Alex Barclay - Blood Runs Cold

‘You’re like the anti-better,’ said Ren. ‘It’s not even, like, you go for the underdog. It’s like you go for a completely different animal from a different galaxy where betting doesn’t exist.’

She sat down at her computer and ran the license plate that Margaret Shaw had given her. Caroline Quaintance, twenty-seven years old, a radiologist with an address in Silt. Ren grabbed her bag and her jacket and left. Outside, Ollie Haggart, the ADA, stood in the porch, smoking, kicking at a wedge of ice.

Shit . ‘Hi, Oliver.’

‘Oh, hi.’ He had an expectant look in his eyes.

Deflect . Ren glanced at the steps. ‘You can relax. I’m not planning on slipping today.’

‘So, no bodily fluids on your boots this morning.’

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry — I haven’t had a chance to take a look at that for you. You can understand, with the investigation …’

He nodded. ‘I know. I just … you know the way you can’t help thinking about something…’

Silt was a two-hour drive west of Breckenridge. Working in Colorado meant driving … a lot. ‘Go check a map,’ Ren would say to East Coast agents asking her to follow up on a lead in Colorado that they thought she could take care of in an hour.

Ren pulled up outside a pale green stuccoed house on a quiet avenue in a nice neighborhood. She rang the doorbell, but by the time Caroline Quaintance came to the door, Ren was already halfway down the path to the Jeep.

‘Oh,’ she said, turning around when she heard the porch door open.

The woman standing there was tall and thin, with light-brown shoulder-length hair. She was dressed in tan pants, brown hiking boots and a navy blue zip-up fleece.

‘Hello,’ said Ren. ‘Are you Caroline Quaintance?’

‘Yes.’

Ren walked up to her and flashed her creds. ‘My name is Ren Bryce. I’m with the FBI. I’m here to ask you about Jean Transom.’

‘Oh.’

‘Can I come in?’ said Ren.

‘Sure.’

She showed Ren into the living room, a tidy room — one sofa with a Native American throw, one battered chair, a tiny television, a guitar, a chest. Ren badly wanted the sofa, but she took the chair.

‘How did you know Jean Transom?’ said Ren.

‘We worked at the same animal shelter in Rifle — Homeward Friends.’

‘When did you first meet?’

‘She started volunteering about a year ago. I had already been there about a year before that. We’ve been friends ever since.’

‘How often would you see each other?’

‘Every two weeks or so, on weekends at the shelter.’

‘And did you spend time in her home?

Caroline paused. ‘Yes.

‘How often?’ said Ren.

‘Maybe once a month, something like that.

‘When did you find out about her death?’ said Ren.

‘I guess, a few days ago.’

‘So last night, you visited her home because …’

Caroline looked at her. ‘Last night? I …’

Ren nodded. ‘Don’t worry — I’d just like to know why that was.’

Caroline opened her mouth, but paused. ‘Here’s where I sound nuts.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Ren.

‘Jean had a cat, McGraw, that she really cared about.’

Ren nodded. ‘I heard about McGraw.’

Caroline smiled. ‘I went to Jean’s house to check if he was OK. If a family member hadn’t taken him, I was going to take him in or take him to the shelter, make sure he was being looked after. I didn’t go into the house or anything. I mean, how would I?’

Ren nodded. ‘That doesn’t sound too nuts to me.’

‘I guess it’s because I feel I’m better with animals than I am with humans.’

Nuts .

‘Am I going to get in a lot of trouble for this?’ said Caroline.

‘For looking for a cat?’ said Ren. ‘No. We’re not in the business of putting resources into attempted cat rescue … we’re too busy monitoring civilian cellphone calls and emails.’

Caroline smiled. It lit up her face.

‘When was the last time you saw Jean?’ said Ren.

Caroline let out a breath. ‘It was a Saturday, at the shelter. It would have been … January sixth.’

‘And how was she doing?’

‘She was good,’ said Caroline. ‘A dog she had been looking after had made great progress. He’d been abandoned, but could do lots of tricks. It was weird because his owner, obviously, had put a lot of effort into the dog and he was — ’ She paused. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent …’

‘Not a problem,’ said Ren, ‘but I’m afraid I do have to make tracks.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Caroline.’

‘That’s OK. I wish I could be more help.’

Ren handed her a card. ‘Who knows? Maybe you can.’

Maybe if you decide to tell me some of those things you are hiding behind those pretty brown eyes .

Ren went back to the office and sat at her desk. She quickly typed as much as she could of her conversation with Caroline Quaintance. Paul Louderback wasn’t just her PT instructor. He had given her advice across the board. He always said to write everything down verbatim. Skim over what an interviewee is telling you and you miss vital verbal clues. ‘Put something into your own words,’ he said, ‘and you put yourself into the frame. Never forget that you’re supposed to be the one looking at the picture.’

Ren thought of Terrence Haggart being put in the frame of a missing person’s case and, by association, Oliver Haggart. Maybe her first encounter with Oliver Haggart had influenced her empathy; a man who had come to her rescue after her icy fall. That was a weird day . And gradually, something about it started to tug at her. Crooked man. Bodily fluid. Boots. Misty the dog …

* * *

Salem Swade sat on a stool at the bar of the Brockton Filly, looking like there was nothing in the world that could ever trouble him. Ren wondered what medication he took. And where can I get some? Misty lay quietly beside Salem, her leash tied around the base of the stool.

Ren walked over and put a hand on his forearm. ‘Hello, Salem,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me? I’m — ’

He gave her a broad smile. ‘My John Prine buddy.’

‘Yes, sir. Would you mind if I talked to you a minute?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

She nodded toward a booth. ‘You can take Misty with you.’

He untied Misty and they went to sit down.

‘No barking at me today, Misty,’ said Ren, smiling, rubbing the dog’s silky head, massaging her back. ‘Salem, how long have you had Misty?’

‘I want to say five years. Maybe more?’

‘Where did you find her?’

‘I got her from the shelter.’

‘Was it by any chance from Homeward Friends in Rifle?’

‘No. It was a shelter out in Frisco. That I do know.’

‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘OK.’

‘She was in great shape, I’ll tell you that much. She wasn’t a scraggy thing.’

There was something in the lines in his face, the brightness in his eyes when he spoke. There was a lost boy inside Salem Swade who Ren wanted to wrap her arms around.

‘I think Misty’s got a special talent,’ she said.

‘She sure does,’ said Salem.

‘Well, even more than what you think,’ said Ren. ‘I think your little pal there is a very well trained dog.’

Salem’s eyes shone. ‘Well, how about that, girl?’ He ruffled Misty’s coat, pulling her gently toward him, hugging her tight.

Ren’s gaze was drawn to a man who stood up from a booth in the corner and walked up to the bar. He was heavily built on top, his neck and shoulders broad, his biceps pushing his arms wide of his body, his legs short. He was wearing a white vest with baggy green and pink work-out pants and white sneakers. His hair was pulled back tight into a thimble-sized pony-tail. He brought a bottle of Bud down to his booth with the stiffness of a man whose muscles wanted to pay him back.