Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

“Is this normal procedure, for a law enforcement officer to call a civilian when he needs assistance?”

“I don’t know what it’s like in Boston, mister. But out here, when someone gets in a jam, folks are quick to step in and help. Especially when it’s a lawman.”

Sheriff Fahey added, “I’m sure Mr. Loftus was just trying to be a good citizen, Mr. Sansone. We’ve got a big county to cover, a lot of territory. When your closest backup is twenty miles away, we’re lucky to have folks like him to call on.”

“I didn’t mean to question Mr. Loftus’s motives.”

“But that’s what you were doing,” said Loftus. “Hell, I know where this is going. Next you’ll ask if I’m the one who killed Bobby.” He strode over to his pickup and pulled out his rifle. “Here, Detective Pasternak!” He handed the weapon to the DCI detective. “Feel free to confiscate it. Run it though your fancy lab.”

“Come on, Monty.” Fahey sighed. “No one thinks you killed Bobby.”

“These folks from Boston don’t believe me.”

Jane stepped into the conversation. “Mr. Loftus, it’s not like that at all. We’re just trying to understand what went down here.”

“I told you what I saw. They left Bobby Martineau bleeding to death. And they ran.”

“Maura wouldn’t do that.”

“You weren’t here. You didn’t see her take off into those woods. Sure as hell acted like she did something wrong.”

“Then you misinterpreted it.”

“I saw what I saw.”

Gabriel said, “A lot of these questions might be answered by the dash camera.” He looked at Sheriff Fahey. “We should take a look at the deputy’s video.”

Fahey suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there’s a problem with that.”

“A problem?”

“The camera in Deputy Martineau’s vehicle wasn’t recording.”

Jane stared at the sheriff in disbelief. “How did that happen?”

“We don’t know how it happened. It was turned off.”

“Why would Martineau shut it down? You must have regulations against that.”

“Maybe he didn’t do it,” Fahey said. “Maybe someone else turned off the dash cam.”

“Don’t tell me,” she muttered. “You’re going to blame this on Maura, too.”

Fahey flushed. “You keep reminding us that she works with law enforcement. She’d know about dash cameras.”

“Excuse me,” cut in Detective Pasternak from the state’s Department of Criminal Investigations. “I’m just getting up to speed on who Dr. Isles is. I’d like to know more about her.”

Although he’d introduced himself earlier, this was the first time Jane had focused fully on Pasternak. Wan and sniffling, his stork-like neck exposed to the cold, he looked like a man longing to be in a warm office, not shivering on this windswept driveway.

“I can tell you about her,” said Jane.

“How well do you know her?”

“We’re colleagues. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“You think you can paint a full picture for me?”

Jane thought about how easy it would be to skew this man’s impression of Maura in one way or another. It was all in which details she chose to reveal. Emphasize Maura’s professionalism, and he’d see a scientist, reliable and law abiding. But divulge different details, and the portrait became murkier, the features obscured by shadows. Her dark and blood-splattered family history. Her illicit affair with Daniel Brophy. That was a different woman, prone to reckless impulses and destructive passions. If I’m not careful, Jane thought, I could give Pasternak all the reasons he needs to treat Maura as a suspect.

“I want to know everything about her,” said Pasternak. “Any information that can help the search team before they start off tomorrow. They’ll need to be briefed, when we convene back in town.”

“I can tell you this much,” she said. “Maura’s no outdoors-woman. If you don’t find her soon, she’s not going to survive out there.”

“It’s been almost two weeks since she went missing. She’s managed to stay alive this long.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Maybe it’s because of the man she’s traveling with,” said Sheriff Fahey.

Jane looked at the mountain, where ravines were already darkening into shadow. In just the last few moments, as the sunlight had dipped below the peak, the temperature had plunged. Shivering in the cold, Jane wrapped her arms around herself and thought of a night spent unsheltered on that mountain, where the forest had claws, and the wind could always find you. A night with a man they knew nothing about.

What happens next may all depend on him.

“HIS FINGERPRINTS aren’t new to us,” said Sheriff Fahey, addressing the law enforcement officers and volunteers who filled the seats in the Pinedale Town Hall. “The state of Wyoming already has the prints on record. The perp’s name is Julian Henry Perkins, and he’s compiled quite a rap sheet.” Fahey read from his notes. “Auto theft. Breaking and entering. Vagrancy. Multiple charges of misdemeanor theft.” He looked around at his audience. “That’s who we’re dealing with. And we know he’s now armed and dangerous.”

Jane shook her head. “Maybe I’m a little jaded,” she called out from her seat in the third row. “But that doesn’t sound like much of a rap sheet for a cop-killer.”

“It is when you’re only sixteen years old.”

“This perp is a juvenile?”

Detective Pasternak said: “His fingerprints were all over the kitchen cabinets, as well as on the door of Deputy Martineau’s vehicle. We have to assume he was the individual whom Mr. Loftus saw on the scene.”

“Our office is familiar with the Perkins boy,” said Fahey. “We’ve picked him up numerous times for various infractions. What we can’t figure out is his connection to the woman.”

“His connection?” said Jane. “Maura’s his hostage!”

In the front row, Montgomery Loftus gave a snort. “Not what I saw.”

“What you thought you saw,” Jane countered.

The man turned and gave the three visitors from Boston a cold stare. “You people weren’t there.”

Fahey said, “Ma’am, we’ve known Monty all our lives. He’s not going to go making stuff up.”

Then maybe he needs glasses, Jane wanted to say, but she swallowed the retort. The three Boston visitors were outnumbered in this town hall, where dozens of locals had assembled for the briefing. The murder of a deputy had shocked the community, and volunteers had streamed in, eager to bring the killer to justice. Volunteers with guns and grim faces and righteous anger. Jane looked around at those faces and felt a premonitory chill. They’re spoiling for a kill, she thought. And it doesn’t matter that their quarry is a sixteen-year-old kid.

A woman suddenly called out from the back row. “Julian Perkins is just a boy! You can’t be serious about sending an armed posse after him.”

“He killed a deputy, Cathy,” said Fahey. “He’s not just a boy.”

“I know Julian better than any of you do. I have a hard time believing that he’d kill anyone.”

“Excuse me,” said Detective Pasternak. “I’m not from this county. Maybe you could introduce yourself, ma’am?”

The young woman stood, and Jane immediately recognized her. It was the social worker they’d met at the scene of the Circle B double homicide. “I’m Cathy Weiss, Sublette County Child Protective Services. I’ve been Julian’s caseworker for the past year.”

“And you don’t believe he could have killed Deputy Martineau?” said Pasternak.

“No, sir.”

“Cathy, look at his rap sheet,” said Fahey. “The kid’s no angel.”

“But he’s no monster. Julian is a victim. He’s a sixteen-year-old kid just trying to survive, in a world where nobody wants him.”