Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (12 page)

Gordon almost hung up—more than once—as he waited to be transferred to the trooper in charge of the Wardell accident, since Kennedy was off-duty. He’d promised himself—more than once—he wasn’t going to get involved. That promise hadn’t lasted long.

He assuaged the mounting guilt by telling himself—more than once—that because he had no authority, he was merely satisfying his insatiable curiosity. Like a dog with a bone, Angie always said. But he wouldn
’t get involved. No need for extra stress—he had nothing at stake. No case to clear to keep the bean counters happy with the department’s solve rate. Or his own.

He
’d scarcely finished rationalizing when the trooper picked up. “This is Trooper Nottoli, Chief Hepler. What can I do for you?”

Gordon almost hung up again, but took the plunge.

“Touching base about the accident. I noticed a couple of your units pulling away from the scene not long ago. Wondered if you had anything you could share. The Yardumians are concerned about the missing woman. Told them I’d see where things stand.” Okay, so that was a boldfaced lie. But he figured the Yardumians
were
concerned, and if they’d asked him to, he’d have called.

“
First look didn’t indicate the presence of another passenger. We’ll have to send what trace we picked up to forensics, but you know how long that can take.”

“
No blood evidence?” Gordon asked.

“
Nope. Field tests were all negative.”

“
So, she got out before the car went down. Any evidence of what pushed the car over?”

“
No dents, no paint exchange. Nada. We’re thinking the vehicle might have slid over the edge when things got icy.”

That made sense.

“Between you and me, cop to cop,” the trooper said, “this Wardell guy bears some further investigation. We have his uncle’s number in Telluride. So far, all we’ve gotten when we’ve called is an answering machine message.”

Gordon remembered the number Wardell had dictated to Kennedy and scribbled it on a scrap of paper before he forgot it. He
’d make his own call. Couldn’t hurt to touch base—as someone who’d been involved with trying to help Wardell locate his wife.

The trooper went on.
“Wardell’s from New Mexico, so we’ve got all sorts of jurisdictional games going on. Bad enough Telluride’s in another county. Crossing state lines is a whole ’nother ball game.”

“
Hear you on that. Although sometimes it’s nice to farm stuff out.”

“
Tell me about it. We’re spread too thin as it is.” The trooper paused. “Anything else?”

“
No, although I have to admit the other accident investigation has me curious. Pickup and two vehicles. Pickup driver shot.”

“
Bennett Zaminski. Went by Bubba. Right. Scene was a bitch. Blizzard conditions.”

“
What can you tell me about the victim?” Gordon didn’t see any reason to mention he’d picked up a few tidbits about Zaminski’s character from another source.

“
White male, fifty-three, lived in Boulder. Three ex-wives. None seemed particularly grief-stricken when they were notified. No apparent motive so far. He owed them money, but they’ll never collect now that he’s dead.”

“
Not likely to find a million dollars in his will, then,” Gordon said with a quiet snicker.

“
That would be a major surprise. Guy worked construction, five companies in the last three years.”

Gordon waited, hoping the trooper would mention Bubba Zaminski
’s involvement in the hit-and-run Solomon had referred to, but either he didn’t know or wasn’t telling. Good officer, although Gordon wished they could get together over a beer or two, where information might flow more freely. “Thanks. Good luck with the investigation, and I’ll let the Yardumians know you’re on top of things with Wardell’s wife.”

“
Give them my best.” The trooper disconnected.

Gordon smiled at that remark. Small towns.

He went back to his trash examination, dismissing Tyner’s sketches, even the nudes. Two consenting adults, although remembering the overheard heated exchange, he wondered if there had been a difference of opinion to be resolved prior to their consent.

Paula
’s trash didn’t give him anything particularly interesting. Tourist brochures, the kind you could pick up in racks at every rest stop, motel, eatery, or other tourist attraction. As he recalled, there was a rack of them in the entertainment center downstairs. Had these come from there, or had Paula picked them up along her travels, kept what she needed, and discarded the rest?

As he pondered the possibilities, Gordon realized he felt calmer than he had in days. Good to be working, and even better to be working when it wasn
’t going to impact his job security. It was probably a figment of his imagination, but even his vision seemed clearer. Had he hit the turning point?

When his cell rang and Angie
’s number appeared, his spirits brightened even more. “Hey, there.”

“
Hey, yourself,” she said. “Sorry I haven’t called. Things have been crazy, between work and—work. Short-staffed at Daily Bread, so I’ve been working extra shifts there, and Megan’s business skyrocketed for Valentine’s Day events.”

Crap. Valentine
’s Day. He hadn’t missed it, had he? No, he’d arranged his vacation to be home in Mapleton on the 13
th
. And Angie’s present was tucked at the back of his desk drawer.

He refocused on Angie
’s voice. She was telling him about catching the ATM scammer, and from the excitement in her tone, he didn’t want to tell her he’d already heard it from Solomon.

“
Rose is practically a hero in town,” Angie continued. “Of course, she’s pooh-poohing it. Says it was nothing. Doing her civic duty.”

And given Rose had lived through the Holocaust, of course fingering a small-time crook would be nothing to her. Rose did more
civic duty
than two-thirds of the citizens of Mapleton, combined.

“
Tell her I said good job,” Gordon said.

They spent the next ten minutes talking about nothing—the kind of nothing that meant everything—before Angie apologized and said she had to get to work.
“Miss you,” she said.

“
Same goes.” Gordon disconnected, feeling a warm fullness and cold emptiness at the same time. But he forced his thoughts to his puzzles.

One thing the locals would not be doing was trying to figure out who
’d stolen Gordon’s memory card. He remembered having to go to the phone store to have them install it, and it wasn’t something that could have fallen out accidentally. Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to remove it himself. Or even where it was.

But not knowing how to remove the card didn
’t eliminate any suspects. The bigger question was still why? Maybe he’d find answers—or at least a clue or two—if he knew more about the people. He might not have access to all the law enforcement databases, but there were plenty of public sites he could dig through. Lacking a motive, he decided to start with Metcalf, who would have had the phone in his possession the longest.

In addition to a website, Metcalf had a Facebook page for his business. Neither revealed much. In fact, they seemed to contradict the Metcalf Gordon had interacted with. The man
’s cutting personality didn’t match the straightforward presentation on the sites. Comments were positive, and the site information confirmed what Metcalf had said, that the business shut down for the winter months. Gordon doubted Metcalf had designed either site on his own.

He checked the Better Business Bureau for complaints, and found none. It took a little longer to find the right Metcalf on Google, and when he did, most of the hits were related to his business—pictures of him with happy clients. Nothing Gordon found gave him a reason why the man would have sabotaged his phone.

He moved on. Tyner was easy to find. And, on the surface, easy to eliminate. A mid-level artist, apparently making a decent living, but unlikely to be deemed a master in his lifetime. Work displayed in galleries, a few exhibitions across the country over the last five years, but nothing that said he was anything more than an artist who managed to make a living at it. Unmarried, as far as Gordon could tell.

Paula was next. Although she didn
’t use it in her blog, Gordon managed to uncover her last name. Brassington. From there, he found out she was single, born in Cleveland, father was in the military so they moved around a lot, went to Iowa State where she studied engineering, got her degree, but as far as he could tell, never worked in the field. And now, maybe due to all the times she’d moved as a kid, she was a travel blogger. Whatever floated her boat. Which, apparently, included hooking up with people she’d just met. Given her traveling lifestyle, she had ample opportunities for that. So why would she care what was on Gordon’s phone?

That left Orrin Wardell. He
’d known Gordon had taken the pictures of the car, but were they the target of whoever took his memory card? His contacts list was missing, too. After grinding that around for a while, he thought the pictures were the more logical target, but he wasn’t ready to rule out anything. Although what anyone would do with his limited number of contacts was beyond him.

Maybe whoever took the phone knew he was a cop. And thought they
’d be getting confidential information. They could have taken the card without bothering to look at what was on the phone—after all, the battery was near death.

With a sigh, he went to his computer, blinking, trying to bring the screen into focus. Everything was blurred. He blinked again. The screen seemed to be peeking through a wall of smoke. A chill snaked down his spine.

Gordon fumbled for his phone, cursing as it registered that his contacts were gone. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again, afraid of what he’d see. The darkened edges of his peripheral vision had receded. He focused on his computer screen. Blurry, but not as bad as before. False alarm?

Maybe so, but his vision wasn
’t something he was willing to play games with. He went to his search engines, this time plugging in Dr. Demming’s name. He managed to poke the digits into his cell phone, barely breathing as he waited for someone to pick up. Sweat trickled down his back. His heart pounded as he counted the rings.

Relax. Don
’t make things worse.

The receptionist answered on the fourth ring, and immediately put him on hold. Not helping.

He forced himself to even out his breathing. When she came on the line, he identified himself and asked to speak to Dr. Demming.

“
He’s with a patient,” she said. “Can I take a message?”

“
It’s important I speak with him as soon as possible. When will he be free?”

A pause.
“He’s booked solid with patients until five. He should be able to return a call by five-thirty.”

When Gordon the cop called people, they came straight to the phone. Gordon the civilian didn
’t have that kind of clout. “I don’t think this should wait that long,” he said.

“
Is it an emergency?” she asked.

“
I’m not sure,” Gordon said. “That’s why I want to speak with Dr. Demming.”

“
Maybe I can have his assistant return your call.”

“
I’d appreciate it.”

“
Your number?”

Gordon gave her his cell number.
“Hang on. Let me give you a land line number. Cell reception here is spotty.”

Damn. He didn
’t know the Yardumians’ number offhand. Afraid he didn’t have enough charge, he left the phone plugged in and dashed downstairs to the living room, where he picked up a brochure for the B and B and raced to the phone.

The numerals on the brochure danced, and he wasn
’t sure he’d be able to give her the right number. He asked her to hold a little longer, went downstairs again, and found Mrs. Yardumian working on the computer in the office, headphones over her ears. He cleared his throat. Stepped closer to the desk.

She tugged the headset down around her neck.
“Sorry. I was listening to a podcast. What can I do for you?”

Trying to appear calm, he asked her for the number.

“Of course.” She smiled, wrote it on a notepad, and handed him the sheet. After making sure he could read it, Gordon bolted upstairs.

“
Thanks for waiting,” he said. No response. Couldn’t tie up the lines, so she’d hung up. He hit redial and went through the
please hold
routine once more, telling himself a few more minutes wasn’t going to matter. If only his brain could accept it.

“
This is Gordon Hepler again,” he said when the receptionist answered. “I have a second number for you. If there’s no answer on the cell, please have whoever is calling me back use this one.” He read off the number and repeated the urgency of his situation. “I’m stuck out of town, and I need to know what to do.”

“
I’ll let both Dr. Demming and his assistant know straight away, Mr. Hepler.”

This time, her voice sounded more reassuring and compassionate. Had she checked his file while he was getting the number? For that matter, how much did she know about eye problems? From what he
’d seen during his visits, she was there to make appointments, answer phones, and do filing. Having comprehensive knowledge of the medical side of things may or may not have been part of her job description.

He eased himself onto the bed, stared at the ceiling. The lines where the boards joined seemed to waver. Had his retina detached? Afraid to move for fear of doing further damage, he closed his eyes, listened to the rising wind, and waited for his phone to ring.

Instead, a muffled boom shook the house. Behind his head, windows rattled. He turned to see what was going on. The sky glowed red and yellow in the direction of the cabin.
Shit
. Gordon grabbed his Beretta, his parka, and worked his feet into his boots as he crossed the room.

He almost collided with Mrs. Yardumian when he opened the door.
“What happened?” he asked.

Fear etched
across her face. Her voice shook. Her words huffed out, as if she’d run from the cabin and up the stairs. “Raffi. Out. Working. Cabin.”

Why? Gordon wondered. Raffi had said he wasn
’t going to do any more work there until tomorrow. And why would she be out there?

As if she
’d read his thoughts, Mrs. Yardumian said, “He said he had to touch up some painting, I think. Or was it the wiring? I was working. Wasn’t paying attention.” Her voice quavered again. “There’d been a break in the snow. He said he’d be back in a few minutes. Then I heard the boom—something exploded, didn’t it?”

“
That would be my guess.”

“
I called 911, but it could take too long for them to get here. Meanwhile, I hoped you would—you could—”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. Felt her tremble. Turned her around.
“Of course I’ll go.”

She nodded, and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, she went to the coat rack.

“No,” Gordon said. “You stay here and wait for the firefighters.” No reason to watch out for her in the storm, too. He tied his boots and pulled on the gloves and cap he’d stashed in the pockets of his parka.

The cold assaulted him as he opened the door. Wind whipped at his jeans, cutting through both the denim and the flannel. He zipped the parka to his chin, raised the hood, and pressed the Velcro closure shut.

He had no problem seeing his target. Flames from the structure provided a beacon. Getting there wouldn’t be easy, however. He grabbed the porch rail and made his way down the steps. Any semblance of a path between the main building and the cabin had been obliterated by the snow. With a gloved hand, he hooded his eyes from the swirling flakes and assessed a logical route. As he recalled, the path lay between two lines of trees. He couldn’t help but remember falling into that damn tree well.

Concerned about Raffi, not wanting to take the time to deal with snowshoes, he did allow a few seconds to grab his poles from his SUV. Testing the ground in front of him as he plowed his way through a foot of snow, he made his way toward the glowing cabin as quickly as the elements permitted.

Heat replaced cold as he approached the cabin. Logic said to wait for the firefighters, who’d show up with the right equipment and experience. But out here, the firefighters were all volunteers who’d have to be called in, and with the lousy road conditions, he wasn’t sure of their response time. If Raffi was trapped inside, every second counted.

He tried the door, which, as he expected was unlocked. He kicked it open.
“Raffi! It’s Gordon.” He strained to listen for a response above the crackling flames and howling wind. Nothing.

He ripped off his knit cap, rubbed it through the snow, and held it over his nose and mouth. Shouting Raffi
’s name over and over, Gordon entered the cabin. Smoke filled the living area. Flames licked the walls, but the center of the room wasn’t ablaze. All the discussions over coffee he’d had with Gilman played through his mind.

Stay low. The air at head-height is superheated.

He crouched, half-crawled, his way through the space. Visibility in here made his CSR seem like twenty-twenty vision.

Damn. Why hadn
’t he asked Mrs. Yardumian to describe the layout? He tried to remember what he’d seen on line when he’d researched places to stay. One-bedroom units and efficiencies. Which was this? Hoping for the latter, he continued his quest. He’d gone three or four more shuffling steps when he stumbled against a piece of furniture. Coffee table, he guessed, based on its height, and the way it moved away from the impact. Something crashed to the floor nearby. Smoke rose from the loveseat behind the table. But no flames.

Light filtered from the far wall. Eyes streaming, he wiped away tears and saw an open doorway. Bedroom or bathroom? Still crouching, he shuffled in that direction, shouting for Raffi. He peered through the doorway. Bathroom. With a broken window, letting in fresh air and a little more light. No flames in here. A man
’s body lay crumpled face-down in the middle of the small space. Gordon closed the door behind him and rushed to the man’s side. “Raffi? It’s Gordon.”

He ripped off a glove and felt the man
’s neck for a pulse, trying to slow his own thumping heart and the blood pounding in his ears. A weak, thready beat, and a faint groan rewarded him.

“
We’ve got to get you out of here,” Gordon said. Well, duh. That was obvious. The
how
was a little more complicated.

Don
’t move an injured man
was outvoted by
Don’t leave someone to burn to death
. Doctors could patch up the injuries, they couldn’t resurrect the dead. He refused to think about how slim their chances were. It wasn’t the fire, it was the smoke that killed. It had only been minutes since he’d heard the explosion. Was there a chance Raffi would make it?

The window was too small to consider as an exit. He
’d have to retrace his steps. Gordon ran water in the sink and soaked two towels, using one to replace his makeshift mask. Eyes burning, he tied the second towel over Raffi’s face before heading into the smoke.

He opened the door. The smoke was thicker now. He grabbed Raffi by the ankles. Staying as low to the floor as he could, Gordon dragged Raffi toward the door.

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.

Gordon reached the front door, and hoisted Raffi over his shoulder. Staggering under his burden, he reached a spot he felt was far enough away from the cabin to be safe. Coughing, eyes streaming, chest burning, he lowered Raffi to the ground, rolling him onto his back. He wiped his eyes, trying to see if Raffi was all right. Only then did he realize the man he
’d rescued wasn’t Raffi Yardumian.