Sheriff Pratt stepped away from a group of detectives at the command post. Approaching Jude, he said, “Looks like a robbery gone bad. They broke in thinking the place was empty and Maulle interrupted them. Wrong place, wrong time.” He pointed to a sheet-covered shape in the parking area. “Poodle took one to the head. Point-blank. Slice of bologna in its throat.”
“The burglar fed it a treat, then shot it? Jesus, that’s cold.” Most times the family pooch was shut in a laundry room or let loose on the property.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Pratt said grimly. “What happened to honor among thieves?”
“Where was the dog shot?” Jude asked.
“Out back.” Pratt pointed. “There’s just some cats and a parrot in there now. We put a call in to animal control.”
Jude glanced at the young woman once more. Phillipa Calloway was just a kid. Eighteen, or maybe a little older, but so slight she could pass for a high school kid. “Was she on the premises at the time?”
“First responders arrive and she exits the house, covered in blood. Says she found Maulle wounded.”
“Who conducted the field interview?”
Pratt glanced toward a tall man with a black handlebar mustache. “Sergeant Pavlic took down her details. She’s too shaken up to give a full statement. The victim died in her arms.”
“Do we have a cause of death?”
“I’m gonna say multiple stab wounds. The coroner isn’t here yet.” Pratt rolled his eyes expressively.
Until the official pronouncement was made, no one could move the body or start processing the scene in any comprehensive way. Dr. Norwood Carver, the Montezuma County coroner, was usually the last to arrive at a scene. He liked everyone to remember who the real star was. Carver was one of those rare birds, an elected county coroner who was also a forensic pathologist, thus unusually well qualified for his job. If he couldn’t attend a scene when it was necessary, he arranged for someone from Durango or Grand Junction to stand in for him. That could take hours.
“Any sign of the murder weapon?” Jude asked.
“Not yet. We put out a BOLO for a male acting suspiciously.”
Long shot, but fact was stranger than fiction. Suspects did stupid things, like stopping at a gas station for cigarettes before they remembered to change their bloodstained garments.
Jude glanced toward the other detectives, “Who’s the primary?”
“That would be you, Devine.”
“Sir, with all due respect. I’m going to be tied up with the Telluride operation once the FBI arrives.”
“You’re the one with major crime experience,” Pratt said. “And we’re not talking about your average Joe here.”
“I can see that, but—”
“No, what I’m saying is Maulle had juice. He knew the governor. I’m going to have bigwigs on the goddamn phone every day until we get a result.”
“So partner me up with the primary. How about Pete Koertig? He’s earned it.” Jude lowered her voice. “Media-wise, it could be a good move to have a local man lead this one.”
Pratt hesitated for a split second before conceding, “Good thinking.”
“Have we ruled out Ms. Calloway?”
Pratt regarded her like she was crazy. “There’s no way she did it. Look at her. Ninety pounds wet. Hysterical with grief. They had to give her a shot to calm her down.”
None of which proved anything. Patiently, Jude said, “We’re going to need her clothing. When is she being transported to headquarters?”
“We’re not going that route tonight. I want her taken to the hospital. We can get her statement tomorrow.”`
“Sir, she’s probably the last person to see the victim alive.”
“Which is why we should show some sensitivity.” Pratt sounded protective. He was the father of several girls, one of whom looked a little like their witness. “She’s not a suspect. But if you want a quick word with her, I’ll go give Koertig the good news.”
Relieved, Jude took the steps onto the verandah and strode over to Phillipa Calloway. After identifying herself, she said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Calloway.”
Upon closer inspection, the young woman was probably in her twenties. Corkscrews of auburn hair framed the face of a dreamer. Even puffy from crying, her eyes were a beautiful almond shape, their shade a dark aqua blue that reminded Jude of the Colorado spruce trees around her house. Her coloring was Celtic, the skin a milky tone that would never tan. Red blotches marred its translucent perfection. From the tear-ravaged look of her, she was every bit as innocent as Pratt claimed.
“Who would do this?” She directed her anguished question at Jude.
“We want to find out as much as you do,” Jude replied.
The answer was standard, but she always meant what she said. Her sincerity seemed to calm Calloway. The paramedic seized the opportunity, jumping up like she was relieved to escape.
“I need to check on a couple of things,” she said, patting their witness’s shoulder. “Can I leave you here with the detective, Pippa?”
Calloway nodded vaguely and Jude took the responder’s place. “This must have been a terrible shock,” she said.
“I had a flat tire. Otherwise I’d have been here. Oh, God. Maybe I could have done something.”
Or maybe they would be taking two bodies to the morgue. Jude kept the thought to herself. “Where did the flat tire happen?”
“On the Devil’s Highway. There was a sign. Toad Porter’s Haysales.”
“Not far from Towaoc?” Jude knew the area well. She drove out that way to visit her friend Eddie House.
“Yes. A couple of guys stopped to help me. A father and son. They mentioned they lived somewhere nearby.”
Jude was relieved that someone would be able to verify Calloway’s story. Piecing together the rest of the alibi, she asked, “Do you remember what time that was?”
“Yes. I saw it on my cell phone while they were working on the tire. 3:26 p.m.”
“Ms. Calloway—”
“Please, call me Pippa.”
“Thank you, Pippa. Did you get the names of the men who fixed your tire?”
“Yes.” She frowned as if she’d been about to speak but the words had slipped from her mind. With a dismayed “Oh” she stared at Jude in confusion.
“Don’t worry if you can’t remember right now,” Jude said gently. “You’ve had a terrible shock. Do you remember anything about them?” If they lived around Towaoc, it would be pretty easy to track them down.
Pippa frowned. An edge of frustration lifted her dull tone. “Why does it matter? Shouldn’t you be thinking about who did this?”
“I am,” Jude said. “But one of the first things we have to do is rule out the people closest to your uncle. I know it’s upsetting to have to think about all this now, but you were the last person to see Mr. Maulle alive.”
Pippa’s frown gave way to comprehension. “So I need an alibi for when he was attacked?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“The father looked Native American, but the son was blond. They had a three-legged wolf.”
Jude veiled her astonishment. “Is the name ‘Eddie House’ familiar?”
Pippa looked startled. “Do you know him?”
Jude kept their personal acquaintanceship to herself. “Mr. House is a famous Ute pottery-maker.”
“He knew my uncle,” Pippa said. “Uncle Fabian collected pottery. It sounds like he bought some of Mr. House’s pieces.”
“Did you happen to notice if any items are missing from your uncle’s collection?” Jude couldn’t imagine a burglar killing a rich collector and walking away empty-handed.
“I didn’t look. And this is my first time here. I don’t know what he kept in this house.”
Her tone was so weary and despondent, Jude said, “We can talk again later, Pippa. I’ll need to take a statement from you about finding your uncle. For now, can you confirm what time you arrived here?”
“Around 4:40. I kept phoning once I reached the mountains, but he didn’t answer. The last time I called was just a few minutes before I found the house.”
“Thank you, that’s helpful.” Jude stood. “I need to go talk with the other detectives now. Do you have some clean clothes to change into?”
“All my stuff’s in there.” Pippa pointed toward the Mazda SUV parked below the house. “I didn’t even bring my bags up.”
“I’ll have someone fetch a change of clothing so you can get more comfortable. Is there a family member we can call?”
“My parents are in Boston. Uncle Fabian is all the family I have…had, out here.”
“Then we’ll help you get situated until you decide what you want to do.”
“Thank you. Everyone’s been very kind.” Pippa stared out at the mountains. Wistfully, she said, “It’s so beautiful here, I can’t believe this could happen.”
“I’m very sorry,” Jude said once more. “People thought highly of your uncle.”
Before Pippa could give into tears once more, Jude moved away and signaled a female deputy to sit with Pippa. Stepping under the tape, she stepped into the house, acknowledging several members of the Crime Scene Unit. They’d set up a portable workstation near the entrance for their equipment and evidence inspection and were milling around waiting for the coroner to arrive. Jude pulled on latex gloves and a pair of boot protectors, and picked up a bunch of evidence pouches and security strips so she could offer an extra pair of hands. Pratt, already garbed, fell into step with her as she moved farther into the house.
“What’s your take on the niece?” he asked.
“Same as yours. Innocent family member. She has an alibi. We’ll have to confirm her story, but that shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll take a full statement once they’re done with her at the hospital?”
“Let’s give her some time to get over the shock. Maybe she’ll remember more.”
“I’ll be in town for a while.” Jude had expected to stay in Cortez for several days after the Telluride briefing. She was thankful she’d packed extra clothing. With the homicide landing in their laps as well, she could be stuck down here for a week.
“Your FBI friends arrive tomorrow, don’t forget about that,” Pratt said.
Jude wasn’t sure if Arbiter intended to inform the left hand what the right hand was doing. He’d been cagey when she asked, saying if too much was divulged they would know he had an asset in the mix. It was better for all parties if her cover remained intact. She wondered how long it would take the task force to discover that she was a “friend” of Harrison Hawke. Once they made the connection, what then?
She took a few cautious steps into the living room and absorbed the million-dollar view. Even in the fading light the panorama held her spellbound. The San Juans rose dark purple against a red-streaked sky, stretching north toward Telluride. She could imagine the owner of this house sitting in the single black leather armchair opposite the windows, soaking up the splendor. She picked up a book from the occasional table next to the armchair and checked the cover.
The Dance of Anger.
Yep, that made sense. Who wouldn’t want to dive between the covers of a self-help bestseller when they had this house and this view?
She slowly absorbed the rest of the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Fabian Maulle’s log home was photo-perfect and belonged in a ritzy real estate show on TV.
“Nice life,” she said.
“I met the guy a couple of times. Not your typical loud mouth fat cat.” Pratt picked up the book and thumbed through it, pausing occasionally like the contents spoke to him.