In tourist literature Cortez was described as the “gateway to the Mesa Verde National Park.” Visitors passing through thought the place looked like a quaint Southwestern backwater. Its olde worlde charm was enhanced by historic signage and the careful preservation of the original bank buildings and trading posts. People from back East tended to get excited when they saw horses tethered in the main street, so the city council offered incentives for this, and the local dude ranches routinely drove a few head of cattle along the roads out of town so their clients, in full cowboy getup, could add to the general vibe.
Wade Miller lived in a part of town no visitor saw unless they were dealing drugs. His was a low-rent mobile home, one of a cluster crammed on a small dusty lot. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen. The area reverberated with nerve-shattering barking.
“He’s got dogs,” the supervisor noted. Speech barely budged the cigarette that hung off his lower lip. He seemed smug about unlocking Miller’s door so the police could execute a search warrant. “Guy’s a real fuckwad.”
Pete Koertig engaged him in discussion about this observation while Jude escorted a couple of animal control officers in to remove the dogs while the search was conducted. Their water bowls still had puddles in the bottom. Wade Miller hadn’t been home since early Sunday morning, when he’d arrived at the police station, but the dogs seemed fine so they must have been fed before he went to Tonya’s on Saturday evening.
“When did you last see Mr. Miller?” Jude asked the smoke-shrouded super.
He scrunched his eyebrows and scratched his freckled head, destroying a glued-down comb-over. “Saturday night.”
“At what time?”
“I wanna say twelve thirty midnight.”
“Midnight,” she repeated.
“Fucking dogs start carrying on soon as they hear his truck. I was awake anyways. Can’t sleep more than five hours on account of my prostate.”
Jude offered the appropriate sympathetic nod. Koertig was chafing his hands together behind his back, keeping a lid on the high-five impulse. Yet again, they’d caught Wade Miller out in a lie, and this one was important. He had come back to his apartment after his supposed diaper quest, a piece of information he hadn’t volunteered. There had to be a reason he stopped by. He would cite the dogs, of course, and from all accounts he treated them better than his girlfriends. But Jude had a hard time believing that a guy who was only planning to be away for one night would have to check on his pets after only a few hours.
“Did you actually see Mr. Miller arrive?” she asked blandly.
“Oh, yeah.” The super was rearranging his stringy hair. “I got a door scope. The deluxe model. That’s a security measure. You can see who’s coming and going in the parking lot.”
Jude asked one of the detectives on the search team to accompany the guy to his trailer, photograph the door scope, and take a statement. Animal control had the three dogs on leashes, and Jude waited for them to be led out before motioning to the search team.
They didn’t have a lot of area to cover. The trailer was your basic single man’s sty, the kind that only saw a vacuum cleaner when female company was anticipated. They examined every square inch, progressively taking the place apart, looking for a hair, smudge of blood, a child’s fingerprint. They got into the plumbing, lifted the carpets, emptied every cupboard. Eventually they reached Miller’s bed and inspected it with the same methodical deliberation, collecting yet more trace.
So far, there was no murder weapon, no bloodstained clothing conveniently piled in the laundry basket, no sign of a methodical cleanup. If this place had ever seen bleach Jude would be surprised. She lifted the mattress, ignoring Koertig’s half-hearted offer to do it for her.
“Anything?” She was about to lower it when she realized her companions were not silent because they hadn’t heard her. They were staring at the box base, completely transfixed. She craned down. Wade Miller kept his money under his mattress. Laid out flat, in row after orderly row.
“There must be five hundred bucks here,” Koertig said.
Jude handed the mattress on to him and took several photographs of the cash, then she picked up a twenty-dollar bill by one corner. There was something odd about the way it hung. She peeled a glove away with her teeth and cautiously felt the bill.
“It’s wet.”
Koertig moved the mattress away and propped it against the wall. They inspected Miller’s cache more closely. Every bill was wet.
“It can’t have been under the mattress for long,” Jude said. “In this weather it could take three or four days to dry out, I guess.”
“He’s going to say his wallet fell in the toilet,” Koertig said.
“And we’re going to say every body of water has its own special diatom profile.”
For the first time ever, Koertig stared at her like he was impressed. With a wry smirk, he said, “This is why they pay you the big bucks.”
Jude grinned. “Nope. It’s because I’m good-looking.”
This raised howls of laughter from the entire search team, not exactly a vote of confidence for her feminine charms.
Feigning chagrin, she muttered, “You think I’m kidding.”
“Not at all,” Koertig gallantly announced. “What we think—and I hesitate to use the word ‘think’—is that you are surrounded by dickbrains who are not fully evolved. Let me put that another way. We lack the sophistication to appreciate a woman of your Amazonian attributes.”
“You’re saying I could beat you at arm wrestling?”
Koertig’s big pink face was doleful. “No comment.”
*
“What do you think?” Pratt asked as they headed for the meeting room.
“It’s too soon to charge him.”
“What if he tries to skip town?”
“We’ll be waiting.”
“Twenty-four-hour surveillance.” Pratt was the picture of gloom. Jude could hear him calculating the resource commitment in his head.
She said, “We need to build a case against him. He’s not going to confess, and everything we have right now is circumstantial.”
Pratt paused at the door to cough into a Kleenex. Jude took a step back. A dose of the flu was all she needed. Pratt waved her on, and she left him in the hallway to wheeze in peace.
There were probably sixty people waiting for the afternoon meeting, all members of various agencies now involved in the case. Ten FBI agents had joined the investigation that morning, and additional detectives had been sent from each county as far up as Grand Junction. As Jude faced the room, she could feel the terse anticipation. There was none of the usual jocular chatter, the undercurrent of mumbling that typically provided background noise on these occasions.
The discovery of the bloodstained garments had cemented one hard fact. Corban Foley was dead. Their top priority now was to recover his body.
After getting the greetings and kudos out of the way, Jude kicked off her summary with the announcement everyone was anticipating. “This is now a criminal homicide investigation. Our primary suspect is Wade Miller, the boyfriend of Tonya Perkins, mother of the missing child.”
She signaled one of the deputies and he dimmed the lights. Jude projected a photograph of Miller onto the screen for ID purposes.
“As yet, we do not have a confession from Mr. Miller. He has provided us with several statements, all of which are contradictory, and has routinely lied to police since the commencement of this inquiry. An examination of Mr. Miller’s vehicle by Montezuma County’s K-9 cadaver dog produced a positive alert for residual scent. It is our contention that Mr. Miller’s truck was used to transport the body of Corban Foley to a site in the vicinity of the Dolores River and the McPhee reservoir, where evidence was disposed of and the body concealed.”
She brought up the first of several pictures of the clothing just discovered. “These are Corban Foley’s garments. The blood is human and male. We are awaiting DNA results to confirm if it belongs to the victim. Note the concentration around the neck area and the lower torso. A knife may be our murder weapon.”
Jude switched to the next image, but was interrupted by the shrill of an alarm siren and Sheriff Pratt yelling from the back of the room, “Clear the doorway!”
He was on his radio, waving his arm for quiet. After a few seconds, he cursed and said, “Folks, we have a situation out front. Corban Foley’s father is armed and in the building. He’s taken a female deputy hostage. Juanita Perry.”
The FBI agents looked like someone had just announced a lottery win for them. Almost in unison they unholstered their weapons and headed for the door. “We’ll handle this, sir,” the one in the lead informed Pratt.
They hadn’t made it into the hallway when a voice yelled, “Get back or I’ll shoot her.”
The agents fell back and waved for everyone in the room to get down and take cover. Jude ducked past the clamor of cops turning tables on their sides and made it to the door. “Sir, get down,” she told Pratt.
A few seconds later a man in his late twenties loomed into view dragging a terrified young deputy. He had a gun to her temple.
“Where’s the sheriff,” he bellowed.
“Drop your weapon, Mr. Foley,” Jude yelled. “This isn’t helping your son.”
“My son is dead.”
Jude signaled the FBI agent nearest her and gestured toward one of the side doors that expanded the meeting room. Out of Foley’s view, several agents waved some deputies to join them and filed silently from the room.
“Sir, I’m asking you to release the deputy.” Jude kept her voice calm.
“Not until I see the sheriff.”
Pratt stepped out from his spot against the wall and moved into the hallway. “I’m Sheriff Pratt, son.”
Jude glanced across to the agent waiting at the middle door. He signaled an affirmative. They had Foley covered from the rear.
“Where are you keeping him?” Foley demanded.
“We don’t have Corban, sir.”
“Not my son. That murdering filth, Miller. Where is he?”
“We can discuss Mr. Miller when you release the deputy.”
“I have a better idea,” Foley said. “I’ll swap her for him.”
Jude edged out into the hall to shield Pratt. “At least lower your gun, Mr. Foley. You’re not a killer. If something goes wrong and you shoot Deputy Perry by accident, how will you live with yourself? She has a baby the same age as Corban. She’s a good mom.”
Foley’s expression grew even more anguished, but he lowered the gun and instead pointed it at the deputy’s back. “Don’t try anything,” he warned. “Bring him out. Now!”
Jude took a step closer, this time getting directly between Pratt and the gunman. Past Foley, she could see several FBI agents crouched at the far end of the hallway. They had a clean shot. She only had to signal and they would take it.
Behind her, Pratt whispered, “Don’t.”
Jude knew exactly what he was thinking. The distressed father of a missing child gets shot dead by police in a hostage incident. Tragic, yes. But also a public relations disaster.
She said, “I’m laying my weapon down, Mr. Foley. And I’m going to swap places with Deputy Perry.” Slowly she lowered the Glock to the floor. “Now let her go.”
When Foley hesitated, Jude rose and moved toward him, her arms in the air. Indecision flashed across his face, then he pushed his hostage forward and trained his gun on Jude.
As Pratt steered the dazed deputy into the meeting room, Jude took rapid stock of Foley. She had the height advantage, and he was stressed and emotional. The combination was dangerous because it made him unpredictable. Yet, from all she had read, Foley was a decent guy who had left Cortez so he could improve himself and build a better life. He was ambitious and loved his son. He’d applied for sole custody of Corban, claiming Tonya was unfit to be a full-time parent. He was not about to destroy everything he’d worked for. At least that’s what she chose to gamble on.
“Mr. Foley, I’m the detective in charge of this case. I know where Mr. Miller is and I’m willing to take you to him, but I need you to put your weapon down first.”
“I’m not stupid.” Foley was pointing the gun half-heartedly now, wavering in his aim at her chest. He was plainly uncomfortable playing the vigilante. “I know you’re going to arrest me as soon as I drop it.”
“That’s true. We will arrest you. But you could still walk out of here in one piece tonight. You haven’t hurt anyone. You are in a state of emotional distress, and we understand that. If you put it down, you have my word I’ll make sure you get to talk to Mr. Miller.”
Foley was panting. His eyes swung to Pratt, then back to Jude. She could take him, she thought. But if he fired a shot, even accidentally, he would be a dead man. She didn’t want to risk it.
“How do I know you’re not lying,” he demanded.
“You don’t. But frankly, your options aren’t looking too good.” She indicated the rear of the hall. “That’s the FBI back there, and you
know
they want to shoot you. And on my left, there’s maybe fifty cops in that room. They’ll make sure you’re carried out of here on a stretcher if you fire that weapon. You can come see Mr. Miller with me now, or take your chances here. I’m walking away.”
Jude turned her back on him. She hadn’t taken two paces when the wind hissed out of him, the gun clattered onto the floor, and he choked out, “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to turn out this way. I just wanted to speak to someone.”