The Aspen Account (32 page)

“That’s horrible,” Seaton said, almost whispering.

“I believe it was because of my grandfather’s mistakes that my father got so interested in accounting, as if he was trying to prove something—as if he was somehow making amends for the town that had died because of his family’s inability to protect it.”

Seaton looked at Michael as if he had just witnessed something profound. “And so now,” he said, “you—like your father—feel some responsibility to make amends for your grandfather’s mistakes?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“But it
isn’t
your responsibility,” Seaton said, as if still trying to comprehend.

Michael saw in his mind’s eye the image of his grandfather, sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of his house and staring blankly into the dark night. “Mr. Seaton, I have to do everything I can to prevent your company from being destroyed by this fraud.”

Michael realized he had kept these thoughts locked away in his mind for too long as he was unraveling the fraud at X-Tronic, and now he felt some relief after finally telling the story aloud to someone else. Outside the huge window behind Seaton, the snow fell as if it had never stopped, and the wind picked up, swaying the evergreens into each other like drunken sailors walking arm in arm. The second wave of the storm was coming fast.

54

THE YUKON PULLED into Glenwood Springs, barreling through snowdrifts that the storm had built in the streets during the night, jostling its three passengers. At last, the truck lurched to a stop, sliding sideways into a parking lot where a half-dozen mountain rescue jeeps already waited.

The three men jumped out of the Yukon and headed toward the rustic sheriff’s office. Beasley looked sporty in his cashmere jacket; Noble, trying to hide his annoyance with the cold, was bundled in a heavy ski parka; and Kano betrayed his city roots by wearing a black trench coat that fell past his knees.

Inside the building, a disarrayed group of officers tried frantically to manage the biggest manhunt any of them had ever seen. 

“Captain Muller?” Kano asked.

“Sheriff Muller,” announced a stout man with a trace of Native American ancestry in his weathered features, emerging from the center of the group.

“Sorry, Sheriff. I’m Jason Kano with the U.S. Marshal’s Office of Colorado. We understand you’ve begun a local search for one of our fugitives.”

Muller gave a gruff chuckle, but then his face locked into the serious expression of a man clearly in charge of his turf. “He’s not a fugitive—he’s a suspect in a murder investigation and therefore doesn’t fall under your jurisdiction. This is our county, our suspect, and our search.”

“There’s a federal warrant out for Chapman’s arrest,” Kano replied. “The moment your officer pulled a gun on Chapman and had him on the ground, he was legally considered to be in custody.” He glanced around the room: concrete walls with paint that looked decades old, two file cabinets scratched up and jammed in a corner, gray paint peeling from the baseboards like a snake shedding its skin. He spoke clearly to make sure everyone understood that his authority superseded everyone else’s here. “When Chapman overpowered the officer, he technically became an escaped fugitive, even though he hasn’t been sentenced for a crime. The investigation is suspended until Chapman is reapprehended. As a federal fugitive whose last known whereabouts were in Colorado, the hunt for him falls under the direct jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshal’s Office of Colorado. That’s why I’ve been dispatched to take control of your search and to lead the coordination efforts from this point forward. I appreciate the full cooperation of you and your men. You need to bring me up to speed on everything that’s happened here in the past twelve hours.”

Looking blindsided by Kano’s rapid and concise explanation of his authority over the manhunt, the sheriff seemed to accept that the marshal was now in charge. Nodding to acknowledge the newcomer’s seniority, the sheriff led Kano into a makeshift operations room. On the wall was a large map of Colorado with red and blue pushpins scattered at various locations.

The sheriff pointed a thick finger at the map. “Blues are towns or campgrounds we believe Chapman may be trying to hide in. Reds are checkpoints we’ve set up along highways or roads.”

Kano memorized the map at a glance. “You think he’s either still in the area or heading for Grand Junction,” he determined from the placement of pins.

“That’s exactly right,” the sheriff said, a little awed by the marshal’s instant grasp of the situation. “We know he’s suspected of the murder in Vail, so he was obviously heading west through the mountains. We think that his original plan was to go through Grand Junction—maybe all the way to Las Vegas or L.A.—but he may have been forced to stop over in one of these locations because of the storm.”

“Why west?” Kano said, standing in front of the map. “Why not go back to Denver? That’s where he lived.”

The sheriff clomped over to the small wood table with three metal folding chairs pushed unevenly into it. Sitting on the table, he propped a foot on one of the chairs and stared at Kano with renewed confidence. He seemed back in his comfort zone. “Before Officer Rodale tried to arrest him, Chapman said he was going to Grand Junction,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly.

“And you believe that?” Kano’s eyes had drifted above the map to a water stain in the ceiling.

“He obviously panicked after he killed the man in Vail—wanted to get as far away from Denver and Vail as possible. Going west is the best way. He may have figured the storm would make it hard for law enforcement units to respond in the mountain region, which could buy him time—maybe an extra day.”

Kano looked over his shoulder at the sheriff. “We don’t know for sure that he killed the man in Vail. And he didn’t seem to panic when your officer pulled a gun on him.” He grinned a little, as if he was starting to find the whole thing fun. “No, there’s something else going on here. Did you check to see if he has any family in the area?”

Frustrated, the sheriff glanced back at the open door leading into the main room, where the other officers had fallen into a general chatter, oblivious to the conversation in the next room. “We’re still waiting on the FBI database for his file request. Having some sort of glitch with the file—trouble accessing his information. Could be the storm. Resource priority may have changed. Most of the state is shut down right now, and I’m not sure how many channels the request had to go through.”

Kano looked back at the map, his long leather coat swaying slightly as he moved. “You know, Sheriff, when I was a kid, my church used to have these huge Easter egg hunts once a year. They would tell us how many eggs had been hidden in this little park across from the church. And as all the other kids used to cluster together in certain areas, I would always go as far away from the others as possible. I was always alone on my hunts.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “You see, there would be too many kids concentrated in one area, while they left entire sections unsearched. This increased my chances of finding more eggs than anybody else. And while they always fought over the few eggs that had been hidden in the most obvious spots, I would find lots more in the most unusual places.”

Kano turned back to Beasley, standing in the doorway. “Let’s not waste our time with this,” he said. “If Chapman was in one of these places, we would have found him by now. Focus all our efforts on the areas that no one’s thought of looking at yet. Start by examining his phone bills over the past few months. I want a list of all the places he’s had incoming or outgoing calls that are between Vail and Las Vegas. I don’t think he’s trying to run from anything. He seems too calculating to just be doing something random and desperate. I think he’s moving towards someone or someplace that he knows.”

*     *     *

Kano was seated in a wooden chair next to a window. The blizzard outside was moving slowly through the mountains, and it seemed that the marshals were currently in the center of it. He heard a knock at the door. 

“We have three locations,” Beasley said, coming into the room. “The first is the home of a Dr. Melvin Speer, who lives just outside Breckenridge. The second is a camping lodge between here and Grand Junction. The third is the home of a Don Seaton, who lives in Aspen.”

“Seaton?”

“Uh-huh. Father of the victim.”

“When was that call dated?”

“About a month ago.”

“All right. We’ll focus our efforts on those three areas until we hear something. It’s been sixteen hours since our last known sighting of Chapman. Sheriff Muller will provide us with two additional unmarked vehicles. Have Anthony visit Dr. Speer, you investigate the camping lodge, and I’ll pay a visit to Don Seaton in Aspen. Contact local law enforcement in each area and have them provide armed backup in case we find Chapman at one of these sites. Make the calls now; we leave in five minutes.”

As the others scattered from the room, Kano grabbed his coat and moved outside to the snowy parking lot. It was cold and windy. Overcast clouds floated low over the area, slicing the peaks off the white mountains surrounding the town. The sky was even darker in the east, warning him of the returning storm. Between the snowstorm and law enforcement, Colorado was in complete lockdown. Wherever Mr. Chapman was hiding, he would be stuck there, and it was only a matter of time before Kano found him.

Anthony and Beasley joined him outside, where they stood in silence, heads down, peering at the snowy ground. He slapped Beasley on the shoulder and nodded at Anthony, and the three men climbed into separate four-wheel-drive vehicles. At the highway intersection they split up: Anthony toward Breckenridge, Beasley toward Grand Junction, and Kano toward Aspen.

55

MICHAEL EXPLORED THE mansion like a child in a museum. Seaton and Marcus had left for Vail early this morning to claim Lucas’s body. There had been a temporary break in the storm, but more bad weather had started an hour ago. 

On the second level of the mansion, the walls were decorated with historic artifacts and cultural souvenirs: the first model of a Westchester clock sat next to a “Zulu egg” from the New Orleans Mardi Gras; a Manet oil hung across from a Warhol.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Michael turned, surprised to see that Hopkins, impeccably turned out in black livery, had sneaked up behind him.

“Here to give me a tour of the place, are you Mr. Hopkins?”

“If you desperately require one, sir,” he replied.

“Tell me, Mr. Hopkins, how long have you been with Mr. Seaton?”

“Twenty-five years, sir.” He spoke the answer as if reading a poem.

A slight smile emerged on Michael’s face. He envied the intimate understanding that Hopkins must have of Don Seaton’s complicated life. “So you knew him before his wife’s death,” Michael mused aloud. “What was he like then?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

Michael tilted his head. “Oh, come on, Hopkins, you can tell me more than that. This place seems so lifeless, so forgotten. And Mr. Seaton spends half his life locked up in this estate these days.” Michael turned to the bookcase and ran a finger along the bindings. “I remember reading about him when I was in college. He traveled the world on extreme adventures before my generation even conceived of the idea. He was the idol of everyone from entrepreneurs to alpinists. He was the one man everyone in America envied—energetic, rich, smart, a beautiful wife, twin sons . . .”

Michael withdrew his hand from the books and looked around at the lifeless artifacts in the room. “His wife’s death changed everything, didn’t it? This place turned from Camelot to a ghost town. Now this place has no joy or life. It’s cold and dark, isolated up here in the snowy mountains, away from the world. It has nothing but memories.”

“Mrs. Seaton’s death was a loss to us all,” Hopkins said, maintaining his stiff demeanor. “If you insist on comparing the past with Camelot, sir, then you should recognize what happens when the queen is taken from the kingdom. You are right: in many ways it turned our bright world dark. And now we’re facing another tragedy with the loss of Lucas—one of the princes of this little kingdom, if you will. Mr. Seaton is a strong man, and he has dealt with the devastating events of his life as best he can. Sometimes, sir, we find ourselves at a point in life where all we have to hold on to
are
memories.”

Michael noticed a family portrait on the wall: Seaton and his wife sitting on a white bench, with Lance and Lucas standing behind them. The boys looked about ten, but the defining features of their faces were already set. It must have been among the last pictures of all four together. Seaton looked much younger, full of the energy Michael remembered from early biographies. Michael saw something of his own life reflected in the oppressive sadness of the mansion, saw his joy and energy being steadily drained away by the mounting tragedies. 

“Mr. Hopkins, sir,” a younger servant announced, entering the room, “there is a visitor at the front door who wishes to speak with Mr. Seaton. His name is Jason Kano, and he’s a federal marshal from Denver.”

“I’ll be right down,” Hopkins said. After the servant left, Hopkins turned back to Michael. “Do you know anything about this?”

Michael took a moment too long to reply. “I think Mr. Seaton would want you to get rid of the marshal as quickly as you can.”

Hopkins held Michael’s gaze for a second, then turned and left the room.

Jason Kano waited patiently in the receiving hall of the Seaton mansion. He heard footsteps approaching. A servant, much older than the one who had greeted him, came toward him.

“Mr. Kano, I’m Reynard Hopkins, Mr. Seaton’s butler.”

“So, then, Mr. Seaton’s not here,” the marshal replied. “Any chance he’s in Aspen Village? I’d like to ask him a few questions, if possible.”

Surprised that Kano had so quickly deduced Seaton’s absence, Hopkins made a mental note that the marshal had a talent for perceiving and assimilating small details.