Bolton’s Explorer had just parked behind Royce’s patrol vehicle. Evan Bolton raised a hand at the young officer, who returned the gesture but kept walking. Bolton’s gaze followed Royce, watching as he climbed in his SUV and simply sat, staring down at his lap. The detective shrugged. Truman understood Bolton’s confusion. Royce always had a cheery word for everyone. Typically too many cheery words. It was often difficult to get the officer to stop talking.
“We meet again,” Bolton said as he approached Truman. “I’m beginning to dread your phone calls.”
Truman didn’t laugh and launched directly into business. “This victim was shot in the chest before he took a bullet to the head. I believe we’ll find the second bullet in the ground under his head. And we have a possible identification on him already.”
Bolton scanned the body. “Good. We can compare the bullet to the one we pulled from the second victim. Nice that we’re early to this one. I had an artist put together some sketches of the first two victims. They’re already posted online, and they’ll be on the local news tonight. Somebody out there should recognize them.” He bent closer. “Why did he shoot you in the chest first?” he muttered. “Who ID’d him?”
“Royce. Says he thinks it’s Gerry Norris. A local.”
“So that’s why Royce looked ready to puke,” Bolton commented.
Truman studied the detective. Bolton had always impressed him with his steady demeanor no matter what horror was in front of him. But at what cost had he developed that calm?
“Have an address for Norris?” Bolton asked.
Ben rejoined the group. “I got it and a photo,” he answered. He held up his phone, which displayed an enlarged driver’s license picture. “This guy looks a lot heavier than our victim. Face is rounder. Now I’m not sure it’s him.”
Truman compared the photo to the body. Neither he nor Bolton could be certain it was Norris.
“I’ll text you the address, Truman,” Ben said as he stomped and waved an arm at a bird that had ventured too close, its beady eyes on the body. “Damned birds.”
“Wait for the evidence team and medical examiner,” Truman told Ben. He glanced back at Royce, who was still sitting in his vehicle. “Get Royce back down here and have him help the team. I don’t care if he just holds a garbage bag or takes bird duty. Keep him busy with something.”
Ben nodded solemnly, understanding in his gaze.
Truman looked to Bolton, who was eyeing the birds with distaste. “Let’s go.”
As they headed toward the road, Truman received a phone call.
“What’s up, Lucas?” Truman signaled for Bolton to wait.
“I’m entering Samuel’s reports from last night, and I just discovered he broke up a domestic dispute between Gerry Norris and Kim Fuller at Norris’s address,” Lucas said triumphantly. “Thought you’d like a heads-up.”
“Nice job. Send me a scan of Samuel’s report.”
“I got lucky.” Lucas sounded smug.
Truman ended the call. “We’ve got a girlfriend to interview,” he told Bolton.
***
Gerry Norris lived in an old Eagle’s Nest building composed of four apartments that had seen better days. The architecture suggested it’d been built in the seventies, and it currently needed a new coat of paint. The outdoor landings were covered with green artificial turf that had thinned to threads in front of each apartment door.
After Truman knocked, a chain stopped Norris’s door from opening more than five inches, and suspicious female eyes studied the men. “More cops?” she asked with a sigh.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Truman answered, holding up his identification. “We’re following up on last night’s report. Are you Kim Fuller?”
Samuel’s report had been clear and concise. At 8:00 p.m. neighbors had reported a fight in the apartment above them. When Samuel responded, he’d found Fuller and Norris drunk and screaming at each other but with no apparent injuries. A disagreement about money was the source of the argument. He’d separated the two of them and talked to each individually, and it had been agreed that Norris would spend the rest of the night with a friend. At 9:00 p.m. Samuel had dropped off Norris at a home a mile away and watched him enter the house before leaving.
The friend’s house was Truman’s next stop.
“Yes, I’m Kim.” The blonde woman closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it wide, releasing a strong cigarette odor from the apartment. She was very thin and wore yoga pants and a sweatshirt. “I thought everything was over once the officer left,” she said, standing firmly in the doorway. “It wasn’t a big deal. The neighbors downstairs are a pain in the butt!” she shouted toward the floor.
“Do you mind if we come in and talk?” Truman asked.
She looked from Truman to Bolton. “What’s wrong with right here?”
I want to see inside your apartment.
“Nothing,” he agreed. She was already defensive, and he didn’t want to push her more. Yet. “The report says the argument started about money. What happened?”
“I told him he needs to get a job if he wants to go party every night. He hasn’t worked since June, and I’m tired of hustling my ass off to keep him in beer.”
“Where do you work?”
“Colonel’s in Bend.”
Truman knew the dive bar. He’d never been inside, but Samuel had gotten food poisoning there. Twice. When Truman asked why he’d gone back, he’d shrugged and said the burgers were worth the risk.
Nothing was worth food poisoning to Truman.
“Have you heard from Gerry since he left last night?” Bolton asked.
“Nah. I’m sure he’s still sleeping it off.” She leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms below her breasts and inspecting both men in a curious way that made Truman want to scratch his neck. She appeared to like what she saw in Bolton.
“The two of you argue a lot?” Truman asked.
“As much as anybody.”
“He ever get physical with you?”
She smirked. “No. He wouldn’t do that. I’m his bread and butter right now. He needs to keep me happy.” Her considering gaze roamed over Bolton again.
This is happy?
“Do you have a picture of both of you?” He didn’t want to ask for just a picture of Norris. She would know instantly something was wrong.
She scowled. “Why?”
“There weren’t any pictures with the report. Usually we take photos of who we’re dealing with,” he lied.
Her phone was tucked in the waist of her yoga pants, and she flashed more skin than necessary as she pulled it out. She held up the phone. The lock screen was a selfie of her and Norris.
Norris wore a cap. Again Truman couldn’t be certain he was the victim. He asked her to send the photo to him and excused himself and Bolton.
He led Bolton down the stairs. “Time to visit the friend’s place where Norris spent the night.”
Was Norris killed by his friend?
NINETEEN
By the next morning, another three inches of snow had fallen. The compound had transformed into a rustic winter wonderland, making Mercy miss the homey, secure feeling of her own cabin during the freezing months. Last night had been cold in the women’s building, its insulation lacking. The beautiful snow hid the fact that the facilities had been built for temporary summertime camping, not wintertime living.
Mercy was one of the first people in line for breakfast, a headache pounding in her skull from her thirty-six hours of no food and constant overnight analysis of the conversation she’d overheard yesterday. Her brain hadn’t stopped. Pete’s plan would kick off in twenty-four hours, and she hadn’t come up with a solution to stop them. She’d wandered the compound, checking for a way to get out. There was none. Even if she did escape, she still had to find a phone.