Deadly Places: A Mapleton Mystery Novella (9 page)

“What aren’t I going to like?” Ed asked, already sure he knew the answer.

“There are bear pictures and videos all over the social media,” Mary Ellen said. “Most are benign, but some of them are nasty. Accusing the city of condoning hunting—and I quote—
animals that were pushed out of their natural habitat when people moved in. Who’s the rightful resident?
” She paused. “I can bookmark the YouTube videos, but unless someone’s part of Facebook, they’re not going to see the other pictures. You think this will make your social media specialist proposal look better to the mayor?”

He and Mary Ellen had talked about it—one of the few bits of work he could bring home and discuss—and she’d encouraged him to include it in his answers to the mayor’s questions. “I’ll point it out to him, but I’m not going to try to spin it one way or the other. Playing the
I’m just the messenger
card might be the best route. When Gordon gets back, if he thinks it’s a good idea, we can work out ways to staff it without having to add hours or new personnel if the council won’t fund it.”

“I’ll bet the mayor goes for it,” she said. “He’s all about making Mapleton look good.”

“That he is.” Ed promised to try to be on time for dinner, then forwarded the mayor the links Mary Ellen sent him when her email arrived a couple minutes later. His cover message said nothing more than
FYI.

Ed came into the office Monday morning feeling pleased with himself. Dinner at the Black Bear Chalet had gone well. No shop talk, some parenting discussions, but mostly it was about enjoying good food, good wine, and hints of a possible vacation—without the boys—in the not-too-distant future. When he got back from crossing guard duty, the UPS driver was unloading cartons of computers and mounting hardware. Ed let the body shop know everything had arrived, and the mechanic promised to come by after lunch to get the hardware into the vehicles.

The mayor reported he’d seen the value of a social media specialist along with a Mapleton website, and would be addressing them at the next Town Council meeting.

Wheels ground slowly when it came to politics, but overall, things were definitely looking good. No challenges in the day’s Chief Stuff, and even some extra time to hit the streets and feel like a cop.

Tuesday morning, while on crossing guard duty, he got a text from the Englewood Post Office. A letter in the Pat Jackson box. He mentally urged the kids to move faster, but didn’t abandon his post. However, as soon as the school bell rang, he rushed for his car, barely sparing the time to let Laurie and Dispatch know he’d be out of service for the next hour or so.

At the Post Office, he opened the box to find a single white business-size envelope. He used a pen to nudge it into a larger manila envelope and resisted the urge to drive Code Three to Mapleton.

The envelope had been printed on a computer. No return address. Postmarked Boise. Ed couldn’t make out the zip code on the blurry mark, but he felt it reasonable to assume it was the same one he’d been given in his original instructions.

He fetched his fingerprint kit, although he surmised anyone working for a group as careful as this one would have worn gloves. Fingerprints
could
be transmitted through thin latex gloves, but it was a long shot. Still, he’d be a fool not to make sure.

As expected, there were no prints to lift from the envelope. He slit the envelope open and found a single typewritten sheet inside. No prints on this one, either. He read the message, which, again as expected, had nothing specifically incriminating.

Based on our preliminary research, we are pleased to offer you a feature article. To help us, expedite the process, given the rapid approach of the availability of your proposed candidate, please provide as much information as possible. Also, given the limited time, we suggest you use a disposable phone to text message any changes. In addition to an address, what can you tell us about the candidate’s habits, hobbies, favorite places, schedules, etc.?

So you can figure out the best place and method to kill him.

The letter gave a phone number, then went on to explain how they wanted the first fifty thousand dollars. Cash, in an inconspicuous backpack or other comparable tote. The instructions said to board the 10:47 westbound light rail at Union Station in Denver on Thursday, place the bag under the rear seat in the rear car, and get off at Mile High Stadium.

Thursday? Crap. How was he going to come up with fifty grand in cash in two days?

He grabbed for his phone and dialed Colfax’s cell number.

Colfax dropped by the next morning. They sat in Ed’s office and brought each other up to speed.

“How did it go with your sister?” Ed asked.

“The cops liked her for the homicide,” Colfax said, “but I think my visit convinced them to broaden the scope of their investigation. It’ll still be rough on her and the kids, but she’ll come out on top. Oh, and I brought you a little something.” He leaned down and lifted the gym bag he’d brought with him onto Ed’s desk. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Ed winged his brows, but unzipped the blue nylon tote and peered inside. “What the—?”

“County approved the request. All your investigations, cross references, and whatever other mumbo-jumbo you fed them convinced them it was worth following through to the next level. I thought you might get a kick out of seeing it.”

Ed removed a stack of bills. Hundreds. Lots of them. And even more twenties. Some banded, some loose.

“Fifty grand, as requested.” Colfax smirked.

“How did you get this?”

“Drug money. Might as well put some of it to good use. Use the bad guys’ money to catch more bad guys.”

“But you’re not giving it away, are you?” Ed asked.

Colfax zipped the bag shut. “There’s a tracking device in the seam.”

“But what if whoever picks it up has watched enough television to know there’s the likelihood of a tracking device in the bag and they transfer the money to their own carrier?”

“There are some micro transmitters in the stacks of bills. Ain’t technology grand?” Colfax grinned. “Besides, you don’t think we’re going to drop off the money and leave, do you? There will be cops all over the place. We’ll have two on the train, and three more at the Mile High station watching everyone who gets on and off at that stop. Since the instructions tell the delivery person to get off the train, we think retrieving it after he’s left is the more logical option.”

“Wouldn’t whoever picks up the money be a flunky? A go-between who doesn’t know enough to lead us into the ring?”

“We know what we’re doing.” At least Colfax’s tone didn’t have the
you’re just a hick town cop
hanging on it. “Leave it to us to follow the money. Your job is to get to Leadville next Friday and play hunter. We’ll have your back.”

At Ed’s insistence, the images for Dennis Donovan’s cyber identity that Sam had created bore a striking resemblance to Ed Solomon. He’d argued from the beginning that this was his case, and he wanted to be in at the takedown, and creating Dennis Donovan in Ed’s image meant he’d be involved.

Friday morning, a week later, Ed finished packing his bag and loading his Subaru. A tight-lipped Mary Ellen stood in the doorway leading to the garage, arms folded across her chest. “I don’t see why you can’t leave this to the Lake County people. It’s not your jurisdiction.”

“I
am
leaving it to them,” Ed said. “There will be two on the team. And Colfax is sending two of his deputies as well. They’re all SWAT. All I’ll be doing is—”

“Is acting as bait,” she said. “And in my experience, the worm doesn’t fare well when you use it to catch a fish.”

“Then think of me as a lure, not bait. And unlike the other victims, I know someone’s coming after me. I’ll be on my guard.”

“You said the most logical method would be to make it look like a hunting accident. You’ll never see a shooter.”

Ed hoisted his duffel into the cargo area and closed the hatch. “I have a vest.” He crossed to Mary Ellen and rested his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve been over this. It’s something I need to do. We can’t have people getting away with murder.”

She pulled away. “You
need
to do? No, you
want
to do this, Ed. You’ve done your part. Found your secret assassins. If catching them was your goal, it wouldn’t matter
who
brought them in. You want the rush. You went off with Tyler Colfax to investigate one of your leads, even though it wasn’t in Mapleton. And that didn’t end well.”

“Sure it did. Aside from a little bump on the head, which was nothing.”

“Go,” she said. “Just make sure you come back in one piece. The boys need their father.”

After dropping the boys off at school and extracting promises of good behavior and helping their mom, Ed set off for Leadville. The information he’d supplied to the Paula’s Places point of contact showed Dennis Donovan’s hunting and camping trip starting on Sunday morning. Ed would be meeting his fellow law enforcement team members at a motel ten miles outside of Leadville, where they’d scope out the area and finalize their plan.

As he drove, Ed replayed Mary Ellen’s last words. She’d said the boys needed a father. Not
she needed a husband.
Or was he reading too much into it? Still, the uneasy feeling he was making a stupid mistake to feed his ego wouldn’t go away.

No, she’d known what it meant to be a cop’s wife since they’d met. She’d accepted it, although he knew part of her acceptance came from his working for the Mapleton PD. Mapleton, where nothing bad ever happened. Or hardly ever. She was overreacting since it hadn’t been very long since the hostage situation with Colfax.

Then again, she didn’t see things the way cops did. That the threat of danger, even from a routine traffic stop, was always there. This time, he figured, it would take more than a dinner to make her understand where he was coming from. He’d compromised his career dreams by staying in Mapleton rather than a big city where he could work in specialized departments, be a detective. Surely she could compromise by letting him follow these rare cases that stretched his talents.

And why is it all about you, blockhead? You need to listen to her.

When he pulled into the run-down motel two hours later, he’d created a mental balance sheet. Plusses and minuses, pros and cons. And it always came down to family. Once Gordon got back, Ed would ask his folks to stay with the kids. Maybe he’d book a riverboat cruise. One in the brochures Mary Ellen always left lying around.

He locked his car and strode to the registration desk. “Ed Solomon,” he said to the square-faced, gray-haired woman at the desk. “Three rooms, but I think I’m the first to arrive.”

She tapped at her keyboard with pudgy fingers, making clucking sounds as she searched the computer. “Yes, here you are. You’re the first. Do you want all the keys now?”

“No,” he said. “The others can pick theirs up when they check in.”

“I’ll need identification and a credit card, please.”

He took care of the formalities. This motel was far enough away from where Dennis Donovan was supposed to be hunting so setting up credit cards and fake ID wouldn’t be necessary for the one night they’d be staying here. Sam was feeding Dennis Donovan’s Facebook page with reports that still had him in Boston, anxiously awaiting his trip, eager to bag his annual elk.

The clerk clucked some more, then extended an old-fashioned door key with a faded white 5 on a red plastic tag. “Your room is ready. The other two should be cleaned in about half an hour. There’s a coffee shop across the lobby, down the hall to the left.”

Ed settled in, then went to the coffee shop—only slightly more updated than the motel—and, after ordering coffee, tried to call one of the deputies. The server, who could have been the desk clerk’s older sister, gave a quiet laugh. “You’re in the wilderness. No cell service until you get closer to Leadville.”

“No Wi-Fi, then, I guess.”

“Nope. Consider yourself unplugged.” She poured his coffee. “We open at six for breakfast, but we’ll provide a hunter’s breakfast to go if you need an earlier start. Be sure to order it the night before.”

“Thanks.” He’d call Mary Ellen from the phone in his room, although he’d bet the charges were nothing short of outrageous. Since he was using his personal vehicle, he didn’t have a radio or the newly installed computer.

He’d finished his second cup of coffee when the two Lake County deputies, Benjamin and Isaac, joined him. They’d ordered food when Colfax’s men, Woody and Norris, arrived. The five of them ate, shared introductions, and avoided talking about why they were here. Broncos football ruled the conversation, followed closely by the best way to bag an elk. A group of normal guys out for a little hunting.

Once they’d eaten, they gathered in Ed’s room. After a quick call to let Mary Ellen know he’d arrived—which amounted to leaving a message on the machine—they got down to business.

Benjamin, a five-ten fireplug of a man, parked himself at the end of one of the two twin beds. “Isaac and I—” he nodded to his partner, a long and lean African American— “were briefed, but I’d rather hear it from you guys. We’re after a blogger assassin?”

“The blogger’s not the assassin.” Ed straddled the flimsy wooden desk chair. “But we’re pretty damn sure her blog is a clearing house for getting rid of deadbeat dads.”

Woody and Norris, Colfax’s colleagues, exchanged a glance. Woody, a pale blond built like a gym rat, spoke. “Detective Colfax gave us the bare bones about what’s gone down so far. There are multiple layers for the group, so all one person knows is the person directly below him and above him. The money drop moved through three sets of hands, but in the end, the higher ups believe they have their money. The couriers were
persuaded
—that’s Colfax’s term—to keep their mouths shut.”

“Which is why we’re here,” Ed said. “The hit has been approved. In addition to being bait, I’ve played the role of Pat Jackson, the guy who’s contracted to have my alter ego, Dennis Donovan, taken out. Plus, I had a text yesterday suggesting Pat Jackson ought to make sure he has a strong alibi for Saturday through Tuesday, and that he not go anywhere near Leadville.”

“Saturday?” Isaac asked. “Then they might be coming ahead of schedule.”

“I think it’s precautionary,” Ed said. “But that’s why we’re here ahead of schedule, too. Plus everything we’ve fed the social media says Donovan’s favorite hunting spot is on the other side of the elk stomping grounds from this motel. No reason for them to be looking this far away.”

“Any idea of how they’ll come after you?” Benjamin asked.

“Some kind of hunting accident makes the most sense,” Norris said. “Which is why we’re here, trying to give whoever it is every opportunity to off our victim.” He pointed to Ed.

“While providing superlative protection so it can’t happen,” Woody added.

“There have been other staged accidents, but if we’re out in the wild, we’re fixing our own food, so poison or drugs seem remote possibilities,” Isaac said.

“As long as we don’t accept food from strangers,” Benjamin said with a grin. “I propose two of us stick close to Ed while the other two hold farther back to spot anyone else’s approach.”

Ed explained the pickup truck driver’s assassination that had started his quest. “It was no accident, but if it was connected to the ring, they have a sniper in their pool. Which means they could be firing from a long way off.”

Norris shook his head. “So we make sure we’re not exposing ourselves in areas where a sniper can get a clear shot. It’s not like we’re actually hunting elk.”

Woody pulled a face and snapped his fingers. “Dang. And here I thought there were perks to this gig. Given what we had to do to finagle permits.”

Over Ed’s protests, the four deputies left Ed at the motel. Although he didn’t like being in hiding, it
was
his face out there, and if their assassin was doing the same thing they were—scoping out the place—it was too risky to be seen until their plan was set. Norris, a sniper, was taking point on finding the best place to trap their assassin while minimizing the chances of a long-distance shot.

Resigned to a day of waiting, Ed contemplated going into Leadville, browsing the museums, taking the train ride. But, short of effecting a reasonable disguise, the deputies were right. He needed to keep his face off the radar. Someone with a camera could inadvertently capture his image and post it where the blog ring might come across it.

He dragged his gear inside and did another check of his equipment. Camo. Kevlar. Rifle. Hand warmers. Foot warmers. Handgun, should it come to that. And plenty of orange. No need to invite a
real
hunting accident.