by Terry Odell
Mick and Solomon could be brothers separated at birth when it came to talking.
Gordon used the mirror above the bar to check out the rest of the room. Still early, things were quiet. He recognized most of the customers, although he couldn’t put names to all of them. Men in twos and threes sat at tables. A few male-female couples. No women sitting alone, which was the norm here. If women came in without men, it tended to be in groups of two or more. Then again, women tended to do a lot of things in groups, down to restroom visits. Gordon had never figured that one out.
In the far corner, a solitary man sat hunched over a beer, his face obscured by a Stetson pulled low over his forehead. Brown Carhartt jacket open over a plaid shirt. Dressed like over half the Colorado population. Full beard reddish-brown, with a moustache to match. With his head tilted downward, Gordon couldn’t estimate his age. But if the man was hiding, he’d have taken a seat facing the back of the room.
“The guy in the cowboy hat,” Gordon said. “He been here before?”
“Can’t say that I recall,” Mick said. “But if we were busy, or if I was off, it’s possible. Someone else might know. Want me to ask?”
“Not now,” Gordon said. “Has he been in here long?”
“On his second Fat Tire. Running a tab, so he might be here a bit longer. I can have Clarice chat him up if you want. You think he’s trouble?”
“I’m curious. You’ll make sure he’s not impaired before you let him drive away, of course.”
“Of course.” Mick looked almost hurt that Gordon would bring it up.
“You wouldn’t happen to know what he drives, would you?”
“No, can’t see much of the parking lot from here. You asking to look at our video?”
Gordon figured it couldn’t hurt. “You offering?”
“How much do you want to see?”
“From when that guy arrived?”
Mick tucked the towel into the waist of his apron. “I’ll set it up.”
Mick disappeared into the back, and Clarice, one of the wait staff, who also happened to be Mick’s sister-in-law, came from the kitchen carrying a cheeseburger platter. Gordon watched her set it in front of Carhartt Cowboy. Although he couldn’t hear what she said, he assumed it was the usual, “Can I get you anything else?” spiel, in an attempt, perhaps, to start a conversation. The man shook his head and took another sip of his beer before squirting ketchup onto his fries. Clarice hung there for a couple seconds, but it was clear the man wasn’t going to talk.
And there’s nothing wrong with someone wanting a burger and a beer without engaging in conversation.
Clarice stopped by Gordon’s stool. “He’s a quiet one. I can bring your wings into Mick’s office if you want to eat and watch.”
Gordon took a healthy swig of his beer and set the glass down. “That would be fine.” He wandered to the end of the bar, hung a right, and into Mick’s office.
“I’ve got it set up so you can see both cameras—parking lot and entrance. It’s cued to an hour ago,” Mick said. “I don’t think the guy’s been here that long.”
Gordon started with the parking lot. He pushed play, fast-forwarding through frames of nothing happening, pausing whenever a new car came into view. The camera didn’t pick up the entire lot, but it caught people crossing to the walkway leading to the street.
One of the Subarus appeared shortly into the video. A mom and two kids got out. Not likely suspects. Gordon fast-forwarded again. A few pickups, a handful of SUVs—probably the most common vehicle type around here—a sedan or two. Finnegan’s wasn’t the only place serviced by this lot, which meant Gordon couldn’t assume they were going to the pub. A Subaru SUV appeared. Gordon hit the pause button.
A man, alone, but not Carhartt Cowboy. Gordon watched him lock his car and stride toward the walkway. He wore a Broncos blue-and-orange parka and matching knit cap. Gordon pegged him as one of the men he’d seen sitting at a group table. He never saw the third Subaru appear. He assumed it was out of range of the cameras. Had the driver known the placement of the cameras? Or had he simply taken any available space?
Clarice brought his wings. Gordon switched to the entry camera before diving in to the greasy, spicy, sauce-covered bits of heaven. He dipped a wing into the sauce, eating with one hand so he could use the other to control the video.
There! Damn. Carhartt Cowboy entered through the front door, stopped, stomped his feet, and wiped them on the mat inside the door. Scuffed, muddy cowboy boots. Gordon got a quick glimpse of his face. Round, full cheeks. Bulbous nose above the moustache. The man tugged the brim of his hat down, rubbed his hands together, took off the gloves he was wearing and shoved them in his coat pockets. He must have parked on the street somewhere. No telling what he drove. Gordon didn’t think he could convince the Town Council to spring for CCTV cameras all over town. Not that he wanted them. But every now and then, it would be handy to know who was where, and when.
He finished the wing he was working on and went out the back exit from Mick’s office, then hurried around the building to the street. The wide-angle lens showed enough to know that Carhartt Cowboy had approached from the left. Gordon scanned both sides of the street for Subarus and Ford Focuses.
Nothing on this block. No empty slots, so it’s possible someone parked further up the street, but why, given a parking lot behind the buildings? Even if Carhartt belonged to the Subaru parked out of camera range, Gordon should have seen him walking across the lot to the walkway.
Gordon retraced his steps, and knocked on Finnegan’s office door. Mick let him in. “Find what you needed?”
What Gordon had found were things that made his hairs prickle. “Not exactly,” he said. “Is he still here?”
“Yep. So far, he’s still on his second beer and eating a cheeseburger.” Mick grinned. “No onions, if that’s a clue. Unless he skips without paying, he’s like most of the folks passing through. We get guys like him all the time. Should I be looking for something? Shifty eyes? Furtive behavior?”
“Nah. But if anyone joins him, let me know. And if he pays by credit card, a peek at the receipt wouldn’t hurt.”
“Always willing to help our local police,” Mick said.
Gordon’s phone sounded the siren ringtone that meant Dispatch was calling. “Hepler. You have something on those plates?”
Chapter 45
“Affirmative, Chief,” Connie, the night dispatcher said. “Nothing noteworthy.” She read off the first plate, saying it came back to a local woman, long-time resident. The soccer mom with the kids Gordon had seen, he surmised. The second, which matched the car Bronco Fan came from, belonged to a Colorado Springs resident. Was he meeting friends here? Staying here? Gordon hadn’t recognized the other men at his table. A conspiracy plot flew through his mind and was immediately dismissed. No. They’d been laughing, enjoying themselves. Hardly a clandestine meeting.
The third Subaru was a rental, Connie informed him. “Registered to the corporation. No way to identify the driver without paper,” she said. Was that Carhartt Cowboy’s vehicle? For all Gordon knew, the man could have parked in the lot hours ago, done some shopping, visiting, walking, and ended up at Finnegan’s, although he didn’t look like a shopper. The library wasn’t far. Maybe he’d been hanging there. The cowboy boots didn’t lend themselves to long hikes, but people who wore them were used to them and wouldn’t mind a stroll through the tiny city of Mapleton.
All questions, no answers.
“Thanks,” he said. “Keep me in the loop about any calls related to the burglary.”
Gordon returned to his wings. Lukewarm now, but still damn good.
And later, his visit with Angie was anything but lukewarm. And still damn good.
Gordon arrived at his office shortly before six the next morning. He poured the to-go cup of coffee he’d brought from Daily Bread into his mug, turned on his computer, and while it booted, brewed a pot of decaf for the rest of his morning. Decaf or not, the stuff Laur
ie had given him tasted ten times better than the real deal in the break room. Before dealing with work, he checked Paula’s Places. Still nothing about the Yardumians, Tranquility Valley, or any attractions in that area. Today’s post covered things to do in the Bellingham, Washington vicinity. Again, nothing to indicate when Paula had been there. Nice pictures, though.
After deciding it might be a place he’d like to add to his if I ever take another vacation list, he clicked away from the blog and picked up the night reports. A quiet night in Mapleton. Gaubatz hadn’t come down on Jost or anyone else. However, Gordon would still have to talk to the sergeant. One’s personal life and being a cop didn’t always play nicely together. He decided he’d wait until after the morning briefing. If Gaubatz’s emotions were too near the surface, no need to stir up extra waves.
His internal line announced a call from Dispatch. His heart jumped. A break? “Hepler.”
Connie’s calm voice answered him. “TA I thought you’d want to hear about, Chief.”
Traffic accident. Dispatch wouldn’t bother him if it was routine. Had someone he knew been hurt? He thrust away the possibilities racing through his mind. “Report.”
“Subaru SUV you’ve had your eye on took a dive down the mountain an hour or so ago.”
Okay, a work call, not personal. Switching mental gears, he took a slow breath. “State Patrol been called?” he asked.
“They’re on scene,” Connie said.
“Where?”
“Outside of town.” She gave him the highway mile marker. Well outside Mapleton’s city limits. Like so much of this part of the country, a stretch of road with mountain on one side, cliff on the other, and plenty of switchbacks. Accidents that were too common, especially in the winter months when the roads were icy.
“How’s the driver?” Gordon asked. At least they should be able to tell whether it was Carhartt Cowboy.
“Not with the vehicle. But that’s not why I called you,” Connie said. “They haven’t found the driver yet—they’ve got a dog on it—but they found a bunch of clothes in the car. Men’s clothes. Including your jacket.”
The hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck stood up.
“Alert the State Patrol. I’m on my way.”
Gordon grabbed his coat and keys. His conversation with Gaubatz would have to wait. He jumped into his official vehicle, hit the lights, and sped out of the parking lot. He managed to keep his speed commensurate with the road conditions—no need for him to become another casualty.
As he approached, the red and blue lights of the patrol’s vehicles burned through the pre-dawn darkness. An arrow of yellow lights warned approaching drivers of the blocked lane ahead. He fell into line with the crawling vehicles. Troopers let traffic pass in one direction at a time, keeping them away from any potential evidence.
Once his side of the road was moving, Gordon pulled his SUV behind the trooper’s Dodge Charger, well onto the shoulder, and hopped out. He made his way to the trooper directing traffic and showed him his badge. “I understand you’ve found some things that belong to me.”
The trooper shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I haven’t seen anything. I’m directing traffic.” He didn’t sound happy about it, but he hadn’t complained outright.
“Can you point me to who’s in charge?” Gordon said.
“That would be Trooper Harris. He’s down with the vehicle.”
Gordon strode ahead toward the flashing lights of another Charger and a Ford Explorer, checking the road for skid marks as he walked, trying to reconstruct the accident. One set of tire tracks in the slush. Gordon was no expert, but it didn’t look like another car had been involved. He stopped before reaching the point where the Subaru had gone off the road and peered over the edge. The patrol car’s spotlight was aimed down the mountain, giving Gordon a glimpse of several troopers working around the Subaru, at least fifteen feet beneath him. A rope extended from the front of the Explorer.
Déjà vu all over again.
No blizzard this time, but he wasn’t about to go down. This was the domain of the State Patrol, and they were welcome to it. He leaned against the fender of the Charger and waited.
Ten minutes later, the sky turning pink with the sunrise, a trooper made his way up the mountainside. Gordon stepped away from the car, pleased to see Brandon Harris hoist himself over the ridge.
“Someday, they’ll get guard rails along this stretch,” Harris said, shaking his head. “Think this is the fifth here this year, and it’s only February.” He offered a hand to Gordon. “Hepler. Good to see you again. Understand this one’s personal.”
“So my dispatcher tells me. You have the evidence from the vehicle?”
Harris tilted his head toward the Explorer, the Vehicular Crimes Unit vehicle. “Not all of it. What we brought up is bagged and tagged, though.”
“I want to look,” Gordon said. “Confirm what’s mine.”
“No problem.” Harris stepped toward the Explorer. “No signs of foul play in the Subaru. Doors were open. Driver might have been thrown clear. We’ve got a K-9 down there.”
“You haven’t found the driver?”
“Not yet. Car’s a rental. Going to have to track it down so we’ll know who we’re looking for.”
Gordon related his suspicions that the car had been rented by the man he’d seen at Finnegan’s, describing Carhartt Cowboy for the trooper. “There’s a chance he might be involved in a burglary in Mapleton, so I’d like to be part of the investigation.”
“Help is always appreciated,” Harris said.
Gordon waited while Harris unlocked the Explorer, reached in, and pulled out a large plastic bag. Gordon recognized his jacket. Also in the bag was the gift box with Angie’s original Valentine’s Day earrings. Since he’d bought a slightly different pair as a replacement, it looked like she’d get another present.
“Found a business card holder in the inside pocket,” Harris said. “Your cards. That’s when we called your PD.”
“Any problem with me taking this?” Gordon asked. “It’s evidence in the Mapleton crime.”
Harris shook his head. “Like I said, doesn’t look like this is a crime scene, and I doubt there’s evidence on the jacket that will help us reconstruct the accident. That much less to squeeze into our evidence collection. Help yourself.”
Gordon set the bag on the hood of the car. “Mind if I check the other stuff?”
“Be my guest. I trust you.” Harris laughed.
Gordon leaned into the trunk and recognized the shirts he’d left at Angie’s, and the wrapped box she was going to give him for Valentine’s Day visible through one of the plastic bags. “Those are mine, too.”
With Harris’s permission, he broke the seal on the bag and looked through the contents. His clothes, minus his sneakers and Dopp kit, were all there.
So, why had the driver—assuming it was the driver who’d taken his stuff—left these behind? Maybe the clothes weren’t a fit. Maybe the sneakers were. And the Dopp kit held things of a ‘one-size-fits-all’ nature. Nothing, other than his toothbrush, he assumed, that someone else wouldn’t put to use.
“I’ll need these, too.” Gordon resealed both bags and wrote his name over them.
“Hey, Harris!” A man’s voice came from behind them. Gordon turned, watching a trooper stride toward them. “Got some more evidence,” the trooper said. “This stuff is interesting.”
Chapter 46
Gordon stepped aside as the second trooper handed a plastic grocery bag to Harris. “Found this half-buried under a tree trunk ten feet from the vehicle.”
“You think it’s from our accident, or garbage that blew down the hill?” Harris said.
“Dog says it’s from the accident. Looked like someone tried to bury it, but didn’t count on Sophie. I’ve been on cases with her before. She’s one smart bloodhound.”
“I’d go with that,” Gordon said. He’d seen what trained search dogs could do, and would take a dog’s nose over t
he word of a human eyewitness any day of the week.
Harris slipped on a pair of gloves and opened the bag. “What do we have here?” He pulled out a fake beard and moustache. Reddish brown.
“Holy crap,” Gordon said.
Harris pulled out some rubbery things. “What are these?”
The second trooper peered at them. “That looks like a nose. And a chin. Don’t know what the other things are.”
“Stage makeup? Things you shove in your mouth to change the shape of your face?” Harris said. “Mission Impossible disguises?”
“I wouldn’t go that far—and you do know those disguises weren’t real, don’t you?” Gordon said. “But damn if this doesn’t all point to the man at Finnegan’s. He changes his nose, adds a different chin, full beard and moustache. Doesn’t matter if people see him. All he has to do is take them off, and he’s a new man.”
“A lot of trouble to steal a few bits and pieces,” Harris said. “Or was there more?”
“Nope,” Gordon said. “Aside from a pair of sneakers and a Dopp kit. But there’s something else that’s bugging me.”
Harris winged his eyebrows.
Gordon relayed the events of the accident from the B and B. “That car showed signs of being hit from the rear, though. And given the weather, it seemed reasonable that the car had been knocked over the edge.” He frowned, letting the facts grind through his brain. “Two accidents, both plausible given road conditions. In one, the driver claims his wife was waiting in the car while he went for help, but she’s gone. Looked like the car was clipped while it was on the shoulder. This one, there’s no driver to be found.”
Harris appeared to be mulling over the facts. “And no signs of impact, which makes them appear to be unrelated. Looks like the driver slipped down the mountain.”
“Or got out and pushed the car over,” Gordon said.
“But that wouldn’t explain the buried disguise, unless he went down, too. Per Sophie’s nose, this bag connects to someone in the car, so either the driver or an unknown passenger was down there. He could have gotten there inside the car—which would have been a stupid, risky move—or he hiked down afterward.”