David Wolf series Box Set 2

by Jeff Carson

  They walked to the porch and MacLean rapped on the door. “Sheriff’s Department!”

  They waited for several moments with no response.

  Rachette eased his way next to MacLean.

  “What are we doing here, Deputies?” MacLean asked without eye contact to either of them.

  Rachette cleared his throat. “We pulled those bodies out of the lake, sir. Twenty-two years ago, Mr. Heeter said he saw someone dump something in the lake. We need to clear that up.”

  MacLean eyed Rachette. “Is Olin Heeter a suspect?”

  Rachette shrugged.

  “No, sir,” Patterson said. “But definitely a person of interest.”

  MacLean nodded and reached for the doorknob. He twisted and pushed, but it was locked. “Do you have any suspects?”

  Patterson frowned. “Sir, we don’t have probable cause to enter the premises.”

  MacLean looked over his shoulder at his undersheriff. “You smell that?” He sniffed, pushing his mustache up against his nostrils. “Smells like rotting flesh to me.”

  Lancaster remained motionless and mute.

  MacLean stepped off the porch and walked to the single-car garage. “Open this up.”

  Patterson and Rachette exchanged a glance and Rachette followed after him.

  “Deputy Rachette, Lancaster, I want you two to search the property. I want to know if this man is here. Deputy Patterson, come over here and speak with me, please.”

  Patterson’s face flushed. “Sir?”

  Without responding, MacLean walked to his rear door and opened it. After a second of fishing inside he stood up with a manila envelope.

  Patterson stood dumbfounded until MacLean craned a finger in her direction. She looked over at Rachette; he was eyeing them with trepidation as Lancaster yanked the garage door up from the bottom.

  “No car.”

  Lancaster’s voice was deep, and Patterson realized she’d never heard the man speak until now.

  “Go around back and check it out.”

  Lancaster nodded and walked around the house.

  Rachette stood unsurely, looking at MacLean, the envelope in his hand, and then at Patterson.

  “Around back.” MacLean pointed.

  “Yes, sir.” Rachette walked after Lancaster.

  MacLean smiled. “Okay. Now that we’re alone, I have a few things for you.”

  “Things for me?”

  MacLean went to the back of his SUV and opened the hatch. He beckoned her there and held out the envelope. “Open it. You can use the back here as a desk if you’d like.”

  “What is this?” She joined him and grabbed for the envelope, but he pulled it back out of her reach.

  “It’s bad news for you and your partner, I’m afraid.” He dropped the envelope inside the rear of the vehicle. “Go ahead.”

  Patterson’s face went hot at this man playing games with her, and she nearly told him to shove the envelope up his ass. But instead, she picked it up.

  With shaky fingers, she bent the metal prongs, opened the flap, and saw a thick stack of glossy photographs inside. She took them out and frowned at the top photo.

  It was a close-up shot from a distance of Rachette with a girl. The girl was bent over, digging inside the trunk of a beat-up blue Subaru. Rachette stood next to her in plain clothes, jeans, and a green T-shirt, hands on hips, looking over his shoulder.

  She eyed MacLean.

  His eyes glittered with amusement. “Go on.”

  She flipped to the next photo and put the first one face down on the rubber mat in the vehicle’s rear.

  The girl had stood up now, holding a red backpack by one strap. Rachette was now looking at the backpack, otherwise unmoved.

  The next photo was the girl closing the trunk, Rachette staring at her ass.

  The woman faced the camera in the next photo, her eyes closed as she brushed long blonde hair behind her ear. Rachette stared at her, looking mesmerized by her movements.

  Patterson flipped to the next photo.

  “Ah, here it is.” MacLean tapped the glossy picture.

  Patterson finally comprehended what she was looking at.

  The next image had been taken a moment later, and the woman was handing the backpack to Rachette. He was taking it with a dumb-looking smile.

  Patterson flipped faster now, the anger rising—at Rachette, and at this cologne-drenched asshole standing next to her, who in a month was going to be her new boss.

  Next photo: Rachette with the backpack slung on his shoulder, embracing the woman in a close hug. The woman’s back was arched a little, her hips pressing into his.

  Next photo: The woman walking to her driver’s-side door. Rachette adjusting his crotch.

  Next photo: Rachette at the open rear door of his own beat-up Volkswagen. The backpack being tossed into the back seat. Rachette looking longingly over his shoulder at the woman driving away.

  Patterson’s stomach dropped with the next photo. It was a mugshot of the woman taken at the Byron county jail, timestamped two months ago with a booking number rather than a name. The girl was beautiful, no older than her early twenties. Her brown eyes were vacant of emotion, her face slack. Patterson was used to seeing pockmarks, scabs, bruises, unkempt hair, bloodshot eyes, and other unattractive qualities in mugshot photos. Not this woman, though. She was clean-looking. Her skin was smooth and flawless.

  Behind the mugshot was a two-page stapled copy of a Byron County police report dated the same as the mugshot.

  There was movement around the left side of the house.

  “No way in, sir,” Rachette said.

  Patterson looked up from the paper in her hand and instinctively leaned forward to hide it in the SUV’s rear, though Rachette wouldn’t have been able to see a thing from such a distance.

  “Go ahead, keep reading,” MacLean said under his breath as he walked away. “Okay, I’ll head back with you two. Did you check the windows?”

  Patterson watched the three men round the side of the house and out of sight, Rachette in the rear like an excited dog.

  She read the report. Byron County Sheriff’s Department had stopped the woman, Gail Olson, for speeding on 734. A search of her car produced twenty-two pounds of pot and one hundred thousand dollars in cash.

  Patterson whistled. Twenty-two pounds of pot was far beyond the legal possession limit of one ounce, especially since the woman did not have a distributor’s or grower’s license, or any documentation connecting her to a legitimate business in Colorado.

  Under questioning, the woman admitted to acting as a runner for an illegal grow op. Though she stated she was unaware of the details of the operation, Patterson knew it was probably a group of shady individuals exporting illegally out of the state and/or the country. And if she’d read the previous photos of this woman and Rachette correctly, Rachette was her latest recruit.

  “Oh yeah, that’s what I said.” Rachette laughed with the sheriff as they came around the side of the house again.

  MacLean looked genuinely interested in Rachette’s story. Lancaster followed silently, walking like Lurch.

  She put on a poker face and tucked everything back into the manila envelope, then stepped away from the vehicle.

  Rachette’s expression went flat when he eyed Patterson and the envelope she carried, but rebounded brighter than ever when MacLean smacked his back.

  “All right. Tell your sheriff you didn’t see a car. Did you find a car up at the lake?”

  “We haven’t checked his place up there, yet,” Rachette said. “Sheriff Wolf knocked on his door last night. No answer. He never said anything about a vehicle.”

  MacLean nodded. “Well, better check back up there.”

  Patterson flicked a nod to the open garage door. “As long as you’re bent on going inside, there’s a door to the house in the garage.”

  MacLean looked and Rachette and Lancaster followed his gaze.

  “Yeah. So there is,” MacLean said. “Rachette, go ch
eck it out.”

  Rachette walked into the garage, sidestepping wood debris on the floor.

  MacLean stepped over to Patterson. “Show those to Sheriff Wolf by tonight, please.” His voice was low and malicious. “Tell him I’ll be in touch.”

  “Locked!” Rachette yelled from the garage.

  “All right,” MacLean said with finality. “I think we’re done here. We’ll follow up for you later, see if he comes home. Close up the garage.”

  MacLean went around the back of the SUV and closed the hatch door. He locked eyes with Patterson, and his expression said, By tonight, or else.

  Chapter 30

  Wolf’s tires scraped and he cranked the wheel hard to the right to compensate. The final descent of the dirt road to the tailing pond was steep and he’d taken it at a little too much speed.

  Bouncing in his seat, he decided to let off the brake and let it ride to the bottom, rather than risk sliding sideways. Bouncing wildly, the SUV rolled for a few more yards until it flattened out, and with a sigh of relief he slowed to a stop next to the water.

  He turned off the engine and got out.

  Closing his door, he walked to the rear of the SUV and twisted full circle. Across the water, a hole in the mountain, once an entrance to a mine, gaped halfway up the slope. Underneath it a color-streaked plume of rock ran down to the orange-red pond Wolf stood next to now.

  The engine ticked rapidly and the scent of burning brake pads wafted across his nose. Wolf looked at the ground under his feet and back up the road he’d come in on. The land around the pond was relatively flat, but it was going to take some serious clawing in four-wheel drive to get back out. All in all, the place was relatively inaccessible.

  The pond was about as big as half a football field, tinted Denver Bronco orange by what he assumed to be acid mine drainage.

  He pulled out his phone and looked at it, surprised that, even in the crater-like depression, he still had a sliver of cell reception.

  With a tap of his finger he pulled up the map function again and stared at it.

  One point four miles of road, most of it dirt, connected Wolf’s location to the Pumapetrol gas station.

  He cocked an ear and heard the sound of a trickling stream along the far edge of the pond.

  He walked the shoreline, studying the surface carefully. When a tiny eddy swirled, he kept his eyes glued to the spot, picked up a rock and threw it.

  The water splooshed within a yard of where Wolf had aimed, and a fish flopped, splashing water before disappearing.

  With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his clothes to his boxer shorts, and after a few seconds of rapid breathing to psych himself up, he stepped into the water.

  He clenched his teeth, feeling the biting cold and occasional jagged rock beneath his feet as he waded in. Soon he was thigh-deep, and then, with a gasp, his crotch submerged. A few more yards out, his teeth chattered as the water reached to his shoulders. Then he lifted his feet and kicked, swimming a slow breaststroke toward the center of the pond.

  Only a moment later, he was pulling his thighs toward his body when they collided with a line of jagged metal.

  Chapter 31

  “I’m telling you, you need to learn how to be more personable with these guys.”

  Patterson stared out her window at the passing sagebrush, opting to remain silent through Rachette’s rambling.

  “I saw the way you looked at Lancaster. He’s not such a bad guy, you know. Cracked a few good jokes when we were around the back of the house. I think he’s just quiet when he’s around MacLean.”

  Patterson looked at Rachette with half-closed eyes. “Really? A good guy, huh?”

  Rachette rolled his eyes. “And the way you acted with MacLean.” They rode in silence as he swung his gaze between her and the road. “You gonna tell me what’s in that envelope, or what?”

  Her pulse quickened again at the prospect of talking to Rachette about the bombshell that lay across her lap. For now, she just turned back to her window and looked outside.

  “Seriously, what the hell is that?”

  She closed her eyes. “All right, listen—”

  Her cellphone trilled, and with a silent scream of thanks she looked at the screen. “It’s Wolf. Hello? … Yeah?” She looked over at Rachette with raised eyebrows and then leaned toward the windshield. “Yeah, we just passed the gas station now … what?”

  She leaned to look in the side-view mirror and turned to Rachette. “Turn around!”

  Rachette slammed on the brakes. “What?”

  She hung up and pocketed the phone, letting the packet of pictures fall to the floorboard by her feet. “Wolf found Nick Pollard’s pickup truck.”

  Chapter 32

  Wolf watched as Rachette’s SUV slowed and parked behind Baine’s truck. Behind Rachette and Patterson, a shiny white government-issued ended the train of vehicles. When it parked, Lorber stepped out with Dr. Blank.

  The four of them convened and scuttled their way down the final incline.

  Wolf walked to meet them at the bottom of the road.

  Lorber looked past him at a Toyota pickup matching Nick Pollard’s make and model, though rust color rather than yellow, now dripping on the pond shore. “You found it. How the hell did you find it?”

  Wolf retold the story about the Pumapetrol gas-station clerk’s mix-up between Highway 734 and County 74.

  “So Parker Grey came and picked up someone, and went up 734.” Lorber put his hands on his hips. “So how did you get to this spot?”

  Wolf walked to the pickup with them in tow. With each step, the skin on his thighs screamed as it rubbed against his jeans. Wolf’s legs had collided with the rusted tailgate, slicing his skin in multiple spots. Now his thighs felt like they were being prodded with soldering irons.

  “I studied my cell phone map, focusing on the area north of the gas station. My dad and the department all those years ago had been fixated on highway 74 and Cold Lake, but Parker Grey had driven north instead. And why was Parker at the gas station? To pick up whoever made the phone call to him. A woman, or a boy … somebody with Nick Pollard’s blood on their hands.

  “So I wondered why they were shooting off north, past the Cold Lake turnoff, and got to thinking they might have been rushing to Nick.”

  “So she walked her way to the gas station,” Patterson said.

  “Why didn’t she drive Nick’s truck?” Rachette asked.

  Wolf shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know how to drive a stick. It’s a steep climb up that road. I don’t know.”

  “Was it sticking out of the water?” Lorber asked.

  “No.”

  “So you”—Lorber tilted his head—“sensed the truck was in the pond? Probed it with a stick?” He looked around.

  “I had a hunch it might be, since this is the only place within ten square miles along 734 where one could hide a truck for twenty-two years.”

  “How did you find it?” Lorber asked. “You’re killing me, here.”

  “I swam. Ran into the tailgate with my legs.”

  Lorber scoffed. “Jesus Christ, you swam in that?”

  Wolf nodded.

  “You—” Lorber grabbed Wolf’s arm and ran a finger over his skin. “Do you know the toxic ores found in dark-red water like this? The PH level? You’re lucky you didn’t dissolve. It’s like swimming in battery acid. Worse! I mean, my God …”

  “There’s fish in the pond. There’s water running into the pond from the north and out to the south.” Wolf resisted the urge to scratch his skin and turned to the truck. “I want you to scour this truck, inside and out.”

  Lorber laughed. “Sure. There’s not going to be any organic material, that’s for sure. Fish in there …” He squinted and bent toward Wolf’s bare arm again. “You’d better take a shower as soon as possible.”

  Wolf turned to Rachette and Patterson. “What happened at Heeter’s place?”

  “Heeter wasn’t there,” Rachette said. “And no sig
n of his car.”

  “And how was MacLean?”

  Patterson remained silent, looking into the distance.

  “He was all right.” Rachette glanced at his partner.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Patterson shrugged. “No.”

  “Okay. Any word from Yates and Wilson at the lake?”

  They shook their heads.

  Wolf hoped the two deputies were all right. He wondered if he’d encountered Olin Heeter last night. “I’d sure like to know if Heeter’s car is up there. You have a make and model on it?”

  “No,” Rachette said, looking at his partner again.

  Patterson seemed to be avoiding any and all eye contact.

  “Rachette,” Wolf said, “why don’t you call Tammy and get on that.”

  “You got it.”

  They watched Rachette ascend the road, and then Patterson sprinted away after him.

  “What’s their problem?” Lorber asked.

  Wolf watched her dash up the hill, up the road past Rachette to the SUV, and open the passenger door. A second later, she closed it and walked past a confused-looking Rachette, and back down the hill to a just-as-confused-feeling Wolf.

  She thrust a manila envelope in his hands. “Here.”

  Chapter 33

  Patterson watched with growing unease as Wolf flipped through the pictures. Her boss seemed unmoved, silently studying each photo with calculating eyes before moving onto the next. When he’d finished studying the stack, along with the police report on Gail Olson, he looked at Patterson.

  “What did Rachette say?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it, sir. I didn’t—”

  Panic shot through her when he looked up and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Rachette!”

  “Sir,” she whispered, “I didn’t know if I should talk to you first, or … or …” she let the sentence die in her throat, and her heart sank when Wolf offered her no condolences.

  Rachette trotted down. “Yeah?”