I said, "Hello."
"Alan? It's A. J."
My breath caught in my throat. I'd almost forgotten about the two dead girls.
"A.J. How are you?"
Almost forgotten.
"Fine," she said in a manner that precluded further inquiry about her health.
Lauren employed the same tone sometimes; I had radar for it.
"I think we're ready to get started on our little adventure. I have some information. You have something to write with?"
"No. Hold on." I ran to the new master bedroom and grabbed a pad of notepaper that I kept by the bed.
"Shoot."
"First, I've made contact with Representative Welle's office. With remarkably little fuss he's agreed to see you. That surprises me. His next visit home to Colorado is in about two weeks. He's flying into Denver a week from Friday for some meetings and fund-raising appearances before going up to his place in the mountains for a few days of R and R. I worked out a tentative time for you to see him on the Friday that he's in Denver. Can you make that work? I hope you can make that work."
"I try to keep Fridays pretty clear, A. J. Shouldn't be any problem. Where does he want to meet?"
"Representative Welle will be attending some fund-raiser at a place his aide called the Phipps Mansion. Said it's where the recent Summit of the Eight was held when it was in Denver. Do you know anything about it? Know where it is? I can get more details if you need me to."
"That's not necessary. I've been there once before. I'm sure I can find it again."
"Anyway, Welle wants to meet you there, at that mansion, just before or just after his fund-raising luncheon."
"Either is fine with me."
"Well, you won't get to choose. They'll call you the day before and tell you whether it's going to be before or whether it's going to be after. I think it's a petty little political control thing-keeping you waiting to be beckoned-but who am I to question the motives of the powerful? I was told you'd get a message from a man named Phillip Barrett. He'll-"
"I heard about Barrett from Percy Smith on the plane ride back to Colorado. He's an old friend of Welle's.
He was the sheriff in Routt
County when Gloria Welle was kidnapped and murdered. And when the two girls were killed."
"I didn't know that. Interesting. Now Barrett's one of Welle's congressional honchos, maybe even chief of staff. I don't know. I don't really care. These staffers are mostly just insulation as far as I can tell. They function like they're just rolls and rolls of that puffy pink stuff-ways to keep regular folks more than a few steps away from their elected representatives.
Regardless, Barrett'll call you with the time that Welle chooses for your audience. I gave Barrett both your office number and your beeper number, but not your home."
"Good. I'm grateful that I have a couple of weeks before I meet with Welle. I want to drive up to Steamboat and try to get to know Tami Franklin's family-you know, begin to flesh out a profile on her and learn what I can about her relationship with Mariko. And I need to get permission from Mariko's family to receive information about her psychotherapy with Dr. Welle. Do you by any chance have phone numbers and addresses for them-any way for me to reach the Hamamotos?"
"If I don't have them already, I can get them. I'll fax them to you as soon as I do. You want me to fax it to your home or to your office?"
"Please send everything here, to my house."
"Oh, and you'll get a package from me tomorrow. I overnighted it to your house.
It's copies of all the parts of the original investigation that might be pertinent to what you and I are doing. Statements, interviews, reports. You know. I've highlighted some things that I found interesting. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"
I looked west just as the sun was cresting the Divide. The long shadows of dusk were creeping in a relentless advance across the Boulder Valley toward our house.
"Just some advice. Do you think I should let Raymond Welle know that I'm married to his ex-sisterin-law?"
A. J. laughed.
"No. Absolutely, no. There may come a time when we want to throw that in his face. This isn't it. Hey," she asked, "how's the pregnancy going? Is Lauren feeling okay?"
"Great. No problems so far. She actually seems less tired now that she's pregnant."
"I've heard that happens. Don't think I'll try it, though. Has she gotten a call from Mary Wright yet?"
"Not that I know of. But she's been in a trial both days this week."
"I really envy Lauren's strength. I couldn't do what she does. It's much too draining."
"The disease you two have has many faces, A. J. Your illnesses have the same name, but never the same consequences. Still, sometimes I worry that its too draining for her, too."
She didn't really want to talk about her illness. She said, "I'm sure Mary will be in touch, soon."
Two seconds after I hung up the phone, it rang again. This time it was my longtime partner, Diane.
Her greeting was, "I've been trying to reach you for hours. Why don't you get call waiting?"
"I've only been on the phone for ten minutes. And I don't like those annoying little clicks in my ears."
"Well, I don't like busy signals."
I shrugged. This argument didn't appear to offer much hope of reward.
"What's up?"
She sighed.
"Would you guys consider going to Taos instead of the Sand Dunes?
There's this gallery I really, really want to go to. They're holding a piece for me. Please? Pretty please? We'll do the wilderness and buffalo thing some other time."
The fax with addresses and phone numbers for the Hamamotos slithered out of our machine a half an hour after I yielded to Diane about Taos.
Mr. Hamamoto was living in British Columbia. His wife was in Japan. His surviving daughter was a graduate student at Stanford, in California. I phoned the number in British Columbia and left Mr. Hamamoto a message, along with an abbreviated explanation of my involvement in Locard and my interest in his daughter. I asked him to please return my call.
Lauren's case pleaded out on Wednesday morning before court commenced for the day. Since she was only working half-time, she decided that she was free to take the rest of the week off. I would be done with my last patient of the week Thursday afternoon at 3:45. The five-day forecast called for sunny days and cool nights. Afternoon thunderstorms were always a possibility.
Adrienne and Jonas were eager to watch Emily.
It was a perfect time to visit Steamboat Springs. By the time we left for the mountains late on Thursday afternoon I still hadn't heard back from Mr. Hamamoto.
I was tempted to take Highway 40 north through Granby-it was the more scenic route to Steamboat-but it was a longer drive and I didn't really want to be forced to do Rabbit Ears Pass in the darkest of darks, so we opted to stay on Interstate 70 all the way to Silverthorne, and headed north from there. Less than ten minutes after departing the interstate I pulled over to the side of the two-lane road and stopped the car in the dust. I pointed up the hill to the east and said to Lauren, "That's Dead Eds ranchette." The sign above the gate in front of us read the not so lazy seven ranch.
The previous year, one of my patients, a teenage girl a little younger than Tami Franklin, had had her life turned upside down in a barn up that dirt road.
Although I'd been to the ranchette once before with my friend, Boulder detective Sam Purdy, this was the first time I'd had the opportunity to point it out to Lauren.
She didn't know the psychological details of the tragedy, only the more public, legal ones. Both of her hands were resting on her abdomen as she said, "That's where it happened? Whatever it was with the RV and… Merritt? And the shooting? This is where that was, too?"