by B. E. Scully
Martinez stood up and handed her his card. “Thanks for your time, Bea. One other thing is that we’d very much like to talk to Sean as soon as possible. We released him without charges and he was only held for overnight observation by mental health. So they’re not sure where he is right now, either.”
Doyle stood up, too, already ushering the detectives toward the door. “I’ll call if I hear or remember anything.”
“Oh, one last question,” Shirdon said. “A quick one, I promise. Does the phrase ‘Manlike Woman’ mean anything to you?”
Shirdon hadn’t been expecting a hit, but Doyle nodded. “Oh, sure. That was one of Sean’s favorite historical figures, a Native American woman who lived in the eighteen hundreds. Apparently she dressed like a man, claiming to have undergone a spiritual sex change or something like that. She then traveled all over the Pacific Northwest telling prophesies about the coming of the white men.”
“Kauxuma-nupika. Of the Kutenai tribe,” Martinez said, causing both women to turn and look at him. “That’s her name. Manlike woman. I learned about her in a Native American history class once.”
“I assume Sean first heard about her in one his classes, too. After that, she became his special kind of advisor or mentor, I suppose you could say. He was convinced that she watched over him and protected him from harm.” Beatrice Packard Doyle’s sturdy frame sagged beneath the weight of loss, as heavy as any sack of stones but much harder to unload. “But I guess she didn’t do any better job of it than I did.”
Back in the car, Shirdon gave her partner a skeptical look. “Kauxuma-nupika?”
“What? You don’t believe me?” Martinez asked. “You’re not the only one who can produce obscure intellectual references on a dime, you know.”
“It’s just the things you remember, Monte,” Shirdon laughed. “You can’t remember the plot of the book I was telling you about last week, yet you remember not just the tribe but the multiple-syllable, hard to pronounce name of a historical figure you learned about in college over twenty years ago.”
“You sound like my wife. Besides, how many spiritual sex change recipients from the eighteen-hundreds do you hear about? I thought it was interesting, is all,” Martinez shrugged. “You must, too, if you not only remembered the Hound making one vague reference to it during our interview, but also thought to ask his sister about it.”
“Oh, it’s interesting, all right,” Shirdon agreed. “But it’s even more interesting how three things keep turning up together: the Hound, the Bone Man, and our very own Lieutenant Mickelson.”
“You think Morris Falten really is the Hound’s Bone Man?”
“I don’t know,” Shirdon said. “But I do know that we need to trace this thing all the way back to the source. And the source is eleven years ago with Morris Falten’s supposed disappearance.”
“You’ve added that ‘supposed’ on,” Martinez said. “You think he’s still alive?”
“Another ‘I don’t know.’ But dead or alive, his disappearance might not be as unexplained as everyone thinks.”
“If Morris Falten is still alive, and he did suddenly un-disappear after eleven years of not even making contact with his own wife and kid, then you can bet there’s a pretty good reason. And according to the Hound, that reason is revenge.”
“We assume he hasn’t been in contact with his wife and kid,” Shirdon said. “If we skip lunch, we can check out that source directly. It’s still early enough to make it back home in time for a short visit with Morris Falten’s widow.”
“But you’re supposed to be buying lunch,” Martinez sighed. “And I’m supposed to be home in time to actually sit down and have dinner with my family for once.”
Shirdon hesitated. A few years ago, Martinez’s wife had been attacked right in the driveway of their home. It had shaken up both Monte and his marriage, and for a while he’d spent more time drinking at the Slammer than home with his family. Shirdon was too aware that she was a part of the problem—the lifestyle that caused cops like Monte to end up divorced and hardly knowing their own kids. The lifestyle where your job takes over your life until there’s no other version left. Both Monte and his marriage were back on track, but Shirdon never forgot how easy it was to step off the path and end up in the middle of the forest before you even realized you were lost.
Yet she still said, “I’ll make it up to Jen and the kids. Maybe have you guys over to my place for dinner for a change.”
“Great, a two course dinner of beer and macaroni and cheese.”
“Come on, Monte. I know the stress you’re under lately. But it’s like we’ve both been saying—something’s off here, and I think we both know it’s something pretty big.”
Martinez sighed again. “Okay. But you owe me two rounds at the Slammer. Maybe three. And not the cheap stuff, either.”
“When do I ever drink the cheap stuff?”
“If I remember right, Falten’s wife’s name is Jackie,” Martinez said. “I remember her from all the publicity after Falten’s disappearance. She kept a pretty low profile even then, though, and pretty much disappeared after the whole thing died down. I know Mickelson helped her and the kid out for a while, but I haven’t heard much about either of them for years. I’ll check it out on the way, but I think she still lives in the same house as when Falten was alive, in a neighborhood at the bottom edge of Pioneer Park.”
Shirdon and Martinez knew the area well—it was next to the field where they’d worked a murder case that had set the nation on a media frenzy that hadn’t died down yet.
By the time they pulled up to the yellow house with yellow curtains in the front windows, it was getting dark. Shirdon knocked on the door, and a teenage boy answered. He was all lean muscles and awkward angles, the build of a runner grafted onto the unfinished form of youth. A woman appeared behind him. She was in her mid to late thirties, with a sturdy build and long, dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She had sharp cheekbones in dramatic contrast with her soft oval face, and if Morris Falten’s son had his father’s build, his eyes were entirely his mother’s. Both had the large, dark eyes usually found on deer and the types of animated film characters drawn to look sensitive and endearing. But whereas the boy’s eyes were open and curious, his mother’s eyes were guarded and wary—suspicious, even.
Shirdon told Jackie Falten who they were, but decided to save the “why” until they were safely inside. Two detectives showing up with the information that a mentally ill man called the Hound was claiming her husband was back in town and set to murder his former partner wasn’t exactly welcome news.
Jackie Falten led the detectives to a small living room and settled them into a trio of couches piled high with needlepoint cushions. The room had dozens of paintings on the walls, most of which depicted nature scenes or animals—well-done, if unremarkable. But a series along the back wall caught Shirdon’s attention. They depicted figures in various poses of distress or even anguish—broken, hunched over figures shown from very far away, or lurid close-ups of mouths with pain-wracked grimaces or madly chattering teeth—all swirled in a calm, even soothing backdrop of blues and greys nonetheless interrupted by disturbing slashes of color.
“These are really good,” Shirdon said, abandoning her couch to have a closer look. “Who’s the artist?”
Jackie Falten paused, looked down at her hands, and then said, “I am.”
“They’re really good,” Shirdon repeated.
Another pause. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Ms. Falten,” Martinez broke in, “I know this may come as a surprise after so many years, but some new evidence might have turned up in regard to your husband’s disappearance.”
The boy, who Jackie Falten had introduced to them as Ted, sprang from the pile of cushions he’d been slouched into. “You mean you finally found out who killed my dad?”
“I wish I could answer that question with a ‘yes,’ Ted, I really do,” Martinez said. “But I can’t. Right now we’re j
ust looking into some possible new leads, but I’m going to be honest with you—it’s a long shot. I don’t want either of you to get your hopes up too far.”
Jackie Falten stood up and went to stare out the large picture window. “Does Detective Mickelson know you’re here?”
Martinez almost shot Shirdon a look, but then held it back. “No, not that we’re specifically here, as in at your house. But he’s aware of the case, yes, of course.”
Jackie nodded and kept staring out the window.
Morris Falten’s widow obviously wasn’t a talker, so Shirdon tried the direct approach. “Ms. Falten, when your husband disappeared—”
But that route seemed closed, as well. “I assume you read all of the original reports?”
“Yes, of course,” Martinez said. “But—”
“Then you know I told the detectives everything I knew back then, which wasn’t much. My husband went out one afternoon to ride his bike, like he often did, and he never came back. He didn’t say where he was going, and he had tons of places he liked to ride. He could have gone anywhere. I didn’t know anything more then, and I don’t now.”
“Okay,” Martinez tried again, “but have you ever heard of a man named Sean Packard? He’s a mentally ill man who calls himself the Hound, so maybe you’ve heard that name instead.”
Jackie Falten paused. Shirdon noticed that it was a habit, as if she’d spent many years weighing and carefully parceling out her words. “I’ve never heard of either of those names.”
“My dad was a big-time hero,” Ted said, returning to his pile of cushions. “They said it could have been some criminal he’d put away once, or even something to do with organized crime.”
“Ted, did your dad ever mention anything to you about a man named the Hound?” Martinez asked.
But Jackie Falten whipped around before the boy could answer. “My son doesn’t know anything about it.” Her voice was as quiet and firm as it had been since they’d arrived, but her eyes were ablaze. Shirdon glanced at the series of blue and grey paintings. Like her paintings, Jackie Falten seemed to have quite a lot stirring beneath the surface.
This time Martinez did shoot his partner a look. She gave him a slight nod—they weren’t going to get anything new out of Morris Falten’s widow, at least not this time around.
Martinez stood up. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Falten. If there’s anything else you can think of about our husband’s disappearance—even something that seemed irrelevant at the time—give us a call.”
Shirdon went over to a shelf along the wall opposite the blue and gray paintings. Every inch was covered with awards and decorations, pictures and plaques—a shrine to the late Morris Falten. Shirdon bent down to get a closer look at the bottom shelf—not every inch, it seemed. Here were dozens of pictures of Jackie and Ted together, Ted at various school and sports events, Jackie riding a horse in what looked like a Native American festival of some kind. One picture was a close-up of Jackie Falten and a smiling woman with a frizz of dark curls. None of Morris Falten’s photos had made it this far down.
Shirdon was surprised to find Jackie Falten suddenly at her side. She took the picture of her and the dark-haired woman from the shelf and stared at it.
“My friend, Doris Wilson,” Falten said. “She came to help me out with Ted after my husband’s disappearance.” She handed the picture to Shirdon as if she’d asked to see it. “She died of breast cancer six years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Shirdon said, placing the picture on the top shelf, next to one of a smiling Morris Falten shaking hands with some other smiling official. But now Ted was at her side, too.
“It doesn’t go there,” the boy said, removing the picture from the top shelf and putting it back on the bottom.
Shirdon glanced at his mother, but her head was down—all roads once again closed.
Jackie Falten moved to the hallway, ready to usher them out. Before she did, Shirdon said, “I noticed the picture of you on the horse. Do you have Native American heritage?”
“A little bit. Way back, though, on my mother’s side. I didn’t find out until a few years ago, funny enough because of a project Ted was doing at school. It brought up some things from my mom I’d never heard before.”
“Do you know anything about a Native American woman from the eighteen-hundreds with the nickname Manlike Woman?” Shirdon asked. “Kauxuma-nupika, from the Kutenai tribe.”
Jackie Falten shook her head. “No. Like I said, I don’t know a lot of Native American history. I never even knew it was in the family till recently.”
Back in the car, it was Martinez’s turn to give Shirdon a skeptical look. “Kauxuma-nupika of the Kutenai tribe, eh? Thanks for stealing that intellectual thunder right out from under me.”
“Don’t mention it,” Shirdon said. “To be honest, Monte, I don’t think it bought me any points. I doubt either of us will be getting a dinner invitation from Jackie Falten any time soon.”
“Hey, she at least talked to you,” Martinez said. “I felt like I was trying to thaw a drop of water from an iceberg in winter. An Alaskan winter. I know what I’m going to do with my day tomorrow, though.”
“What?”
“Go through every single one of the case files Morris Falten was working before he disappeared. I know they’ve been raked over dozens of times already, especially Mickey Klein’s murder. I mean, Klein, a cop who just so happened to hate Falten’s guts, just so happened to be shot dead by an informer who just so happened to be Falten’s go-to guy. Then the informer just so happened to get murdered at the same scene by some unknown suspect who never did turn up despite weeks of investigation. And then Falten happens to go missing less than two weeks later. It was one hell of a coincidence, but no one could turn up a stitch of evidence connecting any of it. We probably won’t either, but one more rake through can’t hurt.”
“Let’s save those drinks for another night then,” Shirdon said. “We’re going to need all the concentration we can get tomorrow.”
“Agreed,” Martinez said. “And you know what else? We’re going to have to start raking through Mickelson’s role in this, too.”
The two detectives sat staring at the windshield as a fresh sheet of rain blew in with the blackened sky. Neither of them needed to add how much depended on what they found in the ashes.
PART II
1
Just a little bit faster and he’d keep ahead of the rain. It had been overcast all morning, with black, low-hanging clouds spitting cold bursts and then retreating to make way for a ‘sucker hole,’ those alluring, misleading patches of clear blue sky that broke through the rainstorms just long enough to rush outside in time for the next shower. But if Dan Mickelson rode fast enough, he could stay inside the sucker hole as long as possible.
He was beginning to think that’s what he’d been doing for the past thirty-one years of his life, from the time he’d donned his first uniform as a patrol cop (complete with the ridiculously over-starched collar itching the hell out of his neck his entire first week on the job), all the way up the steep ladder to head of homicide. Lieutenant Dan Mickelson was fifty-five years old, had been divorced from his wife of fourteen years for longer now than they’d been married, and saw his two grown kids mostly during the holidays. For a long time, his work had been his life, and now his life was his work.
He pumped his bike even harder, going too fast for the steep, mud-slicked trails of Pioneer Park. Almost a year ago, the son of a well-known gun rights advocate was shot dead in a field at the bottom of the same trail Mickelson was on now. The killer turned out to be a sixteen-year-old girl with a vigilante justice agenda. After being tried as an adult and found guilty but mentally ill, she was sentenced to thirty years to life. Her lawyers immediately appealed, and one half of the city started screaming at the injustice of her conviction as loudly as the other half screamed that justice had been done. And now the Sherry Stratton case was back in the news, adding to the chaos. Every shark and bar
racuda in town was circling, waiting for more blood to keep the media feeding frenzy going.
If Mickelson didn’t slow down, his blood might be the next to spill, but so far, so good—the patch of blue was still overhead, and the sweat beneath his arms felt good.
Someone had started an impromptu memorial at the spot where the boy’s body had been found, but by now it was a soggy pile of tattered fake flowers and storm-battered tinfoil wreaths half-claimed by mud and weeds. But Dan Mickelson hadn’t chosen this particular path to see the faded memorial. The path had been one of his and Morris Falten’s favorites, but that wasn’t the reason he’d chosen it, either. He was hurtling down the steep, moss-covered side of a mountain in order to reach the neighborhood below it—the neighborhood where a modest yellow house with cheerful yellow curtains stood. The house where Morris Falten, his partner, mentor, and friend had lived. And where his widow, Jackie “Jax” Falten, still lived.
Mickelson rounded a corner and swerved to avoid a ditch full of water. His wheels veered off the path and sent the bike bumping over an outcropping of rock, jogging his kidneys in a painful reminder of the thermos of coffee he’d downed before starting out. He was out of shape for this kind of terrain—maybe five, ten years ago, when he used to ride every weekend and most weeknights. Now he was lucky to make it out once a month.
Morris Falten had always found time to ride, but then again, Morris Falten had found time for a lot of things most people don’t. When Mickelson had finally made it into homicide after years of working vice, Falten had been his first partner. Everyone around the department called them the Skinny Twins, although never to Falten’s face. The one time a cop had tried, Falten had delivered one quick jab to the man’s kidneys, downed his shot of whiskey, and then ordered one more for himself and another for the guy on the floor. By the end of the night, the kidney-punched cop was laughing at Falten’s “war stories” along with everyone else at the bar, and Falten had won another fan.