by JoAnn Chaney
“About what?”
“Did Loren do it?”
“That’s why you came down here?” Hoskins looked bemused. “You should’ve just asked Loren himself.”
“I tried that. He ignores me.”
“Sounds about right.”
“So do you know?”
“Do I know what?”
Spengler sighed. She’d slung her briefcase over her shoulder and gotten in the elevator to head down to the parking lot to go home to her family and dinner and the warmth of her house, but had ended up riding all the way to the bottom. B2. Not even the basement, but the sub-basement. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what Loren had said, about unloading secrets, and it’d made her wonder about his old partner.
“Do you know if Loren killed his partner and the guy’s family?”
Hoskins stood up and wheeled the chair around the desk, pushing it at her so she could sit. Then he started pacing behind his desk, alternating between tossing the tennis ball in the air and bouncing it off the cement floor. His movements reminded her of a caged animal, desperate to break free of its bonds.
“Spengler, let me tell you a story. When I first joined the force I was assigned the bullshit job of checking up on guys out on house arrest, do a surprise visit and make sure they were minding their manners, you know what I mean?”
“Okay,” she said, mystified at the turn the conversation was taking.
“One day I end at this guy’s place, a total dump out in Aurora. And not in the good part—this is the shittiest area you can imagine. And this guy, he’d been locked up for attempted murder, tried to knife a bunch of holes in some other guy over some dumb-ass turf war, that’s what these gangbangers are about. Turf, like any of it really belongs to them. But this guy was small time with no priors, so he got one of those anklets popped on and was sent home to live with his parents. And this guy, he was nothing but a kid. A baby gangbanger.” Hoskins grinned at the memory. “Pants sagging halfway down his ass, wearing a wifebeater, all tattooed up. Mean look permanently on his face, like he’s got something to prove. A cholo, that’s what they call guys like him.”
“Is there a point to all this?” she asked. “If you don’t know—”
He shushed her.
“So I walk into the house, and his parents tell me he’s downstairs in his room, that he’s refusing to come out. That he’s been hiding something in his closet and won’t let anyone see. And I’m assuming there’s going to be trouble, because what else could it be? He’s got guns in his closet, I figure. Or maybe he’s harboring drugs. You always think the worst with these types, that’s where your mind goes. So I head downstairs and knock on the bedroom door, ready to pull my gun out if I need to, but he opens the door right away when he knows it’s me, lets me in. And when I ask to see what’s in his closet, what he’s been hiding in there, he doesn’t want to show me. House arrest and having a cop find something bad on your property—that would land his ass in a cell for sure, with no chance of seeing freedom for a long time, and he knew it. But I insisted, and finally he rolled back his closet door. Let me take a good look.”
“What was he hiding?”
Hoskins grinned again.
“It was mama cat in a cardboard box, her kittens all snuggled up next to her, nursing. This kid, he’d found them in the backyard and knew they wouldn’t survive on their own, so he’d made them a little nest and snuck them in, had been taking care of them. But his old man was allergic, he said, and would make him get rid of the cats if he found out. So he’d been hiding them. Sneaking milk out of the kitchen for the mother, making sure they were warm enough.”
Spengler shifted her weight from one hip to another.
“I don’t understand what your story has to do with anything.”
“I’m trying to make a point about Loren,” Hoskins said. “He’s not a bad guy, but that’s what most people think when they meet him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a mean motherfucker, he’s stubborn and rude and doesn’t take shit from anybody, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad. You shouldn’t take anyone at face value. I’ve seen Loren do plenty of kind things, although he wouldn’t admit to a single one.”
“So you don’t think Loren killed his partner?”
“I don’t know,” Hoskins said, slowly. “Maybe he did. And if he did, maybe he had a good reason. Who the fuck knows? Or maybe it doesn’t matter. It happened a long time ago. Maybe it’s better to let dead dogs lie.”
“Don’t you mean sleeping dogs?”
“Whatever.”
“You really think a murder doesn’t matter? And Ortiz said the partner’s wife had disappeared, too. And their baby.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “All I’m saying is, the world isn’t black and white.” He propped his foot up on the lip of his desk and yanked on his shoelace, untying it, then got to work retying it again. “And it’s not just shades of gray. There’s every color of the rainbow out there, you just have to open your eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, join the club.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
September 8, 2018
The next morning the park rangers in Estes were more than happy to let Spengler and Loren into the lot they still had roped off—this investigation was the most excitement they’d seen in some time. There’d been that bear sighting a few weeks back, and the rabid pack of raccoons that’d been attacking hikers, but otherwise it’d been a slow summer and the constant presence of Denver police was a welcome distraction. Like today. It was the cops, same two who’d been around already, but they also had a couple in the backseat with them, a man and woman both tan and ropy with muscle, who were carrying big bags of equipment with them as they headed up the trail to the cliff’s edge. It was a nice hike, the trail dotted with purple and yellow flowers, the last of the season before the cold would move in. Spengler saw an old newspaper in the undergrowth and tried to snag at it with a stick, complaining about people littering, but it was actually the corpse of a squirrel, and she only managed to burst the swollen skin so they could hear the munching sounds of the maggots on the flesh beneath. They all fell into silence during the last part of the hike, when the climb was steep and hard, and they were each occupied trying to keep their balance.
“Here we are,” Spengler said to Loren and the couple when they pushed out of the trees. The man went to the edge and peered over and down without any fear. The woman joined him. These two—Jenny and Mark—were rock climbers. Not professional, but close enough. Loren knew them somehow, mumbled a quick explanation to Spengler and then wouldn’t say more. “So if you were up here and wanting to get down fast, how would you do it?”
“I think the quickest way down is pretty obvious,” Mark said. He wasn’t trying to be funny. “But we’re not necessarily looking for the quickest way. Just a different way.”
Spengler and Loren stood back and let them work. They’d brought up a lot of equipment in their packs—ropes and pulleys and clips, plus all sorts of things Spengler didn’t have names for. She’d never realized there was so much gear involved in climbing, or all the terms she overheard Mark and Jenny use that she didn’t understand. Choss and jug and dihedral. They sounded like nonsense words to her ear, or a completely different language. Mark and Jenny stood together, looking over the side and discussing options in quiet, calm tones.
Spengler sat down in the shade of a pine tree. Her phone was sitting on her thigh, but out here it was completely useless. It was amazing to think that there were still places a person could go and be completely out of touch. These days you could get ahold of anyone, anytime; you were always plugged in. Connected. The small metal and plastic rectangle sitting on her leg was completely useless out here. She’d known they were heading into a dead zone before they’d arrived, of course, so she’d listened to her voice mails on the drive up.
The first was from the coroner’s office—it was definitely Riley Tipton that’d been dragged
out of the river, based on dental comparisons. Her parents had been notified and were flying out from Tampa Beach to take her remains home. Her mostly packed suitcase was found on her bed, pools of dried blood and bone shards on the living room carpet. She’d been getting ready for her trip to South America but had never made it out of her own apartment alive. The last time anyone could confirm seeing Riley alive was Wednesday. Matt and Marie had arrived in Estes Park on Sunday. Marie disappeared on Tuesday. Long periods of time in which anything could’ve happened.
It was the last voice mail that Spengler replayed for Loren, who wanted to listen to it twice. It was from the techs who’d been going over every inch of Evans’s home and cars. They hadn’t found anything in the house, but the trunk of Marie’s car had recently been bleached and steam cleaned. Despite the effort, traces of blood still remained.
“That would explain the advanced decomposition in Tipton’s body,” Loren said. “Marie could’ve dumped her in the river before leaving for their trip.”
“Hey guys, it looks like someone tied a rope around this tree,” Jenny said, waving them over. Spengler stood and dusted off her backside. Jenny and Mark were standing beside a tall pine that’d rooted closer to the cliff edge than the others, like a cheater starting a race before the gun sounds. “See here, where it’s worn around the trunk? This was made recently. If I was going to lower myself, this would be as good a place as any to anchor. It’s sturdy, not too far from the edge. This is where we’ll anchor, too.”
Down near the trunk’s bottom, where the roots disappeared into the ground, was a spot where the bark had been rubbed away. An almost perfect half circle of smooth white wood. If someone had tied a rope around the trunk it might’ve made that mark, Spengler thought, rubbing her fingertips against the line. The friction would’ve worn the bark right off. And if you had a long enough rope, you could tie onto this tree and lower yourself right over the edge.
“But if Marie Evans had tied a rope around this tree and lowered herself over the edge, how would she have unattached the rope without her husband knowing?”
Jenny tapped the side of her nose.
“It’s the only way she would’ve been able to get over the side. This isn’t a great spot for climbing,” Mark said. He was stepping into a harness and cinching it down around his waist as he spoke. “The river’s right below the cliff edge and dry ground is under the platform. Unless she was able to hook into a spot under the cliff, it wouldn’t be worth it. She’d be lowering herself right into the water.”
“But could she have done it?” Spengler asked.
Mark winked.
“Anything’s possible with enough determination,” he said.
Jenny laughed and tugged on the harness she’d put on herself.
“Determination and zero-gravity climbing skills,” she snorted.
Mark looped a rope around the same tree and threaded it through his harness. His fingers moved confidently, then he helped Jenny do the same, so they were anchored securely to the same tree. “I’ve seen climbers do some crazy things. Having no fear will get a person just about anywhere.”
What had Marie been afraid of?
Mark lowered himself over the edge slowly, with Jenny keeping an eye on the ropes to make sure they were secure. They were both tied to the tree with the worn-away circle. They stayed silent and serious. Loren kept back, well away from what was happening, but Spengler strayed closer.
“Is it okay if I go out to the edge?” Spengler asked.
“Yeah, just don’t bump the ropes,” Jenny said. She kept her eyes on her partner.
Spengler walked as near to the edge as she dared, keeping well clear of the rope Mark was hanging from, then dropped to her knees. Went forward a bit more, then dropped again, to her belly, and army-crawled to the edge, like a snake. She peered over. It was a long way to the water below, and the wind seemed to blow harder out here. She couldn’t hear a thing. A wave of vertigo hit her as she looked down, and she started to scoot back to safety.
When she was far enough away she sat up and started to dust off her hands. There were hard grains of sand stuck to her palms, and a single nylon thread. It was bright blue, much like the rope Jenny had threaded through her harness. Spengler tweezed the piece up in her fingers and held it up to the sky, rolled it between her pointer finger and thumb. It was a small clipping, frayed on one end and cut straight across on the other, and it would’ve been easy to overlook. Carefully, she tucked the piece into her pocket.
A hawk glided lazily above their heads, wings outstretched as it circled, looking for prey below, and the river roared beneath them, hard enough that Spengler could feel the vibrations through the rock and all the way up into her legs. A woman falling into that water would be sucked right under and lost forever, maybe never found.
Unless she never fell into the water.
There was a shout from over the side of the cliff, and Jenny started to pull on Mark’s rope to help haul him back up while staying far enough back to keep safe. He unclipped something metal and shiny from his belt and tossed it at Loren, grinning. Loren held it up so Spengler could see. It was a strange piece of metal, two grooved half circles on one end that tapered out to a loop.
“It’s called a camming device,” Jenny said. “A climber can jam one of those into a crack in the rock and pull the trigger so those metal bits expand.”
“That’s exactly what she did,” Mark said, grinning. “And it wouldn’t have been as hard as we first thought. That cam was sticking out of the cliff underside and would’ve been an easy grab once she got herself lowered over the edge. The hardest part would’ve been getting over the lip of the cliff, but it’d be smooth sailing from there. As long as she wasn’t afraid of heights. But there is one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s no way she could’ve done this without anyone knowing. I don’t care how long of a piss her husband claims he was taking, it wouldn’t have been long enough. He knows exactly what happened, and if I had to guess, I’d say he helped her every step of the way.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
This isn’t over, Loren thought. Another phrase from the past. His past. He was in the shower at home, letting the hot water beat against the back of his neck, rinsing away the sun and sweat that’d built up on his skin from their hike to the top of the cliff. He didn’t usually stay in so long on account of how bone dry Colorado always was, but all the rain they’d been getting must be good for something. He was lathering himself up and thinking, circling around again, back around to the same old garbage. This isn’t over. Those had been Jacky Seever’s words, the freak show who’d dressed up like a clown and killed dozens before his arrest. That was a real blast from the past, thinking about Seever and the toxic shit that poured out of his mouth, but maybe there was something to it after all, because it wasn’t over. It sure as fuck wasn’t over for Loren, because Ortiz wasn’t going to let any of it die. Could the past ever die?
Nope.
There was this new investigation on Matt and Marie Evans, and there was Ortiz and Gallo and Connie, and that first case, the women in the attic room, the breeders, and those words All Together Now, and the smell of shit rising lazily from their homemade toilet in the corner. That moment, the woman dying, and Gallo saying those words didn’t matter—it hadn’t been the beginning of the end for him, but more like the beginning of the beginning, when things had become clear.
This is when you started hearing your father’s voice? Dr. Patel had asked years before, when he first became a patient. Patel had gazed at him over the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses, and if Loren had sensed any judgment in his look, any skepticism, he would’ve left then, left and never looked back. But he didn’t sense anything like that from Patel, only a gentle curiosity. After seeing this crime scene, your father began to speak to you? Perhaps as a coping mechanism?
No, Loren had said. The wind was blowing hard that day, and the brittle branches of a pine tree were scraping acros
s the window like fingernails. No, it wasn’t to cope so much as to help me see things. The truth about people.
Like what?
“You’re not going to shoot your partner in the back,” Gallo had said. He’d been smiling, gritting his teeth at the feel of the gun pressed against the back of his head, the circlet of cold steel up at the point where his skull sloped into his neck, but there was sweat standing on his upper lip, beaded up on his nose. “That’s not you, Ralphie. We’re partners, for chrissake. And friends, right? You’re not going to shoot me.”
A partnership is like a marriage, and sometimes they’re good, but sometimes they’re bad. And sometimes you have to cut yourself free. Shoot yourself free.
Loren twisted the bar of soap through his wet hands and mashed the lather into his hair. No extra bottles in his shower—bar soap was good enough for everything. Keep it simple, stupid, as they said. He’d used a bar of soap on his hands after he’d buried Gallo out in the hole by the Mad River, and it’d been good enough to work out the grime. And after it was done, after all the blood and dirt had washed down the drain, Loren had washed the soap itself, holding it under the tap and massaging it the way he’d seen raccoons do to their food in running water, until he thought there couldn’t be any trace left of what he’d done. And then he’d flushed that bar of soap down the crapper. Sometimes the thought of that white brick of soap swirling through the sewers drove him batshit, kept him up at night, even this many years later.
A bar of soap made him think of his father and made him think of Gallo and then of Connie, and then brought him back around to Marie and Matt Evans. Round and round. Connie even looked a bit like Marie, with those dark eyes framed by smudges of delicate purple skin and the lips that came together like a puckered little heart. Women who looked so innocent it made you want to teach them a few lessons—in love, or in life. Maybe both. But Connie hadn’t been nearly as innocent as she looked, Loren had found that out quick enough.