As Sarah walked to their gray rental SUV, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled into the parking lot. Conrad slowly eased his right hand into his black leather jacket, found his gun, and waited. Sarah transferred the umbrella in her hand to Amanda and watched the black car creep past the gray SUV, turn around, then hang a right onto the front street and drive away. “No license plate,” she commented to Conrad.
Conrad removed his right hand from his pocket. “I saw,” he said grimly. He nodded his head toward the SUV. “Get in, ladies.”
Amanda jogged to the rear right passenger’s side door, pulled it open, tossed in her suitcase, closed the umbrella, and planted herself firmly into her seat. “Hand me your suitcase,” she told Sarah quickly. Sarah complied and jumped into the front passenger’s seat. Conrad ran around to the driver’s side door, yanked it open, hopped into his seat, and buckled up. “Let’s move,” he said, “and see where that black Lincoln wants to meet.”
“Meet?” Amanda asked.
“That Lincoln wasn’t just coming by to take a look,” Sarah explained as Conrad backed up, then sped out onto the street and peeled right. “That was an invitation to follow.” Sarah looked out of the passenger’s window at the rainy trees standing beside the road like sad, forgotten members of a lost platoon. Driveways marked by rusted mailboxes flashed past as Conrad sped up. The driveways, Sarah saw, led to dilapidated homes that matched the motel in style and condition. Rundown cars and trucks were parked in the driveways, choked with overgrown weeds. “What a sad place,” she remarked.
“Every town has its lower end,” Conrad said. He spotted the taillights of the black Lincoln ahead. “I’m sure the Lincoln is going to take us to a very nice part of Winneshabba.”
Amanda pushed her suitcase into the cargo space of the SUV and then Sarah’s too, as excitement rushed through her veins. Maybe she was insane to be excited, she thought, but she couldn’t help it. After successfully dealing with three vicious killers back in Alaska, she felt hungry to take on the world. “Don’t lose the car,” she urged Conrad.
Conrad glanced at Amanda in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and then aimed a glance at Sarah. “I think we’ve created a female Sherlock Holmes.”
Sarah chuckled in response as she subtly leaned forward to check the gun holstered at her right ankle. She felt like she was back in Los Angeles, driving to the scene of a homicide. But she was with Conrad now, of course, and the feeling was intense—and secure. Back in Alaska their cases had made her feel imprisoned somehow, trapped in the little town and unable to utilize the full scope of her skills. Possibly because, she thought, each case had exploded in her face without warning, forcing her to become a rat trapped in a deadly maze. But now, the SUV raced past the muddy driveways and wet trees of Winneshabba and as the windshield wipers fought the rain on the windshield, she felt the familiar feeling of cop work in her gut—a certain sense of control and stability that she lacked in Snow Falls.
“Nobody else knew we were in town,” she commented to Conrad. “I bet Mr. Dean at the motel made a phone call to whoever paid him off.”
“Yep,” Conrad said, still carefully following the black Lincoln.
Sarah settled back in her seat. As she did, the memory of the disturbed model who had tortured her with hideous snowmen crawled into her mind. The model hissed at Sarah and pointed at a creepy snowman. The snowman was standing in Sarah’s writing den, wearing a black leather jacket and chewing on a peppermint candy cane. It was laughing insanely. Then the snowman walked over to Sarah’s writing desk, sat down, and began writing something. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to shake the image from her mind.
“Are you okay, Los Angeles?” Amanda asked, sensing something was the matter with her best friend.
“I'm okay,” Sarah promised and opened her eyes. “I... bad memory, that’s all,” she said, running her hand through her hair. The image of the creepy snowman sitting at her writing desk began to slowly fade away. “Sometimes I wish I could walk into a cozy shop, browse around, buy some delicious fudge, and then spend the rest of my day sipping coffee in a warm cafe cuddled up with a good book.”
Conrad glanced at Sarah. In her demeanor, he saw the working mind of a tough, brilliant cop. In her eyes, he saw a beautiful woman yearning to forget her past and embrace a warm future where she could soak in the sun. He knew that Sarah was a prisoner to the darkness she had dared to walk in for so many years and that she would never be able to escape her past—not completely, anyway.
“I can turn around,” he offered, troubled by her look.
“What good would that do?” Sarah asked. Focusing her eyes on the taillights of the black Lincoln, she cleared her mind. “The Lincoln has no license plate, which means the law in this town must be bought.”
“Agreed,” Conrad said.
“Somebody fill me in, please,” Amanda begged.
“Would you drive around without a license plate?” Sarah asked.
“No... I mean, if I did, I would chance getting pulled over, having my truck impounded and—” Amanda stopped. “Oh, I see.”
Conrad slowed the SUV down as the black Lincoln ahead of them halted briefly at a four-way stop, and then turned right, toward the small downtown district. Conrad cautiously followed at a safe distance. “I can’t get a coroner’s report in this case,” he said. “Not from Alaska, anyway. Maybe if I speak to the coroner here personally, I might be able to get a few answers.”
As they approached the downtown area, Sarah watched the landscape transform from poor and rundown into prosperous and clean. Lushly landscaped yards surrounded well-kept two-story homes sitting at the end of expensive-looking cobblestone driveways began to appear. She saw everything from BMWs to fancy sports cars to expensive SUVs sitting in the driveways. “The mind is such...” she mused.
“What’s that?” Conrad asked.
“The mind,” Sarah explained. “Some people have mansion minds, some people have two-story-home minds, some people have ranch-style home minds, and some people have trailer park minds. How a person keeps his home, his yard, his car... it’s like seeing into that person’s mind. Of course,” she continued, coming out of her reverie, “many good men live in poor homes and a killer can live in a mansion.”
“You make a good point. After all,” said Conrad as he looked over at Sarah and then focused back on the rainy road, “we are tailing a brand spanking new Lincoln, and do you think the driver will turn out to be a Boy Scout?” Amanda leaned forward and waited for Sarah to respond.
“No,” Sarah answered honestly, “far from it. I would bet my cabin that they’ve been sent to sweet talk our ears off and follow up with personal threats if we refuse to take the candy.”
Amanda leaned back in her seat, nibbling one fingernail. “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she said with apprehension.
Soon enough, the Lincoln cruised into the downtown district of Winneshabba and parked in front of a tea house. The street was lined with two-story buildings in distinguished red brick and Queen Anne style wooden edifices, all neatly kept and enticing to the eye. More of those expensive-looking vehicles were parked here and there in front of the buildings. Sarah studied the street with a trained eye. Though she longed to go for a stroll and find the perfect spot to wait out the dreary afternoon, she tried to memorize the street in case it was important later. She saw an art studio, a candy shop, a bakery, a computer store, a toy store, a bookstore and an inviting diner situated between a lawyer’s office and a real estate office. “Do I stay in the SUV or come with you?” Amanda asked, her voice jumpy.
“You’d better come inside with us,” Conrad said, parking next to a shiny, expensive-looking, red truck.
Sarah rechecked her gun, unbuckled her seatbelt, and looked through the rain-streaked windshield one more time. The Lincoln was parked on the opposite side of the red truck. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Conrad said and grabbed his umbrella. He opened the driver’s door and cautiously stepp
ed out onto the wet ground. Amanda got out of the SUV, opened her umbrella, and waited for Sarah to join her. “Tea, love?” she asked.
Sarah stepped under the umbrella and nodded her head. “Why not?”
“Careful now,” Conrad said, spotting a man wearing a black suit enter the tea house. “Stay close.”
Amanda took Sarah’s hand. “I’m close.”
“We’re a team,” Sarah assured her. “Last time we worked solo we almost lost touch... for good.”
Amanda squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Never again, love.”
“Okay, the Hallmark card moment is over, ladies,” Conrad said. “Let’s go.”
Sarah and Amanda followed Conrad to the glass entrance door of the tea shop and paused. Conrad glanced over his shoulder at the Lincoln, clenched his jaw slightly, then pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. Sarah steeled herself, then followed him into a warm, brightly lit room filled with mingled scents of jasmine, green tea, and roses. Round wooden tables with pretty, white tablecloths sat on a glossy hardwood floor. Light pink wallpaper with a floral pattern covered the walls. Overhead, soft piano music floated down from speakers in the four corners of the room. The only thing missing, conspicuously, were the employees.
But the man in the dark suit stood watching them enter.
“Please, sit down,” he said with extreme politeness.
Sarah watched the man take off his black jacket, drape it over a wooden chair, and sit down at a table in the middle of the room. The man had dark gray hair and a very thin face that was shrewd and calculating. In fact, he reminded her a little of the British agent, Bradley Preston. Even though the man before her looked different physically speaking, his voice and manner were almost identical to Bradley’s. Intelligent, but cold.
“We’ll stand, thank you,” Conrad said, taking note of the metal spiral staircase at the far right side of the room. Two men wearing gray suits were standing at the staircase. Their faces were emotionless, yet somehow conveyed an air of concealed menace.
“Very well. My name is Mr. Snyder Smith.”
“Detective Spencer, Detective Garland, and—Detective Funnel,” Conrad introduced everyone. Amanda met his eyes and tried to conceal her surprised smile at being named an honorary detective on this occasion.
Snyder Smith removed a pair of driving gloves from his hands and slowly placed them down onto the table. “You are here because of one Mickey Slate, correct?” he asked.
“Could be,” Conrad said, keeping Snyder’s men in view from the corner of his eye, “but then again, maybe Mr. Dean is a bit paranoid and made a premature call.”
Snyder didn’t appear pleased with Conrad’s remark. “The death of Mickey Slate was very unfortunate. As mayor of Winneshabba, I am deeply disturbed that a man committed suicide in my town.”
Conrad exchanged a meaningful glance with Sarah and then looked back at Snyder. “Mickey wasn’t the suicidal type, Mayor.”
Snyder calmly folded his arms across his chest. “Mickey Slate was found with a rope around his neck, Detective Spencer. I’m afraid your friend was very much suicidal.”
“I’d like to examine his body,” Conrad replied firmly. “I know I have no jurisdiction in your town, but out of professional courtesy, I would appreciate the help.”
Sarah studied Snyder’s face and interjected, “Professional courtesy is always appreciated.”
Snyder focused his attention on Sarah. “Is it?” he said, sounding regretful. “Unfortunately, the body of Mickey Slate was cremated two days after his death.”
Conrad’s cheeks flushed with anger. “I see,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Where was the cremation done?”
“Smith’s Funeral Home.”
“Any relation to you, Mr. Mayor?” Conrad asked.
“Yes,” he replied with a perfect poker face. “I run the funeral home, as it so happens.”
Despite Sarah’s immediate suspicions, she knew they couldn’t afford to alienate the mayor of this small town. From the look of the two men standing by the metal staircase, it was apparent he wasn’t just an ordinary mayor, either. She decided she would save some of her sharper questions for another time.
“What was Mr. Slate doing in Winneshabba?” Sarah asked, keeping her voice professional and clear.
“Of course we can’t know for certain, but it is the belief of Chief Messings and myself that the man was simply passing through. The toxicology report showed large amounts of antidepressants in his blood. Our theory is that Mr. Slate was planning to kill himself and randomly picked the Snowflake Inn as the location to do it.”
“The motel is a long way off the main road,” Sarah pointed out. “And to be honest, it isn’t exactly a five-star resort. Do you think that’s why he chose it?”
“It’s true, the Snowflake Inn has seen better days, I’m afraid,” Snyder said, smoothly skipping over her question. “I’m sorry that your friend’s life ended so tragically. I’m also sorry to say that there is nothing that I or anyone in Winneshabba can do to assist you in whatever it is you are searching for.”
“Then why didn’t you say that back at the motel?” Amanda exploded in exasperation before she could catch her tongue. She expected to receive a sharp eye from Conrad or Sarah for her outburst, but she was surprised to see that her friends supported her question and turned to Snyder for his answer.
Snyder unfolded his arms. “Bring me my tea,” he called out. One of his men walked to the door at the back of the room and disappeared into the kitchen. “I’m an old-fashioned man, you might say. I like to talk in an environment that is more suitable to a civilized man,” he answered Amanda.
“Well then,” Amanda said with forced cheer, “no harm in that.”
Sarah realized that Amanda might have shot a three-pointer from midcourt by acting simple-minded in front of Snyder. “Mr. Smith, how did you know we were at the motel?” Sarah asked even though she knew the answer.
Snyder shifted in his seat and then refolded his arms. “Detective Garland, I can understand that you must have many questions, but at the moment I cannot discuss the death of Mr. Slate in any greater detail than I already have. This is all privileged information, as I’m sure you are aware.”
Conrad ignored Snyder’s deflection. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind if we ask some of the locals a few questions?” he asked, echoing the mayor’s polite tones.
“Actually, I do,” Snyder said firmly. “Detective Spencer, ours is a very quiet and safe community. The death of Mr. Slate has been kept out of the news, and as I told you he was merely passing through. I cannot have you upsetting people with unreasonable repeated questioning. Those involved have spoken to the local authorities. And that’s where the matter will remain.”
“Well then,” Conrad said, tossing a thumb at the front door, “I think we’ll hang around and do some sightseeing for a few days... as private citizens in a free land.”
Snyder narrowed his eyes. “You may remain in Winneshabba and conduct your sightseeing, Detective Spencer; however, if you disobey my order I will certainly have you escorted out of my town.”
“Sure,” Conrad said. He walked to the front door and Amanda and Sarah followed. As they reached the door, Conrad stopped and turned to face Mr. Smith again. “Mayor, let me remind you that this is a free country and that I can talk to anyone I please. Is that clear? I know my rights. If you try to bully me, then prepare for a fight. Mickey Slate was a close friend of mine and now he’s dead. I want answers.”
“Your friend committed suicide. There is your answer,” Snyder answered, his tone acidly hostile. “If you press for a different one, then you will be met with full force. Is that clear, Detective Spencer?”
“I’ve been through worse than a tussle with a small-town mayor, Mr. Smith, and I can do it again,” Conrad replied, and with that he walked outside into the rain.
Sarah nodded her head at Amanda. “Let’s go.”
“Lovely place you have here,” Amanda said to Snyd
er pleasantly, then hurried after Sarah.
Sarah found Conrad opening his umbrella outside. She stepped under the umbrella and put her hand on his shoulder. “You deliberately tested that man. Why?” she queried.
“I don’t like snakes,” Conrad said, “and I don’t intend to be nice to one in order to be allowed to hang around town.”
“We’re going to be watched every second from this point forward,” she protested.
“I know it was tense in there, Sarah, but you know my past... I’ve dealt with his type before.”
Sarah bit her lip in frustration, wondering what else from Conrad’s past might be lurking under the surface of this investigation.
Amanda hurried over to Sarah. “So what’s the plan? I mean, we all know he wasn’t telling the truth about poor Mickey.”
Sarah felt like taking Conrad to task for making an enemy out of Snyder from the start. “It would have been a lot smarter to play dumb with that crook,” she said in a displeased voice.
“Maybe,” Conrad admitted, “but I don’t like to play dumb. And I know you’re smart and playing dumb isn’t your favorite trick in the book, either. So, detective. What’s the next move?” His eyes locked onto Sarah’s with a challenge.
Sarah set her hands on her hips. The air was cold. The rain was cold. Her face was cold. Her ears were cold. The last thing her heart desired was to stand on a wet sidewalk and argue with Conrad. “We’d better make it clear that a lot of people—and I do mean a lot of people—know we’re in Winneshabba.”
“Why?” Amanda asked, and then she realized the answer to her own question. “Oh, I see.”
“Snyder can’t try anything funny if he knows too many people know we’re in town,” Conrad answered anyway, without looking away from Sarah. “Mickey was my friend, Sarah. We handle this case my way.”
Sarah couldn’t believe her ears. “We’re supposed to be a team, Conrad.”
Conrad looked away from the look of pleading in her eyes. “My friend was murdered and I need to know what happened. Don’t ask me to play politics, okay? I don’t play nice with the bad guys.” He pressed his lips together to suppress the anger and sadness rising within him, and turned to gaze up the street so Sarah couldn’t read his face.
Snow is not the Time Page 3