Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“What did you notice about the vehicle?” Thorpe asked.

“It had a dinged-up front bumper and side window curtains. I think it was either blue or black. It was a GMC, that’s for sure.”

“Did he say anything when he left the lot?” Ramona asked.

“Yeah. I said something like ‘that was mighty quick,’ and he said that he needed to get something out of his wife’s car.”

“Did you watch where he went while he was on the lot?” Ramona asked.

“Nope. The shuttle had just brought in a load of customers, so I was humping it.”

“Was he an Anglo, Hispanic, or Native American?” Thorpe asked.

“Anglo, I think.”

“You’re not sure?” Thorpe asked.

“Not really.”

“Did he speak with an accent?” Russell had asked the Burkes the same question.

“Well, not an accent exactly. He sounded kind of country.”

“Meaning?” Thorpe asked.

“You know, a twang, a drawl, kind of a nasal tone.”

Russell nodded. Cullum’s answer matched what the Burkes had told him. But that seemed to be the only similarity. Thorpe mulled it over.

“What made you write down the plate number?” Ramona asked.

Cullum shrugged. “We had a car broken into a couple months back, on my shift. My boss acted like it was all my fault, so now I’m extra careful.”

They wound up the interview with a few more questions, thanked Cullum, and left the apartment.

“What do you think?” Thorpe asked as they waited for a break in traffic to cross the street. Motorists speeding by slowed down at the sight of Russell in his distinctive black state police uniform.

“Same vehicle, different driver,” Pino replied, stepping off the curb. “It doesn’t make sense, unless our perp has an accomplice.”

“Cullum said the man had a drawl,” Thorpe said as he kept pace with Pino. “So did the Burkes.”

“You think he disguised himself?” Ramona asked as they walked under the welcome shade of the trees.

“It would be easy enough to do, a haircut, a dye job, a fake mustache, and sunglasses, and he’s a different-looking guy.”

“But why keep using the van?” Ramona asked as she unlocked her unit. “It’s been spotted three times already. The perp has got to know we’re looking for it.”

“Everything this guy does seems to have a purpose,” Russell replied. “Maybe he stole the van as well as the license plate and plans to ditch it when he’s done.”

Ramona liked the way Thorpe’s mind worked. She thought about all the dead animals, the threatening notes and messages left behind, Manning’s paintings that had been cut from the frames in the Taos art gallery-each act carefully orchestrated. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

Russell nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably. I’ve been thinking he got lost trying to find Kerney’s property. It’s pretty much out of the way and not easy to find without directions. That’s why he was seen twice on the ranch.”

“But he knew generally where to look,” Ramona said. “Which means he probably searched through public records for either the deed of sale for the land or the construction permit.”

“Exactly.”

Ramona reached for her cell phone. “I’ll get my lieutenant to put someone on it. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time, Detective.”

Ramona watched Thorpe get in his unit and drive off. He was a good cop, a nice guy, and the time she’d spent with him had washed away almost all of her irritation about smarmy Detective Danny Roth.

Back at the office, Kerney spent a considerable amount of time fending off the news media, briefing the mayor and the city manager by phone on the status of all the investigations, and getting Larry Otero started on revising all relevant policies pertaining to use of force, SWAT operations, and dealing with the mentally ill. In conjunction with the initiative, he ordered the creation of a new in-service training plan for all sworn personnel.

Lieutenant Casados, who was next in line to see him, reported the results of the ballistics tests on the SWAT officer’s weapons. Kerney told Robert what he was going to do, had Helen cut the orders, then called the SWAT supervisor and the officer who’d shot Kurt Larsen into his office and kicked them off the team.

Both men recoiled like they’d been hit in the gut and wanted to argue with him about it. Kerney told them to be glad they weren’t off the force entirely and facing involuntary manslaughter charges, then sent them out the door.

He took a minute alone to settle down. He’d held his cool during the meeting, although it hadn’t been easy, and he didn’t want his anger with the two men to spill over to the rest of the troops. The attempt worked well enough when Molina came in to give a progress report. Kerney took notes as Sal talked, asked a few clarifying questions, and asked Molina to let everyone know they were doing a good job.

He decided to check on Sara, and went next door to the investigations unit suite, walking past detectives working at desks cluttered with pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and soft-drink cups. Sara was still in Sal’s office, sitting in a chair with her shoes off, her feet on a cardboard file box, and the telephone receiver cradled next to her ear. She looked tired, but he didn’t dare say it.

She gave him a smile, flicked her hand to send him away, and kept talking into the handset. He smiled in response, hoping he didn’t look too worried, returned to his office, and read over his notes from Molina’s update.

The records search was going about the way Kerney figured it would: Names were going on a list and coming off just about as fast. A lot of potential suspects were still locked up and some were dead. Local ex-felons were being interviewed for alibis, and those living out of the area or in other states were being tracked down through probation and parole offices.

He thought about the message left for him in Kaplan’s car. The perp was getting cocky, maybe even starting to feel invincible. If past behavior held true, leaving the dead dog with the note probably meant he was about to make a move on his next victim.

Ramona Pino and Russell Thorpe had done some good follow-up work to push the investigation along, and the city was saturated with patrol officers from every department looking for the blue van and the driver, be it a long-haired blond male or a mustached subject with matching, short dark hair. But unless they got lucky, they were still a long way from catching the guy.

He looked up to see Sara leaning against the door frame. She took her shoes off, padded barefoot to a chair, and sank down.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

She nodded. “All I managed to accomplish today was absolutely nothing.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Well, I crossed some names off the list.” She placed her hands on her belly. “Did you ever piss anyone off in your unit when you where in ’Nam?”

“Not enough to want to kill me.”

She tapped her handbag. “I had Army archives fax me the complete company roster of your unit. It includes everyone who served with you during your tour. You can look through it when we get home, just to be sure.”

“As you wish, Colonel,” Kerney said, watching Sara rub her stomach. She looked uncomfortable. “How’s Patrick Brannon doing?”

“He’s restless. I think he wants to join the party fairly soon.”

“How soon?”

Sara laughed as she pushed herself upright. “I’ll keep you advised. Take me home, Kerney, and tell me what’s new.”

“He’s still out there.”

Her smile faded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Lights were on inside the town house. For Potter and Manning, the bald-headed man had worn a long blond wig and a theatrical nose purchased from a costume and special effects company. It was more a deceit than a disguise, designed to convince anyone who saw him that he was a very specific someone else.