After another ten minutes, the tracks turned into a parking lot shared by a Sheraton and two restaurants. A pickup truck was busy plowing away Patton’s tracks. He turned back to the car and noted that Yaeger and his partner had that resigned, that’s-the-end-of-the-road expression plastered across their faces. He ignored them, opened the driver’s side door, told Yaeger to get in the back, and then drove them around the large parking lot. Most of the cars were still covered in blankets of snow, but there were about thirty that had been cleared and obviously driven. Of the thirty, three were Tauruses; unfortunately, all three were brown. Patton had Yaeger get out and clear the snow from the three license plates, and then he ran the tags. As he waited for the computer to slowly work its way through the DMV files, he wished that Rucker had seen the plates. Even a partial would have been useful. The screen stopped flashing and displayed the details about the three cars. The first was owned by a fifty-two-yearold Asian woman, and the other two were Hertz and Alamo rental cars with Florida registrations. A hunch told Patton that the person they were looking for probably wasn’t the fifty-two-yearold Asian woman.
“Yaeger, stay with the car and position yourself so that you can watch both of those vehicles. Try to be as unobtrusive as possible. I’m starting to feel uneasy about this whole situation, so stay alert.” Patton had turned his bulk to stare directly at Yaeger, and the inexperienced officer nodded his understanding as earnestly as possible. Patton stifled a biting remark and turned to the other policeman. “What’s your name?”
“Johnson, sir.” His voice was very nearly a squeak, and his eyes widened in fear.
“It’s okay, Johnson, I’m not going to eat you. I had a detective for breakfast, so you’re good for another hour or so.” Patton wondered if Johnson was his first or last name and decided that he didn’t care. “You come with me. We’re going into that Sheraton to see if we can sweet talk someone into giving us the names of the drivers of those two cars.” He turned back to Yaeger. “Don’t be a hero. If you see someone approach those cars call me, or call for backup. Am I clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Johnson got out of the car. He was five-seven and a hundred and thirty pounds dripping wet. He had more than just a passing resemblance to Barney Fife; it was a likeness that had dogged him ever since he had enrolled in the police academy. Only he had never really felt it until he found himself trailing his new boss into the hotel lobby.
Within ten minutes, Patton had the names and room numbers of both drivers. He couldn’t decide whether he appreciated the trust the desk clerk had shown him and his gold detective’s badge, or whether it was just another sign of how far away from home he really was. What a cynic you’ve become, he admonished himself, confusing good faith with na- ïveté. Still, he had always enjoyed the give-and-take with the more worldly and skeptical big city dwellers.
Johnson appeared by Patton’s side and craned his neck to read the two names scribbled on the notepad. “Two middleaged males; a Texan and a Bulgarian. What do you suppose a Bulgarian is doing in Colorado Springs in the dead of winter?” Patton asked himself.
“The academy,” Johnson offered meekly. “We get a lot of foreign visitors. Most of them are affiliated with the Air Force. Either theirs or ours,” he added for clarification.
Patton looked up from his notepad at the slight policeman. “Well done, Johnson. Maybe I should have you follow me around and introduce me to all the local customs and peculiarities.” He tried to sound sincere, but it only seemed to confuse the officer. “The Texan makes more sense. I doubt someone would fly half way around the world just to kill Mr. Van Der.” Patton paused. He was investigating a murder now; something along his three-mile trek had changed his mind. He dwelled on that thought, but his subconscious hadn’t finished sorting through the situation. “Room 341,” he said simply and took off for the elevators.
It took Patton about half a second to rule out Edwin Reese as Rucker’s witness/assailant/murderer. Reese was not the middleaged male that the desk clerk had promised. He was older than God, and with the arthritic bend in his back, wasn’t even five feet tall.
“Yes, that’s the car we rented,” the octogenarian said in a very loud voice. “My daughter is meeting us in Denver.” He was in no mood to be disturbed, or apparently, to put in his teeth, or put something on other than undershorts. A frail, white-haired woman appeared at Edwin’s side.
“Please excuse Edwin. He is mostly deaf and completely deaf when he doesn’t wear his hearing aids. I’m his wife, Clara Reese.” Her voice was calming after the gruff Edwin. “Is there a problem with the car?”
“Probably not, Mrs. Reese, but can I ask if anyone drove the car this morning?” Patton turned on the charm.
“Yes, I moved it to this side of the building so Edwin wouldn’t have to walk so far.” She had a friendly voice with a prominent North Texas accent that made her draw out every last syllable.
“Did you sweep off all that snow?” Patton cocked his head to the side and clicked on his two-hundred-watt smile, playfully patronizing her.
“Goodness, no. I paid the man who carried our bags to warm up the car. I think he cleaned it off for me.”
“Is it possible he drove it, maybe to heat it up a bit?”
“I don’t think so. He was terribly busy. . Well, I suppose it’s possible.” Confusion added to the lines in her face.
“And you said that he works here, downstairs?”
“Yes, the hotel manager arranged for him to bring our bags down to the car.” She was trying her best to be helpful.
“Were you planning on going on to Denver today?” Patton asked.
“Yes, we are. Our daughter has a house in Grange.”
“I doubt you’ll get out of here today. The interstate is closed, and I don’t think it’ll open before tomorrow.” Patton felt sorry for the woman; she was barely able to function herself, and she appeared to be the primary caregiver for her irascible husband. “Why don’t you give us your daughter’s name and number, and we’ll let her know that you’ll be spending the night here and that everything is all right.” A little of the small-town attitude was seeping into Patton.
Clara carefully and shakily wrote out the information about her daughter and gave it to the detective, who immediately handed it to Johnson. Patton thanked them and left for the lobby, Johnson in tow.
“Do you think it might be the bellhop?” Johnson asked breathlessly, jogging down the hall, trying to keep up with Patton.
“I don’t know, but it sure wasn’t Edwin or Clara. I don’t want you to forget to make that call to their daughter. Do it while I’m talking to the manager and our helpful bellhop.” Patton emphasized the term. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard anyone referred to as a bellhop.
They reached the stairwell, and Patton began to pound down the metal stairs. Johnson hesitated as the entire structure rocked and clattered with each of Patton’s footfalls. “Move your ass!” Patton’s voice echoed up from below, and Johnson forced himself onto the landing. He paused only for a moment, and then made a headlong dash down the swaying stairs. Patton was already through the door and in the lobby before Johnson reached safety. He ran for his boss, all dignity lost.
“Afraid you were going to fall?” Patton laughed as his junior caught up.
“Things were mov—”
A pop, and then two more in rapid succession, interrupted Johnson. His hand didn’t wait for instructions from his brain; he had his weapon out even before he consciously recognized that the shots were fired from a standard-issue police thirty-eight.
Chapter 9