Deadly Places: A Mapleton Mystery Novella (8 page)

“We’ll have to walk and talk,” Ed said to Charlotte Strickland, who had her pen and notepad at the ready. He upped his pace. “I have to be at the station.”

Not a lie, because he
did
work there, but he had nothing pressing on his schedule. Other than the newly added item,
Avoid talking to Charlotte Strickland.

“I have a few questions,” she said, matching his stride. “If Chief Hepler and the mayor don’t agree on terms, would you consider being the Chief of Police?”

Not the social media question, which surprised him. Or had she made up her mind what she was going to write about that?

“It’s not something I’ve considered,” Ed said. “I have complete faith Chief Hepler will return once his leave of absence is over.”

“Leave of absence? I thought he was on probation.”

Ed stopped, looked her in the eye. “No, that was rescinded. If you remember, he was involved in a shooting and suffered some minor injuries. He’s taking some well-deserved time off. I’m merely holding down the fort.”

“Have you asked him about your social media plan?” she asked.

“No, that’s something he’ll be able to decide for himself. As I pointed out to the council, this is an idea, posed in response to their questionnaire.” He reached his car, chirped the lock. Gave her a smile worthy of the mayor. “If you have any further questions, you can call my admin and make an appointment, and I’ll be happy to talk with you.”

At the station, he started a fresh pot of pumpkin spice coffee, then checked in with Laurie.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“He liked your numbers. Thanks again for handling that part. As for the rest, it was okay, I guess. He grilled me about my social media idea, which was expected. Didn’t say yea or nay. But the council said they were considering the possibility Gordon wasn’t coming back. Have you heard anything from him?”

She shook her head. “No, and that’s not like him. He wasn’t happy about the way the mayor treated him. I can see him going incommunicado.”

Trouble was, Ed couldn’t. Then again, maybe he’d gone off to somewhere remote—there were plenty of those sorts of getaway places. Places where there was no Internet, no cell phone service. But, Ed tried Gordon’s cell anyway. Straight to voicemail, same as every other call.

He could call Megan Wyatt, Angie’s catering partner. See if she knew anything. But that seemed like going behind Gordon’s back, and Ed didn’t want to go there.

He wondered once more what Mary Ellen would think about his accepting the position—assuming it was offered, and if tomorrow night’s dinner at the Black Bear Chalet would be the right time to bring it up. No, because that would lead to shop talk, and his impersonating Dennis Donovan would hit the fan. He wanted the night to be relaxed and romantic, and talking shop definitely wouldn’t create that kind of atmosphere.

She’d come to understand that in Mapleton, their force was too small for a desk-jockey Chief, that he’d be doing normal police duties on top of the Chief Stuff, so being a nine-to-fiver was out of the question, but it was a promotion and they could always use the increase in pay.

Then again, Mitch’s escapade had shown Ed and Mary Ellen their boys were reaching a point where a parental presence, especially a strong father figure, was necessary. Being Chief was adding to Ed’s hours, not cutting back on them.

The spicy coffee aroma wafted from his office, and he needed to get to work. Somehow, meetings always took twice as long to catch up from than the actual meeting.

“Thanks again,” he said to Laurie. “If you want some seasonal coffee, feel free to come into my office for a cup.”

Laurie declined the offer. “I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day, and I have to finish printing out these computer training manuals. Deputy Horacek’s been most helpful.”

“Right. Computers on Monday.” He hadn’t actually forgotten. More like he’d lost track of what day it was. “Where am I on the schedule?”

“You’re not,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“You get the
VIP, at your convenience
treatment. Feel free to sit in on any sessions as your schedule permits. Or, I’m sure any of the deputies would be happy to let you ride along and give you a hands-on training session.”

“I’ll consider it.” Ed went to his office, poured a cup of coffee, and checked his deadbeat dad email program. There it was. Finally. A message from a
no-reply
address, subject line
Leadville
. His coffee cup shook in his hand. He set it aside and clicked open the email.

Thank you for your suggestion to feature Leadville on our site. We are particularly interested in the citizen you suggested and are investigating whether or not that might make a good tie-in to the article. Please fill out the attached form and mail it to the address below. Also, please note that should your candidate be approved, there is a deposit required before we can proceed.

Ed hit
Print
, then forwarded the message to Sam Fischer. After retrieving the printout, he picked up his coffee and sipped as he read the form.

This time, they wanted Pat Jackson’s mailing address. He couldn’t very well use the station’s address, and no way would he reveal where he lived. He was supposed to mail the form to a P.O. Box in Boise. Was this where the nitty gritty took place, or nothing more than a mail drop? Or, where a coordinator worked?

Ed had revised his initial hypothesis, that Paula Brassington was killing deadbeat dads, to a network of assassins. Too many different methods of killing. Of course, it was
possible
a single killer was well-versed in everything from sniper rifles to poisons to staging accidents, but none of the shootings came from the same weapon, the drugs used were different in each case, and the accidents ranged from drownings to hiking accidents to vehicle accidents. Most killers stuck to what they knew.

Then again, not every deadbeat dad who died was killed at the hand of Paula’s ring. But every death he’d connected to her blog was of a deadbeat dad. He thought about the case that had piqued his curiosity—the shooting of the pickup truck driver. It was one that
didn’t
fit the accidental death picture, since shooting out a tire and then a clean head shot to the driver would hardly be considered an accident. Yet Paula herself had been nearby. And that case was still unsolved.

However, whether it was a multi-talented assassin or a group of specialists didn’t matter. Nobody should get away with murder. He stared at the fields for his address. He made a mental note to stop at the Post Office to open a P.O. Box. No, that would tie him to Mapleton, a town too small to allow sufficient anonymity. The Denver area would be smarter, but that would entail either driving down there to check the mail, or finding someone he trusted to do it for him.

Megan Wyatt, Angie’s business partner, lived in Centennial. Would he be putting her in danger if he asked her to check a box every day or two? No again. Involving a civilian was out of the question. He referred to his personnel files and scanned the addresses of his temporary deputies. Baker lived in Englewood, about a thirty-minute commute. He might work as a backup, if Ed couldn’t spare the time for the drive.

Ed worked his way down the simple form. They didn’t ask for a phone number. One less way to be traced. There was, however, a clarification of their deposit. Fifty grand, non-refundable. Nothing about how they took payment, or what the grand total would be, but Ed assumed that would come next, after he agreed to pay.

As if he had fifty grand lying around. Since they didn’t ask for the money at this phase, he checked the box that said he agreed, wondering if the county had a fund for sting operations, how big it was, and whether Colfax would approve of giving some to Mapleton. If so, Ed imagined the county would have a way to track the money. And, in the long run, wasn’t following the money trail a good way to catch the bad guys?

He addressed an envelope, but called Sam Fischer to see if she’d had a chance to read the message he’d forwarded.

“According to the headers, this did come from the Boise area,” she said. “A coffee shop. Totally different from the other one you sent.”

Which confirmed Ed’s suspicion he was dealing with a country-wide network. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out they were divided into small cells so communication between members was limited. If you didn’t know who you were working with, you couldn’t give them up.

“My thoughts are this is a form reply,” he said, “where they fill in the location. They don’t name the citizen I submitted, not even a gender reference.”

“Nothing specific to come back and bite them,” Sam said.

“Right. I plan to fill out the form and mail it, unless you think I shouldn’t.”

“I can’t see a problem with that,” Sam said. “I’m afraid forensics isn’t going to do you much good if these people are relying on the Postal Service for all their communication. But if you get anything we can help with, give a shout.”

“Will do.” He sealed the envelope and went to Laurie’s desk for a stamp. She handed him a roll, and he peeled one off and affixed it to the letter.

“I’m on the road for an hour or so,” he said. “You can get me on my cell, or have Dispatch radio me if something hits the fan.” He made sure Dispatch knew he was leaving, and set off for an Englewood Post Office.

The Postmaster who rented Ed the box agreed to give him a call if something—other than junk mail flyers—showed up, which would save Ed the drive to check an empty box. Returning with his letter mailed, a burn phone in case they’d want to talk at some point, and his new P.O. Box key in hand, Ed was about ten minutes from Mapleton when he caught radio traffic saying a bear had been spotted in town. The address was in his neighborhood.

Was Mary Ellen home? He flipped on his lights and goosed the accelerator.

“Has anyone notified the state wildlife people?” Ed asked Dispatch.

“On their way,” Connie said.

“Damage?”

“A couple of bird feeders. Dumped two trash cans. Last report puts it up a tree in the undeveloped area behind Sable Avenue and Birch Street. I’ve dispatched three units for crowd control.”

Ed couldn’t remember a bear wandering through Mapleton, and he’d lived here for almost twenty years. Given the way lookie-lous appeared at the slightest fender-bender, he envisioned everyone wanting to get a close look at a bear. “ETA on wildlife?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Show me en route,” he said. “ETA in ten.”

He called home. Mary Ellen picked up. “Yes, I’m aware of the bear, and no, I’m not going out to try to get a picture. The only bear I’m interested in is the Black Bear Chalet.”

“Smart woman. I’m going to head over and run some crowd control until the wildlife guys get here. I can stop by for a minute if you want.”

“Is that a roundabout way of asking me
What’s for lunch?
If so, I’ve already eaten.”

“So have I,” he lied.

“Or did you have something else in mind?” Her voice dropped into the low and sultry range.

Damn. “Much as it pains me to say this, can I have a rain check?”

“I suppose. But if the Chief can’t take off some time, who can?”

“And that’s part of the issue. If my staff isn’t allowed to break for a little afternoon delight, it’s inappropriate for me to do it.”

“Your loss,” she said.

“Definitely. But I’ll do my best to make it up to you. Gotta go.”

He disconnected, then double-parked his SUV alongside another Mapleton police vehicle. Mapleton residents’ cars lined the curb. Vicky McDermott stood about ten feet away, arms outstretched, doing what she could to move the crowd of people to the other side of the street. Most gave her a glance, stepped back a few paces, then went right back where they’d been standing.

Ed flipped on the speaker in his unit. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please move to a safer distance. We have people experienced in relocating bears on their way. It would be better for everyone if you’d leave the area. A frightened bear is likely to turn aggressive, and an aggressive bear will have to be put down. I’m sure none of you want that.”

Heads turned in his direction, and Ed stepped out of his car. He smiled, swept his arm in a half circle toward the opposite sidewalk. “Let’s move it, please.”

He managed to keep the smile in place as Charlotte Strickland bustled toward him, a photographer at her side. “Do you have any words for my readers?” she asked.

“Tell them it’s wise to let the experts handle things that could prove dangerous.” A pickup truck with the Colorado Parks and Wildlife emblem on the door approached. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll need to speak to these experts. If you’ll go stand over there—” he pointed across the street— “I’m sure they’ll talk to you
after
they finish.”

One officer, a dark-haired, ponytailed woman, stood by the hood of her truck and addressed the group. “People, we’re going to go in, hope the bear hasn’t left, and tranquilize it.” She indicated the gun at her side. “We don’t want to kill these animals unless it becomes necessary. Sadly, it’s usually because people entice them that the bears turn into dangerous nuisances. So, if you’ll please leave so we don’t frighten the animal any more than it is already, we’ll appreciate it. I’m sure nobody wants a citation for interfering in official business.”

Vicky McDermott joined them and explained to the wildlife officer where the bear had last been seen. “If you’ll drive around this block, then left onto a dirt two-track, you should have better access. Officer Jost is handling crowd control on that end.”

The officer thanked her and opened the door of her truck. “Let’s move it, please, people. We need to get through.”

There was some grumbling, but people went inside their homes, or got in their cars and drove away. Thankful he wouldn’t have to write a report about the first
mauled by bear
incident in Mapleton, Ed told the wildlife officers to keep him updated and—after a moment of regret he couldn’t stop off at home—went to his office.

In under an hour, the wildlife officer reported the bear had been tranquilized, caged, and was on its way to a new home in a less populated area.

“No problems from our good citizens?” Ed asked.

“No, your officers did a good job of keeping them at bay. You might see a bunch of pictures on Facebook or YouTube, though. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but it’s just as easy to take things out of context. You know, a picture of an officer aiming a weapon at the bear doesn’t say it’s loaded with a tranquilizer dart, not a bullet. We do what we can to keep things honest, but thought I’d give you a heads up in case you need to do any damage control. There was one reporter who got pushy. We explained everything, but who knows what she’ll print.”

“Charlotte Strickland?” Ed didn’t think any of the big city papers would have bothered following a bear in tree story.

“Yes, that’s the one. She sort of oozes the
never let the truth get in the way of a good story
school of reporting.”

“Her editor keeps her reined in,” Ed said. “But thanks for the social media update.” He wondered if he should notify the mayor, or wait to see if anything hit the fan and then use that as a way to reinforce his point.

He called Mary Ellen. “If you’re free, can you poke around the Internet a bit, see if our bear is giving Mapleton any publicity?”

She called him five minutes later. “I don’t think you’re going to like this.”