Rocky Mountain Mystery. Cassie Miles
“Accept my conditions or leave.”
He pulled out a chair and sat.
Silently she counted to five, allowing her emotions to settle. “We’re going to have a nice lunch. Just a couple of old friends, renewing our acquaintance.”
She glanced at her small, round dining table that was old enough to qualify as antique but not polished. She should have covered the scratched-up veneer with a tablecloth or thrown together a centerpiece—something to make their lunch more cosy. But her tablecloths were stuck away in a linen drawer. What could she do to make this lunch more civilized?
“Wine?” she asked.
“No.”
“Music,” she said, turning on the radio, set to the classical station. “Rossini.”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like a good rotini.”
“That’s a pasta, David.”
“Whatever.”
She opened her vertical blinds. Daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows splashed into her condo. On the fifth floor, she was just above the leafy green treetops. Her windows faced west, and it would’ve been a spectacular panorama if other high-rise buildings hadn’t been in the way. As it was, she could only see slices of the Rockies.
Busily, she set lunch on the table. Tuna salad sandwiches and blue corn chips. Her fiesta-ware plates looked…festive, but the paper napkins were terminally tacky. At the very least, she ought to have decent glasses for the soda pop. Returning to the kitchen, she climbed onto the counter to reach the top cabinet shelf where she kept her crystal. The goblets were dusty.
“Blair? What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing.” She climbed down and grabbed two plain water glasses that she filled with ice and brought to the table. “Should I light a candle or something?”
“Not on my account,” David said.
But she wanted their lunch to be pleasant—free from thoughts about serial killers, free from the tragedies of the past. She wanted to pretend that David was here because he found her attractive and interesting. This casual lunch was the closest to a date she’d had in months. Pathetic! “I’ve got to get out more.”
“Likewise.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I keep telling myself that I need a hobby, like golf.”
“An old man’s game,” she said as she sat.
“Not since Tiger Woods.”
David’s expression seemed wary as he peered across the table and chewed. She sensed that he was waiting for the right moment to launch into more talk of the Fisherman, his personal obsession. Not just yet, old pal. She was determined to engage in polite conversation, and the topic was golf. “I used to caddy for my father,” she said. “I think he uses a cart now.”
“Where are your parents living now?”
“Near Tucson. Yours?”
“They’re still here in Denver.”
She asked if he’d read any good books or seen any movies. And he asked what she put in her tuna salad. Gosh, they were boring! If their small talk got any more amiably bland, they’d both fall asleep. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about your travels.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which bizarre crime scene would you like to hear about?”
Actually, she was rather interested in neurological damage in the Texas hammer murders, but she didn’t want to start down a slippery slope that might lead to the Fisherman. “You were in Texas. Tell me about the wide-open spaces.”
He wrenched the knot loose on his necktie. “How long are we going to dance around the issue, Blair?”
She tossed her napkin on the plate, symbolically throwing in the towel. “All right. The Fisherman. Talk.”
David laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles like a concert pianist preparing to play Rachmaninoff. “Everybody assumes that the right man was convicted because the killing stopped when he was arrested. Like you said, it’s not typical for a serial killer to take a break. But not unheard of. For example, the Green River murders in Washington. That guy killed more than forty women in two years. Then he stopped.”
“He was recently apprehended,” she said. “Was there an explanation for why he stopped?”
“He might have continued killing in a different location. The cops are trying to link him to various other unsolved crimes.”
“What are some other explanations for a time lapse?”
“The killer moves. Or dies. Sometimes, they get arrested. Then, when they’re released, they start up again.”
Another possibility occurred to her. “Maybe yesterday’s murder wasn’t committed by the Fisherman. It might be a copycat crime.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Part of the Fisherman’s thrill was a power trip. He liked outsmarting the cops. Remember? He used to send notes to a columnist at The Post.”
“Ted Hurtado.” He was another friend of Jake’s. “Wonder whatever happened to him.”
“I’ll look him up,” David said. “Ted’s a good place to start.”
She was a bit confused about the logistics. David had contacted Adam at CCC, but it sounded like he had plans of his own. “Are you going to investigate? You personally?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years. Looking into crime and analyzing.”
“What part does CCC play?”
“Adam said he would compile the old case files and court records. If I came up with questions, he would have volunteer experts who can help.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You were the first name he mentioned. He said you were the best at reviewing forensic medical evidence.”
For a moment, she had a glimmer of déjà vu, remembering when she was a medical examiner working with the other forensics experts and detectives. She liked being part of that team, tracking down clues and putting together the pieces of a puzzle.
Her part in crime-solving wasn’t often a source of pulse-pounding excitement. Rather, her work involved meticulous study, attention to detail, science and reasoning. But when she was able to contribute to an arrest, she experienced a deep satisfaction.
Should she attend the autopsy? Was there any way her presence would help unravel the past or solve the present crime?
David asked, “How did you get involved with Adam?”
One day he showed up on her doorstep without prelude or introduction. In direct, no-frills terms, he told her of his mission: reviewing old cases, offering expert evaluation when called upon by the police or looking into suspicious events. When Blair agreed to act as a consultant, CCC paid her expenses and, sometimes, offered a small stipend. But she didn’t do this work for the money. Her disability insurance payments and savings were sufficient to live on.
“Adam came to me, and I couldn’t say no.” She believed in his goal to help the surviving family and friends find closure. “I have skills. They were going to waste.”
“Have you thought about other work options?” David asked. “Like teaching?”
“I’ve considered teaching forensic medicine.”
But she wasn’t ready to settle for less, to take a diminished position. When the accident forced her to leave the Coroner’s Office, she was at the top of her game. All the cops wanted to work with her. Her opinions were sought after.
She didn’t want to return to the field as a pathetic loser—a has-been who never really was. It felt as if she’d failed. The thought of limping back to the Coroner’s