Rollover (15 page)

Dan's mind was racing. A connection, sort of, that hadn't been there before. At least at the very simplest of levels, two people who happened to be related had something to do with the bank job…and the rollover. Then he shook his head—just too farfetched. One didn't necessarily support the other or vice versa. And Emily wasn't an Echols any longer or at least didn't use that last name. He'd wanted to talk to Chet Echol's grandkid in person…still might be a good idea.

“Tim used to help me out as a part-time deputy, plus the occasional security guard gig—worked all the high school games when they didn't interfere with his other jobs. Good kid, just couldn't survive on not being able to rely on a steady paycheck.”

“You know what I'm going to ask. Was he ever on the bank's payroll?”

“Yeah, he worked relief. Don't know how often.”

“What about the weekend of the robbery?”

“Nope. Tim was long gone by then. Finally went to work full time in Las Vegas. Ford dealership. Got out of security and law enforcement all together and started a small engine repair business on the side—set it up out at his Granddad's place. Kid can fix anything. That dealership got a gem of a mechanic.” The sheriff concentrated on the highway. “Still, takes a lot of money these days to support a family.”

Dan was quiet. Was it one more piece of the puzzle, a connection along with grandfather and ex-wife that was too important to overlook? Dan's gut was telling him he was on to something. He made a mental note to definitely look up the young Mr. Echols.

Suddenly Sheriff Howard braked, made a right turn and took the cruiser off road—up then down and over a low embankment. Dan braced against the dash. Note to self: never buy a cruiser at auction. These babies were put through their paces.

“I think the site's about five miles in. This is an old ditch road—back when this land was irrigated by water backed up from the Gallinas River—before it empties into the Pecos. But that was the old days. Irrigation was stopped years ago. Droughts were just too unpredictable. Never knew if there'd be enough water for crops. No snow-pack, no run-off, no irrigation.”

“Tough making a living out here.”

“Young people are leaving—can't wait to get out. You probably noticed half of Wagon Mound is a ghost town.”

“What about you? Retirement can't be that far off.”

For a minute Dan wasn't sure the sheriff was going to answer.

“Yeah, it's closing in. Some days I think I'll just work ‘til I drop, then I go online and check out a sailboat or two.”

“So what's going to win out? Sense of duty or the good life?”

“I lost my wife little over a year ago. Up until she got sick, it was sailboat all the way—the Bahamas in winter, nice little place on the Intracoastal the rest of the time. But dying can be expensive.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's life. No regrets.”

Dan thought the
c'est la vie
shrug lacked conviction. And until last summer Dan could have said much the same thing—retirement in ten years, fishing on the Chama during the summers, winters spent skiing. And now? He'd been gearing up for “the talk”—the “where do you want to live after we're married?” Yeah, married. Sometime in the last couple days, he knew for certain. He couldn't see the rest of his life without this woman. And now she was gone. He suddenly had more in common with the sheriff than he would have guessed possible.

The woods came up suddenly. One minute Dan was looking at open fields, the next a wall of trees. Sheriff Howard nosed the cruiser into a cleared space and stepped out.

“Should be straight in from here. Maybe a mile.”

“Are we on Doc Jenkins land now?”

“Starts at the ditch. In the old days, ditches were boundaries—and water was shared.” The sheriff walked to the back of the cruiser. “Just need to get some extra fire-power.” Dan followed him. The spacious trunk looked like most people's garages—no room.

“Is that Hazmat gear?”

“Yeah, just part of a one-man show. Department keeps a few suits. I like to keep one handy. Had a bad spill right outside Rowe about a month ago. Actually, a load of fertilizer heading up this way.”

The first half-mile was easy—not a lot of underbrush, early fall wildflowers, golden aspen overhead. Dan was lulled into suspending the nagging, paralyzing worry—what could be bad about a day of glorious sunshine without a cloud in the sky? The first shot tore through his reverie and jerked him back to the present.

“Let's go.” Sheriff Howard wasn't waiting on him but plunged into a thicket and scrambled to the right. “Came from over this way.”

Dan had barely caught up when the second shot rang out. This one came from the left. Closer.

The sheriff stopped, “Shit. Warning system. Whatever we saw from the air was a little fresher than I thought. I'd feel a lot more comfortable with a posse behind me. Let's go back. No need to take chances and we're going to lose our light in another hour. I'll recruit help from Santa Fe County in the morning. Need to go at this like we know what we're doing.”

A change of plans because he was there, Dan wondered. Shouldn't endanger civilians. Or worse yet, let a chivvy put you in a compromising position. And it was a little disconcerting. Warning shots? Suddenly the woods were less than friendly. And all he could think of was Elaine. Could armed men be holding her? Out here in nowhere? But the sheriff was right, it would be stupid for the two of them to continue on their own. Warning shots were just that, a warning.

“You know we're going to find her.”

Had he been reading his mind? Dan watched as the sheriff expertly maneuvered the cruiser back up onto the highway.

“I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do.”

“Posters. Flyers with her picture. Blanket the earth.”

“You really think that helps?”

“Hell, yes. And you never know. People pay attention around here, a stranger sticks out. Post a few in Las Vegas, along the road, here in town. All the way to Santa Fe wouldn't hurt. A picture of her car, too, if you've got one.”

“You really think she could still be close by?”

“Been wondering. They tell us to think like the perp. But we don't know what crime has been committed yet—not to Ms. Linden, anyway. Can't think she was carjacked just so her car could be used as a crematorium. And why abduct Ms. Linden in the first place? Wrong place/wrong time? Did she see something she shouldn't? You might have noticed there's a lot of this that doesn't add up.” A wry smile and a sideways look at Dan.

Dan decided this was as good a time as any to share the “it's not what you think” message. He'd expected to get a dressing down for concealing evidence, but the sheriff just seemed lost in thought.

“And you didn't see who left it?”

“Well, you're not going to be too overweight if you're jumping over the banister halfway down and landing on your feet. Takes some agility. I thought it was a kid—but guess it could be anybody slightly built.”

“And you heard a bike start up and take off, but didn't see it?” Dan nodded. “So, might have been related, might not. Still got the note?”

Dan reached for his billfold and took out the now much-folded piece of paper.

“Put it in the glove box, I'll look at it later.”

***

Simon met him at the door and after a quick jaunt around the block, Dan set up his laptop on the kitchen table and started to hunt through his pictures folder. There they were—a couple good head shots of Elaine and one of her standing by the Mercedes from last summer—exactly what he needed. He downloaded them to a flash drive, typed out copy that pleaded for information, saved that to the same drive, and got ready for bed. He thought the makeshift Post Office at the back of the convenience store offered electronic copying. He'd check in the morning. Posters or in this case flyers—oversized with pictures required paper big enough. He hoped they had supplies but more than that he hoped it would prove to be more than just busy work.

The knock on the door had even caught Simon snoozing. Dan shushed the big guy and checked his watch. Six-thirty. This better be important; he didn't think he'd even dozed off before three. Didn't seem to be any way to shut his mind down. The “what ifs” were rampant. He slipped on slacks and opened the door only to have a microphone thrust in his face. Simon saw this as a threat and lunged before Dan could grab his collar.

The woman with the microphone shrieked and jumped backwards knocking the guy holding the camera two steps down the stairs—her microphone flying into space and the guy's camera clattering to the first floor landing.

“Did you get dog pictures? That animal is vicious and out of control.”

“This one?” Dan pointed to Simon sitting by his side. “Dan Mahoney, and you're…?”

The woman, somewhat past her prime, stopped brushing off her jacket and held out a hand, “Mollie Barton, KOAT News at Six.”

Dan ignored the hand. “How can I help you?” As if he didn't know. Was this what happened to aging newscasters? Gave new meaning to “out to pasture.”

“We're following up on the Elaine Linden story.” She leaned over to pick up a notebook. “Sheriff Howard has referred to you as ‘a person of interest'…what do you have to say to that?”

Dan could only hope the shock wasn't showing on his face. Keep smiling. Act like it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard—and, well, wasn't it?

“Sorry, but that's a new one on me. I think you'll have to follow up with the sheriff. Now if you'll excuse me.”

“I doubt the sheriff would call you that without a reason? What is your relationship to the missing woman?” Turning to look down at the man on the landing, “Bob, get a shot of this.” A step toward Dan. “What connection did Ms. Linden have to Amber Medger? ”

“You want a shot of this, you'll need another camera.”

Bob sounded thoroughly pissed, grabbed up the camera, clomped down the steps and took off toward the news truck parked at the curb. Dan used the distraction to turn Simon and step quickly back inside. He knew he slammed the door a little too hard but “person of interest”? Where the fuck did that come from?

He dialed the sheriff's number and waited through the twenty or so prompts only to get a “this office is not open” message. Dammit. Seven a.m. Of course, no one would be in. He wished he'd gotten the sheriff's cell number—he deserved to be up at this hour, too. After all, he started it all by talking to the press. Press? Not exactly Katie Couric out here. But his biggest worry was the story hitting national news. All he needed was for Jason to hear about this “person of interest.”

***

By ten o'clock he'd pretty much blanketed the town with flyers—mailboxes, telephone poles, fences—what tape wouldn't hold, staples did.

Was he holding out hope that it would help? Yeah. He had to believe in something. At least he could take Simon with him; the walk was doing them both good. Two more calls to the sheriff and a voice message but no call back. Maybe it was for the best; it was giving him a chance to cool down.

“Yoo hoo.”

Dan had just put a flyer under the windshield wiper of a parked car and looked up to see an elderly woman hurrying toward him—as quickly as arch-support, lace-up oxfords could propel one.

“Mrs. Kennedy. This is a nice surprise.”

“Oh my, I was afraid I wouldn't catch you. Gertie, please. Mrs. Kennedy is my husband's mother.” A wan smile and several more deep breaths. “I really want your opinion on something. Do you have a minute? We just need to go back to my garage.”

Dan nodded. He was about finished putting posters around town then it was out to see Chet Echol's grandson—no appointment, just a drop-in visit. His usual surprise factor. He'd be more likely to find things out that way. Or not.

“They're coming today to put a safe in. And I have absolutely no idea where it should go. The house isn't built on a slab, only a crawl space and partial basement. But I can't get up and down those stairs. Penny suggested the garage. But I don't know. I could get to it there, but the garage is detached from the house. Do you think it would be, well, safe?”

“Let's take a look.” By now they were walking up the driveway toward a side door. He held the door open; Gertie stepped inside and flipped on a light switch.

“Over here in the corner. This is the spot I've picked.” She motioned him to follow. “The safe is six hundred and seventy-five pounds and will be bolted to the cement floor. Not that someone couldn't take it if they were determined but it would be discouraging, don't you think?”

“I would say so.” The wall looked solid; the area wasn't close to a window…“Will you be keeping the necklace here?”

“Yes, of course, after what happened, I'd never trust the bank again. Do you think that will be all right? I mean with your company?”

“I'll need the specs on the safe, but I think it will be acceptable.”

“Good. I know I'll feel so much better and it will be right here. It's like having Mama living next door.” Gertie was beaming, then sobered. “I can't get over feeling so guilty. The accident, Ms. Linden…then the suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Poor Mr. Woods. There were rumors that he didn't like it in Wagon Mound and that maybe the bank was having some difficulties…then the robbery. I don't think my necklace was the only thing misplaced. There's talk…No, not his finest hour.”

Dan waited for a “tsk” or two but Gertie seemed lost in thought. He guessed the suicide story was the better one to circulate. The town could probably take only so much excitement—in the way of killings. He turned his attention back to studying the corner, “Are you going to have them set it up higher? Make it easier for you to see the keypad. If it's placed on the floor, you would be bending down. I don't think that would be comfortable.”