Authors: Lance Horton
Everyone stopped to get coffee except for Kyle, who poured himself a cup of water from the cooler. The sheriff led them down the hall to the observation room where a thirty-two-inch, flat-screen monitor sat on a desk in front of two chairs.
“All we need’s a little popcorn for the show, aay?” Marasco said as he plopped into one of the chairs.
Kyle didn’t respond.
Marasco looked at Kyle. “What? You got nothin’ to say?”
“I just don’t think it’s appropriate,” Kyle said.
“Appropriate? It’s a fucking joke. Look, you VS guys might have to tiptoe around with the families of the vics and all, and that’s fine—I understand. But don’t be all high and mighty with me. You deal with it your way. I’ll deal with it mine.”
Kyle nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Aay, forget about it,” Marasco shrugged.
Kyle cracked a smile in spite of himself. The guy sounded like someone straight out of a mob movie. “So what brought you here?” he asked. “You don’t exactly strike me as the Montana type.”
“You think?” Marasco stopped when he saw Lewis and the sheriff enter the room on the monitor. “I’ll tell you later.”
They watched as Lewis and the sheriff greeted the Joneses. Bill Jones was a heavyset man, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and white hair. He had chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes. Even in winter, his weathered face was well tanned. He wore Timberland boots with jeans and a green and black flannel shirt over a thermal undershirt and held a faded denim baseball cap in his hands. There was a stricken look on his face.
Audrey Jones was a pleasant-looking lady with light brown hair laced with streaks of gray. She also wore jeans and a thick red sweater with a snowman embroidered on the front. Unlike her husband, she appeared to be more relaxed.
Lewis pulled out his notepad, made a few notes, and then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Jones, first, I want to thank you for coming in today. I know this must have been a shock to you, and we appreciate your cooperation.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Jones replied.
“Now, according to our information, you own the cabin in which the murdered men were found.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jones answered. “We own three cabins along the lake. We rent out two of them to tourists. During the summer, Bill takes them on fly-fishing trips. During the winter, we rent them out to skiers and snowmobilers.”
“Did they reserve the cabin in advance, or was it rented out recently?” Lewis asked.
“It was reserved in advance,” Mrs. Jones replied. “I handle all the bookkeeping for the business, and I made the reservations. I want to say that James reserved it sometime in early January. I have all the records on the computer. I’ll be happy to get you the exact date if you need it.”
“Yes, any specific information you can provide us with will be helpful,” Lewis said. “Now, you mentioned that James made the reservation. Were you familiar with Mr. Darrell?”
“Oh, yes, James has rented that cabin from us the last three or four years. He brings some of the guys from the body shop with him each year.”
“Body shop?”
“Yes, he owns an auto-body repair shop in Seattle.”
Lewis nodded. “Were you familiar with any of the other men staying with him?”
“All of them except one had stayed there before. He was a younger man. I believe his name was Steve. Steve—”
“Haskins,” Mr. Jones finished for her.
“Yes, that was his name.”
“Did you see the men when they arrived at the cabin?” Lewis asked
Mrs. Jones shook her head, and her husband spoke again. “I—” He paused to clear his throat. “I showed them to the cabin and helped them to get settled in.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about any of their behavior? Did any of them seem nervous or anything?” Lewis asked.
“No,” Mr. Jones replied. “Nothing I noticed.”
“Did they bring anything with them that seemed unusual?”
“Not that I noticed. Mostly just fishing gear, but I did notice they had a shotgun with them. I don’t know exactly whose it was, but I know they had one.”
Lewis nodded. “Can you remember for sure if you saw any other guns or weapons?”
“No, not that I can remember.”
“What about an ax?” Lewis asked.
“Well, each of the cabins has an ax for chopping firewood,” Mr. Jones replied.
“They never found one at the site,” Marasco said to Kyle.
In the other room, Lewis paused to write down the information. Kyle was sure he was thinking the same thing. Then Lewis said, “We found the vehicle and the snowmobiles they rented at the cabin. Did they bring more than one vehicle?”
“No, just the one,” Mr. Jones replied.
“What about skis?” the sheriff asked.
“No, not that I saw. At least I didn’t notice any on the truck’s ski rack.”
“Did you know if anyone came to visit them at the cabin before the storm?” Lewis asked.
“No,” Mrs. Jones replied. Mr. Jones just shook his head.
“Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill those men?”
“No, none at all,” said Mrs. Jones.
“No, me either,” Mr. Jones said quietly. He acted as if he were about to say more but then stopped. He looked down at the hat he was nervously working back and forth between his hands.
Kyle could tell that something was bothering Mr. Jones.
Lewis had picked up on it too. He waited a moment before he spoke. “Mr. Jones, is there something you want to tell us?”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “I just … I went to the cabin and told them about the storm before it hit, but they said they were just going to ride it out. I didn’t think … I didn’t know … I just wish … I should have made them come into town with us,” he sighed. “None of this would have happened if I’d made them come into town.”
Mrs. Jones reached out and gently placed her hand on top of his. Her husband seemed to respond to her touch. Straightening his shoulders, he sat back up and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Lewis said. “I think we have everything for now. But before you go, there’s someone else I’d like you to meet.” He stood and left the room.
The door to the viewing room opened, and Lewis stuck his head in. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Not much, but I believed them,” said Marasco. He sounded almost disappointed to admit it.
“Yeah, me too,” said Kyle.
“Yeah,” Lewis said, sounding distracted. “I was hoping they might give us something more to work with. Kyle, come with me. I want you to be the point of contact.”
Kyle followed Lewis next door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” Lewis said. “This is Kyle Andrews. He’s the victim specialist who will be handling this case.”
“Victim specialist?” asked Mrs. Jones.
“Yes,” Kyle said as he shook their hands. He had never cared for the title of victim specialist. To him, it sounded like someone who specialized in
creating
victims, not helping them.
He held out one of his cards, and Mrs. Jones took it. “I’ll be in touch with you to help keep you informed on the progress of the investigation and to let you know when your property will be released to you. You may not think of yourself as a victim in the typical sense of the word, but you probably do feel a certain sense of apprehension and violation over what has happened. If at
any
point you feel like you would like to talk to someone about it, please call me.”
“And if you think of anything else that might help us with the investigation, don’t hesitate to call,” added Lewis.
Mr. Jones nodded as he and his wife stood. Clearing his throat, Mr. Jones pulled his cap back on and then reached out and took his wife’s hand. Together, they walked from the room, holding on to each other for support. Watching them, Kyle thought of Angela. He wondered if they would ever be like that.
Lewis looked at his watch. “Tell the press we’ll have a briefing for them in half an hour,” he said to the sheriff. “I’m going to go have a smoke first.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Marasco as the two headed outside.
Denver
By the time Carrie Daniels arrived home, it was already well after dark. She had worked late, not because she had to but because she was trying to keep her mind off the fact that it was Valentine’s Day and she was alone again. She pulled into the driveway of her townhouse and hit the garage door opener. A few scattered snowflakes had begun to fall, sparkling like tiny diamonds as they angled across the headlight beams. That didn’t bother her. In fact, she liked it. Her plans for the evening consisted of dinner alone with her cat and a nice, hot bath before she relaxed in front of the fire.
When she stepped into the laundry room off the garage, she was greeted by the chirping of the alarm system she had recently had installed. She punched in the code to disarm the system and watched as the garage door rolled shut. Once satisfied, she closed the back door, locked it, and punched in the code to re-arm the system.
When she had purchased the system, she had told herself she was doing it to protect herself from the nameless, faceless criminals of the world, that in this day and age, it was foolish to ignore society’s inherent propensity for violence. But she knew better. She had learned that the hard way. The harsh reality was it wasn’t the nameless, faceless criminals of the world, but those closest to you who posed the greatest danger.
She stepped into the kitchen and was immediately greeted by Chelsea, who hopped up onto the bar between the kitchen and the living room. After she satisfied the cat’s desire for attention, she emptied a can of cat food into the plastic food dish on the floor. While the cat devoured its food, Carrie poured herself a glass of wine from a box sitting in the fridge. She could afford the more expensive vintages, but she didn’t see the point. She wasn’t a wine connoisseur. She drank for the effect, not for the taste.
Glass of box-blush in hand, she proceeded upstairs to change.
When she returned downstairs, she was wearing a pair of red plaid flannel pajamas and thick gray athletic socks on her feet. The wine glass was empty.
She poured herself another drink and then went into the living room, where she started a fire in the gas fireplace. She opened the door on her entertainment center and picked out several CDs, including The Verve, Tori Amos, Sarah McLaughlin, and Fiona Apple, which she placed into the CD changer. Then, on impulse, she added the first CD from Elton John’s
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
and
Glass Houses
by Billy Joel, both of which had been among her father’s favorites. Even now, years later, she still remembered riding in the car with him, singing along and giggling at the silly face he made when he sang “Ahh-ooh, B … B … B … Benny and the Jets.”
She took her time preparing dinner. While she didn’t normally cook and wasn’t good at it by any stretch of the imagination, tonight was about keeping herself busy, so she planned to make homemade spaghetti.
“You don’t mind if my breath’s bad, do you, baby?” she cooed to Chelsea as she chopped up an onion and minced two cloves of garlic for the sauce. The cat looked at her, cocking its head momentarily, and then began industriously licking its paw.
The sauce was simmering, and Carrie was buttering the thick slices of French bread for the garlic toast when the phone rang. Without looking, she knew who it was. He knew her so well. He knew she would be feeling lonely tonight and was trying to take advantage of it.
She let it ring, reaching for her glass of wine instead. The answering machine picked up.
“Carrie, it’s Bret.” It sounded like he had already been drinking, just enough to be charming. Reflexively, Carrie’s hand lifted to the cheekbone below her right eye. Most of the bruising was gone, but it was still tender to the touch.
“I was just calling to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day. Hope you liked the flowers. I know how much you like lilies and all, and roses just seem so cliché.” There was a long pause and the sound of a deep sigh. “Look, I’ve told you like a hundred times I’m sorry about what happened. I don’t know what more you want from me. Can’t we just put this behind us? I love you. Don’t you know that?”
A part of her desperately wanted to pick up. She wanted to believe him, to believe that everything was going to be all right, but she just couldn’t do it. Not anymore.
“I’m not going to give up,” he continued, the tone of his voice becoming suddenly harsh. “You know we were meant to be together …
forever
.”
Carrie winced as the phone was slammed down.
She stood there, listening to the shrill sound of the dial tone until the machine finally cut it off. She quickly reached over and hit the button to delete the message. She knew if she didn’t, she would spend the rest of the evening listening to it over and over, trying to discern the true meaning of his statement. If only she could get him out of her life that easily. She didn’t know what to do. Since she had left him, his behavior had become more and more erratic to the point that she was genuinely scared of what he might do next. She had even considered taking out a temporary restraining order against him, but she was afraid that might be the thing that would send him over the edge completely.
Her hand shook as she turned off the burner beneath the sauce, her appetite suddenly gone. Instead, she went to the refrigerator and poured herself another blush. Without closing the door, she slammed it down in three large gulps and then filled it again.