David Wolf series Box Set

by Jeff Carson

  The sky was once again bright blue, but the air outside felt like they stood in a furnace compared to the day before. The dash computer had said twenty-nine degrees this morning, and it would get well above freezing today according to the forecast.

  “Thank God for this weather,” Rachette said, looking around and rubbing his hands together. “I’m sure it was good skiing and all yesterday, but way too cold for my taste. Couldn’t have paid me enough to put skis on.”

  “Pussy,” Patterson said without hesitation.

  Rachette mumbled something and Wolf smiled, but only because he was walking in front and neither of them could see him do it.

  The gondola terminal, a large building made of tall windows and black painted steel, stood a short distance up the slope from the main lodge of the resort. It was humming as the line of empty cars hanging on a braided cable zipped in and out.

  Wolf followed a lane of orange ropes and stepped inside, where he saw two men dressed in resort gear, cradling steaming cups of coffee.

  The electric engine whined, twisting the big wheel in the center of the building. Five or six cars with doors wide open proceeded around it at a slow walking pace before being whisked away again up the mountain.

  It was much warmer inside the terminal and Wolf pulled off both gloves. “Victor Peterhaus?” he asked.

  The nearer of the two turned and looked, and then stood straight, clearly surprised to see three sheriff’s deputies entering. “Yes? I’m Victor.” He was foreign, Wolf realized.

  “I’m Sheriff Wolf. These are Deputies Rachette and Patterson. We have a few questions about Saturday night.”

  Peterhaus looked concerned. “Okay … am I in trouble for something?” South African, that was the accent.

  Wolf shook his head. “No, we just want to know if you saw someone in particular come out of the gondolas. You were working the base here on Saturday night, right?”

  Peterhaus looked relieved and also embarrassed, probably from letting his guilty conscience show so easily. “Yes, I was here until we closed down after midnight.”

  “Do you know a woman named Stephanie Lang?” Wolf asked.

  Peterhaus nodded. “Yeah. Works at the restaurant. We’re decent friends.”

  Wolf pulled out a glossy printout picture of Prock and held it up. “Was this man with her on Saturday night?”

  Peterhaus squinted and leaned forward, like he wasn’t wearing his prescription glasses and had left his contacts at home. “Yes.”

  Wolf raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded and stepped back. “Yes, that guy was definitely with her. I remember him. He’s got crazy eyes, you see that? Stephanie introduced me to him. Jonas or something. He’s from Austria. We talked about it for a while—I’d worked there one winter, in the Dolomites. Well, it was Italy, but the Austrian speaking part, so close enough.”

  “Did you see anyone else with them? Did she say they were meeting someone else?” Wolf asked.

  “No, they just said they were going back to Stephanie’s and they left out the door.” Peterhaus pointed behind them, and they all turned to look outside. All they saw was the complex of buildings at the base.

  Wolf shoved the picture back in his coat. “You know where Matt Cooper is?”

  Peterhaus turned back to the other lift operator. “Is Cooper up here yet?”

  The other lift operator stepped forward. “Yeah, I saw him fly up earlier. Right before you got here.”

  Peterhaus nodded to Wolf.

  “He flies up?” Rachette asked.

  The other lift operator pointed past the gondola cars. “He parks the helicopter out there at night, a few hundred yards away, over in the trees. It’s insane, how he flies straight down into that tight spot every day. He just flew it out of there a little while ago. You guys just missed him. Usually shows up pretty early, and he flies it up to the … helicopter pad or landing zone or whatever you call it. Wasn’t here this weekend, though. Too much snow. Avalanche danger over on the heli-runs.”

  Wolf nodded and stepped toward an open gondola. “Thanks. You don’t mind if we head up, do you?” Wolf asked.

  The two operators shrugged. “Go ahead. All yours.”

  They stepped inside and sat, and the doors clacked shut, cutting out the loud industrial sounds outside. After another few seconds they whipped up the side of the slope on the bouncing cable, and the base complex came into view below them, getting smaller by the second.

  For a few minutes they sat in silence, all eyes glued to the bright peaks and landscape below. Corduroy groomers and steep powder-buried runs slid by beneath them.

  Wolf stared down, picking lines he would ski now, and then picking lines he would have skied fifteen years ago. Patterson and Rachette seemed to be doing the same thing, though Rachette with much more trepidation than Patterson.

  “How’s the skiing coming?” Wolf asked, pulling off his hat. It was getting warm inside the heated car.

  “Not bad, if I do say so myself,” Rachette said, nodding to Patterson.

  Patterson glanced at Rachette. “Yeah, not bad,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  Rachette gripped the bench when they bounced over the rollers on the lift towers.

  Patterson looked nervous as well, but not about the movements of the gondola car. It was something personal that bothered her, Wolf decided.

  At the top of the mountain the gondola swung into the upper terminal, slowed to a crawl, and the door split open.

  Rachette was out first, all but diving out the door, and Wolf followed Patterson out.

  Wolf looked at the clock mounted above the lift operator’s office—8:20.

  Bob Duke, the head of ski patrol, was outside laughing with Scott Reed—both men whom Wolf had known for a number of years as fellow residents in town.

  Duke turned to them. “Hey, there they are.”

  Wolf smiled and shook his hand, and then Scott’s.

  …

  Patterson watched Wolf smile at Scott Reed and give him a hearty handshake, as if they’d known each other for years.

  “How’s it going, Dave?” Scott said.

  “Not bad. You?” Wolf said.

  Patterson kept back, shook Duke’s hand, and then Scott’s only because it would have caused a scene if she hadn’t.

  Scott’s hand was warm and big, just like she remembered it. But now his touch sent shivers of revulsion up and down her spine, and his genuine smile seemed to magnify the effect. She decided that for the remainder of her time with these two men she’d keep her sunglasses on.

  She followed in silence, taking in the vast view as she always did, and once again she peered at Aspen Mountain and wondered what her family was up to this morning. With the amount of snow dropped Saturday night, her dad would probably be playing hooky from work and hitting the slopes until lunch, along with the rest of Aspen.

  They walked toward Scott’s cat waiting on the freshly groomed snow.

  Patterson took up the rear, and then sped up at the end and slipped into the back hold of the cat before anyone else. Bob Duke took shotgun and Wolf and Rachette sat back with Patterson.

  Wolf was eyeing her suspiciously, but she ignored him and looked out the rear window.

  “We need to speak to Matt Cooper,” Wolf said.

  “I know. I can’t get him on the radio right now.” Duke shook his head. “Probably has his flight headphones on. We’ll just drive over there.”

  The cat vibrated and the diesel engine sputtered loudly, but Wolf continued his conversation with the men in front.

  Patterson leaned forward and looked out the windshield, ignoring Scott’s green eyes glancing at her in the rearview mirror. The bright-red helicopter she’d seen many times this year—either on the top of the ridge where it sat now or thumping in the sky as it flew back and forth between peaks—sat on the far end of the ridgeline past the Antler Creek Lodge. It hadn’t been there yesterday. Probably hadn’t been the best business for helicopter
rides when perfect powder had been right here on the mountain for no extra cost.

  “How’s Hillary?” Wolf asked Scott, leaning toward the front.

  “Oh, I split with her last year. Geez, I haven’t talked to you in that long?”

  Patterson kept her gaze out the windshield, ignoring the urge to look over at Rachette.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s been a little hectic for me. I haven’t been out much,” Wolf said.

  “Well, I heard about the whole deal you and Jack went through last summer, and what Deputy Rachette here did, getting shot and all.” Scott shook his head. “Wow.”

  Patterson finally sat back and looked across the hold at Rachette.

  Rachette glanced at her and then leaned forward to speak over Wolf’s shoulder. It would have made more sense to perhaps mouth the word sorry—to apologize for making your partner look like an idiot for being interested in a married man, a man who’d in fact split up from his wife so it wasn’t as awkward as her partner had made it out to be, but that wasn’t Rachette’s style.

  The pieces fell into place, though, and she was seeing Scott Reed in a whole new light. Scott didn’t wear a wedding ring for a good reason.

  She looked in the rearview mirror and locked eyes with him for a few seconds, then looked out the windshield again. Now she felt bad for being so cold toward the man, when he’d been so clearly interested in getting to know her.

  Could she date someone with two kids, though? She barely thought of herself as a grownup as it was. And how old were the kids? Given Scott’s youthful looks, she couldn’t picture them being much older than five or six. Then again, he could have been a teenager when he’d had his kids, and then they’d be almost her age. Two kids? Could she do it?

  One more time she looked at Scott’s face in the bouncing mirror, and once again they locked eyes. Probably, she thought as she marveled at his green eyes for the tenth time.

  Chapter 17

  Charlie Ash parked his Range Rover and stepped out into yet another cloudless morning. He shut the door and wiped off his wet fingers on his pants, and then stepped along the driveway to the house that he could describe only as a Frank Lloyd Wright rip-off. Ash could think of many better ways to wipe your ass with a few million dollars than to erect a piece of crap like this.

  The gutters plunked and trickled, and the snow under his boots was turning to slush. Branches sagged, and a small stream had already started forming along the road on the drive up. The day was unseasonably warm for late February, and he loved it. It reminded Ash of Tahoe, where the warm temperatures often melted the snow just as fast as it dropped. Thank God. Breathing through his mouth so that his boogers wouldn’t freeze was becoming unbearable. Humans weren’t meant to endure cold temperatures like they’d been having. At least he wasn’t meant for it. In fact, he’d already vowed to himself that when the Klammer payment went through it would go toward a country-club membership and winter house in Scottsdale.

  As he stepped onto the porch and pushed the doorbell, he longed for the days of Lake Tahoe once again, with his lake house, his boat, his Treasurer position in city government and people lining up for favors. Those were the heydays, when he was like the godfather, before things pushed him and Kevin east. That was when he had been on top. That was when everything he’d touched turned to gold, and when everyone had respected him for the savvy businessman he was. Until his wife went and fucked it all up.

  The door clicked and opened, and a white lady dressed in sweatpants stood in the opening. She held a feather duster and some headphones hung from the neck of her sweatshirt.

  “Hello, Mr. Ash,” she said.

  “Hello,” Ash said, excluding her name, because he neither knew nor cared what it was.

  She smiled at him for a second, like he was going to say something else, like her name or something.

  “The mayor!” he yelled, satisfied at the way she jumped and opened the door wide.

  “Yes, sorry. Come in, he’s in his office,” she said.

  Ash walked past her and across the little rug without wiping his feet, and then onto the hardwood floors and down the hall. Over the squeaking of his boots he was pretty certain he’d heard the woman call him an asshole under her breath. Maybe one day he could figure out how to make her regret that.

  He stopped at the closed door to Wakefield’s home office and stepped onto the carpeted alcove. He turned the knob and walked inside, not bothering to knock.

  Wakefield was already staring straight at Ash as he entered. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he sat board stiff with both palms on the top of his mahogany desk. He wore a wrinkled long-sleeved polo shirt. There were no lights on, just the half-closed blinds letting in too little sunlight. It was silent as a vault.

  Ash looked around and closed the door behind him. He noticed that the computer on Wakefield’s desk wasn’t turned on, and there was nothing in front of him. Ash took off his jacket and hung it in the corner on the coat rack that was made of old skis, and noticed Wakefield tracking him with his unblinking gaze.

  Ash walked to the desk and sat down. He sighed, sat back, and crossed his legs. “You wanted to speak to me?”

  “She’s fucking dead?” Wakefield blurted.

  Ash popped his eyebrows and stared at Wakefield for a few seconds. Was he drunk? Had he been staring at the wall, drinking all night?

  “Yes,” Ash said slowly. “As I said before, I was so sorry to hear about your wife.”

  Wakefield narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “What?”

  Ash stared at Wakefield. The man was unstable. Ash couldn’t tell what this was. Was Wakefield acting like he didn’t know his wife had offed herself until now? Had he forgotten the reason for her suicide? How far off his rocker had he gone?

  “I’m sorry,”—he sat motionless—“you’re confusing me.”

  “You don’t know?” Wakefield asked.

  Ash kept silent.

  Wakefield stood up from his chair and leaned forward, pressing his hands into the desktop. He studied Ash with comical intensity, like Ash was a half-opaque ghost sitting in his midst.

  Ash felt his skin crawling, and decided now was a good time to leave. He began to stand up.

  “Stephanie Lang,” Wakefield said.

  Ash froze. “What?”

  Wakefield stared at him for another second and then sat down. “You’re serious!” He yelled, and then exploded into laughter.

  Ash held up a hand and looked back at the closed door. “What are you talking about?”

  Wakefield stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “Stephanie Lang is dead. A plow dug her up out of the snow yesterday morning.”

  Ash sat back down.

  Wakefield closed his eyes and his leather seat creaked as he sat back.

  Ash looked around, thinking. Then he stood and walked to the office door and opened it. Poking his head outside, he was startled to see the housekeeper a few feet away, wiping water footprints off the floor with a rag. She had white headphones jammed in her ears.

  She looked up and sucked in a breath, then pulled out a headphone. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Ash glared at her and closed the door. He walked back to the desk and sat down again.

  “What the hell are you doing to me, Charlie?”

  Ash sat forward. “First of all, quiet down. Second of all, I don’t know anything about this. This is news to me.”

  Wakefield stared. “So you strangle her, and then make it look like I did it? What’s next for good old Mayor Wakefield in your plan? Somehow the X is supposed to lead the cops to me or something?”

  “The ex?” Ash squinted and shook his head. “Ex-what? What the hell are you talking about. I … she was strangled?”

  “You’re a good actor, Charlie. I’ll give you that.”

  Ash stood up to think. “Who the hell?” he murmured to himself.

  Wakefield leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair, all false amusement drained from his face. “You really don’t know who did this
?”

  Ash ignored him and walked to the coat rack. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Where are you going?” Wakefield asked. “Who the hell did this? Do we have to be worried? Was the X a signal to us? You’re telling me this is just a coincidence that she’s been killed?”

  Ash put on his coat and then stopped, narrowing his eyes. “For the last time, what do you mean, the ex? Who are you talking about?”

  “There was an X drawn on her forehead.” Wakefield put his index finger to his forehead and crossed two lines.

  Ash’s face dropped. His pulse raced and his skin crawled, itching as sweat leaked out of every pore on his body.

  “I have to go,” he said, and walked to the door. He opened it and hurried out, and then almost stepped on the maid. Twisting in mid-stride to miss her, he slipped on a wet spot and fell hard, planting his elbow onto the wood floor. Pain exploded through his arm, paralyzing him. “Ah!”

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry, Mr. Ash!” the maid said.

  Ash got to his knees and bent over, gripping his elbow, grunting through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Ash slapped it off and stood up, and then made his way carefully down the hallway and out the front door. He climbed into his car and pressed a number on his phone. It rang six times and went to voicemail.

  “Shit,” he breathed, and then he dialed another number. When it went to voicemail after one ring, he knew his call had been screened, and then he knew exactly what was going on. He was in trouble.

  Chapter 18

  “A Bell 212 Twin Huey,” Duke yelled back to them. “Can hold twelve passengers.”

  Wolf nodded, looking out the window of the snow cat as they pulled up next to the helicopter. He’d been in one while in the army; it had been painted camo, whereas this one was a glossy red with a yellow stripe, and had metal meshed baskets the size of coffins on each skid for ski gear.