THE MISSINGS (Aspen Falls Thrillers Book 2) Page 14

  “Just keeping an open mind.”

  “You wanna help with the list?”

  “Sure.”

  “Here are copies of the sketches Dobson did on the two men Maria Sanchez saw.” Chase handed out the pictures. “Show them around and see if anyone recognizes either man.”

  The detectives studied the drawings. Terri spoke first. “Wish we could’ve gotten Carol, but we’ll work with what we’ve got.”

  “We also received the preliminary autopsy results back on Sanchez. Looks like he died of sepsis from the nephrectomy,” Chase said.

  Daniel looked thoughtful. “He died from bacteria. Because he sold a kidney to buy papers for himself and his wife.”

  “Have either of you heard of the Preston Clinic?” Chase asked.

  Blank stares and headshakes answered his question.

  “It’s a private hospital for the wealthy. Just west of town. They do transplants, among other things.”

  “How come we don’t know about it?” Terri asked.

  “I asked myself the same thing. We’ve all lived here long enough to know that money can buy just about anything—and that apparently includes everything from publicity to secrecy. The Preston Clinic falls on the secrecy side of things. Only they call it ‘privacy.’ We need to see what private secrets we can uncover.” Chase pulled out a Twizzler and bit off the end. “We’re working with an entity that has been able to operate on the down-low for a long time. I’m getting the decided impression that there are some very deep secrets in the very deep pockets of the Preston Clinic.”

  “I’ll see what Leslie James knows about them.”

  Chief Whitman walked into the room. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No problem, Chief. What can we do for you?” Whit would not interrupt a meeting without a good reason.

  “I got a call from the sheriff. Said you didn’t get some information he’d sent along several months ago.”

  “Yeah, true. But we have it now.” Whit had to have a different reason for being here.

  “And I got another call. From someone named Cassandra Lindgren at the Preston Clinic. She doesn’t want to deal with you in the future. If they’re to be bothered, they’re to be bothered by me.”

  Okay, a little better reason, but Chase knew there had to be more.

  “And as busy as my day has been fielding calls related to you and this case, I received yet one more call.”

  Chase could tell he should pay close attention now.

  “A friend of mine who’s fighting the good fight in Mexico called to put in a positive word for someone you met with earlier today. Does the name Mex Anderson ring a bell?”

  “Kind of hard to forget a name like that isn’t it? Mr. Anderson and I did meet. He alluded to some additional information but so far he’s only upped our probable body count.”

  “Well, he’s in my office now and ready to talk a little more.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Aspen Falls Police Department

  Monday, September 24

  Chase followed Whit into the chief’s office. Mex Anderson stood, cowboy hat in hand, inspecting Whit’s wall of photos. They weren’t the usual, and Chase had always sensed some pride in Whit because of that fact. No glad-handing politicians or framed awards. No pictures of Whit in full dress uniform, not even a photograph of the current president. And Chase was pretty sure the man had gotten Whit’s vote.

  Chief Cornelius Whitman’s wall of photos consisted of birds. Most of them colored shots, all of them framed, and every one of them a photo taken by the chief.

  Without acknowledging Whit and Chase, Mex spoke. “You have an impressive collection, Chief Whitman. A wide variety of Colorado birds—but one doesn’t belong.”

  “Yes?” Whit watched his visitor.

  “Toxostoma curvirostre. Curve-billed Thrashers are common in Mexico. I never knew them to go farther north than Arizona and New Mexico.”

  “Are you a birder, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I’ve always appreciated the freedom, tenacity and spiritual quality of birds. A single feather is a miraculous feat of engineering.”

  Chase intervened. “Chief Whitman says you’re ready to give us some more information.”

  “I’m ready for more than that, Detective Waters. But I’ll be taking things one step at a time.”

  “As long as the step you’re taking now helps us solve these murders, I’m good,” Chase said.

  “It’s information. What you do with it is up to you.”

  “Good. Go.” Chase quelled his need to push. People were falling dead all around him. When he did catch a few minutes of sleep his dreams crawled through his gut and fed his guilt in gory detail. His team’s responsibility increased for every new death, and with each bit of information they dug up, his personal responsibility tripled.

  Mex gestured toward the chairs. “Please, we need to sit.”

  Chase took another look at Mex. He had a scar along his hairline, his knuckles looked like they’d been through a meat grinder more than once, and yet he wanted them to sit. Fine, they’d sit. If the man has viable information and wants tea and cookies, I will find some damned tea and cookies in this building.

  Whit walked around his desk and left the two chairs in front open. Chase sat first, then Mex joined them.

  “Thank you,” Mex said. “In my experience I have found that often friends will sit—while enemies stand.” Chase met his gaze and noted that Mex waited until Whit did as well. “Doesn’t mean shit, of course. But it makes me feel better.”

  “Mr. Anderson, I don’t want to jeopardize any information you may be willing to share to further this investigation, but I am under intense pressure to provide some answers,” Chase said. “If you have something to tell me, now would be good.”

  “I’ve told you about the eleven missing people within the Hispanic community. I suspect they are all dead. I suspect they all died in either the same way Rachelle Benavides died or the way José Sanchez died.”

  “Wait,” Chase said. “How do you know how José Sanchez died? Or Rachelle Benavides, for that matter? We didn’t get the autopsy results back on Sanchez until this afternoon.”

  “It’s a small community, Detective. And I’m pretty much at the center of it when it comes to things like this.”

  Chase decided to wait to push the issue until he heard what Mex Anderson had to say. He signaled for Mex to continue.

  “For the last year or so, people have been routinely approached with a proposal to sell an organ. For example, one of their kidneys. People believe they have found the poor man’s answer to cash for gold. Most have survived, but others, who I suspect turned down the initial offer, donated more than they ever bargained for. Especially those whose blood type is on the rare side.”

  Chase leaned forward. “Do you know who is behind these offers?”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Aspen Falls Police Department

  Monday, September 24

  Chase’s normal cop suspicion kicked in and he watched for any sign of subterfuge from Mex. He saw none. “Do you? Do you know who’s behind these murders?”

  “If I did, believe me, I wouldn’t be here now.” Mex looked at Whit who sat quietly behind his desk, hands steepled in front of him. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  Whit got up and walked over to a dark walnut wall unit where he pulled out three glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. He leaned over and opened another door that housed a refrigerator/freezer combo. “Rocks?”

  “Neat,” Chase and Mex said in unison.

  Whit closed the door and poured two fingers in each tumbler.

  “How much money is being offered?” Chase asked.

  “I’ve heard amounts from three hundred dollars to well over two thousand.”

  “How many people are you talking about?”

  “More than twenty that I know of.”

  “Does that include the eleven who are missing?”

  “Nope. The twenty, twenty-f
ive I’m talking about are walking around, as far as I know.”

  “Are they still in Aspen Falls?”

  “Not many. Most have moved on.”

  “Would any of the people who are still in town be willing to talk to me?”

  Mex shook his head. “Maybe not even me, once they hear I’ve met with you.”

  Chase wanted to hit something. So close. He could flex some legal muscle and force them to come in, but in the end he knew he’d get nothing. And he’d have a public relations nightmare. “Do you know whether or not any of them have been to the emergency room at Memorial?”

  “Odds are most of them have been there at some point. It’s the only place people without insurance can get medical attention without having to pay up front.”

  “Aren’t there free clinics?” Whit asked.

  “They’re around. They tend to ask more questions than some people are comfortable answering. And they tend to be understaffed and closed more often than they’re open.”

  Memorial jumped up the line of important elements in this investigation. But Chase knew that until they had some solid facts, he would not be taking on the hospital that meant so much to the community. After tourism and the college, Aspen Falls Memorial ranked third for economic importance. He’d pushed his luck with the local politicos more than once. This time he would walk into that arena fully armored and with weapons to spare.

  “Do you know of anyone who’s been approached recently?”

  “Nope. But I think they’re out there.”

  “Can you put the word out for information?” Chase worked to keep a lid on his frustration. He felt like they were so close to breaking this thing. “I mean, if there’s someone out there right now with this kind of an offer, could you find out?”

  “Maybe from someone who knows me. Speaking with you—and the word will get out that I’m speaking with you—isn’t going to help. I can only try.”

  Mex was willing to risk his own reputation with his people in order to help them. Chase’s respect for Mex Anderson only continued to rise.

  “Can I count on you?”

  “I don’t recommend it.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Sloan Residence

  Monday, September 24

  That evening, Edward Sloan wept behind the closed doors of his study. Tears spilled from his eyes but he didn’t have the desire or the energy to wipe them away.

  Things weren’t supposed to happen this way. All of his life Edward had made plans. Long, detailed, perfect plans. And for the most part the things he planned had become reality.

  Diana dying was not any part of Edward Sloan’s great plans.

  He stood and pushed his feet through the thick carpet to the sink. He washed his face, feeling every one of his sixty-seven years.

  Martin Jackson had just left. The doctor’s compassion warmed Edward even as his practicality chilled him. The time had come to move Diana to a hospital room.

  If a donor became available she would be that much more accessible for immediate surgery. If a donor didn’t become available…

  Palliative care. He hated those godforsaken words. They meant failure. They meant loss.

  He smoothed the wrinkles from his casual slacks and tugged his lightweight sweater into place. Even though the study’s en suite had a full set of brushes, he chose to run his fingers through his hair instead. If he looked too fresh Diana would know something had upset him.

  Back at his desk he picked up the phone and asked Maggie to bring some tea to his wife’s room. He wasn’t sure he could swallow a thing but he needed a prop.

  Edward walked over to his liquor cabinet, uncorked some Blanton’s, and poured a generous amount into a snifter. Yep. He could swallow. He just couldn’t taste anything.

  His private line rang.

  “Sloan.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sloan.”

  Edward set the drink on his desk not bothering with a coaster. Not bothering with a response.

  “We are very close to procuring the item you require.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Quite soon.”

  “And?”

  “I understand the time has come to make different arrangements for your wife’s care.”

  “How do you—”

  “It doesn’t matter. But I hope you will consider the private clinic we are associated with just outside of Aspen Falls.”

  Edward’s research had been top-notch. He knew about the clinic. “Why?”

  “No hospital suite, or staff, can compare to our quality. We offer the highest level of care, luxury—and perhaps most importantly—privacy, available in the world.”

  “We’re very happy with Dr. Jackson, and privacy is not among our concerns at this time.”

  “I assure you that even though Dr. Jackson is not a part of our staff, he would be able to continue to be in charge of your wife’s treatment. My suggestion is made simply as an offer for your consideration. In the event we are able to find the appropriate item, it would be more convenient to have her at a facility where we can coordinate everything with efficiency.”

  “And if I find it somewhere else?”

  “Dr. Jackson will confirm our surgeons rank among the highest anywhere. But of course you would always have the option of moving her to another location.”

  “I’ll talk to Dr. Jackson and let you know.”

  “We can have a room ready for her in twenty minutes. You have my word the transfer will be seamless.”

  Edward Sloan severed the connection.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Waters Home

  Monday, September 24

  Chase walked through the door and called out. “Bond, I’m so sorry.” No response. “Bond?”

  He walked through the dimly lit kitchen, all cleaned and cleared from dinner. Damn. He could hear the television in the family room and headed in that direction. He stopped in the doorway to watch his family.

  Bond sat on the sofa, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders, feet tucked under her legs, a book held listlessly in her hands. Angela multi-tasked between watching TV, listening to her iPod and working her Sudoku game, while Stephanie lay in front of the fire, her head propped up on a pillow while she watched TV. McKenzie was curled up next to his youngest daughter, one open eye assuring the tiny guard dog that the intruder belonged.

  Chase glanced at the television screen. Bond had popped in one of their daughters’ favorites. Something about a lost dog and fighting parents who come back together when their son and daughter take off to find the pup. Chase couldn’t remember the title. A half-eaten bowl of microwave popcorn from last night sat in the center of the coffee table within easy reach of the girls.

  Stephanie looked up and called to him. “Daddy!” She jumped to her feet and ran into his arms. He loved coming home even if he had to turn around and leave again.

  Bond glanced at him, smiled, then paused the movie. She didn’t turn the television off—just paused the movie. The wife of a cop. A cop who had a murder case. She knew he wouldn’t be staying. Chase smiled back at her.

  “Dad, there’s a party I want to go to Friday night. Mom said I needed to ask you.” Angela got to the point.

  “Don’t you want to soften me up first?”

  Angela blushed and rolled her eyes at the same time. Ah, the teenage years. But she stood up and walked up to him, wrapped her arms around him and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

  “Am I the world’s best daddy?”

  “Nope.”

  “No?”

  “You’re the universe’s best daddy.”

  He decided not to question the technical differences between ‘world’ and ‘universe’ and to take what he could get.

  “Does your mom have the details about the party?”

  A nod answered his question and the slightly pouty lips told him Bond had a problem with those details. “Your mom and I will talk about it, okay? We’ll make a decision together and let you know.�
�

  An image of a black Mustang flashed in his mind. He pushed it away.

  “Let me know when exactly?”

  “Once we’ve decided, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Kids are gonna ask me tomorrow.”

  “Well then, if you need to have an answer right now to give your friends tomorrow, the answer is no.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Good move.”

  Chase noticed Bond’s pallor. “Girls, Mom and I need to talk about something before I go back to work. Would you mind—?”

  “We figured.” Stephanie tilted her face up for a kiss as the two sisters left the room. “Mommy has been real quiet tonight.”

  After his daughters were gone, Chase sat down at the end of the couch and pulled Bond’s feet toward him. He began a gentle massage of one foot and then the other. “Are you ready to talk?”

  Bond closed her eyes, a single tear tracking down her cheek. Either the flames from the fireplace or the light from the television played off the liquid. Whichever, it seared his soul.

  * * *

  Bond felt numb. For all these years she’d kept a lid on this part of her life. The horror of the moment and all of the lies that followed had been sealed away. Covered. In some way, every day since that one day had held a lie. Including every day she spent with her husband.

  She’d never told Chase. She’d never told anyone. Her promise to her mother had held her—bound her—and become so steeped in her psyche that nothing—no memory—had ever tugged at her. Nothing had ever bubbled up intent on release.

  Until now.

  “Damn you,” she breathed the words.

  Chase quit massaging her feet. “Excuse me?”

  She pulled her feet back toward her. “You heard me.”

  “Barely.” Chase clasped his hands in front of him. “Are you saying that whatever is wrong with you is my fault? That I did something to hurt you?”

  Oh God, how had she gotten in this mess? What would he say when she finally told him? Because she knew now she would tell him. Would he hate her? Not for what had happened but for what happened afterward? Would he see her as weak?