Cold Case Page 6

The night was almost moonless when we glided to a stop at the Yampa Valley airport. Hans preceded Percy off the plane and helped him collect his plentiful luggage.

  We were airborne again in minutes, the rolling mountaintops of the Routt National Forest quickly yielding to the sharp rock faces and glacial precipices of the Continental Divide. We'd be zooming down the Front Range in minutes, home in bed, I guessed, within the hour.

  Adrienne, our neighbor across the lane, heard us drive up and released our dog out her front door. Emily bounded across the dirt and gravel toward our garage with astonishing enthusiasm. She pounced left, she charged right. Before proceeding farther, she lowered her head and scooped up a stick, shaking it with enough intensity to kill it.

  From Adrienne's doorway, we heard a little male voice scream, "Emily! Em-i-ly!

  Come back. Come back!"

  Lauren called, "Hi, Jonas. She'll come back and see you tomorrow, okay? It's late. It's time for her to go to bed."

  He lowered his arms as though he were a bird preparing to fly. He stomped one foot.

  "She wants to play. She doesn't want to go to bed."

  "Tomorrow, honey. Tell your mom thanks for watching her, okay?"

  Jonas flapped his arms again and started to cry. Lauren placed the palm of one hand on her belly and looked at the watch on her other wrist. She shook her head and her face looked rueful. She said, "Gosh, sweets, I hope our baby isn't a night person. I don't know what I'll do."

  I let our carry-ons fall from my hands and gave her a hug.

  "We'll do fine.

  You'll do fine."

  She was looking back over my shoulder toward Adrienne's house.

  "That's not Erin's car, is it?" Erin Rand was Adrienne's girlfriend-partner of quite a few months, and her first same-sex paramour ever.

  I looked and said, "No It's not Erin's. Not unless she won the lottery." Erin was a struggling private detective. The car by Adrienne's front door was a cream-colored Lexus.

  Lauren mused, "I haven't seen Erin in a couple of weeks. Do you think she's… I don't know. Do you think they broke up?"

  "I don't know either. Adrienne hasn't said anything to me about any trouble in their relationship."

  Lauren hooked an arm around my back.

  "Its funny, don't you think, that if that car belongs to some new love interest of Adrienne's, that neither of us really has a clue what the gender of the driver might be?"

  "I bet girl," I said without any confidence.

  "That looks like an estrogen-colored Lexus."

  "Estrogen-colored? What the hell does that mean? No. That's an androgynous Lexus. And I bet boy," Lauren countered, holding out her hand for a shake.

  "Bet?

  Let's say the loser cooks and cleans up dinners for a week."

  "What about take-out or restaurants?"

  "No more than twice."

  "Why do you think Adrienne's gone back to seeing a guy? Do you know something I don't know?"

  She spun me at my shoulders and pointed me toward the front door.

  "Gosh, Alan, I certainly hope so."

  PART TWO. The Two Dead Girls

  Monday morning came around just when it was supposed to. After some weekends that simple occurrence surprises me. This was one of those.

  I drove across town to my Walnut Street office to see my 8:15 patient. Lauren took her own car into town, heading up Canyon Boulevard to the Justice Center for a meeting with the coroner's chief assistant. Their meeting was to discuss his testimony in a trial scheduled for that afternoon. She was doubtful that the case was going to plead out.

  My patients all showed up at their appointed times. None of them threw me any curveballs that I couldn't hit and I was home in time for dinner.

  Neither Erin's old Saab nor the cream-colored Lexus had reappeared in front of Adriennes house across the lane, and neither Lauren nor I had been brave enough to inquire about the current state of fluctuation of our neighbor's sexual orientation. Lauren and I were still sharing dinner chores, our bet unresolved.

  For me Tuesday began like Monday. I had four patients to see before lunch, three afterward. I was hoping to get home early enough to indulge in a long bike ride on the country roads that crisscrossed the rapidly disappearing open prairie of eastern Boulder County. Lauren had given the opening statement in her child-abuseresultingin-death case on Monday afternoon and was due to call her first witness at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. She thought the trial would last through Wednesday at least but had grown more hopeful about settlement and half expected a plea conference during the lunch recess. She considered the first three witnesses in her case to be lethal to the defense and expected to get them all in before noon. She also suspected that her adversary at the defense table would blink.

  I cooked Tuesday's dinner. Grilled halibut and steamed baby bok choy in garlic sauce. The menu was my wife's idea; Lauren was currently religious about omega-3 fish oils, garlic, and iron. On her way home from work she'd picked up a loaf of multigrain from the Breadworks on North Broadway.

  She was just about done cleaning up the paltry mess I'd left in the kitchen when the phone rang. I took it in the big open room that ran the length of the west end of the house.

  The house was one that I had called home for a long time. I'd lived through two periods of being single there and was now in my second period being married there. Two different wives, the second a much better match than the first. The house, once a shack, now felt new to me. The previous autumn Lauren and I had embarked on an ambitious addition and remodeling project, and the smells and feels of the place were those of a new home.

  The views, fortunately, hadn't changed at all.

  Our home sits near the top of a western-facing slope in Spanish Hills on the eastern side of the Boulder Valley. On a clear day-and in Colorado most of them are clear enough-our view of the Front Range extends from north of Pikes Peak to north of Longs Peak and from the greenbelt on the east side of the city of Boulder all the way to the Continental Divide. God might have a better view than we did but I wouldn't believe it unless He sent along a postcard to prove it.

  As summer threatened, the days were getting longer and the sun was lingering so low in the evening sky that the sharp rays made it impossible to sit facing west without lowering the blinds, which I was loath to do. When the phone rang, I picked up the receiver and sat with my back to the mountains. I expected to hear my partner's voice. Diane Estevez had left me a message during our workday that she wanted to talk about a weekend away that Lauren and I were planning with Diane and her husband, Raoul. Diane was currently on a Taos kick. I was guessing that she wanted to lobby us to change our weekend plans from the Great Sand Dunes to Taos.

  I said, "Hello."

  "Alan? It's A. J."

  My breath caught in my throat. I'd almost forgotten about the two dead girls.

  "A.J. How are you?"

  Almost forgotten.

  "Fine," she said in a manner that precluded further inquiry about her health.

  Lauren employed the same tone sometimes; I had radar for it.

  "I think we're ready to get started on our little adventure. I have some information. You have something to write with?"

  "No. Hold on." I ran to the new master bedroom and grabbed a pad of notepaper that I kept by the bed.

  "Shoot."

  "First, I've made contact with Representative Welle's office. With remarkably little fuss he's agreed to see you. That surprises me. His next visit home to Colorado is in about two weeks. He's flying into Denver a week from Friday for some meetings and fund-raising appearances before going up to his place in the mountains for a few days of R and R. I worked out a tentative time for you to see him on the Friday that he's in Denver. Can you make that work? I hope you can make that work."

  "I try to keep Fridays pretty clear, A. J. Shouldn't be any problem. Where does he want to meet?"

  "Representative Welle will be attending some fund-raiser at a place his aide called the Phipps Ma
nsion. Said it's where the recent Summit of the Eight was held when it was in Denver. Do you know anything about it? Know where it is? I can get more details if you need me to."

  "That's not necessary. I've been there once before. I'm sure I can find it again."

  "Anyway, Welle wants to meet you there, at that mansion, just before or just after his fund-raising luncheon."

  "Either is fine with me."

  "Well, you won't get to choose. They'll call you the day before and tell you whether it's going to be before or whether it's going to be after. I think it's a petty little political control thing-keeping you waiting to be beckoned-but who am I to question the motives of the powerful? I was told you'd get a message from a man named Phillip Barrett. He'll-"

  "I heard about Barrett from Percy Smith on the plane ride back to Colorado. He's an old friend of Welle's.

  He was the sheriff in Routt

  County when Gloria Welle was kidnapped and murdered. And when the two girls were killed."

  "I didn't know that. Interesting. Now Barrett's one of Welle's congressional honchos, maybe even chief of staff. I don't know. I don't really care. These staffers are mostly just insulation as far as I can tell. They function like they're just rolls and rolls of that puffy pink stuff-ways to keep regular folks more than a few steps away from their elected representatives.

  Regardless, Barrett'll call you with the time that Welle chooses for your audience. I gave Barrett both your office number and your beeper number, but not your home."

  "Good. I'm grateful that I have a couple of weeks before I meet with Welle. I want to drive up to Steamboat and try to get to know Tami Franklin's family-you know, begin to flesh out a profile on her and learn what I can about her relationship with Mariko. And I need to get permission from Mariko's family to receive information about her psychotherapy with Dr. Welle. Do you by any chance have phone numbers and addresses for them-any way for me to reach the Hamamotos?"

  "If I don't have them already, I can get them. I'll fax them to you as soon as I do. You want me to fax it to your home or to your office?"

  "Please send everything here, to my house."

  "Oh, and you'll get a package from me tomorrow. I overnighted it to your house.

  It's copies of all the parts of the original investigation that might be pertinent to what you and I are doing. Statements, interviews, reports. You know. I've highlighted some things that I found interesting. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"

  I looked west just as the sun was cresting the Divide. The long shadows of dusk were creeping in a relentless advance across the Boulder Valley toward our house.

  "Just some advice. Do you think I should let Raymond Welle know that I'm married to his ex-sisterin-law?"

  A. J. laughed.

  "No. Absolutely, no. There may come a time when we want to throw that in his face. This isn't it. Hey," she asked, "how's the pregnancy going? Is Lauren feeling okay?"

  "Great. No problems so far. She actually seems less tired now that she's pregnant."

  "I've heard that happens. Don't think I'll try it, though. Has she gotten a call from Mary Wright yet?"

  "Not that I know of. But she's been in a trial both days this week."

  "I really envy Lauren's strength. I couldn't do what she does. It's much too draining."

  "The disease you two have has many faces, A. J. Your illnesses have the same name, but never the same consequences. Still, sometimes I worry that its too draining for her, too."

  She didn't really want to talk about her illness. She said, "I'm sure Mary will be in touch, soon."

  Two seconds after I hung up the phone, it rang again. This time it was my longtime partner, Diane.

  Her greeting was, "I've been trying to reach you for hours. Why don't you get call waiting?"

  "I've only been on the phone for ten minutes. And I don't like those annoying little clicks in my ears."

  "Well, I don't like busy signals."

  I shrugged. This argument didn't appear to offer much hope of reward.

  "What's up?"

  She sighed.

  "Would you guys consider going to Taos instead of the Sand Dunes?

  There's this gallery I really, really want to go to. They're holding a piece for me. Please? Pretty please? We'll do the wilderness and buffalo thing some other time."

  The fax with addresses and phone numbers for the Hamamotos slithered out of our machine a half an hour after I yielded to Diane about Taos.

  Mr. Hamamoto was living in British Columbia. His wife was in Japan. His surviving daughter was a graduate student at Stanford, in California. I phoned the number in British Columbia and left Mr. Hamamoto a message, along with an abbreviated explanation of my involvement in Locard and my interest in his daughter. I asked him to please return my call.

  Lauren's case pleaded out on Wednesday morning before court commenced for the day. Since she was only working half-time, she decided that she was free to take the rest of the week off. I would be done with my last patient of the week Thursday afternoon at 3:45. The five-day forecast called for sunny days and cool nights. Afternoon thunderstorms were always a possibility.

  Adrienne and Jonas were eager to watch Emily.

  It was a perfect time to visit Steamboat Springs. By the time we left for the mountains late on Thursday afternoon I still hadn't heard back from Mr. Hamamoto.

  I was tempted to take Highway 40 north through Granby-it was the more scenic route to Steamboat-but it was a longer drive and I didn't really want to be forced to do Rabbit Ears Pass in the darkest of darks, so we opted to stay on Interstate 70 all the way to Silverthorne, and headed north from there. Less than ten minutes after departing the interstate I pulled over to the side of the two-lane road and stopped the car in the dust. I pointed up the hill to the east and said to Lauren, "That's Dead Eds ranchette." The sign above the gate in front of us read the not so lazy seven ranch.

  The previous year, one of my patients, a teenage girl a little younger than Tami Franklin, had had her life turned upside down in a barn up that dirt road.

  Although I'd been to the ranchette once before with my friend, Boulder detective Sam Purdy, this was the first time I'd had the opportunity to point it out to Lauren.

  She didn't know the psychological details of the tragedy, only the more public, legal ones. Both of her hands were resting on her abdomen as she said, "That's where it happened? Whatever it was with the RV and… Merritt? And the shooting? This is where that was, too?"

  She knew the answers to her questions. But I responded anyway.

  "You can't see the barn from here, but yes. On the other side of that stand of aspen is where it is. You can see a little bit of the house from here. The sun is still reflecting off the windows. See? There? To the left?"

  "Yes, I think I see it." She had already stopped looking up the hill. Her gaze was focused straight down the highway, as straight as the parallel lines of yellow paint down the center of the road. Her voice was soft, but adamant as she said, "We won't ever let things like that happen to our baby, will we?"

  I checked my mirrors for traffic and touched her on the cheek.

  "No way, sweets.

  No way." Neither of us was naive enough to believe we actually had the power to protect our baby from life's hurts-big or little-but to embark on this journey as parents we knew we needed whatever talismans bravado could provide.

  So I conspired with her to parental assurance. Although it was relatively new behavior to me, I found it to be a totally natural act.

  I eased the big car from the shoulder back onto the asphalt and pressed hard on the accelerator. The car lurched. Behind us a pair of headlamps was gaining ground too quickly for my comfort.

  The sun had already disappeared behind the Gore Range and the narrow valley that hugged the Blue River was quickly losing its luster. The daylight that remained was bruised black and blue. We stopped in Kremmling and ate at a bakery that sold pizza. The Colorado River flowed nearby. We'd cro
ss it in the final light of dusk. I was thinking that it would be swollen with snowmelt.

  Over bitter coffee, I became conscious of the images that this journey along Highway 9 was foisting into my awareness. Bruising, swelling, tragedy, tumult.

  Snowmelt.

  The reason, I knew, was simple. The next morning Lauren and I were scheduled to meet with Catherine and Wendell Franklin to talk with them about their dead daughter, Tamara.

  The drive up County Road 129 into the Elk River Valley outside Steamboat Springs had taken a little more than a half hour. The road hugged the river as it climbed gently through a gorgeous high-country valley that was blessed with wide expanses of pasture and rolling hillsides that were covered with spruce, fir, and aspen. It was difficult to believe that we were high in the Rockies.

  This didn't even feel like the same mountain system that spawned the Gore Range, the Maroon Bells, or the Sanjuans.

  I didn't get lost on my way to the ranch.

  "Go until you almost get to Clark.

  You'll see the ranch on your left. If you get to Clark, you missed us. The barn has a new roof," Dell Franklin had explained on the phone. Lauren spotted the new roof and I pulled off the road. The Elk River was at least a half mile to the west of us at that point. The deep meadow between the river and us rippled as gentle breezes brushed the silky tops of the alfalfa crop.

  I'd been expecting to greet a couple on the verge of retirement. But the Franklins weren't too many years older than Lauren and me. I guessed that Cathy must have been only eighteen or nineteen when she had given birth to her first child, her daughter, Tamara. Now their nest was empty while we were only beginning to prepare ours.

  "Call us Dell and Cathy, please." The order came from Dell Franklin.

  "Sit down, sit down. Have some coffee and cake."

  Dell collapsed heavily on his chair and his breathing was labored. He was portly and wore his hair in a buzz cut that has recently become fashionable again. I doubt that Dell knew much about fashion, though. To meet with us, he had dressed in a long-sleeve blue polo shirt with a Cadillac insignia over one breast, and new blue Wranglers. The sleeves of the polo shirt were pushed up halfway over his thick forearms. He wore boots that were reserved for indoor use. Even this early in the summer his skin was brown and weathered and the ladder of wrinkles on each of his temples was deeply furrowed from many hours, probably too many hours, in the high-country sunshine.