Stephen White - Cold Case

"Makes you wonder all over again, doesn't it? About the thoroughness of the initial investigation?"

"To tell you the truth, it makes me wonder more about Phil Barrett. And whether he was already in bed with Raymond Welle back then."

We heard a car approaching from behind us and moved off to the shoulder. I called Emily to my side while Adrienne plowed by in her Suburban. She honked.

We waved. I heard Jonas yell, "Emily, you want to come over and play?"

The dust settled around us, on us.

"You knew him back then-Raymond," I said to Lauren.

"And you've known a lot of violent criminals, right? Do you think he could have done it?"

"What? Screwed one of his patients? Or murdered two high school girls?"

"I don't know. Take your pick."

We walked a good ten paces before she responded again.

"My answer is that… he wouldn't have suffered a single night of guilt for being unfaithful to Gloria.

Would he have done it with a sixteen-year-old? I really hope not. And murder?

That's something else. I don't know." We walked a few more steps.

"And the very fact that I don't know is incredibly troubling."

"Was the marriage, Gloria and Rays… I don't know… stable?"

She shrugged. " I didn't know them that well as a couple. Gloria was a flirt, but that was just her nature. She may have said something to Jake about problems, but I think he would have told me. If they kept their problems up in Steamboat with them I'm not sure any of the family down here would have known."

The fax machine had been busy while we were out on our walk.

"Look at this," Lauren said, handing me three sheets, keeping one for herself.

"It appears that your reporter friend did exactly what she said she was going to do."

I was busy throwing together some lo mein with shrimp and bok choy. Dark, leafy greens had become as much of a staple in our diet as kibble was in Emily's. I dried my hands and examined the first page of the fax.

It was an article from that day's Washington Post. The byline was Dorothy Levin's. The headline was

"Trail of Questions Dogs Candidate's Finances." The focus of the piece was Raymond Welle. I read quickly and skimmed the continuation on the next page.

In the margin of the first sheet Dorothy had scribbled, "Et voila. Steamboat is breathtaking. Literally. There is no air up here." I nipped a page and said, "I wonder what this means?" I was reading another note from Dorothy, this one in the margin of the last sheet. It read, "Met with a guy today who couldn't help me with my stuff but seemed to know a lot about Gloria's death. Interesting… I'm going to follow up. Planning on seeing someone else, too." Lauren asked, "What?"

I pointed out Dorothy's margin note. Lauren shrugged.

"I bet there are a lot of people in Steamboat with a lot of opinions about Gloria Welle's murder."

"You're right." I smacked the paper.

"But at least Dorothy kept her word. I don't think my name is in the article," I said, smiling.

"You're much happier after reading that article than Raymond Welle is going to be." She read the fine print on the leading edge of the fax.

"This was sent from Steamboat. She's still in Colorado?" "The last time I talked with her she told me she had some interviews to do at the ski area on Monday. She was trying to decide whether to stay over or go back east for the weekend. I guess she stayed over." I shook the pages in my hand.

"How serious are these allegations she's making? Can you tell?"

"I don't really know the federal election laws very well, but if what the Post found is actually true, it will make Ray pretty uncomfortable. Especially the allegations about the Japanese contributions being tunneled through employees of the ski company. He won't want to deal with this so close to the election.

Not after what Clinton and Gore and Reno went through with those Buddhist nuns.

Remember that? And especially after he was one of the House members who was so instrumental in killing the latest campaign-reform bill."

My mind was still consumed by the possibility that Raymond Welle's biggest problem was an old murder investigation, not a new campaign-finance probe. I pointed to the sheet of paper Lauren still held in her left hand.

"What's on that last page? That's not from Dorothy?"

"No. This one's from Russ Claven. Remember our chauffeur to the Locard meeting in Washington? He and Flynn Coe are flying in tomorrow. They want to see us before they go up to Steamboat."

I spent a moment trying to remember some of the people I'd met at the meeting in Washington. " Flynn's the one with the eye patch?"

"Yes. And the great smile. She's the forensics-crime scene expert. Our case coordinator."

"What time do they get in?"

"Their flight gets in at eleven-thirty. According to this, they want directions here. To our house."

"Here? Where are they staying?"

"Doesn't say."

"Let me see that." She handed me the fax. The stationery was from Johns Hopkins Medical School. That meant Claven.

"Do you think they want to stay here, with us?"

"Doesn't say."

"We only have one guest room. Are they a couple?"

She pointed at the sheet in my hand and laughed.

"Doesn't say."

Lauren's day had fatigued her. While she went to bed early, I plopped in front of the word processor and typed a report for A. J. Simes. I wanted to bring her up to speed on my meeting with Kevin Sample and to relay his suspicions that Mariko Hamamoto might have been having an affair with an older man and that Mariko's adolescent peers considered Raymond Welle to be a likely suspect.

I printed it and faxed it on its way before I climbed into bed beside my sleeping wife.

Russ and Flynn arrived the next afternoon a few minutes before one. The trunk of their rental car was packed full of heavy nylon duffel bags.

Among other things, Russ had come to Colorado do some rock climbing.

Russ Claven, it turned out, was blessed and burdened with more energy than even my friend Adrienne. And Adrienne was occasionally so hypo manic I considered her in need of medication.

After popping the trunk open and saying a cursory hello to Lauren and me, Russ patted a frantically barking Emily on the head, found his way inside to the bathroom to pee and change clothes, to the kitchen to examine the contents of our refrigerator and swipe an apple, and then back outside. Lauren and I were still standing near the car renewing our brief acquaintance with Flynn Coe.

Flynn's eye patch that day was a rusty satin stripe. The stripes were horizontal and the patch went well with her hair.

Russ interrupted and asked for directions to Eldorado Canyon. I drew him a crude map on the back of his airline-ticket envelope. His eyes brightened; he couldn't believe he was only ten minutes away from the rock-climbing equivalent of Disneyland. He asked Flynn if she was cool hanging out by herself for a while.

She said she was. He asked me whether I wanted to go climbing with him. I declined. I think he was relieved that I'd declined. Russ jumped into the car and took off west toward Eldorado.

We invited Flynn inside. She excused herself to the bathroom after suggesting that traveling cross-country in the airplane seat beside Russ Claven did not make for a particularly restful journey. But I thought she offered the assessment with humor and at least a trace of affection. * * *

Flynn wasn't as good a pool player as Lauren was, but at least she could give her a competitive game, which was something I'd never managed to do.

Considering how much her eye patch must have compromised her depth perception, Flynn's playing was all the more remarkable. I could tell that she wasn't accustomed to running into players with Lauren's skill, but she handled the competition, and the repeated losses, with grace.