Blood Runs Cold (7 page)

Mike Delaney walked in to Bob’s office with two large bottles of water and a giant, battered-looking bottle of Vitamin C tablets. He handed them to Ren.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’

‘Much better, thank you. Dr Barger confirmed our findings …’

He smiled.

‘Thanks for these,’ said Ren. ‘You’re very kind. Now, what I also need is a list of people who regularly go up Quandary Peak.’

Bob and Mike shot glances at each other.

‘Undersheriff Delaney,’ said Bob, ‘could you call in the three thousand residents and, let me see, five thousand tourons currently spending time in Breckenridge. Rustle up some sandwiches and soup, keep them talky.’

‘Tourons?’ said Ren.

‘Tourist plus moron,’ said Bob.

Ren smiled. ‘What I meant,’ she said, ‘was, you know, people who have a reason to be up there –’

‘I repeat,’ said Bob, ‘Undersheriff Delaney …’

Ren laughed. ‘For example, Search and Rescue, Forest Services, the groomers, gondola people …’

‘People
employed
to be up there,’ said Bob. ‘Does it matter? Employed, up there to ski, up there to snowboard, up there for the holy hell of it …’

‘Just go with me,’ said Ren. ‘Please. I have to start somewhere and I might as well have a list that doesn’t run into the – as you may have mentioned a few times – thousands.’

Bob smiled. ‘OK, we’ll put that together, but it’ll still be a long list.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Ren. ‘With the kind help of your team, we should be able to get through it quickly enough. And, Bob …? You should move your desk. It’s bad Feng Shui to have your back to the door. Something about being stabbed in the back.’

Bob smiled.

‘Anyway, thanks again,’ said Ren.

‘I’ll call if I need any more decorating help,’ said Bob.

‘I’ll draw you up some plans …’ said Ren. ‘OK, I’m going to head over to Glenwood. And when I get back, I’ll be just three doors down from you with the other Safe Streeters. Please thank whoever had to vacate that nice office for us.’

‘Yeah,’ said Bob. ‘Your desk’s the one facing away from the door.’

Conoco was Ren’s last landmark when she drove off I-70. She took the next left and swung into the small parking lot of the Glenwood Springs RA. She looked up at the building: three stories, pale yellow brick, normal. No history like the Livestock Exchange Building – not a place to harbor a giant urinal. She walked into the quiet foyer and took the elevator to the third floor. The door was jammed open. She rang the bell and walked in.

‘Hello? Agent Gressett? Agent Austerval?’

‘Hello,’ she heard back. ‘Be right with you.’ Tiny Gressett came out with one hand on his belt. ‘Oh … Ren. It’s nice to see you again.’

‘You too.’

They both looked at each other as if they were thinking the same thing; the number of sentences in life that were assigned to bullshit.

‘Follow me,’ he said.

They walked a short hallway into the office. Gressett gestured around the room. ‘This is … was Jean’s desk right here.’

‘It’s terrible what happened to her, so unfair.’

‘What’s fair?’ said Gressett with an explosive snap.

Jesus Christ
.

‘What’s fair?’ he said again. ‘Have you any idea?
Do you know something none of the rest of us don’t?’

‘I’m … I just meant I’m sorry.’

Gressett paused and let out a breath. He pointed to the wall beside Jean’s desk. There were plaques, certificates and framed awards. Ren leaned in. She had most of them herself and a few others.

‘Very impressive,’ said Ren.

‘I’d take Jean Transom as my right-hand man any day of the week.’

Ren nodded and moved toward Jean’s seat. ‘I’m just going to have a look through her desk and files, see if there’s anything …’

‘Go ahead,’ said Gressett. His tone said
you’re
not going to find anything
. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Thanks, that would be great.’

She sat down and pulled the files on the desktop toward her. They were a mix of cases: drugs, bank fraud and embezzlement, child abuse, one crime aboard an aircraft, domestic abuse, theft from interstate shipments, robbery, unlawful flight to avoid prosecution. There was a folder called ‘RUTH’. Inside were photocopies of child sexual assault files. There were eight files – each marked with colored, numbered tabs – twelve different girls and the abuse they had suffered. It spanned almost thirty years of offences, including indecent exposure, fondling, attempted abduction, and rape, carried out across Summit and Garfield Counties.

Ren casually started re-arranging the files in
date order. She could see Gressett almost climbing over his desk to look at what she was doing.

‘Was Jean working this file alone?’ said Ren, holding it up. ‘The little girls and the perverts. These appear to be photocopies of original files whose numbers I’m guessing are the references here on these little tabs.’

Gressett came over from his desk and looked at the file. He leaned in and closed the cover. ‘RUTH – yes, I’ve seen this on Jean’s desk. She handled any of the child sexual abuse cases here in the RA.’ He opened it again. ‘These are all different girls.’

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘Oh,’ said Gressett. ‘I had assumed it was just one girl called Ruth Something.’

Ren went through the photocopies. ‘OK – there is
one
girl here called Ruth. But the file doesn’t have a tab on it. Actually, it seems to be the only one that doesn’t have a tab … or a photo … or a last name … or a location … or a date. So I’m wondering,’ said Ren, ‘what it’s doing here.’

‘Well, I can’t help you with
any
of that,’ said Gressett going back to his desk.

‘I guess Jean must have figured all these cases were linked.’

Gressett nodded. ‘I guess so.’

The two most recent assaults were on top of the pile and had happened within the previous twelve months. Ren cross-referenced the numbers
and pulled out the files. The assaults – indecent exposure and attempted abduction – had originally been reported to Frisco PD and Silverthorne PD. Jean had then interviewed the little girls and typed up the transcripts.

Ren read through them.
Impressive
. Jean had clearly developed a way of interviewing children that elicited a lot more information than a traumatized child would normally volunteer.

‘I guess it
is
just one of
many
files Jean was working on,’ said Gressett.

Subtle
.

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t exactly occupying her time any time recently. The latest incident was in October last year – that much I do know, because it was at Hallowe’en.’

Ren nodded. ‘Had Jean any leads?’

‘Just lists of known sex offenders and no evidence to link them to anything.’ He shrugged.

‘They are real clever in the children they choose and how they cover their tracks …’

Gressett nodded and went back to his computer.

No editorializing with Tiny Gressett
.

Ren pulled another slim pile of print-outs from the back of Jean’s desk.

What the hell?

At the same time, she tipped over the mug of coffee Gressett had left on her desk.

‘Shit.’ She shouted louder than she wanted to. She jumped to her feet, scooping up a phone charger before it got wet. She found some napkins in Jean’s drawer and slapped them down on the desk. ‘Oops,’ she said, looking over at Gressett’s impassive face. She wrapped the phone charger in a napkin and put it in a dry corner. ‘Did Jean use a Motorola?’

‘Yes,’ said Gressett.

Ren sat quietly staring down at the print-outs, dabbing at pools of coffee where she noticed them. She had been too late to stop the coffee soaking into the edges of most of the files.

‘Gressett, sorry to bother you again, but do you
know what Jean was doing with these print-outs on Domenica Val Pando?’

He paused. ‘I have no idea.’

I’m fucking here to go through Jean’s things to help
the investigation, you dickhead
.

‘I mean,’ said Ren, ‘I don’t even know why –’

‘That is some woman, Domenica Val Pando,’ said Gressett, sitting up. ‘Seven shades of crazy.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Give me a look at those.’

Why don’t you come get them yourself?
Ren got up and handed them over to him.

‘Domenica Bin Killin,’ he said.

Not funny
.

‘Now, this is where there is no justice in the world,’ said Gressett. ‘You have Domenica Val Pando, an amoral, psychopathic – female! – spends years holed up in New Mexico, killing and maiming and drug-running and all the rest of it, sending other people to kill and maim and … avoids arrest. And now, she’s probably lying on some beach somewhere in Aruba. And then you have Jean Transom, a wonderful person, a helpful person, an excellent agent … and she’s the one who …’ He hit the back of his hand off the pages. ‘It was a damn shame she didn’t get finished off back then.’

For a moment, Ren thought he was talking about Jean. ‘Oh. Val Pando …’

‘For one of the most successful undercover jobs the FBI ever worked on …’ said Gressett.
He shook his head. ‘Todd Austerval started Gary Dettling’s Undercover Program, but he didn’t make the grade. He said that on day one Dettling scared the living daylights out of the trainees with the Val Pando case. He held it up as the gold standard of undercover work: one agent, under deep cover with Val Pando for a whole year, absolutely undetected. And still,
still
, after all that, it was screwed up at the end. So that was the big lesson from Gary Dettling at the start of the course – this is what you should aspire to. And here’s how it can go wrong. Do you know how it went wrong in the end?’

A man would never ask another man a question like
that. The I-
know-
something-
you-
don’t-
know tone
.

‘It would be very interesting to hear your take on that,’ said Ren.

‘Agent safety,’ said Gressett. ‘That was it. Pull one agent out instead of bringing a whole organized crime operation down. And that
is
Bureau policy. That’s what has to be done.’

‘Yup,’ said Ren. ‘It sucks that the Bureau can’t recruit suicide agents.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ said Gressett. ‘It’s just … it all seemed like a waste.’

Don’t even think of criticizing Gary Dettling to me
. ‘Agent safety is what it is,’ said Ren. ‘The same reason SAR doesn’t always go back up mountains to recover bodies. You just can’t risk lives like that.’

‘To a point, to a point,’ said Gressett.

‘To what point?’ said Ren.
As you sit here in your
comfortable out-
of-
the-
firing-
line office
.

Gressett was obviously not used to having his opinions questioned. Todd was either too dumb or too used to tuning him out.

‘Well, to the point that you achieve your goal,’ said Gressett.

‘Tell that to a dead agent’s wife and family,’ said Ren. ‘Todd is a lucky man he didn’t make the grade.’

Gressett opened his mouth and closed it again. Todd stood in the doorway, sweating, straight from the gym.

Shit
.

He pulled headphones out of his ears.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, Ren. I’m just …’ he gestured out the door. ‘Let me go take a shower.’

Gressett was smiling a smile that told Ren she was on her own and that he was glad there was a little black mark against her funny little name.

None of the drawers threw up anything interesting. None of the undersides had anything taped to them, there were no secret compartments, there was no note saying:
If you are reading this, then you
know I am dead
. There was nothing other than what Ren would have expected from the contradiction that was Jean Transom. A private, open book.

* * *

Jean had lived in a two-bedroom ranch house in Rifle, a town of six thousand, twenty-seven miles west of Glenwood Springs, where the cost of living was not so high. Ren wanted to visit the house alone so she could go through it in silence, without a backing track of shouting, wisecracks or sports scores.

Jean’s was a house of neat rows. In the living room: DVDs, CDs, candles, cushions. In the kitchen: mugs, ceramics, spice jars. In the bedroom: bears, dolls, pillows, books. In the bathroom: soap, supermarket shampoo, conditioner and moisturizer.

Ren stood in Jean’s lavender-and-white bedroom, quaint and warm, even without the lamps and candles that looked as though they burned every night. On the shelf above the bed, there were romance novels, perfectly preserved Care Bears, a Strawberry Shortcake doll and a Cabbage Patch Kid. Ren couldn’t resist taking it down.
After all
these years, you’re still creepy
. Ren had the Garbage Pail Kids – collectible cards with grotesque drawings: interpretations of Cabbage Patch Kids with missing teeth, eyes, limbs and green slime spewing from their noses and mouths.

Ren went to the chest of drawers under the window. She pulled out the top one. It had a handful of pastel cotton multi-pack panties. Ren smiled. One of her friends called them darkroom panties; things would only develop if the lights were out. Every woman had a couple, but they didn’t make up their entire underwear collection.
The next drawer down had bras – big, plain and seamless sporties or minimizers.
My head would fit
in one cup. You go, girl
. The rest of the drawers were filled with neatly folded T-shirts and shirts from Gap and J. Crew.

Jean’s office was like a preserved room on a historic tour, but without the human touches of a cup or a pair of folded glasses or a diagonal pen. Everything was laid straight. There was no sense of interruption. Her laptop had already been taken away, so there were no files to go through, except the paper ones, organized perfectly in the cabinets behind the desk. A phone charger was plugged in with the lead wrapped around it.

All over the house, there was sad, unfinished business: leftovers of salad wrapped on a shelf in the refrigerator, sticks of carrots and celery, a hand-washed sweater lying flat on a dryer, a pile of photographs. Ren flicked through them – they were from inside the house. She looked around and could see everything in the photographs, wide shots, macros, with flash, without. Jean Transom was testing a new camera and a new printer. A house and its contents suspended, waiting to strike up again when the right person came through the door.

Ren looked at the family photos on the wall; Jean and Patrick Transom, his wife, their children.
And no shadows in the background
.