Kyle Cannon’s girlfriend Gracie Calvert is Platt’s daughter. Don’t know if the connection means anything.
Jim asked, “What do you think is really going on here?”
Lucy had a theory, one she hadn’t voiced to Sean but suspected he thought the same thing. “Whoever was mining near your property killed or incapacitated Hank. We know he hiked up here sometime yesterday. Probably before dark, but we can’t be sure. He never came home. Bandit showed up at our house after midnight.”
Jim frowned. “I’ve only met Hank a few times, but he seemed to be a good guy. I hope he’s okay.”
Lucy didn’t think he was alive, but didn’t say anything. Jim turned up the driveway which was marked with a mail box held up by a chainsaw-carved bear holding a sign that read CANNON.
The driveway curved around, then dipped down to a clearing which highlighted an amazing view. The elevation was higher than Sean and Lucy’s house, but closer to the lake. It was exquisite, and Lucy wished she wasn’t here under such difficult circumstances.
Jim said, “The Cannons’ property is extensive. The house is on the northernmost boundary, but it goes both south and east and butts up against the access road for quite aways. Most of the land isn’t useable or even accessible.”
Jim parked next to the Cannons’ truck—clearly it belonged to Bob and Betsy since it had their carved bear logo and name on the door. They got out and walked up the stairs to the main house. The house was built above a three-car garage, and looked more deck than cabin. It was smaller than the house Sean bought, but boasted one wall almost entirely of windows and a substantial deck around the entire house.
Other than the Cannons’ truck, there were no other vehicles.
Lucy used the iron door knocker—shaped like a bear—and knocked. It was louder than she expected.
Jim had turned at an angle, so he could see the driveway below and anyone who might approach from the stairs they just walked up. Sean would have done the same thing, Lucy realized. Though she had been angry he’d pulled a gun on Sean, she’d begun to like Platt’s security guy. He seemed to know what he was doing, and wasn’t as gruff as he’d first appeared.
Lucy kept her attention on the door and listened. Someone was inside. She heard footsteps, then nothing, then more footsteps.
It took a long minute before a man came to the door. He opened it only a few inches. He had white hair and blue eyes and wore a flannel shirt and jeans. His shirt was mis-buttoned, and he hadn’t shaved.
“Mr. Cannon?”
“Yes. You’re not selling anything, are you?”
“No, sir, I’m Lucy Rogan. I met your wife and grandson last night at the art festival. I bought a couple of your bears. This is Jim Kline who works for Mr. Platt.”
“Gracie’s dad?” Bob squinted. “Jim—right. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. We met at that fourth of July party Cyrus had. My eyesight is really going. Come in, please.” He held the door open for them.
Lucy said, “We don’t want to worry you, but my neighbor—Hank Henderson—didn’t come home last night, and we wanted to know if you had seen or heard anything last night or the night before. Hank thought someone was camping up on the access road—it parallels the eastern boundary of your property.”
“Who’s missing?” Betsy came up behind her husband. “I remember you from the fair.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said. “Hank Henderson, our neighbor. He’s not at home, and his dog showed up at my house in the middle of the night.”
“Hank? Bob—Hank! Is Hank okay?”
“He’s been missing all night,” Lucy said. “Have you noticed a four-wheel drive truck, possibly pulling a small trailer, on the access road or on the road leading to your property?”
“Everyone has a truck up here,” Bob said. “Only way to get around in the winter.”
“Did you hear anything in the middle of the night? Hank heard something the other night, and my husband and I heard it last night—a machine of some sort, possibly a generator.”
Betsy nodded. “Yes—two nights ago I was awake and thought I heard a truck, but the noise didn’t stop, so it wasn’t a car. Kyle went up to check in the morning—yesterday morning—and didn’t find anything.”
Had Kyle gone far enough down the road to the mining site? Did he really not see anything or did he know something about it?
“Is Kyle here?”
“He’s helping his girlfriend—Gracie,” Bob added with a glance at Jim Kline, “at the art festival. But he went up there with his friend. Betsy, is Trevor still sleeping?”
“Probably.” She smiled. “Trevor and Kyle met in college. Trevor graduated last year. Good kid, came over from Denver with Kyle to help us pack and move.”
“Could you check? It’s important,” Lucy said. “If Hank is hurt, we need to find him.”
“Of course. Bob? Could you go down and fetch him?” To Lucy, Betsy said, “He’s staying in the guest house. One reason we’re moving is because of all these stairs—they’re harder on me than they used to be.”
Lucy glanced at Jim, and she was glad to see he was on the same page as she was when he said, “I’ll walk with you, Bob.”
Good. Lucy not only wanted to talk to Betsy, but she didn’t know this Trevor, and Kyle had been arguing with someone yesterday, according to Sean. Probably not his friend, but until they knew exactly what was going on, there was safety in numbers.
They left, and Betsy gestured for Lucy to sit down. “Can I get you coffee? Water?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Lucy said.
Betsy sat down on the couch across from her. “You think something happened to Hank.” Her hands worried her sweater. “We’ve known Hank for years. Since we were married. I even remember his dad—Pete. Pete was grouchy. Hank’s a bit grouchy, but not like his dad.”
“After his dog showed up, we checked on Hank at his house—he wasn’t there.”
“Did you call the sheriff?”
“Yes, they’re getting together a search team.”
“Good. Good. We have an excellent sheriff’s department. I’m sure they’ll find him. It’s probably a misunderstanding.”
Lucy debated whether to ask Betsy about the mining, and decided that keeping the information secret wouldn’t benefit them. If she knew something it could help them find out what happened to Hank.
“Have you heard of gold being mined in the area?”
“Gold? Well, no, not mined, but a lot of people believe this mountain range has veins of gold throughout. I don’t know much about it, I’ll admit. But I would have heard if there was any mining. We’re nearly surrounded by federal land here—not this side of the mountain, but south of the highway and much of the land north and east of here, is managed by the BLM. Bob worked for BLM for years in the fire unit.”
“He was a firefighter?”
“Way back when he was young, but for BLM he worked in the investigative unit for twenty-five years. He traveled all over the west—there were times I didn’t see him for weeks.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Sean. She apologized for the interruption and answered.
“News?” she asked.
“There were three trucks that passed the Platt property in the last two days that are big enough to haul a trailer or carry a trammel,” Sean said. “A white Ford with some sort of logo on the door.”
That was the Cannons’ truck, Lucy was pretty certain.
“Next, a dark-colored, new Chevy with tinted windows. There’s a bumper sticker on the back—I tried to enhance it, but it pixelated. And an older dark Ford with dual rear tires. The tracks could have been made with those, it was hard to tell because they’d been gone over several times.”
“I’ll ask the Cannons if they know who the trucks belong to,” she said.
“Do they know anything?”
“No—but Kyle and his friend might.”
“Friend? What friend?”
Lucy asked Betsy, “What is Trevor’s last name?”
“Trevor Martin. He’s from Colorado Springs.”
“Did you hear that?” Lucy asked Sean.
“Got it. I’ll run him. Watch your back, Luce. Love you.”
He hung up, and Lucy asked Betsy about the two dark-colored trucks.
“Well, I don’t know much about trucks, but the Kendalls to the east of us have a big, dark truck. And of course Trevor. Why?”
“We’re tracking all the vehicles that passed the access road.” She paused, then added, “There’s evidence of illegal mining between your property and Hank’s.”
“Mining? Is that why you asked about the gold? Who would do that? Hank?” She shook her head as if answering her own question. “This doesn’t make a lick of sense, honey. It just doesn’t.”
Lucy’s cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number, and she answered.
“Kincaid,” she said out of habit.
“Agent Kincaid, this is Deputy Longfellow. The forest rangers are putting together a search team and my department is assisting them. Can you meet a team at the entrance to the access road on Summit Road so you can show them the mining site?”
“I’m near there now. When?”
“Noon.”
That was an hour from now.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
Jim and Bob returned as soon as she ended the call. “Trevor must have left with Kyle,” Bob said. “He’s not at the cabin.”
Jim looked at Lucy and didn’t say anything, but he obviously wanted to talk to her alone.
“We should get going,” Lucy said. “When Trevor or Kyle return, can you let me know?” She handed her card to Bob after writing her cell phone number on it.
“FBI?” Bob said. “I didn’t know you were an FBI agent.”
“I’m not here officially. I’m on my honeymoon. But Hank went missing, so it’s all hands.” She tried to smile but failed. She didn’t have a lot of optimism.
She thanked Bob and Betsy for their time, and walked out with Jim. As soon as they were back at his car, he said, “Trevor is gone.”
“I know. He’s at—”
“No, gone gone. I don’t think Bob noticed, but there were no personal items in the cabin. He’s been staying there for nearly two weeks, according to Bob, and yet there’s no sign of him? I searched the place—discreetly, because while I doubt Bob and his wife are involved in Hank’s disappearance, I don’t want to take chances. A few things in the drawers, some garbage, but toiletries are gone and I didn’t see a suitcase or backpack or overnight bag. Nothing.”
“Sean and I heard something last night. Sounded similar to what Hank had described.”
“What if he was clearing out? Grabbing his equipment and bolting because Hank found out what he was doing?”
“If that’s the case, Hank would have made it home.”
“Not necessarily.”
The prospects of finding Hank alive went from slim to next to zero. “Sean identified Trevor’s truck on Platt’s camera. He’s running a background check on him. And a search team is meeting us at the entrance to the access road in,” she glanced at her watch, “forty-five minutes or so. Let’s go back and see what Sean learned and go from there.”
#
Gracie Calvert smiled at the customer who bought one of her watercolor landscapes. It was one of her favorites, and she should be happy with the sale, but the smile was forced and she really wanted to go home and cry. She felt like her life was spiraling out of control, and she didn’t know how to fix it.
Kyle had been her rock since she’d met him. Even now, when they were arguing, he stood by her. She loved him so much ... but she felt like a failure in every way.
He packaged up the painting and chatted up the customers as if he had been in customer service his entire life.
When they were gone, he turned to her. “Gracie, it’s going to be okay.”
“I screwed everything up.” Tears burned in her eyes but she didn’t want to cry again. She’d done enough wallowing in self pity last night.
“You did nothing, Gracie. Your dad can be difficult, but he wants to help you. As soon as I get my grandparents moved, I’ll have a month before classes start again, and I’ll help you with your research.”
“But I won’t get the shop on First Street. It’s the perfect location. And—”
“Gracie, stop. We move forward from this point. You’re only twenty-two. You have time—opening the gallery in April or next fall isn’t going to make or break you. Your dad just wants a clear marketing plan with real numbers. I get it. You would too if you weren’t so emotionally involved.”
“I can’t help it!” She didn’t want to be mad at Kyle, but it really bothered her that he sided with her father.
“Why don’t you take a break? I’ll watch the booth for a few minutes. Get some tea, okay?”
She didn’t want to leave, but she didn’t want to be here, either. She wished she could better explain how she felt. Trevor understood exactly, especially how frustrated she was by all the hoops her father had her jumping through. She hadn’t seen Trevor today, and she knew he and Kyle had a falling out last night. But she could really use a friend, someone who just listened and agreed and didn’t tell her that her father was right. Yes, Cyrus Platt was brilliant and insanely rich and generous. He was also cold and blunt and had no empathy. Her mother said he had Asperger’s and therefore didn’t know how to show emotion like normal people, but Gracie always thought her mother was too nice, that she liked the alimony she received so wouldn’t say a negative word about her ex-husband. Even her dad’s first wife, the mother of her two half-brothers, never said anything bad about him. Did he make them sign a non-disclosure statement or something as a term of alimony? She wouldn’t put it past him.
“Gracie—what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Do you want something? I think I’ll go get some tea.”
Kyle smiled and kissed her. “You know how I like my coffee. Thanks, babe. Take as long as you need, okay? I know how to sell you. It’s not hard—your work is amazing.”
Kyle had more confidence in her art and her business sense than her own father. “I love you, Kyle.”
He kissed her again. “I love you too, Gracie. Chin up.”
She left the festival and walked toward the small coffeehouse down the block. It was cold, not even forty degrees, but the sky was so blue it looked like it would shatter at any moment. Her favorite kind of weather. She loved Vail. She loved the green summers and white winters and crystal-clear falls. Sometimes she wished the snow would melt faster in the spring, but she was generally content. Except recently. Maybe because Kyle was going back to college for his last semester and she wouldn’t be seeing him—he was cramming an extra class in so he’d graduate on time. Mostly, her discontent came from wanting something so badly she could taste it, but it was out of her reach.
Why don’t you trust me, dad?
“Hey, Gracie!”
She turned and saw Trevor jogging to catch up with her. “Kyle said you’d left.”
“I need to talk to you about last night.”
Trevor had a totally insane idea about how she could raise the money for her art gallery. That she’d considered it for even two minutes was a testament to her frustration with her life and her father.
“Join me for tea,” she said and started walking toward the coffeehouse.
“Where’s Kyle?”
“Watching my booth. Maybe you should come and try to mend fences with him. He was really upset with how you left things last night.”
“Me, too. But he told me to leave.”
“He was really angry, but he’ll forgive you.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
She shrugged. “Still—just apologize and everything will go back to the way it was.” Gracie hated conflict in her life.
“I have an idea.”
“No.”
“Just hear me out, okay?”
She sighed. She sho
uldn’t even listen to Trevor’s insanity, but he was the only one who really understood how she was feeling. “Of course I’ll listen. Let me get my tea and we’ll talk, okay?”
He smiled. “Thanks, Gracie. You’re really the only one I can talk to anymore.”
Gracie knew how he felt.
Chapter Eight
Sean scanned the background check he ran on Trevor Martin. It wasn’t extensive—he didn’t have time to pull all the information he wanted—but he prioritized criminal records and financials. Trevor had no criminal record—at least that had been made public—but he did have serious financial troubles. Why? How would a twenty-two-year-old college graduate have such extensive debt beyond college loans? It didn’t take long for Sean to learn that Trevor had gone to the University of Colorado on a full academic scholarship. The kid wasn’t stupid.
Cyrus Platt let Sean work, which he was grateful for. It was nice that there weren’t a million questions or anyone hovering over his shoulder, looking at the results with him. Platt’s reputation had been proven true—he let experts do their job with no micromanagement. Sean appreciated that.
Sean was stuck, however. Trevor was in debt … but it wasn’t insurmountable. Yet … he didn’t live above his means. His truck, though nice, was five years old and paid off. He owned no house and his residence was his parents’ house—which was mortgaged to the hilt, most of it in the last three years. Sean started a background check on Trevor’s parents, though they both were still working and neither seemed to be living high on the hog. They’d been married for thirty-two years. Trevor was the youngest of two kids.
Lucy walked in with Jim Kline, but Sean just nodded an acknowledgment. His computer beeped, informing him that one of the many reports he was running was done. One of the benefits of being back in the RCK fold was the he had access to their extensive database of information. He’d run Trevor’s email address against the web—both the Internet and the dark web. Something pinged.
Trevor had an account with one of the largest on-line gambling sites in the world. He was extremely active.
Sean frowned. A site like this wouldn’t send goons out to force Trevor to pay; they’d simply cut him off. Yet it signaled that Trevor may have a gambling problem. And if he gambled online, he may also have gambled with the wrong people. That might explain his need to illegally mine for gold. He had a dual degree in geology and environmental science. He may have seen something in the area that gave him the idea there was gold.
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