“We’ll have a new routine. I’ll walk with you to day care every morning and pick you up again before dinner. The rest of the time—the evenings and mornings and weekends—we’ll be together. Does that sound okay to you?”
She nodded, and looked like she was going to say yes, but instead she burst into tears. The puppy, disgruntled, climbed off her lap, but she didn’t notice. Watching her shoulders heave with her sobs, Justin felt helpless. He’d made such a complete mess of things with this talk.
But then she flung her arms around him, and clung to him, and he realized no—this was good. Crying was much healthier than silence. This was going to be a process, but he and his daughter had survived the first step.
Watson was waiting by the window when Zak got home, curled up on the window ledge, keeping an eye on the world. He did not come running to greet Zak, the way a dog would do, and Zak respected him for this.
Cats excelled at both dignity and self-preservation. When he was growing up Zak’s family had both a dog and a cat. The dog had developed a mean streak, an inevitable result of being on the wrong end of Zak’s father’s boot too many times.
Not so the cat, who’d been smart enough to make himself scarce whenever the patriarch of the family was around. A small boy in a tough family could learn a lot from a cat. And Zak had.
But maybe he’d learned his lesson too well. He’d liked his dispatcher job because it kept him out of the fray. But it also hampered his ability to be effective. If he’d been wearing a deputy badge when he’d picked up Trevor, he would have been able to knock on his parents’ door and insist on getting a statement, right then and there while Trevor was still edgy and afraid.
Zak put together a healthy stir-fry for dinner: chicken, bok choy, some mushrooms, and a dash of peanut sauce. He had to make up for the nights of indulging in burgers with Tiff. Dietary lapses aside, he was glad she’d moved back. Their friendship was like a pair of comfortable old slippers—they still fit, even though they hadn’t been worn in years.
After he’d finished eating, Zak made some notes about his encounter with the boys that night and his conversation with Trevor. He hoped the boy didn’t chicken out tomorrow and go back on his promise to tell his folks what had happened—and more importantly, tell the sheriff, too.
Zak wondered if the sheriff would be able to pull more details from Trevor. He was sure the kid had seen more than he’d admitted. He sent a text message to Tiff, asking the color and make of Kenny Lombard’s vehicle. Her response was terse: Black Dodge Ram.
Zak took a deep breath. This case would really come together if Trevor could at least confirm the color of the truck. Kenny must have known where Riley parked her car at night. He’d met her there and they’d had an argument. When he hit her, Kenny might not have realized his own strength. The fact that he hadn’t left the body where it was, but had dropped it off outside the medi-clinic seemed to indicate some level of remorse.
Of course, the truck Trevor had seen might not have been Kenny’s, but someone who lived on Lost Creek Road.
First on the street was Dr. Pittman, the coroner, and then Derick and Aubrey. The next house belonged to Dr. Morgan, the local vet, and his wife Nora, who worked for the Sparks family. After the Morgan’s was a vacant home, currently for sale, followed by the Fitzgeralds who owned the pharmacy. Finally there was the largest home of all, the one belonging to Derick’s parents, Will and Jen.
But what link did any of those people have with Riley?
A vague memory teased Zak, something that had been listed in the inventory of items in Riley’s car. That report had been long filed and none of the contents deemed worthy of follow-up. He was the only one who’d considered the notebook worthy of interest. But there’d been a pen clipped to that notebook. And there had been something familiar about that pen...
An idea popped into his head. Was it possible?
Deciding he wasn’t going to sleep until he tested his theory, Zak pulled on his boots and jacket, despite Watson’s aggrieved look.
“Sorry, buddy. Duty calls.” Wind and snow blasted his body the moment he stepped outdoors. Another two inches of snow had settled on his truck during the time it had taken him to prepare and eat his dinner. Methodically he brushed the truck clean, then carefully drove the snow-covered roads back to the office.
Once inside it took only minutes to find the photographs he was looking for. He scrolled through pictures of Riley’s sleeping bag, the duffel bag with her clothing, running shoes, a couple of books. And then the notebook, with the pen still attached. A white pen with a green logo.
Zak zoomed in on the logo until he could read the printed letters: Sparks Construction.
Was it possible Riley had visited the office, to inquire about building her dream home? But Sparks Construction specialized in luxury homes, nothing near as modest as the place Riley had sketched out.
As he puzzled over this, Zak reviewed the search terms he’d copied from the library computer that afternoon. He went over the list once, twice, and on the third time a phrase jumped out at him, followed immediately by a theory that was so preposterous it couldn’t be true.
And yet...it would explain why Riley had come to the town of Lost Trail and not any other place. It would explain where she got that pen. And why she’d opened a new bank account with those fat cash deposits.
Zak drew a heavy black line under the words: rights of a birth mother.
On its own, the phrase didn’t mean much. But add in some other curious coincidences, like Derick and Aubrey adopting a child practically out of the blue at the beginning of September. Derick and Aubrey acting like happy, doting parents for the first month, then becoming nervous hermits around the beginning of October—after Riley Concurran moved to town.
Riley Concurran, the birth mother of their baby. What deal had they struck with her? Had it been legal? Zak suspected not. No, he guessed they’d paid her for the baby—in weekly five thousand dollar increments that wouldn’t raise the curiosity of anyone at the bank—and in return Riley had agreed to stay out of their lives.
Only she hadn’t. Why? Did she come seeking more money or because she regretted giving away her child? The sketchbook of her dream home—it had included a room with a crib. Why hadn’t he picked up on that earlier? If Riley had wanted her baby back, what would that have done to Derick and Aubrey—and their marriage?
According to Tiff, Derick’s wife had been on the verge of leaving him because they couldn’t have a child. And he’d been under pressure from his folks, too, who were desperate for a grandchild...and an heir to the family business.
Derick must have arranged to meet Riley. And when she insisted she wanted the baby back...Derick must have gone into a rage and hit her.
That part was hard for Zak to imagine. It just didn’t fit the character of the guy he’d grown up with. But there’d been that bruise on Aubrey’s face. So maybe Derick had changed, buckling under pressure that was too much for him to bear.
That had to be it.
And yet, it still didn’t feel right. Later that night, in bed, listening to the howling storm outside his window, Zak continued to play with his theory, twisting it this way and that, trying to figure out why it didn’t ring true.
And then, just as he was drifting to sleep, a new idea emerged, the way wispy water particles clotting together form a cloud on the peak of a mountain.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As a rule Zak ran every morning regardless of the weather. But his anxiety about whether Trevor and his parents would show up to give a statement—as well as the fresh foot of snow on the ground, and temperatures cratered at a frigid minus twenty—convinced him it would be better to get into work early. His revised theory about Riley’s murder still sounded incredibly farfetched to him. And based, as it was, on circumstantial evidence—a pen, a hunch about those bank transactions, a phrase used for an Internet search—Zak knew there was no way he was going to convince Sheriff Ford to follow up on it.
And yet, in
his gut, he felt he was right.
His only hope of convincing anyone was if Trevor came in to make a statement—and if Zak could convince him to say more than he had last night.
Zak added fresh kibble and water to Watson’s bowls. As he made his exit, Watson, already stationed on his window ledge, gave him his usual blank stare by means of farewell.
The bitter cold air stung his face and lungs as he dashed for his truck. A brilliant red glow on the eastern horizon foreshadowed the upcoming dawn, but the streets were still dark as Zak drove his usual route to work. At least the snow had stopped and the plow had been out sometime early that morning.
In the office Zak put on coffee, then went over the steps of logic that had led him to his eureka moment last night.
He went over all the evidence: the preliminary autopsy, the crime-scene photos, the bank records and written statements that made up the official evidentiary trail, and then his own notes.
To him, his theory held. He longed to blurt out everything to Nadine, when she came in twenty minutes after eight, swearing because she’d forgotten to plug in her SUV and had needed a boost from her neighbor to get it started.
But if Trevor didn’t show up, how would he prove it?
He decided to keep quiet, though his nerves were so jittery, he couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time.
“What’s with you?” Nadine asked as she poured her first coffee. “You’re flitting around like a riled-up hornet this morning.”
He shut the filing cabinet. “Just putting away a few things.”
“Huh.” She gave him a suspicious look, but went back to her desk and said nothing more about it.
Half an hour later Butterfield arrived, followed, mere minutes later, by the sheriff. Everyone’s first action was to grab hot coffee and complain about the weather.
“It’s not even officially winter yet,” Nadine grouched.
“Bet you’re missing the rodeo life now,” Butterfield taunted. “You could be in Vegas, gearing up for the rodeo finals.”
“Those day are over and I’m okay with it.” Nadine glanced at the phone, obviously anticipating a call from the detective in California.
Zak empathized with her anxiousness. No rush on earth matched this feeling of being on the verge of solving a case. He didn’t care about scoring points with the sheriff, being first over the line. If he could have nudged Nadine into supporting his theory, he would have gladly done so, and let her take as much limelight as she wanted. But his theory was so far-out he knew no one was going to believe him, unless...
Come on, Trevor. Do the right thing.
Time ticked along with excruciating slowness. Finally, at quarter to nine, stuff started happening fast. Trevor and his mother came in at the exact moment as the phone on Nadine’s desk started to ring.
She jumped on it. “Deputy Black here.”
Meanwhile Zak sprang from his chair, beyond relieved Trevor had followed through. “Morning, Patsy, Trevor. Cold one, isn’t it?”
Patsy put her hand protectively on her son’s shoulder. Usually a bright, cheerful person, she was looking grim and worried. “We need to talk to the sheriff.”
“Hang on a sec.” Zak went to the open door. Sheriff Ford was at his desk, scowling at the paperwork Zak had left there for him to sign. “Patsy Larkin’s here with her son Trevor. He needs to talk to you about something he saw on Halloween night. Around the time of the homicide.”
“How the hell do you know what they want to talk about?” Butterfield barked.
The sheriff’s frown lines deepened. “All right. Bring ’em in.”
As Zak waved the mother and her son into the office he noticed Nadine still huddled over her phone.
Sheriff Ford put on the smile he reserved for voting citizens of Bitterroot County and got up to usher his visitors into chairs. “Hell of a morning, isn’t it? How are you doing, Patsy? Trevor? Everything good at home?”
Patsy was pale and not prepared for small talk. “My son needs to tell you what he saw the night that woman was killed.”
The sheriff’s gaze flew up to Zak, as if to say, What the hell is this about? Why didn’t you prepare me?
A little preamble was in order. Hanging back, near the door, Zak said, “I ran into Trevor last night and we had a chat. He’d been out late on Halloween night and saw something. It didn’t seem important to him at the time, but since we now know Riley Concurran was murdered around the same time he was walking home, I suggested he come in this morning and talk to you about it.”
Eyebrows still floating high on his forehead, the sheriff shifted his scrutiny back to the teenager and waited.
“Um. Like Zak said, it was late. Around three in the morning.”
Patsy turned to her son. “You never told me you were out that late.”
Trevor shrugged. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.” His gaze shifted to Zak briefly. “Well, not really. Maybe threw an egg or two. That’s all. On the way home we—I mean, I—saw this truck turn onto Tumbleweed from Lost Creek Road. I ducked into the doorway for the dentist’s office, and waited for the truck to pass, but it didn’t. Instead the driver turned onto the back alley and stopped behind the clinic. I started walking again and that was when I noticed a big guy get out of the truck and roll something out of the back of the truck onto the ground.”
The sheriff stared at him a long time before finally asking a question. “Who else was in the truck?”
“No one, just the driver.”
“And did you recognize the driver?”
Trevor stared down at his boots. “No, sir.”
“Could you tell what it was he rolled out of his truck?”
“Not really. It was big enough to be a person, but I didn’t even try to get a good look. I was sort of freaked out. I just took off for home.”
The sheriff studied the boy’s face for a while longer, then looked at the mom. “Thank you for coming in and telling us this.”
What the hell? That was it—no more questions?
“You notice the color of the truck, Trevor?” Zak asked the question casually as if the answer wasn’t that important.
Trevor’s shoulders tensed. “Um, it was dark out.”
“But there’s a bright streetlamp right by the medical clinic. Can you remember if the truck drove through that light? Maybe you caught a glimpse?”
The boy turned to his mother who gave a slight nod. “You have to tell them, Trevor. Don’t worry. As long as it’s the truth you’re doing the right thing.”
“The truck was white with a green logo on the side. I couldn’t read the words.”
But Zak could tell by Trevor’s guilty expression, that the boy knew what the words were, even though he hadn’t seen them clearly. After all, Trevor had grown up in a community where the Sparks Construction logo was everywhere.
Zak checked the sheriff’s expression, saw that his complexion had paled. He had to be drawing the obvious conclusion. Sparks Construction trucks had been designed to be distinctive—and there were no other vehicles in Lost Trail quite like them.
“Trevor was scared to tell you this,” Patsy confided. “He was worried he might get his dad in trouble. Chris works for Sparks Construction, you know. But something like this—it’s just too important to keep secrets.”
“Yes, yes, you did the right thing by stepping forward, young man.” The sheriff gazed off in the distance for a few seconds, then pulled in a breath and squared his shoulders. “The driver of the truck...would you say he was tall or short? Fat or thin?”
“He was a big, tall man, sir. Not really fat but—” Trevor held out his hands to indicate a big gut.
Zak felt suddenly both light-headed and elated. He’d been right.
Arranging for an illegal adoption, trying to “handle” the birth mother and eventually killing her—none of this stuff sounded like Derick. But it wasn’t beyond the range of possibility for his father. Will Sparks was known for being a tough old bastard, a m
an used to getting what he wanted, and bulldozing over others to get it. In fact he was the only man in town Zak could remember his own father—also a tough old bastard—ever acting afraid of.
If Will Sparks had killed Riley and dumped her body out at the medical clinic, that would explain why Trevor had been afraid to say anything. Trevor’s father worked for Sparks Construction. He wouldn’t want to say something and risk his dad losing his job.
But now Trevor’s description of the truck, where it had come from, and what the driver’s physique had been like, could leave no doubt.
Yet the sheriff’s expression didn’t change an iota. “Okay. That’s good to know. Thanks again, Trevor, Patsy.” He offered his hand to each and then turned to Zak. “Take these fine folk to Butterfield. He can get Trevor’s signed statement.”
“Will do, Sheriff.” As Zak led them out, Nadine brushed her way past him.
“Sheriff, can I have a word?”
She went in without closing the door behind her and as Zak pulled up chairs for Patsy and Trevor near Butterfield’s desk, he overheard her talking.
“...the ex-boyfriend’s name is Connor O’Leary. But he can’t be the one who beat Riley to death. I just got off the phone with Detective Bowering. Connor O’Leary’s been incarcerated under the California pimping and pandering laws for the past six months...”
At that point the door closed and Zak couldn’t hear any more. Not that he needed to.
The sheriff’s prime suspect was now in the clear and he’d been handed a clue for a new one. Question was...what would he do about it?
As soon as Trevor and Patsy left the office, the sheriff slipped on his shoulder holster and then grabbed his weathered sheepskin coat. “Going to pay Will and Jen Sparks a visit. Black, you’re coming with me.”
“Yes, Sheriff.” Nadine snapped up at the order with a let’s go get ’em enthusiasm.
Butterfield half rose, looking like he was going to object, then abruptly sat back down and kept quiet. Zak wondered if he was remembering the large donation Sparks Construction always made to Sheriff Ford’s election campaign. Maybe Butterfield was looking down the line to a time when he might be knocking on the Sparks’s door looking for support?
Bitter Roots Page 19