Cold to the Bone

by Emery Hayes

  “What then?”

  But Alma Esparza had no answer. “Enrique denied and he assured, and then Beatrice got better. I was grateful for that.”

  “Where was the round table held?” Nicole tried again.

  Alma Esparza shook her head. It was a short, decisive movement. “I was not told. And when I spoke to Beatrice that night, she was at a home on the Lake Road, a few miles from the town center. That was all she could tell me.”

  There had been a party, a gathering, a round table. And every Esparza had known about it but had kept their silence. She wondered who was at the controls—Dr. Esparza or his wife. And she thought about Alma Esparza out on the Lake Road, driving that endless loop, and knew the woman had lied. There were problems with her story.

  “One more thing, Mrs. Esparza. You’ve been texting your daughter. ‘Good girls don’t do this,’” Nicole prompted. “What was Beatrice doing?”

  “What all teenage girls do, Sheriff. She was testing her limits, and mine.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Sometimes she went off without telling me where she was going. Sometimes she stayed later than I told her she could.”

  That made sense. It fit with the tone and the wording of the text messages Nicole had found on the vic’s phone. The mother’s demands, and the girl’s curt replies: I’m growing up. And you have to let me.

  “Is she seeing a boy named Kenny?”

  “She was too young for boys.”

  “She’s fourteen,” Nicole pointed out. “In high school.”

  “With a career laid out before her,” Mrs. Esparza insisted. “I did not want her to have a boyfriend, and about that she had to listen.”

  Or hide the relationship, Nicole thought. “Where is Kenny?”

  But Mrs. Esparza shook her head. “Somewhere on the mountain,” she admitted. “Not at this hotel, I know that.”

  “We’re having trouble locating him,” Nicole said. They’d checked the Huntington and all the other resorts in the area, but the Kings weren’t registered. “We want to talk to him, Mrs. Esparza.”

  “I don’t know where they’re staying,” she said. “Do you think Kenny did this to my daughter? Did he kill her?”

  “He’s a person of interest,” Nicole said. On a list that was getting longer rather than shorter. Top picks: Kenny King and Enrique Esparza. Runners-up: Joaquin and Mrs. Esparza. And Nicole never ignored the possibility of a wild card.

  11

  Nicole stepped outside into a cozy courtyard with bistro tables and BTU heaters. A fire burned in the ringed pit, the flames leaping above the iron grate. Several people clustered together, piercing marshmallows onto skewers and sipping mugs of hot cocoa. Lars had Enrique Esparza at the station, peeled out of his outerwear and waiting to be questioned, but Nicole wanted to speak to the hired help. Every year the Huntington hired college kids back for the summer or for the holidays. They were the most likely to have paid particular attention to Beatrice, and to have caught her eye in return.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  The young man was taller than Nicole, but not by much. He was stocky and looked like a building block, size extra large. He stood apart from the small crowd, behind a beverage cart, and was topping off a latte with whipped cream.

  “Hi, Andy. How’s Boise State treating you?”

  “It’s good.” He smiled, and his teeth took the light. “Changed my major, you know. Thinking public service is the way to go—benefits and a pension.”

  “Salary cuts and increased workload,” Nicole added, but she smiled through it.

  “Pros and cons,” he agreed. Andy was solid, but a wanderer. He’d graduated high school three years before but had shifted through career choices so many times that he had to be a semester or two behind at college. “You out here investigating the murder?”

  She nodded. “Did you know the victim?”

  “Beatrice? Yeah, as much as you can get to know a kid on vacation.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Pretty and real nice. She talked a lot. Always said hello, coming and going.” He paused and considered his words, then nodded. “Yeah, like I said, she was nice.”

  “What did she talk about?”

  “Mostly she asked questions. She could do that, you know? Pull your life story out of you.”

  “Did she ever say anything about herself?”

  He shrugged, and Nicole could see an unease creep in. He shuffled his feet and picked up a packet of hot cocoa. “The usual stuff. She was mad at her dad, and sometimes her brother too. She stayed close to her sisters and wanted to—you could tell that about her.”

  “What about her mom? She talk about her at all?”

  Andy pushed back his wool cap, and tufts of his brown hair poked out around his ears.

  “Just once. Her mom came out here looking for her. It was late and she wanted all the kids in, she explained. She was real nice about it, but when she left, Beatrice turned to me and said her mom was the great pretender. It was kinda weird coming in that context, but, you know, she was a teenager, and by definition a mystery, right?”

  “Right.” Jordan was still predictable. She hoped that didn’t change. “Did you ask her about the comment?”

  He nodded. “But she brushed it off. Said she and her mom were nothing alike. And I think Beatrice was a little mad about it, or disappointed, because for a minute there I thought she was going to cry.” He shrugged. “But she moved past it pretty quick.”

  “What day was this?”

  He thought about that. “She was here awhile by then—maybe the twenty-third?”

  “You ever talk with Dr. Esparza?”

  “Twice. He’s one of those neither/nor kind of guys.”

  “Explain that.”

  “You know, he wasn’t real friendly, but he wasn’t a jerk either. He smiled but didn’t linger. Said hello but not much else. That kind of guy.”

  “Do you know a kid named Kenny?”

  “No.”

  “Was Beatrice friendly with anyone else here?”

  “Everyone.”

  “But no one in particular?”

  “Etienne, but he’s not a kid. You gotta be at least eighteen to work here.”

  Nicole didn’t know an Etienne. Blue Mesa was small enough that if she hadn’t met a person, she’d at least heard about them. And, according to Andy’s description, the young man was hard to miss at six feet two inches and two hundred fifty pounds. He usually worked equipment rental and handled the resort’s plow steadily. He’d also, according to Andy, dropped out of a college in California after his first semester and drifted around. A loose anchor.

  She found him in the garage, wiping down equipment. Andy hadn’t been exaggerating about the size of the guy. He had shoulders like Atlas and hands the size of hams.

  Her boots made small, whispery sounds on the cement floor, but even when she came to a stop not three feet behind the young man, she went unnoticed.

  “Hello, Etienne.”

  He spun around, lost his footing, and fell back against a snowmobile.

  Skittish. The young man was fearful or nervous, and both could be good or bad.

  “I startled you. Sorry,” she said. She pushed her department cap back on her head and gazed at him as he struggled to his feet. While he was big, he was not athletic. He was good for bulk, not finesse; for hauling, but he probably couldn’t shoot a basket from midcourt—he didn’t seem to have that kind of precision or coordination.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sheriff Cobain. I’m here to talk to you about Beatrice.”

  With Etienne at his full height and breadth, Nicole felt her own vulnerability. Beef and brawn, she reminded herself. Awkward swing, no connect. But she cautioned herself. He was twitching, bouncing on his toes, and a guy like Etienne would be at home in the WWE ring, slamming bodies to the mat.

  “I don’t want to talk about her.” He had a small mouth in a very large head, and his lips were dry an
d peeling. Etienne wasn’t used to winters this far north.

  “I’m not asking, Etienne.”

  “Why?”

  “You know she’s dead?”

  “I know you’re saying that.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  “No. She couldn’t be dead. Girls like her don’t die.”

  If his reasoning was faulty, the wail in his heart seemed genuine.

  “You liked her?”

  He nodded. “She smiles a lot.”

  “You ever talk to her, Etienne?”

  “All the time.”

  “You ever call her?”

  “You mean like on the phone?” He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t like phone calls and never answers them.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did that make you mad?”

  “Why would it? She told me, ‘Never call,’ and I didn’t.”

  “But you texted her?”

  “Sometimes. She always answered.”

  “Have you tried to text her today?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of messages did you send Beatrice?”

  His ears were pink, his blond hair cropped close. “I wanted her to know I liked her.”

  “A lot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know Beatrice was only fourteen years old?”

  “She told me.”

  “So she’s too young for you to date her.”

  His cheeks flooded with color. “We didn’t date.”

  “But you wanted to.”

  “No. She needed a friend. She said so.”

  “So what did you do about that?”

  “I brought her presents. I wasn’t supposed to.”

  There was a simplicity about Etienne. His ability to understand seemed very black and white, and he muddled around inside those confines trying to make sense of Beatrice.

  “What did she do with them?”

  “She gave them back to me. Or her father did.”

  “Beatrice’s father?”

  “Yes. He said she had to stop collecting people. Do you know what that means?”

  “He told you no more presents?”

  “Yes, he said I was special and that Beatrice thought so too, but she couldn’t talk to me anymore and I had to stop giving her presents.”

  “What did you give Beatrice?”

  “Small things,” he said. “A key chain. It was a dream catcher. She had big dreams. She said so. I thought she would like that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A magnet of Montana so she never forgets she was here. And a Ranger patch, because she’s brave. And I gave her a picture of me, too, because she said I could be a foot soldier in King Arthur’s army. I liked that.”

  “Do you know about King Arthur?”

  “He loved Morgan.”

  “Like you loved Beatrice?”

  But Etienne shook his head. “Morgan stole the sword, and that killed King Arthur. Beatrice wouldn’t do that.”

  “When was the last time you saw Beatrice, Etienne?”

  “Yesterday. Christmas. She looked like a princess. Her sisters too.”

  “They were going out to dinner?”

  “Yes, with the family, and after that Beatrice was turning into the fairy godmother.”

  “The fairy godmother?”

  “That’s what she said.” His smile was broad, and he had perfect teeth, straight and white.

  “What was she really doing?”

  “Hair and makeup.”

  “Christmas night?”

  “Yes. She was getting all the girls ready for the party.”

  “Her sisters and some other girls too?”

  “One other girl. Her name is Violet. That’s a pretty name.”

  “Do you know where Violet lives?”

  “She’s just visiting, like Beatrice.” He was shifting on his feet, and the soles of his boots scraped against the concrete. “Violet wants to make snow angels, and maybe one day she will.”

  “But she won’t now?”

  “Not today. Beatrice hopes someday.”

  “Why does Violet have to wait?”

  Etienne frowned, clearly puzzled. “I don’t know. I don’t know Violet, but I know Beatrice, and she’s going to make snow angels for Violet until Violet can do them for herself. She said so.”

  He picked his rag up off the floor and started on the Bobcat’s rear fender.

  “What else did Beatrice tell you?”

  “Sometimes you have to give up everything. Sometimes that’s what it takes to help people.”

  Etienne’s voice sounded watery, and Nicole stepped closer. “Etienne? Are you okay?”

  “I think that’s sad. And I think Beatrice helped too much.”

  Nicole thought so too.

  12

  On the way back to town, Nicole made a left turn onto State Route 49 and skirted the lake for several miles, driving the same roads Beatrice’s mother had claimed to have driven the night of the incident. The snow had stopped falling and the cloud cover was dense. Beyond the picnic areas and the scattered boat ramps, the lake stretched out like an oval platter, longer than it was wide. Called the Lake Road by citizens and visitors, it was the first road cleared after a snowfall and the only road other than Merry Weather that required a closure permit for celebrations or construction.

  It was popular day and night, summer and winter, and so she knew that Mrs. Esparza had lied to her. In two hours of driving its winding ways, searching for her distraught daughter, she had to have passed a car or two. And probably a lot more than that. Tourists returning from the mountains, locals returning from work. It was common for the Lake Road to be a loose string of bobbing yellow headlights well into the evening. She would have remembered that.

  Another problem with Mrs. Esparza’s story: it was impossible to drive a complete circle around the lake. The road began and ended at a thick copse of trees, with more than a quarter mile of wild Montana separating the asphalt.

  Nicole believed that Beatrice had called her mother and that Mrs. Esparza had left the resort afterward. But she didn’t know where the woman had gone. She hadn’t searched for Beatrice, not on the Lake Road. She had taken the rental out that night. Joaquin had said so and Daisy had confirmed it. He had shattered his mother’s alibi—the moonlight run—and Mrs. Esparza had just as easily tossed it aside. But for what?

  Facts about the case were slowly unraveling the family’s stories, and neither Joaquin nor his mother seemed concerned about that. They were protecting something or someone. They’d lied to do it, covered for one another, and didn’t care that Nicole knew it. And it all led back to the scene of the crime. She slowed the Yukon and gazed through the passenger window at the sheeted surface of the lake. It had a ghostly glow, reflecting what little sunlight burned through the cloud cover. Beatrice had run—a stumbling gait—over hillocks and drifts and onto the lake. Chased by an assailant who was both stronger and taller—the stride measurements showed this; the markings around her neck confirmed it. And that seemed to knock both Dr. and Mrs. Esparza out of the suspect pool. Neither was tall enough. They weren’t the killers, but was one the watcher?

  If Joaquin had killed his sister, would Mrs. Esparza protect him?

  Had Joaquin answered his sister’s SOS after all?

  Could it have been Joaquin who had pulled out of the resort parking lot last night in the rented Tahoe? There was more than one way to enter or exit the building. There were, in fact, seven. Daisy might have seen Mrs. Esparza leave out the front door. She might have watched the Tahoe disappear down the winding driveway. But Daisy couldn’t confirm Joaquin’s whereabouts last night. The young man could have been crouched in the back seat, undetected.

  But the roofie and the condom. The spilled evidence, the hasty attempt made to pick it up. That wasn’t Joaquin.

  He had spoken honestly about his family, about his own transgressions and his parents’. He�
��d given a candid perspective of Beatrice, and he had given Nicole a viable motive—Nueva Vida. A discovery that could change the world. That would shake up medicine and possibly extend human life expectancy.

  There was a lot of money involved in that—to be gained and lost. And there was more. If Esparza was right: if he was the father of such a miracle, he would be exalted. Mrs. Esparza would have no worries about her station in life. It would definitely be a pinnacle existence.

  Family or fortune? The field was opening, the suspects multiplying. Who among the Big Pharm companies would have the most to lose if Nueva Vida was a viable cure?

  Nicole adjusted her speed. The road on the north side of the lake was always more treacherous in the winter. Though it was salted and sanded at regular intervals, ice still formed and increased the likelihood of a wipeout. The trees here were thicker, too, and crowded the shoreline. On the other side of the road, the geography was dramatically different—the earth sloped sharply downward, then leveled out, and it was here that yet another wind farm had been built. It was the biggest in Toole County and the most dangerous. Three deaths so far had occurred since its ceremonial opening four years before, each incident grisly and the result of weather and malfunctioning machinery. When the conditions were right, when the wind off the slopes met the currents of a storm front as it moved in, a vacuum was created that was strong enough to pull a man off his feet. It was now mandatory that anyone working the turbines did it by tether line.

  She followed the curve of the road until she was parallel to the Huntington Spa. She had to guess, because the resort was not visible from that distance, not through the thickness of the trees. She knew that several paths led from the resort to the lake, most of them made by snowmobile and cross-country skiers. She watched for the trailheads, and when she found them flowing into the road, she slowed the Yukon more.

  None of the drifts had been disturbed. No one had recently come down from the Huntington, crossed the street, and entered the lake area.

  She leaned more heavily on the gas pedal.

  In the dead of winter, trees along the shore often split from the sheer cold and fell onto the ice, only to be consumed by the lake at first thaw. The school hockey teams cordoned off a section, set up goals and bleachers and portable heaters, and played their games outdoors. Speed skaters were drawn to the open expanse of the lake, and a fishing hole had been drilled through the frozen surface near its eastern shore.