by Alex Barclay
‘On what charges?’
‘Child support.’
‘That’s it?’
Bob nodded. ‘Yup …’ He turned to her, his expression grave. ‘Something smells bad with this guy.’
‘Really?’
‘No, I mean seriously. We found his truck – he had been transporting manure.’
Ren laughed. ‘Ew. Why?’
‘Some bullshit reason …’
‘OK, we could be here all night … talking shit.’
The detectives were laughing as they moved past her and went back to their offices.
‘Where’s this guy now?’ said Ren.
‘In my little jailhouse,’ said Bob.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Erubiel Diaz.’
‘Exotic.’
‘There was one car driving through the parking lot of the Medical Center around the time Diaz was dropped off,’ said Bob.
‘What, are you actually following up on this?’ said Ren. ‘Some dirtbag gets taken off the streets, and you’re going to go find the people who did us that favor?’
‘The guy hasn’t paid his child support – is dirtbag maybe going a little too far?’
Ren paused. ‘Um, maybe … Did you get the registration?’
‘Nope. The driver did quite a cool shimmy around the cameras, by the looks of it. It was like that naked Austin Power thing.’
‘Here, let me save you some time on this,’ said Ren. ‘Could I go talk to him? He may know some of our masked men.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘I just would.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Bob. ‘He’s in a cell right now. You speak Spanish?’
‘I have ways of communicating …’
Bob led Ren through reception, down a series of hallways and through the steel door into the jail.
‘Hey,’ said Bob to the female guards behind the desk. ‘The reception area,’ he said to Ren. ‘The inmates need anything sent to their room, they call here: fluffy towels, robes, scented candles …’
‘Yeah, and today’s Champagne-and-Hooker Tuesday,’ said one of the guards.
They all laughed.
‘Agent Bryce here is going to talk to our new guest, Mr Erubiel Diaz.’
‘Enjoy,’ said one of the guards.
‘They’ll whistle and cat-call,’ said Bob. ‘You know what to do.’
‘Get a few phone numbers,’ said Ren.
‘Nah, just call me, I’ll patch you through.’
The Summit County Jail was clean and modern with reinforced glass in all the common areas. In a cell to her right, a brick-shithouse inmate stood freakishly still, his legs slightly spread, his arms folded, his dark eyes dead ahead, his black wavy mullet carefully tended.
‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘What’s his story?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bob. ‘He hates … people.’
A group therapy session was winding down in a glass-walled room on the left. The therapist raised a hand to Bob and nodded.
‘We’ll wait for these guys to leave,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll bring Diaz to you. You want me to sit in?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Ren.
‘OK. But I’ll be right outside, watching through the glass.’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Ren eyeballed some of the inmates as they left. She went into the empty room and sat at the table with the glass door to her right. Bob came back with Diaz, then disappeared. He walked to the control booth at the center of the jail, a small hexagonal glass room that looked out over everything.
‘Hey,’ said Bob to the guy at the controls, ‘show me the group therapy room, so I don’t have a dead Fed to explain.’
The guy turned to the bank of monitors and flicked a switch. The screen was black. The guy shrugged. ‘Hold on. Let me try this.’ He hit some more buttons, but the screen didn’t come back on.
‘Shit,’ said Bob. ‘Is that busted?’
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘Shit,’ said Bob. He ran back down the steps and along the hallway to the therapy room.
Ren was standing right in front of the glass door with her arms stiffly by her side. Bob jumped. He pulled open the door. She made fava bean and Chianti sounds.
He smiled. ‘Phew.’ He looked past her.
Diaz was slumped in his chair, his head turned toward the back wall. His left pants leg was wet and there was a small pool under his foot.
Bob glanced at Ren. ‘If you’ve eaten his face …’
She looked back at Diaz, then leaned into Bob’s ear. ‘Much worse than that … Just call me Theseus.’
‘Who the fuck is Theseus?’
Ren smiled. ‘The guy who slayed the Minotaur.’
Bob frowned, then called into the prisoner, ‘Diaz, you ready?’
‘Get me a towel or something,’ said Diaz in Spanish. ‘Let me clean myself up.’
‘Let him clean himself up first,’ said Ren.
‘I’ll call maintenance.’ Bob walked back down to the control room. ‘Hey, you need me to send someone in to look at that camera?’ He knew the answer.
‘No. It came back just as you got here.’
42
Ren spent an afternoon under the shadow of Mark Wilson. The file was more than just a distraction. She knew it had come her way for a reason. Misty’s job the day before had been to clear her hangover and see if she could pick up the scent of a body that may have been overlooked in the search. She succeeded in fifty per cent of her task.
Mike Delaney was dragging file boxes from behind his office door and piling them up behind his desk.
‘I think they were hidden better behind the door,’ said Ren.
‘Ah,’ said Mike, ‘maybe from people coming in to the room. The loser behind the desk had to look at them all day. Until today. I have decided to keep my problems behind me for a little while.’
Ren smiled. ‘It could be a self-fulfilling-prophecy thing.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I was wondering – being the mountain man that you are – would you have a map of the whole area at the base of Quandary Peak and out the road toward Fairplay?’
‘Sure,’ said Mike. He opened one of the drawers in his desk, checked through a few maps and handed her one.
‘Thanks,’ said Ren. She went back to her office, opened it out and laid it on the table. It covered a wider area than the previous maps she had been looking at. Or getting the guys to look at and report back to me on.
There was a tract of land on the map between the Brockton Filly and Fairplay that had no name or reference number but was marked as private property. Ren went back in to Mike.
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘do you know what this is here? Is it anything?’
He looked where she was pointing. ‘It’s the old Barger Brewery.’
‘Like Charlie Barger Barger?’
‘Yup.’
‘How does a doctor wind up with a brewery?’ said Ren.
‘It started out as his father’s. Charlie’s father, Emil, set up one of the first breweries in town. Have you been to Big Mountain Brewery?’
‘Yup.’
‘They still sell Lime Beer there. It’s a Barger beer – Emil backward. I’m guessing he was kind of a dork. But the beer is good.’
‘Oh, so it’s not because it tastes of lime,’ said Ren.
‘No, but Big Mountain Brewery gets a kick out of confusing the customers.’
‘So BMB used to be owned by Emil Barger?’
‘Kind of,’ said Mike. ‘Emil Barger started brewing his own beer in his garage when he retired. This was the late seventies. Anyway, he can’t help himself and, within a year, he had bought that place off McCullough Gulch Road. I guess you’d call it a micro-brewery. Two years on, it’s huge, it’s the Barger Brewery, supplying to a lot of the bars around town, and people are loving it. Emil passes away, leaves the brewery to Charlie who, sadly, runs it into the ground. The brand was bought out and it becam
e Big Mountain Brewery. Charlie got to hang on to the building and land. BMB, as you know, has premises just on the edge of town.’
‘Jesus,’ said Ren, ‘his father’s got the Midas touch, Charlie’s got the everything-he-touches-turns-to-shit thing. The guy in the Welcome Center told me about the Bargers owning half of Breck. And I’m guessing that’s not the case any more.’
‘I don’t know, Ren … I’d rather not … Charlie’s a friend.’
‘I understand that. And I don’t want you to betray anything or anyone. But it’s in plain sight that his house is run down and his daughter has a touch of the meth face.’
Mike looked at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I shouldn’t have said it that way. But there is a sadness about that house.’ A terrible, cloying, sadness.
Mike let out a breath. ‘OK – Shannon Barger is a meth addict. And Charlie’s in debt. He has been bailing that little bitch – God forgive me – out since she was sixteen years old.’
‘Sixteen? How old is she now?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Oh my God, I thought she was, like, over forty.’
He nodded. ‘It’s very sad. She’s been to rehab a dozen times.’
‘And he’s a doctor,’ said Ren. ‘That’s gotta hurt.’
‘And the son of a very successful man, a war hero, an athlete, one of the founding fathers here … He owns nothing of what his father built up, and everyone knows it. Apart from the house –’
‘That used to be the Cheapshot Inn –’
‘Yup, which obviously didn’t go too well.’
‘No.’
‘He told me he’s thinking of starting the brewery again,’ said Mike. ‘Of making money that way.’
‘Getting into brewing?’ said Ren. ‘That will cost him money. Why doesn’t he just sell the land? That would probably cover his debts. I mean, I don’t know how much they are, but … none of his idea makes any sense.’
‘Charlie is far from dumb,’ said Mike. ‘He is an outstanding doctor, researcher, biochemist … His mind is just not big business.’
‘Yeah, but you hire in the guys to take care of that,’ said Ren.
‘He tried that,’ said Mike. ‘But when the boss is away …’
‘Well, wouldn’t you learn from experience? I mean –’
‘Ren – Charlie saved my son’s life,’ said Mike.
‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘I know,’ said Mike. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’ll fight you to the death to defend him.’ He was smiling as he said it.
‘That’s about done it for me,’ said Ren, smiling back. ‘Is your son doing OK?’
‘He is. Thank you. One hundred per cent OK.’
‘Saving children’s lives versus getting people shitfaced,’ said Ren. ‘You can’t argue with that.’
Even though I would love to keep talking about Charlie Barger, because something is not right with this picture.
Mike looked at her as if he could read her mind.
Ren went back to the inn and sat on the sofa in her room, speeding through the menus in the Gourmet Cabby guide. She went from pizza to salmon to burritos to sushi and back to salmon. When she placed her order, the guy at the other end of the phone said, ‘Hey, Ren. Room number nine, right?’
‘Hello, yes. Thanks.’
They had all her details. Grim. The whole of Breckenridge was going out to party and she was having a thing with Gourmet Cabby. When the food came an hour later, she went downstairs to pick it up. The other guests were drinking wine, watching TV, reading books.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘What’s up?’ said one cute snowboarder.
‘Not much,’ said Ren, hovering, wanting to stay and talk, but finishing with a ‘Have a good one’ and going back upstairs.
Five hours later, through the window in the darkness, a snowplow moved like a Transformer toward her, mounting inclines, the cab rotating on its tracks, casting golden light across the snow. She couldn’t take her eyes off it as it moved past the church and turned back her way. She sat with a stack of notes and a bottle of water on the table in front of her. Two empty boxes of Mike & Ikes were on the floor at her feet. In the window and by her bed, church candles flickered, the flames coming to life a second time in mirrors and glass.
Her eyes started to close, her neck slowly falling toward the pillow at her back. No, no no. Do. Not. Stop. She sat up. She had Jean’s phone records and bank records in front of her – everything marked with arrows and question marks and Post-Its. Colin Grabien had already been through them; he had good radar and fresh eyes. Ren had too. And if there was anything new in them, her eyes were blind to it.
She had stacks of witness statements. She had maps. She had photos. She had multicolored pens. She had sketch pads. If she hadn’t spent so much time organizing it all, she would have swept the whole lot on to the floor. Instead, without even realizing it was happening, she picked up a coffee mug and pitched it across the room.
‘What is important in all this shit?’ she shouted.
The mug bounced off the wall in one piece, leaving no mark. She shook her head slowly.
I can’t do anything right. Shut up. I can’t. Shut up.
43
The next morning, Ren parked outside Caroline Quaintance’s house and sat staring down at the photo of Billy Waites and his intense, intelligent – lying? – eyes.
He could have any woman he wanted. Why did he pick me? She glanced over at the house. When maybe tall, athletic twenty-seven-year-olds were his thing.
She breathed through an irritating stab of jealousy and got out of the car. She jogged across the street to the house and rang the doorbell. Caroline came out, struggling to find an alternative expression for her disappointed face.
‘I’m Ren –’
‘I know,’ said Caroline. ‘Come in … again.’
‘Thanks. I won’t take up a lot of your time.’
‘That’s OK. I’m surprised to see you, that’s all. I feel like I’m being involved in something I just don’t know much about.’
They went into the kitchen. Ren sat down. Caroline stood looking at her.
‘I know you’re supposed to be asking the questions,’ said Caroline, ‘but are you … OK? You look –’
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ said Ren. ‘Why do you ask?’ Ren was training herself to use this question more. She’d read somewhere that it was the perfect response to a personal question that you didn’t want to answer. If someone couldn’t give you a good enough reason for asking, you could bypass revealing something you didn’t want to. My weakness.
‘Oh … I’m sorry,’ said Caroline, ‘I just …’
Result. ‘I’m here to show you a photograph, to see if you recognize this man.’
‘No,’ said Caroline immediately.
‘Never seen him before?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Well, no. But …’
‘No,’ said Caroline again. ‘Why?’
‘I’m just asking around,’ said Ren. ‘Anyone who has cropped up in the investigation.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘No problem. But I really can’t see why –’
‘Look,’ said Ren. ‘I’m doing my job, OK? It’s for me to know why I’m asking what I’m asking. And why I’m calling to your door, OK? Is it killing you to give me five minutes of your time?’ She glanced toward the television, where Desperate Housewives was playing. ‘Or are you too busy watching fake people’s lives to give a damn about a real person’s death?’
At some point, Ren realized, Caroline had taken a step back from her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I just …’ Stop talking.
‘Really, I do wish I could help,’ said Caroline, but I just don’t know that guy.’
At least you’re not lying this time. I think.
A text came in from Vincent when she got back to her office. She checked the time and sent him
back a Yes. She drove down to Main Street and parked outside the Crown. She had been having more success with parking in Breckenridge than Bob had led her to believe.
The Crown was quiet inside, a few couples, a few readers, no one playing board games. Vincent was sitting on the sofa facing her. He stood up, smiling.
‘Hey,’ he said. They kissed on the cheek.
‘Hi,’ said Ren. She took off her jacket and hung it on the coat stand beside them. ‘It’s cold out there.’
‘Tonight’s going to be worse,’ said Vincent. ‘Fifteen below.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Do you have to be anywhere?’
‘Inside working, so it could be worse.’
‘Crank that heating up.’
‘Wow,’ said Ren – the waitress arrived with two coffees and a Cinnamonster.
Ren gave him a warm, sad smile. ‘Thank you.’ She stared at him a little too long.
‘What?’ he said.
‘It’s just … it’s lovely to be known that well. You knew I’d be on time, so you could order. And you knew what to order …’
‘Noo,’ said Vincent. ‘I just thought it was appropriate ordering you something with “monster” in the title …’
Ren laughed. ‘Is that better or worse than Ren Noir?’
‘Better.’
They sat in silence for a while, then they talked about work.
‘You are the only person in the world I can be totally honest with,’ said Ren.
‘And you are the only person in the world who I can tell straightaway is lying to me.’
Ren frowned.
‘Yes, Ren, you are honest. Most of what you say to me is the truth. But you are selective in what you say to me.’
Ren opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking.
‘When you have looked me in the eye today, it’s been nervously,’ said Vincent. ‘But most of the time, you haven’t been able to.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Ren.
‘Bing! Lie!’ His tone was not unkind.
‘Look, stop,’ said Ren. ‘Come on.’
‘Something is making you uncomfortable with me,’ said Vincent, ‘and because I know that you can’t lie – really – I’m not going to ask you what it is. Because I’m not really sure I want to know.’