Terry Odell - Mapleton 02 - Deadly Bones (38 page)

“I’m going to be there in half that. Or less.”

“Take someone with you. I’ll follow when I set things up.”

“Tell Connie to roll Solomon, and if he’s not close enough, she’ll find someone else. And if you can keep the call ordering ERT to Fred’s place off the radio, that will help. I’m leaving.”

Colfax looked as though he was going to add another comment, but he turned and left. For Dispatch, Gordon assumed. He checked his weapons, made sure he had extra ammo, and left the parking lot Code Three. If anyone was waiting for him to leave, they’d have no trouble knowing where he was going. He clenched his fingers around the wheel.

Bring it.

His lights and sirens cleared the remaining morning traffic as he left downtown for Fred’s place. Checks of the rearview told him he hadn’t been followed—at least not by another vehicle. He set his cell phone to speaker and turned the radio volume up.

About five miles from Fred’s property, he killed the lights and sirens, flashing his lights only to move the vehicles he encountered out of the way. He thumbed the radio. “Under five to destination.”

“Be there in six.” Solomon’s voice came through loud and clear, and Gordon was grateful for that. Reception in this area was dicey at best.

Gordon acknowledged the call with a quick ten-four. He slowed as he approached Fred’s property. He’d been so busy getting there, he hadn’t done the smart thing—figure out exactly what he’d do when he arrived. As Colfax had pointed out, going in without a plan was stupid. And could be deadly. Radio traffic had told him Vicky McDermott was with Roberta Blanchard, but beyond that, he knew nothing other than things must be all right, or it would have been all over the airwaves.

He pulled over and punched Connie’s number into his phone.

“Yes, Chief?”

“Update on McDermott’s call.”

Connie repeated what he’d already heard—that McDermott had arrived and there was no emergency.

“She say anything about Mrs. Blanchard being loopier than usual?” Gordon asked.

“No, Chief. Seemed like another routine call.”

“Tell McDermott to call my cell when she’s done, or if things look hinky. I’m parked at the end of Fred’s drive, waiting for Solomon.”

Gordon ended the call and set the phone back in the console. Waiting sucked. The minute or so it took before lights brightened his rearview seemed like hours. The lights disappeared and Solomon pulled alongside him. Together, their vehicles effectively blocked the drive from Fred’s, although on foot, there were countless paths through the woods. Gordon got out of his car and walked over to Solomon.

“What do we have, Chief?” Solomon asked.

“Colfax is calling out an Emergency Response Team, but they won’t be here for a while.”

“Should we storm the house?” Solomon asked. “Fast and sweet, grab Angie, and it’s over and done with?”

“We don’t know what we might find. Other than some loosely connected facts, there’s nothing to prove Angie’s inside. I don’t want to risk it, especially without paper.”

“Risk what? That she’s in there and he hurts her, or that she’s not in there and you’re leaving yourself open to entering a house for no reason? Or that Fred files a complaint, and you-know-who is all over you?”

Trusting Solomon to keep his mouth shut Gordon said, “Except you-know-who might be in this up to his eyeballs himself.”

“Whoa.” He squinted against the sun flooding through the trees. “You’re
not
kidding.”

Gordon laid out the sketchy facts he and Colfax had uncovered.

“So, Crazy Freddy and the mayor both had wives who disappeared around the same time,” Solomon said.

“And Fred’s daughter, too.”

Solomon rested his palm on the butt of his gun. “Two women, one kid missing. Two women, one kid’s bones found. Sounds like probable cause to me. Enough to go in and ask Fred a few questions. What are we waiting for?”

“
We’re
not. You’re waiting here. I’m going in.” He went to his truck for his cell and placed a call to Solomon’s number, saying, “Keep the line open. As good as a wire.”

Solomon’s phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Assuming the signal doesn’t drop.”

“A risk I’m willing to take. Don’t use the radio unless it hits the fan. If it does, let Connie know. Vicky McDermott’s at the Blanchard house, so she can be here in two minutes.” Gordon pocketed his phone. “Can you hear me now?” he said in the conversational tone he’d be using with Fred.

Solomon snorted. “Yes, five by five.”

The only flaw Gordon saw in his plan was that Solomon would have to use the radio to communicate with Connie or Colfax’s ERT team. But he was willing to accept that. With luck, he’d go in, talk to Fred, and either Angie would be there or she wouldn’t. If she was, he’d get her out. If she wasn’t, and Fred had any involvement, Gordon would see to it that he talked. He muted the volume on his radio—no point in distracting Fred—or himself. He’d rely on Solomon if things went south.

“Ready?” Gordon asked.

“Do it.”

Gordon strode up the driveway, keeping close to the edge. Solomon followed until they were about fifty yards from Fred’s house. “What’s your time in the fifty?” Gordon asked.

“When? I ran the hundred in eleven point three seconds in high school.”

“Now would be more meaningful.”

“I suppose I could do fifty in under ten, since you’re talking uniform and utility belt. Over rough terrain. And uphill.”

Gordon shook his head. “You and Colfax. Always with the smart mouth.”

“Just lightening the mood. You call, I’ll be there. Adrenaline ought to cut a second or two off my time.”

“How about you tuck yourself somewhere five seconds from the house.”

Solomon looked at the house, then at Gordon. He took about ten long strides, then left the drive for the cover of a clump of juniper. Gordon approached the house, stopping short of the front porch where something shiny glinted from a scrawny potentilla branch. He stopped. Found a twig. Got down on one knee and poked it free. A necklace.

A lapis pendant on a silver chain.
Angie’s
.

Chapter 42

Gordon’s heart stopped. Ducking out of sight of any windows in the house, he told Solomon to move it. “Stealth mode.”

“Ten-four,” Solomon responded.

Gordon slipped the necklace into his shirt pocket. As far as he knew, since he’d given it to her, Angie had never taken the necklace off. Had it fallen off? Had Fred tossed it aside after—Gordon refused to think that. Or had Angie left it as a clue?

Solomon crouched beside him. “What?”

Gordon produced the necklace. “It’s Angie’s.”

“What’s your plan?” Solomon asked.

“Not much different, although I now have more reason to believe Angie is in there. I’m going to knock on the door and see what I can uncover. You wait outside. Get Connie to send McDermott here.”

Instead of some wisecrack about how he could cover Gordon’s six by himself, Solomon reached for the radio on his utility belt. Gordon listened, making sure nothing critical had happened in the short time since he’d turned off his sound.

“Repeat,” Solomon said. He stepped farther from the house.

Gordon followed, and once they were out of earshot, Solomon turned up the volume. Colfax’s voice came over the radio. “Is Hepler with you?”

“Affirmative,” Solomon said.

“Tell him to call me. Now.”

Gordon disconnected his call to Solomon and punched in Colfax’s number. “What do you have?”

“Olivia Easterbrook.”

“Where?”

“Let me rephrase that. We found her death certificate under her maiden name. In New Mexico. Signed by one Otis Evans, M.D. Cause of death, natural.”

Gordon glanced back at the house, needing to find out if Angie was all right, but he forced himself to focus on Colfax’s words. “When?”

“In 1972.”

“The daughter?”

“Nothing on her. Yet.”

So Olivia had died in New Mexico? And Doc had signed the death certificate? Was she buried in some cemetery out there? This was getting too convoluted for him to work out in his head. “Anything else? And make it quick. I’m at Fred’s house, and there’s a good chance Angie Mead is inside. I need to deal with that first. You can keep Solomon up to speed.”

“Emergency Response Team will convene at your location in thirty.”

“Which could be thirty minutes too late. Have them report to Solomon if I haven’t come out before they get here.” Gordon disconnected. “I’m going in,” he said to Solomon. “Enough waiting.”

“You going to call me for an open line?”

Gordon thought for a moment. Was there a point in keeping this off the radio any longer? None he could think of. He was here. If someone was going to come after him, Solomon and McDermott had his six. “No. Make sure you’re close enough to hear me. If I need you, code word is”—he thought for a moment, wanting a word that wasn’t likely to come up in a conversation with Fred.

“What about something easy?
Help
comes to mind,” Solomon said.

Gordon grimaced. “Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?”

“Yes. Now, let me go do my job. You do yours.”

Solomon rested a hand on Gordon’s biceps. “Make sure it’s the job you’re doing in there. You know you’d never assign anyone to a call out if they had a personal involvement.”

Gordon met Solomon’s gaze. “I’m doing this.”

“I’ll take a quick trip around the house,” Solomon said. He set off in a duck-walk.

Gordon strode toward the house. With each step, his mind cleared, his focus returned. Paperwork and desk duty be damned. He was a cop. A trained officer. He released his holster.

He marched up the porch steps to Fred’s front door and gave it three sharp raps. “Fred? It’s Gordon Hepler.” He winced and added, “Gordie. Can I come in? We should talk.” He strained to listen, heard muffled voices, but not Angie’s.

The voices stopped. Heavy footfalls clumped across the floor. Gordon’s heart seemed to echo their rhythm. He released the catch on his holster. His fingers flexed, ready to reach for his weapon. Hoping he wouldn’t need to. The door opened.

Fred, looking—and smelling—much the way he had the last time Gordon had visited, but minus his Mossberg 500, stood there, scratching his belly. “You’re a little late.”

Gordon ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, suddenly dry as paper. “Late for what?” His words were almost a croak.

“I’m almost out of beer. You didn’t happen to bring any, did you?”

“Sorry, no.” He peered around Fred, but aside from a muted television playing some game show, and four empty beer bottles on the coffee table, there was no sign of anyone else in the room. Was he too late for more than beer?

Fred squinted at Gordon. “You said you wanted to talk. Why don’t we get that over and done with?” He clumped to the sofa, flopped down, his bony knees protruding from the holes in his jeans, and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

Part of him wanted to race through the house, but Gordon managed to shove that part aside, along with the part that wanted to grab Fred by the throat, slam him against the wall, and force him to talk. He sat in the same chair he’d occupied last time, across from the sofa. Calm. Rational. But his emotions roiled like the lava in a volcano about to erupt.

Scrutinizing Fred’s expression for any telltale signs of recognition, Gordon dangled the necklace in front of him. “Found this outside. You know how it got there?”

Fred’s features didn’t change. He scooted forward on the couch, his hand outstretched. Gordon leaned forward bringing the necklace closer, but he didn’t relinquish it.

“Can’t say it looks familiar.” Fred moved back and crossed an ankle over a thigh. “Why are you asking me? I’m not the kind of guy who wears gee-gaws.”

“I found it by your porch. Looks exactly like one a friend of mine wears.” All the while he spoke, Gordon was tuned in to any sounds that would indicate someone else was in the house. If Angie were here and heard his voice—and he was making no attempts to keep it low—surely she’d have done something. Shouted. Banged on the floor. Anything to let him know where she was. The silence tied his gut in knots.

“Who’d that friend be?” Fred asked, his face the picture of innocence. But, Gordon reminded himself, Fred wasn’t wired like most of the people Gordon dealt with.

“Angie Mead. You know her—she was here a few days ago, with Megan Wyatt and Justin Nadell. She works at Daily Bread.”

Fred seemed to ponder that, as if he was rewinding his memory to the day in question. “Angie Mead. Right. Cute, blonde. Cinnamon rolls. She must have dropped it then, I reckon.”

Crazy-wired or not, Gordon didn’t think Fred recognized the necklace. Which meant Angie most likely planted it there. His heart raced. Was she here?

“Think harder, Fred. She had the necklace when she left here. She was wearing it yesterday. Where’s Angie?”

“Don’t know.”

“But she was here? Today?”

“I been busy. Getting ready for Olivia and Isobel.”

Crap. What the hell was gong on? “Your wife and daughter?”

“Yep.” He gazed at the ceiling. “I been getting Isobel’s room ready.”

Gordon stood. “I’d love to see it.” Fred didn’t respond with an immediate objection, so Gordon headed toward the stairs.

“I need another beer.” Fred clomped toward the kitchen.

The sound of a refrigerator door opening gave Gordon a double message. Fred was either too buzzed to think things through, or he really was completely out of the loop, and there would be nothing in the room other than what Angie had described when she’d been here before. He raced up the stairs into a short hallway with three rooms. Two doors open. Bedroom and bathroom. One closed. He zeroed in on that one.

Weapon drawn, he eased the door open, glimpsing lots of pink. Rainbows and unicorns on the wallpaper. A white four-poster twin bed. Pink-checkered spread. Assortment of dolls and stuffed animals. But no sign of Angie. Footfalls thumped up the stairs. He turned. Fred approached, beer bottle in hand.

“It’s just like when she left it.” Fred’s expression was wistful. Or was he just buzzed? “Won’t be long now.” He motioned Gordon into the room. That’s when Gordon saw the sneakers alongside the bed. Not a child’s size. Adult. Female. Angie’s.