Stephen White - Warning Signs

Susan hesitated before she said, "No. You'd think a daughter would, wouldn't you? I mean call her own mother after something like that shows up in the newspapers." With each word, she sounded older.

Sam straightened up on his chair. The gnome was gone. Sam was now as big as Shaq. "That answer covers today, Mrs. Peterson. What about yesterday? Did you speak to your daughter yesterday?"

"Well, um, let me think. No, no, she didn't call yesterday either." Susan actually smiled, as though she was proud of her answer. I felt myself cringe. I was riding shotgun with Sam now, and saw the transparency of Susan's protestations. If Susan thought she could play Sam for a fool, she was in for a surprise.

She probably couldn't recognize the signs, but I could. She'd pissed him off. Sam pressed her without mercy. His voice was now as intimidating as his posture. "She didn't call. That means she came by, doesn't it? Lucy came by to see you, Mrs. Peterson? When was that, exactly?"

She lifted a bell from beside her bed and shook it vigorously. I imagined it was an effort to summon Crystal. Susan winced and moaned like an old dog sighs. "The pain… I'm not sure, I'm not sure."

Sam stood. "When was she here?"

"I take a lot of medicine."

"And I eat too much food. When was she here?"

Her eyes flashed at Sam, the message behind them volatile. "Last night, about this time. It was the first time I'd seen her in a long time."

Sam ignored her threat. "How long a time?"

She hesitated. I couldn't decide whether she spent the moment trying to remember or whether she used it up manufacturing a lie. "Over a year."

Crystal walked in the door, smiling, and said, "Yes, dear?"

I said, "We'll just be a little while longer, Crystal. Susan will be fine until we leave."

Susan looked as though she wanted to disagree, but after a glance at Sam she wisely chose not to protest. She just looked pitiful.

Crystal was unsure what to do.

"Really," I told her, "it's fine. I'll let you know when we're leaving. If she needs anything I'll come find you."

Crystal retreated out the door. I closed it behind her.

Sam hadn't turned away from Susan. He asked, "And what did Lucy say when she was here?"

"She warned me."

"Yes?"

"She warned me not to talk to anyone about… the family. About her, or me, or Royal. Or her father."

"Did she threaten you?"

"No. Well, kind of. Maybe."

"How did she threaten you?"

Susan considered her answer before she said, "It's not important."

"Then tell me what she didn't want you to tell anyone."

With no hesitation, Susan said, "No." She added, "You can't make me, Detective. I know my rights. My husband was the district attorney."

Sam stepped closer, eliminating the space between him and the edge of the bed. If I'd been the one gazing into his eyes at that moment, I would have told him exactly where the treasure was buried.

Sam said, "Mrs. Peterson, your daughter is missing. I'm trying to find her. I need your help."

"My daughter? You mean Lucy? Sorry, you're going to have to do better than that, Detective. She's been missing most of my life. She's a worse daughter than I am a mother. Regardless, I don't know anything that will help you find her. She's probably hiding somewhere. I know I would have if I'd done what she did."

"What's that? What did she do?"

Susan smiled. "No, Detective. I'm done talking to you. Alan, please ask that girl to come back in here."

B efore Sam hada chance to voice his opinion about Susan Peterson, his cell phone beeped in his pocket. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Peterson home as he flipped it open.

"Purdy," he said.

For about a minute he listened, nodding, occasionally saying, "Yeah." Once he said, "They did that?"

He closed up the phone and said, "That was one of my buddies at the department. He just got a call from the Denver Police. They think they found Ramp's car. It was towed out of the alley behind his apartment building after six o'clock tonight. He'd left it double-parked for some reason. They're still busy getting warrants to search his apartment and to search the car, and they're still trying to get one to search that damn ranch out in God-knows-where."

"Agate."

"Yeah. Agate."

"Lucy's car? Anything there?"

"No, no sign of Lucy's car. Thing's as bright as a fire truck, you'd think it would show up on someone's radar."

"What do you think of Susan's theory that Lucy's just gone into hiding to avoid the press?"

"I don't buy it. She called me this morning, told me she'd be back in touch early this evening. If she went into hiding, she'd call and tell me where she was. I'm sure as hell not going to tell the press. And that message she left for you? Why would she have left that message if she was going into hiding?"

I limped back toward the Cherokee. Sam was next to me. I said, "You guys finish the search at the Bigg home, Sam?"

"Mostly."

"Did you find anything?"

He shrugged. He wasn't sure he wanted to answer my question.

I said, "I don't like this, Sam."

"I don't either. Come on, I'll take you home." He stopped. "Did you know Lucy had visited Susan here?"

"No, Sam, I didn't. She didn't tell me."

He studied my face in a way that left me convinced that he was deciding whether to believe me or not.

I said, "What do you think of Mrs. Peterson?"

"I have trouble believing she's related to Lucy. I now know exactly where I come down on the whole nature/nurture debate. That's what I think. How's your ass holding up?"

"Not too good. I think maybe I should've borrowed some of Susan's pain meds."

"That's a felony. I would've had to take you in for it. Come on, I'll drive you home."

Before he had a chance to fire the car's ignition, Sam's phone sounded again. He flipped it open and said, "Purdy."

I shifted my weight to take the pressure off my wound. It didn't help.

Sam's eyes were open wide as he listened to the phone call. After about a minute, he said, "Be right there."

"Be right where?"

"Marin Bigg is awake and talking. We're going to Community, see if she has any insight into anything."

"Like who murdered her mother?"

"Yeah, like that."

"Drop me off at the Boulderado on the way. I'll get a cab home."

"Sorry, this game has gone into overtime and you're still in the lineup. I want your opinion of her. We're still not sure if she's part of Ramp's crew or if she's a victim."

L ucy spent the night in a filthy constructiontrailer in Denver's Central Platte Valley, not too far from the REI that had taken over the old Forney Train Museum. A quick glance at the painting on the sign that graced the entrance to the construction site left her thinking that the building that was being framed was going to be some overpriced loft development.

Her hands and ankles were bound by plastic handcuffs that Ramp had discovered in the trunk of her Volvo after he'd parked it in a big shed in an industrial neighborhood on Denver's west side, somewhere between Broadway and Interstate 25. Ramp waited until after dark before he drove them in a gray Ford truck a mile or two to the construction site.

Since they'd arrived he'd only removed the bindings on Lucy's wrists and ankles twice, each time to allow her to use the portable toilet outside the construction trailer. He'd covered her with her own handgun the whole time. When she was done in the toilet, he'd had her rebind her own ankles and then lie prone on her abdomen before he recinched her wrists. Each step he prefaced with "please" and closed with "thank you."

Ramp fed Lucy a dinner of Slim Jims and Dr Pepper. She declined dessert, which was Little Debbie's oatmeal cookies, even though she'd adored their supersweetness when her dad had given them to her as a kid. Ramp allowed Lucy the small sofa that was tucked into one end of the trailer while he curled up on an army-surplus cot ten feet away. The sofa smelled. When Lucy commented on the odor, he told her that he'd smelled it, too, and thought the aroma was from construction adhesive.