Dire

by Jeff Carson

  Rachette hung up. “Charlotte says they ran a whole story on the Sheriff’s Department tonight on Channel 11. They had pictures of MacLean’s house.” Rachette eyed him. “And I guess they were showing pictures of your ranch property, talking about how you’re paid more than the county allows. They were interviewing Adam Jackson about it. It’s stupid. Gary Connell gave you that property. You didn’t buy it.”

  Wolf said nothing, thinking about Judy Fleming and Adam Jackson. They’d proven they had plenty of media contacts over the past few months, as evidenced by Jackson’s loud entrance into town. Was this retaliation against MacLean’s play of using Wolf’s rescue incident to make the department look good?

  They drove in silence for the rest of the way, and Wolf tried to keep his mind off the ensuing political shitstorm. Instead, he concentrated on the mystery of what had happened to Lauren Coulter and the real storm outside.

  It was 6:30 p.m. by the time they reached the Mackery gas station, which was ablaze with lights and visible from a good distance.

  Pulling in, Wolf edged up to the windows of the convenience store and parked, noting the one vehicle covered in snow around the corner.

  “What kind of car is that?” Wolf asked.

  Rachette leaned forward. “I’ll be damned. Looks like an Audi SUV under that snow. Black. Just like Lauren Coulter’s.”

  They got out, and then trudged to the side of the building through a drift that reached to their shins.

  “Howdy,” Zack, the son of the owner, Ruth Beal, poked his head out of the jangling door. “What’s happening?”

  “Hi Zack. We’ll be in in a second,” Wolf said. “Why don’t you go back in and get warm.”

  Zack nodded and let the door close.

  “Looks like it’s been here all day.” Rachette swiped the snow from the driver’s-side window and peered inside. Lifting the handle, he said, “Locked.”

  Wolf tried the rear door, then swiped off the hatchback window and pressed his face to it.

  The car chirped and the lights flashed.

  “Whoa. Got us an alarm.” Rachette backed away with both hands raised.

  Wolf went around the passenger side and checked the doors there too.

  The car chirped again with another flash of lights.

  Less snow had built up on the passenger side, and he could peer in without brushing any away. A child’s booster seat in the rear with a juice bottle in its cup holder. A doll in a dress and tiara sat discarded in the seat next to it. A set of blue scrubs were crumpled on the floor.

  Wolf shone his flashlight into the front seat, which was empty shining leather.

  “Call a tow-truck,” Wolf said. “Let’s get this into the station.”

  “All right.” Rachette pulled out his phone and huddled next to the building for shelter.

  “I’ll see you inside.”

  Wolf walked into the convenience store. A strand of sleigh bells and a whirling flurry of snow announced his entrance.

  “Hell, if it isn’t the sheriff!” Ruth Beal stood from behind the counter and smiled, revealing a fidgety tongue behind her one good tooth. Hair looked more like something from a science lab than a salon, and her body was thinner than ever.

  “He’s a detective now, Mom. Come in before you freeze,” Zack said.

  Wolf took off his hat and shook it by the door, then brushed some snow onto the welcome rug and walked in on squeaking boots.

  “Nice to see you.” Wolf shook Zack’s hand.

  “What’s going on out there? You here to see the black Audi we have for sale? Just kidding. It’s been here all day. I figure after another day it’s ours and we’ll get to sell it. I could use a winter condo down in Arizona, Mexico, or something. Get the hell away from this snow.”

  Wolf nodded. “Did you see the car come in earlier today?”

  Zack shook his head and turned to Ruth. “Ma.”

  Ruth smiled at an episode of Friends playing on a tiny television.

  “Ma!”

  “What?” She looked up at Wolf. “Hey, there’s the sheriff! How the hell are you?” She stood and coughed, and then sat back down, her eyes drawing back to the television.

  Zack looked at him and shrugged, his eyes a roiling sea of resentment and sadness.

  “Don’t worry about it. What about your video surveillance? You guys installed a few cameras outside when you did the remodel, right?”

  The Mackery had the most prime piece of real estate when it came to catching visitors streaming in from Denver. It was situated on the right side of the road on the northern end of town. Anyone and everyone coming from Denver to ski had to pass the business, a positive asset that had been ignored by Ruth Beal for the last ten years due to declining sanity.

  When Zack Beal had moved up from Colorado Springs to look after his mother, he’d secured a loan and remodeled the place to a modern convenience store with two banks of brand-new pumps—a move that had at least quadrupled yearly business, according to Zach.

  “Yeah, we got all sorts of cameras out there,” Zack said. “Each pump is monitored.”

  “I’d like to look at footage between 11 and 11:30 this morning, if you don’t mind.”

  Zack waved Wolf around the counter. “No problem. Come on back.”

  Rachette walked in with a clank, bringing a blast of cold air with him.

  “Hey, Tom.”

  “Hey, Zack. How’s it hangin’?”

  Zack smiled, like he wanted to answer with an inside joke but was refraining.

  Wolf knew these two frequented the same bars and were good friends.

  Rachette smacked the snow off his clothes, slapped his hat against his jeans and walked to them. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re looking at the security footage for this morning,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah, back here.”

  Ruth was standing again, giving Rachette a suspicious eye.

  “Hey, Ruth,” Rachette said.

  “Who are you?”

  Zack led them to the office and a kiosk with a keyboard and dial. The monitor was the size of a respectable TV set. It showed the falling snow outside from the vantage point of six different pump stations represented by six separate squares on the screen.

  He typed and clicked for a few seconds, and then with an expert hand he twisted the dial to a certain spot and punched the Enter key.

  “Here’s 11 a.m. on the dot.”

  Three panels on the screen had vehicles at it. All beat-up trucks being filled by men with a lot of facial hair.

  “Take it to 11:12, please.”

  “Why 11:12?” Rachette asked.

  “Patterson said that was her last financial charge time.”

  Zack looked at him. “Whose last financial charge?”

  Wolf pointedly ignored the question.

  “Right. Sorry.” Zack put the time stamp at 11:12 and pecked Enter again.

  Two of the pumps were occupied this time—a blue BMW SUV on one and an old Chrysler sedan on the other. No black Audi SUV.

  The man with the Chrysler sedan tapped his foot impatiently, holding the gas nozzle as if he was going to stop it at a certain dollar amount. The guy with the BMW stood staring at the pump, also looking agitated as the gas funneled into his tank.

  “What gives?” Rachette asked as the time stamp rolled closer to 11:13 a.m. “Do the time stamps on this footage exactly match the those on credit-card transactions?”

  Zack shrugged. “I have no clue about that.”

  Wolf watched the screen patiently.

  The man with the BMW stepped over the hose and made his way to the passenger-side door. After a quick knock on the glass, the window rolled down and he held up a credit card. A slender right hand reached out and grabbed it, flashing silver rings on three fingers.

  “Can you figure out the amount and cardholder for that charge?” Wolf asked.

  “Yep. Pump three, 11:13 a.m.? No problemo.” Zack got up and walked out of the cramped office.

&nbs
p; Wolf watched the man walk away and the window roll back up. The glare obstructed a view of the person inside, and there was no discernable reflection in the side mirror from the camera vantage point.

  The man pumping the gas wore a black winter hat pulled down over his ears. It was difficult to see his face from the overhead angle, but Wolf caught a brief glimpse and thought he looked familiar. “Write down that license-plate number.”

  “Already got it.” Rachette held up a notepad.

  The man hung up the nozzle, jogged around the back of the car and got into the driver’s seat like he was late for an appointment. The brake lights depressed, exhaust fumes billowed, and the car sped off out of the shot.

  “Okay, looks like the transaction was by a credit card owned by a Lauren S. Coulter.” Zack handed Wolf a piece of paper.

  Wolf nodded. “Thank you.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, then ripped the notebook from Rachette’s hand.

  “Patterson here.”

  “Hey, I need you to check on a plate.”

  “You got it.” The phone rustled. “Shoot.”

  “It’s a blue BMW SUV.” Wolf gave her the model and license number.

  “That’s Michael Coulter. Lauren Coulter’s brother’s car,” Patterson said without hesitation.

  “That was fast. How’d you know?”

  “You guys need to come back into the station.”

  Chapter 14

  Lauren stopped and put her hands on her knees outside the revolving-door entrance to Rodham’s Pub. Catching her breath, she scanned the patrons through the tall windows in front.

  They were scrunched together, standing like cattle at a watering hole. There were women in pantsuits with jackets opened, showing skin under unbuttoned blouses. They all smiled, listening to loud men with loosened ties and jackets slung across their arms. A veritable meat market on a Monday night.

  It took a few seconds to spot him. He was standing, smack dab in the middle of three women hanging onto his every word.

  Keith Lourde.

  Her skin crawled as she looked at him. The CEO and CFO of Luanne’s Holdings, the umbrella company that included Luanne’s Sweets and Treats and a commercial real-estate portfolio, looked healthier than the last time she’d seen him, which had been three years ago at her own going-away party. His hair was shorter, clipped neatly, framing a thinner face. There was less chunk and more lean muscle.

  She hesitated, thinking of his bared teeth and hot alcohol-stench breath on her face, the way she’d closed her eyes and endured as his strong hands had explored her body, the pain as he’d thrust his fingers inside her.

  Inside, he leaned back and laughed at a joke the blonde told him. The bimbo looked proud and pressed her tits into his arm.

  Lauren thought of Ella again. She straightened her jacket, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and entered. The air pressure cupped her ears as she entered the revolving door, and then she was inside the hot, sweaty, noisy place.

  A bubbly early-twenties woman stood behind a podium. “Hi. Check your coat?”

  Lauren took off her jacket and handed it over. “Yes, please.”

  The hostess’s eyes explored Lauren’s outfit, her after-work attire—worn jeans and a tasteful flannel shirt—meant for impressing a mountain detective on a lunch date at her house and not a singles cosmopolitan crowd.

  The hostess smiled and grabbed it. “Sure.” Handing over a ticket, her eyes lingered on Lauren’s cheekbone.

  “Are you looking for a table in the restaurant? Or …”

  “No thanks,” Lauren said with a confident smile. “Just meeting someone in the bar.”

  She walked past the hostess and into the sea of sweat, spray-on smells, and hormones. Finding Keith Lourde again, she walked by, close enough to pick up the tang of his cologne.

  “… and I said screw him, I’ll buy him if I need to. You know …”

  Keith was spewing his bullshit all over a brunette.

  Lauren walked by without stopping and went to the back of the room. It was tough-going, rubbing up against women who eyed her with distaste and men with other things in mind.

  The music was loud and bumping in back, and the people screamed at the top of their lungs in each other’s faces.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” A tall man in a suit and tie stepped in front of her. He was young and dumb, with an awe-shucks smile and a bucket of gel on his sculpted hair. His golden drink tilted to one side.

  “Not interested.”

  His eyes went mean. “Yeah, okay. Nice flannel, dyke.” He remained where he’d blocked her, his attention searching for the next piece of ass.

  She raised her eyebrows and squirmed around him, then went into the ladies room.

  Four women were at the sinks, leaning into the mirror, plastering makeup on their faces.

  She arched her eyebrows in a non-threatening way and approached the herd. “Hi. Sorry, can I get in here?”

  Three of the women gave her a glance and ignored her, and the fourth backed up, opening a spot at the second sink. “Sure, here. Sorry, we’re like hogging this entire bathroom.”

  “Thank you.” Lauren ran the hot water and splashed her face. Grabbing a wad of paper towels, she wiped off most of her makeup. She looked in the mirror and touched the blackening bruise under her eye.

  The four women froze, staring at it with gaping mouths.

  “Oh my God,” the girl who’d moved for Lauren said, “are you okay?”

  Lauren rolled her eyes and nodded. “Yeah, good as I can be, I guess.”

  “How did you get that?”

  Digging into her purse, Lauren pulled out her foundation and put a bit on the purple skin. After a quick coat of blush, the bruise had disappeared. “According to him, I did it to myself.”

  Their jaws might as well have bounced off the counter.

  “Are you kidding me?” one of them said.

  “Do you think I could borrow some mascara?” Lauren pointed at a bottle one of the women held.

  “Yeah, of course. Here.”

  Lauren applied some, and then borrowed some of their lipstick. In two minutes she looked like a new woman, like jeans and a button-up micro-flannel were the new chic.

  “Here? You want some of this?” The brunette of the bunch pulled out a bottle of perfume.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  They giggled as Lauren squinted and lifted her chin, taking the spray on her neck. “Thanks. Okay, how do I look?”

  They looked her up and down. The brunette looked unconvinced. “Gotta put your hair down.”

  Lauren pulled her hair out of her ponytail and ruffled it onto her shoulders.

  The brunette smiled. “Baby, you look hot. Go get ’em.”

  Lauren slung her purse over her shoulder and left. Oh, was she ever glad she was done with this scene.

  Stepping out into the loud bar again, she tiptoed and craned her neck, spotting Keith at eleven o’clock. Pushing her way through, she had to wave off two more men, but eventually made it.

  Keith Lourde loomed feet ahead of her, looking ever the impressive businessman, ever the terrible man. His wedding ring was conspicuously missing. Out of sight, out of mind, apparently.

  Lauren watched him work, leaning into the ear of a young woman next to him. His dark hair was cut short, spikey on top with distinguished graying on the sides. His skin was tanned, like he’d just gotten off the plane from someplace warm. His smooth jawline was taut, muscles rippling where his neck met his shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying his browned forearm skin. Clearly he’d been keeping up with an exercise routine the past few years.

  Her plan was simple—extract money from the guy or she was going to end her three-year silence. Ruin his family life, or at least put a major dent in it. How he’d managed to keep a family this long was beyond her.

  “… so I say, if it’s a good deal, then jump on it. You remember that, okay? You have to know when to spot a good deal. But more import
antly, you have to—”

  “Be willing to act on it.” Lauren poked her head in. “Isn’t that how that bogus crap line goes?”

  Keith Lourde’s face twisted in utter annoyance, and then he recognized her and smiled like someone was holding a gun to his head.

  “Lauren Coulter,” he said with a laugh. “Wow, you’re the last person I ever thought I’d see here.”

  “Here I am.” Opening her hands, she could tell he was remembering the last time they’d seen one another. “How’re your wife and kids doing?”

  Keith’s eyelids lowered halfway and he stared at Lauren with undisguised contempt.

  “You have a wife and kids?” One of the three women backed up a step.

  “Used to,” Keith said, beaming a winning smile. “I mean, I still have the kids. The wife and I broke up two years ago.”

  This was news to Lauren. Bad news. Because three years ago, Lauren had been attacked in her office by Keith Lourde, barely escaping his clutches when an overnight janitor had heard her cry for help and knocked on the door. Bad news because Keith Lourde was an eligible bachelor with a cushy job and no family left to lose.

  She could still threaten to go to the cops, though. And if he called her bluff?

  Shit. Her tenuous plan was unraveling.

  “Can I help you?” Keith smiled at her, like he sensed the news of his breakup with his wife somehow bothered her immensely.

  “Could I speak to you for a few moments, Keith?” She looked at the three women in turn. “I’m sorry. I’ll only steal him for a few seconds, I swear.”

  The three women looked at each other, then back at Keith.

  Keith was in heaven. Four women fighting for his attention. He put a manicured paw on the tall one’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere.” He looked at Lauren with a this better be good expression and led her by the elbow to a round table near the mahogany-paneled wall.

  Like someone had laid a deadly python on her shoulders, Lauren cringed at Keith’s touch and had to force herself to move normally.

  “Here okay?” Keith sat down on one of the stools.

  “Sure.” Lauren rounded the table and sat next to him.