Hot on the Trail

by Vicki Tharp

  “So much for him not drinking,” Quinn said around a bite of sandwich, sounding as dejected as a kid who’d found out the tooth fairy wasn’t real.

  “Matches from a bar doesn’t prove he was drinking. He could have borrowed them from someone to light a cigarette.”

  “Kurt dipped.”

  “Still not a smoking gun.”

  Behind them, the phone beeped as it powered back on. The cord was too short to reach the table, so Quinn took his plate, balanced it on the center divider of the sink, and boosted himself onto the counter.

  The phone beeped a few times as he thumbed through various menus. “Got a piece of paper?”

  Jenna opened a drawer above the cutlery with pens and pencils and rubber bands. In the back of the drawer, she found a partially crumpled envelope. “Go.”

  Quinn gave Jenna three numbers. “Those were the only numbers he called. That last one he called multiple times a day.”

  “When was the last time he called it?”

  Quinn scrolled back through the call list. “Six minutes after seven. Friday night.”

  “That’s the night he died. What about the other numbers?”

  Quinn held half the sandwich between his teeth as he switched the phone from his right hand to his left, then took a bite, hampstering the morsel in his cheek pouch. “The first number he called a couple times, two and three weeks ago. The second, he only called once. A week ago, today.”

  “What about texts?”

  He thumbed to another menu. “All to the most frequently called number.”

  “What do they say?”

  “This is weird. All outgoing. No return texts. Starts out with I’m sorry… please pick up the phone… are you mad… you can’t ignore me… answer me… this isn’t funny… call me… I need to talk to you… I’m getting really worried… and the last one says, I’m coming over.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.” How could Jenna have missed that? She started in on the other half of the grilled cheese, since Quinn seemed to have forgotten about it.

  “We don’t know if it’s his girlfriend. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s a girl.”

  “Still, chances are…” She let the sentence dangle.

  Quinn shrugged.

  “Maybe she broke up with him, and he was upset and…” Her heart did a slow barrel roll in her chest like those planes she’d seen at the air shows. “Maybe she’s the reason Kurt…” Jenna couldn’t finish the sentence without losing her composure, so she didn’t try.

  “One way to find out,” he said as he punched the Call button. He put it on speaker, but the phone bleeped three times, and the call died. “No service. Figures. We can try the landline up at the big house.”

  Jenna scrunched up her face. “Yeah…not gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d rather no one knows what we’re doing unless we find something helpful. They’re going to tell us to let the sheriff handle it.”

  “Then let’s drive into Elk Creek. We should have a couple bars of service there.”

  Jenna grabbed the half of the grilled cheese she’d commandeered, as well as the grapes. Quinn swallowed the last of the tea, popped a couple of chips into his mouth, and hopped off the counter, taking the charger with him.

  Jenna palmed the matchbook and card and stuffed them into her back pocket.

  As they headed out, Quinn plucked Kurt’s keys off the hook. Dink hopped off the bed and ran out ahead of them.

  “You sure this wreck will get us there?” Jenna asked as they climbed in the Mustang. A seat spring poked her in the rear, and she slouched to avoid it.

  “It may look a little rough on the outside, but Kurt was a jet mechanic before he became a pilot. Trust me. This baby runs faster than a gazelle through a starving pride of lions.”

  Quinn started the Mustang, the countertorque of the powerful motor twisting the body on the frame as he gassed it, the grumble and rumble settling deep into her marrow.

  In Elk Creek, for lack of a better place to park and make the call, they pulled into the parking lot of the local diner, the sun bouncing off the bright skin of the sleek, converted train car. Jenna pulled down the visor. It fell off in her hand.

  She tossed it onto the cracked dash. “So, who do we call first?”

  Quinn picked up Kurt’s phone. “Let’s start with the number he called just the one time last week.”

  He thumbed to the number, hit Call, and activated the speaker. It rang four times before someone picked up.

  “Kurt, where the hell have you been, man?” There was an urgency in the man’s voice as he whisper-yelled, as if trying not to be overheard.

  In the background, music played, country songs that hadn’t seen the top of the charts in a couple of decades, along with the general din of voices over the occasional tink of glass.

  “Kurt. Quit messing with me.”

  Quinn mouthed the word “matchbook,” and Jenna scrambled to pull it out of her pocket.

  “Is this”—Quinn flattened out the matchbook cover—“Cruisers?”

  No answer. The song ended, and another began.

  “Hello?”

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend,” Quinn said. “Who are you?”

  As George Strait started in on a chorus, the line went dead.

  “Call him back.” Jenna’s palms began to sweat.

  Quinn hit Redial. The phone rang. Disconnected. Didn’t go to voice mail. “Probably shut it off.”

  Jenna’s leg bounced up and down. “What are the chances that guy was at Cruisers?”

  “If I was betting my last dollar in Vegas, I’d take those odds.”

  Jenna pulled the business card out of her pocket. “Ward Holleran—A-Okay Insurance.” She rattled off the number. “Is that one of the numbers Kurt called?”

  “It was the number he called a couple of times shortly after coming up here.”

  “Give me the phone,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  She punched in the number and put it on speaker. When a man answered, she forced a quaver into her voice. “W-Ward Holleran, p-please.”

  Quinn gave Jenna a look.

  “Speaking.”

  She held up a finger, telling Quinn to hang on. “Um, yeah. I-I don’t know if you can help me. My husband was in a horrible accident on Friday night. And now everyone is asking if I have”—Jenna threw in a convincing sob for the added effect—“if my husband had l-life insurance.” She cleared her throat. “I found your card in his wallet. I was hoping he’d gone ahead and gotten insured like I’d been asking him to for ages.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am. What did you say the name was?”

  “Kurt. Kurt Kordell.”

  “Kurt K… Oh, um, wow… You said ‘Kordell,’ right?”

  Jenna gripped Quinn’s hand. Maybe they’d found a lead. “Yes, Kordell.”

  A chair squeaked, and there was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kordell, but no, your husband didn’t have a policy with me.”

  Jenna slumped in the front seat. Quinn sat back and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Can you check your rec—”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Please, it’s vital.”

  “Ma’am, if he had a policy, he didn’t have it with me.”

  “But you knew him.” Jenna made it a statement, positive by Holleran’s reaction she was correct.

  “Yes. I wasn’t his insurance agent, I was his…”

  Seconds ticked off one after the other. Quinn made a come on rolling motion with his hand even though Holleran couldn’t see. When she’d counted to ten, she softly said, “You were his what, Mr. Holleran.”

  “I—damn,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he was talking
to her when he’d said it. “I guess it doesn’t matter now… I was his AA sponsor.”

  Jenna’s field of vision started to spot, her lungs burned, and she released her held breath.

  “The accident…he wasn’t drinking, was he?” Holleran asked.

  “The test results haven’t come back yet.” The truth. “Do you have reason to believe he might have been? Did he do something, say something, at the meeting on Friday night that would make you think that?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t show for the meeting.”

  “No, that’s not right, he told me he was go—”

  “I’m sure he went to a meeting, Mrs. Kordell. There are a number of locations and times in the area. Look, ma’am. I have to go. He seemed like a good guy. Outgoing. Everybody liked him. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  “Tha—”

  The line went dead.

  Quinn pulled his hand free of her grip and grimaced as he worked the circulation back into his fingers. “He was in a hurry.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sitting in the car outside the diner in the little town of Elk Creek, Quinn reached down and fiddled with the stick shift with the eight-ball topper Kurt had installed in the ’Stang for good luck.

  Fat-fucking lotta good that had done him.

  He glanced over at Jenna. Her focus was out the front of the bug-stained windshield. She raised a half-hearted hand and waved to someone Quinn didn’t recognize as they came out of the diner.

  “I wonder why he never made it to his meeting,” Jenna said.

  “I wonder why this Holleran dude thought Kurt was outgoing. Stubborn, reserved, amateur asshole—those I’d expect. ‘Outgoing’? Wouldn’t make the top-one-hundred list.”

  “New town, new life. Maybe he was trying something different.”

  “Doubt it.” In the rearview mirror, the sheriff’s truck passed by. Quinn started the engine, the growl settling into his chest as he shifted into Reverse. “At least not with Kurt. He never seemed too bothered by the old Kurt to think he needed to reinvent the Kurt wheel.”

  Quinn pulled out of the parking lot, following in the direction the sheriff had taken.

  “Where we going?”

  “Find out if the sheriff has any news.”

  “Investigations take time.”

  “I’m impatient.”

  A couple of blocks later, Quinn turned into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. The building hadn’t been there the last time he’d roared through town.

  The office was located in a one-story building. Government-issued brick, created by a government-issued architect, who couldn’t design his way out of a box. Literally. Perfect square. Quinn gave the guy points for dimensional accuracy.

  The inside of the building had the same dramatic flair as the outside—slate-gray industrial-grade linoleum, flat-white walls, and humming fluorescent lights.

  No one manned the reception desk. Quinn and Jenna stood and waited. And waited. And waited. From somewhere in the back, they heard voices.

  Quinn started down the hall.

  “Where are you going?” Jenna said in a loud whisper.

  Stepping back beside her, he leaned in and said, “Why are you whispering?”

  “I—” Jenna brought her voice back to normal. “I don’t know. But you can’t go back there.”

  Holding his hands up by his head, he walked down the hall backward. “I’ll put my hands up. Maybe Barney won’t shoot.”

  He turned around, dropped his hands, and continued down the hall. Jenna rushed to catch up. “Wait for me.”

  She caught up as they passed the first empty office, the door partway open, the voices getting louder the farther they went. The hallway opened into a large central room with a podium and several rows of hard, uncomfortable-looking chairs. Other offices and the break room spoked off on all sides.

  The corner office opposite the break room had a large window overlooking the central area, its mini-blinds down but open. A placard by the door was labeled Sheriff St. John.

  A woman in full uniform—Kevlar vest, gun on one hip, Taser on the other—came out of the break room, where everyone had congregated. “Can I help you?”

  Quinn pointed to the sheriff sitting behind his desk with the phone resting on his shoulder. The sheriff was typing something into a computer. “He’s expecting us.”

  The deputy bumped her chin up in a go-ahead motion, and Jenna pinched him on his side.

  “Ow, what was that for?”

  “For lying. You’re going to get us both arrested.”

  Quinn laughed. By the way her cheeks flushed, she’d only been half-kidding.

  “They have better things to do,” he said with a tilt of his head toward the break room, where the deputies were busy butchering a sheet cake.

  They walked into St. John’s office, the sheriff too focused on his phone conversation and the computer monitor to bother looking up. He did raise an index finger to them, in a wait-a-minute gesture, so at least he was aware they were in the room.

  Beside him, Jenna let out a noise somewhere between mouse squeak and injured bird. She took a step back. Quinn grabbed her wrist before she had the chance to raise the white flag and go into full retreat.

  He turned to her and mouthed the word, “What?”

  With her free hand, she pointed to a file on the desk. Several pictures lay on top of the open file. A slow burn of adrenaline seeped into his system, the heat rising along his spine like the thin, smoky tendrils of burning tinder.

  He eased over to the desk, she grabbed the back of his T-shirt, and he lightly batted it away.

  St. John gave him a fleeting glance, but Quinn didn’t think the sheriff’s brain registered that Quinn had just seen potentially confidential information. With a hand on the corner of the file, Quinn eased it toward him. Case photos. A syringe and a charred, bent spoon. A dead man.

  A dead Kurt.

  Quinn’s chest caved, and he closed his eyes and searched for his detachment, his focus, his inner strength…almost…almost… He took a deep breath and held on tight—got it.

  When he reopened his eyes, he picked up one of the photos and placed his thumb over Kurt’s head. Which helped a bit with the whole pretending-he-didn’t-know-the-guy thing.

  In the photo, Kurt lay facedown on the ground. The hay barn with the strip of siding missing in the background. Jeans, running shoes, plaid flannel shirt, the left sleeve rolled up to the elbow. No blood, no guts. If Quinn didn’t know better, he’d have thought Kurt was just sleeping one off.

  St. John dropped the receiver back onto the base of the phone, snatched the photos from Quinn’s hand, piled up the pictures, and flipped the file closed.

  The sheriff sat back, laced his fingers over his abdomen. “Need something?”

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Jenna said.

  He spared her a brief nod, raised his brows at Quinn.

  “Any new developments?” Quinn asked.

  One heartbeat. Two. Three. In no apparent hurry to answer, St. John stared at Quinn. Nine. Ten. Glanced to Jenna. Eleven. Twelve. Back to Quinn. Fourteen. Fift—

  “Only a status update from the medical examiner, the ME. More tests to be done, but so far the CliffsNotes version is a suspected massive drug overdose—whether intentional or accidental is anyone’s guess.”

  “Heroin?” Quinn asked.

  St. John nodded. “Cut heavy with Fentanyl, from the sound of it.”

  “Fentanyl?” Jenna pulled up one of the chairs, landing hard as if it had been her who had taken the dose of the powerful painkiller, not Kurt.

  “An opioid,” Quinn said. “Fifty to a hundred times more potent than morphine.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  St. John picked up the file, tapping the spine on the edge of his desk. “More a
nd more often, heroin is being cut with other drugs like Fentanyl. Acetylfentanyl in this case. Used by many of the Mexican drug cartels. Fentanyl is cheaper, easier to make than heroin. You can increase the potency for a fraction of the cost.”

  “El Verdugo. The Hangman,” Jenna said, her voice whisper-thin. “You think he’s back?”

  “Not that we’ve been able to prove. And the Fentanyl isn’t a signature ingredient. Your friend could have gotten the drug from anybody.”

  Quinn had only caught a peek at the photos before the sheriff had taken them back. He had a feeling he’d missed something. Quinn held his hand out for the file. “May I?”

  The sheriff continued to tap the file on his desk as he considered Quinn’s request, perhaps running a mental pro-con list.

  Finally, he tossed the file toward Quinn, who scooped it up and took the chair beside Jenna. She didn’t lean in or look over his shoulder; instead she stared at her clasped hands in her lap.

  There were a bunch of photos. Of Kurt, the area around him. The space where he’d been found. His clothes and other belongings after being removed from his body. Evidence markers by the syringe and the bent spoon.

  “This is everything you found?”

  St. John leaned forward in the chair, his full attention on Quinn. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Did the ME confirm it was the vein in his left arm that he used to shoot up?”

  “I believe that’s correct.”

  Quinn flipped through the photos again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “Then, where is the tourniquet?”

  “The tourniquet?” Jenna asked.

  “If he was shooting up in his arm, he’d need a tourniquet to raise the vein.”

  “You seem to know a lot about IV drug use,” St. John said, a question and off-base observation all in one.

  Quinn didn’t owe him an explanation. Knowing people who had used, didn’t mean he used as well. Using drugs wouldn’t magically make his arm better. Or save his career.

  Then it hit Quinn what had been bugging him about the photos. It was the sleeve of Kurt’s left arm, which had been rolled up. “Kurt was left-handed.”