in the trash or on the counter, and it would look to housekeeping like someone had stayed the night. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it happen in cases I’ve worked. But for now there’s not much more I can do from my desk.
Next up on my list: Vivian Gould. Who is the guy in the car with her, and what is it about Vivian that bothers me? Is it just that she looks a little like Anne Marie? Is it too far-fetched to think that someone wanted her dead, and they happened to shoot the wrong person in the dark? She’s shorter than Anne Marie—that I can easily see from the Facebook pictures—but in the middle of a moonless night, one could easily have mistaken Anne Marie for Vivian. But who would want Vivian dead, and why?
I pull up the driver’s name on Google: Tate Austin. Born in Oklahoma City. Lives now in Seattle. Works for . . . bingo . . . Seattle Security Services. I recall that he seemed much older than Vivian despite his self-assured boyish smile. One of the search results is an article in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer’s local features section titled “Former Police Officers Open New Security Firm in Seattle.” I pick up my phone and call Seattle Security Services.
A man with a chipper voice answers, and I explain that I’m an FBI agent in Montana and that I have some questions. “How can I help?” he asks.
“And you are?”
“John Lesky.”
“I see from your website that you’re a full-service security company. What exactly do you provide?”
“Residential, commercial, industrial.”
“Just electronic systems?” I ask.
“No, we provide trained professionals—bodyguards for personal use, event protection, the like.”
“And Tate Austin is your partner?”
“He’s one of my bosses. He and another former police officer founded this company. I’m sorry, ma’am, but what’s this about?” he asks.
“Does Mr. Austin take on clients himself?”
“Not that often, but sometimes. If he has a reason to.”
“He have a girlfriend?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Lesky, as I said, my name is Agent Paige. I’m with the FBI. There’s been a woman murdered in Montana, and I have reason to believe that your boss was in Montana recently. Is that correct?”
“Yes, he was. For a client, but I’m not at liberty to discuss our clients.”
“I see. So Vivian Gould is a client of yours?”
“I’m sorry, but as I said, I can’t discuss client matters.”
You pretty much just did, I think, thankful that the whole intimidating FBI thing causes people to slip. “Mr. Lesky, your boss was seen with someone involved in a murder investigation. We’re going to need some cooperation; you understand? If you’d like, you can patch me through to your boss.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He sounds relieved. “That’s a good idea. Hold on a sec.”
Some elevator music begins playing when he puts me on hold until Tate Austin picks up the call. “Agent Paige,” he says, “how are you?” His voice is smooth and unfazed.
“I’m doing well. I see you and Vivian have made it back to Seattle safely.”
“That we did. How can I help you?”
“I’m going to just get right to it. A woman who resembles your client, Vivian Gould, was killed outside your client’s cabin in the middle of the night when your client was due to come in from Seattle. Do you know anything about that?”
“I do,” he says, but doesn’t add anything more. That alone tells me I’m speaking to a former cop—in law enforcement, the less said, the better. This means I also won’t need to explain that he can’t duck behind a bunch of company privacy policies lest he be accused of obstructing an investigation.
“How do you know Ms. Gould?” I start.
“She came to us for our services.”
“Before or after her friend was murdered?”
“After.”
“She was frightened?”
“Yes,” he says. “Wouldn’t you be?”
I don’t reply to that, not because he sounds snide or unhelpful, just because I don’t feel the need to. I don’t get the sense that he knows about me, but I could be wrong. “Mr. Austin,” I say, “help us out here. We’re simply trying to find who did this to your client’s friend. If you have her best interests at heart, I assume you’d want that too.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m happy to be of assistance as long as I don’t cross any client-privilege lines.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “So why don’t you fill me in, then.” I wait for a reply. The line goes quiet for a moment, both of us waiting. I think I hear the punching of computer keys.
Finally he gives in. But first he sighs, and I almost detect a note of pity in it, which makes me nervous. “Agent Paige, I have a good relationship with the Seattle PD. Worked for them for over two decades. Sometimes they’re short-staffed, you know, like thousands of other police departments. They don’t have resources for all circumstances, and at times they’ll refer clients my way—clients who might need a little protection that they can’t justify or find the resources to make it happen on their end.”
“So Vivian needs protection?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And can you tell me why?”
“In her role as an accountant she recently discovered some . . . let’s just say unsavory transactions going on at her former company—a big company. One that might make you run a bit scared, especially when your friend ends up murdered the day you pack up your office.”
“Why didn’t she tell the police in Seattle?”
“She did, but she was told that it was in her best interest to keep it quiet. Timberhaus is huge. She’s pretty frightened. I can’t go into all the details, but after Anne Marie Johnson turned up dead outside her place, she called the Seattle PD. They told her it was far-fetched to think someone was out to get her, especially over in Montana, but they gave her my number and told her I had the resources to protect her if that’s what she wanted and was willing to pay for it. I was going to send one of my men, but since it was short notice—we were short-staffed with some big film event going on in Seattle—I just flew out myself and drove back with her. I’ve got a different bodyguard watching over her now, just until this case gets solved.”
“And why haven’t you or the Seattle PD contacted the Flathead County sheriff’s department about this? Do you not think the fact that she’s a whistle-blower isn’t pertinent to the homicide case?”
“We have, Agent Paige. I would have assumed you’d know that, but . . .” His voice fades.
I have a bad feeling. I stay quiet.
“Well, I googled you while we were talking, out of habit, you know, and I saw that article about your connection to the case.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Damn Jones.
“Hey,” he says, “I’m a cop at heart, so I get it. I get the situation you’re in, and I’ve always liked working with the FBI. If you ever find yourself needing a job, give me a buzz. We could use a highly trained professional like yourself.”
It cuts, but I was expecting it at some point. I swallow my pride and forge ahead, trying to sound official, not deflated. “Mr. Austin, is there any reason to believe that Anne Marie Johnson was killed by someone who mistook her for Vivian Gould?”
“We certainly considered the possibility of that in the beginning, but it looks as if the county firmly believes that the two cases have no bearing on each other—evidence from the autopsy that the victim has skin and blood of the primary suspect under some of her nails, and some were broken too, indicating s
igns of a defensive struggle with said primary suspect, whom I understand you’re quite familiar with.”
My heart sinks. Reeve—skin and blood? Broken nails? Not only am I shocked to hear this bit of information, but I’m disappointed to hear it from some ex-cop in Seattle. I’m thankful that he’s sharing it with me, but I’m also humiliated and angry at Reeve for not telling me the full story. This is why Brander and Reynolds have been so adamant that Reeve is their man. “Thank you,” I finally muster.
“You’re welcome. Like I said, I get it, Agent Paige. And I’m sorry about your situation. But if you ask me, I don’t think there’s anyone at Timberhaus crooked enough to commit murder. But Seattle PD or I will certainly let the county know if they find something that points in that direction. I suspect our local FBI will get involved on this one as well before it’s all said and done.”
“I appreciate the information,” I say, feeling humbled.
“You’re welcome. Best of luck to you.” He sounds genuine, and for a brief moment that sincerity—that willingness of one cop to help another—makes me feel less alone.
• • •
When Herman returns from the dentist, I stick it out at my desk for another hour and a half, waiting for him to use the men’s room, and waiting to see if he’ll leave his computer unlocked. But I’m not hopeful. We’re trained to not walk away from a logged-in computer, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility when you work in a small resident agency like ours. It all comes down to trust, and that’s part of the problem now. If there was ever a time that Herman would leave his computer unattended, even for a short amount of time, it would not be now.
Finally, around eleven thirty, Herman stands up and stretches. I glance over and see that his screen is still on. Hope rises in me, but then fades like footsteps. He leans over at the waist, grabs his mouse, and begins clicking away. I watch as the screen goes dark. He doesn’t say a word as he heads out, and I wouldn’t expect him to: it’s not like we fill each other in every time we need to use the bathroom.
I sit at my desk for only a second before I dart over and look in his carrier bag. There’s no point in trying to get into his system, and all I can hope for is that he’s printed out the documents and shoved them in his bag before he went to the dentist. It’s a thick black canvas carrier bag. I open the zipper at the top and riffle through the files, all neatly labeled. Most are on transcripts from the Smith case and information passed along from Bozeman. I have many of the same files. I glance to the door. I’m out on the edge. If he returns and catches me, I’ll have completely lost any remnant of trust he has for me at all. I shuffle through several files that seem to be personal. They’re labeled Bills, Receipts, and Vacation Ideas. A pang of compassion shoots through me. Herman is collecting information for holidays.
Who would he go on vacation with? He has several local friends, but for the most part, he’s a loner in this town, like I would be if I didn’t have Emily. Kind of comes with the territory. It’s the unpredictability of the life. It’s hard to make solid plans with people when you might get a call at any time that something serious has happened. It’s why I thank my lucky stars for having someone as flexible as Rose around, but even with her, I still carry my guilt for the times when I know Emily has looked up to find me and has seen only an empty seat during a school play because my phone has buzzed and I’ve needed to step out and take it.
Herman has family, though, and I’ve met his younger sister and her two children—a boy and a girl—who have come to visit him in Montana. From what I remember, they adore him and I know he loves them. I’m about to give up and zip up his bag when I see the label on the very first file: Anne Marie Johnson. In my haste, I must have skipped right over it.
I think fast. There’s no time for me to photocopy the contents and get them back in his bag before he leaves. I have two options: leave them and save myself any further trouble, which is tempting given my latest discovery from Tate Austin, or take the file and hope he doesn’t notice until later, after he gets home. Because that’s most likely the reason Herman’s made printouts in the first place, to go over them at home later. Not because he doesn’t have a laptop, but because I know he simply likes to print copies in case his eyes get tired and he wants a different perspective. He’s told me that many times in the past: “When all else fails, Ali, print your reports and study them the old-fashioned way. It helps bring another perspective.” And he’s right: looking at a piece of paper with pen in hand engages your brain differently than staring at a screen. I solved an embezzlement case in a local casino involving a spreadsheet of bookkeeping data containing multiple columns of information after I printed it out. I had been staring at the screen for hours and couldn’t see the connection between the accounts payable clerk and the night manager who had been allocating funds and skimming off the top to make payments to a private account that they had set up together, until I printed out the spreadsheet. With any luck, I could grab Herman’s reports now, take them to my office at home, copy them, and return them when I come back before five p.m. to be here for SAC Shackley.
I hear Herman’s voice outside. He’s talking to Joel, an insurance agent who works down the hall from us. I can hear Joel’s voice too. It’s loud, and it carries: “You still planning on taking that vacation to the Caribbean this fall?” he’s asking. I make a quick decision to grab the paperwork out of the file, zip up his bag, run to my desk, and slam down into my chair just as the door opens. I don’t have time to think of what I’ve just done. I tuck the paperwork into a manila folder and place it in my own bag. My heart is going like a jackhammer, and I’m certain my face is flushed with guilt. I shut my system down and grab my things. “I’m out of here for a bit,” I say.
“Where you heading?”
“Lunch at home. I have to check on some things. Plus, Emily has an early out today. I’m picking up her and a friend of hers, Kaylee. Rose is busy; she actually has a dentist appointment too. Big day for dental hygiene.” I smile, but I can hear my voice as if it’s distant—high-pitched and rattling. I’m sure Herman must sense my nerves.
“What about Shackley?”
“Rose will be done with her appointment by then, and she’ll watch the girls for me. I’ll definitely be back before he arrives.”
Herman gives me a nod, but he’s eyeing me, and I can’t decide if he’s suspicious or not.
“See ya.” I smile weakly and leave, hoping against odds that he won’t look for the Anne Marie file before I return to the office and replace its contents.
Reeve
* * *
Present—Tuesday
THE HELICOPTER IS definitely gone, and it doesn’t seem to be coming back. It’s been driven out by banks of ugly clouds and forceful winds. I look up at the darkening clouds in the east. A snowstorm is coming, and with the drop in temperature, I wonder if it’s wise for me to stay this high up at the lake. I could wake up snowed in by a foot or two. I’m reluctant to make a fire, to draw attention to my location even though I know the chopper has moved on. I’m having a hard time thinking and I’ve been pacing since McKay and I came back to the partial camp we set up earlier.
In the wake of the helicopter, all is eerily quiet besides the rush of the wind and the rustling bushes. There’s a whooshing in my head as well. Guilt, I think: a roaring wind that fills your ears and blocks out all other thoughts. I’ve had moments where I’ve experienced self-acceptance—a quiet, gentle breeze that can go completely unnoticed unless you take a moment to be still—and that’s not what I’m feeling out in these mountains today. I’ve been searching for it all week, and it’s eluded me. It’s the roar that’s filling my head—a forceful, feverish howl that’s infecting my brain—and even the wilderness isn’t taming it. It’s as if these things with Anne Marie—the time spent with her, the questions she asked, and the police suspecting me—it all came together in a perfect storm, stirring up everything murky in my soul, dredging up the things I’ve tried to subdue. I feel p
aralyzed by it.
A part of me wants to get up from the log I’m sitting on and hike straight to the county building and let whatever happens happen. But another part of me is a stubborn fighter. I’ve come this far after experiencing something as a child that no one should ever have to face, and I’ve fought to survive every step of the way. I’ve earned my place in these mountains, in this world, and I refuse to let some false accusations rip it all away from me. I look at the lake, at its unbroken crystal waters and the mountains perfectly rendered on its glassy surface. A breeze begins to pick up and ruffle the charcoal-colored water, smearing the reflection into pocked ripples. McKay is curled up in a ball at my feet, his body pressing against my ankle. I am reluctant to leave.
At times over the years, I’ve wondered what Sam would be now if I hadn’t killed him—what he would be doing as an adult—but I can never get very far with the thought. There are too many avenues to go down in life. He could have been an attorney, a musician (I remember he took piano lessons), a truck driver, a construction worker, a stockbroker, a pilot, a doctor, or a scientist who helps cure cancer. Or he could have been homeless or violent or a criminal. The possibilities are endless.
I have this image of Sam’s mother the morning before he comes over. She takes a small break from loading the dishwasher, just long enough to kiss his forehead and tell him to be good. She tells him that she loves him and gives his arm a quick squeeze. It’s something I do with Emily now, and when I do this common thing that all parents do, it’s always overlain with that image of Sam’s mom doing the same . . . until the day she can’t anymore because I took that ability away from her.
So trying to quiet that roar is difficult, but if there’s one place that I manage to come close to subduing it, it’s out in these woods. If I go back now, I might crumble, the roar might overtake me. Just another night, I think. One more night, and then we’ll head back.
Ali
* * *
A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense Page 28