Cold Fear (18 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lieutenant
Leo Gonzales, head of the
SFPD Homicide Detail, craved another coffee. He set down a file from early this
morning, reading as he unwrapped an imported cigar. That’s as far as he got
when his line rang.

“Homicide. Gonzales.”

“It’s Web, Leo. What the latest here on our missing
girl?”

“The mom was getting some sort of counseling, ‘heard
voices’ linked to people who died years ago. That’s how the kid put it to two
of our people who took the domestic call to the house a while back.”

“Anything else?”

“We’re still waiting to contact a relative.”

“Sheila Walton called me. Wants us to talk to her
daughter. Seems Doug Baker is her English teacher.”

“That so?”

“Kid claims he had an angry outburst and slapped her a
few days before taking off to the mountains.”

“We’re talking about the daughter of Sheila Walton, the
police commissioner?”

“Camille Rebecca Walton. Age fourteen. So take care of
it right away. Here’s her number.”

“Will do, Chief.”

Gonzales contemplated his cigar, which he was forbidden
from enjoying within the environs of a municipal government office.
Sheila
Walton.
Life used to be so simple. He shook his head and grimaced, then
punched the extension for Inspector Linda Turgeon.

In less than forty-five minutes, Turgeon and Inspector
Melody Hicks from General Works stood on the porch of Walton’s home in Presidio
Heights.

Lupe led them to the living room and Walton joined them.
She wore a dark skirt and cream silk blouse; small pearl earrings accented her
raven hair. The lady was elegant and attractive, exuding authority and
intelligence.

After quick introductions, Walton offered tea, but they
asked for coffee.

“You may use my study. I’ll get Cammi.”

The large study was dark and soothing, lined with
floor-to-ceiling bookcases, Boston ferns in the corners, an exquisite Chinese
vase--looked like Ming Dynasty--on one shelf. Lupe left the tray of coffee and
cookies on the desk. The two detectives helped themselves.

Cammi was about five feet two inches, slender figure,
short dyed red hair and a stud in her left ear. She wore Capri pants and a powder
blue top. No make-up today, Turgeon figured. Her eyes were reddened.

“Sit over here, Cammi,” Hicks indicated the large
leather chair facing the matching sofa, where she and Turgeon sat down.

“I’m Melody Hicks and this is Linda Turgeon, we’re
with--”

“San Francisco Police, I know. Mom told me.”

Hicks set her coffee on an end table and produced a tape
recorder.

“Look, Cammi. We have to record our chat. Those are the
rules.”

“I guess I’m OK with that.”

“Good.”

Hicks set her recorder on the table next to Cammi. She
stated the date, place, and who was present.

“Any questions, Cammi, before we begin?”

“I don’t know why Sheila called you here. She seems to
think this is a big deal. I don’t. Do you think this is a big deal?”

“That is what we’re going to try to determine,” Turgeon
smiled at the girl.

“I don’t think it is a police thing. I just think maybe
my dad should know.”

Turgeon exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Hicks.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

“It was after class, the term was ending and I stayed
behind to tell Mr. Baker how much I liked
Lord of the Flies
. I told him
I thought it was a good book. He told me he thought so, too.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes. So we’re talking about the book and how it showed
how people can lose control when they’re isolated, or something; then he starts
mumbling.”

“About what?”

“Well, something about his wife. I didn’t really
understand. So I ask him, like, what’s wrong. And all of a sudden, he got
angry, telling me I had no right to ask about his personal life. Then he just
slapped me.”

“Show me exactly how.”

Cammi gestured a slapping motion to her face.

“Did it hurt?”

“It stung.”

“How were you positioned during this conversation?”

“I was against the wall looking up to him.”

“So he was very close?”

“Yes. It scared me. He called me stupid; then he slapped
me. I think he was sorry the minute he realized what he did. But I ran away.
Just got out of there. I didn’t know what to do about it. So I went to my
principal. I don’t think it’s that big a deal, do you? I mean, are you going to
tell my dad that my teacher slapped me?”

“Your parents are not together?”

Cammi shook her head.

“Divorced three years ago. My dad writes movies in L.A.
He has a girlfriend and they’re getting married in a few weeks.”

“You all right with that?”

Cammi shrugged. “Sure. We never see him anyway.”

“How do you get on with your mother?”

“Sheila and I get along fine.” Cammi stood. “So are we
all done then?”

Turgeon had a thought.

“Cammi, what do you think of Doug Baker’s daughter lost
in the mountains now?”

“It’s terrible. What do you think?”

“Yes, it’s terrible.”

“I guess I do not want to see him get into trouble over
this thing with me. I think he was sorry for it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said
anything.”

“Well, leave it with us for now, okay?” Turgeon smiled.

On their way out, the two detectives spoke privately
with Walton about keeping her apprised of their investigation.

“Thank you. I’d like to get to the bottom of this as
soon as it is possible,” Walton said, passing them both cards with her cell phone
number.

During the drive back to the Hall of Justice both women
shook their heads in the wake of Cammi Walton’s strange account.

“Doug Baker’s looking
real bad
in my book right
now,” Hicks said.

Turgeon could not figure it out. Doug Baker was either
some kind of ticking time bomb, or Cammi’s version of events was a little out
of focus.

“None of this makes sense,” Turgeon said.

TWENTY-NINE

After
Molly Wilson’s call, Tom Reed
tossed his cell phone into the tangle of maps, newspapers and take-out wrappers
covering his passenger seat.

Emily Baker was undergoing counseling for the death of a
child.

Wilson
had succeeded with some
impressive digging. It was up to him to see what he could do with the data.

He resumed writing today’s story on Doug and Emily. His
laptop computer was balanced against his stomach and the steering wheel. In
between composing paragraphs, he was keeping an eye on the command center.

Activity was picking up. Agents were trotting back and
forth between the building and the FBI’s rented SUVs. Choppers were landing and
taking off with more frequency. Something thudded on the roof of his car.

“Hey, Reed, what do you figure it is?” A friend with the
Philadelphia Inquirer bent down to the driver’s window.

“Beats me.”

“Rumor is they found something out there.”

“Any idea what?”

“Nobody knows. Nobody’s talking. But the FBI guys are
jumping around as if they were going to make a full-court press.”

“If they found the girl safe, we’d hear.”

“Yeah. I’m going to poke around. See ya.”

Moments later, Reed left his car to get a handle on
whatever was happening. The area surrounding the command center had become a
virtual media village with dozens of ensconced news crews largely corralled by
the Montana Highway Patrol to one area. Lawn chairs, sunglasses, satellite
dishes and cell phones--that scene blended with the scores of police, park,
emergency, rescue vehicles and personnel at the other side of the center. This
was an intense midway vigil that had overwhelmed the small lot and surrounding
roads.

Reed noticed that the paramedics at the ground
ambulances and medi-vac helicopter were stationary and calm. OK, if they had
found the kid alive, those guys would be activated. And if they found her body?
Reed walked on, coming to the roadway’s checkpoint and its two Montana Highway
Patrol officers. One had a clipboard tally of the vehicles.

“Excuse me,” Reed said, “can you tell me where the
county coroner is parked? I missed the vehicle’s arrival.”

“Coroner? The coroner is not here.”

“I was told they just arrived.”

The officer with the clipboard flipped through sheets.
“No sir. Just a minute.” The officer made a radio inquiry about the coroner.
His radio responded with some static the officer understood. “Negative, sir.”

“Sorry,” Reed apologized. “I was misinformed.”

No coroner. No paramedics. What could it be? On his
return walk, Reed noticed two agents with the FBI’s Evidence Team nearly out of
sight between two vans, talking on their radios. He strolled over to the far
side of the paneled van, pricking up his ears, catching fragments of their
low-key transmissions: “Soon as they’re done photographing the scene, it will
be choppered to Kalispell. They’re holding a Northwest commercial. Sorensen’s
delivering it to the lab in Seattle….”

The information was like found money, a recovered
fumble. Reed scooped it and tucked it away.

This thing was going to bust open soon. He scanned the
area for either Sydowski or a familiar FBI agent, someone he could pump. No one
around.

Back at the car, he closed his eyes for three seconds.
This and Wilson’s stuff could add up. He considered it along with Wilson’s angle.

Emily Baker was from Montana. She was undergoing
counseling for the death of a child.

He called the Associated Press Bureau in Helena.
He had friends there.

“AP, Larry Dancy.”

“Hey, Dance. Tom Reed.”

“How you doing, you old beach bum?”

“Older but no wiser. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain. We’re expecting our third next month.”

“Congratulations, Dad.”

“Thanks. So what’re you up to? Still the big gun in San Francisco?”

“Sure, a really big gun. Say, Dance, I am out here in
Glacier on this missing girl story and I thought I’d give old Chester a call,
say hi. You know how I can reach him quick?”

“406-555-3312. Got a beautiful little place in Wisdom.
He still does some anniversary pieces for us.”

“Thanks.”

Chester Murdon was a living legend who had put in
forty-two years as a reporter with the Associated Press in Montana. He knew
every inch of the state and its history because he had reported on much of it.
He was a walking encyclopedia on Montana. Librarians for the state and
universities throughout the country often consulted him. Chester retired
several years ago but continued his series of state history books. Reed
recalled when he was a summer cub reporter at the Great Falls Tribune. People
in the Montana press were talking about Chester researching a book on
summarizing every murder in the state’s history,
A History of Murder Under
the Big Sky
.

If Emily Baker’s counseling was for a child’s death
related to a murder in this state, Chester would know. Reed heard his line
ringing clearly. Finally, it was answered.

“Hello?

“Chester Murdon?”

“That’s me. How can I help you?”