Winter Kill, стр. 10

“How’s that, ma’am?” he asked. “What made you think Dove was dead?”

She gave a vague shrug. “He never called. He never wrote.”

When he’d identified himself, she had seemed to weigh whether to let him into her place or not. Finally she’d opened the door, and he’d stepped into hoarder heaven. Newspapers were stacked everywhere. They lined the walls and formed precarious towers all the way to the ceiling. Numerous shorter stacks created a paper maze across the length of the living room.

This was taking keeping up with current events to a whole new level.

“You were close to your son?”

“No. But I still think once he grew up he’d have contacted me. If he’d lived.”

She wore a flowered house dress, the kind of thing that nobody wore anymore. Nobody her age, at least, because, again, she wasn’t that old. He glanced at the clock—only the top half showed above the towers of newspapers—he had to meet his friend in twenty minutes.

“Do you have any idea of who might have wanted to hurt Dove?”

“No.”

“Do you remember the exact date he left home?”

“November.”

November was an exact date?

She irritated him. Everything about her irritated him. Her vague manner, and the stacks and stacks of newspapers, and the fact that she’d taken it for granted her kid was dead—that she’d never made any attempt to do something. Anything. It all irritated him. And he was irritated that he was irritated. If he couldn’t summon up a little compassion, where at least was his professional detachment?

He just wanted to get out of there.

“Do you still have the letter Dove left for you and your husband?”

Marion looked around the magazine-lined room as though she hoped to spot the letter lying on a stack of newspapers. “He did leave a letter,” she agreed. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

“Do you have any photos of your son?”

Another of those dubious looks. “Somewhere…”

Rob sighed. Marion Koletar wasn’t deliberately obstructive, but she might as well be.

He was doing a half-assed job and he knew it. Special Agent Darling would have that supercilious look on his face were he observing this interview. But Special Agent Darling was not here, and Rob was going to miss meeting his friend if he didn’t wind this up pretty quick. His friend would not take kindly to being stood up for “police business” again. It wasn’t like Rob was making any headway with Marion. Maybe if he pushed her and kept pushing her.

Tell me about your son. What was Dove like? Those were the questions he should be asking. And had it not been a thirty-year-old cold case, he would be asking. However, this was a victim whose own mother hadn’t bothered to keep a photo of him. Someone who had fallen off the grid and no one had ever questioned it, let alone made an attempt to find him. He was sorry. Genuinely sorry about Dove Koletar. Life would not have been easy for that young man. And neither would death.

There was only so much you could do, and this was an uphill battle all the way.

“Could you put together a list of your son’s friends?”

“Oh. I…” She trailed off helplessly.

Rob gritted his teeth and forged on. “Actually, could you put together a list of anyone you can remember who might have been close to your son?”

“Close to him?” She looked alarmed.

“Right. Friends. Or whatever. Or not friends. Anyone he didn’t like. Maybe he had a run-in with someone? I know it was a long time ago, but anyone you can think of. Friend or foe. If you could put that list together for me and try to dig up a couple of photos—and maybe find the letter he left you—”

“Why?” she interrupted. She looked bewildered.

“Why? Because we’re investigating his death.”

“But…it’s too late.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. It’s a cold case, yes.”

“He’s dead,” Marion said. “It’s too late to do any good. What’s the point of digging all that up?”

He honestly didn’t know what to say to that. Because your dead son deserves justice. How about that one? Because it’s my job. Not noble, though the truth. Because it’s not good for any of us when someone gets away with murder. That was also the truth.

He rose. “If you could just put those things together for us, ma’am?”

She continued to blink up at him in noncomprehension. He knew she would not put that list together, would not find the photos, would not look for the letter. In a few days she probably wouldn’t even remember his visit.

“Sorry for your loss,” Rob said.

Just as Rob figured, Marion Koletar did not provide him with any of the information or materials he requested. He tried a couple of follow-up calls, but Marion did not answer the phone or return his messages.

He didn’t give up. Not immediately. He got the forensics back on Koletar. Aside from a couple of almost microscopic nicks on the rib cage that might or might not have been inflicted by a knife, there was no indication of how he had died.

There was even a tiny chance it had been a natural death, and some Good Samaritan who couldn’t afford any public scrutiny had found the body and buried it.

Yeah, right.

He got copies of all Koletar’s school records. There was nothing useful there. The victim had been an average student—which was a feat in itself given he typically missed about twenty days a semester. No wonder his teachers had nothing to say about him. They probably wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup.

He asked around, talked to people about Dove. No one but Frankie seemed to really remember him. And she didn’t seem to remember much except that he hadn’t fit in and hadn’t been happy.

“What about his father?” Rob asked. Unfortunately, when something happened to a kid, the parents were the first and obvious suspects.

“I doubt it,” Frankie said. “Maybe they slapped him around now and again. He wasn’t abused. Not for that day and age. More like neglected, I’d say.”

“What about friends? He must have had friends.”

“I don’t know that he did,” Frankie said.

Rob was drawing blanks in every direction. He could have kept pushing. But then the holidays came, and the first snow of the season, and then the tourists were back. Everybody was busy. Even Frankie lost interest in the subject of Dove Koletar.

Nobody actually ever said the words “case closed,” but when Rob tucked the skinny manila folder in the lowest drawer of the filing cabinet, no one questioned it. Or pulled it out again.

November, December, January.

And then Cynthia Joseph was murdered.

Chapter Four

“I don’t get it,” Russell said. “Why us?”

Tall, dark, and handsome, Russell could have served as a poster boy for the modern FBI. He was smart too. And personable. Though he didn’t waste much of that personability on Adam.

“Murder on federal property,” Adam replied. Most of his attention was on the road ahead. It was starting to snow. Not hard, though it was sticking, and he wasn’t used to driving in these conditions. A born and bred California boy, he preferred sailing to skiing. He knew enough to know he didn’t have winter tires, and all the training in the world didn’t help when the other people on the road were idiots.

Not that there were a lot of other people on the road. Right there was probably an indication.

They’d arrived in Medford that afternoon, rented a car, and were now on their way to Nearby. The curator of a small museum at the edge of the national forest had been found dumped in a Native American exhibit with her throat cut. Sheriff McLellan had invited the FBI—and Adam personally—into the investigation.

It was hard to know what was bothering Russell more: that the Bureau had been dragged in, or that Adam had been requested. He asked again, “Why you? Why ask for you specifically?”