The Alpine Pursuit (25 page)

“It’s your future husband here,” Rolf Fisher said. “What kind of engagement ring do you want? Nothing too garish, I hope.”

“I’m not into jewels,” I replied. “Does this mean you found out something about the late Mrs. Berenger?”

“That it does,” Rolf replied, sounding very pleased with himself. “I told those lascivious ladies here to take some long, cold showers. Thus, I had time to look into your query.”

I felt a growing excitement, but not for the offer of Rolf’s hand in marriage. “And?”

“I’ll read the story to you,” Rolf said. “It’s fairly brief, and originated in the
San Diego Union-Tribune
eight years ago in February.” He paused. “Dateline, San Diego, quote, ‘A local woman was dead on arrival yesterday at Mercy Hospital after suffering more than two dozen bites by her three-year-old German shepherd. Julia Berenger, 33, was attacked when she arrived home from work shortly before 6
P.M
. A neighbor, Eleanor Lacey, heard the victim’s screams and called 911. Medics and other emergency personnel arrived within ten minutes but were unable to save Berenger. The dog was put down by a police officer who had been summoned to the scene. Berenger is survived by her husband, Hans, who wasn’t home at the time of the incident. According to Lacey, the dog, whose name was Gus, had always seemed well behaved. The victim’s widower, a professor at San Diego Mesa College, was in seclusion and unavailable for comment.’ Unquote.” Rolf took a deep breath. “Does that help?”

I winced. “It might.” But at the moment, I didn’t know how.

SIXTEEN

Dogs. They were barking in my brain. Kruegers’ kennels, Azbug, Dodo, Vince, and now a German shepherd named Gus. The Kruegers had raised German shepherds. Why would Hans Berenger, whose wife had been killed by a dog of the same breed, want to raise them?

There could only be one reason, and it was so terrible that I didn’t want to think of it. But I had to.

The phone rang. It was Rip Ridley.

“I’m taking a quick break from a run-through for tonight’s basketball game,” he said. “You want to come up and watch the Buckers review their offensive and defensive alignments against Arlington? It’s an away game, so the buses leave at four.”

That gave me less than half an hour to get to the high school and query the coach. But I agreed. I could go from the school to the radio station to meet with Rey Fernandez.

Rip was making sure each player knew who he was supposed to guard on defense. Like most gyms, the place smelled like sweat. When the coach saw me he walked over to the scorer’s table. Most of the Buckers stood around and talked while the others practiced free throws.

“So what’s going on?” Rip asked, snatching up an errant ball that had bounced our way.

I explained that I was still working on the Berenger story. “I thought maybe you—as well as some of the other witnesses—might have remembered something you’d forgotten to mention at the time. Has any detail—no matter how small—come to mind?”

Rip grinned. He wore a whistle around his neck and a hooded sweatshirt in the high school’s green and brown colors. Since he’d begun losing his hair rather rapidly, Rip had shaved his head. His fair eyebrows were almost nonexistent and his skin had a pinkish hue. I was reminded of a cheerful baby. A very big baby, of course.

“I wish I could remember more,” Rip replied. “If anything, I remember less.” The grin disappeared. “I suppose I’m trying to forget the whole mess.”

I nodded. “Let me ask a different question,” I said. “What do you know about training dogs?”

“Me?” Rip shook his bald head. “Not that much. Vince—my dog—is a golden retriever. You don’t train them to retrieve, because that’s what they do. You just sort of coach them. If you’ve got a dog problem, talk to Medved.”

“I will,” I replied, “but I thought you might know something about what you can and what you can’t do with dogs. Such as training them to kill.”

“Jeez.” Rip rubbed at his chin. “What brought that on?”

I shrugged. “Just a weird idea of mine.” I raised my voice as Rip shouted criticism at his lanky center. “I’d better go,” I said. “It’s almost four. You have a team bus to catch.”

“We’ll make it,” Rip said, glancing up at the big clock above one of the baskets. “There is one thing I do know about dogs in general. Whatever you train them for, it’s better to start early. But the old saying, ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ isn’t true. The main thing is that the dog has to recognize the owner as, in effect, the leader of the pack. If I’d gotten Vince when he was two or three years old, it would have taken me one hell of a long time for him to accept me as his new leader.”

“Interesting,” I murmured. “Oh . . . by the way, do you remember seeing Justine Cardenas backstage before or during the play Friday night?”

Rip grinned again. “The Ice Maiden? No, not that I recall.”

I started to move down toward the home team’s bench. “I don’t suppose you have a favorite suspect as Hans’s killer.”

Rip caught another errant basketball and bounced it hard on the floor. “You bet I do. Me. I hated the bastard.”

∗ ∗ ∗

It was exactly four o’clock as I left the high school for the radio station. It was the second day of March, and the days were noticeably longer despite the low-hanging gray clouds. But there had been no snow all day and the forecast called for temperatures above freezing. I hoped the thaw would be slow, with no threat of flooding.

At KSKY, Rey Fernandez was in the tiny front office shuffling through a stack of CDs. He was expecting me and stood up when I came through the door.

“Canned goods,” he said, pointing to the broadcast booth behind him. “I did five minutes of news at four, and now we’ve got some farmer’s wife in Iowa telling our listeners how to prepare savory Lenten meals. I don’t know where Spence got that one—tuna fish seems about the only seafood she ever heard of.”

I sat down across the desk, noticing that the upholstered chair was almost new and far more comfortable than the rickety wooden ones we had at the
Advocate
. Again I went through my spiel about recollections of the tragedy and asked if Rey had anything new to add.

He didn’t, though he gave the query some thought. “There was opportunity,” he said. “That prop box wasn’t guarded every minute, though Boots did his best. But there were just too many distractions. I was running around all over the place, trying to help out the techs. What’s more, with those headphones on most of the time, I couldn’t hear anything even in my immediate surroundings.”

“You didn’t see a bushy-haired stranger, I take it.”

Rey laughed and shook his head. “That’s not to say there wasn’t one. I was in a zone.”

I shifted uneasily in the chair. “Rey, what do you know about drug use among the college students?”

Rey stiffened. Even his black mustache seemed to bristle. “Small-town sentiment runs to racial profiling, I take it? Any Hispanic must know about drugs?”

I sighed. “You could be Polish or Pakistani and I’d still ask the question. You’re older than most of the kids on campus and less likely to be intimidated by a snoopy reporter. Someone”—I neglected to mention that the someone was Ed, who was not always a reliable source—“saw you and some of the other students along with at least one faculty member smoking something strange outside of the theater.”

“Good God!” Rey cried. “So Berenger’s murder is connected to a few people having a toke? I don’t believe it!” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I thought you were more broad-minded than that.”

“I am. I hope,” I added. “No, I don’t have any reason to think the murder and the drugs are related. But I’d like to know what a car thief who’s also a drug dealer was doing in Alpine the night Hans was killed.”

“Oh.” Rey seemed to calm down a bit. “You mean the bushy-haired stranger?” He waited for me to nod my agreement, then waited a little longer. “Okay. Sure, there’s pot on campus, there’s pot all over town. Big deal. There’s other stuff, too, and the students get some of it. So do faculty members and, for all I know, maybe the mayor and the county commissioners and the Baptist minister—Poole, isn’t it?”

“I realize we’re not living in a cocoon,” I said. “Good Lord, we all know that after last year’s meth lab mess.”

“Right.” Rey glanced at the clock. Four thirty-five. “I should get organized for the next segment. I wish I could be more help.”

He seemed pleasant enough, but the dismissal struck me as abrupt. “I wasn’t asking you to squeal on anybody,” I declared.

Rey’s smile was off-center. “I couldn’t help you if you did.” He returned to sorting the stack of CDs. “Good luck. Good-bye.”

∗ ∗ ∗

My abrupt departure allowed me to stop by the sheriff’s office before Milo left for the day. When I arrived, he was in the reception area, leaning against the curving counter and eating popcorn.

“Have some,” he offered. “Toni made it for us before she left early to see Dr. Starr. She had a toothache.”

“Guess what?” I said after stuffing a handful of kernels in my mouth. “I know what happened to Hans’s wife, Julia.”

Milo cocked his head to one side. “What?”

Dwight Gould and Jack Mullins, who had been studying the latest copy of
Combat Handguns
, looked up from the other side of the counter.

“Julia was attacked by their dog and died from the wounds,” I announced.

“Ugly,” Jack said.

“That’s bad,” Dwight said.

“Are you sure?” Milo asked.

I scowled at him. “Of course I’m sure. I got it from someone at the Associated Press in Seattle who read me the original story from the San Diego newspaper.”

Milo munched on his popcorn. “I’d really like to get a dog someday. The trouble is, I can’t spend much time with an animal. And I don’t hunt like I used to. I’ve always wanted a water spaniel.”

“Milo!” I actually stamped my foot. “Doesn’t this news mean something to you?”

“Like what?”

“Like . . .” I stopped. “Like why was Hans going to buy property? To raise dogs, the same kind that killed his wife?”

“Or train them
not
to kill?”

I considered the idea, then rejected it. “No. I’m thinking he trained their dog
to
kill.”

Milo choked on his popcorn. “Jesus!” he exclaimed after pounding himself on the chest. “That’s wild!”

“But it happens,” I said quietly. “I’ve heard about such things, but most cases don’t get to court. They’re impossible to prove.”

Milo took a swig from a can of Sprite. “Yeah, I’ve heard those stories myself. I thought maybe they were . . . what do you call them?”

“Urban legends?” I shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“But even if it’s true,” Milo said, still looking dismayed, “what has it got to do with Hans getting shot eight years later in Alpine?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted.

Jack Mullins was shaking his head. “If it happened, it proves what a rotten S.O.B. Hans really was. No wonder Al Driggers can’t get anyone to claim the body.”

Dwight nodded solemnly. “You can train a dog to kill when you’re not around. You have to use the right trigger. Like some regular habit of the victim’s. You know—opening the liquor cabinet, putting on a gardening hat—whatever.” Dwight grew even more somber. “If Berenger could do that to his wife, think what kind of other skulduggery he might’ve been up to. Or had on the drawing board.”

“We’re guessing,” Milo said flatly. “That’s no help.”

I felt deflated. “Well, I thought I’d let you know.”

“Thanks.” Milo ate some more popcorn. “How do you know Berenger wasn’t investigated?”

“I don’t,” I confessed, “but Cardenas is the cautious type. At SCC, the dean of students is second in command. Nat would be pretty thorough in checking out a prospective hire.”

“Probably.” Milo was still looking thoughtful. “It’s pretty weird, though. I wonder if Mrs. B. was rich.”

“Money’s always a good motive,” Jack noted.

“Maybe I’ll do some more checking,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Milo said. “Let me know if—” He stopped as his cell phone went off. “Dodge here,” he said, turning away from the rest of us. “Right. . . . Sure. . . . No, it’s your jurisdiction for now. . . . Good. . . . Here? . . . That makes sense. Who was the contact? . . . You’re kidding me. . . . Yes, definitely get back to me. Thanks.”

When the sheriff again looked at us, there was a glint of satisfaction in his hazel eyes. “That was SnoCo. They picked up Darryl Eckstrom this afternoon at a Lynnwood motel. He had about ten grand worth of crack cocaine with him. Eckstrom wants to cut a deal, so he’s naming names, not just his suppliers but who he was dealing to. He handed over a list of about ten contacts. One of the names on that list was Hans Berenger.”

∗ ∗ ∗

It made sense, or so it seemed. Eckstrom hadn’t yet served any prison time and would be a willing informant to keep from being put behind bars. The guy didn’t sound very smart, but he’d be savvy enough to save himself. The way Milo figured it, Eckstrom had stolen a car, driven to Alpine last Friday night, and then skidded off the road and gone into the river. Or maybe he’d decided to ditch the Mitsubishi before he was picked up in it. He’d shown up backstage just long enough to exchange the blanks for bullets. Maybe, Milo said, Hans was trying to cheat him or get out of the deal. In any event, Nat Cardenas had involuntarily fired the shot that had killed Hans. Eckstrom had his revenge and an alibi. He’d probably been drinking at Mugs Ahoy when the murder was committed. Milo would wait until the Snohomish County authorities were finished with Eckstrom before bringing him to Alpine for questioning.

“Drugs,” Dwight said in disgust when Milo had finished. “These days, it always seems to come down to drugs.”

Milo grabbed my arm. “Come on, let’s go have a drink. Hell, I’ll buy dinner. Jack, Dwight, meet us at the ski lodge when Dustin and Sam show up to relieve you.”

“Can’t,” Dwight said with a doleful expression. “My wife’s folks are coming for dinner.”

Jack made a face. “I promised Nina I’d floss her teeth tonight. Or some damned thing.”

Still holding my arm, Milo looked at me. “Emma?”

“Huh?” I’d only half heard the others. “Oh . . . sure. Shall I meet you there?”

“Ride with me,” Milo said. “Maybe I’ll even put on the siren.”

I didn’t want to puncture the sheriff’s good mood. “Okay.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Milo promised, going behind the counter. “I’ve got some paperwork to do.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Is it all right if I borrow your computer out here? I want to look something up.”

“Go ahead,” Milo replied, and disappeared into his office.

I sat down at Toni Andreas’s desk and keyed in the
San Diego Union-Tribune
. I clicked on the Archives icon and typed “Julia Blair Berenger” in the Search box. Four articles showed up. One of them was the story Rolf Fisher had read to me over the phone. Another was about pond research she was doing for the state. The third was a brief follow-up on her death but revealed nothing new. The fourth and final piece was her obituary.

It was standard fare, but I gaped at the list of survivors. Besides Hans, there was another name I knew, and it sent chills down my spine.

∗ ∗ ∗

“We aren’t talking business tonight,” Milo declared after we got into his Grand Cherokee. “It’s Friday, the case is wrapped up, and the baseball season is one month away. Let’s think about the Mariners. It’s going to be their year.”

“Okay.” My enthusiasm was halfhearted. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk about the Mariners, but I had something else on my mind. Maybe, I reflected as we turned off Alpine Way onto Tonga Road, there was no hurry to discuss the name I’d read in Julia Berenger’s obituary. But I didn’t really believe it. On the other hand, Milo deserved a break after his harrowing workweek.