by Jeff Carson
“Shit … There he is.” Rachette pointed at the windshield.
Wolf pushed the accelerator and the engine revved, all four wheels slipping on the thin layer of snow before catching.
The radio crackled to life. “You still there, Dave?”
Wolf grabbed the radio off the dash. “Yep.”
“You sure you don’t want me to slow down?”
“Nope. Not unless you want to.”
Greg laughed heartily through the tiny speaker. “I’m already going slower than usual. So, I guess I’ll just keep it pegged where I’m at. There’s a real drop-off to the left now, so keep in my path.”
“Got it.” Wolf put down the radio.
Rachette was leaning forward, looking past Wolf. “Drop-off? I can’t see shit out there.”
“That’s kind of the point of having Greg lead the way.”
Rachette leaned back again with a sigh. “Just let me know when we get there.”
It took another twenty minutes of sprint-and-crawl driving to get to the first house, and Greg was idling in the center of the road just past the mailbox marking the property.
The place was on the right, a short drive away from the edge of the road. A jacked-up pickup truck sat parked lengthwise in front of the house, indicating a traffic circle in front, but it was impossible to tell where it began or ended with the smooth layer of snow.
Wolf pulled up behind the plow and put his SUV in park. They donned their hats, zipped their jackets all the way, and stepped outside.
Greg climbed down from his rattling dinosaur of a truck and waded through the snow toward them. “Here’s the first house you were talking about!”
Wolf nodded. “Why don’t you hop back inside and we’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Greg spat through his teeth and nodded. “You got it.”
Wolf eyed the walk from the edge of the road to the front door of the house and twirled his left ankle inside his boot.
“You all right?” Rachette squinted against the flakes, his face red from Nanteekut’s brake lights.
“Let’s go.”
They marched through the snow, keeping their heads low and chins tucked.
A window in front was ablaze, its shades drawn. Wolf and Rachette could just make out the silhouette of a figure looking out. As they reached the covered porch, the front door opened a crack, emitting a slice of light.
Wolf stepped up and pulled his face out of his coat. “Hello, my name is Chief Detective David Wolf, and this is Detective Tom Rachette. We’d like to have a word with you.”
The man was young, early twenties, and looked like he hadn’t showered in a week. His hair was shoulder length and greasy, uncombed with dreadlocks. His pupils were pinpoints, despite the fact that he was looking out into the dark, which told Wolf he was on something.
“A-hey-uh!” The man’s chin bounced like he was shivering when he talked.
Rachette and Wolf exchanged a glance. Rachette took the cue and stepped forward with his hand extended, taking charge of the talking while Wolf stepped back and observed.
“A little cold up here tonight, eh?” Rachette asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah. No crap. It is really dropping out there, sir.” The kid was really pouring on the kiss-ass, trying to direct their attention away from the telltale crystal-meth cat-urine stench flowing out of the front door.
The house was of quality construction, well-maintained outside, treated wood on the front porch. The back of the leather couch on the other side of the window looked expensive. Beyond the furniture, a large television spewed light, a paused video game on the screen. Muffled explosions blasted out of tall speakers.
“This your house?” Wolf asked.
“No, sir. My parents’.”
“Are they here?”
“No, sir. They’re in Arizona. I’m caretaking for the winter.”
“Have you had any visitors today?” Rachette asked.
“No. No, sir. Just me.”
Wolf caught movement at the edge of his vision, in the lower corner of the window. “And what about now?”
He shrugged. “No.”
“Excuse me.” Wolf pushed past Rachette and stiff-armed the door open.
“Hey.” The kid’s protest was weak. He held up both his hands and backed up, letting him inside, not that he had a choice.
Wolf pushed the door all the way and lifted his pistol out of the holster.
“You don’t move a muscle now.” Rachette was behind Wolf and in the kid’s face.
The living room came into view as the door swung open, revealing a coffee table strewn with marijuana clippings, overflowing ashtrays, empty cigarette packs, and a bong. On the leather couch an old black Lab lifted his head and looked at them with red eyes. It slumped back down and dozed, probably sleeping off a contact high.
The man stood frozen with his hands up, his eyes darting between Rachette and Wolf and the paraphernalia on the table.
Wolf pushed his Glock back in the holster. “Have you seen a blue BMW SUV come up here today?”
“A blue … what was that?”
“A blue BMW SUV,” Rachette said. “Got a hearing problem?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Then why don’t you answer the man’s question?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t seen a blue BMW. I’ve just … been playing this video game all day.”
“I’d like to check your garage, please.” Wolf pointed to the left, then right.
“The garage?”
“The garage,” Rachette said.
“Yeah, sure. I guess.” He walked through the living room, waving his hand for them to follow.
The kid padded on his socks through the living room into a large kitchen.
Wolf and Rachette followed, their boots squeaking and leaving chunks of snow in their wake.
“It’s … it’s just through here.” The man pointed at a door off the back of the kitchen. “Garage is in there.”
The kitchen matched the rest of the house—nice, relatively modern, but with the wrong tenant living inside of it. Every piece of countertop was strewn with food wrappers, stacked pizza boxes, and empty beer bottles.
Rachette walked to the kitchen table and pointed at a blackened pipe with a small bag of white crystals next to it.
Wolf nodded and followed the kid to the garage door.
“Please step back,” Wolf said.
The kid did as he was told, keeping his mouth shut, unaware that Wolf and Rachette were well beyond the line of legal entry into the house, and too scared or high to start thinking straight about it.
Wolf twisted the knob and opened the door, letting cold air seep into the kitchen. The garage was a neatly organized two-car space, with a Ford Explorer parked nearest and an empty space next to it.
“That’s my mom’s truck.”
Wolf nodded and let the door shut. “That your truck outside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?” Wolf asked.
“Gabe. Hunsaker.”
“Gabe, we’re going to let you off this time. You’re lucky we’re not looking for junkies tonight. But if you’re lying to us, and you know about the blue BMW…” Wolf let the words hang in the air.
“No, I swear. I haven’t seen a BMW. I’ve been just sitting here, chilling all day. Nobody came up in a blue BMW. I’ve just been playing video games like I told you.”
It was always tough to read a tweaker. The telltale movements of drug addiction sometimes superseded the telltale movements of lying, or sometimes a tweaker’s interpretation of truth was something else altogether.
But Wolf believed him.
“You know the neighbors up the street?”
Gabe pulled his eyebrows together. “The Mackennas?”
“Yes, the Mackennas.”
Gabe nodded. “Known them all my life. They’ve been our neighbors since I was born.”
“Have the Mackennas had any visitors today?”
&nbs
p; Gabe frowned in thought. “I don’t know. I’ve been—”
“Playing your video game.” Wolf nodded. “I know.”
Gabe nodded.
“How far is the Mackennas’ house?”
“Just a quarter-mile or so. You can see it from here. Well, when it’s not a blizzard outside.” Gabe’s lungs rattled and he coughed like he was hacking up an animal.
Wolf waited for him to finish and walked out of the kitchen. “You can carry on, Gabe.” He walked past the sleeping dog and back to the front door again.
“Better stay off the streets when you’re putting all this shit in your body,” Rachette said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wolf and Rachette went back outside and high-stepped it to the road, their tracks already smoothed over with freshly fallen powder.
Wolf went around to the driver’s side of the plow truck, hopped up onto the metal-grate step, and knocked on the window.
“Oh, shit!” Greg mouthed as he looked up from a video game on his phone. He rolled the window down. “You scared me.”
“Let’s head up to the next house.”
“You got it.”
Wolf hopped down. By the time he was back in his SUV, Greg was already driving.
Gabe Hunsaker was right; the Mackennas’ house was about a quarter-mile up on the left side of the road, situated on a flat piece of land.
Greg plowed up to the house and then a few yards past. He stopped and Wolf parked, blocking the driveway.
Wolf had been up here before. A mile away was a gate arm that closed off the road ultimately leading to Aspen during the winter months.
If it had been daytime, and clear rather than a blizzard, Wolf knew they’d be looking at a sweeping three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the mountains right now, and Rainbow Creek would be meandering through a flat, snow-covered meadow behind the house.
The house was a single-level affair, more beat up and sagging than the previous residence. The windows were dark.
A sedan was parked out front, covered in a foot of snow. To the left of the house stood a single-car garage and a carport partially shielding an old-model Jeep Wrangler.
“How accurate do you think that cell-phone ping was?” Rachette asked.
Wolf shrugged.
“Because it sure looks like nobody’s home here. If this isn’t the place, then what?”
“There’re two cars,” Wolf said.
“I guess they could be sleeping.”
He zipped himself up and pulled down his hat once again. He stepped out onto the plowed road, then up and over the pile left by Greg’s plow blade.
The sedan in front looked like an eighties- or nineties-model Chrysler or Oldsmobile by the marshmallow silhouette. Not exactly the best car for the conditions in these mountains.
A covered porch with an A-frame portico sheltered the front door somewhat from the elements.
Leading up to the door was a flurry of footprints, well snowed over hours ago, but still apparent.
Wolf pulled out his flashlight. Flipping it on, he swept the beam side to side.
The windows to the right were covered by dented and discolored aluminum blinds. To the left was a stretch of beat-up siding, the single-car garage, and then the carport. The garage was closed and a drift had been sculpted a few feet away, but right near the door the wind had carved down to the ground, revealing two tire tracks in the snow—barely even noticeable.
Wolf knocked on the front door and stepped back.
“Looks like there’re some footprints here,” Rachette said.
Wolf nodded.
“Probably a few hours old. Crap, I don’t know. Can’t tell how many people.”
There was no movement within.
Rachette looked at Wolf, then flicked on his own flashlight and shined it on the window. “Can’t see anything through those blinds.”
Wolf eyed the twin impressions near the garage door again. It was a small garage, but generous enough to hold a BMW SUV.
“What’s up?” Rachette asked.
“There’re tire-tread marks going in … or coming out of the garage.”
Rachette leaned over and put his flashlight beam on the tracks. “Yeah.”
Wolf reached out and twisted the front door knob. Locked.
He went back down the way he’d come and trudged through a foot and a half of snow to the garage door. He gripped the handle and it rolled up easily.
Rachette joined him and flashed his light inside the yawning garage.
It was empty inside—just a piece of cardboard in the center of the concrete floor with a blotch of oil on it. The walls were covered with hanging tools. A riding lawnmower was parked at the rear next to a door that looked like it led inside the house.
“Should we check that door?” Rachette asked.
Wolf stepped onto the concrete and stomped the snow off his boots and jeans, barely feeling any pain through the numbness. He should’ve worn heavy-duty snow boots—the leather of his work boots was fully soaked through, his feet wet and toes starting to freeze.
The inside door was locked too.
Rachette blew on his hands and crossed his arms. “What now? Patterson said Lauren’s brother’s last cell ping was here. We need to figure out how accurate those things are. Way up the canyon from town like this? Probably got an inaccurate reading.”
Wolf stared out into the swirling storm and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He pulled it out. “Patterson. Hello?”
“ … sir …” Wolf heard the one word and that was it. The connection sounded like a dial-up modem trying to make a connection inside a jet engine.
“Hello?”
The call dropped so he pocketed his phone. “Let’s get to the truck, get on the radio.”
They closed the garage door, checked the front of the house once again, and made their way to the truck.
Greg was near the back of the plow, smoking a cigarette. “We ready to roll?”
“One minute!”
They sat inside the SUV and Wolf lifted the radio off the receiver. “Dispatch, do you copy?”
“Dispatch, go ahead.”
“This is Wolf, Tammy. Can you please patch us through to Patterson’s phone?”
“You got it. One sec.”
A few seconds later Patterson came on. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s us. What’s going on?”
Patterson’s reaction time was delayed a second longer than normal conversation. “We found a match for the fingerprints on the paring knife.”
“Yeah?”
“Two matches actually. One set is a man named Zeke Jacoway. Lives in Denver, some place in Five Points. Has a rap sheet longer than a roll of toilet paper. Aggravated assault, robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, drugs. Lots of drug charges. Did three years in State in the early two thousands. Been in and out of the system plenty of times since.”
Rachette leaned toward the radio. “Did you say drugs?”
“Yep. Looking at his picture now. Real junkie. Skin and bones. Crazy eyes. He’s been busted for meth, heroin, cocaine, and marijuana. Real career type.”
“Long brown hair?” Rachette asked.
“Yeah. You can pull up the picture on the dash computer,” she said.
Wolf was zoning out on the sedan parked in front of the house.
“They found a second set of prints on the blade of the knife. Another partial underneath the blood. This one came up with an immediate match.”
Wolf looked at the radio.
“Michael Coulter,” she said.
“Lauren’s brother?” Wolf asked. “But he was driving toward Rocky Points from Denver when the murder took place. Had to have been.”
“The print wasn’t in blood. It’s a normal oil print, underneath the blood. They found it with the scopes.”
They sat in silence, digesting the information. “So, it’s Michael Coulter’s knife,
” Wolf said. “But this Zeke Jacoway guy used the knife to kill the nanny.”
“Looks like it,” Patterson said.
Wolf went back to eyeing the sedan out front.
“Can you send us a photo of this Zeke Jacoway guy on the laptop?” Rachette asked.
“Yeah,” Patterson said. “Already did.”
Rachette gave Wolf a look and opened the laptop. The screen flickered to life and he pressed some buttons. “What the hell? It froze.”
Wolf shook his head and opened the door.
“Where you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Wolf followed the previous tracks through the snow and made his way to the sedan. With his forearm, he brushed the snow off the driver’s-side window—it dropped with a whoomp, leaving clean glass beneath it.
He flicked on his Maglite and shone it inside.
The two front seats were ripped, the dark fabric stained. Fast-food wrappers and pop cans littered the floor, a forty-ounce beer bottle joining the pile of trash.
Angling the light to the back seat, Wolf froze the beam on a doll wearing a tiara.
Chapter 18
Wolf held the flashlight steady as Rachette jimmied open the front door of the house. It cracked and snapped, and then squealed in protest before finally swinging open on its hinges.
Warm air flowed out of the darkness, on it a familiar stench.
“Ah shit.” Rachette covered his nose and backed up a step.
Wolf aimed his Glock and flashlight and stepped inside, breathing through his mouth and readying himself to see more of Zeke Jacoway’s handiwork.
It only took a second.
An elderly couple, both dressed in flannel pants and sweatshirts, were sitting on the couch. The man sat straight, his head back as if sleeping, his mouth agape and eyes closed. The only thing off about him was the neat hole in his forehead, a single stream of blood running out of it, a crimson bolt down his face that disappeared into the neck of his sweatshirt. The elderly woman, Mrs. Mackenna, lay face down in her husband’s lap.
“Damn it.” Rachette flicked a wall switch.
Wolf squinted against the bright overhead light and took in the details. “Careful. Don’t be touching anything.”
“I used my sleeve.” Rachette’s final word sounded like a dry heave.
They’d been executed at close range. The bullets had exited from the back of their skulls, leaving spatter on the velvet couch and wallpaper.