The Shadowkiller (25 page)

A
fter stopping to get Mac two deep-fried burritos, Mac and Carillo drove east to question Tyler Greenwood.

“Now,” said Carillo, his brow narrowed in anticipation,“like the boss said, let's go sweat this jack-off.”

“You honestly think he's involved?” Mac asked.

Carillo steered the car toward the Greenwood home. “C'mon, connect the dots, Mac. Who's got an axe to grind? Who'd love to blame Bigfoot for his problems? A guy like this is just the kind of crazy fuck who'd kill these guys and then leave fake prints to make it look like his worst enemy did it.” Carillo chuckled. “I'm tellin' you, this guy thinks this thing is real. Total fuckin' wackjob.”

Mac shrugged. Maybe he wanted Carillo to be right.

Although they couldn't see the house from the road, and the large green mailbox was not identified by a name, Mac confirmed it was the Greenwoods' by the address in the file. Across the street through the woods came a strange, throaty honking.

“What the fuck is that?” said Carillo, rolling down his window to identify it.

“Sounds like emus,” said Mac, ever the font of information.

“Okay, I give. What's an emu?”

“A bird, indigenous to Australia.”

“Noisy.”

“They're as tall as we are.”

Carillo was actually impressed. “No shit. Wow, that's a big bird,” he said, turning the car up the stone-paved drive. As the sprawling, majestic home came into view, the men's eyes widened. Carillo whistled. “Fuck me runnin'.”

Mac's hangover was consorting with his emotions to make him slightly irritable. And his irritation for Ty Greenwood—though he'd never met the man—had been building in direct proportion to his own failure to come forward with what he thought to be the truth. While Mac analyzed his own encounter over and over, as well as the information he carried, he still couldn't conjure up the faith of an apostle. Like Ty Greenwood. Whether or not Greenwood really saw that thing in Idaho and it chased him like he'd said, Mac resented the way the man simply came out to the media, with seemingly no qualms. Mac was angry with Ty Greenwood because he just couldn't summon the same courage.

Carillo gaped at the enormous residence. “What do you think this place is worth? Three, four million?”

Mac shrugged. “I'm not a real estate agent.”

Mac realized his partner had a problem with Greenwood from square one. Karl Carillo had a bilious disgust for people with money. He had joined the military as a young man and then later had become a cop, but when life taught him he didn't really have the kind of power he'd hoped for, he became bitter, railing at those with means. And Mac knew that as Carillo got older, that tape loop in his head would irritate Carillo more and more, every time he ran into someone who had an intimidating wallet.

They parked and Carillo pulled out the keys, then drew his gun. He checked to make sure he had a round in the chamber of his Beretta 9 mm.

Mac looked over. “What? You think this guy might try and kill us?”

Carillo looked back matter-of-factly. “You are hung over. A murder suspect with four possibles? Get real.”

They got out and crossed to the towering hand-carved doors inlaid with elaborate stained glass. Carillo rang the bell and appraised the doors. “There's this restaurant in Shilshole, forget the name. Took Kelly for our anniversary. Doors look like this.”

A moment later a tall, exotically lovely redhead answered.

“Mrs. Greenwood?” said Carillo.

“Oh no, I'm Greta. I'm their au pair. May I help you?” she asked.

“We're with the Snohomish County Sheriff. We'd like a word with Mr. Greenwood.”

Greta invited them in and they waited in the entry while she fetched their subject.

Carillo stared at the distant ceiling. “This place is as big as the theater I take my kids.”

Mac recognized big money,
new
big money. A moment later down the travertine-tiled hall appeared a tall man, in jeans and flannel, his youthful looks accentuated by longish sandy hair. Mac's instant read of this impassive, tired face was of a man carrying a burden. Could he have killed these men? Ty held out his hand but neither Mac nor Carillo took it.

“I'm Ty Greenwood. What can I do for you?” Mac detected a hint of the South.

“I'm Detective Carillo and this is Detective Schneider. We're with the Sheriff's Department.”

Ty gestured toward the living room as Carillo took out a small notebook.

“We're investigating the disappearances of several men,” Carillo continued, as they entered the room,“and you've been asking around about them. What's your connection?”

“Just curious. Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there is.” Carillo's antagonism surfacing. “Especially when you harass family members of possible victims. You work for the Forest Service, right?”

“I did until recently.”

“Oh yeah? Can't hold a job, huh?” Before Ty could answer his sarcasm, Carillo plunged on. “So as an employee of theirs you were operating outside any official capacity when you used your uniform to gain access to information held by the local newspaper.”

“My uniform had nothing to do with them giving me that information.” Which Ty knew was a little white lie.

Carillo knew better. “Not according to the publisher,” he said, flipping a page in his notebook to confirm Ty's deception. “He said you represented yourself as an employee of the Forest Service and were investigating disappearances. What's interesting is you told him that only a few hours after some lawyers went missing in the mountains less than twenty miles from your home. And at that point, the most the public could have known was that one guy, a logger, had actually been declared missing. The hikers, for all anybody knew, weren't even missing yet. So how did you know?”

“I didn't, it just happened that—”

Carillo flipped a page in his notebook and interrupted. “We're also aware you were arrested for criminal trespass the other night at the residence of Donald R. Allison. Explain what the hell that was about.”

Mac thought Carillo was getting too emotional. Mac always felt better sizing up a suspect, even developing a connection, before moving in for the kill. It gave him a better chance to read someone, while lulling them into a false sense of security. And if they were hiding something, it often caused them to make mistakes.

“I was out hiking and got lost,” said Ty. “I wandered onto the guy's property. It's an honest mistake. They only arrested me because they had some previous vandalism and Allison and the cops were jumpy. No big deal.”

Carillo checked his notes. “You're lying. Allison had good reason to be jumpy. He reported to us you'd been there once before and he asked you to leave.”

Before Ty could respond, Carillo shifted gears. “Where were you on the morning of the twenty-first, a Saturday. And on the previous Tuesday?”

Ty was angry with himself for getting caught in a lie. He didn't like Carillo's attitude and understood this was not a casual call. These cops seemed to be casting blindly for suspects, and Ty's behavior had given them fuel for those suspicions.

“I was home on that Saturday morning,” Ty lied again, not seeing an option.

How could he explain he was in a drunken stupor, driving around trying to kill himself? Ronnie and the kids had been asleep and had hardly known he was missing.

“Can you corroborate that?” asked Mac.

“Yeah, my wife and kids, they were here.”

“Your nanny? She corroborate that?” fired Carillo.

“She didn't work for us at that time.”

“That's convenient,” said Mac. “How 'bout Tuesday?”

“Probably at work.”

“Forest Service?” Carillo asked.

“Yeah…”

“Also convenient, that you're not employed there anymore. But we'll check their records.” Carillo swept his eyes around the space. “Boy, the Forest Service paid good, huh? Shit, Mac, whadda we doin', runnin' shitheel killers down for chump change? We should be trimming trees for millions.”

“I'm no longer employed there,” Ty calmly answered, “but to answer your inference, I was in another business. One that paid a little better.”

“Like I said, can't hold a job, can you? What was the other business?”

Ty ignored Carillo's belligerence. “Computers. Software.”

“Why'd you leave?” Carillo pushed. “Fired?”

“No. I left.”

“What? Bigfoot got promoted over you and you quit in protest?”

Ty stared the man in the eyes for a moment and got his temper under control. “Is that why you're here, to subject me to your bad jokes? If you give me a few minutes to explain some things to you, I think I might be able to change your mind that Bigfoot is just some joke.”

Carillo stared right back. “Why did you leave your job?”

“There were various reasons. Job stress…”

Carillo wanted to shake his head in disgust.
Fuckin' stress? With all this asshole's money? He doesn't have a freakin' clue about stress.

On the other hand, Mac was looking at a ragged man. Despite Ty Greenwood's lineless face, Mac saw a spirit under attack from too little sleep and too much booze. Mac could read people fairly well and he knew a desperate man when he saw one.
But is he desperate enough to kill? Pay someone to do it?

Ty turned. “I've got something that might help you. Hold on, I'll be right back.”

He left the room.

Carillo looked to Mac and nodded in Ty's direction. “I can't stand this smug dickhead. There's something wrong here. I'm not letting him out of my sight.” Carillo followed Ty.

In his office, Ty reached into one of his desk drawers and sorted through a few of the images of the broken trees. Carillo, with Mac right behind, entered, surprising Ty.

“Greenwood!” Carillo shouted as he drew his gun. “Step back! Keep your hands in view!”

Ty was shocked and quickly complied. Mac thought Carillo had overreacted and remembered Barkley's advice to be careful, especially around a guy who could hire an entire law firm to prosecute a harassment suit.

Mac reached out for Carillo's gun arm. “Karl, it's not really—”

Carillo barked,“What the fuck are you doing in that drawer?”

Ty gave Carillo a level stare. “I was trying to help you. I have—”

“Don't fuckin' help me, pal. Just answer my—”

“Just look in the drawer.” Ty cautiously stepped back.

Carillo holstered his gun and stepped past Ty. He looked down into the drawer. There were color printer copies of photos. “What's this shit?” Carillo demanded.

“Broken trees. I shot those up the road where Joe Wylie's truck was found. I found a Weyerhaeuser memo suggesting the official cause of damage be blamed on the wind. It's probably just bureaucracy coming up with a tidy answer, but it's possible they're hiding something.”

Carillo had heard of the broken trees, but they were meaningless. As far as he was concerned, some windstorm had absolutely nothing to do with anything.
Greenwood's trying to confuse the issue, throw us off the scent.

Ty pointed to the photos. “If you'll allow me to explain, many anthropologists say that a creature like Bigfoot, if they were to exist, might mark its territory by—”

“Enough of the fucking Bigfoot stuff.” Carillo picked up the photos.

Mac watched Ty's face during the exchange.
Resignation? Frustration?

Ty sat on the credenza. “Look, I saw a lot of trees, broken off high up, taller than any of us. Some a lot taller. Can you explain that?”

“No. So what?” said Carillo impatiently.

Ty said,“I just thought the photos might be useful.”

“They're not,” said Carillo, dropping them on the floor.

Mac wanted a better look at the broken trees but didn't want to scoop up the photos and interfere with his partner's role of bad cop. Mac's eyes moved over the desk and credenza, and he recognized some of the books and Internet materials from his search at the library. Mac glanced up and his eyes met Ty's and an ever-so-brief understanding passed between them. Then Mac quickly steeled his gaze and shut Ty out.

Carillo's eyes also ranged over the desk and walls. “Kinda obsessed with Bigfoot? Huh?”

“They exist,” answered Ty.

Carillo laughed derisively and looked to Mac for agreement. Mac nodded impassively. “So, Greenwood, where are those fake feet you used to make the tracks? Will you hand 'em over or will I have to get a search warrant?”

They have footprints.
This was good news for Ty. “How many footprints did you find?”