Pariah Read online

  “How did you know it was there?” Muffin asked with a strangely accusatory tone, as if she’d caught him in a compromising lie.

  “The ring was in one of the letters,” he said, gazing into the cold fireplace. “She got angry and threw it.”

  “You seem to know your way around this room pretty well. Kyle says you were here until two A.M., when he drove you into town.”

  He knew where she was going with this. She wanted him to tell her the truth. Every detail. He had tried to keep something from her in another investigation and the lie had nearly destroyed their friendship. It had nearly ended his career.

  “I don’t know what time it was,” he said, the slipknot of another lie. “We left the Jerome around eleven and came here. The date was an excuse to show me the letters. She was upset about them and wanted to know what could be done.”

  Muffin crossed her arms and leaned against a bedpost. “You’re in the woman’s bedroom until two in the morning,” she said, her eyes following the path to the glass doors. “A couple hours later she jumps off her deck. Call me old-fashioned, Kurt, but it doesn’t look good. What do you think the newspapers are going to do with this? Especially with the recall vote coming up.”

  He lifted the poker from its rack and stirred the ashes in the hearth. Had Nicole tossed the letters in the fire? “They’ve been looking for an excuse to take Smerlas’s side,” he said. “I guess they’ve got one now.”

  Muffin chucked back the bill of her cap. “Jesus, Kurt,” she said with an impatient sigh. “Better get Corky on the line to do some quick damage control.”

  He churned the ashes, searching for shreds of paper. He felt his emotions surging to the surface, a tightness in his throat. Nicole had asked for his help, and he had doubted her and treated the entire matter lightly and now she was dead.

  “The letters pushed her over the edge,” he said, groping for an explanation.

  He tried to imagine how it could have happened. Nicole lying in bed, rereading the letters by candlelight after he’d gone, fretting over the threats, frightened that Rocky was alive and coming for her. A shadow crosses the room. Wind rattles the glass doors. Something makes her panic and leap to her feet. Something makes her run.

  “They were written by a very sick individual,” he said.

  The poker turned up a small ragged square of paper ash. He bent down and examined the charred fragment, less than a quarter of a page. The word GASH, cut and pasted from a magazine, was all that remained.

  “She burned them,” he said, staring at the word. Nicole was dead, but whoever had written the letters was still very much alive. “Get one of the guys to bag these ashes. Let’s salvage as much as we can.”

  Muffin sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed absently at the scuffed toes of her boots. He didn’t like the hard set of her jaw. Anger or disappointment usually followed that expression, sometimes both.

  “You’ll have to take yourself off the case, Kurt,” she said.

  He wasn’t willing to do that.

  “When is the recall vote?” she asked, looking up at him. “Two weeks?”

  He nodded.

  “You might go down,” she said, without a trace of sentiment. “But I’m not letting you take the department with you.”

  Chapter six

  As Muffin escorted him down the stairs, Kurt noticed Kyle sitting near the fireplace in the great room, his long blond hair snarled around his face as if he, too, had awoken in a blizzard dream. His coloring appeared more gray than tan now and he stared at the cherrywood floor, troubled and remote, his body slumped into sharp angles under a wrinkled white dress shirt and chauffeur pants, his handsome cheekbones hardened by what he’d witnessed from the deck. Deputy Gill Dotson was interrogating him, scribbling on a notepad.

  “I’d like to ask Kyle some questions,” Kurt said.

  “No,” Muffin said firmly, taking his arm.

  Kyle heard their voices and glanced up, his eyes dark and hollow and unforgiving. “Why don’t you ask him?” he said to the deputy. “He was the one partying with her half the night.”

  Kurt stopped to stare at the young man. “Come on,” Muffin said, her nails pressing into his arm. “That’s exactly why you don’t belong here.”

  “I want to hear what Kyle has to say,” Kurt said, trying to shrug her off.

  “Let Dotson do his job,” she said, steering him toward the double doors with surprising force.

  In the parking circle outside the front entrance, three department cruisers sat at the end of long, curving tire trails in the snow. “I’m not sure what happened to her,” Muffin said, “but if the coroner finds something hinky, Smerlas and the other commissioners will want to know why the last man to see her alive was poking around the crime scene. I imagine the family would question that, too.”

  The formidable Bauer family. “Have you notified them yet?”

  “As soon as I get you out of here,” she said.

  The Bauers were one of the wealthiest families in Colorado. Suddenly Kurt saw every dime he’d saved for Lennon’s college education, and every dollar he would earn hereafter in this lifetime, deposited directly into a Bauer bank account because of some tenuous legal technicality proving his negligence in Nicole’s death.

  “That kid Kyle has been in trouble before,” he said, blowing into his cupped hands. “Run a background check on him. The other one, too—Lyle.”

  Muffin signaled to Linda Ríos stationed at the front gate. “Don’t worry, Kurt, we’ll cover it. You’ll have a prelim by the end of the day.” She walked him to the nearest cruiser. “Linda will drive you home. Lie low for a while, okay? Take a few days off. I’ll keep you posted, as things shake out.”

  He watched Deputy Ríos stride up the hill, her boots crunching in the fresh snow. “You’ll have to take my statement, too,” he said to Muffin. Now that the shock was wearing off, he was beginning to recognize the extent of the damage. To him personally, and in turn to the reputation of the office he had struggled so hard to improve.

  Muffin opened the car door and gave him a slight push, lowering his head with her hand until he was seated. Now he understood how this gesture felt from the other side. “I’ll do my best to keep your name out of the papers,” she said.

  “Don’t waste your time. Half the town knows she bought a date with me last night.”

  Muffin closed the door and rested her forearms on the window frame. He could smell her minty mouthwash. “Is today the day you’re doing that town hall thing with Smerlas?”

  In all of the confusion he had forgotten. This afternoon he was scheduled to debate Ben Smerlas at the Wheeler Opera House. Another public relations event arranged by Corky Marcus.

  “My advice, develop a sudden case of laryngitis. Tell Corky to cancel,” she said. “This thing is going to hit the streets running, and by six o’clock it’ll be on everybody’s box. Nicole Bauer has always made good copy.”

  He dropped his head back against the seat rest and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted and sick to his stomach. A sharp wind was blowing snow off the cruiser’s hood. He could hear the two women conversing quietly outside his door and he imagined they were deciding what to do with him. When Linda Ríos slid behind the wheel she refused to look at him or speak, and he had the feeling she’d been instructed to drive him over a cliff.

  Chapter seven

  As soon as he got home he phoned Corky Marcus and woke him with the news. Corky muttered something unintelligible in Yiddish, cleared his throat, and began to groan. He sounded like Kurt’s aging mother. “I’m sorry, man,” Corky said after several seconds of guttural noises. “How in God’s name did it happen?”

  “We don’t know yet. It looks like a suicide.”

  “And you were there till when? How late did you say?”

  Kurt told him and Corky moaned again. “The recall vote is two weeks away,” he said, “and a woman commits suicide after one date with you. This is not a strong endorsement.”

  �
��You’re such a caring guy, Corky.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, excited now, fully awake and irritated. “You want sympathy—here, talk to Carole. I’m getting up. I’ve got to save a man from himself.”

  He could hear the fumbling sounds of a telephone being passed off, and then Carole’s voice, deep and sleepy: “Mmnh? What’s going on, Kurt? What, uh, what happened?”

  Corky was complaining in the background while he dressed, and the tension rose in Carole’s voice as she tried to conduct a three-way conversation. “She’s what, Kurt? Dead?” He could hear her gasp. “Oh my lord, that’s horrible.” She caught her breath. “Are you okay, hon?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, comforted by the sound of her morning voice. He liked Carole Marcus in more ways than were sensible.

  “Start the coffee,” she said. “We’ll be right over.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Carole. I’m fine.”

  “Would you stop being such a fucking pain!” she shouted, then giggled at Kurt’s shocked silence. “Sorry, Kurt. Not you, dear. Corky is driving me crazy with his goddamned kvetching.”

  “Tell him to chill. I don’t care about the recall. It doesn’t matter.”

  She muffled the telephone and said something to Corky. “Eww, that man. Listen, you need me, I’ll be there. Okay? I’m going to put some clothes on—if Corky will let me.”

  Kurt smiled. He didn’t think he would ever smile again. “Sorry I ruined your Saturday morning.”

  There was a slight pause. “Oh.” Carole laughed. “No, no,” she said, “I didn’t mean it that way. Are you kidding? We don’t have Saturday mornings anymore.”

  They had three boys: eight, ten, and twelve years old.

  “If you need any help with Lennon,” she said, “I’ll be happy to take him. Josh and Seth are always thrilled when he comes over.”

  “He’s with Meg today,” he said. “Let’s wait and see if reporters start swarming around our house.”

  After he hung up, he lit a fire in the woodstove and made his way to the study with a cup of strong coffee. The blinds were open and the morning appeared gray and cold, more like a sullen winter’s day back east. He couldn’t remember the last time an early snow had stayed on the ground until ski season.

  Sitting down at his computer, he clicked on an Internet search engine and typed the word Risperidone. There were three hits. According to the first article, it was an antipsychotic drug prescribed for people who suffered delusional depression and various personality disorders. “Antipsychotics such as Risperidone have sedating effects,” the article said. “But their major effect is to reduce psychotic thinking and behavior.”

  He sat back in his chair and gazed numbly at the screen. Nicole was being treated for mental illness. Perhaps he should have recognized the signs. But her behavior had been no more erratic than that of the other pampered rich women he knew in Aspen.

  The article was a highly technical treatise on symptoms, medication, and side effects. He printed out the eleven pages and read them a second time, slowly absorbing the language. One passage stated that if Risperidone were mixed with alcohol, the psychosis would become more acute. “Potential side effects include insomnia, agitation, akathisia, and anxiety.” He wondered if mixing Scotch and Risperidone could have conjured up a ghost from the past.

  Reaching into his pants pocket he retrieved the ring Muffin had found on the bedroom floor. He studied the eight trigram symbols, some ancient code of the I Ching. If Muffin knew he had kept Rocky’s ring, she would be all over him right now, reciting proper procedure, demanding its return. He didn’t give a damn. The ring was the only link to those letters, and he was certain that the letters had led to Nicole’s breakdown. On a shelf below his father’s library of moldy German tomes, the family Underwood typewriter sat hiding beneath its original cloth slipcover, untouched for countless years. The machine was as awkward as an anvil, but Kurt carried it back to the desk and blew dust off the keys. He scrolled a sheet of typing paper into the carriage and pecked out a few phrases. Now is the time for all good men…The ribbon was weak, in need of replacement. Did they make these ribbons anymore? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…The typeface was as he remembered it—and identical to the one used in the letters to Nicole. But unless the deputies recovered more pages from the ash, there was no evidence that the letters had existed at all.

  He rose from the chair to get another cup of coffee and noticed the message light blinking on the recorder. There was a single call waiting for him. He tapped the play button, remembering the phone ringing in his sleep.

  “Kurt! Are you there, darling? Please pick up! Please, Kurt.”

  It was Nicole. The sound of her voice sent a shiver through him.

  “It’s him—he’s alive! I’ve heard his voice. Please pick up, I need you! You’ve got to stop him, Kurt. He says he’s going to kill me! ”

  She began to cry, a husky choking sob, and then the line went dead. After a moment’s pause the recorder’s mechanical voice intoned, “Four-oh-eight A.M., Saturday.”

  He stared at the machine, shaken by what he’d heard. Kyle had told the deputies that Nicole’s scream woke him around four-thirty. She had made this call only minutes before she ran out onto the snowy deck.

  He played the tape again, forcing himself to listen. Was she hallucinating—blown out of her mind on booze and pills? Or was there something to what she was saying? I’ve heard his voice…He says he’s going to kill me. They had found the receiver hanging off the telephone.

  Kurt dropped deadweight into the chair and dialed Muffin’s beeper. Then he called the office and left word on her voice mail: “Hey, this is Kurt. You’ve got to access Nicole’s phone records ASAP. Something has come up. Call me right away.”

  He slumped back in the chair and picked up the ring lying on the desk. In his trembling hand the tarnished gold coil felt as heavy as a bolt. He closed his fist and squeezed hard, imprinting the symbols into his palm. There was no doubt in his mind that the letters had shattered her fragile psyche. They had uncovered a past she had wanted desperately to bury.

  I’ve spent half my inheritance in therapy trying to forget that night. I even married my shrink so I could get free home care.

  The name on her prescription container.

  He lifted the receiver and dialed directory assistance. Within moments he had reached a young female voice, fully awake and beaming good cheer. “Elk Mountain Wellness Center,” she chirped. He could picture the rosy glow of her cheeks. “How may I help you?”

  “This is Kurt Muller, Pitkin County Sheriff,” he said, hearing

  the sharp contrast of his own voice, all hoarseness and fatigue. “I would like to speak with Dr. Jay Westbrook, please.”

  “Do you want to schedule a session with Dr. Westbrook, sir?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “But not for the usual reasons.”

  Chapter eight

  The Jeep tires streaked through the thin layer of snow on Highway 82 as Kurt steered downvalley toward Watson Divide. Five miles past the access to Snowmass Village he turned west onto a two-lane county road that hugged the creek on its course down from Elk Mountain. At the mouth of this small green valley, ice crystals sparkled on the ponderosa pines and the overnight snow clung to antelope brush.The road led onward past the abandoned geodesic domes of the Star Meadow Holistic Institute and the groomed pastures where clever hobby ranchers grazed alpacas and miniature show ponies. In another mile he had reached the stark archway that signaled the entrance to Elk Mountain Ranch. There was no fence of any kind to mark the property line, only a sign that said POSTED: NO HUNTING and 150 acres of open land.

  Kurt could see the old pine lodge tucked into the spruce grove at the base of the mountain. The lodge had been built by a group of pioneer entrepreneurial outdoorsmen in the late 1930s, a full decade before Aspen opened its ski area to the public. Elk hunters, Olympic bobsled racers, maverick venture capitalists, they had been lured to t
he Maroon Bells Wilderness by a local silver miner looking for investors. But the men quickly lost interest in what was deep inside the earth once they’d explored the pristine backcountry snow and the breathtaking vistas of the Colorado Rockies. One of them had ties to Sun Valley and knew that America would soon discover the great winter sport so popular in Europe. He convinced his partners to build here, less than ten miles from the sleepy, run-down village of Aspen, where they could retreat for the necessities—groceries and mail and an occasional drink at the only tavern in town. Above them in this hidden valley rose the magnificent Elk Range, 3,600 feet of vertical drop down some of the most rugged, unspoiled slopes in the West. They knew this terrain would challenge the best skiers from around the world.

  The private ranch road curved off toward Snowmass Creek, its clear gleaming waters running shallow over ice and broken rock. A huge bull elk was tasting the snowmelt not fifty yards upstream. At the sound of the Jeep engine the animal lifted its grizzled head, gazed implacably in Kurt’s direction, then resumed drinking without concern. Several single-room cabins were spread along the near bank, leftover ski huts now serving as visitor housing for the soul-searchers who had come to Jay Westbrook’s retreat seeking peace and solitude. Except for smoke curling from one galvanized chimney pipe, there was no sign that any of the cabins were occupied.

  As Kurt approached the lodge he counted a dozen sport utility vehicles parked out front under the trees. Dr. Westbrook’s assistant had explained that the psychiatrist was conducting weekend group sessions this morning, and she resisted calling him to the phone until Kurt informed her that he had urgent news.

  In the muddy parking lot he found a space between a Pathfinder and a Geo Tracker and got out to look at the old lodge. The building had been boarded shut the last time he was here, with his brother and their friend Jake Pfeil when they were teenagers, but that hadn’t stopped them from breaking in to explore the infamous old thirty-room blunder.