“Call me Rick. And sorry, I do run on. Yes, there were four accidents. I handled three of them. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go look for those files right now, while it’s fresh on my mind. Then I can have them waiting for you whenever you get a chance to stop by.”
Clyde and I walked past the gleaming shops and smooth-faced patrons on the bottom floor, past the discreetly placed plainclothes cops and out into the white heat of the day.
“Thank you, Rick.” I turned to shade my watch with my body and looked at the time. “Would an hour and a half be good, sir?”
“Motivation. I like that.” He chuckled. “I’ll have the coffee on.”
I thanked him and hung up, then phoned Cohen.
“I was just about to call you,” he said. “They’ve located Fred Zolner’s truck.”
I straightened. Things were starting to break. But my excitement died with Cohen’s next words.
“Just his truck. Not the man himself. A patrol cop found it parked at a hotel in Gillette, Wyoming, five hours north of here. Zolner never checked into the hotel, and there was nothing in his truck except an empty pack of chewing gum. No evidence that any crime occurred. But what his neighbor told you is correct. He’s a gambler who’s been on the edge of bankruptcy four times. The Feds found huge deposits in his bank accounts that can’t be explained by his pension. The amount of the deposits went up recently. We’ve got people looking for him at the casinos in Cripple Creek and Black Hawk. And at the casino in Gillette.”
“Where’s the money coming from?”
“That’s the question of the hour. The Feds are running a trace.”
“Why Gillette?” I asked, wondering if he really did have a daughter.
“Its biggest claim to fame is some massive rock formation called Devils Tower, which was made famous by that sci-fi movie back in the seventies. Close Encounters. It’s where the aliens land, or something. This is what Google will get you.”
“Who’s following up on the truck?”
“The local police. They’ll let us know what they learn. And the Aurora police did a welfare check on Zolner. All they found were more cockroaches than a hound’s got ticks. That’s a direct quote. Quite an achievement in a place as dry as Colorado. Maybe he’s hiding from those gambling debts. Might explain why his neighbor mentioned the mob when she brought up his visitor.”
A hit man, she’d said. Not Italian. Just bad.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“The Feds are following up on what you found in Ohio. Nothing yet. Other than that, we’re on the treadmill. Talking to the neighbors and friends of the family again. Nothing more on Vander, except the police in Columbus haven’t been able to place him there at any time in the last six months. Which might mean he just didn’t do anything to catch their attention.”
Cohen sounded calm. But I knew what every hour was costing him.
“You have anything for me?” he asked.
“I’m still trying to run down the accidents associated with our crossing. But Hiram Davenport recognized the woman’s photo, the one from Ben’s desk. He couldn’t give me a name, but he said she was the last person killed at the crossing before it was changed to an overpass. I’m heading to Greeley now to talk to the deputy who handled that accident and two others. And to look at the paperwork for a fourth accident.”
“You know, you’re not too shabby,” Cohen said. “For a railroad cop, I mean.”
“Bite me. Hiram said the name William King didn’t mean anything to him. Then I asked him if he remembered our missing railroad cop, Fred Zolner.”
“And?”
“He said no. But he turned . . . dark. Almost frightening.”
“You think Hiram has something to do with Zolner’s disappearance?”
“Just thought I’d share. What’s going on with McConnell and her team?”
“The CARD lead is here from LA. They’re pounding the pavement with us. You want to see if McConnell can go with you to talk to the deputy? Might not hurt to have the backing of the Feds.”
I doubted Wolanski needed any encouragement. But it couldn’t hurt. “I’ll give her a call.”
“Let me know what you learn up there.”
After we hung up, I dialed Mac’s mobile and filled her in on what I knew so far.
“I’m heading up to Greeley right now to talk to Rick Wolanski.”
“Can you pick me up at FBI headquarters?” Mac asked.
“Be there in twenty.”
Mac was waiting in the visitor parking lot when I pulled in. Cool and collected even in the heat, she waved away my apology for the dog hair and climbed in.
As I drove, I told her about my conversation with Hiram.
“My guess is that Hiram knew Tate wasn’t reporting those accidents,” I said. “When he found out, he used that to force Tate to not only agree to the merger, but publicly support it.”
“Wasn’t strictly legal,” Mac said. “But I can’t say I disagree with what he did.”
We talked about other aspects of the case until we reached the highway, then fell silent for a time. From the back, Clyde’s snores wafted over us.
A moment later, Mac cracked her window. Clyde’s snores weren’t the only thing he was sharing.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right. I have a chocolate lab. Goes with the territory.” She pushed back her hair and cranked her head from side to side as if her neck hurt. “You sleep last night?”
“A little. You?”
“Some. It’s always hard when I’m on a case.”
“Thirty-six hours,” I said. “That’s how long she’s been gone.”
“I know.” Mac’s gaze on me was compassionate. “With each case, the hours race by. And yet there’s a year in every hour. Just imagine how it feels for Lucy.”
“Do you think she’s still alive? Honestly, I mean.”
“I’m sure you know the statistics. But I never lose hope. Not until we have no other choice.”
I passed an RV. Through the window I spotted kids playing cards at a table. Laughing.
“Why do they call you Mad Mac? Are you really that much of a bull in a china shop?”
“Sometimes.” Mac’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, corn fields shimmered in the heat. Two motorcycles blew past us, the roar of their engines rising then falling away.
“You feel like sharing?”
She kept looking out the window. A new tension had entered her body—her shoulders were up and she’d pressed a hand to the back of her neck.
“Hey,” I said. “Just making conversation. We can talk baseball.”
“No, it’s all right.” She dropped her hand. “There are three reasons. That I know of, anyway. People like to make stories.”
“We’ve got another forty minutes. And the scenery isn’t going to get any better.”
Her laugh was soft. “Okay. If you’re really interested. The first reason was because of how crazy I went after I lost my daughter. She was a cop.”
I remembered what she’d said about honor making a crappy shield and I wondered what had happened. But it wasn’t any of my business. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been four years. I keep waiting for it to get easier.”
“You’ve seen a counselor, I guess.”
“Five of them.” She laughed without humor. “I just keep waiting for a miracle, but of course there isn’t one.”
“I get that.”
She shot me a look and nodded. “You probably do.”
“How about the second reason?”
“Sword fighting.”