Blood Runs Cold (3 page)

The Summit County Medical Center stood on Highway 9 in Frisco. The Flight-for-Life helicopter hadn’t moved from its hangar outside. Two hours after the avalanche hit, an ambulance had carried Denis Lasco and Mike Delaney from the trailhead. Lasco’s deputy had arrived to take Sonny Bryant to the morgue in the van he used to call the Deathmobile.

Bob Gage stood by the window in Mike Delaney’s hospital room. Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in a navy sweatshirt and baggy track pants, pushing his feet into sneakers.

‘We were pretty fucking lucky up there,’ said Mike.

‘No shit,’ said Bob. ‘No shit.’ He shook his head. ‘Christ Almighty, though, Sonny Bryant …’

‘Poor kid.’

‘Harve’s a mess. He wanted to know every
detail. He was clinging to me, thanking me – for what, I don’t know – then asking me to go through what happened over and over again. I was half-thinking of saying that Sonny said to tell them all he loved them. Then I thought that would be a shitty thing to do. Then I thought yeah, it would mean Sonny would have known he was going to die, which would mean that that would have been absolutely frightening –’

‘Bob, Bob …’ said Mike. ‘Take a breath, OK? Take it easy. You did everything you could for Sonny, and I’m sure you’ll do everything you can for Harve, if he needs you.’

Bob didn’t say anything for a little while. When he finally spoke, his voice was showing cracks. ‘I just … don’t want to be elevated to some special status because I was the last person to see his son alive. Or he thinks I’m this great hero who tried to save him. I mean, there you were, Mike, with all your mountain experience; there’s Lasco, a guy who knows all about the human body. So when you think about it, I am literally the last person who could have saved Sonny Bryant.’

‘Bob, that’s bullshit. None of us could have saved Sonny. Look, it makes no sense, but someone up there thought it was his time to go.’

‘At nineteen,’ said Bob.

‘At nineteen.’ Mike stood up. ‘Life fucking sucks.’

Bob followed him to the door. They took the
elevator to the floor below. In a room at the end of the hallway, Denis Lasco lay sleeping.

‘Damn that Heavy D,’ said Bob, looking through the window. ‘Here I am, giving a shit.’

‘The laxative of concern,’ said Mike.

‘Where’s my camera?’ Lasco shouted, trying to struggle up from his bed.

Bob and Mike rushed into the room.

‘Whoa,’ said Bob. ‘Lasco, lay back down for Christ’s sake.’

Lasco collapsed on to the bed, freaking out when he saw the IV line, the hospital bed, the incongruity of worry in Bob and Mike’s faces.

‘Hey,’ said Bob, putting a hand on Lasco’s. ‘You’re all right, you’re all right. Take it easy.’

‘Don’t cry on us,’ said Mike, smiling.

Lasco squeezed his fingers to his eyes. ‘Jesus. That was the worst … that …’ He paused ‘I’ve never …’

‘Damn right it was,’ said Bob. ‘And here we all are, OK? We’re good. We’re living to tell the tale.’

‘Have I been out long?’ said Lasco.

‘Not long enough,’ said Bob.

‘Where’s my camera?’

‘In a snowy grave,’ said Bob.

‘That was brand new,’ said Lasco. ‘Top of the range. And all the photos I took of the scene …’

Bob’s phone rang. He held up a finger to Lasco and took the call.

‘You have to be shitting me,’ said Bob. He paused.
‘Jesus Christ. Sit on this for now. I’ll call you.’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘Your camera’s the least of our problems,’ said Bob. He stared up at the ceiling. ‘It turns out the body’s gone too.’

‘What?’ said Mike.

‘Search and Rescue weren’t able to locate it,’ said Bob. ‘That’s it. Swept away in the slide.’

‘What?’ said Lasco. ‘What? It was on top of me! How’d you get me out without pulling the body off of me?’

‘It wasn’t there when I checked on you,’ said Bob. ‘I guess you blacked out when it landed on you. It probably slid right over your head, kept on trucking.’

Lasco turned his head into the pillow, pressing his hand to his stomach.

Mike turned to Bob. ‘Are they going back up there to get it?’

‘Hell, no. They got us out. Hung around as long as they had to. But it’s way too unstable. They won’t risk anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘Shit. No body. We’re going to have to have a press conference.’ He shook his head. ‘So … let’s get in agreement about a few things. OK. Victim – female, aged between thirty and forty –’

‘Or male,’ said Lasco.

‘What do you mean “or male”?’ said Bob.

‘The body was wedged right in. We could only see from the chest up, really.’

‘So you’re saying you didn’t see tits and a va-jay-jay, so it could be a male? Give me a break. This noncommittal thing of yours is starting to get ridiculous.’

Lasco looked patiently at him. ‘Well, I’m still not sure you’re getting it,’ he said. ‘How many scenes have I been to where you guys have messed with shit before I show up? Pulling up people’s pants, taking weapons and laying them on a night stand … You guys walk in and take a guess at what happened. What you need to do is go on exactly what is there in front of you. Not what you’re adding to the picture. I could imagine all kinds of things happened to that body, but it doesn’t mean I would be correct.’

Bob stared through him. ‘FEMALE, aged thirty to forty, maroon jacket, white stripes down the arms. A navy blue wool hat?’

‘Fleece,’ said Lasco.

‘Fleece,’ said Bob. He was writing as he spoke. ‘What about eye color?’

‘Hard to say,’ said Lasco. ‘I wouldn’t be happy making that call.’

‘Hair?’

‘Hat.’

‘Nothing sticking out?’

‘I don’t recall.’

Bob looked patiently at Mike.

‘Obviously, neither do you,’ said Lasco.

‘Yeah,’ cos you’re so good about letting us get
close to the body.’ He paused. ‘So,’ he said, ‘in conclusion, we have … fuck all.’

‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Flashback: her hair went up my nose. Blonde.’

Bob sucked in a breath.

‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Gunshot wound. Massive exit wound through her back.’

‘Holy shit,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘But why gunshot? You sure that wasn’t a puncture wound, a tree branch …’

‘No. It was a GSW,’ said Lasco.

‘You sure?’ said Bob. ‘It wasn’t a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Let’s keep one of those open minds here.’

‘Ha. Ha,’ said Lasco.

‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ‘Not one bit.’

There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’ He turned back to Lasco. ‘It’s a special visit from some Special Agents.’

The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies – RAs – across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.

‘We were on a call-out to Frisco,’ said Tiny Gressett. ‘We heard the report, thought we’d stop by, see how Mr Lasco is … see if there’s anything we can do.’

There was no irony in Tiny Gressett’s name – a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.

‘You enjoy the snow today?’ he said to Lasco.

‘Total blast,’ said Lasco.

Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. ‘Heard you were snowcorpsing.’

‘Nothing is sacred around here,’ said Lasco.

‘Sure isn’t,’ said Gressett.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Let me get that,’ said Gressett.

The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriff’s Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.

‘Uh, we got an ID,’ he said. ‘One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at,
Mr Lasco.’ He turned to Gressett and Todd. ‘I’m sorry. Are you guys FBI?’

They nodded. ‘Yes. From Glenwood.’

Lasco had an instant stab of memory – he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.

Denver, Colorado

The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.

Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control, he picked up the phone.

‘Yeah, OK, I get it. Supervisory Special Agent: Stupid Stupid Asshole. Do I get a prize?’

His wife bitched about her being his prize, something about playing with the box. Gary rolled his eyes, then let them wander to the photo on the
wall beside him. It was a group shot of the twenty-six agents he had trained, all of them with paper bags over their heads; the UCEs – Under Cover Employees. He wanted a paper bag for his wife. Or a plastic one.

‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Something urgent is happening somewhere urgent. Urgently.’

‘You asshole.’

‘Stupid Stupid.’

She hung up. He loved her deeply, the crazy bitch. And he always fought for the things he loved. Gary was a violent crime expert and five years earlier had set this up – the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. He had fought the FBI, the chiefs of the local police departments – everyone who thought it was wrong to create a multi-agency task force and house it in a nine-dollars-a-square-foot non-federal building. The nine men and one woman who made up the unit were a mix of state troopers, local detectives, sheriff’s department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Gary’s office. Egos were checked at the door and no one gave a shit who was from what agency. They worked robberies, kidnapping, sexual assault on children, serial killers, violent fugitives and crimes against persons in federal prisons, military bases, national parks and Indian reservations.

‘Hey, where’s our beloved Ren Bryce today?’ said Robbie Truax, the youngest – twenty-nine,
toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PD’s contribution to Safe Streets. He was kneeling on a chair by the window looking out at the fire escape. A hawk was slicing back and forth through the entrails of a dead pigeon like he was stitching up a wound.

‘Nice work, buddy,’ he said. He turned around. ‘So where is she?’

‘Stout Street?’ said Cliff. Cliff James was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-five-years with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. Stout Street was the FBI federal building in downtown Denver, a high-security, bulletproof-glass-fronted, charmless offensive.

Robbie shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Where was she last night?’ said Cliff.

‘What do you mean?’ said Robbie.

‘Drinks at Gaffney’s. She didn’t show,’ said Cliff.

‘I wasn’t there either,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah? You weren’t invited,’ said Colin. Colin Grabien was a short, dark-haired angry bulldog who had transferred from the FBI’s White Collar Squad. He had a gift for numbers and for letting people know he had a gift for numbers.

‘Yeah, I was,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah, I was,’ whined Colin.

‘Shut the hell up,’ said Robbie, always dodging the F-word. ‘Anyway, she didn’t say anything about not showing today.’

‘She’s probably too busy fucking Vincent,’ said Colin.

‘In fairness,’ said Robbie, ‘Vincent is never going to be the one doing the … you know.’

Cliff gave a gentleman’s chuckle.

Robbie looked up and saw what Colin Grabien was about to do.

‘Aw, screw you,’ said Robbie, scrambling back to his desk. ‘Screw you.’

Ren walked into the bullpen. Robbie hadn’t made it as far as his desk. He was curled on the floor with his hands over his face. Red rubber bands bounced off him from Colin’s desk. And Cliff’s.

‘Agent down, agent down,’ said Cliff.

‘You got my eye, dude,’ said Robbie. ‘My eye.’

‘Here’s Ren, she’ll make it all better,’ said Colin.

‘Ren, you’re coming out with us tonight,’ said Robbie through his hands. ‘I can’t be alone with these freaks.’

‘Hmm. I think I need to … go talk with Vincent,’ said Ren.

‘Get him to come in,’ said Colin.

‘You would love that,’ said Ren. ‘So you don’t have to talk to me.’

‘I don’t have to talk to you anyway,’ said Colin.

‘Yeah, you’ll be too busy with the sparkly tramp from Coasters,’ said Ren.

‘One night is all,’ said Colin. ‘It wasn’t a prolonged attack on anyone’s sensibilities like you are. Although, I did find glitter on my –’

‘Don’t,’ said Ren, holding up her hand. ‘Jesus.’

‘And in my –’

‘Shut up,’ said Ren. She sat at her desk.

Robbie climbed up off the floor. ‘I’m frickin’ sweating here,’ he said, shaking his shirt away from his body. ‘Hey,’ he said to Ren. ‘What do you mean, you need to “go talk” to him? To Vincent? You live with him.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘Not since a week or so ago …’

‘What?’ said Robbie. ‘Why?’

‘Well, he walked out.’

‘On you?’ said Robbie.

Cliff and Colin were doing silent laughs behind his back.

‘Yes, me,’ said Ren. ‘Can you
imagine
?’

‘I seriously cannot,’ said Robbie.

Ren smiled at him. Her mother would be thrilled if she brought Robbie Truax home. He was fit, clean and shiny. He wore perfect blue shirts and beige pants and polished shoes. He was probably a deviant.

Ren went to the bathroom with her makeup bag. One day she would put these trips on a résumé to signify her ambition; the mirror was distorted and the lights were fitted by a man who had never been in a bathroom with a woman. The guys got the famous Safe Streets walk-in urinal, a monster the size of a shower. Ren got horror-movie lighting and no shelf for her supplies. She leaned into her
reflection and did a half-assed touch-up. She didn’t ask the question, but she knew she wasn’t the fairest of them all today.

‘Coasters it is,’ she said, walking back into the bullpen.

‘What time is it?’ said Cliff.

She pointed at him with her cellphone. ‘Drinking time. Jalapeño poppers and beer all round.’

‘How about we wait a little while and try eight p. m.?’ said Cliff.

‘Borrrring,’ said Ren.

‘I don’t know if that’s a good time,’ said Colin, pointing a thumb toward Robbie. ‘Hollywood here did his third piece to camera as the face of the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. It airs at eight.’

‘Hey, I’m just
one
of the faces,’ said Robbie.

‘Ah, but the cutest,’ said Ren. ‘Apart from Cliff, obviously.’ Women adored Cliff; big hands, big heart, bright-eyed and warm.

Robbie turned to Ren. ‘You’re next for the small screen.’

‘Not unless I’m being wheeled from a shoot-out in a body bag.’

‘Have you seen her near a camera?’ said Cliff. ‘She can make herself even smaller.’

‘And you’d look good on television,’ said Robbie.

Ren shook her head. ‘Never gonna happen.’

‘Well, anyway,’ said Robbie, ‘we can get Coasters to switch on the news …’

‘You love it,’ said Colin.

Gary walked in. They all stopped when they saw his expression.

‘I’ve got some bad news. An agent from the Glenwood Springs RA – Jean Transom – has been found dead.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren.

Gary nodded. ‘I just got a call from the Sheriff’s Office in Breckenridge.’

‘What happened?’ said Robbie.

‘Her body was found in the mountains. Up on Quandary Peak. GSW.’

‘Holy moly,’ said Robbie. ‘When?’

‘Just this afternoon,’ said Gary.

‘What the –?’ said Ren.

‘That’s all we know,’ said Gary. ‘SAR responded to an anonymous tip – probably someone somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. The Summit County Sheriff, Undersheriff, County Coroner were at the scene with one of the volunteers when some idiot triggered an avalanche, swept everything away. Including the body.’

‘What?’ said Ren.

Gary nodded. ‘No body.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cliff. ‘Is that it? Are they still searching?’

‘It’s not safe up there, apparently,’ said Gary.

‘Wow,’ said Robbie. ‘Jean was so … I liked
Jean. I only met her once. She was, I mean … intense. But she was a good person.’

‘Ren, we need to head up there now,’ said Gary. ‘The rest of you – stay with the bank surveillance tonight. Follow us to Breckenridge first thing tomorrow. Robbie, can you let the others know?’ Four of the other task force members were on a job, two were on a training exercise.

‘My car’s in the shop,’ said Ren.

‘You can ride with me,’ said Gary. He turned to the others. ‘Ren’s going to be the case agent on this one.’

Colin, Cliff and Robbie exchanged glances. Gary turned and left. Ren frowned and gave the others a not-my-fault look. She grabbed her purse. ‘See you in Breck.’

Their faces all questioned her.

Two years earlier, Ren Bryce had transferred to Denver from the high-intensity of Washington DC. On her first day at Safe Streets she had almost changed from her suit to plaid shirt, jeans and boots by the time she made it from her car to the front door. She felt she was where she should have been from the moment she graduated.

She walked down the steps with Gary to a little blonde girl sitting on a Longhorn bull with a pink cowboy hat falling over her eyes. The child wore a wide tight smile for her parents’ camera. The National Western Stock Show was in town. For two
weeks in January, over seven hundred and fifty thousand visitors would come through the grounds where the Livestock Exchange Building stood.

‘Shit,’ said Ren. ‘We’re going to miss the rodeo tomorrow.’ The Safe Streets office had seats for the matinee.

Gary looked at her. ‘You were seen at the calf-roping earlier, so I don’t feel all that bad for you.’

‘I hate that – “you were seen”. It’s creepy. People who pass on information like that are creepy.’

‘OK – I saw you. Does that make you feel any better?’

‘Why didn’t you just say that?’

He kept walking.

‘And our seats were right by the bucking chutes,’ said Ren.

‘Yeah. I know.’

The cold air was spiked with barbecued pork. Ren glanced at Gary, but his head was down and his car keys were already swinging from his hand. A woman walked by with a deep-fried Twinkie on a stick.

‘I’m starving,’ said Ren.

‘You’re always starving,’ said Gary without slowing. ‘I’ve got an apple in the car.’

‘An apple. I hate apples.’

He rolled his eyes.

‘I’m not sure I can last until Breck,’ said Ren.

‘Yeah, yeah, you lose concentration if you don’t eat,’ said Gary.

‘I do, though. You’ve seen me.’

‘I’ve seen you trying to bullshit me about that.’

‘It’s true, though.’

‘Jesus. Grab something from there.’ He pointed at the closest stand – the last one on the way out of the grounds. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s just jars of caramel.’

Ren walked over with five dollars in her hand.

‘You have cutlery, right?’ she said, catching up with Gary.

‘Christ, Ren.’

He opened the door of his Jeep and threw her a plastic fork. She turned it upside down. He put the keys in the ignition and drove up to the gate in the chain-link fence. He looked at Ren with her caramel fork, rolled his eyes and got out to be gate man.

As they drove west on I-70 for the eighty-mile trip to Breckenridge, he finally spoke. ‘Do you want to tell me why I got a call from Paul Louderback asking me to make sure you head up this investigation?’ Paul Louderback was Chief of the Violent Crime Section at Headquarters in DC.

‘That’s what happened?’ said Ren. ‘Are you for real?’

But Gary was almost always for real and he shot her a look to remind her. ‘You sleeping with the guy?’ he said.

‘Jesus – straight to missiles. No,’ said Ren and, more annoyed, ‘No.’

Gary turned and hit her with his lie-detector stare. Ren hit back with open and honest eyes.

‘Hey, the road,’ she said, pointing him ahead.

‘I got it,’ he said. ‘Look, I don’t know if I can spare you.’

‘I don’t know if I want to be spared. But if Paul wants me to, I guess …’

Gary overtook the car in front of him, a small rush of anger in his driving. ‘What’s your connection with Louderback again?’

Ren had loved Paul Louderback from the moment she met him.

‘He was my PT instructor at Quantico,’ she said. ‘And after that, my supervisor.’
And married with
two kids. And ten years older than me. And handsome,
kind and intelligent. And off limits
. On her second day in physical training, Paul Louderback praised her for not giving in easily to a man almost twice her weight. She had almost suffocated for the compliment.

‘Ah. Responsible for your glowing reports?’ said Gary.

‘One of them, yes. And you left out the “much-deserved” part.’

She turned her attention to the passenger window and the cars speeding past. She wanted to count the white ones. Or the green or red ones. Any ones. Her heart was beating a little too fast. She was sure that a personal connection would not affect Paul Louderback’s decision. He was a
professional. But even she wasn’t quite sure why he wanted her to head up the investigation.

Her phone beeped – text message. She read it, then put the phone back in her bag.

‘Are we staying in Breck tonight?’ she said.

‘I was going to stay at the condo in Frisco. You’re more than welcome.’

‘Do you mind if I don’t? I’d like to stay in Breck. At the, um … Firelight Inn.’

‘Any particular reason?’

I just got a text from Paul Louderback recommending
it
. ‘I’d like to be right in Breck. I’ll have no car and if you get called away somewhere, at least that way I can walk to the sheriff’s office if I have to.’

He glanced at her. ‘I’m sure they can arrange a car.’

‘And … I heard the Firelight Inn is a great place to stay.’

Ren didn’t have a type; she had not-my-types – Truax’s category. She also didn’t do search and rescue for what she wanted in a guy. He either had it or he didn’t. She always thought if a man senses what you’re looking for, he will try to find it where it can’t be found. And when he comes up empty, he’ll fake it. Paul Louderback had no need to fake anything. He just had it. Yes, he was married, but once she realized that they could never take it further, she could relax into what
they had; no real flirting, just a quiet, comfortable connection.