Bone Dust White (3 page)

“Ray, I’m three weeks from going on maternity leave.”

“Actually, it’s four weeks. I checked.”

“I’m in no condition to go gallivanting across the state.”

“It’s a two-hour drive. That’s hardly gallivanting. Besides, aside from me you’re the only one left that worked on the original case.”

“It’s been eleven years. Anyone can read the file.” She summarizes the case between bites, stabbing her French fry in the air when she makes a point. “The bodies of four Eastern European girls are dumped in a roadside picnic area. Our informant fingers Arnold Lamm’s trucking company. We investigate. A mysterious fire wipes out the driver manifests. A mysterious brake failure wipes out our informant. Shortly after, Leanne Adams is pulled over for speeding, heading north to the Canadian border. According to the trooper, she had four female passengers. No one sees Leanne for eleven years and upon return, she’s duly murdered.” She finishes off her French fry and picks up another. “It’s not rocket science, Ray.”

He taps the file. “Leanne knew something.”

Macy pushes her plate aside and picks up the police report again. “Of course she knew something. That’s why she’s dead.”

“But if the daughter can identify the killer our case against Cross Border Trucking isn’t dead.” He raises his voice. “They might still be in business, Macy.” He holds up a picture of the youngest girl they found in the roadside picnic area. “Katya was only fifteen and had been sexually assaulted and left to die. Can you imagine how scared she was?”

Macy leans back in her chair. A couple of mothers have shown up with a group of young girls. They’re all dressed like ballerinas but wear ice skates instead of slippers. The youngest one smiles at Macy. Macy gives her a little wave before turning to Ray.

“As I recall, there was something wrong with Leanne’s daughter,” she says, remembering a young girl with an unfortunate haircut.

“Grace Adams had a lot of health problems. Her aunt and uncle adopted her after Leanne left town.”

Macy pictures the squalid little trailer behind the truck stop where Leanne and Grace once lived. The police didn’t realize Grace had been abandoned until they broke in three days after Leanne vanished from Collier. There’d been an anonymous phone call, otherwise they might never have gone looking for her.

Macy flips through the report. “How old is Grace now?”

“Almost eighteen.”

“The girl must be traumatized.”

“I imagine so.”

“Remind me what our informant said about Arnold’s wife, Elizabeth. Did she know what her husband was getting up to?”

“He wasn’t sure, but my gut instinct tells me she must have known something.”

Macy sips her drink through a straw. “More likely she pretended it wasn’t happening.”

“The informant told us it was a ring of four or five guys who were very close to Arnold Lamm.”

“Didn’t we make up a short list at some point?”

“Yeah, we came up with a couple dozen names, but for one reason or another, we eliminated most of them.”

Macy taps the edge of the table with her fingertips. “There are two more that we can strike off. Scott Pearce is serving an eight-year sentence for armed robbery, and Walter Nielson was murdered four years ago in Boise.”

“I’ll check on Scott Pearce’s status. He may have gotten early release.” Ray hesitates. “I need you to go to Collier and lead the investigation into Leanne’s murder. Initially I’d rather they didn’t know you’re working the old case as well. It may make things easier.”

Macy sits quietly for a few seconds. During the original investigation she and Ray had come up against a great deal of resistance in Collier. It was nearly impossible to get anyone to cooperate, including the police. She stares hard at Ray. “Collier is a shithole. I don’t want to go.”

“Sorry,” he says, staring right back. “I’m going to pull rank on this one. You know I’d go if I could.”

Macy crosses her arms over her belly. “What’s in it for me?”

“Isn’t my undying gratitude enough?” Ray gets up to order coffee but comes back with two slices of pecan pie piled with whipped cream. “This should cheer you up.”

Macy picks up a fork. “You sure know how to make a girl happy.”

“If only that were really the case.”

Macy runs her fork across the whipped cream, making parallel tracks. “Why didn’t you just tell me all this an hour ago back at the office?”

Ray waits for the waitress to finish serving their coffee before answering. Under the table Macy feels his well-padded knee bump against her leg. “I thought it would be nice for us to touch base,” he says.

“Is that so?” She skewers her pecan pie with her fork. “I guess it’s too bad that I have to get going if I want to reach Collier before dark.”

*   *   *

Macy parks her patrol car in the long circular driveway of her childhood home. She’d driven across the capital at high speeds with the sirens on, but switched them off when she passed into the gated neighborhood. In the seven months since she totaled her car in an accident she’s been driving state-issue vehicles. She thought her mother, Ellen, would balk at having a patrol car parked outside the house, but she and all the neighbors love having it there. Apparently it makes them feel safer at night. There is virtually no crime in this end of town, so Macy isn’t sure what they have been worried about. She waddles up the snow-covered walkway, waving to Ellen, who’s come to the door to meet her. On the drive across town Macy kept her instructions brief.
Mom, please pack a bag for me. Don’t be silly, you know what I like to wear. No, I don’t know how long I will be gone. Yes, I’ll be careful.

Ellen insists on carrying the suitcase out to Macy’s car. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? I could whip you up some lunch. There are some leftovers from the dinner we made last night.”

“Thanks, Mom, but I’ve already had something.”

Ellen slips the suitcase into the back end of the car and takes a deep breath. “Your brother called this morning. I’m afraid it’s just him coming this Christmas. Charlotte is going to her parents’ house with the kids.”

Macy takes hold of her mother’s hands and squeezes them. “It’s not been a good year for the Greeleys.”

“I don’t know how I would have coped without you staying here with me.”

Macy manages a smile. “You know I feel the same way.”

Ellen looks back at the house. “After your father died I felt lost in my own home. It was too quiet.”

Macy places a hand on her belly. “It won’t be quiet for long.”

“Have you decided whether you’ll stay on after Christmas?”

“I’d be crazy to leave.” Macy reaches for the car door. “I don’t know the first thing about babies.”

“Well, between the two of us I’m sure we’ll manage.”

*   *   *

Heading north on Route 93, the Flathead Valley spreads out on all sides. It’s stopped snowing, but the winter sky sits low, its thick mist clinging to the trees and hillsides like foam. The cell phone rings, and she takes a quick glance at the screen, ignoring it when she sees it’s Ray. It’s the second time he’s called since she left him sitting at the table back at the ice rink. By the time she’d finished her dessert she’d had enough of his company. Without saying much more than good-bye she grabbed the files he’d brought along and hurried out the door.

Macy passes through the town of Walleye Junction, stopping briefly at the diner for coffee. From her table, she can hear the other patrons gossip about the murder. She’s relieved that no one mentions Leanne Adams by name. Collier’s sheriff’s department doesn’t have a reputation for keeping information to themselves, but so far they’ve managed to avoid leaking the victim’s name to the press.

Despite Macy’s protests, the waitress pours more coffee. “Sorry, honey,” she says, gesturing toward Macy’s patrol car. “You look like you should be at home with your feet up.”

Macy smiles over her cup. “For all I know they might be up right now. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

High-pitched and unrestrained, the waitress’s laughter comes out in short uneven blasts, making her sound as if she might have more than one personality tucked up inside her head. Macy shifts away a fraction and asks for the check.

There are only three towns in the upper reaches of the Flathead Valley. Collier is the farthest north, Wilmington Creek is more central but a bit to the west, and Walleye Junction lies in the south where the valley begins to widen. To the east the remote peaks of the Whitefish Range run all the way to the Canadian border.

Back at the ice rink Ray briefed her on the situation in Collier now that their sheriff’s office is under investigation. There’d been a scandal involving the outgoing sheriff. Ray didn’t have to go into details. Macy had read the stories in the papers about the fancy cars, the unnecessary travel expenses, and the three-story addition slapped onto the back of the sheriff’s otherwise modest home.

“The acting sheriff, Warren Mayfield, is a good guy,” he said between bites of pecan pie. “He’s just in over his head.”

Macy is nine miles out of Collier when she puts in her first call to Mayfield. He’s eager for her to get settled into her hotel room before they start working.

“That’s very kind of you, Sheriff Mayfield,” she says, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. “But I think the Collier Motor Lodge will hold my reservation. I’d like to get started immediately if you don’t mind.”

She listens to Warren’s disjointed voice rise up from the speakerphone, her mouth settling into a weary scowl. He suggests they meet at the morgue, and she balks. As far as she’s concerned the morgue is the medical examiner’s domain. She prefers seeing coroner’s reports in black-and-white with photos attached only where necessary. Even then she’d rather not look.

“No,” she says, tapping on the steering wheel impatiently. “It’s only just after three. I want to visit the crime scene before dark.” She reaches over and grabs the initial report. “I’d also like to interview the witness and the two medics.”

The line goes quiet and for a few seconds Macy thinks Warren might have got cut off. She’s about to redial when he speaks again.

“Given her recent heart transplant her doctors are reluctant to let us interview Grace Adams until she’s had a few days to recuperate.”

Macy tries to keep one eye on the road as she sifts through the paperwork. “When in the hell did she have a heart transplant?”

“Recently. She’s only been out of the hospital a couple of weeks.”

Macy drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m just coming to Collier. I’ll meet you at the house on Summit Road in twenty minutes.”

The Flathead River loops around Collier like a distended belly. Churned up by heavy snowfall in the higher elevations, the water is milky gray. Macy crosses it on a wide, brutal-looking bridge before passing through the industrial end of the town. The factories and lumber mills are picked-over carcasses. Scarred by weather, graffiti, and arson, they serve as a constant reminder of what Collier once was. Save debris, the parking lots are empty. It’s become a junkyard of sorts. The entire contents of foreclosed homes have been left to the mercy of scavengers and windswept decay. Stripped of anything of value, the odd little groupings of old sofas, beds, and rubbish sit around fire pits. Junked cars complete the disturbing tableaus.

Macy follows the directions she’s been given, taking the business loop to avoid traffic on the southern end of town. Halfway round, the unfinished road is blocked off with orange and white barricades and she’s redirected back to Main Street, where she comes across a long line of traffic. She flicks on the siren and pulls into the suicide lane, pushing aside the cars and trucks that get in her way. There’s a roadblock set up in front of another bridge spanning the northern bend of the Flathead River. Instead of letting her patrol car pass, the officer on duty pulls her over to the side.

He’s someone she’s come across before, but she can’t remember the name. “Detective Greeley,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “You late for your birthing class?”

Macy shows him her badge so he remembers his manners. “That’s right, sweetheart. My boyfriend loaned me
his
patrol car so I’d make it on time.”

He looks over his shoulder toward the other officer on duty. “What do you think, Gareth? Should we let her through?”

Instead of answering, Gareth turns his back to them and continues speaking with the motorist he’s pulled over.

“I’m looking for the Lamm residence.” She picks up a sheet of paper and reads the address again. “It’s out on the northern edge of town.”

“Not really much of Collier left once you get that far north. Just follow Route 93. You’ll hit a series of switchbacks. The exit for the Northridge development is on the third one. You can’t miss it.”

Macy doesn’t want to but she thanks him, rolling up the window and cursing under her breath when he feels obliged to direct her out into the flow of traffic. She waves and tells him to
fuck off
with a cheerful expression he doesn’t notice. It’s only half past three and she’s losing daylight.

Outside 153 Summit Road, Sheriff Mayfield leans against his patrol car waiting for her. His is the only car she’s seen since she turned into the neighborhood. He wears a heavy coat and hat and carries a flashlight. It’s impossible to read his expression but Macy can tell he’s older, perhaps just shy of mandatory retirement. Macy grabs a flashlight from the glove compartment and gets out. She gestures toward the house, not bothering to disguise her astonishment. The building wouldn’t be out of place in a theme park. There are iron grilles on the lower windows and it has a double front door made from thick beams of oak. It’s built like a fortress. It even has turrets.

“I didn’t know they had castles in Collier.”

The sheriff reaches out and shakes her extended hand warmly. “Just the one.” He introduces himself and gives her a brief summary of what they’ve learned so far. They make their way around the side of the garage, taking the same route as the police and paramedics. “We found a car with Canadian plates parked up the road a bit. It’s not registered to Leanne but we know she was driving it. We’ll need to track down the owner.”