Stephen White - Cold Case

Even though she knew that her onetime brother-in-law was still single, Lauren asked if Raymond had ever remarried.

"No, he never showed much interest in the local ladies. If he ever comes back here with a bride, you can bet it'll be some Jane Fonda type. Some society or Hollywood thing. You watch-when we're not looking he'll show up with some city girl and the two of them will go and fill the whole damn Elk River Valley with buffalo and ostriches.

Maybe even emus" She made her pronouncement with disappointment and a tiny hiss of venom, as though she was one of the local ladies who had been scorned by Raymond Welle.

I pulled in front of the main gate to the ranch and parked on the dust in the shadows of the trees that lined the Elk River. Traffic on the county road was sparse. After a minute or so, I killed the engine.

The gate was unassuming enough, a couple of long triangles of steel tubing that came together in the center. The structures that supported the gates were less modest, however. They were built of a rich red stone and they were big. Each footprint was at least four by four, and I knew if I stood next to one it would soar above my head.

A brass sign on one of the structures read

"Glorias Silky Road Ranch-No Visitors."

A box recessed into the other structure had a buzzer and a speaker on a stainless-steel plate that was about the size of a microwave oven.

Lauren and I both got out of the car. She pointed north and said, "I think that's the house Gloria built. Way back there. See? By the woods?"

I saw some structures and nodded.

"Were you ever there? At their home?"

"No. Not once."

A gust of wind kicked up a dust devil down the dirt lane that led into the ranch and we were both distracted watching it flourish and die.

I asked, "Do you want to see if we can drive around the perimeter? Doesn't look like we're going to be invited in."

"No, I don't think so. We can leave in a few minutes. I just want to get a feel for it."

I was listening to the wind whisper to me when the speaker in the far gate support blared.

"You are on private property. Please leave. Repeat:

You are on private property. Please leave immediately."

After my pulse subsided a little I looked around for a lens or an infrared sensor or something. I couldn't find a thing but didn't feel much confidence that we weren't on candid camera. I asked, "Do you think that was a recording?

Or was it a real live person?"

Lauren raised her eyebrows and shook her head incredulously.

"Not sure. But I'd guess it was a recording. Just know it was the voice of Big Brother."

The same voice belted out the same tune again.

I said, "Apparently Big Brother would like us to move along."

She turned her back on the ranch and mouthed words to herself that I interpreted to be her thoughts about something Big Brother could just go ahead and do to himself instead.

A minute passed. Maybe two. I wasn't sure what Lauren was up to. She wasn't a pacer. But she was pacing.

"Company's coming," I said, pointing up the dirt road that snaked away from the gate toward the house, the same road that the dust devil had been teasing a few minutes before. In the distance, a fresh cloud of dirt was rising behind a dark speck that I guessed was some kind of pickup truck. It was coming our way.

Lauren watched the vehicle approach for a good ten seconds. I watched her watch it. I didn't really want to have to explain to Raymond Welle's security people why we were hanging out around the entrance to his ranch. Certainly not a few days before I was scheduled to meet with him in Denver about an old murder case.

I said, "I don't think I really want to get to know those people, honi'd rather have a clean slate when I meet Dr. Welle next week. Do you see anything to gain by hanging around?"

She ran her fingers through her hair and buttoned the top button of her shirt.

Finally, she said, "No, nothing to be gained. Let's go then." She climbed into the car and waited till I joined her before she continued.

"I want trout for dinner. And a big salad. Spinach. That sound okay to you?"

We stopped back at the B and B and I used the communal phone in the downstairs parlor to check my office voice mail and the answering machine at home. The messages were all mundane except for two. The first unusual call had been from Mary Wright. She asked that Lauren get in touch with her at the Justice Department the following Monday. The second call that drew my attention sounded almost British in its formality. Taro Hamamoto had returned my call from British Columbia. His message informed me that he would be interested in speaking with me further. Would I be so kind as to call him back? He left a number that was different from the one that A. J. had given me for him. The area codes were the same though: 604.

I returned the call right away.

He answered on the fourth ring.

"Yes," he said.

"Hello, may I speak to Mr. Hamamoto, please?"

"This is he. Dr. Gregory?"

"Yes, this is Alan Gregory. I want to begin by thanking you for returning my initial call. The circumstances-a stranger calling about your daughter after so many years-must feel peculiar."

"That's a good word. Yes. It is peculiar. Perhaps you would take a moment and familiarize me, once again, with the organization that you represent. On your message you said it was called…?"

"Locard. It is named after a nineteenth-century French detective. He was an early forensic scientist, a pioneer. The current Locard is a volunteer organization of forensic professionals dedicated to solving what are sometimes called cold cases."

"And in your message you said you are revisiting the circumstances of Mariko's murder. That is correct? Her death is the cold case? Yes?"

"Yes. Her death and that of Tami Franklin."

"And you have chosen to focus on my daughter and her friend precisely… why?"

"A few months ago Locard was approached by the Franklin family-Tami's parents-and by the new police chief of Steamboat Springs, a man named Percy Smith. They petitioned for Locard's assistance. Obviously, they are hoping that Locard will be able to uncover new information that might lead to the apprehension of whoever is responsible for…"

"Killing my daughter."

The words exited his mouth with a facility that was unnerving to me. I replied, "Yes."

"And from me? You wish…?"

"I am a clinical psychologist, Mr. Hamamoto. My role in the investigation is limited. I've been asked to try to get enough of a social and psychological history of Tami and Ma-riko"-I stumbled over his daughter's name, almost calling her Miko-"to understand what might have brought them in contact with their killer, or killers."

Taro Hamamoto was silent for at least half a minute.

"You are… in the process of dissolving an assumption, Dr. Gregory."

I waited, unsure what he meant.

"Back then, there was an assumption that a stranger, perhaps a, a… drifter was… responsible for the murders. You are proceeding as though that hypothesis may lack merit."

"Yes, Mr. Hamamoto, I suppose I am proceeding as though that hypothesis may lack merit."

Again he paused, this time for even longer.

"I am intrigued by what you are proposing. I would like an opportunity to meet with you to discuss your ideas in more detail. Personal contact is important, I think. Don't you? I will make a decision at that time whether or not I feel it is proper to assist you in your new investigation. Unfortunately, I am unable to leave Vancouver at this time, so you will need to come to Canada. I can arrange to meet with you for two or three hours." I heard him pecking on a keyboard.

"There is a United flight into Vancouver from Denver that will have you arrive at twelve-thirty, Monday through Friday." More keyboard tunes.