Cold to the Bone

by Emery Hayes

  “What did she like about Kenny?”

  “His father.” The words were tangled in Joaquin’s disdain. “Another ‘big man.’ Another rags-to-riches success story. Beatrice was impressed. She believed he wanted my father’s cure available to everyone, not just the lucky few.”

  And that made Joaquin mad. She could hear it as his voice grew tight and his words sharp.

  “The lucky few? You mean the rich,” Nicole said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And he could do it, because he was the CEO of a Big Six?”

  “Could, but wouldn’t. That world is all about money.”

  “Does he have a name? Kenny’s father.”

  “Michael King.”

  “Did you see a lot of him?”

  “No. My father and Beatrice did, though.”

  “Is that where your father and Beatrice were headed on December sixteenth?” she asked, and then prompted, “There’s a text thread running between you and your sister that day. She was with your father, driving and getting nowhere—do you remember it?”

  Joaquin nodded. “They were supposed to meet with King.”

  “But they never made it?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t have a lot of sympathy.”

  Regret flickered again in his eyes.

  “Crazy days,” he said. “The pressure at home, it was intense. It was like living inside a balloon that grew bigger every day. It hurt my ears. My back was always up, waiting for the explosion, you know?”

  “Someone was going to burst from it?”

  He nodded. “I thought it would be me.” He shook his head, mystified. “That day it looked like it would be my father. They drove for hours and got nowhere.”

  “When they got home, what did your father say about it?”

  “Nothing. The usual. The big man was stepping up. All that bullshit. My mother said he was ready to make a decision. It was a very important time for him. But he was like, manic, always moving, talking. He never shut up, and none of it made any sense.”

  “Because you weren’t in on the secret.”

  “Right.”

  “What did Beatrice say?”

  “Nothing. She was mad at me. The ‘lab rat’ thing. I wish I hadn’t said it, but I believed it.”

  “Did your mother ever try to stop what was happening?”

  He shook his head. “She believes in him.”

  It was that simple. His words, his tone, his demeanor said as much.

  “It didn’t bother her that he was using Beatrice or that she was getting sick?”

  “They both agreed that she was the one—you know, the other doctor in the family. Beatrice would keep us first class. Because money isn’t everything. The one thing it can’t buy is position.”

  And that should have been Joaquin’s role.

  “What about you, Joaquin? What will you do for the family?” Contribution. She remembered it from his text message. It was a weighted word, full of expectation.

  “Early acceptance into college—that you can buy. My grades aren’t good enough for a scholarship or even admission under normal circumstances. But my father’s money and reputation have made it possible. And that really pisses him off. By my age he had his feet under him. He was already going places and under his own steam.”

  “You disappoint him,” she said.

  She expected the comment to draw sparks, but Joaquin became reflective.

  “My mom believes I’ll settle down. She says I have the fire, I just need to redirect it.”

  “And it didn’t bother you, all the attention Beatrice received from your father?”

  He met her gaze. “I loved her.”

  And in his own words, people who loved didn’t murder.

  “Why did your family come to Montana?”

  “Vacation. At Christmas it’s always about the snow, but my father invited some pharm guys. He said this was it. His round table.”

  That struck a chord with Nicole. “You mean like King Arthur?”

  “Yeah. Bea was really into all that. Knights and the perfect quest. Fairy tales.”

  Beatrice had believed, and she had championed her father’s cause.

  “What did he expect to happen at the meeting?”

  “He was going to let the dogs loose. That’s what he called it, and it was pretty accurate. A lot of the pharm guys were foaming at the mouth. They didn’t like my father’s discovery. Or they didn’t like what it would do to them. Except one or two, and they were the big guns. The ones who could afford to play the game.”

  To pay the price for Nueva Vida.

  “When was that—the round table?”

  “Christmas Day.”

  “And you saw Beatrice after that?”

  He nodded, but he looked away from her, his eyes ricocheting around the room. “I told you I did.”

  “You also said you went to bed before her.”

  “And you don’t believe that?”

  “No. There’s a lot about last night that isn’t lining up. Maybe you did watch Fast and Furious, and maybe you did brew hot chocolate while sitting in front of the TV, but I think you did all that alone. Beatrice was long gone by then. And I think you have a very good reason for covering it up.”

  His face was set, but he swallowed and said, “What reason?”

  “What size shoe do you wear, Joaquin?”

  The question confused him, but he answered. “Ten.”

  “And your father?”

  “I don’t know. Smaller.”

  “Where did you go last night?” She wanted him to say he’d gone to Beatrice. That he had tried to find her. That he had answered her call for help. “That thread on your sister’s cell phone—her last message was to you. She sent it last night. ‘SOS.’”

  She watched the enormity of it wash over him. His sister’s last text. Hope dwindling, she’d reached out to him. It hit him hard, shock having a rippling effect, loosening the tension in his face. His shoulders and arms became liquid, his knees soft.

  “I didn’t go.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I should have; I wanted to. I got dressed. I was putting on my boots when my mom saw me. I told her I was going to find Bea, and she … It was my mother. She went.”

  “Where?”

  “To pick up Beatrice.”

  10

  Mrs. Esparza wavered slightly. She stood framed in the doorway of their hotel suite, unable to step across the threshold. Nicole hadn’t asked. She’d told the woman to grab her coat, her purse, anything she might need for the next few hours. They were going to the station where they would talk about the events of the night before. Mrs. Esparza refused.

  “You’re not cooperating?”

  “I will talk to you here.”

  Lars had driven ahead with Dr. Esparza.

  “Joaquin will stay with your children,” Nicole told her. Joaquin remained a person of interest. Nicole was sure he had not told her all he knew, but he had given them a lead, and even a sacrifice—his mother. And she believed him. His regret had been tangible. “Not for the first time, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not leaving,” she returned. “Unless you arrest me. If not, I’m staying where my family needs me.”

  Nicole relented. It was not the first time a suspect had refused to ride. She wanted to take Mrs. Esparza from a place of comfort and put her in foreign territory, where she was more likely to reveal information simply because an edge of desperation had been added to her existence. But Nicole thought she already had that here—Mrs. Esparza’s fingers were pressed into the doorframe to hold her balance.

  It would be easy to tip her over.

  “You left here last night to pick up Beatrice.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I thought so.”

  “Why the lie, Mrs. Esparza? Why say she was in the hotel room?”

  “I did not want her to go,” she said. “But her father said it was okay.”

  “But it wasn’t?” Nicole prodded.

 
“No.”

  “So you went to pick her up. Why?”

  “She sent Joaquin that ‘SOS.’ And then she called.”

  “From her cell phone?” There was no record of the call on the vic’s log.

  “No, from a different phone.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t find that odd?”

  “I didn’t think about it. My daughter was calling and she was crying.”

  Nicole nodded. “What time was that?”

  “I looked at the clock. It was ten twenty-eight.”

  “So no moonlight run for you, Mrs. Esparza?”

  Her skin colored, but she maintained eye contact. “Sometimes I go. Maybe I take the lift just once. I am not like Enrique about the snow.”

  “Did Beatrice ask you to pick her up?”

  “Yes. She was upset, and she wanted to come home.” Mrs. Esparza’s lips trembled. She closed her eyes tightly, and creases fanned out around them, carving deeply into her temples.

  “Where was she?”

  “At a party, somewhere on the Lake Road.”

  “She didn’t know the address of where she was?”

  “No.”

  “Was it a party, Mrs. Esparza, or a ‘round table’?”

  The woman’s mouth parted, but it was a moment before she spoke. “You know about that.”

  “I know about a lot of things. Who did Beatrice go to meet?”

  “I should know,” she admitted. “But I don’t.”

  “And Beatrice didn’t tell you? She didn’t mention any names?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “I put my coat on, got in the car, and drove.”

  “Why didn’t Dr. Esparza accompany you?”

  “Beatrice didn’t want him to come. She was sobbing. But she repeated, several times, ‘Don’t send Dad.’”

  Why? Nicole wondered. Because she knew her father wouldn’t save her?

  “Did they fight before she left?”

  “They were always fighting. Then they’d make up and things were good for a while, but not for long. They both had ambition, but Beatrice felt he lacked compassion.”

  “And was she right about that, Mrs. Esparza?”

  “My husband is a wonderful man in many ways. He says he has a great discovery, one that will change the world and the face of human suffering, and I believe him. But Beatrice is right too. We make allowances for the people we love, don’t we, Sheriff? Enrique grew up poor, often missed meals and received little comfort as a child.”

  “Joaquin says you and your husband are from similar backgrounds.”

  “Women are born with the need to nurture, men with the need for achievement.”

  Nicole acknowledged to herself that there was some truth in that.

  “So you got in the car and drove?” she probed.

  “Beatrice said she was leaving the party, she said that she would start walking, that she would be on the Lake Road.” Mrs. Esparza paused as emotion drew her voice taut. “But I didn’t see her. The snowdrifts were tall and the wind was blowing, pulling powder across the blacktop. But I drove slow and there was no sign of my Beatrice.”

  “Were there other cars on the road?”

  “I don’t remember. It was dark, and I kept thinking I would see Beatrice just around the next bend in the road. My daughter was waiting, and I kept on driving.”

  “And you drove around the lake? All the way around the lake, looking?”

  “Not once, but twice.”

  “Were you worried?”

  “I was consumed with it. And dread. My heart was racing. I drove in a big circle, all the way around the lake and back again.”

  “And you called your husband?” Joaquin had said so.

  “Many times.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That she would come back when she was ready.”

  “He was on the mountain?”

  “The moonlight run, yes.”

  “How many times did you call him, Mrs. Esparza?”

  “Seven.” And the number must have sounded big even to her. She grimaced and rocked back on her heels. Her hands fluttered to her sides. She rubbed her palms against her jeaned hips. “I wanted him to care about her. About where she was. I wanted him to know that she was crying and wanted to come home.”

  “But he wouldn’t go to her?”

  Conflict, pain, despair gave Alma Esparza’s face a stark look, but her eyes flared and her lips trembled as she said, “He couldn’t. Enrique wasn’t to be involved in that part of the process. It was the proofing. There are rules and we are to follow them. My husband’s discovery depended upon it.”

  “But something went wrong?”

  “Yes. Terribly.”

  “With his discovery?”

  “I don’t know. Beatrice didn’t say.”

  “Why didn’t you call for help? When you couldn’t find her, when you decided it was time to return to the hotel, why didn’t you call then?”

  That moment must have been pivotal for Alma Esparza. Heart-wrenching. To turn back without her daughter. To leave Beatrice out in the cold and the dark, wandering, crying, and needing her. There wasn’t much in this world bigger than that for a mother who cared.

  “Enrique called. He said he’d just spoken to Beatrice. She was calm. She wanted on with the program—that’s what he called it. His discovery and any other project or mountain to climb.”

  “So you stopped worrying about Beatrice?”

  “You never stop worrying about your children, Sheriff, but I knew she was safe enough. That she was where she wanted to be. She and her father … both broke down when they were at odds with each other. Enrique worried about losing her. Beatrice worried she’d hurt him.”

  “What was Beatrice’s involvement in your husband’s discovery?”

  “He was preparing her. We knew from an early age that she would be the one. She played with her dolls, and it was always ‘hospital,’ and she was always the doctor and never a nurse, and she healed them, tucking each of them back into their beds before she moved on to the next ‘patient.’ That part bothered my husband. A doctor did not kiss his patients better. He did not brush their hair because it made them feel better. A doctor’s job was to address their medical needs. But Beatrice was more than that.”

  “She was compassionate.”

  “Yes. She was born to nurture.” Mrs. Esparza returned to her theory. “And to practice medicine. She made that decision for herself. Enrique waited patiently for the gift to rise up in one of our children. He wanted it to be Joaquin.”

  “Your son has compassion,” Nicole pointed out. She had seen it in his crumbling composure.

  “Yes.”

  “Did that bother your husband as well?”

  “He believed Joaquin would learn to balance compassion with obligation. That society would help him with that—we expect our girls to be softer, don’t we?”

  “Did Beatrice and Joaquin get along?”

  “Most of the time. They are siblings, sometimes confidants, always family. He was helping her.”

  “To deal with your husband?”

  She nodded. “Beatrice tried to stand up to him. It’s why they argued. Only sometimes was it about my husband’s breakthrough.”

  “But you don’t know what that was?” Nicole pushed. So far, Alma Esparza’s answers felt prepackaged, discussed and selected and safe. Nicole wanted painful. She wanted to peel the skin back and expose the hurt. “Certainly, if your husband would share that with Beatrice, he would tell his wife.”

  Esparza rocked on her feet. She took a half step backward but then planted herself there. Regrouped. Firmly in place. In theater it was called blocking, and that was exactly what it felt like.

  “No,” she insisted. “Only Beatrice knew.”

  “And she rebelled?”

  “We raise our children to question authority, but not our own.” Her frown deepene
d. “That cannot be done.”

  “Beatrice couldn’t say no? Was she his only test subject?” Nicole stepped closer to Alma Esparza, into her personal space. She hoped the woman felt the burn from her anger. “I think so. She told your husband she was not enough.”

  But the woman was shaking her head. “Enrique, he had only to prove that his cure was viable; from there the real testing would come. And Beatrice was enough for that.”

  “Did your husband kill your daughter, Mrs. Esparza? When something terrible went wrong, was it Beatrice’s refusal to be used further?”

  Mrs. Esparza shook her head, tears clinging to her lashes, and said, “It could have been that, but Enrique did not kill our Beatrice.”

  The woman fell back against the doorframe, her hands pressed to her chest. She sobbed. Nicole stood silently and allowed her a few moments to grieve. There were still avenues to explore, questions that had to be asked. When Mrs. Esparza quieted, Nicole continued.

  “Joaquin argued with your husband, didn’t he?” She kept a measure of understanding in her tone. “He disobeyed, broke some rules?”

  “He made bad decisions, and he was given consequences for them.”

  “What consequences?”

  “Public school. Loss of his driving privileges.”

  “And loss of his position?”

  She nodded. “As oldest, as the son, he should have been the one to follow Enrique into medicine.”

  “How did Joaquin feel about Beatrice taking over?”

  “He pretended not to care, but he did.”

  “What happened when Beatrice challenged your husband’s authority?”

  “My husband has a softness for her.”

  “He didn’t punish her?”

  “Beatrice did that herself. When she was small, she’d send herself to her room.” Mrs. Esparza smiled at the memory. “When she disappointed her father, for days afterward she was quiet, unapproachable.”

  “Did you know your husband was testing his discovery on your daughter?”

  “No. That’s impossible. Enrique’s breakthrough is a cure. I know that much. But Beatrice is not sick, and so she couldn’t be used for that kind of testing.”

  “Joaquin says she’s been sick. A lot.”

  “But not cancer. Never that.” Her tone was emphatic, and her fingers turned white where they pressed against the doorframe. “I thought there must be something, but never that.”