I’d been bracing myself for the man I’d seen at the police station the day before—a grieving father and grandfather. A man brought to his knees by the level of tragedy that had struck his family. But Hiram was as calm as if the worst thing he’d heard that day was that his favorite dish was missing from the menu. I looked for signs that he was on antianxiety drugs or self-medicating with alcohol. But his pale blue eyes were sharp when they met mine.
Only the oxygen gave away his struggle.
We shook hands, Hiram’s grip firm, his attention wholly on me. Of average height, Hiram wasn’t an imposing man. But he had presence.
I gestured toward the oxygen machine. “How are you, sir? You seem quite—” I stopped myself.
“Composed?” His smile was without humor. “Years of training. What did you find in my son’s office?”
I lifted my chin and braced myself. “Not much.”
“Relax, Agent Parnell. I’m not going to fire you. I did consider it. But I believe you broke into Ben’s office in order to help find my granddaughter. It would be harsh of me to punish you when your intent was honorable.”
I let go my breath. “Why did you forbid the police access?”
“Let me guess what you found. Locked in his desk or maybe in a cabinet, was a bottle of scotch. Or cheap whiskey. Could have been either with Ben. His tastes aren’t always the most discerning.”
I said nothing.
“And a gun. And . . .” He shifted his gaze to some middle distance. “His medals. Because he couldn’t decide if he was proud of them or ashamed.” His gaze came back to me. “Is that about right? Is that what you found?”
“The police have their warrant now, sir. You can ask them.”
“That is answer enough. I should have asked you to remove them. That’s precisely what I didn’t want the world knowing—that Ben could be weak. That he had considered taking his own life. Have you felt that way? Been tempted to end your life because of what you suffered in the war?”
I bit down on the response I wanted to offer. Something along the lines of, None of your damn business. Or maybe, You have no fucking idea what war is like.
I said, “I have a few questions for you.”
“Of course. We’ll get to that. You visited my son last night.”
“Yes.”
“When I heard you went to the hospital, I asked myself why. Was it because you’re working this case and wanted to see one of the victims for yourself? Or was it because you’re a former Marine and wanted to pay your respects? You served two tours in Iraq, I believe. Mortuary Affairs.”
“How—?”
“I make it my business to learn at least a little about my employees. The important ones. And since you protect my property, that includes you. So. Mortuary Affairs. That couldn’t have been pleasant. But look at you. None of this post-traumatic stress bullshit for you. You did your job and now you’ve returned to society, a healthy, contributing member.”
Stiffly, I said, “Ben was investigating your 1982 takeover of the T&W short line.” Maybe not too much of a stretch. “What can you tell me about it?”
“What?” Hiram barked a laugh. “I thought you were here to ask about my family. My granddaughter.”
“Bear with me, sir. I’m trying to understand Ben’s interest, and the details about that merger. Alfred Tate fought you for years. It looked like he would win. The ICC was poised to disapprove the merger. Then suddenly he capitulated.”
“And you think I know why.”
“Do you?”
A darkness stirred in his pale eyes, like ink leaching into paper. “You believe this might have something to do with what happened to my family?”
“It’s possible, sir.” I reached into my jacket pocket for the copy of the article. “This was locked in Ben’s desk.”
Hiram took the article, skimmed through it, then handed it back to me. His gaze went far away, presumably traveling back twenty-eight years, all the way to when he’d announced to the world that he would do his best to never let another person die on the T&W train tracks. The look in his eyes carried a nostalgic mix of satisfaction and melancholia.
Then a sudden fury edged out the other emotions, and his return to the present came with the suddenness of a steel-jaw trap snapping closed.
Interesting. Was the anger defensive? Had Lancing been right when he claimed Hiram used illegal tactics to persuade Tate?
Staring out the window, Hiram said, “I cannot pretend to understand why Tate suddenly chose to see things my way. Or to know what he was thinking at the time.” The anger sparked off him like a blade against a whetstone. “Maybe he realized it was for the best.”
“Why was that?”
“If I hadn’t taken T&W off his hands, his entire company would have gone under. He was poised on the brink. He turned crybaby in public—poor SFCO, beaten up by the big bad bully next door. But secretly he was glad. I saved him from ruin. He was operating so far in the hole that I was his only glimpse of daylight.”
“So there wasn’t anything . . . questionable in his change of heart?”
“Are you asking if I put some sort of illegal pressure on him?”
“It’s been suggested.”
His sigh was exaggerated. “People assume the worst. But whatever pressure Tate might have felt to let go of the T&W, it came from him. Not me.”
“You knew Tate well?” I asked.
He snorted. “Well enough to know he was a coward. If you offered him the brass ring, he’d say he needed to go home and think about it.” His gaze came back to me. “Tell me what you’re thinking. If you suspect the Tates in what has happened to my family . . . surely that’s ludicrous. What possible reason could they have to hurt me like this?”
“According to the article, after several fatal accidents at a crossing on Potters Road—a crossing owned by T&W—you promised you would upgrade the crossings if you won the merger.”
“I remember.”
“And you said it was because Tate’s railroad put profits above safety.”
“I might have said something like that. We were at war. Do you suspect him of murder because of that?”
“Was it true?”
“Knowing Tate, probably. He was as much a skinflint as a coward. Certainly, I had my suspicions. But I also admit to pandering to public fears. Teenagers had died there. So I vowed no one else would die at that crossing. And I decided to go one better than simply installing gates, which seem to be more of a temptation than a barrier. I wanted that crossing obliterated.”
“But that wasn’t your call to make. It was the state’s.”
“Your naïveté is showing, Agent Parnell.” He crossed to a bar cart near the sofa and poured several inches of amber liquid from a decanter into a tumbler. “Care for a bourbon?”
Eight in the morning was too early for the hard stuff, even for me. I gave the obvious excuse. “I’m on duty.”
“Of course.” He came back to the window, took a sip of his drink, and held it in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “While upgrading that crossing wasn’t something I could do on my own, that didn’t mean I was without influence.”
“Politics.”
“It’s how the world works.”
“According to the FRA, there weren’t any accidents at that crossing.”
Hiram raised his eyebrows. “Now isn’t that interesting. There most certainly were accidents there. I guess Alfred Tate is more of a skank than I realized.”
“And you didn’t know back then that the accidents weren’t being reported?”
Amusement gleamed in his arctic eyes. “I did not.”
I put the article back in my pocket and took out the photo. “I also found this locked in Ben’s desk. With the article.”
Hiram took the picture. He stared at it for a moment, unmoving, then set his drink down on a nearby table and stepped close to the wall of windows to tilt the photograph in the light.
“Do you know who she is?” I asked.
It was another minute before he turned around, and when he did, his expression was soft.
“Kids racing the train,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the details. It has been twenty-eight years. But I remember this woman. She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”
I felt a flash of relief mixed with triumph. “So you recognize her?”
“I believe she might have been the last person to die at that crossing before I, as you so crudely put it, played politics and prevented anyone else from dying there.”
“Do you remember her name?” I asked.
He handed the picture back to me. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “No.”
“What about where she was from? Or if she had any family?”
The softness left his face. His eyes were now as sharp as a hawk’s. “You are asking me these things because her picture was in my son’s desk. Do you honestly think her death had something to do with my daughter-in-law’s? With the deaths of my grandsons? Isn’t it more likely that Ben intended to include that merger in his book about DPC, and she was a small part of that?” His voice turned as sharp as his gaze. “Doesn’t this seem like a colossal waste of time while someone is out there doing God knows what with my granddaughter?”
I held myself from flinching. “Bear with me, sir. As I said, we’re looking at a lot of different things. Do you remember anything about this woman?”
He glared at me. “I went to the funeral. I remember there was talk that her death wasn’t an accident at all, but suicide. I don’t recall why. Maybe Tate started the rumor to downplay the danger of that crossing. That’s as much as I can remember.” He slammed down half of his drink. “Is that everything?”
“Just two more questions. Do you know a woman named Betsy King?”
Hiram crossed his free arm over his chest and looked down at his glass of bourbon. “Sorry, not that I can recall.”
“What about William King?”
“No. Are they suspects?”
“No, sir. What about a railroad bull named Fred Zolner? Do you remember him?”
“Outside of seeing his name just now in that article? I’m afraid not.”
“He was with DPC for decades. I’ve been trying to find him, to ask him if he remembers anything about the accidents. But he’s disappeared.”
Hiram drank the rest of the bourbon down in one swift motion. Something dark and cruel rose in his eyes. In that instant, I glimpsed the appetite behind the mask of the genial businessman; it was like finding a wolf among the guests at a dinner party. Hiram would be a dangerous foe, I realized. And your relationship with him would depend—always—on what you brought to the table. Rapacious, Lancing Tate had said. I found myself agreeing.
Then Hiram’s face softened once more into bland pleasantness and the moment passed. I shook myself and blinked at the sunlight streaming across the polished wooden floors, at the artfully arranged rugs, at the old man with an oxygen tank and a shattered family. For a moment I wondered if I’d really seen it. And if it had been directed at me or Zolner.
Hiram said, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember him. Maybe I spoke with him in the past. But at my age, memories pile up like stones in a cairn. I can’t see them all.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
I signaled Clyde and we headed toward the door. We’d almost reached it when Hiram spoke again. “Those who are the least guilty are the ones who feel most at fault.”
I turned back. He was nodding as if to himself. He said, “And those who have sinned walk away clean.”
“Is there some message here I should understand?” I asked.
“It’s just advice, Agent Parnell. If you fail to find my granddaughter, then shed the guilt. It will only hold you back.”
“Is that what you intend to do?”
“When it comes to Lucy . . . I don’t know.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Do you feel guilty about her disappearance?”
“It’s always so with family.”
“If there’s something you should be telling me—”
“Only that I should have spent more time with her.” Abruptly he grinned, a wide, bleak sneer. The wolf was back. “But with everything else? Oh, yes. I walk away without a glance back. Guilt is a useless emotion. It cuts you off at the knees and offers nothing in return.”
“Sometimes guilt helps us grow,” I said softly. “Could be it’s the better way to live.”
“We all make our own beds. Then our own graves.” We both glanced at the oxygen machine. Then he inclined his head graciously. “Find my granddaughter, Agent Parnell. And save us both.”
CHAPTER 19
War is not only the worst thing that will happen to you. It is also the best.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
Riding down in the elevator with Clyde, I felt dirty. Like I’d stripped and rolled in horse manure.
“He knows something,” I said to Clyde, who looked up at me with worried eyes. “About the past or about Lucy. If it turns out whatever he’s holding back is something that would help his granddaughter, I will kill him myself.”
Clyde and I crossed the residential lobby, heading for the next set of elevators. My headset buzzed just as we were getting on. I answered with “Special Agent Parnell.”
“Agent Parnell, this is Rick Wolanski. I got a message this morning to call you.”
“Yes! Thank you for calling me back, Deputy Wolanski. I’m very glad to hear from you.”
“Wow, I haven’t gotten a reception like that since I asked the class nerd to the senior prom. Hopefully our relationship will go better than that one did. And it’s just mister now.”
“Mr. Wolanski. I work for Denver Pacific Continental. I’m looking into some accidents that occurred at a railroad crossing that was in your jurisdiction when you were a deputy. A grade crossing at Potters Road in Thornton.”
“You’re talking a long time ago. That would have been the seventies.”
“And early eighties. The sheriff’s office says you’re digitizing the old files. I thought you might have records of those accidents. If so, I’d love to see them.”
“I probably do, although I haven’t gone through everything. I agreed to do this for the sheriff, but it turns out I have less free time than I thought I did. Just got back from a fishing trip in Alaska. Incredible salmon. And moose. And the elk! I should have gotten a hunting license.” He paused. “Where was I?”
“The grade crossing. People called it Deadman’s Crossing.”
“Oh, Deadman’s Crossing, yes. I do remember those accidents. Four of them. Terrible. Just terrible. Flesh against metal. It never goes well. And it’s always the worst kind of case when a life is snuffed out before it’s gotten a proper start.”
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Wolanski.”
“Call me Rick. And sorry, I do run on. Yes, there were four accidents. I handled three of them. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go look for those files right now, while it’s fresh on my mind. Then I can have them waiting for you whenever you get a chance to stop by.”
Clyde and I walked past the gleaming shops and smooth-faced patrons on the bottom floor, past the discreetly placed plainclothes cops and out into the white heat of the day.
“Thank you, Rick.” I turned to shade my watch with my body and looked at the time. “Would an hour and a half be good, sir?”
“Motivation. I like that.” He chuckled. “I’ll have the coffee on.”
I thanked him and hung up, then phoned Cohen.
“I was just about to call you,” he said. “They’ve located Fred Zolner’s truck.”
I straightened. Things were starting to break. But my excitement died with Cohen’s next words.
“Just his truck. Not the man himself. A patrol cop found it parked at a hotel in Gillette, Wyoming, five hours north of here. Zolner never checked into the hotel, and there was nothing in his truck except an empty pack of chewing gum. No evi
dence that any crime occurred. But what his neighbor told you is correct. He’s a gambler who’s been on the edge of bankruptcy four times. The Feds found huge deposits in his bank accounts that can’t be explained by his pension. The amount of the deposits went up recently. We’ve got people looking for him at the casinos in Cripple Creek and Black Hawk. And at the casino in Gillette.”
“Where’s the money coming from?”
“That’s the question of the hour. The Feds are running a trace.”
“Why Gillette?” I asked, wondering if he really did have a daughter.
“Its biggest claim to fame is some massive rock formation called Devils Tower, which was made famous by that sci-fi movie back in the seventies. Close Encounters. It’s where the aliens land, or something. This is what Google will get you.”
“Who’s following up on the truck?”
“The local police. They’ll let us know what they learn. And the Aurora police did a welfare check on Zolner. All they found were more cockroaches than a hound’s got ticks. That’s a direct quote. Quite an achievement in a place as dry as Colorado. Maybe he’s hiding from those gambling debts. Might explain why his neighbor mentioned the mob when she brought up his visitor.”
A hit man, she’d said. Not Italian. Just bad.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“The Feds are following up on what you found in Ohio. Nothing yet. Other than that, we’re on the treadmill. Talking to the neighbors and friends of the family again. Nothing more on Vander, except the police in Columbus haven’t been able to place him there at any time in the last six months. Which might mean he just didn’t do anything to catch their attention.”
Cohen sounded calm. But I knew what every hour was costing him.
“You have anything for me?” he asked.
“I’m still trying to run down the accidents associated with our crossing. But Hiram Davenport recognized the woman’s photo, the one from Ben’s desk. He couldn’t give me a name, but he said she was the last person killed at the crossing before it was changed to an overpass. I’m heading to Greeley now to talk to the deputy who handled that accident and two others. And to look at the paperwork for a fourth accident.”
Dead Stop (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 2) Page 23