Blood Runs Cold (11 page)

Ren pressed the cellphone to her ear with an icy hand as she walked down Main Street.

‘Putrescine and perverts combined with shoe-shopping,’ she said. ‘What a start to my day. Never have business and pleasure collided so well.’

‘I’m laughing, and I’m not sure why,’ said Paul Louderback.

‘OK – my nice boots got ruined with chest-cavity juice yesterday. And I’m going to buy a new pair in a store Jean Transom visited a few weeks back, owned by a man who was arrested for child porn thirty years ago.’

‘Well, you never know,’ said Paul.

‘Exactly.’

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

‘Let me see – weird paw prints in the snow that probably mean absolutely nothing. Spoke to the guy who served Jean supper on Monday, January fifteenth – not a lot there… I’ve gone through
Jean’s case files and nothing jumped out at me. Jean’s neighbor saw a lady visitor at the house a few times – no ID on her yet. I’m about to check out the pervert I mentioned. And I’m going to go talk to Jean’s one-three-seven tonight.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘Gotta go.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Yup. Next week on
Clues and Shoes
…’

Wardwell’s was a basement store with dummies in the window that were meant to be life-like but weren’t quite hitting the mark. Inside, every inch of floor space was taken up with rails of tops and tables of folded jeans and sweatshirts. A young, handsome guy was standing impressively still beside a messed-up pile of T-shirts. Ren got him straightaway:
I’m tall, thin, beautiful, my jeans are
too big, they’re belted below the band of my boxers, I
rock
.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said. He had come alive.

Like Mannequin
. ‘I’m doing good,’ said Ren. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Well, I’m good too, as a matter of fact.’ He beamed a genuine smile.

Ren gave him a break. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘That cold out there is something else.’

‘It sure is.’

‘But we’re in here all over-cheery and polite.’

He laughed. ‘Well, we’ve got to fight it some way. Is there anything I can help you with today?’

‘I’ve shopped before,’ said Ren.

He paused, then smiled. ‘Well, I’m here if you need me.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘You bet.’

She wandered up a few steps to the back of the store, where she spotted the man who had to be Malcolm Wardwell. She knew he was seventy-one years old. Any years he could have dropped with his muscular frame were added back by rheumy eyes and slack skin.

‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Malcolm Wardwell?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Ren Bryce with the FBI. We’re investigating the death of Special Agent Jean Transom.’

‘Oh, yes. Hello.’

‘If I showed you a photo of her, would you be able to tell me if she came into your store?’

‘If it was a day I was here, I hope so.’

Ren handed him the photograph.

He nodded. ‘Yes, she was in here. I remember her. She was with her daughter – a little blonde girl.’

Niece, probably
. ‘And when was that?’ said Ren.

‘It was a couple of weeks back. And I know it was a Wednesday and it was before lunchtime, because we were clearing floor space for a delivery, so we were all trying not to get in the way.’

‘OK.’

‘It was right after New Year, in fact,’ he said. ‘That same week.’

I know that
.

‘I’m sorry to hear about her death,’ said Wardwell. ‘I remember thinking she was a nice lady.’

‘She was,’ said Ren. ‘Was there anything you noticed that you think might help the investigation?’

He paused, then shook his head. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘OK. Thank you for your time.’

Ren walked through security at the Sheriff’s Office and grabbed her purse as it slid out of the X-ray machine. She searched through it for her cellphone.

‘Pardon me, Agent … Bryce?’

Ren turned around. It was one of the attorneys who’d caught her when she fell up the steps.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘Did I look like I was about to fall again?’

He smiled. ‘No, you were doing OK. You’re with the FBI, right?’

‘Yes. And you’re …?’

‘Ollie Haggart. Oliver Haggart. I’m a defense attorney.’ He gestured back toward the courtrooms.

Ren tried to hide any recognition when she heard the last name. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Could I have a word with you?’ he said.

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Ren.

‘I guess you’ve seen the news report about the guy who went missing last year? Mark Wilson?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him.

‘My brother is Terrence Haggart. He was the last person to be seen with Mark.’

‘Ah. OK …’

‘And I don’t think he had anything to do with Mark going missing.’

‘OK.’

‘I know he was always getting into trouble, but he just wouldn’t have done something to someone like that … He’s my brother, I’d know.’

‘OK,’ said Ren.

‘I know, I’ve just come up to you with this. But … I’m having a hard time with it all. So are my parents. And Terrence leaving town did not help. He looks guilty.’ He shrugged.

‘Do people around here really believe he did something to Mark Wilson?’

‘He was mentioned in all the news reports,’ said Haggart. ‘This is a small town. You’ve seen the
Summit Daily News
is everywhere. It kind of kept it in people’s psyches.’

‘I can see how that might happen.’

‘Terrence would not have done anything bad like that. He just wasn’t from that kind of family … we’re not that kind of family.’

Ren smiled at him kindly.

‘I know,’ said Haggart. ‘Probably everyone says that.’

‘In your line of work, you know that.’

Haggart nodded. ‘Yes. But just seeing that news report was kind of bam – there it was in full-color widescreen, all dragged up again. I mean, sure, old reports are on the internet, if anyone wanted to look … But it’s all resurfaced and the name … my name is up there. It doesn’t look good for me, for what I do.’

Something about how he said it made her empathy shift back a gear.

‘I’m sure that’s very difficult,’ said Ren.

‘I’m talking to you about it because I … can’t really approach the Sheriff because it would be weird. Or the Breck PD, because they were like Terrence’s personal chauffeurs and it got to pissing them off. I mean, he was a funny guy, people liked him, so he got away with a lot, but when this all came up, people were looking at him a different way.’

Ren nodded.

‘But you’re not from here,’ said Ollie, ‘and I was wondering if you could look at the file to see if it makes sense to you.’

‘Did you look at it?’

‘Conflict of interest.’

‘I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to look at it either. I’m here to investigate Jean Transom’s death …’

‘I know – on Quandary. Wilson’s disappearance was a year ago, but it was the only other recent
alleged crime out that way. Wouldn’t that make it at least worth a look?’

Ren paused. ‘OK, I’ll read through it. That’s the best I can do.’

‘Thank you,’ said Haggart. ‘I appreciate it. My mom’s been very upset the past few days.’

And at the last fence, Ren saw a little spark of humanity in his eyes. And she promised herself she would remember that a side effect of Ollie Haggart’s job was having to keep that part of himself hidden.

Bob rolled his eyes with spectacular dramatics. Ren smiled at him, but stood her ground while she had him at his desk and could temporarily tower over him.

‘We get people coming in all the time – look at this, look at that, re-open this, re-open that,’ he said. ‘You know the drill – they think by wishing someone was a good person, that’s enough. If they believe their husband couldn’t rape and murder women, then that is so. “Please look at this again. I just cannot believe XYZ is capable of murder. You’ve got the wrong man/woman/teen psychopath …”’

‘Oh, come on – this is different,’ says Ren. ‘It’s not a confirmed murder. I mean, there’s no body.’ She paused. ‘Hey – maybe Quandary Peak feeds on dead bodies. Maybe we’re in a Stephen King novel.’

‘Yeah –
Misery
,’ said Bob.

Ren smiled.

‘Think about the guy who came to you,’ said Bob. ‘Ollie Haggart is twenty-nine years old, a new defense attorney.’ He pointed in the direction of the courthouse. ‘This is all about him. And his last name.’

‘That’s a little harsh,’ said Ren. ‘If it was one of
my
brothers …’

‘Older, I bet,’ said Bob.

‘Yes they are. How did you know that?’

‘Women are different if they have older brothers. They don’t take any shit from men. Sadly, my wife has older brothers …’

‘But, luckily, she has a very nice husband.’

Bob looked at her.

‘What are you looking at me like that for? I mean it.’

‘Well, that’s very nice, thank you.’

Ren smiled as Bob shuffled some papers around his desk.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Terrence Haggart was known around town for being a troublemaker – by the older people anyway. We’ve taken him in a few times. Breck PD knows him well. So the ski-pole of suspicion was pointed his way. Do you like that? My Casey Bonaventure? Anyway, people here didn’t give a shit about Mark Wilson disappearing – Christ, his own family barely gave a shit – but they didn’t want their own kids to get sucked in by Haggart. Terrence Haggart’s a loser, but a charming one
– the guy who has the party house that everyone wants to go back to …’

‘Like your place,’ said Ren.

‘Exactly,’ said Bob. ‘And I’ll stress he’s charming –
if
he’s been drinking the right kind of alcohol. Throw some hard liquor into the mix and anything can happen. He doesn’t do it a lot, but when he does, it can get ugly. The next day, he’s all remorseful, so people give him a break.’

‘So … where’s he now?’

‘He moved away. He got too much grief on this one. Either way, Ollie should know better than to pay attention to the media. If something happens around here, they bring up three cases – the 1982 case about the two murdered hitch-hikers, the Quandary disappearance, and the Scoop Daniels missing attorney case.’

‘Right now, I’m having a Quandary quandary,’ said Ren.

‘It was inevitable,’ said Bob. ‘One of us was going to crack and say that … I’m just glad it wasn’t me.’

‘The word has three syllables, Bob. It was never going to be you.’

Gressett broke up their laughter. ‘That Haggart guy is being an arrogant prick if he thinks his job is going to be compromised because of his last name. That’s his problem.’

‘And it’s a problem he wants us to solve,’ said Bob.

Gressett stared at Ren. ‘You’re being taken for a ride… Haggart sees a woman –’

Bob could see the fire flash in Ren’s eyes. He tried to put it out with the calm in his.

‘Yes,’ said Ren, turning to Gressett. ‘You’re right. He said a dick was the last thing he needed to deal with.’ She turned back to Bob. ‘Look, it’s in Haggart’s interest if his brother is
cleared
of any association. But if this case is re-examined in the middle of a media circus and it is discovered that his brother is a murderer, Ollie Haggart is grabbing a big huge spotlight and shining it down on his family again. Why would he risk all that? He has to believe that something else happened.’

‘Back to my point,’ said Gressett; ‘the family always believe something else happened.’

Stay calm. Stay calm
.

‘Like what, though?’ Gressett continued. ‘In the course of investigating Jean’s homicide, we’ll trip over Wilson’s frozen body covered in Big Foot’s massive frozen footprints?’

Ren didn’t like people who had no sense of humor. But they were always more welcome in her life than people who had a bad one. Especially the smart-mouthed, unfunny crap that came out of Tiny Gressett.

She beamed angry eyes and a matching smile. ‘Let’s just agree to disagree.’
You overbearing shit
.

Gressett was a smiler too. He stood up and left the room, his hand hovering over his belt.

Ren turned to Bob. ‘Why does he do that? Start opening his belt on his way out the door to go to the men’s room?’

‘Maybe he feels he has such a long length of cable to unroll, he needs a head start.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘What’s this? Bring-a-Hideous-Mental-Picture-to-Work Day?’

Bob laughed.

‘One thing that’s interesting,’ said Ren, ‘is that the Brockton Filly where he was last drinking is also the place where Jean Transom may have been last seen.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bob. ‘You know what’s funny?’ he said. ‘You don’t seem to do anything for Gressett.’

Ren laughed. ‘What? Yeah. Him and millions of other men.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. ‘I’m kind of used to seeing guys get a little, you know, weird around you.’

‘What? Are you high?’

‘I’d like to be.’

‘What could have happened that night to poor, drunk, beaten-down Mark Allen Wilson?’ said Ren.

‘S.E.P.,’ said Bob. ‘Someone. Else’s. Problem.’

The Brockton Filly leaned left in pitch country blackness. The skeletal trees that ran around it were wrapped at their base in hard, dirty white snow. The bar was named after an Irish madam who was run out of Boston and came west in the mid-1800s for lonely miners and their gold.

Todd pulled into the oversized side lot that might have been packed with wagons a hundred years ago, but was scattered with few trucks tonight. Ren zipped her jacket to the chin and pulled on a fleece hat for the short walk. Todd started to get out.

‘Would you mind?’ Ren shrugged the request, looking toward his open door.

Todd paused. ‘What, waiting out here?’ His eyes flashed with the anticipation of diminishment.

Ren nodded. ‘It’s just, Jean came here alone. And I’m thinking there was a reason for that. Waites might just respond better to women. And
maybe not to intimidating blond men.’ She smiled. Todd didn’t.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Whatever you think. I’ll be here. Intimidating the bears.’

‘Thanks, Todd. I appreciate it.’

Ren walked to the door, pushing on it three times, finally shouldering it open. Inside, the boxy hallway was peeling wallpaper, flaking paint, creaky floorboards and photos of long-dead alcoholics with their arms around other long-dead alcoholics. And a few recent ones of gummy regulars; a sparse bunch. The most prominent black-and-white photograph told Ren that the Brockton Filly was named more for her teeth than her spirit. The Brockton Beauty had a better ring to it, but could have had her driven out of Colorado for false representation.

Ren moved into the bar. She liked to tag people in two adjectives or less, not all of the words traceable to an FBI handbook or an English dictionary. Tonight she had pockmarked john, fat sleaze, married skank. She had seen Billy Waites’ mug shot – bearded, rough and stoned. She continued scanning the room. Porn freak. Meth face. Hairy biker. Hot, fit barman. She had gone over her adjective allowance and included the word hot.
Not good
. He caught her eye and nodded. Without the beard, with a short hair cut and clear eyes, Billy Waites was a completely different food group. Ren looked away.

In the corner by the men’s room, she saw a woman slumped on a stool with both hands wrapped around a dying pitcher. Ren knew the type – hand-jobs and blow-jobs for beer. When God was handing out good looks, this lady was in line at the bar. And the all-you-can-eat buffet. And the makeup counter. She was wearing the type of short skirt that you’d never want to see a woman like her uncross her legs in. A low-cut black top maxed-out on Lycra did its best for her breasts. But for backup, a pretty silver pendant pointed its way to the wide valley in between.

Somewhere you had a family, somewhere you lost people dear to you, and somewhere along the way, you gave up.

‘Hey,’ said Ren. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘I’m doing great,’ said the woman, cheerier than expected. ‘Just great. What’s an expensive lady like you doing in a dive like the Filly?’

Ren laughed. ‘Not expensive enough that I didn’t come here for the cheap beer.’

‘Have a seat, then. Jo’s my name.’ She pointed to the stool opposite.

‘Rachel’s mine,’ said Ren, sitting down. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

Jo shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’
It might keep your knees from the
cold tiles in the men’s room
.

Jo nodded. ‘Positive. But you can give me a few quarters for the jukebox.’

‘Sure,’ said Ren, opening her wallet.

Jo heaved herself up and walked over to the jukebox, her eyes struggling with the swimming print. ‘Any preferences, Billy boy?’ she called out.

‘Ladies’ choice,’ he said, taking a clean towel from under the bar.

Jo put her money in and the music cranked up. Nothing Ren knew started to play.

‘What can I get you?’ he said to Ren.

‘Let me see,’ she said, getting up and walking toward him. ‘Uh, bottle of Coors … Coke … Coors. Yeah, Coors. Thanks.’

‘I’m a friend of Jean’s. Jean –’

‘I guessed,’ said Billy. He turned his back to her and grabbed the beer from the fridge. He handed it to her and glanced over toward Jo. The last trace of her was a slight swing to the men’s room door.

‘Why don’t you take a seat over there,’ said Billy, pointing the opposite way.

Ren took her beer and a seat in a far corner of the bar. Billy showed up five minutes later and stood by the table.

‘Hi. I’m Ren Bryce. Not Rachel.’ She smiled.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Billy Waites.’

‘You heard about Jean?’

He nodded.

Ren waited for condolences or something to replace the indifference. Nothing.

‘I’m investigating her murder,’ said Ren.

Billy nodded. She could see his boredom gauge like a thermometer and the mercury was rising. A few more sentences and the bulb would blow.