Cold Case Colorado

by Cassie Miles

  He gave Diablo a kiss. Lucky horse.

  * * *

  THE TREMONT COUNTY COURTHOUSE in the middle of Greenwell sat across from the town square with the yellow gazebo. For such a small county, the three-story building was an impressive structure made from the same granite that had been used in building Whitman Castle. Randall escorted Vanessa up the front staircase and held the door to the main floor open for her.

  “To your right,” he said, “is the formal courtroom with wood pews, desks, a bench for the judge and a carved statue of justice with her blindfold. We don’t have enough crime for a full-time magistrate, but we have a traveling judge who sits on Tuesday and Thursday.”

  She loved the idea of a town so peaceful that they only needed a part-time judge. “Can we take a look inside?”

  “Sorry, the courtroom is locked when it’s not in use. The same goes for the offices on this floor. All the big shots—the elected mayor of the city and county, the treasurer and the county clerk—have office space, but their hours aren’t regular. They all have other jobs.” As he strolled on the polished wood floor, his boots made a solid thunk with each step. “Have you ever been in this building before?” he asked.

  “Probably when I was a kid. I don’t remember.”

  “Too bad you had to move away.”

  “Is it?” she asked.

  “Growing up in a small town like Greenwell gives you a sense of security and peace. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve known some of my neighbors all my life. My wife was my high school girlfriend, and we’re starting a new generation with a four-year-old daughter and another on the way. Oops, I’m not supposed to say anything about the new baby. Not yet.”

  Randall seemed happy and secure. When he said that he wouldn’t change a thing about his life, she believed him. In a way, she envied the deputy and Ty and all the others who had a confirmed sense of identity. If Dad and Mom had stayed at the Castle and she’d grown up there, she might have been the same way...but probably not. Vanessa liked peace and quiet but needed stimulation. She shared her father’s desire for adventure.

  Randall took her downstairs to the garden level of the courthouse, which was dedicated to law enforcement. Ty had a separate office. The other deputies had desks in a bullpen arrangement. Directly opposite the entrance, Gert Hepple reigned over the phones, computers and communication systems. The front of her L-shaped desk held the standard in-and out-boxes and forms as well as pens, pencils and markers. There were also jellybeans in a glass jar and a gang of photos. The right side of her L-desk was for her electronic equipment.

  As Vanessa approached, Gert leaned back in her swivel chair and observed. A wiry little woman with short red hair that stuck out in all directions like antennae, she wore a telephone headset like it was an accessory. Her fingers drummed on her desktop. When she made eye contact with Vanessa, Gert frowned. They hadn’t met before, and Vanessa had no idea why this woman would be hostile toward her.

  Gert dismissed Randall and beckoned for Vanessa to come closer. Her thin lips drew into a tight circle. When Vanessa was at the very edge of her desk, Gert said, “I was sorry to hear about your father. It was cancer, right?”

  “It was.” And not something she wanted to discuss in detail. Vanessa had heard a lot of cancer stories, and few of them had happy endings. “Thank you for your condolences.”

  “Buried in Denver?”

  Odd question. This was the first time anyone had asked about Dad’s final resting place. “Cremated. I spread some of his ashes at my mother’s grave site. He wanted another portion to be spread in the mountains, but I haven’t figured out the right place.”

  “Well, that’s easy.” Gert said. “He ought to be buried next to Dorothy.”

  As soon as Gert made her suggestion, Vanessa knew that was the answer she was looking for. Dad didn’t care about the Castle or the Whitman properties. Though he and his sister were estranged, he needed to be with her. “Do you know where Dorothy is buried?”

  “Nope.” Gert unplugged her headset and came out from her desk fortress. “Simon had a big memorial service at the Chapel on the Hill before her body was found, and everybody attended. Afterward, we went to the Castle and had a full buffet dinner. Best prime rib I ever tasted. Say what you want about Simon Markham, but the man knows how to cook.”

  Vanessa knew that the best way to mine gold nuggets from a gossip was to sit back and let her talk. Sooner or later, something interesting would appear. But there wasn’t time to sit and listen for hours on end...not while somebody was shooting at her. “I like your idea about scattering Dad near his sister. Would the local pastor know her burial spot?”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll call him. Do you want coffee?”

  Vanessa was certain that the brew from the coffee machine in the kitchenette would be an insult to the incredible blend she was served at the Castle, but it would be rude to refuse. “Thanks, I’ll pour my own.”

  When they returned to Gert’s desk, the dispatcher plugged in her headset and tapped in the numbers for the Chapel on the Hill. Her conversation with the pastor took only a moment, then she turned to Vanessa. “He doesn’t know, but I’ll keep looking.”

  Vanessa took a swig of the purely awful coffee. Gert was on her side. Finally, she’d made a friend. “What can you tell me about the police investigation into Dorothy’s disappearance?”

  “First, I want to hear something from you, missy. I heard that your cousin, Bethany, was having an affair. True or false?”

  “Agent Morris wouldn’t want me to tell you this—” she saw Gert’s eyes brighten in anticipation “—but the answer is yes. Bethany had a lover, and they’d been together for a long time. The affair might have started when she was still in Los Angeles.”

  Gert leaned forward, anxious for more. “Then it’s not that Russian guy, Yuri Kirov?”

  “I didn’t say that. Yuri is her husband’s client, which means Bethany might have known him for a long time. Have you met Yuri and Macy?”

  Gert snorted. “We don’t exactly run in the same social circles.”

  “You’d like Macy. She’s colorful.”

  From his desk, Randall called out, “Don’t tell her anything else, Vanessa. Not unless you want your business broadcast all over the county.”

  Gert chided him. “Nobody wants to hear your opinion, Randall. By the way, tell your wife congratulations on the new baby.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Vanessa was glad to hear that Gert was well connected. The town gossip was precisely the person she needed. Why sort through boxes of files when she could get the information firsthand? She held the coffee mug to her lips but didn’t drink. “I heard there were some issues about Dorothy’s will and her insurance payments.”

  “Nothing from insurance.” Gert lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “It was a suicide, bless her soul.”

  “Did you happen to know her lawyer? Was he a local?”

  “What kind of game are you playing?” Gert’s scowl returned with a vengeance. “She had the same lawyer as your father. The Greenwell Law Firm has been handling the personal affairs for the Whitman family for years and years.”

  During the past four years while she struggled to tried to get her father’s life in order, she’d met a circus parade of attorneys and accountants. Lion tamers worked with the IRS. Jugglers tried to balance the artwork and sculpture. And there were many, many clowns. “I don’t specifically recall anybody with Greenwell.”

  “I have their phone number.” Gert turned away from her to answer an actual 911 call from a woman with a brown bear loose in her backyard.

  Vanessa sat quietly, not drinking coffee and feeling tired. Dusk darkened the skies outside the windows. Where was Ty? He’d been gone for over an hour, plenty of time to drive to the Castle and back.

  And
when he picked her up, where would she go? It didn’t seem safe to return to the Castle when there was a shooter after her. She’d managed to push the threat from her mind, but when she closed her eyes, the sense of danger returned. She remembered the roar of gunfire. When the bullets hit the ground near her, they kicked up a spray of loose dirt.

  Gert drummed her fingers on the desktop. “You’re tired.”

  “Did you take care of the bear?”

  “I sent Randall to handle the wildlife. He’s a good boy, but I’d never tell him. I like to tease.” She unplugged her headset. “You’re coming with me, young lady. There’s a sofa in Ty’s office, and I think you need a lie-down.”

  “I’m fine. My wound is barely a scratch.”

  “I understand,” Gert said. “And the hospital is a long distance away from here. All you need is a little nap.”

  Vanessa wanted to object, but the gray plaid sofa in Ty’s office looked too cozy. By the time she stretched out and wiggled into a comfortable position, she was halfway asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Vanessa opened her eyes, she felt like only a few minutes had passed but knew it was longer because the sun had gone down. Outside the windows, it was night and rainy. Someone had covered her with a knitted blue blanket. She swung her legs off the sofa and dropped her feet to the carpeted floor. Her boots were gone, but she was wearing socks.

  She stood on wobbly legs, trying to catch her balance. From the doorway, Ty observed her progress. His arms were folded across his chest, and he wore a hooded sweatshirt over his uniform shirt. “About time you woke up,” he said.

  “Hey, it’s the other way around. I’ve been waiting for you.” The outer wall of his office was half glass. She could see the deputy bullpen where the lights were on. In Ty’s office, it was dark with only one lamp on the desk shedding a circle of light. Her eyelids drooped but she refused to fade into sleep. “Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her hopes crashed. Somewhere out there in the rainy night was both the shooter who tried to kill her and the stalker. She wanted to believe they were the same individual but didn’t know, not for sure. There could be a dozen thugs in black ski masks who were after her. “Do you know who it is?”

  “It’s not Simon. He was at a meeting with a DEA agent, unrelated to the murder. And it’s not Chloe or Gloria Gable who were both shopping in Aspen. None of the others have alibis. As soon as Agent Morris told the suspects that they could go home, they scattered.”

  “He makes a mistake, and I’m the one who pays for it.” She collapsed onto the sofa again. “Are they at least looking?”

  “Morris is putting in every effort. In addition to his team from CBI, he’s called out the Aspen police and the state patrol.”

  Ty sat beside her, and she leaned against his shoulder. She pinched a piece of the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. It was dry. “You haven’t been out in the rain,” she said.

  “I wanted to get back here as fast as possible.”

  “Tell me about the searchers. What did they find?”

  “The forensic experts went to Rattlesnake Ridge. They found tire tracks that looked like an off-road vehicle and footprints, nothing unusual about either. There were plenty of shell casings. If we ever find his rifle, we can make a ballistic match.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Then it started raining.”

  “And the evidence was washed away.”

  “The investigation is ongoing. State patrol is checking traffic cams and going through registration for vehicles in the area. Cops and other agents are verifying alibis.”

  She was sure that everybody was doing their best, but she doubted they’d find the shooter. The search was futile. Everything was futile. Her eyes closed.

  “Don’t fall asleep.” He nudged her. “Do you need a trip to the hospital?”

  “It’s in Aspen, forty-five minutes away.”

  “We need to get you home to bed.”

  “Not the Castle.” A ripple of fear rolled up and down her spine. “I won’t be able to sleep there.”

  He pulled her close. “Rough day.”

  “Intense.” Her mind drifted. She remembered lying in the dirt beside a creek while gunfire erupted. The booming echoed inside her head. A shooter tried to kill me. They had been following the path of a dead woman. Twelve years ago, Aunt Dorothy’s remains had been torn apart by predators.

  She leaned against Ty, burrowed into his broad chest. A sharp pain stabbed her upper left arm, and she remembered. “I was shot.”

  “I know.” His voice was as soothing as a caress. “We talked about your wound, put it on your to-do list.”

  “Do you think I need stitches?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll probably have to get stitches.”

  She really needed to make a new list. There were so many things to do. “I need to go to Greenwell Law Firm,” she mumbled. “And I want to find out from Simon where Dorothy is buried.”

  “Whatever you need to do, we’ll take care of it.”

  She remembered the sweet chestnut mare she’d been riding. “What about Coco? Did you get her back to the horse barn?”

  “She’s at home in her stall, nibbling hay. I made sure she had an apple for a treat.”

  She curled her legs and cuddled more tightly against him. “About those stitches... I don’t want to go to a hospital.”

  “I thought you might feel that way,” he said. “I brought the doctor to you. Look out the window toward Gert’s desk.”

  Though she hated to leave the comfort of his arms, she twisted around and stared. Doc Ingram and his wife, Martha, were talking to Gert. Actually, the two women were chuckling and chattering while Doc silently swilled coffee from a mug.

  “Coffee.” She scowled like a kid who had been served a plateful of broccoli. “That brew is miserable, but I need caffeine.”

  “Gert’s lousy coffee is legendary, so Martha brought a fresh bag of dark roast. Are you ready to get sewn up?”

  “Coffee first.”

  That should provide the motivation she needed. In her stocking feet, she padded across the office to Gert’s desk, greeted everybody and went to the kitchenette where the coffee maker awaited. She filled a mug half-full, sniffed and took a sip. Not gourmet but good enough.

  Doc Ingram carried his old-fashioned doctor bag into the kitchenette/break room. Martha accompanied them. While she told Vanessa that she was being very brave, she swabbed down one of the tables and laid out paper towels.

  Doc washed his hands. “Thank you, Martha.”

  “I like being your nurse.” She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  He sent her on her way and turned to Vanessa. “Sit here, roll up your sleeve and let me take a look at that gunshot wound.”

  “I never thought I’d hear someone say that to me. A gunshot wound? Me?”

  “Your life is far more exciting than you think it is. After all, you’re a Whitman.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re entitled to be eccentric.”

  As he inspected her arm, she realized that she hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with George Ingram. In the first go-around of interviews, he wasn’t high on her list of witnesses, partly because he didn’t fit her expectations for Bethany’s lover; also Martha kept him on a short leash. And he was intoxicated for most of the evening. Not that an alcoholic couldn’t pull off a complicated murder. But Doc Ingram wasn’t a peppy drunk. He seemed to be perpetually on the edge of falling asleep.

  Using water from the sink, he cleaned her wound. “If you’re concerned about scarring, I’d advise you to seek treatment from a specialist. I can recommend a plastic surgeon in Aspen.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m only concerned about avoiding infection.”
/>   “Does it hurt?” he asked. “On a scale from one to ten, how painful?”

  She’d been through this exercise a million times with Dad and his docs. If she registered from two to five, she’d get over-the-counter pain relief. Seven and above moved her into the morphine range. She diagnosed herself. “I want something to take the edge off, but I need to stay alert. You know, in case somebody tries to kill me again.”

  When he smiled, she caught a glimpse of the man Martha had fallen in love with—the man she called a silver fox. “I never really knew your father,” he said. “But you remind me of Dorothy.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re smart and pretty.” He assembled the tools of his trade, including antiseptic, butterfly bandages, thread and a hypodermic. “You’re going to feel a pinch. That’s the local anesthetic to dull the area where I’m stitching.”

  “Her death was a tragedy.”

  “Tragic.” Sitting beside her, he administered the hypodermic so skillfully that she barely felt the needle. “Telling Simon that his wife committed suicide was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but he loved her deeply.”

  She believed him. Why else would Simon turn his late wife’s sewing room into a shrine?

  “Also,” Doc said, “I was going through a difficult time when Dorothy disappeared. Vision problems. For a while, I thought I might go blind, nearly drove poor Martha crazy. But I had a couple of successful surgeries, and I recovered.”

  “You were lucky.”

  He whispered in her ear, “I also had a prescription for medical marijuana.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc. It’s legal.” She remembered Ty telling her that Simon was talking to a DEA agent. About drugs? Doc’s grandson who lived with them might be involved with a drug dealer at Simplicity. “I’m sure you keep your, um, stash locked up.”

  “You bet. If my grandson got his paws on my pot, that would be a problem. Is your arm numb?” She nodded, and he turned his full attention to her wound. As he worked on the stitches, he moved her arm to different angles in order to study his handiwork. In a few quick minutes, he announced, “Done. Seven stitches. If you want, we can get a mirror from Gert so you can see how it turned out.”