01 Storm Peak (43 page)
Jesse thought about it. He pushed his bottom lip out, doubtfully.
“Doesn’t prove something was taken,” he said. “Maybe the guy just had an extra hanger. Been known to happen,” he added mildly, looking up at her. But Lee was already shaking her head.
“The guy was a ski patroller,” she said. “There was no uniform in the closet.”
Jesse, already sitting up to take notice, straightened even further. He was like a bird dog who’s heard the first faint rustle of quail in the grass before him.
Lee continued. “I’ve been trying to work out what it was that bothered me about that closet,” she said. “Then I remembered that Packer Thule dropped by the office yesterday-in his uniform. The guys in the patrol don’t change on the mountain, do they? They wear their uniforms to and from work.”
“Most do,” he replied. “A few of us have lockers, but they’re only for squad leaders and above. The rest wear their uniforms to and from work like you said. They’re good parkas.” He smiled. “Besides, most of the volunteers like to be seen wearing them around town.”
“Now think about this,” she said, leaning forward and locking his gaze into hers. “A guy in a patrol uniform can go anywhere on the mountain, no questions asked. He can jump lift lines. He can barge in anywhere. He is the invisible man.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said softly, and the sound of his voice stopped her in mid-flight. She looked at him. He was staring into the distance, remembering, seeing nothing.
“Jess?” she said, concerned for him. “What is it?”
The color had drained from his face. Literally. He stood up and walked to the end of the table. The wooden pointer from the whiteboard lay there. He picked it up in both hands, gripping the wood until his knuckles whitened.
“Lee, I saw him. Last night. It was him.”
“You saw him?” she asked, incredulous. He nodded several times, his eyes unfocused, seeing the scene in the gondola once again.
“A guy in a ski patrol uniform. He looked kind of familiar, I don’t know why. But he was in the gondola, watching us. It was him, Lee, I know it was him. I feel it.”
She took a pace toward him, put out a hand to touch his arm then let it drop. “Ease up, Jesse,” she said slowly. “Just because you saw a guy in a uniform doesn’t make him the one who stole it.”
His eyes came around to her and burned into hers. “He was watching us the whole time. I kept turning around and catching him. Watching. It was him. It had to be him.”
She made a placating gesture with both hands. “Could have been coincidence, Jess. Let’s keep our perspective. It could have—”
There was a knock at the door. She turned, angry at the interruption.
“What is it?” she snapped and the door opened to admit Tom Legros, a few steps behind an indignant elderly lady.
“Sheriff Torrens,” Mrs. McLaren began. “I pay my taxes and I vote when it’s time to do so. I have a say in this community and that gives me the right to complain to you in person …”
Lee held her anger in check. Legros made an apologetic gesture behind the woman.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I tried to tell her you were busy—”
Mrs. McLaren cut him off. “Busy? Busy my foot, Sheriff! An elected official is never too busy to speak to one of the people who elected her. That’s what I told this fool.”
Lee moved toward the indignant woman. “That’s true, Mrs. McLaren …” she hesitated, glanced at Tom. “I assume this is Mrs. McLaren?” she said. Tom nodded wearily and she continued. “You have every right to come see me and make your complaints. But right now, Deputy Parker and I are in the middle of—”
She stopped. The older lady wasn’t listening to her. She was frowning in concentration, peering at something across the room. As Lee watched, she ferreted in her handbag and took out a pair of blue plastic-framed glasses, perching them on the end of her querulous nose to get a better look.
“Why have you got a picture of Mr. Murphy here? What has he done?”
She was pointing at the bulletin board, and the ID photo of Anton Mikkelitz that Jesse had hung there.
“Mr. Murphy?” Lee began. “You mean you know this man, Mrs. McLaren?”
There was a crash of furniture at the end of the table as Jesse kicked a chair over in his haste to get to the photo. He ripped it from the wall, looked at Lee, his eyes burning.
“This is him! The guy in the ski patrol uniform! I knew he looked familiar!”
He dropped the photo, threw both hands up to his face in despair.
“How could I have missed it?” he said to himself. Mrs. McLaren had reached across the table and picked up the photo herself. Lee repeated her question.
“Mrs. McLaren, you know this man?”
The woman frowned, turned the photo on an angle and studied it more closely. “He’s not blond,” she said, then, with increasing certainty. “And he’s a few years older now. But it’s him. Mr. Murphy. One of my guests.”
“And he’s been with you how long?” Lee asked slowly. The boardinghouse proprietor considered the question, looked to the sky, counting off days in her mind.
“Oh, I’d say a good three weeks now. Paid a month in advance. Why have you got his photo here?” she asked, her suspicions now aroused that she might have misjudged Mr. Murphy.
Jesse moved around the table, studying the woman carefully. “Mrs. McLaren, is this Mr.”—he searched mentally for the name, found it—“Murphy at your place now, by any chance?”
She shrugged. “Well, he may just be,” she said. “I didn’t see him go out so far. Usually when he goes skiing, he doesn’t leave till after eleven. But what has he done?” she repeated, and again, they didn’t answer her. Jesse and Lee were exchanging a long, meaningful look. Tom Legros, who’d understood maybe half of what had gone on in the room, was as puzzled as Mrs. McLaren.
“Mrs. McLaren.” Lee took the older woman’s arm gently. “I’m going to ask if you’ll accompany us to your boardinghouse, and show us which room we might find this Mr. Murphy in. Will you do that for us?”
“Why certainly, Sheriff Torrens, but I’d still like to know … oh my good God almighty!”
This last was torn from her as she glanced round to see that Jesse had taken his .45 Colt from the back of his waistband and was quietly checking the magazine and the round in the chamber. He lowered the hammer with his thumb, clicked on the safety and replaced the pistol.
“Now just settle down, Mrs. McLaren,” Lee said soothingly. “I’m sure there’ll be no trouble—”
“But your deputy … that gun … surely he thinks …”
Jesse tried to smile reassuringly at her. It didn’t quite come off.
“I’m just being on the safe side here, Mrs. McLaren,” he said. “I’m sure there’ll be no need for guns.”
He took her other arm and, between them, they moved her from the conference room to the corridor, and then to the stairs. Tom Legros trailed along behind, an interested and confused spectator.
“You want me to come along too, Sheriff?” he asked. Lee shook her head.
“You keep an eye on things here, Tom. Jesse and I will manage just fine on our own,” she told him.
They took one of the department Oldsmobiles for the drive to Laurel Street. For a moment, Lee thought about using the siren, then reason prevailed. If Murphy-Mikkelitz was at the boardinghouse, the last thing she wanted to do was alert him to the fact that they were on their way.
Mrs. McLaren, by now totally confused and more than a little afraid, was in the rear seat.
“Sheriff,” she asked hesitantly. “What on earth is going on here?”
Lee and Jesse exchanged a glance. Almost imperceptibly, Jesse nodded. There was little point in keeping the old woman in the dark any longer.
“Mrs. McLaren,” Lee said gently. “You’ve been reading about these murders on Mount Werner, haven’t you?”
“Well of course I have!” said the landlady, with some spirit. “Been a little hard not to hear all about them, what with the news being all over the papers and on television and all. Why, only the other evening, I saw the two of you interviewed on television talking about it all. I was watching it with Mr. Murphy—” She suddenly stopped in mid-flow. Then, after a long pause, she said quietly, “Oh my good God almighty.”
Jesse glanced over his shoulder at her. The puzzled, confused look had gone from her face. Her color had drained totally. She was chalk white now as she realized what Lee had been about to tell her.
“You’re telling me that Mr. Murphy is the one who’s been doing those dreadful things? Is that what you’re saying?”
Her eyes met Jesse’s. For a moment, he thought she was going to be physically sick. He replied carefully.
“Now, Mrs. McLaren, we’re not sure of anything here. We just know that Mr. Murphy, or, as we call him, Mikkelitz—”
“Mike!” Lee interrupted him suddenly. He looked at her, head cocked to one side. She glanced quickly away from the road.
“Mike,” she repeated. “That’s what Walt Davies called him, just before he was shot. He said ‘Is that you, Mike.’ That’s what made us go after Miller, remember?”
Jesse whistled softly. “So it did. I guess it doesn’t take much to shorten Mikkelitz to Mike.”
“It all starts adding up all of a sudden, doesn’t it?” Lee said.
Jesse was nodding, thinking further into it. “Even his background. He was a paramedic down in Denver around the time of the gang fights. Odds are that’s where he picked up the jigger. He probably attended fight scenes two or three times a week.” He shook his head ruefully. “I might have even seen him there and not known.”
“As I said, it all starts adding up,” Lee replied.
“Always does, after you know the answer,” Jesse told her. “Before that, everything’s just one unrelated fact after another.”
“What are you planning to do, Sheriff?” Mrs. McLaren asked quietly.
“Why, we’ll just quietly go in and speak to this Mr. Murphy of yours, Mrs. McLaren,” said Lee. “And we’ll hope that he’s going to be reasonable about things.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a look at the landlady. She was mildly surprised, knowing what she did of Mrs. McLaren, that there’d been no outburst along the lines of, “Why he seemed such a nice young man,” no denial that the suspect could possibly be a guest at her boardinghouse. The older woman was shaking her head, and the expression on her face was a mixture of sadness and anger.
“Killed Walt Davies, you say?” She addressed the question to Jesse. He shrugged.
“We’re not certain of that. But it sure looks like it,” he replied.
She let go a deep sigh. “Knew Walt since he was a boy. Knew his mother, Cassie. Fine, decent woman she was. Brought young Walt up after her Roy didn’t come back from that Vietnam place.” She pronounced it more as “Veetnam.” “He was a good boy, Walt.”
There was a silence in the car.
Lee felt she had to comment on what the woman had said. “He was that, Mrs. McLaren,” she agreed.
Again, the older woman shook her head. “Well, you two try to speak to him, as you say. But if he tries to run for it, you shoot that evil sonofabitch, Sheriff. You shoot him down like a dog.”
FIFTY-FIVET
here were several guests in Mrs. McLaren’s parlor. None of them was Mikkelitz.
here were several guests in Mrs. McLaren’s parlor. None of them was Mikkelitz.
Mostly older folk, they glanced up with mild interest as the landlady showed the sheriff and her deputy through, ushering them to the hallway that ran to the part of the big old frame house where the bedrooms were grouped.
She pointed to the door on the left at the end.
“That’s his,” she said in a whisper. Lee nodded, glanced at Jesse, received his nod in return. He had the big .45 automatic out now and she saw his thumb reach up and flick down the safety lock on the side of the receiver. Then he snicked the hammer back to full cock and nodded again.
Lee eased the Blackhawk out of its holster. Her thumb rested lightly on the hammer, not cocking it yet. Her forefinger, like Jesse’s, lay along the outside of the trigger guard. Lee only put her finger near the trigger when she definitely wanted the heavy .44 Magnum to go off. She held the barrel down, pointing to the ground in front of her feet. Jesse, she noted, in a detached sort of way, held his gun up. Between them, if things went wrong, they could blow away the ceiling and the floor, she thought, irrelevantly.
She laid her left forefinger over her lips, catching Mrs. McLaren’s eyes and raising her own eyebrows to emphasize the need for silence. Then she led the way along the corridor.
She went past the doorway to Mikkelitz’s room, flattening herself against the wall, just past the doorjamb. Jesse stopped on the other side, holding out his left arm to stop the landlady from moving forward, keeping her back from the door.
He raised an eyebrow at Lee, mimed knocking on the door with the back of his left hand. She nodded, but indicated for him to wait. Then, pointing to Mrs. McLaren, she mouthed the words, “Call him.”
The landlady frowned, hesitated, cocked her head to one side. Lee repeated the words, mouthing with exaggerated care this time, and the older woman got the message, nodding her head in understanding.
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