by Terry Odell
Chapter 52
Gun drawn, keys in his pocket, penlight in his other hand, Gordon stealth-walked to the side garage entrance. From beyond, the Bark Brothers started up again. Gordon switched his penlight on, gripped it between his teeth and slipped the key into the lock. If there was anyone inside, the dogs’ barking would cover the sound of the deadbolt slipping aside. On the other hand, the dogs’ barking might alert an intruder that someone was approaching.
But those dogs barked at anything and everything that moved, from cars to squirrels, and if Wardell had managed to get inside Gordon’s home, he might have stopped paying attention. Smart to check the house for signs of forced entry first. Gordon left the door unlocked, slipped the keys into his pocket and, cupping his hand over the penlight so there was enough light for him to find his way, he began a trip around the perimeter of his house.
No windows broken. Given that was the level of illegal home entry expertise Gordon expected of Wardell, he already felt easier. The dogs’ barking grew louder, more frantic.
Geez, boys, it’s just me. I live here, remember. You see me all the time.
Gordon knew if Jill were home, she’d have shut the dogs up, but she worked in Denver and didn’t get home until seven. He shouldn’t complain. The dogs made a nice addition to his security system. He continued around the house, not noticing anything suspicious.
That’s the trouble with being a cop. You see bad stuff everywhere.
He made his way to the side garage door and let himself in. Using the penlight’s beam to guide him through the clutter in his garage, Gordon walked up the four steps to the door to his mudroom. He punched the code to disarm the alarm system before it went off and alerted the monitoring company, then moved quickly through the rest of the house, automatically checking for signs of disturbance. Nothing.
Once he was satisfied he was the only one inside, Gordon trotted to his car and retrieved the paperwork. Next, he fetched the battery-powered lantern from a mudroom cabinet. Working by lantern light wouldn’t be ideal, but without power, there wasn’t much else to do, although his rumbling stomach made him regret not grabbing something to eat before heading home.
At least the dogs were quiet now.
Gordon shed his coat, dumped his files on the dining room table, and set up the lantern. He’d finished sorting everything into related stacks when the humming of the refrigerator told him he had power again. Remembering the on-again, off-again power outages at the Yardumians’, Gordon decided he ought to take advantage of having electricity and found some leftover ribs he’d stuck in the freezer. He’d nuke them, eat, then move to his office where he could cross-reference things on his computer as he worked.
He collected all the papers and carried them upstairs to the spare bedroom he used as an office. When he set them on his desk, a few papers fluttered to the carpet. He retrieved them and checked to see which pile they belonged in. DEADBEAT DAD DEATHS, written in Solomon’s block printing headed one of the pages.
Gordon suppressed a grin. How had Solomon’s serial killer theory gotten mixed up with the Wardell files? Gordon jiggled the mouse on his computer and skimmed through Solomon’s notes while he waited for it to wake up—and the microwave to ding. Sometimes looking at a new puzzle brought the old one into perspective.
Solomon had summarized the deaths in succinct paragraphs, highlighting the names, dates, and places of each. Gordon was about to set the paper aside when he got that familiar buzzing in the recesses of his brain. Something that said this connected to something he’d seen before.
But what? None of it tied to anything he’d investigated, and only the pickup truck driver’s death had happened in Colorado. Gordon set Solomon’s notes aside and reached for the mouse.
He stared at the monitor. Apparently, he hadn’t closed his browser when he’d put his computer to sleep the last time he’d been home. He’d been looking at Paula’s blog. He refreshed the page to see if she’d put up anything about the Yardumians yet.
Yes. He skimmed the post, pleased that she’d mentioned the B and B in a good light, along with the rest of her typical generic things to do in the area posting. He’d wondered whether there were contributors other than Paula, and posts rotated, so maybe this was her time in the rotation.
He smiled and clicked away from her page. He needed more information about Orrin Wardell, and given the man wasn’t in any law enforcement databases, Google and the usual social sites were his best bet. He dug through the paperwork again, looking for Solomon’s notes and printouts.
The buzzing in his head grew louder. He grabbed Solomon’s Deadbeat Dads printout. Clicked over to Paula’s Places again. Scrolled through her posts. Looked at the index in the sidebar.
You’re seeing things because you want to see them. Solomon planted a bug in your ear.
But that didn’t change what he was looking at. Paula’s Places had a blog post from every single location on Solomon’s list. Was there a connection? Or was he jumping to conclusions?
Gordon compared the dates, which didn’t match, but he’d already determined that Paula’s blog posts weren’t chronological. There were more places on Paula’s blog than Solomon had on his list. But Solomon hadn’t reported on every suspicious deadbeat dad death. Did that mean there was an unsolved homicide or suspicious death in every location reviewed on Paula’s Places?
Now who’s looking at coincidences?
If he looked hard enough, he could find an unsolved homicide in almost any spot in the country. Surely they happened in tourist destinations. And why was he thinking Paula had anything to do with them?
The microwave signaled his ribs were done, and Gordon changed his original plan. Instead, he brought the ribs, along with a roll of paper towels, upstairs to his office. He read through the posts that matched the locations Solomon had noted, trying to see if anything looked like code. No repeated phrases. Gordon looked at the names of the victims, seeing if they were mentioned in any way in the posts. Another negative.
He picked the last rib clean, wiped his hands and reached for the phone. “Ed? It’s Gordon. You busy?”
“Having my ass kicked at some PlayStation game. Kids spend too much time mastering these things. Old fart like me doesn’t stand a chance. You need something? Wait. Did you find Wardell? The station didn’t call.”
“Slow down. I was looking at your serial killer notes. Since you’ve started the database searches, I thought I’d see if you wanted to follow up.”
“You have a suspect?” Solomon asked.
“Not exactly. But I have another one of those dreaded coincidences.” He explained what he’d found.
“A woman? That doesn’t fit the serial killer profile. And wasn’t it you who pointed out that serial killers don’t switch methods of killing?”
“I did, and I still think it’s far-fetched, but I thought I’d toss it your way. Poke around a little, then call the CBI or whoever’s investigating the pickup accident. Of course, that assumes you can find enough to keep them from laughing you out of a job.”
“I can see the headline. Blogger Kills Deadbeat Dads.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, and don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Hey, not to worry. Due diligence and all that crap. Gotta’ finish this game, and then I’ll get on it.”
“I was thinking tomorrow, Ed. When you’re on the clock.” Gordon could almost hear the disappointment in Solomon’s silence.
“Tomorrow it is, then,” his officer said.
Gordon had a feeling Solomon would be up half the night thinking about it. He set those notes aside and tackled his searches for Wardell. Given the man’s apparent propensity for disguise, Gordon typed in Wardell’s name and clicked on Images.
He got pages of them. Shots from theater productions. Wardell had one of those faces that lent itself to a multitude of roles. Cast shots, solo shots, shots with what Gordon assumed were leading ladies, many from college productions, according to the captions. Gordon du
g through the files, finding the images Solomon had printed, looking for ones he’d said were of Roni.
He compared those to what he was looking at. Shit. He looked again. Checked the date in the caption. That one of Wardell and Roni was from a production that had finished around the time she died.
Transfixed, he stared at Roni’s image.
Chapter 53
Gordon called Solomon again. “When you were searching for Veronica, did you look at other images once you matched the picture to the yearbook?”
“No. Saw no need once I verified it was her.”
“You at your computer?” Stupid question. Solomon wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow to start hunting down leads on his Deadbeat Dad Blogger Killer theory.
“Yes. I was … checking my email.”
Yeah, right.
“I’m going to send you an image I found. I want you to tell me what you think.”
“Sure thing, but meanwhile, I need to check this update from a contact in Telluride. He promised to keep me posted on the homicide.”
Gordon saved the picture he’d been staring at, then emailed it to Solomon. While he waited, Gordon put his cordless phone on speaker and went about the task of resetting all the clocks that had stopped while the power was out. He wondered why every single kitchen appliance needed its own clock. One battery-operated clock in the kitchen would tell him the time just fine.
So why do you bother resetting them every time the power goes off?
Solomon’s voice came through as Gordon finished setting the microwave to the correct time. “Hey, Chief. The autopsy on the uncle revealed fiber traces around his neck. They think he was murdered with a wool scarf. Purple.”
Gordon’s heart stopped.
“Chief? You there?” Solomon’s voice jerked Gordon back.
“Yeah. Wardell had a purple scarf. He hung it on a tree branch to mark the spot where his car went over the edge in Tranquility.”
“Whoa. That sure moves him up on the list for that one. I’ll relay that to Telluride. Wait a second. Your email’s here.” A brief pause. “I see what you mean. Shit, Roni bears a striking resemblance to Angie. At least she does in that picture. Hang on.”
Gordon waited, rethinking everything related to Wardell. Just because he had a purple scarf didn’t mean it was the purple scarf. And even if it was, it didn’t mean Wardell was the one who’d used it to kill his uncle.
But the odds that this was a random coincidence were damn slim.
Solomon came back on the line. “Okay, I looked at more pictures of Roni. That Angie thing isn’t obvious in all of them, but I’m going out on a limb here and saying if Wardell’s still delusional about Roni, he might be bent out of shape if he thought she was seeing someone else.”
“In addition to, or instead of holding me to blame for Jase Blackhawk’s death as a motive for the burglary?”
“With a nutjob, in addition to.” Solomon was quiet for a moment. “You had that cell phone incident at the B and B, right? Stolen memory card. What if Wardell was snooping through your phone—you said it was lying around, right? And he saw Angie’s picture? You think he might have been coming to Mapleton to see her? Thinking his dear departed Roni was alive and well?”
“How would seeing her picture lead him to Mapleton?” Gordon asked. “It was a picture of Angie I took at Aspen Lake, nothing in the background but trees. No sign or anything.”
“You had her picture connected to her contact information, didn’t you? He might not even have looked at your camera roll. Or, he might have looked at it after he saw Angie’s picture in your contacts.”
Right. Gordon had to expand his thinking. Somehow, when Angie was involved, his emotions got in the way of his brain. “Makes sense.”
Solomon took a breath. “How about this for a theory? Wardell comes to Mapleton looking for his Roni, who is really Angie, figures out where she lives, uses the fire alarm as a way to get into her place. Maybe he plans to be waiting, you know, surprise her. Only while he’s waiting, he snoops around. Sees a guy’s stuff in the apartment. He might not even know it was yours. He’s got enough screws loose, he goes ballistic and removes every trace of a man’s presence.”
“Shit. I’m going to get a patrol officer over there.” Gordon hung up and called Dispatch and told Connie to get someone to make sure Angie was safe.
“Done, Chief.”
Feeling less anxious, he went on. “Things have escalated. I want everyone looking for our suspect. Any and all additional Mapleton overtime manpower is authorized. And call County. Get them on board. If you need backup on Dispatch, that’s authorized as well.”
“Roger that.” Connie’s tone had shifted into two-hundred per cent Dispatcher. No emotion. Pure efficiency.
Next, he called Angie.
Getting a visit from a delusional man was one thing. A visit from a killer was something else.
Crap. Angie, pick up.
He set the cordless on the desk, grabbed his cell and punched in Angie’s number. Once he heard it ringing, he disconnected the cordless, and cell to ear, clambered downstairs.
Angie’s voicemail kicked in. Damn it.
Gordon kept his rising panic out of his tone as he left a message. “Angie. I’m on my way. Whatever you do, don’t open the door. Unless it’s one of my officers. I’ll explain later. Call me.”
He found his keys and rushed to the garage. He hit the remote to open the garage door, and when the lights came on, a back-lit male figure waited at the bottom of the steps.
A back-lit male figure pointing a shotgun at him.
Chapter 54
“Hey there, Gord, my man. Long time no see and all that. How about you put those hands up in the air where I can see them. You would know how it works, you being a cop and all.”
Brain reeling, Gordon complied. Buying time was always a good idea. “What do you want, Nick? I’m sure you don’t need a shotgun. I’m happy to tell you what you want to know.” He folded his hand over the phone, hoping Metcalf wouldn’t notice it. Could he punch in a 911 call?
Metcalf laughed, a deep, throaty, and utterly terrifying sound. “I don’t need to know anything. You, on the other hand need to know that you’re not going anywhere. Not until I get what I want. Meanwhile, lose the phone.” He chortled. “Again. That looks like a new one. But slow and easy. The phone. One hand. Put it on that shelf next to you.”
Gordon edged toward the shelf, laid the phone down. “All right. Phone’s gone.” He stayed where he was, hands raised. The compliant victim.
“Very good,” Metcalf said. “I like a man who can follow directions. I want you to stay where you are, on that step. No going up, no going down.”
Gordon’s mind raced. Keep him talking. Keep him calm. He’d already alerted Dispatch, so Angie would be safe. If she didn’t hear from him, or he didn’t show up, or if she called him and he didn’t answer, would she call the station?
Great. Just what he needed. He could see the headlines in the Mapleton Bee. “Police Chief Held at Gunpoint in His Own Home.” With Charlotte Strickland’s byline. Gordon hadn’t rearmed his alarm system since he knew he’d be going out to move his car into the garage.
“So, tell me what you want.” Gordon lowered his arms a couple of inches.
Metcalf waved the shotgun. “Keep ’em up, Gord, my man.”
“You’ve got the gun, Nick. My arms are getting tired.”
“You’re a cop. You’ve got a gun. Probably two. I know the drill. Cops never surrender their weapons. So the hands stay up.”
Metcalf had that right. His Glock was at his hip, his Beretta was tucked into an ankle holster. Gordon raised his arms half the distance he’d lowered them. A compromise. “Tell me why you’re here. What you want. Holding up a cop isn’t a smart move, and you struck me as a smart guy.”
Metcalf snorted. “I get by.”
Gordon was getting nowhere, other than buying some time. “How did you know where I lived?”
“Overh
eard you talking about Orrin to that hippie lady. Thought I should follow you. At a discreet distance, of course. Not that hard. Once you turned off the main road, it was fairly obvious where you were going. People are easier to track than game. Don’t have those prey instincts. And their senses aren’t as acute. You should have locked the side garage door as soon as you got in. Just sayin’.”
Gordon thought back. No, he’d never noticed anyone behind him. Would he have recognized Metcalf’s pickup in the dark? But Metcalf hadn’t been on his radar. He’d assumed if anyone were following him, it would have been Wardell, who’d most likely have gone with a sedan or SUV.
You’re standing here, proving that making stupid assumptions is never a good idea.
“You overheard me talking about Orrin? You’re staying at the Richardsons’?”
“Yeah. Nice ladies. They understand getting along with nature. Reminds me of my mom. I think they disapproved of my hunting, but they were too polite to mention it.”
“So, you and Orrin—” Gordon left the question vague, hoping Metcalf would fill in the blanks.
“You’re asking if we knew each other before meeting at the B and B? Yes.”
“You took the memory card out of my cell phone.”
Metcalf shook his head. “Nah. Frankly, I was surprised it worked at all after being stuck in the snow. But I’m not a thief. I left it on the table for you, with a note. Orrin, however, he’s a curious sort, and I wouldn’t have put it past him to snoop.”
“What do you mean, stuck in the snow? You said you found it in your car.”
Metcalf shrugged. “I didn’t say I never stretched the truth, only that I’m not a thief.”
Did Metcalf know Wardell through the mental health institute? If so, did Metcalf, to borrow Solomon’s phrase, have a few screws loose? He’d answered Gordon’s questions. How many more could Gordon ask before Metcalf got back on task—whatever his task happened to be.