Burnt River (2 page)

“John said she won’t talk about it.”

“John’s full of shit. He doesn’t want to upset her.”

“You can’t blame Jessie for wanting to put it all behind her.”

Tyler grabbed Dylan by the collar. “Look, I really don’t give a damn about what she has or hasn’t been through,” he said, holding on tight when Dylan struggled against him. “Either you sort her out, or I will.”

Dylan broke away. “If you touch Jessie…”

“Struck a nerve, did I?”

“Fuck off.”

Tyler cupped his hands against the breeze and lit another cigarette. “I always wondered whether you might have taken advantage of the state she was in that night. She stayed at your place, slept in your bed.” He blew a thin stream of smoke in Dylan’s direction. “John’s not here. You can tell me, bro.”

Dylan limped over to his horse and pulled a bottle of water out of his saddlebag. “You’ve got a sick mind, you know that?”

Tyler walked to the ledge again. “Calm down, little man. I’m just fucking with you. Whether John likes it or not, we’ve got to make her understand what’s going on here. If someone spots the truck, she’s got more to lose than anyone else.”

“I know.”

“She’s not a child anymore.”

“I guess.”

“So you’ll go speak to her.”

Dylan leaned his forehead against the saddle. “I will.”

“Good. By the way, I called my buddy Wayne.”

“The ski patrol guy?”

“Yeah, he owes me big time. He’ll give me what we need to blow the cliff. Been squirreling away explosives for years.”

“How’d he manage that?”

“He’s on avalanche patrol. No one seems to keep track of how much they use when they’re out on the slopes.”

“It has to happen this week.”

“That goes without saying.”

“You can trust him to keep his mouth shut?”

“Relax. I own his ass. He won’t say a word.”

Dylan untied his horse and struggled back into the saddle. “I’m heading home. You coming?”

“Yeah,” Tyler said, his eyes never leaving the heavy plumes of smoke that blighted the southern sky. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

2

Police Chief Aiden Marsh stood on the sidewalk outside the Wilmington Creek Bar and Grill with his hat in his hands. At five foot eleven and without an ounce of spare flesh, he had an air of efficiency about him. He was so focused on his conversation with an older gentleman, he failed to notice Detective Macy Greeley’s state-issue SUV gliding into the parking space right behind him. She sat in the driver’s seat with the windows open, sipping her coffee. The two men kept their voices low, but once Macy cut the engine she could hear every word.

“Jeremy, I just want you to know how sorry I am.”

The man Macy guessed to be Jeremy Dalton leaned his considerable bulk against the doorframe and smoothed his closely clipped gray beard with a meaty paw. Eyes in shadow, he had a ball cap pulled down tight on his head. His long gray hair fell past his shoulders.

“Aiden, with all due respect, I don’t want your sympathy. I want answers.”

“And I promise I’m going to get those answers for you.”

Swallowing hard, the older man fought for control. “I just can’t believe my boy is gone.”

“Detective Macy Greeley should be here soon. Once she’s had a chance to look things over I’ll bring her in to talk to you.”

“It doesn’t seem right that they’re sending a woman.”

“Greeley is very good at what she does.”

“You know her?”

Aiden picked his words carefully. “I’ve met her but we’ve never worked together. She was in Collier when they had all that trouble a couple of years ago.”

“I hope you don’t feel like I overstepped by calling the governor. I just thought he’d give you more men. I didn’t realize they would send an investigator up from Helena to take over.”

Aiden squeezed Jeremy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Jeremy. I’m grateful for the help. I want to make sure we get this right.”

Jeremy’s chin barely moved. “Don’t be too much longer. I’ve got to get home. I don’t want Annie and the girls finding out from someone else.”

The door closed and Aiden walked a few paces along the raised wooden walkway. He stood for a long time staring across the street. Macy had met him five years earlier at a law enforcement convention in Las Vegas, but their paths hadn’t crossed since. During his seven-year tenure as Wilmington Creek’s police chief, there’d been virtually no crime. Macy’s colleagues in Helena were impressed, but she was keeping an open mind. She was too much of a cynic to believe such idyllic places existed anymore. Unlike most law enforcement personnel in Montana, Aiden kept his hair fairly long, but she couldn’t find any fault with his uniform. It was immaculately pressed. He wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes in the fragmented reflections that scrolled across the mirrored lenses. From experience she already knew they were a pleasing baby blue.

Macy took a sip of her coffee and sank down farther in the seat. Since leaving home, she’d been plagued by the beginnings of a headache. She blamed the third glass of red wine she’d had last night instead of dinner. She’d been nibbling on a bagel for a couple hours, but really needed something more substantial if she was going to make it through the day. The first telephone call from the head of the state police had come at around two in the morning. When she answered, she thought Ray Davidson was calling her for personal reasons; it had been three weeks since they’d last spent time together. She should have known better. A half hour later she was leaving the home she shared with her mother, Ellen, and one-and-a-half-year-old son, Luke. She had a small suitcase tucked in the back of her vehicle and the state police captain’s words ringing in her ear.

Macy, the governor called me personally. There’s going to be a lot of pressure to get this right. I need you to get up to Wilmington Creek immediately.

Everything else she knew about the case had come in over the speakerphone as she drove north on Route 93. John Dalton had left the army right before Christmas on an honorable discharge and returned to his childhood home. He was twenty-six years of age and a highly decorated war veteran who’d survived three deployments in some of the most dangerous places in the world. According to witnesses, he’d stopped at a bar called The Whitefish to buy cigarettes at quarter past one in the morning. A half hour later he was found dead in the alleyway. There was a single gunshot wound to the back of his head and two in his upper back. The medical examiner was a cautious woman, so it surprised Macy she was already saying that it looked like an execution.

Macy followed Aiden Marsh’s gaze. A group of patrol officers were gathered in the alleyway between The Whitefish and Flathead Valley Savings and Loan. Somewhere beyond a low screen that had been erected, John Dalton was lying facedown in the gravel.

There was a tap on the car window and Macy put her coffee to one side. Aiden stood a few feet from the door. He’d removed his sunglasses and was staring down at the pavement. It was only when he raised his chin that she saw he was trying not to cry. Macy grabbed her bag and stepped out of her vehicle. Her long red hair was secured in a ponytail and the only thing on her face was an ever-thickening layer of freckles. It was colder than she’d expected, but the tops of the east-facing shop windows were already ablaze in the reflected light of dawn. By midmorning, temperatures would be in the eighties. By noon they’d reach one hundred.

They shook hands, but did not smile. “Good to see you again, Detective Greeley. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You and me both. I take it you knew the victim and his family.”

Aiden tilted his head toward the restaurant and spoke in short bursts. “I’ve known the Daltons for years. John’s father, Jeremy, is waiting inside. Telling him about John … well, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

They walked across Main Street side by side. Wilmington Creek was well kept. Low-lying buildings struck out in even intervals in both directions. Mature trees shaded the sidewalks. Houses stood back while their wide green lawns stepped forward. White picket fences framed colorful borders. Three blocks to the west, Route 93 followed the rambling course of the Flathead River. During the drive up from Helena, Macy had passed hay fields as finely sewn as gossamer. They rolled off for miles before butting up against the foothills. The view ended there. Wildfire haze obscured the Whitefish Range. There’d been three fires in the area in the past two months. The latest was southwest of town.

Macy slipped on a pair of protective shoe coverings and pulled her sunglasses back on her head. The officers who’d been keeping watch over John parted as she and Aiden drew near. Not one of them looked up.

“Tell me about the family.”

“The victim’s father, Jeremy Dalton, owns one of the biggest ranches in the valley. John has been working there since he was discharged from the military.”

“What about his mother? I heard she was unwell.”

“Annie’s been suffering from early onset dementia for quite a few years now.”

“Any siblings?”

“A twin sister named Jessie, although you wouldn’t know it if you met her. They look nothing alike.” Aiden pulled up the crime scene tape and Macy ducked underneath as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “The family is well connected.”

“I kind of figured that, given the number of phone calls I received in the middle of the night.”

“Jeremy and the governor go way back. Hunting, fishing, that sort of thing.”

“When will the forensics team be here?”

“They’re on their way. The medical examiner and the photographer finished about an hour ago.” He handed Macy an evidence bag containing a wallet. “We found the wallet in his back pocket. It’s full of cash. This wasn’t a robbery.”

“What about his cell phone?”

“On the ground next to him. It’s been smashed up a bit. Already sent it down to Helena.”

Macy walked toward the front entrance of the saloon. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to start over here.”

Aiden pointed out the two security cameras located along the roofline. “They’re directed toward the entrance. There’s nothing covering the alleyway or the parking lot.”

Macy peered through the glass door. Only a single lamp above the bar was illuminated. There weren’t any windows that she could see. She thought of going in, but changed her mind.

“I’m guessing you didn’t find anything on the security tapes.”

“Nothing so far. The bank next door and a couple shops further along have cameras. We’ll check them all.”

She turned toward the alleyway and tried to steady her nerves. There was no avoiding the inevitable. “Shall we?”

The sunlight slicing between the buildings glanced off the pale gravel. Macy lowered her sunglasses. The employee entrance was propped open with a cinder block. There were muted voices she recognized from the same talk-radio program she’d been listening to on the drive. Farther along, an access road that serviced the businesses along the eastern side of Main Street ran perpendicular to the alleyway. Beyond the road, there was a low white bungalow with a bright green lawn and a screened-in side porch. She could see the silhouette of a man seated inside. He was bolt upright in his chair and seemed to be staring straight at her.

Macy pointed at the house. “I’ll want to talk to the guy hanging out on his screen porch. He may have seen something.”

Aiden shielded his eyes from the glare. “That would be Mr. Walker. I’ll send over a couple of officers to speak to him, but don’t get too excited, he’s almost blind.”

Macy slid the plastic sheeting away. The dark entry wound on the back of John Dalton’s skull was clearly visible. A pool of blood soaked into the loose gravel beneath his head and she was relieved she couldn’t see the exit wound on his face. Even if she hadn’t been told ahead of time, she would have guessed he was ex-military. His hair was clipped short and there was something about the details of his dress that spoke of years of discipline. A bloodstained T-shirt stretched across his wide shoulders; two bullet wounds spaced a few inches apart cut into his right shoulder. No tattoos or distinctive markings were visible on his arms. There were no abrasions to his hands and his wrists were free of ligature marks. He wore faded blue jeans, but his boots appeared to be brand new. Macy pulled his wallet out of the evidence bag and flipped through it. There was a driver’s license and military identification card along with several photos, a couple of credit cards, and more than a hundred dollars in cash. A frayed business card for a therapist with offices in Collier was tucked into a recess.

Macy picked up a flashlight lying on the ground next to the body and read the label.
Property of The Whitefish
was scrawled in black marker across a piece of masking tape.

“Did the people inside know the victim?”

“Yes, but at that hour there was only one customer left and he’s still drunk. According to the manager, John spent most of the time he was inside speaking to his on-again off-again girlfriend, Lana Clark.”

She held up the flashlight. “So they heard shots fired and came out to investigate?”

“They heard something that sounded like a gunshot, but with the music on inside they didn’t think much of it. Thought it might be a car backfiring or kids screwing around. The manager found the body when he came out to smoke a cigarette.”

On the concrete steps leading to the employee entrance, tiny shards of broken glass glittered amongst the piles of discarded cigarette butts. The light fixture above the door was broken. “Any idea when that happened?”

“According to the manager, it must have happened last night.”

“A blind spot, a broken bulb, and no sign of robbery. This doesn’t feel random.”

“That was my thinking.”

“Three tours of duty in Afghanistan and he’s gunned down in his hometown.”

“It doesn’t seem right.”

Macy checked her notes. “This woman in the bar, Lana Clark? She’s an on/off girlfriend?”

“That’s the story that’s going around.”

“Where is she now?”

“Patrol car took her home to pick up a few things. She’s pretty shaken up.”