Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 7-9: Buried Alive, Her Last Scream, The Killing Game. J. Kerley A.
grinned and I realized he’d fed Krenkler his version of events.
“That was my initial belief,” I said. “I was wrong.”
Krenkler arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “Really? I heard Detective Cherry discovered you were nearby and called for help.” Krenkler turned to Cherry. “You’d call a vacationing cop before you’d call the FBI?”
“I assure you that I didn’t call Detective Ryder,” Cherry said evenly.
“But he was surely called by someone in local law enforcement, right?”
“That’s the safe guess, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said. It was a subtle poke, and if Krenkler recognized it, an impression didn’t register. Cherry continued. “However Detective Ryder was alerted, he’s been tremendously generous with his time and input. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“I just arrived,” Krenkler said, affecting puzzled. “Why do I owe him anything?”
There was an uncomfortable silence, no one wishing to venture an answer. I cleared my throat. “It’s true,” I said, trying to steer back toward civility. “I’ve simply been helping gather what little evidence has presented. In fact, new evidence came to light about the methodology of Mr Burton’s murder, and Detective Cherry and I were documenting it for the Bureau’s review.”
Krenkler approached me with arms crossed. She stopped a foot away, an uncomfortable incursion of personal space. “And just where is this new evidence, Detective Ryder?”
I gave it two slow beats.
“You’re standing on it, ma’am.”
Krenkler looked down. Her icepick-pointy black flats were dead-center on the dolomite. She stepped back and we studied one another, neither happy with the input.
She said, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back to your vacation, Detective Ryder.”
“I can help here, Agent Krenkler. I’ve had experience with—” I was addressing her retreating back. She gestured Cherry to her with a crooked finger, as if summoning an errant child. They spoke, Cherry’s face growing red. I walked to the other agents with my hand out. The older man shook my hand and mumbled, “Rourke.” The other kept his hands in his pockets and nodded to the air beside my head.
I leaned against a hemlock until Krenkler dismissed Cherry. We drove away, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s officially Krenkler’s investigation,” Cherry said, voice tightly controlled. “She was officially asked to take over by Beale, who is officially in charge of the county and officially allowed to request any assistance he needs.”
“And you are officially what?” I asked.
“Fucked.”
It was the only word she said on the drive back.
Two days passed. I resumed my climbing lessons and afternoon hikes, occasionally seeing a law-enforcement vehicle speed by, Beale’s county mounties or one of the FBI’s dark cruisers. The Bureau berthed at two cabins by the park. It looked like they’d brought in a couple additional agents, or maybe clerical types to keep the paperwork straight.
I knew they’d start by interviewing anyone who’d ever had a beef with Burton or Powers or who’d done time in prison or psychiatric observation. They’d check locals with violent backgrounds. Evidence – what little there was – would be shipped to the Bureau’s labs, waiting for that one hit: the partial fingerprint, the molecule of DNA in Burton’s truck or on Powers’s clothing.
I hoped the Feds could identify Soldering-iron Man, the anomaly, the victim with no known ties to the area.
Gloria Krenkler and I hadn’t harmonized at our initial meeting and I’d judged her harshly based on my natural aversion to arrogance. I had been wrong about people before – often to my detriment – so I called John Morgenstern, a long-time FBI buddy. Harry and I had met John when he instructed us in behavioral psychology years ago. He was a straight shooter who gave me background info, knowing I’d never pass it on.
“Carson!” came the happy exclamation at the far end of the line, the Bureau’s training academy in Quantico, Virginia. “How they hanging?”
“Off a cliff this morning, John. I’m on vacation in Kentucky, getting in some rock climbing.”
“Keep a tight grip, buddy. What can I do for you?”
“Got a mean case nearby and I’ve got a fingertip in the proceedings. A state detective got bumped hard by one of your field agents, Gloria Krenkler. I was just wondering about Krenkler’s capabilities.”
“She’s been based in the New York office for over a decade. Working mail fraud, mainly, heavy detail work, sitting at a desk and poring over reams of paper. We’re short-handed, homeland security issues. I imagine it was felt she needed to get back out in the field a bit and—”
“You’re giving me everything but an answer, John.”
Morgenstern loosed a long sigh. “Let me put it like this, Carson: Krenkler’s smart, but not creative. She makes up by being dogged, getting the job done a half-inch at a time. If Gloria Krenkler was an auto mechanic she’d tear down the engine to get at the tailpipe.”
“I sense a need to control. Anger issues, perhaps.”
A pause. “You’re the one with the psychology degree.”
“Just between you and me, John, do you respect Gloria Krenkler’s abilities?”
“She can get the job done.”
“Do you like her as a person?”
“Enjoy your mountains,” he said, hanging up.
I decided to grab lunch at the lodge. When I arrived, McCoy was there, perhaps who I’d been hoping to see. He gestured me to his table. I sat and ordered.
“So, Lee,” I said, handing the waitress my menu, “you’re probably spending a lot of time with the FBI, right?”
He frowned over his coffee. “Agent Krenkler views me with curiosity, like I’m a two-headed calf. She can’t understand why an adult would spend his life in the woods, even asked me if I had a ‘Boy Scout complex’. She grilled me for a half-hour on the murders, but that was it.”
That Krenkler didn’t see McCoy’s worth was inexcusable. “How about the website?” I asked. “Monitored day and night by the Feds?”
He nodded. “They tried to reverse-track the listings, but it was a dead end.”
Meaning the killer knew enough to cover his electronic trail. “What’s Cherry up to?” I asked, trying to keep my voice professionally disinterested.
“I spoke to Donna yesterday. She seemed embarrassed about being removed from the case so I kept the conversation short.”
I’d been dismissed from investigations before. Even if you’d been doing a kick-ass job, you felt like a dolt. What made it worse was knowing lack of progress in the case would be blamed on the initial investigators. “We’re having to go back and re-check all the sources,” I heard Krenkler complaining to her supervisors. “Detective Cherry left a lot of loose ends.”
I returned to the cabin and found Mix-up snoozing on the porch. I didn’t have to shut him in the cabin when I left, finding he never ventured far. When I’d whistle, he was always at my side within a minute, often soaking wet from the creek. He did the same back on Dauphin Island, and I wondered if my genetic boullabaise of a dog carried a homebody species inside, or was loath to wander too far from his beloved food bowl.