They’d arrived back at the clearing by the cabin. She eased the Jeep to a halt and opened the driver’s side door.
“I guess we won’t have to look too hard to find enough evidence to tie him to the killings,” she said, leading the way to the cabin.
Where she found how wrong she was.
They were looking for rope—after all, they knew the killer had abseiled out of the gondola when he killed his first victims. But there was none. Nor was there any sort of tool that he might have used to force the gondola doors open.
There was no rucksack. No cross-country skis. There was precious little but a duffel bag containing Miller’s clothes and a surprisingly large number of cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes.
“Maybe he left his gear in a locker,” said Lee, a horrible fear growing in the pit of her stomach.
“Maybe,” Jesse agreed. But he didn’t sound convinced. Lee swung on him defensively, hearing the doubt in his voice.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, Jesse! If he wasn’t guilty, why did he light out like that? You tell me.”
He shrugged. He was frowning at the stack of cartons by the wall.
“This guy must be one hell of a heavy smoker,” he said. He flipped through several cartons, reading the brands. “Winston, Pall Mall, Marlboro … He doesn’t seem to stick to one brand, either, does he?”
“Maybe he plans to sell them, not smoke them,” Lee snapped angrily, tossing the army surplus blankets off the old wooden bunk in one corner. There was nothing under them, so she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed, saw a gleam of metal and reached for it.
“Oh Christ,” she said softly as she saw it. And suddenly she knew why Miller had so many different brands of cigarettes, so many cartons of beer. Suddenly she knew why he’d run when she’d appeared. Only guilty men run. She knew that. And now she knew that Mike Miller was guilty all right. He was guilty as all hell. He just wasn’t guilty of murder.
Jesse heard the change in her voice and looked across the room at her, curiously. Then understanding dawned as he saw the crowbar that she’d retrieved from under the bed.
“Oh Christ,” he echoed. They looked at each other, and both of them felt a racking surge of bitter disappointment.
“He’s the 7-Eleven burglar,” Jesse said softly.
THIRTY-FIVE
T
hey left Miller in a secure room at the hospital with one of Felix
Obermeyer’s men on guard outside. The same young doctor had examined Miller. He looked harassed and overworked, and Jesse guessed that was exactly what he was. Doctors in ski towns in the middle of ski seasons often were, and this town was having a whole spate of exotic injuries in addition to the mundane run of breaks, sprains and twists from the ski fields.
Miller’s jaw was badly broken in two places. The doctor had sedated him and he was unconscious now. He’d looked sidelong at Jesse and Lee when they’d brought the injured man in.
“He could have used an ambulance with these injuries,” he said pointedly.
Lee ignored the implied note of criticism.
“Doctor, we were looking for a man who has killed four people. Don’t ask us to treat him with kid gloves, all right?”
The doctor straightened, turned to face her again. “You may have been looking for a killer,” he pointed out, “but this isn’t him. This is just the guy who’s been stealing beer and cigarettes.”
And, of course, there was no answer to that.
“There’ll be a police officer on duty outside this room,” Lee said. “I’d appreciate it if you’ll let me know as soon as Miller is fit for questioning.”
The doctor grunted. “Be sooner if he’d been treated properly on the way here,” he said, refusing to acknowledge the more placatory tone she’d used.
Lee and Jesse exchanged a glance and left the doctor to it. Outside, they hesitated beside their cars, not sure what to do next.
“I’ve got more steaks at my place. You planning on eating?” she asked. He nodded.
“Eventually. Planning on a good solid drink first.”
“Got that at my place too,” she said and he grinned at her.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
A thought struck her. “Give me a few minutes. Got a couple of things I should tidy up at the office anyway.” She reached into her shirt pocket for her keys. “You can go on back to my place and wait if you like,” she suggested, sorting through the bunch till she found the brass Yale key to her front door. Jesse stopped her before she could detach it from the ring. He put his hand over hers, enjoying the contact.
“No matter,” he said. “I’ll come back with you. Want to see if there’s been anything in from Washington.”
“You still waiting on more news of that Wilson Purdue character?” she asked. He nodded, feeling in the pocket of his parka for his own keys.
“He’s gone back to the top of our list as a prime suspect,” he said as he turned to his little Subaru.
She followed him down 7th and across Lincoln, making a mental note to tell him that his right brake light wasn’t working as he stopped at the lights.
The two cars wheeled into the parking lot at the Public Safety Building, one behind the other. Lee stepped down from the Jeep, waiting by the back door of the Safety Building as Jesse crossed the parking lot to join her. She noticed a Ford station wagon with a Channel 6 logo emblazoned on the driver’s side door. Jesse had to pass it to reach her and as he did, the passenger’s side door opened and a slim figure got out. The area lighting in the parking lot caught her pale blond hair, making it seem almost as if the hair was a source of light in itself. Lee felt her breathing tighten a little. She’d recognize that hair anywhere. She started toward the car as the woman spoke to Jesse.
“Hello, Jess,” she said. The tone was warm, friendly, intimate. It was a voice that spoke of old memories, shared times, personal moments.
Jesse stopped as if he’d walked into a glass wall. His face, to Lee, seemed unnaturally pale in the arc lights. He stood for a moment, without saying a word, staring at the beautiful blond woman a few feet from him.
“Hello, Abby” he replied at last.
THIRTY-SIX
A
bby glanced around the claustrophobic little conference room that Jesse had made his headquarters. She took in the pages of legal pads strewn across the table, the scrawled notes that covered the whiteboard. Her mouth turned up in a little smile.
“I see you still like to work in an atmosphere of ordered chaos,” she said.
Jesse didn’t reply for a second or two. When he did, it was simply to ask, “You like a coffee or something?”
She leaned over to peer more closely at a note on the whiteboard, frowning slightly in concentration as she tried to make out his scrawl.
“Your penmanship’s still terrible,” she said lightly. He didn’t reply and she looked from the whiteboard to him as he stood by the door, strained and uncomfortable. She knew then, instantly, that what she’d suspected a few minutes ago was the truth. He’d been sleeping with Lee. As she realized it, she felt an irrational stab of jealousy.
“Coffee?” he prompted, and she smiled again, nodding yes.
“Love a cup. Cream, no sugar, thanks.”
“I know,” he said, and she tilted her head to one side in mock surprise.
“So, there are still some things you remember?” she asked.
Jesse returned her look without any hint of a smile. “There are still a lot of things I remember, Abby.” He turned and left the room to fetch the coffee.
In the small annex at the end of the corridor, Jesse poured a cup of coffee, added cream and started back toward the conference room. He didn’t pour a cup for himself. He paused at the door to the conference room, his hand on the doorknob, looking at the closed door to Lee’s office at the far end of the corridor. As if in response to his glance, the door opened and Lee emerged. She saw him, hesitated as if she might go back into her office, then decided otherwise and came toward him. She had her uniform jacket in her hand.
“I’ll be heading home then,” she said to him. There was a strained, unnatural look to her. She seemed to be watching him closely, as if she were looking for some message in his bearing.
“Been a hell of a day” he said, without any particular inflection, and she nodded.
“How’re things with Abby?” she asked. Lee and Abby had met before, of course, and Jesse had reintroduced them a few minutes earlier in the parking lot. Pleading urgent business to attend to, Lee had left him with his former wife and headed for her office. Now she asked the question almost too casually. Jesse shrugged.
“Well, she seems fine. Up here to do a piece for Channel 6 on our killer,” he added. That much he’d been able to find out from Abby in the short conversation they’d had to date. “You want to talk to her about it?” he added and Lee shook her head, not even giving the idea a moment’s consideration.
“You do it, Jess. Your case.”
He nodded. “Well, fine then. If you say so. Don’t believe I’ll mention our friend Miller. Can’t say I’d like to see the media concentrating on that aspect.”
Lee flushed a little and he mentally cursed himself. The statement, intended innocently, had sounded like a criticism of her handling of the day’s events. He debated whether to try to correct the impression and decided it was best not to try to retrieve the mistake. Their eyes met for a moment and he saw that she knew he hadn’t intended any hurt. He was glad he hadn’t said anything further.
Lee made an abrupt movement, brandishing her keys.
“I’ll head off then,” she said. She hesitated, debating whether to say anything more. “There’s still a meal going if you have time later,” she said a little tentatively. Then she added, forcing a smile, “Got a fifth of Bushmills going begging too.”
He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll take a rain check on that for tonight, Lee.” He saw the tension leave her body, as if she’d been keyed up and waiting for his answer. As if his answer were the one she had been fearing to hear.
“Yeah. Sure,” she said dully. “Any time at all, Jess.”
She turned away and headed for the stairwell. He watched her go, knowing he’d said the wrong thing
She paused at the door to the stairs. “Give my best to Abby,” she said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
A
bby was still making a pretense of reading Jesse’s whiteboard notes when he returned to the conference room. She looked up as the door opened and he came in, clearing a spot on the table and setting the thick china mug down.
“There’s your coffee,” he said. She looked at the single cup, raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not having one yourself?” she asked. He shook his head, said nothing.
“You used to be such a coffee hound, Jess, as I recall,” she said lightly, taking the cup and sipping. He shrugged.
“Things change,” he said. “People change. I guess I have.”
She tilted her head to one side and smiled at him. It was an old mannerism of hers. He didn’t know whether it was unintentional or cultivated but he remembered how that smile, that slight tilt of the head, used to make his pulse race a little faster.
“Not too much I hope, Jesse?” she said lightly. Again, he shrugged.
“What do you want, Abby?” he asked flatly. Her eyebrows went up and she looked at him with some surprise.
“That’s pretty blunt, Jess,” she said. “We haven’t spoken for over a year and the best you can say is ‘What do you want’? Whatever happened to ‘How have you been?,’‘How’s life been treating you?,’ or even ‘Gee but it’s good to see you, Abby?’ ” She smiled as she said it, disclaiming any bitterness or enmity. He ignored the smile. There were too many heart-torn nights in his past to wipe everything away and make polite small talk.
“Like you say, Abby,” he said doggedly, “we haven’t spoken in over a year. Don’t see that there’s any real need to catch up on old times anymore. They’re in the past.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, Jesse,” she said, with a hint of bitterness behind the light laugh she tossed in. “Surely we can be civilized. After all, we don’t hate each other, do we?”
“I guess not,” he replied. “But then, I guess we don’t do much of anything anymore, do we?”
She shrugged, set the cup down and shook her head—a picture of injured grace.
“Well, no. I suppose we don’t,” she agreed, letting him know in the way she said it that she didn’t agree. Not at all.
“So then,” said Jesse, in the same flat tone he’d been using throughout the conversation. “We come back to my question: What do you want?”
“I told you,” she replied. “Steamboat Springs is news with this serial killer you’ve got up here. The network asked us for some coverage and the news editor picked me to come and do a story.”
“He picked you, or you volunteered?” Jesse asked.
She feigned surprise, her eyebrows arcing again at his question. “Why would I do that?” she asked.
Jesse looked away from her, tired of the pretense. There had been too many conversations like this during their brief marriage. He shook his head, refused to make eye contact with her. Abby had that most important talent for a television reporter: She could fake sincerity perfectly.