Shadow Dragon (18 page)

CHAPTER 38

Montana

Carrie took the Hummer—which was legally hers now—into town. Compared to her Lexus, it felt like she was driving a semi, but she was glad to have it. Last night’s storm had dumped four to six inches of new snow on the ground and littered the roadway with pine needles and broken tree limbs. None of it was a problem for the truck. Grandpa Bill had equipped it with a custom off-road package. It had a heavy-duty suspension and four-wheel drive with specially designed snow tires—which caused it to ride even higher than normal—as well as aftermarket pipe bumpers on the front and rear, a roll bar behind the cab with four floodlights, and last but not least, an electric winch on the front.

It took a little longer than usual, but when she reached Kalispell, she stopped at her motel to take a quick shower and change clothes. With her hair damp from the shower, she simply combed out the tangles and pulled it back in a ponytail. Other than eyeliner, Carrie hadn’t worn makeup in months, and today, she didn’t even take the time for that. She slipped into a pair of jeans and was about to pull on a sweater when, on second thought, she decided to wear her gray Stanford University sweatshirt. After she pulled on her boots and ski jacket, she gathered up her purse and satchel before she headed out the door.

After she climbed back into the Hummer, Carrie headed for the next place on her agenda. As she drove, she couldn’t help but think about the case. The odds of so many murders occurring in such a small town over such a short period of time had to be astronomical. It had to be more than just coincidence. Call it reporter’s intuition or a logical assumption based on the facts, but she felt certain that something strange was going on. The events taking place hinted at something much larger—perhaps even a conspiracy of some sort—something she was familiar with. In her career as a journalist, she thrived on such cases. She had always thought of them as similar to one of Audrey Gran’s needlepoints. Intricately woven, it all started with the first thread. Once you found that thread, you followed it to the next one, and from there, you moved to the next until a pattern began to emerge. If you kept at it long enough, the entire scene would finally come into view. It was how she made her living—and she was
damn
good at it.

There was
something
that tied it all together, and regardless of what the police and the FBI were doing—or weren’t doing—she was determined to find that thread.

After she parked in one of the visitor’s spots, she got out and strode into the offices of the
Kalispell Mountain Herald
, where she asked to see Wallace Hipple.

*

“Ah, Miss Daniels,” Wallace said with insincere aplomb as he stepped into the reception area. “How can I help you?”

“Well,” she said, “if it’s not too much of an imposition, I was hoping I might take a look at some of your back issues.”

“Why, certainly,” he replied. “Always glad to help out a fellow reporter.” Carrie was a little taken aback by the comment. They had only briefly met once at her grandparents’ funeral, and the fact that he knew of her occupation was somewhat unsettling, even though it wasn’t all that surprising. After all, he was a reporter who had recently done a story on her grandparents. Like any good reporter, he had obviously done his homework.

“Here, let me help you with your coat,” he said, reaching out for her sleeve. Carrie’s chest tightened much like a skittish dog might react around a stranger. As she fought against the rising anxiety, she turned about and allowed Wallace to take her coat. He hung it on the rack in the corner. As he turned back around, he noticed her sweatshirt.

“Stanford, eh?” he said with an approving nod. “Fine school. Good journalism program. After I graduated from Cornell, I almost went to graduate school at Stanford,” he said as he led her into the back. “But I had to return to Oregon for my mother’s sake—God rest her soul.”

After their first meeting, Carrie had pegged Wallace Hipple as a stuffy pseudo-intellectual, and her hunch had been correct. She had worn the shirt, thinking it might help her curry favor with him when she asked to use their computers, but now she was beginning to have second thoughts about it.

“I’m glad you’re in,” she lied. “I thought you might be down at the police station.”

“Yes, well, that’s what junior reporters are for, isn’t it?” he said with a smug grin.

Carrie tried to humor him by smiling back. Hopefully, it didn’t appear as fake to him as it felt to her.

“Besides,” Wallace said. “In a town this size, one tends to make some very good contacts over time. Everyone knows who I am. I don’t have to go digging for information like I did in the early days. These days, the information comes to me.”

The man’s pomposity was nauseating. “How nice for you,” Carrie said.

In spite of her polite attempts of refusal, Wally gave Carrie the full tour of the offices, showing her virtually every square inch of the place before finally leading her to the research and archives department.

“I know we’re a little behind the times, but we just converted to a computerized archival system a few years back,” Wally explained as he pointed at the workstation. “The computer is tied to our in-house network and has access to any of the stories run during that time. They’re all stored on our server under the ‘P’ drive. Just think ‘Past’ issues if you can’t remember. It also has an Internet connection, so you can access any of the online information sources, including Nexis. If you need it, just let me know, and I can log in to it for you. If you need anything further back than about ten years, I’m afraid you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. All of our microfiche issues are stored in the filing cabinets by year, going back to 1965. And if you’re looking for anything before that, you’ll have to go to the old hard-copy volumes in those binders on the bookshelves. If you need to print out or copy anything, the printer and the copier are just around the corner.”

“Thanks,” Carrie replied.

Wallace nodded and remained silent for a moment, as if in anticipation of an explanation. When she didn’t offer one, he finally said, “Yes, well, I’ve got an important story I need to get back to. You know where my office is, right?”

“Yes, you showed me.”

“Yes, well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he said before he finally walked away.

With a sigh of relief, Carrie sat down in front of the computer, laying her satchel on the table next to her. She pulled out the ragged notebook in which she kept all her notes and her pen, the Mont Blanc her grandparents had given her and that Agent Andrews had been kind enough to return to her. She gazed at it momentarily, grateful to have it and the fond memories it triggered still in her possession.

Before her emotions could overcome her, Carrie quickly pushed those thoughts from her mind and logged onto the computer to begin her search.

CHAPTER 39

Kyle was miserable. He had been out of the cold for hours, but he was still shaking like a leaf thanks to all the caffeine racing through his system. He had been so hungry that he had even eaten a couple of greasy, leftover donuts, but the sugar rush had just added to his misery.

Marasco suddenly burst into the room. He had been in and out all morning, checking the fax machine every five minutes in hopes that the Idaho DMV might have finally forwarded the information on the abandoned car. Everyone looked up anxiously. This time, he held a piece of paper in his hand. “Got it,” he said.

The entire room seemed to come alive. “The car’s registered to a Mr. and Mrs. Roy Lattimer of Pocatello, Idaho,” Marasco said. “He’s sixty-eight, and she’s sixty-four. Fortunately, they both had their licenses renewed recently. The DMV’s e-mailing us their license photos. They also ran a cross-check for us. It turns out that the Lattimers are also listed as the owners of a ’91 Winnebago. License number BCK-779.”

“All right, just like we thought,” Lewis said, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. He turned to look at the dry-erase board of the wall. During the wait, they had put together several course-of-action lists to be followed depending on what information they did or didn’t get back. Lewis began to tick off the items under the “RV” list. “Kyle, contact our office and have them get to work on the credit card records. Tell them to check everything, not just the big ones. I want ’em all—gas cards, Diner’s club, Sears, I don’t care.”

“I’ll put the word out to my men,” said the sheriff. In addition to sending the information to all the deputies on patrol, the sheriff had called in four additional officers who were going to begin checking all the privately owned campgrounds and RV parks in the area.

“Remind them not to approach the Winnebago if they come across it,” said Lewis. “Tell them to call us and not to let it out of their sight until we get there. I’ll call the Forest Service. Marasco, you call the border patrol. And since you did such a fine job hounding the Idaho DMV, why don’t you call the police in Pocatello and ask them to check the Lattimers’ residence.”

Without another word, the sheriff and Marasco scattered, leaving only Lewis and Kyle in the conference room. Two extra phones had been brought in, their lines trailing across the floor and into the center of the conference table. While Lewis used one, Kyle pulled the other in front of him and began dialing the Seattle field office. With the renewed activity, the caffeine-induced jitters and racing heart that had caused him to feel so miserable only moments earlier now made him feel alive and alert, crackling with energy and anticipation.
No wonder cops get hooked on the stuff
, he thought as the phone began to ring.

*

It wasn’t long before information began to come in. The first came from the Canadian Border Patrol, which reported that they had no records of a Winnebago, either with or without Idaho plates, crossing the border in the last forty-eight hours at either of the two nearest border stations. They promised to call immediately if such a vehicle was spotted.

The next report was from the Pocatello Police Department, which had gone to the Lattimers’ house. No one was at home, but that was what they had expected. The police questioned the neighbors, who knew surprisingly little other than the fact that they had been gone for several days and who confirmed that they had taken the motor home and the car. More and more, as the pieces began to fall in place, it was beginning to look as if their theories about Tucker might be right.

It was the FBI’s turn next, and when Kyle took the call, he knew they were on to something. He waved at Lewis to get his attention. He repeated the information out loud as he wrote it down. “Right. You got charges on a Visa from the Lakeshore RV Park and the IGA Market in Lakeside on the twenty-seventh … and the Stone Creek Cafe on the twenty-eighth. Right,” Kyle said. Even as he was writing down the addresses, the others in the room were already preparing to head out. As soon as he hung up, they were on their way. Marasco stayed behind in case any new information came in.

In the truck, the sheriff got on the radio and coordinated with his deputies. Two of them were to meet them at the RV park, while two others were to follow up with the IGA Market where the charges had been made.

*

Lakeside was a small community of private houses, motels, lodges, and a few RV parks nestled along Highway 93 about fifteen miles south of Kalispell on the northwest side of Flathead Lake. When they arrived, a pair of deputies was already there, waiting just outside the entrance to the RV Park. They had talked with the manager and verified that the Lattimers had rented a space. According to the records on file, they had been driving a ’91 Winnebago, Idaho plate number BCK-779 and a maroon Ford Taurus, Idaho plate number TJM-426.

“That’s them,” Lewis said.

“They’re in space A-16. The manager says they’re still here. Said they’ve rented the space through the weekend,” said the deputy.

“They’re still here?” Lewis asked, surprised. They had been working on the assumption that the RV would be gone.

They pulled into the park, taking care to stop before coming into view of space A-16, where a cream-colored Winnebago sat.

Kyle and Lewis got out and quietly slipped across the snow-covered road, taking up positions next to the door while the sheriff and Clayton watched from across the way. Even though it was unlikely that Tucker would have returned to the same location, they weren’t taking any chances.

Lewis reached under his coat, placed his hand on his gun, and nodded to Kyle. They had decided to knock on the door to see if anyone answered. If not, the sheriff would call downtown to get a search warrant.

As he stood to the side of the door in case Tucker
was
in there and decided to greet them with a blast from his shotgun again, Kyle rapped on the door.

Inside, they heard the sound of muffled voices. The RV rocked slightly as someone within moved. Lewis raised his gun.

The door opened, revealing a pleasant-looking man with gray hair and glasses. He wore a blue terry-cloth robe over a white T-shirt. His thin, white legs were bare down to the wool slippers he wore on his feet. Kyle recognized him from the driver’s license picture.

“Mr. Lattimer?” Lewis asked.

“Yes,” the man replied, looking confused.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Lewis said, flipping open his badge. “I’m Special Agent Edwards, and this is Agent Andrews. Do you mind if we step inside? We have some questions to ask you.”

“Uh, no, I guess not—” the man stammered as he backed away from the door.

Lewis stepped up first, looking in both directions inside before entering the camper. Until they were certain, Kyle knew they had to be leery of someone lurking in the RV, but the fact that Mr. Lattimer had been so quick to let them in seemed to dispel that possibility. If there
had
been a kidnapper inside, he most likely would have instructed Mr. Lattimer to try to get rid of them as quickly as possible. And unless he was a master thespian, Mr. Lattimer did not seem to be acting like a frightened kidnap victim.

The smell of coffee filled the air as Kyle stepped into the camper behind Lewis. It was accompanied by the mouth-watering scent of cooking bacon.

“Please, have a seat,” Mr. Lattimer said, motioning to the small dining nook beside them. “This is my wife, Jean,” he said, indicating the short, silver-haired lady standing over the gas range where the bacon popped and sizzled.

“Hi there. You fellows in that Airstream next door? Sure is a nice rig. Can I get you some coffee?” she offered.

“No,” Kyle blurted. That was the last thing he needed. Lewis politely declined as well.

“Are you sure? It’s—”

“Honey,” her husband interrupted. “These men aren’t staying here. They’re with the FBI.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly falling silent. An unpleasant look crossed her face like a dark cloud slipping across the sky.

“Do you own a maroon Ford Taurus?” Lewis asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Lattimer replied anxiously.

Mrs. Lattimer raised a hand to her mouth, “Oh, no, what’s happened?”

“We’re not sure,” Lewis replied. “But your car was found abandoned along Highway 2 around 1:30 this morning.”

“Oh, dear God,” she gasped and collapsed to the floor.