Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (26 page)

Gordon pressed the stop button and rubbed his eyes. Patti had meant well, he knew, but he’d spent—he checked his watch—a good hour, with nothing to show for it. Other than Orrin Wardell hadn’t been at Daily Bread. It was after five. If Wardell was still in the vicinity of Mapleton, Gordon’s time would be better spent running down the list of accommodations Laurie was gathering.

Angie gave him a quick goodbye.
“Two more events this week, and I’m behind schedule.”

“
I’m busy myself,” Gordon said. He gave one more slow perusal of the diner’s customers, but nobody he could peg as Wardell, not even with the broadest stretch of his imagination, had appeared while Gordon was studying video.

He went to his office, where Laurie had left him the list he
’d asked for. A check of his email gave him the other variations on potential disguises for Orrin Wardell. With and without glasses. Short hair. Long hair. No hair.

He called to thank her.

“Not a problem,” she said. “Those are easy—all computer generated. But if your guy is good at theatrical makeup, he could do all sorts of things. Fake scars, temporary tats, you name it. One of the few things he can’t control much is his height. And ears. They’re almost impossible to change much, but if you don’t know what his ears look like in his unadorned state, it’ll be hard to use them as a reference.”

He printed out what she
’d sent, then took them to Lloyd Titchener, tonight’s duty officer. The tank of a man jerked to attention. Still hadn’t made the switch from military to small town police force. “Easy, Titch. Make copies and hand these to all patrol staff when they come in.”

Damn, computers in vehicles would make this
so
much more efficient. He thought of the unfinished grant application on his desktop. And how, as chief, that was more of what his job entailed. “Hang on,” he said, and went to his desk to fetch the accommodations list.

When he returned, Vicky McDermott, one of his patrol officers, was studying the faces.
“I’ll bet this guy’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him in some of these shots.”

“
No argument from me,” Gordon said. “I don’t want unnecessary stops of everyone you don’t recognize, but be alert.”

“
Got it, Chief. I can make copies.” She turned to leave.

“
Wait. Make copies of this, too,” Gordon said. He handed her the list. While she was gone, he explained to Titch that he wanted unobtrusive calls to the various establishments. “Nothing to alarm anyone. Low key. Get with Connie in Dispatch and assign places in conjunction with normal patrol duties. And if anyone gets a hit, call me immediately.”

Much as he wanted to be in the thick of things, he had boring chief stuff to deal with.
“But I’ll hit the Richardsons’,” he said. “It’s on my way home.”

McDermott returned, a stack of papers in her hands.
“One question, Chief. What’s this guy driving?”

Crap
. “Excellent question. And I have no answer. His rental, if the troopers have hauled it up yet, is on its way to an impound lot until forensics is done with it.”

“
I’ll put someone on calling the rental agencies,” Titch said.

“
Start with Enterprise,” Gordon suggested. “They deliver, and he used them before.”

“
You think they’ll rent to him again after he wiped out one of their cars?” McDermott asked.

Gordon shrugged.
“Who knows? Word might not have gotten to the local outlets yet.”

“
On it, Chief.” Titch stiffened, executed a pivot that would make any soldier proud, and marched away.

Gordon left them, comfortable that everything was in good hands. And, he thought, his staff might appreciate a break from their usual routine patrol duties, which on a typical Mapleton night, didn
’t amount to much.

He went to his office and gathered all the paperwork he had on the case, then made copies. He could study them from home. Maybe if he looked at it in a different environment, something new would occur to him. He stood in front of the white board, trying to commit it to memory. Which, of course, wasn
’t necessary. He wondered if falling in the tree well or breathing smoke had muddled his thought processes. He took several pictures of the white board, then grabbed everything and left for home.

On his way, he stopped at the Richardsons
’ Bed and Breakfast. Standing on their porch, he asked Flo and Lyla, the owners, if they’d had any new male tenants over the last few days. He showed them the pictures, restricting them to Wardell as Wardell, and as the Carhartt cowboy. They said they hadn’t, but promised to let the department know if anyone meeting Wardell’s description checked in.

“
We can pass the word along to all the other local innkeepers,” Lyla said. “We’ve got a network set up.”

Gordon wondered if that might end up being too much like the telephone game he
’d played as a kid. One person whispered something to the next, and so on down the line, and by the time it got to the last person, the message bore no resemblance to the original.

“
Keep it basic,” he said. “Single male, mid-to-late-thirties. Five-ten, give or take. Medium build.” As Gordon spoke, he realized how easy it would be to add or subtract a few inches, add a few pounds. The boots Wardell had worn as Carhartt Cowboy added height, and bulky clothing disguised his frame.

But as Gordon left, he had a feeling the Richardsons
’ Innkeeper Grapevine might provide results long before his patrol officers had a chance to make the rounds. Of course, his officers had pictures. Although, since he’d left the sketches with Lyla, he wouldn’t put it past her to take a snap with her phone and relay it down the line.

Solomon would love this. Fit right in with his theory that keeping the citizenry informed made it harder for the bad guys to get away with their wrongdoing.

He drove home, keeping an eye out in case anyone might be following him. Nobody’d called him with an update on whether Wardell had new wheels of the rental kind, so it was pretty much an exercise in futility. Until he hit his neighborhood turnoff, he was on a main road, and countless vehicles had reason to be using it. When he turned onto the street into his development, he was alone. After hanging the final right turn onto his block, he slowed. Every house was dark.

Gordon kept driving. Normal night lighting on the next block. He circled it. Lights on all the way around. Circled his block. All dark. Candle or lantern light shone from a few of the homes. Firelight flickered in another. As he continued, the inevitable warning from the Bark Brothers heralded his presence.

Okay, a blackout involving his block. Downed power lines? A blown transformer? Shouldn’t be weather related—all they’d had today was cold. No rain, snow, or ice. But that coincidence thing nagged. Wardell? Targeting him, but not wanting to call attention to it by having Gordon’s house the only one without power?

But how would Wardell know where he lived? Gordon
’s phone was unlisted, and like many cops, his address didn’t show up in any online searches. Hell, he’d hardly been home since he got back from vacation, so who could have followed him? And if the power had been out long enough for people to find candles and lanterns, it stood to reason they’d already complained to the electric company.

Wardell hadn
’t struck him as being smart enough to pull something like this off. But who knew? He drove on until he was in the land of light, parked under a street lamp, and called Dispatch.

“
Let me check,” Connie said. “Usually people call us to complain, but I haven’t seen anything yet. Tessa might have routed everyone to the electric company.”

Gordon waited until Connie came on the line.
“Happened about thirty minutes ago. Crews are on their way. No cause reported yet.”

“Are they willing to hazard a guess?” he asked.
Thirty minutes meant his alarm system would still be running on its battery backup, so if someone thought cutting the power meant they’d bypass the alarm, they’d have been in for a big surprise when it went off.

“
They’re going to be looking for squirrels,” she said. “They’ve had six calls this month in reference to power outages in that part of town, and squirrels caused four of them. But they’re not going to say anything until they get there.”

Gordon disconnected and drove to his place. Of course the garage remote wouldn
’t work without electricity, so he parked in the driveway, gathered all his paperwork, then changed his mind and decided to leave it in the car until he cleared his house. This wasn’t the first power outage in the neighborhood. Sometimes a single block, sometimes more widespread, although they generally lasted under a minute. And the power company had blamed squirrels for those, too. However, it was another coincidence, and he didn’t like it, not one damn bit. How convenient that the power would go out on
his
block when he was in the middle of an investigation. An investigation where someone might want to get back at him.

Gun drawn, keys in his pocket, penlight in his other hand, Gordon stealth-walked to the side garage entrance. From beyond, the Bark Brothers started up again. Gordon switched his penlight on, gripped it between his teeth and slipped the key into the lock. If there
was
anyone inside, the dogs’ barking would cover the sound of the deadbolt slipping aside. On the other hand, the dogs’ barking might alert an intruder that someone was approaching.

But those dogs barked at anything and everything that moved
, from cars to squirrels, and if Wardell had managed to get inside Gordon’s home, he might have stopped paying attention. Smart to check the house for signs of forced entry first. Gordon left the door unlocked, slipped the keys into his pocket and, cupping his hand over the penlight so there was enough light for him to find his way, he began a trip around the perimeter of his house.

No windows broken. Given that was the level of illegal home entry expertise Gordon expected of Wardell, he already felt easier. The dogs
’ barking grew louder, more frantic.

Geez, boys, it
’s just me. I live here, remember. You see me all the time.

Gordon knew if Jill were home, she
’d have shut the dogs up, but she worked in Denver and didn’t get home until seven. He shouldn’t complain. The dogs made a nice addition to his security system. He continued around the house, not noticing anything suspicious.

That
’s the trouble with being a cop. You see bad stuff everywhere.

He made his way to the side garage door and let himself in. Using the penlight
’s beam to guide him through the clutter in his garage, Gordon walked up the four steps to the door to his mudroom. He punched the code to disarm the alarm system before it went off and alerted the monitoring company, then moved quickly through the rest of the house, automatically checking for signs of disturbance. Nothing.

Once he was satisfied he was the only one inside, Gordon trotted to his car and retrieved the paperwork. Next, he fetched the battery-powered lantern from a mudroom cabinet. Working by lantern light wouldn
’t be ideal, but without power, there wasn’t much else to do, although his rumbling stomach made him regret not grabbing something to eat before heading home.

At least the dogs were quiet now.

Gordon shed his coat, dumped his files on the dining room table, and set up the lantern. He’d finished sorting everything into related stacks when the humming of the refrigerator told him he had power again. Remembering the on-again, off-again power outages at the Yardumians’, Gordon decided he ought to take advantage of having electricity and found some leftover ribs he’d stuck in the freezer. He’d nuke them, eat, then move to his office where he could cross-reference things on his computer as he worked.

He collected all the papers and carried them upstairs to the spare bedroom he used as an office. When he set them on his desk, a few papers fluttered to the carpet. He retrieved them and checked to see which pile they belonged in. DEADBEAT DAD DEATHS, written in Solomon
’s block printing headed one of the pages.

Gordon suppressed a grin. How had Solomon
’s serial killer theory gotten mixed up with the Wardell files? Gordon jiggled the mouse on his computer and skimmed through Solomon’s notes while he waited for it to wake up—and the microwave to ding. Sometimes looking at a new puzzle brought the old one into perspective.

Solomon had summarized the deaths in succinct paragraphs, highlighting the names, dates, and places of each. Gordon was about to set the paper aside when he got that familiar buzzing in the recesses of his brain. Something that said this connected to something he
’d seen before.

But what?
None of it tied to anything he’d investigated, and only the pickup truck driver’s death had happened in Colorado. Gordon set Solomon’s notes aside and reached for the mouse.

He stared at the monitor. Apparently, he hadn
’t closed his browser when he’d put his computer to sleep the last time he’d been home. He’d been looking at Paula’s blog. He refreshed the page to see if she’d put up anything about the Yardumians yet.

Yes. He skimmed the post, pleased that she
’d mentioned the B and B in a good light, along with the rest of her typical generic
things to do in the area
posting. He’d wondered whether there were contributors other than Paula, and posts rotated, so maybe this was her time in the rotation.

He smiled and clicked away from her page. He needed more information about Orrin Wardell, and given the man wasn
’t in any law enforcement databases, Google and the usual social sites were his best bet. He dug through the paperwork again, looking for Solomon’s notes and printouts.

The buzzing in his head grew louder. He grabbed Solomon
’s Deadbeat Dads printout. Clicked over to
Paula’s Places
again. Scrolled through her posts. Looked at the index in the sidebar.

You
’re seeing things because you want to see them. Solomon planted a bug in your ear.

But that didn
’t change what he was looking at.
Paula’s Places
had a blog post from every single location on Solomon’s list. Was there a connection? Or was he jumping to conclusions?

Gordon compared the dates, which didn
’t match, but he’d already determined that Paula’s blog posts weren’t chronological. There were more places on Paula’s blog than Solomon had on his list. But Solomon hadn’t reported on every suspicious deadbeat dad death. Did that mean there was an unsolved homicide or suspicious death in every location reviewed on
Paula’s Places?

Now who
’s looking at coincidences?

If he looked hard enough, he could find an unsolved homicide in almost any spot in the country. Surely they happened in tourist destinations. And why was he thinking Paula had anything to do with them?

The microwave signaled his ribs were done, and Gordon changed his original plan. Instead, he brought the ribs, along with a roll of paper towels, upstairs to his office. He read through the posts that matched the locations Solomon had noted, trying to see if anything looked like code. No repeated phrases. Gordon looked at the names of the victims, seeing if they were mentioned in any way in the posts. Another negative.

He picked the last rib clean, wiped his hands and reached for the phone.
“Ed? It’s Gordon. You busy?”

“
Having my ass kicked at some PlayStation game. Kids spend too much time mastering these things. Old fart like me doesn’t stand a chance. You need something? Wait. Did you find Wardell? The station didn’t call.”

“
Slow down. I was looking at your serial killer notes. Since you’ve started the database searches, I thought I’d see if you wanted to follow up.”

“
You have a suspect?” Solomon asked.

“
Not exactly. But I have another one of those dreaded coincidences.” He explained what he’d found.

“
A woman? That doesn’t fit the serial killer profile. And wasn’t it you who pointed out that serial killers don’t switch methods of killing?”

“
I did, and I still think it’s far-fetched, but I thought I’d toss it your way. Poke around a little, then call the CBI or whoever’s investigating the pickup accident. Of course, that assumes you can find enough to keep them from laughing you out of a job.”

“
I can see the headline. Blogger Kills Deadbeat Dads.”

“
Don’t jump to conclusions, and don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“
Hey, not to worry. Due diligence and all that crap. Gotta’ finish this game, and then I’ll get on it.”

“
I was thinking tomorrow, Ed. When you’re on the clock.” Gordon could almost hear the disappointment in Solomon’s silence.

“
Tomorrow it is, then,” his officer said.

Gordon had a feeling Solomon would be up half the night thinking about it. He set those notes aside and tackled his searches for Wardell. Given the man
’s apparent propensity for disguise, Gordon typed in Wardell’s name and clicked on Images.

He got pages of them. Shots from theater productions. Wardell had one of those faces that lent itself to a multitude of roles. Cast shots, solo shots, shots with what Gordon assumed were leading ladies, many from college productions, according to the captions. Gordon dug through the files, finding the images Solomon had printed, looking for ones he
’d said were of Roni.

He compared those to what he was looking at.
Shit
. He looked again. Checked the date in the caption. That one of Wardell and Roni was from a production that had finished around the time she died.

Transfixed, he stared at Roni
’s image.