“Well, I couldn’t do it from the office, could I, with Tamara right there. I made an excuse and came over here to the car.”
“Terrific,” she said. “Sneaky games at your age.”
“What?”
“Never mind. When are you going to break down and buy yourself a cell phone?”
I ignored that. “So you won’t talk to her, not even a few words?”
“Not even one word. Be realistic. What could I tell her? She’s young and black and I’m old and white.”
“You’re not old.”
“From Tamara’s point of view I’m fodder for assisted living.”
“You could tell her not to screw up her life.”
“It’s her life. Her choices.”
“Kerry, listen...”
“You listen. Leave her alone. Don’t try to interfere, don’t try to get anybody else to interfere. Especially not now, with Christmas so close.”
“What does Christmas have to do with it?”
“You want to spoil her holidays?”
“No, but—”
“She’s level-headed, she knows what’s best for her. And it isn’t giving up a good career opportunity to be the wife of a Philadelphia symphony cellist.”
“Love’s blind, kiddo, or hadn’t you heard?”
“Oh, Lord, don’t give me clichés. Just trust my instincts. Leave the woman alone, let her work this...”
“What? This effing phone...”
“Effing,” Kerry said. “You really must be upset.”
“Of course I’m—”
“What?”
“I said—”
“What? You’re cutting out again. Listen, I can’t talk any... have to... work... that new ad campaign I...”
“What?”
“Just remember... told you. Don’t inter...”
“What?”
Too late. She’d already hung up.
When I came back into the office, Tamara said, “Felicia just called.”
“And?”
“One NCIC hit. Anthony Colton.”
“And?”
“Fugitive warrants out on him, state and fed both.”
“For what crime?”
“Big enchilada. Homicide, multiple.”
“The hell. How many victims?”
“Three. Seventeen years ago in Aspen Creek. Mono County Sheriff’s Department put out the original warrant, FBI issued theirs not long after.”
“In nineteen eighty-five?”
“Yep. Colton’s been at large ever since.”
“Details? Victims’ names?”
“Not yet. Felicia’s got a request in for specifics.”
And you never knew how fast you’d get a response on that kind of request. The NCIC processes thousands from law enforcement agencies nationwide every day; the simple ones usually come back fast, detailed case files take longer. It all depended on how busy they were, and on the exact nature of Anthony Colton’s crimes and how high on the FBI’s fugitives’ list he rated after seventeen years.
I said, “Any other felonies on Colton’s record?”
“Not in California. Might be a spree.”
“Might be. Two of the victims have to be his wife and Vernon Snow.”
“And number three’s Luke, whoever he was.”
“Which makes Anthony Colton—”
“Spook. Uh-huh.”
It seemed a stretch until you thought about it, put it in the right perspective. Seventeen years on the run. Unbalanced from the first, riddled with guilt over what he’d done, deteriorating physically and mentally under the strain to the point where he attempted suicide by self-mutilation, finally ended up down and out, addled and harmless, gabbling to the ghosts of his victims on the streets of San Francisco. Who’d figure a passively disturbed homeless man for a fugitive multiple murderer? Well, somebody had. It was the only explanation for his murder that made sense. Whoever had fired that bullet into Spook’s head, and then put Big Dog down, was connected in some way to the triple homicide in 1985.
21
Jake Runyon
He was waiting on the steps, huddled against wind and blowing snow, when the Mono County courthouse opened at nine A.M. Vital Statistics, first stop. Not much there. No birth certificate for Luke or Lucas Valjean. Nobody named Valjean residing in the county at present, but two others had died in Aspen Creek within a year of Luke: Everett, age 67, in 1986, and Dinah, age 66, in 1987, both of the same address. Luke’s parents? Seemed likely. Vernon Snow had lived in Aspen Creek all his life, been widowed at the time of his death, and had fathered two daughters; one of the daughters had been married in Mammoth Lakes, but there was no current directory listing under her husband’s name or her maiden name anywhere in Mono County.
The Sheriff’s Department had offices in the courthouse, but Runyon didn’t want to walk in there cold. Dealing with newspaper people was a chore he avoided whenever possible. That left the local library. It was open when he got there, and the librarian said yes, they had issues of the weekly Mono County Register on microfilm dating back as far as 1985. She set him up in a cubicle, brought the file dates he asked for, and left him alone.
Front-page scare headlines in the issue dated four days after the homicides. Grainy photograph of a lean, hollow-cheeked, nondescript man identified as Anthony Colton that bore no resemblance to the ravaged, faceless corpse in the San Francisco city morgue. The news story was a mix of lurid details and provincial, “this kind of thing doesn’t happen here” outrage. The facts were pretty much as O’Sheel had outlined them the afternoon before. Anthony Colton’s car had been found in the Toiyabe National Forest, a wilderness area across the state line a hundred miles or so from Aspen Creek. California and Nevada authorities had cooperated in the manhunt and the FBI had been called in “for assistance” after the car was found. Sure they had. The FBI didn’t assist, they assumed control; and state police agencies squabbled over jurisdiction as often as they cooperated. Confusion, ruffled feathers, and wasted time were the usual result. That and blind luck explained Colton being able to elude capture, find his way out of the mountains and into a hole somewhere.
The follow-up articles rehashed events and expressed frustration and public anger at the continued failure of the authorities to find Anthony Colton. The Mono County sheriff and one of his deputies were quoted; another deputy was mentioned by name. Runyon made a note of those three, and a fourth name: Thomas Valjean, Lucas Valjean’s older brother, who at that time had lived in the village of Mono City and operated a well-digging and septic service. He was quoted twice, both angry denunciations of law enforcement efforts.
From the library, Runyon drove back to the courthouse and the county sheriff’s offices. Two of the three officers named in the news stories, he was told, including the then-sheriff, were no longer with the department. The third, Lawrence Hickox, was now a senior deputy at the Mammoth Lakes substation, fifty miles to the south.
Runyon hunted up a phone — his cell still wasn’t working — and put in a call to the Mammoth Lakes station. Hickox was on duty, and when Runyon said he had new information on Anthony Colton, the deputy sounded eager to see him. They made an appointment for one o’clock.
It was after eleven now. Better check in; they’d be wondering what he’d found out, maybe had something to pass on in return. He made the agency number in San Francisco his second call.
It snowed all the way to Mammoth Lakes, flurries now and then, mostly a light dusting; but the highway was slick and pre-holiday traffic made for even slower speeds. A local radio station, the only one he could get on the car radio, said there would be a partial clearing later in the day but another storm was expected tonight, high winds and up to three inches of snow tomorrow. If he came back up 395 right after the talk with Hickox, he ought to have a fairly easy drive as far as Carson City or Reno. And if the storm held off and road conditions were good in the Sierras, he might even be able to make it all the way back to San Francisco without having to lay over.