Borrowing Trouble (30 page)

“The Fagans are en route. They booked a room at the Lumber Baron.”

Sloane threw up her arms. “We don't even know for sure that it's their son. The DNA tests could take weeks, even months.”

Connie hitched her shoulders. “They're probably on a plane by now. What happened to your face? You look like you got hit by the ugly stick.”

“Allergies. I get 'em in March.”

“You want a Zyrtec?”

“Nah, they make me sleepy.” Sloane started for her desk to check the progress of the case. She at least wanted to have something to tell the Fagans when they got here.

“McBride, you got a second?” Rhys stood over her.

“Sure.” She followed him into his office, where he shut the door and signaled for her to take a seat. “Everything okay?”

“Buck got his walking papers today and two other detectives were moved out of robbery-homicide. They won't be fired, not enough evidence that they were in on the harassment. But the department knows it has a problem on its hands and is trying to break up the group and make enough people's lives miserable so that they'll quit. They're worried about a lawsuit.”

“I never said anything about suing.”

“I may have mentioned it.” Rhys wore a grin the size of Texas. “Between that and pressures of a federal investigation, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Buck's getting his pension. But if he so much as sends you a birthday card, LAPD will pull it. I don't like that he's getting it after what he put you through. Still, the threat of cutting him off is a nice insurance policy that he'll leave you alone.”

“Thank you, Rhys, for doing everything you did. I'm happy to have this behind me.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair. “You could probably go anywhere you want now. With all your good press—the
Today
show,
48 Hours
, the newspaper clippings—Officer Sloane McBride is a hot property. During our first interview you told me that you went into law enforcement because you wanted to make a difference. You've made a difference here. The pilot program and the child-ID-kit fair made a big impact on this town. Probably bigger than you'll ever know. And the John Doe case you're about to solve . . . well, I don't have to tell you what that kind of closure means to a grieving family. Just ask Emily Mathews McCreedy what it's like to never know.”

He pulled forward. “The thing is, Sloane, it's difficult to make a dent in the big city. In a town the size of Nugget a little bit goes a long way. We need you here.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Tears sprung to her eyes. If she didn't get out of his office soon, Sloane would start bawling all over him. “I appreciate it.”

“No pressure.” And there it was again. That damn Texas-sized grin.

Sloane went back to her desk. What she really wanted to do was go to the bathroom, lock herself in, and cry her eyes out. Through the window she could see Brady parking his van in front of the Lumber Baron. If she continued to watch him, she'd start blubbering in the middle of the police station. Instead, she buried herself in her email. Someone from the DNA lab at the DOJ's Bureau of Forensic Services wrote to say that they were working on the analysis. But Sloane wasn't given a time frame for when the results would be in. Likely there was a long line ahead of her. She hoped the Fagans hadn't gotten on a plane for nothing.

Her kids came after school, anxious to hear if there'd been a conclusive match between John Doe and Kevin Fagan. She explained that it might take a while, depending on how backed up the lab was. She put them to work passing out Neighborhood Watch fliers. At some point she'd like to get them badges or vests, something similar to what the Scouts wore, to make them feel official.

By six o'clock she realized that she was just going through the motions and went home. Brady's van was gone. She figured he was out, celebrating his newfound freedom. On second thought, Brady wasn't the type to rejoice in Sandra's death, even if she had made his life a living hell. More than likely he'd gone out after work for a bite. The next two weeks would be excruciating living next door to him, knowing that he was leaving.

She went inside her apartment and rummaged through the refrigerator for something to make for dinner. Aidan had left a message, but Sloane didn't have the energy to call him back. She was angry with him anyway. He and Brady were cut from the same cloth—men who couldn't commit. Channel surfing, she tried to immerse herself in a TV show but couldn't find a program to hold her attention for long. As far as she could tell, Brady still wasn't home. Not that she listened or watched for him.

Since Jake was on call tonight, Sloane decided to pop a couple of Advil PMs and call it an early night. She woke up groggy the next morning, padded into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and noticed that Brady's van was still gone. Either he'd come and left or he'd stayed out all night. She made a mental note to make sure that he showed up for work today. Perhaps he'd taken her advice and put in for a vacation.

Sloane showered, dressed, and slurped down a cup of coffee. On her way out, she slyly peeked through Brady's window to see if she could tell whether he'd been home. Everything looked the same. But then again, it always did in that sparsely furnished apartment of his. She supposed not accumulating a lot of stuff made it easy for him to leave.

She made the short drive to work, trying to put him out of her head, and parked in her usual space in front of the police station. Across the square, Brady's van was also in its usual spot. There went her theory about him taking time off.

“Hey, some guy keeps calling you,” Connie said, shoving a handful of Post-its at Sloane as she walked into the station house. “Says it's urgent.”

Sloane glanced down at the messages and didn't recognize the name or the number. The area code was San Francisco, though. “Have the Fagans come in yet?”

“Not yet.”

She supposed she could stroll over to the inn and greet them. The problem with that was she'd likely bump into Brady. Instead, she plopped down at her desk and called back Urgent Guy.

“Zattrell Liquor,” a man answered, and Sloane checked to make sure she'd dialed correctly.

“I'm looking for Steve Bucci.”

“Speaking. You that lady cop?”

“I'm Officer McBride. What can I do for you?”

“I know the guy you made that sculpture of, the one on the morning show. The kid used to do odd jobs for me, not quite right in the head.”

“Do you remember his name, Mr. Bucci?”

“Of course I do. Kevin Fagan.”

Sloane jerked her head in surprise. For once, all the stars seemed to be aligning. “When was the last time you saw Kevin, Mr. Bucci?”

“It was right around Halloween. I remember that because he and I laughed at some of the people walking around in the Tenderloin in their costumes. I told Kevin, ‘Don't those idiots know that they'll get knifed down here?' I don't remember seeing him too much after that.”

“Do you know where he was living or who his friends were?”

“He lived on the streets. Sometimes under the Bay Bridge on Fifth Street. His friends were a bunch of junkies who I wouldn't let in the store. But he sometimes talked to one of my regulars, a musician.”

“You know how to get ahold of him?” Sloane asked.

“No. But he usually comes in the store a couple times a week. I could ask him to give you a call.”

“He can call me collect, Mr Bucci. And here's the number for my cell.” She asked him to read it back to her just to make sure he'd taken it down accurately. “Thank you for passing this information along. You've been extremely helpful.”

“So it wasn't a prank?” Connie said as soon as Sloane got off the phone.

“Nope. He also recognized our bust as Kevin Fagan. Apparently, he'd been living on the streets of San Francisco—at least until the end of October.”

“So how did he wind up here?” Rhys had come out of his office.

“I was waiting for the DNA results before I talked to Greyhound, Amtrak, and Plumas County Transit. But I'll start today.”

She got on the phone and started calling every transportation company she could find between Nugget and San Francisco, working on the premise that Kevin probably hadn't had a lot of money for traveling expenses. At least she had the picture of Kevin that Mrs. Fagan had sent her. Even though it was four years old, she could send it to the companies and ask that they show it to drivers on the route. It might spark a memory. As a last resort she'd check flight manifests, but she'd need a court order for that. For the next couple of hours, Sloane made call after call. Just before noon, Connie waved to her from across the room.

“A David Salzmann is on line four. He says a Steve Bucci told him to call.”

“Thanks, Connie.” Sloane grabbed line four. “Hi, Mr. Salzmann, this is Officer McBride. I appreciate you calling.”

“Steve from Zattrell Liquor informed me of your investigation. I had no idea that Kevin had passed.”

“We're not sure that he has, Mr. Salzmann. But he apparently looks a lot like a man who died here in the fall.”

“It must be him. Did you find the body near my cabin?”

“Your cabin?” Sloane took a deep breath.

“Yes. I inherited a small cabin in your quaint little town six years ago. I lent use of it to Kevin.”

“You must've been very good friends.”

“Not precisely. But we both shared a love of music.” Salzmann took a long pause and Sloane waited him out. “I was a violinist for the San Francisco Chamber Orchestra. Unfortunately, like Kevin, I had a substance abuse problem. I'm now three years sober. Kevin was still grappling with his addiction. And living on the streets is filled with temptation. We both thought my little cabin in the woods would be a good place for him to get clean. Sadly, it doesn't look like it turned out that way.”

“When was the last time you were at the cabin, Mr. Salzmann?”

“Not since six years ago. It's a dusty, rustic shack, really. At the time I inherited, it wasn't even worth selling. I've held on to it all this time, thinking that at some point the market for a plot of country land might improve.”

“Where is the cabin? And do we have your permission to search it?”

“Of course. It's a little difficult to find.” He gave Sloane directions. She had a vague idea of where it was, but hoped that Rhys, who knew every inch of the area, could find the cabin.

“Do you know how Kevin got here?”

“Right before leaving San Francisco he traded one of his Buffet Crampon clarinets for a used Volkswagen Beetle. I helped him with the transaction.”

“Mr. Salzmann, do you know when he left San Francisco?”

“I believe he left early November. That's when I had the utilities turned on at the cabin. But Kevin wasn't the most reliable person. And I wasn't sure that he'd actually follow through. In fact, I planned to visit in spring to determine whether to keep the power on.”

“Kevin didn't have a phone?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Salzmann.” Sloane took down his contact information.

“Officer McBride, will you please let me know the outcome of your investigation?”

“I'll do what I can.” She hung up and headed straight for Rhys's office. “I've got a good lead on our John Doe case. Wanna take a drive?”

It took them some time to find the cabin, which sat in a remote spot, perched in the pines above the Feather River. Sloane had never been up there before. The area was beautiful, with heart-stopping views of the Sierra, and so peaceful. No cars, no people, only nature.

“There's the car.” Rhys pulled up behind the Volkswagen in the driveway.

They got out and Rhys knocked on the cabin's front door. When no one answered, he tried the knob. It was unlocked.

“Hello,” Rhys called. “We're here from the Nugget Police Department to do a welfare check. Anyone home?”

Still no answer. Rhys directed Sloane to go around the cabin in case there was a back door. With his gun drawn, he went in the front. No door in the rear. The place was tiny, no more than a couple of rooms. Sloane returned to the front.

“The place is clear,” Rhys called from the doorway. “Check it out.”

The musty cabin smelled like rotting food and rodent urine, but it was neat as a pin. There was a sleeping bag laid out on a daybed against the wall and a corduroy couch that had seen better days in the middle of the room. Behind it, next to a miniscule kitchenette, sat a wooden table and two chairs. On top were a bag of needles, a shoelace, cotton balls, a vial of pills, a deflated red balloon tied in a knot at the top, and an opened soda can. Rhys photographed everything with his phone, put on a pair of gloves, shook the can, and turned it so that a used syringe slid out. After taking more pictures, he untied the balloon and poured out a small stream of white powder. The former Houston narcotics detective knew his stuff.

Sloane searched two brown shopping bags that lined the wall next to the daybed. They were filled with clothes. One had a wallet with Kevin's Pennsylvania driver's license. She held it up for Rhys to see.

“Looks like we're getting closer to our confirmation,” he said, and continued to take photos.

At the foot of the bed were two leather instrument cases. The one on top was empty. In the second, Sloane found five pieces of a clarinet stored in individual plush compartments.

“I thought he traded his clarinet for the Bug?” Rhys snapped pictures of the cases and the instrument.