by Jeff Carson
“Who was this mechanic?” Wolf asked.
“Rick Welch. Bartends down at the Diamond now. But, like I said, it wasn’t his fault. Just shitty old equipment if you ask me. Stuff breaks. Components need to be replaced.”
“Oh, Dennis.” Betsy turned to Wolf. “He was sure it was somebody coming in and deliberately causing the damage. He brought in that razor wire.” She pointed to a shiny pile of coiled wire sitting in the distance. “He was fixin’ to put that up on the fence. It’s not shitty old equipment.”
Dennis upturned his hands.
“Did Mr. Preston mention anyone by name?” Wolf asked. “You know, who he thought might have been causing the damage?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything about Mr. Preston going on vacation last week?” Wolf asked Dennis.
“Nope.”
“And do you think it’s strange that he went on vacation without you knowing about it beforehand?”
“Nope.”
Wolf sucked in a breath and let it out. “Care to elaborate?”
“Guy doesn’t tell me much.” Dennis chuckled. “I show up, run the rigs, load the rock, move the rock, push it where he tells me, dump it where he says.”
“Do you two not get along?” Patterson asked.
“What? No, we’re okay. We’re tight. You know, he’s my boss though.” Dennis scratched his arm. “I don’t know, when I heard he’d left for Arizona, I guess I found it a little strange. But, then again, he’s left for days on end without me knowing before.”
Wolf stared at Dennis.
Dennis straightened and looked at Wolf. “What?”
“Did you know we’re looking for Mr. Preston?” Wolf asked.
“Yeah, I heard.”
The snow falling out of the sky thickened, sticking to the back of Wolf’s neck.
Dennis stood unmoved, letting it pile onto his face and exposed arms. “So, what’s the status?”
“How many employees work here?” Wolf asked.
“Five,” Betsy said.
“Six.” Dennis ticked his fingers. “It’s me, Chris, Betsy, and we have two drivers. And then Mr. P. So, six.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t count myself.” Betsy scoffed.
“Where are the two drivers?” Rachette asked. A winter cap had appeared on his head.
“One of them, Jack Murphy, is up making a delivery in Brushing. The other, Brad Wells, isn’t working today.”
“Wells drives here?” Rachette asked.
“Yep.”
“I didn’t know that.”
The conversation fizzled to silence.
“Do you remember what you were doing two Saturday nights ago?” Wolf asked Dennis.
Dennis popped his eyebrows, looking like he’d understood the significance of the question. “I have two kids—six and two years old. Me and the wifey don’t get out much anymore. So, sitting at home.”
“And do you happen to remember anything about what Mr. Preston was doing that night?”
“How would I know? I don’t hang with him on the weekends.”
“Thanks, Dennis.”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Wolf said, “if you guys think of anything else, please let us know. And if you two wouldn’t mind keeping available, we’d appreciate it.”
Dennis jogged to the loader parked in the distance. He climbed up, shook himself free of snow, sat inside, and fired up the engine.
They walked briskly back to the office through a thickening curtain of snow and said their goodbyes to Betsy.
“And one last thing,” Wolf said over the din of the diesel engine.
“Yes?” Betsy stopped inside the doorway, brushing snow from her nest of curly hair.
“If something were to happen to Warren Preston, what happens to the business?”
“Geez, I don’t even know. I guess Chris would take over. He owns a portion of the business as it is. And as far as I know, Mr. Preston’s been grooming Chris to take over once he retires, which was set to be in the next few years.”
“And what about you?” Wolf asked.
“What about me?”
“None of it would go to you, huh?”
“What am I going to do with a rock business?”
“Thanks, Betsy.”
The door shut, and they convened next to Patterson’s SUV.
“What now?” Patterson brushed snow from her eyebrows. “Dang, it’s coming down.”
The flakes were thick and wet, hissing as they accumulated on the hood next to them.
“We need to check the Pony,” Rachette said. “See if Alamy’s telling the truth about that or not.”
“We’ll know for sure once we get the phone GPS readout for his phone from Summit,” Patterson said.
Wolf’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and read MacLean’s name through the flakes.
He would have screened it, but the other three detectives had seen it.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
“Preston Rock and Supply.”
“Come back.”
“Okay. We were headed to the Pony Tavern to check out Chris Alamy’s story.”
MacLean said nothing.
“You there?”
“Yeah. All right. Go to the Pony and then back in my office first thing.”
The phone went dead.
“What did he want?” Rachette asked.
Wolf shrugged. “He wants us to brief him when we’re done at the Pony. Let’s roll.”
“You think MacLean would mind if we got a pitcher or two before the briefing?” Rachette asked, bouncing his eyebrows at Yates and Wolf. “I’m getting thirsty.”
Patterson shook her head and walked to her door. “Let’s go.”
Wolf followed her, thinking of how a beer would have done the trick. Damn, he needed this day to end.
Chapter 7
“I’m staying here,” Wolf said.
Patterson slid off the driver’s seat and looked at Wolf. He was even paler now. She’d scarcely seen him looking worse, and she’d seen him pretty bad. It could have been the sun poking through the clouds, but she thought his skin had taken on a yellow hue.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Sure. Stay here. We have this.”
Wolf closed his eyes and leaned his seat back.
She shut the door, wondering who she’d left in the vehicle. How far had the Wolf she knew been pushed behind the hangover?
She met Yates and Rachette at the rear bumper and walked past them through the Pony Tavern parking lot.
“Aren’t you waiting for Wolf?”
“He’s staying in the car.”
They walked in silence, her boots squeaking underneath the thin blanket of snow the only sound. It was 2 p.m. and the parking lot had six cars in it.
The Pony Tavern was a day-drinkers’ bar, more so than Beer Goggles, or Black Diamond, or any of the other establishments in town. At least, that’s the impression she’d always had. She hadn’t spent much time in any of the drinking holes in Rocky Points, but she made it a point to stay far from the Pony.
Rachette pushed through the door first, followed by Yates.
She took up the rear and immediately wished she’d stayed with Wolf. The sour stench of beer soaking the floors mixed with bar food hit her hard. Her mouth watered, and she had to blank her mind to calm her gag reflex.
Rachette walked in like he owned the place, threaded between two cowhide barstools, and slapped the counter. “Hey, Crystal.”
A bleached-blonde bartender turned around and smiled. “Hey, there they are! Hi, Deputies. What can I get you? Shots? Beers?”
Rachette smiled. “Funny. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
Crystal stacked some receipts near the register and walked toward them. She placed both hands on the counter. Yates and Rachette leaned forward, like they were basking in the heat billowing out of her low-cut tank top.
“Doin’ all right th
ere, Heather?” Crystal asked.
Patterson pasted on a smile and nodded.
“Still doing ka-ra-te or kung fui, or whatever that’s called?” Crystal karate-chopped the air, sandwiching her fake breasts together.
“She’s pregnant,” Rachette said. “She’s gotta take a few months off.”
“Oh my gosh, is that true?”
Patterson felt the blood drain from her face.
Yates looked back at her and lowered his eyes to her belly. “Is that true?”
“Ha. Thanks. Tom. I wasn’t telling anyone yet. But, yes, I am pregnant with my second child.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“Hey, congrats!” A guy sitting at the bar raised his beer.
She failed to recognize him but nodded anyway. “Thanks, Crystal.” She may as well have posted the ultrasound on the internet. The news would travel like a tropical mosquito-borne disease, infecting the town by the week’s end. Or maybe she was a little too full of herself.
Crystal cocked her head. “What’s up?”
“You know a guy named Chris Alamy?” Rachette asked.
“Yeah, I know him. Why?”
Rachette struck a pose on his elbow. “What’s his story?”
Patterson rolled her eyes.
Pool balls clacked together. One man rounded the table, stalking another shot while his opponent sat hunched, staring with bloodhound eyes at Patterson.
“He’s just a regular, I guess,” Crystal said. “Comes in most weekends.”
“How about last Saturday night?”
Crystal stared at the ceiling.
“It would have been the night of the snow storm,” Rachette said.
“Ah, yes. The snowstorm.” She shrugged. “Probably.”
“Can you check the receipts?” Patterson asked. The flexing of her abdomen as she spoke set her mouth watering anew.
“Oh, I guess I could. I’d have to go into the back office and check.”
“Chris Alamy?” one of the pool players asked.
She turned around. “Yeah, you know him?”
“Yeah. The rock dude.”
She nodded. “That’s him.”
“He’s in here every weekend.”
She nodded again. “Thanks.”
The guy bent over to line up a shot.
She moved out of the way but caught the scent of the man and wished she hadn’t.
Rachette clicked his tongue. “If you could check those receipts, Crystal, that would help us a lot.”
“Why? What’s going on? Tell me the inside dirt.” She leaned further forward, giving them all a spelunker’s view into her cleavage.
Patterson tried to swallow, but her throat worked backward, and she made a pre-hurl noise.
The room stopped dead and all faces turned to her.
She ran outside, rounded the side of the building, and vomited.
Her mind went blank as she emptied the contents of her stomach. After the past couple of months, this was old hat to her. She knew this was just a temporary discomfort and then she’d feel a hundred times better.
She wiped her mouth and straightened, surprised at the cramp in her lower back from flexing interior muscles.
Gotta love pregnancy.
“You okay?”
She turned around. Wolf was standing behind her.
“Yeah.”
His eyes were glued to the discoloration in the snow.
“I’m fine.” She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to turn him away from the scene.
He pushed her aside and bent over.
“Jesus.” She walked away, leaving the sounds of Wolf emptying his own stomach as she rounded the building.
“Hey, there you are.” Yates walked toward her. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Wolf coughed, and the sound echoed around the corner.
“Is that Wolf?”
Wolf appeared, wiping his mouth and sniffing. “What did you guys find out?”
“We … Rachette’s in there getting Alamy’s receipt right now. Patterson ran out here, looking like she was going to be sick. Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. Thanks.”
Rachette strode out and skidded to a halt. “What’s happening? You puke?”
“What did you find out?” Wolf asked.
“Alamy paid a tab at one thirty-seven in the morning that Saturday night, or Sunday morning.
“Does she remember when he got here?” Wolf spat into the snow.
“No, she doesn’t. But it’s a pretty hefty tab—eight beers. That’s a few hours’ worth of drinking for me.” Rachette shrugged. “Okay, two hours of drinking for me.” He narrowed his eyes and studied Wolf. “You okay?”
Patterson walked toward the parking lot. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 8
Wolf knocked on MacLean’s door and twisted the knob.
“Come in.” MacLean sat with bridged fingers behind his desk. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, silhouetting the sheriff in his big leather chair.
Patterson, Rachette, and Yates followed Wolf inside.
They lined up at the desk, Wolf squinting against the glare. After the Pony parking lot, he found himself yearning for a little hair of the dog. More alcohol was his only hope of breaking up the chunks of concrete rattling in his skull.
MacLean looked at him expectantly, then looked out the windows. “You know what? Save it until he’s in here.”
DA Sawyer White’s Italian loafers clicked on the terrazzo outside. A few paces behind him, Deputy DA Hanson walked fast, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
Quick knocks rapped against the door and the two DAs strode in on a cloud of cologne.
Wolf nodded, ready to offer a hand, but White ignored his team’s presence and took a seat while everyone else stood.
Hanson walked in pocketing his phone and gave a round of nods. Patrick Hanson dressed the part of a city deputy district attorney, but Wolf knew the man to be an avid outdoorsman. Wolf and he had fished before and Wolf had enjoyed his company. The invitation to the river had come from Hanson, clearly a gesture of good will to get to know the chief detective better on a non-professional basis. It had worked.
“Looking good, Detectives,” Hanson said.
“Hi, Patrick,” Patterson said.
“Hanson,” Rachette said.
White crossed his legs and stared at his phone. He made a face, shoved the phone into his breast pocket, and bridged his fingers. “What do we have?”
“Looks like Preston’s employee-slash-partner, Chris Alamy, could be up to something,” Wolf said. “Or not. We can’t tell for sure. We’re waiting on his cell records. They’ll tell us more.”
Patterson raised her chin. “I have another call into Summit. I don’t know what their problem is.”
White kept his eyes on Wolf. “What did the co-workers at the rock yard say?”
“Everyone but Chris Alamy was unaware of Warren Preston going on vacation. Chris says that’s why he was with Preston Saturday night—to discuss the next week of work while he was gone. But Betsy Collworth, the woman who runs operations there, says there’s no way he would have gone out of town without telling her.”
“So she’s saying Alamy’s lying,” MacLean said.
“She never said that. But she implied it, yes.”
“Where in Arizona was he supposed to be going?” MacLean asked.
“Superstition Mountains,” Wolf said.
“We talked to anyone down there yet?”
“Preston doesn’t have any other vehicles,” Wolf said. “How’s he going to get down there? And then there’s his car, clearly wiped, with an unidentified partial on the exterior handle.”
MacLean sat back.
“What else happened at the rock yard?” White asked.
Wolf recapped their visit, touching on Dennis Lamont, the outside employee they’d spoken to, and the story of Rick Welch and his firing.
“Sounds like we have a f
ew more candidates to check against that partial,” White said.
“Agreed,” Wolf said.
“What else?” White flicked a glance toward Rachette and Yates.
Rachette hitched up his belt and folded his arms across his chest. “We talked to the bartender at the Pony. She confirmed that he left when he said he did, but we don’t know when he arrived.”
“Was he with anyone else?”
“It’s not clear if he showed up with somebody else. But he got an Uber ride by himself at closing time.”
“And still nothing up at Preston’s house?” White asked, turning to MacLean.
MacLean shook his head. “K9s are still coming up empty.”
White folded his arms and exhaled. “It looks to me like we have a missing person. Other than that, we don’t have shit.” White leaned forward and got up.
“The car was wiped,” Wolf said.
“And we haven’t matched the partial.” White eyed his watch. “I gotta go. I don’t see any potential charges. I’ll tell the press as much.” He glanced at Wolf. “MacLean, I hope you’ll take care of your side of things right now. Hanson, let’s go.”
The DA and his deputy left.
“You three can go,” MacLean said.
Wolf saw that MacLean was speaking to everyone but him.
Patterson, Rachette, and Yates walked out of the office.
“Take a seat.” MacLean stood and closed the door with a soft click.
Wolf sat and waited while the sheriff moved behind him and twisted the blinds shut.
MacLean returned to his desk, petting his silver mustache, and sat down.
If they’d been playing poker, Wolf would have doubled his bet. “What’s up?”
“We went for over a year running this department with a squad of three people,” MacLean said.
“Yep.”
“And now we have four,” MacLean said.
“I’m not looking to cut anyone from my squad, if that’s what you’re saying.” He remembered the glance from White and the order for MacLean to take care of his side of things, whatever that meant.
“Why do you think we hired internally for that fourth detective?” MacLean asked.
Wolf blinked.
MacLean let the silence take hold. It magnified his next words. “I’m all for standing by my people while they go through tough times, but there’s only so much I can do. There are a lot of people out there wondering if you aren’t becoming a major detriment to this department. They say it’s only a matter of time before you crash your car on the job. Hurt someone.”