Tucker Peak (31 page)

“So, McNally was billing the resort while he was pocketing the money he claimed he was spending,” Lester summarized. “But where’s that put Gorenstein? If he controlled the books and was in cahoots with McNally, how come he only got caught for the condo rental deal?”

“Another smoke screen,” I suggested, liking my hypothesis all the more, now that I was hearing it out loud. “Which is why I want to talk to Linda Bettina. My bet is that the consultants, engineers, feasibility studies, environmental impact statements, and everything else were mostly pure invention, the supposed costs of it all going instead into McNally’s and Gorenstein’s private account. What outsider can keep track of stuff like that? You can spend two hundred grand on a single research project and bury it in the back of a file cabinet. People do it legitimately all the time.”

I held up my hand to stop him from repeating his question. “I know, I know—the condo shuffle. That’s where I think they did their best work. Time was running out on their plan, see? Instead of milking this operation for the entire winter, like they’d hoped, the schedule had to be moved up because of the intensity of the TPL protests, and just maybe because we appeared out of the woodwork looking to solve Snuffy’s burglaries—plus, Bettina screwed them up by being too efficient, forcing them to burn the pumphouse. But the plan was still in place, and I think it called for Gorenstein to be fired for some minor infraction and allowed to vanish, explaining why Win was hired to find out about the condos. After that supposed ‘embarrassment,’ McNally was probably going to come up with his own excuse—maybe a better job offer or a bogus heart attack (meaning we better check the legitimacy of that heart condition)—and join his buddy in some banking haven where they’ve been sending the loot from the start.”

“So, there’re
three
sets of books,” Spinney said, nodding at the logic of it. “One for public consumption, seemingly legit but hiding the condo deal; one fake backup set showing the condo rip-off, for Win Johnston to discover and get Gorenstein fired; and a third, truly accurate one that only McNally and Gorenstein knew about.”

“Right,” I agreed. “And which we’ll probably never find.”

The pager on my belt went off. I pulled it loose and looked at the number on the display. I was about to tell Lester it was probably Judy telling us that Gorenstein had arrived under escort, when Spinney’s pager ignited also.

“Rains, it pours,” he smiled, studying his in turn.

My cell phone started chirping, making us both laugh.

“Christ,” I said. “No hands left to drive with.”

I dropped the pager into my lap and answered the phone. “Gunther.”

“Joe, it’s Snuffy. Where in Christ’s name are you?” His tone was close to panicky, unheard of in the man.

“Maybe fifteen minutes away from Tucker Peak.”

“Step on it, then. All hell’s broken loose. Some U.S. Marshal’s been shot at one of the condos, and my people are going nuts. What have you been doing up there? And when did the Marshals get involved, or is that news to you, too?”

Didn’t I wish. I leaned forward and hit the blue lights hidden in my car’s front grille. “I was about to call you about that. Does the condo belong to a guy named Andy Goddard?”

“Yeah.”

“Goddard’s in the Witness Protection Program. We just found out about him. I was going to get with you and the Marshals to bust him later today.”

“Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” he commented sourly.

“The Marshals must’ve jumped the gun, Snuffy. I didn’t know anything about it. When did this happen?”

“Right now. The Marshal was only wounded. He just called 911 a few minutes ago from Goddard’s house.”

Meaning there was still a chance. “Did you block the access road?”

“First thing, but my guys are feeling pretty lonely.”

“Okay, spread the word. Tell the feds, the state police tactical team, see about rounding up as many snowmobiles as you can, and have somebody warn Linda Bettina about all this. Her crew could be at risk. That road’s the only way out unless he goes cross-country some way.” I paused and looked up at the dull gray sky. “It’s about to start snowing here. Ask the National Guard if they can get a helicopter into this stuff—their infrared unit could give us a crucial set of eyes.”

In response to all this, the phone simply went dead. Spinney looked at me questioningly.

“We’re in deep shit now,” I said in explanation. “Tony Bugs is on the run.”

LINDA BETTINA MUSCLED HER WAY THROUGH THE SMALL CLUSTER OF COPS
standing around me in the parking lot in front of the lodge, which at this point consisted mostly of sheriff’s deputies and a couple of state troopers who’d responded to the general alert. Her eyes showed she was in high temper. “What the hell’s going on? I heard somebody was shot, that the road’s been cut off, and I just got a call from that fathead sheriff to take all my people off the mountain, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”

I tentatively laid a hand on her forearm, hoping she wouldn’t feed it to me. “I’m sorry. That was my fault. One of the condo owners just shot a U.S. Marshal and disappeared. The road’s blocked so he won’t get away, but I was worried about employee safety. I know your folks are all over this mountain. I was afraid one of them might get hurt or killed for his snowmobile.”

She shut her eyes briefly and shook her head. When she spoke again, she’d regained her usual composure. “Christ almighty. I thought I’d seen it all till now. I can’t wait to get you bastards out of here. Look, you don’t want my crew gone, you need them as extra eyes. The weather’s about to turn shitty, and they know the terrain like the inside of the Butte’s bathroom. My concern’s more the guests. Who says your nutcase isn’t going to use one of them as a hostage to get out of here?”

“That’s what we were just discussing,” I told her. “If he does, he’ll have to announce himself, knowing full well we won’t let him through. To be honest, right now, a hostage situation would be good news.”

“And one I doubt he’ll use,” said a male voice behind us.

We both turned to see Al Freeman standing there, looking embarrassed.

I opened my mouth to voice my opinion about what had just happened, but he cut me off. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It was a screwup, plain and simple. I didn’t know Tony’s case officer was in the area. We do that sometimes—run random checks on our clients. He had no idea of the situation, and we didn’t know Tony had caught wind something was up. When Tony saw the officer at the door, he freaked. It was just Murphy’s Law. We weren’t trying to end-run you.”

At this point, I didn’t much care. I also knew that such things did happen, as unlikely as they might seem.

“How many guys can you call in to help?” I asked instead.

“I have eight coming from various corners—a couple of hours out at the most for some of them, and I can get more.”

I turned to Linda as snowflakes began descending—fat, lazy, and very thick—guaranteeing we wouldn’t be getting that helicopter. “You got a deal. We’ll use your troops as eyes and ears, but I want them equipped with at least one cop each. They can come in to buddy up or we can send someone out to them on snowmobiles, but if you won’t give me that, I am going to pull them all off the mountain. As for the guests, the best I can think of is to stop loading the lifts right now and hope that everyone who’s up there skis off in the next forty-five minutes or so to give us a clear field.”

She looked at me grimly. “Let’s move to the dispatch room. We can reach everybody by radio or phone from there.”

I motioned to Spinney. “We’re going to Mountain Ops. Set up a command post right outside the garage and keep your radio handy.”

He gave me a thumbs-up, and I followed Linda as she strode off toward her operational center. I was feeling the earlier adrenaline rush transform itself into an all-too-familiar, slightly slower-paced tactical tempo. The only thing I knew for sure about the near future was that this situation could last for days without allowing for much rest. As when I’d been in combat so long ago, it was time to think of conserving energy.

Less than half an hour had elapsed since Snuffy Dawson’s phone call.

· · ·

Twenty minutes later Linda Bettina and I, now joined by Sammie Martens, Al Freeman, one of the state police troopers, and Snuffy’s chief deputy were crowded into the resort’s dispatch center—the true brains of Mountain Ops. It had radio, telephone, and computer links to all over Tucker Peak, as well as a bank of small television sets connected to a dozen or more surveillance cameras overseeing the area’s primary gathering spots: parking lots, ski rack clusters, food service courts, and the lift buildings both near the lodge and at the top of the mountain. Before us, a huge whiteboard-mounted map of the resort covered the far wall and had already been sprinkled with cryptic notes in a variety of felt-tipped colors. Linda, a radio headset fitted over one ear, stood at the map, marking the locations of the teams we’d sent out. Over loudspeakers around the room, the air crackled with voices giving updates from the field, and on the TVs, the restaurants, bars, and lobby areas were filling with a growing crowd of confused guests. The whole setup looked like a scruffy movie version of a Pentagon war room.

Unfortunately, the exterior cameras only revealed a thick curtain of falling snow. Wherever Antony “Tony Bugs” Busco was right now, and whatever he was doing, it was going to be difficult getting a fix on him.

“What do you think?” Sammie asked me quietly. “He slip through already?”

“I don’t see how,” I told her doubtfully. “Linda says she’s gotten no reports of a stolen snowmobile. We have watchers at the top of every lift, and they haven’t spotted him. I suppose he could either cross-country ski or snowshoe out, but that doesn’t seem likely, not from what I’ve been told about his physical condition—he’s no jock.”

She seemed to absorb that for a moment, looking around the room, and then asked, “Where’s McNally? You’d think he’d be here sweating bullets.”

It occurred to me then that only Lester Spinney had heard my conspiracy theory in detail, although, having asked Linda about McNally’s whereabouts myself a mere quarter hour ago, I was beginning to feel more confident of it. “He’s apparently disappeared. Nobody knows where to.”

Sammie studied my face, caught by something in my voice. “Except you, maybe?”

I shook my head sadly. “I wish I did. I think he’s dirty, along with his CFO pal. I called Willy five minutes ago and told him to give Gorenstein the grilling of a lifetime to see if I’m right.”

A deep furrow of confusion appeared between her brows.

“I had Gorenstein brought in,” I explained. “I’m betting the condo rip-off was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“You send somebody out to McNally’s house?”

“I had Snuffy send somebody—Christ knows who. Right now, we’re so stretched for personnel, McNally could probably hitchhike naked on the interstate and not get busted. He’ll just have to wait his turn.”

“Unless he’s already out of the country,” she muttered.

A clearly stunned and faltering voice over the radio loud speaker suddenly brought all conversation in the room to a stop. “Base, this is Dick Russell. The deputy and me’ve been shot.”

In the silence that followed, Linda calmly asked, “How bad, Dick? You okay?”

I left Sammie’s side and crossed over to Linda, standing before the map. Soundlessly, she pointed at a red number high on the mountain’s left flank, at the upper reaches of where the condos were located. Dick Russell was the same man who’d thrown me the crowbar during the ski lift rescue days before.

“I’m bleedin’ pretty bad. I think the deputy’s dead. The guy came out of nowhere with a gun. He got the sled.”

Linda turned to me. “Cat’s out of the bag. You nail this bastard or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.”

Feeling my face flush, I said, “Get me some outdoor gear.” I motioned to Sammie to join us. “I’m catching a ride up there with the medical crew. Sam, you take over here and coordinate with Linda. Keep me informed on our own Tac frequency and have some kind of transportation hook up with me there. Got it?”

She knew better than to argue. “Right.”

I began wrestling into the winter overalls and boots Linda handed me from a peg on the wall. “Get as many cops as you can to close in on that spot, and tell them to ditch their employee escorts. Even a snowmobile can’t get everywhere on this mountain—shut down the major routes. And remember, he may be mounted now, but that also means he’s making noise. Tell everybody to keep their ears open!” I paused and said to Linda. “We’ll get Dick down in one piece.”

She didn’t answer, but her expression told me how much credibility I had left.

· · ·

Outside the building, waiting with his engine idling, Bucky Arsenault sat at the controls of his Bombardier, one of several designated runners for an emergency such as this. On the back of the machine, with two state police officers carrying shotguns, the medical team was already piling their equipment.

“I jumped into the cabin’s passenger seat and told Arsenault, “Ready when you are.”

He punched the accelerator almost immediately, sending the people on the slippery rear deck scrambling for secure handholds.

The trip up was far different from the last time we’d shared a ride. Bucky kept to his business, expertly cutting through the clotting veil of falling snow with an instinctive feel for the terrain beneath his caterpillar tracks. I paid attention to what was happening ahead of us, talking on the radio to Sammie and consulting the map I’d grabbed on the way out.

“Joe? Dick Russell just told us he saw the sled heading west when it left them, cutting across the face of the mountain.”

“You got people there?”

“They’re fanning out in a semicircle from peak to bowl.”

“How ’bout above where Dick was?” I asked staring at the map. “It looks like a straight shot up and over. Busco might’ve started west and then hung a left.”

Linda Bettina’s voice cut in. “He knows the territory better than you. There’re rocks and ledge too steep to climb that way. He’s got to go right or left before he can head for the summit.”