Cold to the Bone

by Emery Hayes

Beatrice Esparza running, chased and brought to a stop on Lake Maria. The killer taller than Beatrice. He had lifted her off her feet and looked into the girl’s eyes as she died. Killer and watcher … male and female … it seemed most likely from the prints left behind. Evasion, lies, once-tight alibis rendered useless.

  Dr. Esparza. Joaquin. Mrs. Esparza. They’d each had motive and opportunity. And at that moment, techs were measuring shoes in the Esparzas’ hotel room. UGGs had been found—size eight—belonging to Alma Esparza. But there were probably a hundred more pairs fitting the evidence in hotels scattered around Blue Mesa.

  Was Alma Esparza the watcher? It didn’t hurt Nicole to think so.

  Or maybe Joaquin, cast into the shadow of his sister, the shining star, had tired of being overlooked and underappreciated? Of being—though the eldest—held in constant comparison to a little sister who did everything better? Jealous, enraged, and broken, had Joaquin eliminated the source of his pain?

  Or had Dr. Esparza killed his daughter, his discovery and all it promised lost when Beatrice refused to cooperate?

  Michael King had access to roofies, but with his daughter’s life on the line, he’d had every reason to keep their victim alive. Beatrice had been a live link to a cure. But if the man had been angered at being locked out of the bidding war and lost his cool, it was possible he had murdered Beatrice.

  And if he had killed Beatrice, what of the youngest Esparzas? Were the girls still alive?

  Nicole received yet another report of lights on, no answer, and turned the Yukon north. She traveled the Lake Road half a mile and parked in the street, engine idling as she slid from behind the wheel and regarded the house. Small, but perched atop a small rise with the front windows facing the frozen sheet of Lake Maria. The home had an unobstructed view of the lake, rare with the road passing between them. Nicole knew the house was a rental, a two-bedroom, single-bath, which made it low-budget when it came to tourist choices—still, it rented weekly for what Nicole paid out monthly on her mortgage. It never stood empty during ski or summer season.

  This wasn’t the place. It was too small for a man of King’s stature, too open, and it lacked the feel of a crime scene. Still, she walked up the shoveled path and rang the bell.

  She heard movement, a shuffling of feet. The tread wasn’t heavy, and she thought there were probably children behind the closed door.

  “It’s Sheriff Cobain,” she announced, tapping the star pinned to her jacket just below her left shoulder. “It’s okay to open the door.” She was greeted with silence. “Look,” she tried, “I’m going to step back so you can see me from the front window.” She did so and removed her department cap so that her hair, mussed from the wool but still in its ponytail, was visible and her overall look less threatening. She was in uniform now, but she held up her arm and turned toward the street, where the Yukon stood in the gray afternoon, light bar turning and exhaust pluming at the back. “That’s my police cruiser.” She tapped her left shoulder. “This is my badge. That’s a gold star.” The metal was cold, even through her glove. “I just need to make sure you’re okay, and I need to see you and talk to you to do that.”

  Nicole watched a small face appear behind the window closest to the front door. Girl age eleven or twelve. Her top teeth sawed at her bottom lip and her eyes were flared, alert, moving over Nicole and the Yukon. Another child appeared beside her—male, maybe eight years old. The girl pushed him back. Nicole waved to her.

  “Are your parents skiing?” she tried.

  The girl didn’t answer. The boy reappeared, smiling, and waved to Nicole.

  “It looks like your parents prepared you well. Don’t answer the door. Don’t talk to strangers. I appreciate that. It makes you safer and my job easier.”

  The girl didn’t crack, and the standoff was showing no signs of abating when Nicole noticed a white Subaru moving toward them, headlights on and defrosters pushing back the condensation on the windshield. It fishtailed slightly on the icy road, probably speed sparked from the flashing lights in front of the driver’s home. It turned into the driveway, and a man stepped from the car before the engine was cut.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He was tall, and his stride quickly ate up the distance between them. A woman scrambled from the car behind him and ran toward them.

  Nicole held up her hands in a calming gesture. “Nothing is wrong,” she promised. She even smiled a little as she said, “Your kids look fine, from where I stand.” She indicated the front window where both children now stood, the boy bouncing on his toes, the girl relieved.

  “They’re your children?”

  “Yes. Yes,” the mother assured Nicole, and headed to the door.

  Nicole followed, the father beside her. “I’m Sheriff Nicole Cobain, Toole County.” she explained. “We’re searching the area for two children.” Missing children always softened people, and she felt the tension in the man’s body slowly ease. “House to house along the lakefront. When your kids didn’t answer the door for the first team I rolled out.”

  The mother had the front door open, and the boy rushed her. The girl allowed her mother to pull her in close.

  “You guys okay?” the father asked. He stepped onto the front porch and held the door open so he could take a look at his children. The boy smiled at him and asked if he’d conquered the mountain.

  “There are missing children?” the mother asked, turning to glance at Nicole.

  “Yes, two girls, ages eight and ten.”

  The mother’s face contracted, and the father looked out across the rolling hills and the wide expanse of the lake.

  “How long?”

  “Close to twenty-four hours.”

  His expression turned incredulous. “Impossible,” he said. “You must know the rate of exposure and human mortality. If they’ve been outside this whole time—”

  “We believe they’ve been indoors,” Nicole said. “What do you know about exposure rates, Mr.…?”

  His lips thinned, the corner of one turning in as he chewed on it, but his gaze was level, considering. “Doctor,” he corrected. “Dr. Martin Gatling. And left outdoors, the children could have survived six to eight hours in these weather conditions—with the usual winter clothing.”

  She felt the lock turn and the tumblers fall into place. Gatling. She had connected a dot.

  “What kind of doctor are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My specialty is nuclear medicine.”

  Nicole had never heard of such a thing. She applied nuclear to two things—weapons and family—and she was pretty sure most ordinary people did as well.

  She let her confusion ripple across her brow. “What is that?”

  “I serve a very narrow field within the bigger scope of the discipline,” he said. “Nuclear medicine is most often used to assess the presence of malignancy rather than biopsy for it.”

  “How is that done?”

  “Instrumentation and radiopharmaceuticals.” He tried to redirect her, “You said you were looking for two little girls.”

  She ignored his question. “Do you know Dr. Enrique Esparza?”

  “Of course,” Gatling replied. “He and his daughter—they’re the reason we’re here. Short notice too. Three days, and at Christmas.”

  Nicole felt her pulse kick up a notch.

  “Who do you work for, Dr. Gatling?”

  “Magellan Pharmaceuticals.”

  Ding. Another dot connected.

  “And your supervisor is?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Is your supervisor Dr. Michael King?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him by any other name?”

  “Other name?” His tone twisted with annoyance. “No. Why would I?”

  “We believe Dr. King is keeping the children. The two missing girls, they’re the daughters of Dr. and Mrs. Esparza.”

  18

  Nicole was seated in the small kitchen of the home the Gatling
s had rented at a moment’s notice per the demand of Dr. Gatling’s immediate supervisor, Dr. Michael King. Mrs. Gatling was brewing coffee. She looked out the window, her fingertips drumming on the granite countertop. Nicole watched her profile. The women’s lips moved while she thought, sometimes shaping words, other times knotting while she frowned. She was a woman with something to say, but who worried about her words. Nicole hoped the silence would trouble her more. The doctor stood at the back door, removing his snow boots. He left them on the mat and walked to the table in his wool socks.

  “Where is King staying?”

  Gatling took his cell phone out of his pants pocket and began pushing numbers. “It’s a big house, overlooks the lake.” He found what he was looking for—a text—and read off the address to Nicole. “We were invited for Christmas dinner—” He snorted. “That was a fiasco.”

  Nicole took a moment and radioed the address to Lars. He and a wave of deputies were en route. She was familiar with the home. It even had a name—Big Horn—and was infamous in Blue Mesa, synonymous with waste and excess, an indulgence that threatened the natural environment.

  Nicole was closer to it, just two minutes down the road from the Gatlings’ rental, and she thought about leaving then and coming back for the interview. Heading out alone. But that would be stupidity. The grounds at Big Horn were wooded, the house nearly a fortress. And backup was on its way.

  She clipped the radio at her shoulder and returned her attention to Dr. Gatling.

  “A fiasco, you said. How so?”

  “The guest list, for starters.”

  Mrs. Gatling spoke up then. She had turned to them and was leaning against the kitchen sink with her arms crossed over her stomach. “Dr. Esparza was there,” she said. “And that was just one of the surprises.”

  “What was another?”

  “Some guy named Benjamin and his lovely wife Charlene.” Gatling’s upper lip curled with the sarcasm in his voice.

  Nicole felt her world tilt slightly. Benjamin and his wife, here in Blue Mesa, at the proofing. What was their involvement? She knew what Benjamin was capable of and added him and Charlene to the list of suspects.

  “She wasn’t lovely?”

  “She was …” Nicole watched emotion flash across the doctor’s face, but he finally settled on simple agreement. “No, she wasn’t lovely, Sheriff. They were an odd couple. She stood about a foot taller than her husband, but he was definitely the alpha.” He snorted at some private thought.

  “Alpha?” That was an odd description, and she pressed Dr. Gatling for an explanation.

  “He spoke and she barked,” he said. Nicole felt her frown deepen, and he elaborated. “You know, something similar to the human-canine relationship.”

  Nicole raised an eyebrow.

  “They wore matching identity bracelets,” Mrs. Gatling added. “A cute idea, right? And they were beautiful. Platinum and jeweled, but not overdone. I asked her if I could take a closer look. That’s when it got creepy.”

  “Creepy how?”

  “She lifted her hand, and his came with it. You know what I mean? They were chained together. Like handcuffs. It took me by surprise. Martin says they’re some kind of S and M thing. I laughed, because I was uncomfortable, and she smiled, but there was nothing funny about it.”

  It caused a stir of discomfort in Nicole too.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She said, ‘I belong to him.’ After that we kept our distance.”

  “It was easy to do. We had our kids to look after and the house is pretty big,” Dr. Gatling explained.

  “How long have you worked with Dr. King?”

  “Three years.”

  “And he’s always been Dr. King?”

  He paused, and Nicole could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “He’s in a high-level position. He’s the meet and greet. The detective and the charming host. And he has a mind for money and medicine.”

  “How does this connect to his name?”

  He shook his head. “I would be surprised if King is his real name.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re chameleons. By job description, certainly, but they don’t stay in one place too long. Turnover is high. They move on to another company. Maybe a start-up. Maybe a little fish that wants to swim in the big ocean. And change their names as it suits the circumstances.”

  “How long do people in King’s position usually stay with a company?”

  “Three to five years. Definitely no more than that.”

  Mrs. Gatling brought three mugs to the table and placed one in front of Nicole. She returned to the counter for the coffeepot and creamer, but she said over her shoulder, “And King has overstayed his welcome.”

  “Why do you say that?” Nicole probed.

  Mrs. Gatling placed a pint of half-and-half on the table next to Nicole but said to her husband, “Tell her, Martin.”

  Dr. Gatling shrugged, discomfort in the movement. “He was going rogue. Maybe. Definitely he was extending himself beyond traditional expectations.”

  “In English,” Nicole requested.

  “King was working Esparza alone. He allowed liberties with our lab and equipment I’ve never seen before.”

  “Did he say why?”

  Gatling shook his head. “But he was excited. King really thought they had something.” He hesitated, and Nicole waited. “He needed it to be something,” he confided. “Something big.”

  “Because that was all that would save his daughter?”

  “Yes. You know about that, then.” Nicole nodded, and he continued. “That was it. The reason I thought King was giving Esparza liberties—they have a kinship of sorts.”

  “They both have daughters who are sick,” Mrs. Gatling said.

  “And they were both desperate for a cure,” he added.

  And that gave King plenty of reason to want Beatrice alive.

  “Why are you here in Montana?” Nicole asked. “Why now, with King and Esparza?”

  “To close the deal. I’m called in at only two stages in the process—the initial, when the pitch is made, and at the close.”

  “You’re the closer?”

  “No. That’s King. My job is black and white, no speculation. I point out strengths and reasonable concerns.”

  “What was Esparza’s discovery?”

  More hesitation. “I know it’s something at the molecular level. Something that controls cellular regeneration, only more.”

  “You don’t know the exact discovery?”

  “No. No one does. No one except Esparza.”

  “How can a deal close without at least King knowing?”

  “He’s closed deals with less than what Esparza has already given him.”

  “So why the delay here?”

  “There’s reasonable doubt.”

  “What is it?”

  He hedged. “I signed a confidentiality agreement,” he told her. “Telling you more will require a warrant.”

  She felt her lips tighten but changed direction to keep the information flowing.

  “How well did you know Beatrice Esparza?”

  “Not well. Yet. We met at King’s last night, but the girl bolted.”

  “Why?”

  “King didn’t say.”

  “It had something to do with those people,” Mrs. Gatling said. “The odd couple. They talked to her. Upset her.”

  “It was like watching sharks in a fishbowl,” Dr. Gatling agreed. He shook his head, and disgust thinned his lips. “They’d approach her, say a few words, and she’d take off. Dart over to her sisters or King’s daughter.”

  “And they followed,” Mrs. Gatling agreed. “And her father wasn’t any help at all.”

  “He kept his distance from Beatrice,” Dr. Gatling said. “And she from him. There was definitely friction between them.”

  “You don’t know what it was?”

  Gatling shook his head. “No. Esparza wasn’t supposed to be at the proofing at a
ll. Direct involvement is against protocol. I got the feeling he was keeping a tight hold on his daughter and she resented it.”

  “Was he friendly with Benjamin and Charlene?”

  “He stuck with King, but he did introduce them to Beatrice,” Mrs. Gatling said. Some thought twisted her lips, and she shivered delicately.

  “What?” Nicole probed.

  “Nothing. I just don’t like those people.”

  “But there’s something,” Nicole persisted. “Something that disturbed you.”

  Mrs. Gatling shook her head but said, “She touched Beatrice. Put a hand on her shoulder and stroked her arm, all the way down to her wrist. She did it like, I don’t know, like ownership or something. Like she was petting something pretty.”

  “I saw that too,” Dr. Gatling agreed.

  “What did Beatrice do?”

  “She shook her off,” Mrs. Gatling said, and there was a note of approval in her voice. “Then she went straight to King. She complained. I could tell, because her arms were orchestrating it—you know how teen girls can get into the role?”

  Dr. Gatling nodded. “King was sympathetic. He spoke to them. To Esparza too. I don’t know what King said, but Esparza was offended.”

  “Oh yeah,” his wife agreed. “He got real uptight. The man is all about posture,” she added. “You know, body language can bludgeon.”

  Nicole hadn’t heard the expression before, but she understood it. “And Beatrice?”

  “King took her out of the room. He was concerned, had his arm around her, and it looked like he was taking her upstairs. I thought maybe to a bedroom. The girl needed some rest and we needed a tissue sample.”

  “And Dr. Esparza left too?

  “He made a grand exit,” Mrs. Gatling confirmed. She picked up her cup of coffee and blew on the liquid. “Right after King took Beatrice upstairs.”

  “And the couple?”

  “They stayed,” Gatling reported. “But they made themselves scarce.”

  “But you definitely saw them again?”

  They both nodded. Then Mrs. Gatling said, “But not together. Not until they left.”

  “Yeah, he must have set her loose,” said Dr. Gatling. “For a while he roamed around the party alone. He spoke some to King. He was on his phone a lot. Stepped out of the room for a while too.”