Blue Heaven (25 page)

The table was now occupied by a large family of visitors to the area, who obviously planned a day of hiking, judging by their high-tech boots and garb.

Jess took a stool at the counter and put his hat crown down on the bar. A knot of men talked loudly at the end of the counter, surrounding a young man with a beard who had blood on his shirt. The bear hunter.

“What can I get you?” the hunter asked Jess after wiping beer foam from his mustache.

“Coffee’s fine,” Jess said.

“Nothing stronger? I got a bear out there.”

“I saw it,” Jess said. “Congratulations, but coffee’s fine.” Not saying:
I already cooked and ate breakfast a while ago with a couple of missing kids.

VILLATORO WATCHED the exchange from a booth while he waited for his coffee. There was something about Rawlins he admired. There was a quiet dignity about him, something solid and old-fashioned. He wished he had introduced himself, but the dead bear had shaken him to his bones. He would do so after breakfast.

The former detective ordered and spread the newspaper open in front of him. The issue was dominated with stories about the disappearance of the Taylor children. Their photos, the same ones he had seen in the bank and on flyers in the sheriff’s office, were reproduced on the front page. A photo of the woman he’d seen clutching at Rawlins—she was identified as Rural Postal Contractor Fiona Pritzle—was featured under the headline THE LAST TO SEE THE CHILDREN. He read a little of the interview. Pritzle said that she’d “had a feeling that something wasn’t right” when she’d dropped off the siblings to go fishing. “I should have gone with my best instincts and just taken those kids home to their mother,” she said. She blamed herself but was quoted in such a way that she deflected it: “…But I just figured that there was no way those kids would have just taken off like that without their mother’s permission and approval.”

That poor mother
, Villatoro thought, shaking his head.
That’s all she needs.
He searched through the paper for a photo of Monica Taylor and found one on the next page. Monica Taylor was an attractive woman, but she’d refused to be interviewed by the
Chronicle.
Instead, a volunteer named Oscar Swann, who identified himself as her spokesman, said she was under medication and was too distraught to make a statement.

The name Swann was familiar to Villatoro. He felt himself take several quick, shallow breaths. Could it be that two of them were up here? Would that be coincidence? He didn’t buy it.

Villatoro underlined the name in the newspaper before reading further. Sheriff Ed Carey was quoted extensively. It was the same interview Villatoro had seen the night before on the Spokane news. Carey made several references to his investigative team.

He read:

When asked for more detail on what has been referred to as a “Dream Team” rumored to be made up of retired police officers
from the LAPD, Carey said the volunteers had selflessly given their time and expertise to the case, and that he, and the residents of the county, would be forever in their debt. When pressed, Carey refused to reveal the names of the volunteer investigators but said they were being led by a former senior officer who had been involved in dozens of high-profile investigations.

JESS WAS reading the same article after deliberately covering up Fiona Pritzle’s face with his coffee cup.

Swann was describing himself as Monica Taylor’s spokesman? What in the hell did
that
mean? As he thought it over, his coffee turned bitter and cold in his mouth. If what Annie and William told him was true, Swann had ingratiated himself with their mother so he could head off or prevent any contact with her by them. He would be there if one of them called, probably answering the telephone.

Jesus
, Jess thought.

On the television in the corner, the now-familiar photos of Annie and William Taylor were shown, followed by a graphic with a map of the state of Idaho. The room hushed as everyone turned toward the screen. A reporter doing a live shot followed the graphic. He was standing in the middle of the street in Kootenai Bay, holding a microphone and talking straight into the camera. Over the reporter’s shoulder was the sign for the restaurant.

“That son of a bitch is right outside,” the bear hunter said. “If I walked out the front door, you guys could see me on Fox News!”

“We’ve seen enough of you already,” his buddy said.

Jess had a momentous decision to make. Seeing Annie’s and William’s faces on national news triggered it. Either he believed those kids or he didn’t. And either way, he was harboring them, telling no one, while the entire nation worried and searched for them. By not reporting their presence immediately, he had crossed a line. Every minute he kept his secret was another minute he was more guilty. But he had to know more about the situation. Jess had always thought for himself. Hell, everybody did up here. Who could blame him for waiting and listening to make sure he was doing the right thing?

The world was different now, all right. Twenty-four-hour news channels told everyone what to think, what they should be concerned about. If those news networks decided the disappearance of the Taylor children was big news, there was no way he could keep them hidden much longer. He just hoped he could figure out what was what before that happened.

Turning in Annie and William would be the easy thing to do. He could hope for the best and wish things worked out. But who would he be turning them in to? Swann?

“SHERIFF,” THE WAITRESS behind the counter greeted Carey. “What can I get you?”

Like every set of eyes in the place, Villatoro’s watched the sheriff enter the restaurant, walk wearily to the counter, and take a stool. As the rancher next to him had done, Carey took off his hat and placed it on the counter. Even the bear hunter and his friends had stopped talking.

“I guess I should eat, even though I ain’t hungry,” Carey said. “Eggs over easy, ham, coffee, wheat toast.”

The waitress scribbled and took the order into the kitchen.

The sheriff sat with his shoulders slumped, his uniform shirt wrinkled, his face unshaven. His eyes were dark and hollowed. He held his coffee mug with both hands and sipped it cautiously.

“Any news, Sheriff?” the bear hunter asked from the end of the counter.

Carey sighed. “Nope.” Then, as if he realized how hopeless he had sounded, he said, “We’re working on it, though.”

JESS TRIED to keep his own voice calm. He spoke softly. “What’s the deal with the volunteers? Are they really ex-cops?”

Carey eyed Jess with cool eyes, as if trying to determine whether he was a supporter or in the 49 percent who had voted against him.

“And you’d be …”

“Jess Rawlins.”

“That’s right,” the sheriff said, pretending he remembered.

“I’ve got a ranch north of town, not far from Sand Creek.”

“Right. It’s not all that far from where the Taylor kids disappeared.”

“Over ten miles away,” Jess said, feeling defensiveness creep into his voice.

The sheriff heard it as well and looked stricken. “That’s not what I meant …I wasn’t implying anything.”

Jess shrugged it off. “Your volunteers?”

Carey was grateful to move on. “Yes, they’re all ex-cops. LAPD retirees, but not all that long in the tooth.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Four are working with me directly. But another couple dozen on search teams.”

Jess nodded. Annie had made the drawing he had asked her for on the kitchen table. The sketch was folded in his pocket. The caricatures were rudimentary: a thin man with white hair and blue eyes, another wearing a ball cap, the third bigger, darker, with a black mustache. Three of them, not four. Then Jess remembered Swann.

“Did they all know each other before this?” Jess asked.

“I think so,” Carey said. “They seem pretty familiar with each other. They all pretty much agree who the leader is, anyway.”

“Who is that?”

“A man named Singer. Used to be a lieutenant, from what I understand.”

“This guy Swann,” Jess asked, tapping the newspaper with his finger, trying not to convey his trepidation, “the paper says he’s the spokesman for Monica Taylor. How’d that come to be?”

Carey’s antenna seemed to go up, Jess thought. Maybe he was asking too many questions.

“Do you know him?” Carey asked.

“I’ve heard his name,” Jess said truthfully.

“Well, apparently he’s friends with the mother. He volunteered to stay with her in case somebody calls. But with the exposure this thing is getting in the press, he might spend most of his time keeping reporters away from her. I really can’t spare a man for that.”

Jess nodded. “This is kind of a crazy question, but is this the only big case you’re working on right now? I heard a wild rumor about a possible murder in the county.”

Carey’s eyebrows shot up, and he seemed to examine Jess in a whole new way that said,
This old man is a nutcase.

He kept his voice down, as Jess had done. “Where in the hell did you hear
that
?”

“You know how people talk.”

“And where was this murder supposed to have occurred?”

“By the river.”

Carey shook his head. A vein had enlarged in his temple, and Jess could see the sheriff’s heartbeat.

“I wish they’d stick to real life, goddammit.”

“So, no other big crime in the area?”

Carey reached over and tapped the newspaper, as Jess had. His eyes were both angry and pleading. “Isn’t this enough right now?”

The waitress emerged from the kitchen with Carey’s breakfast and topped off their coffee.

“If you’ll excuse me …” Carey said, turning to his plate and stabbing egg yolks with points of toast.

Jess sat back. He hadn’t noticed another man enter the restaurant and walk straight toward the sheriff.

BUT VILLATORO saw him. It was Newkirk. Newkirk approached the sheriff and threw an arm over his back so he could tell him something private.

JESS KEPT his eyes averted but listened carefully. The man had whispered something about a videotape. The man wore a ball cap.

“How’d we get it, Newkirk?” Carey asked, his toast poised in the air between his plate and his mouth.

“Somebody dropped it by this morning. We found it in a grocery sack near the front door of the station. Nobody saw who left it.”

“Have you looked at it?”

Newkirk solemnly nodded his head. “It’s something you need to see, Sheriff.”

“Do I have time to finish my breakfast?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Carey called for the waitress to box up his breakfast.

“Who’s on it? Are the kids on it?”

Newkirk looked quickly around the room before answering. He seemed suddenly agitated, and Jess followed his line of sight. Newkirk was looking at the dark man in the booth who was eating his breakfast, the man who had been startled by the bear across the street.

AFTER NEWKIRK ushered the sheriff out, Jess withdrew the sketch. There he was, the one in the ball cap. He stood, threw down two dollars, and slid off his stool. He was clamping his hat on his head and leaving when the man in the booth intercepted him.

“I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Eduardo Villatoro.”

“Jess Rawlins.”

“May I buy you a cup of coffee?” Villatoro asked, gesturing to the empty seat in his booth.

“I’m kind of coffeed out, thanks.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“I overheard you talking with the sheriff. He mentioned the name of a man he’s working with, an ex-lieutenant. What was the man’s name again?”

“He said it was Singer.”

Villatoro’s eyes narrowed.
Singer.
Now there were three.

“You know him?”

“Yes. This name I know for sure.”

Jess tried to read Villatoro’s face, wondering what he meant by that.

“I guess I will have that cup of coffee,” Jess said.

T
HE FIRST THIRTY seconds of the videotape was of a Seattle Sea-hawks football playoff game from the previous season. As the quarterback pulled back to pass, the screen faded into snowy static, there was an audible pop, then it was filled with a starkly lighted head-and-shoulders shot of a man in an otherwise dark room.