Paradise Valley (Highway Quartet #4)

Cassie recalled that she’d felt intimindated by Rachel Mitchell the first time she saw her and she regretted that she still felt that way. When she sat down in the chair Rachel had indicated, she did so in a heavy-bodied way. Especially compared to how Rachel glided into hers.

“If you’re not with Helena or Grimstad who are you with?” Rachel asked.

“I’m running an independent investigation.”

Rachel shook her head, puzzled. “I don’t know what that means.”

Where to start? Cassie got the impression she would have twenty seconds to tell her story or she might not get the chance to do it again.

Cassie cleared her throat. “I’m here because I have good reason to believe that a vicious serial killer who grew up in the area might have come back with a captive teenage boy from North Dakota. I think they may be hiding out around here. From what I understand, your father knows the mountains around here better than any man alive—if Cody is to be believed. Cody told me your dad was the best outfitter and guide in the Yellowstone region. I’d like to ask him if he has any idea where I should look.”

Rachel sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “My dad isn’t in very good health these days. Since my mom died eighteen months ago he’s deteriorated. There is absolutely no way he could guide you anywhere.”

“I’m not asking him to do that,” Cassie said. “What I was wondering is if I could talk to him. He might know something about the family of the man I’m looking for since they were in the area for years when your dad was working.”

“Who is it you’re looking for?”

“His name is Ronald Pergram,” Cassie said.

Rachel flinched at the name but quickly regained her composure. She said, “Also known as the Lizard King. And now I know who you are. You’re the cop who shot it out with the trooper. You’re the one who almost caught Pergram.”

“To be honest, Pergram got away before I knew who he was,” Cassie said.

“That was a big story around here. And you’ve been after him ever since?”

“More or less.”

Rachel placed an index finger and painted nail alongside her mouth. “I thought he died someplace in North Dakota a month or so ago? That he blew himself up.”

“I was there and I thought the same thing until yesterday. Now I think there might have been another man driving Pergram’s truck that day.”

“This is a lot,” Rachel said while she leaned back as if to distance herself from Cassie’s theory.

“It is. I’m aware of that. I can explain how I came to it if you’d like.”

Rachel shot a look at her iPhone to check the time. Then she said, “Please do.”

Cassie recounted the case from the evening she met with Lottie in the lobby of the Law Enforcement Center to arriving in Bozeman that afternoon. Rachel eyed her the entire time as if looking for inconsistencies or physical tells.

When Cassie was through, Rachel said, “So you’re doing this on your own.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’ve got that support network in North Carolina I mentioned but yes, I’m basically a civilian.”

“Interesting.”

Cassie said, “As I told you, Pergram may have killed Raheem. And Kyle Westergaard is more than just a missing person. He’s a friend of my son’s and we have some personal history together. Kyle has a mild case of fetal alcohol syndrome and when I think the Lizard King might have him it breaks my heart.”

Rachel’s eyes softened for the first time. “I’ve got three boys of my own and one very spoiled girl.” Then: “And you think my dad might have an idea where Ronald Pergram is?”

“Possibly. I would think he knows the family. They had a place in Paradise Valley that’s since burned down.”

“Why are you not telling all this to local law enforcement?” Rachel asked.

“Because I know how a sheriff’s department works. I hate to say that but it’s true. Cops are reactive to live situations, but the process slows way down when it’s a complicated case from another jurisdiction that requires serious investigation. Especially when there are local crimes to concentrate on. I can file a report or wait to speak to a deputy and then it’s up to them to pursue it, but what I’m telling you consists of a lot of speculation at this point. It could take days or weeks before they follow up, if at all. I can’t afford to wait.”

Rachel huffed a little laugh. “That sounds like something Cody Hoyt would have said.”

Cassie smiled ruefully.

“That kind of thing got him in trouble more than once,” Rachel cautioned.

“Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not going to try to find where Pergram is and do some kind of citizen’s arrest or something. I’m not that brave or foolish. My job as I see it is to build a solid foundational case that he’s back in this area. Once I’ve got solid evidence I’ll turn it over to law enforcement and let them take it from there.”

The attorney picked up her phone. “Call my cell so I have your contact info,” she said, giving Cassie her phone number. “My dad is living with us at home and I’ll run this by him. No promises, no guarantees. And he might just refuse to talk to you because he’s such a cranky old curmudgeon these days.”

“I understand,” Cassie said, keying in Rachel’s phone number and pressing SEND.

Rachel’s phone chimed. She disconnected it after the first ring and dropped it into her purse.

“When it comes to my dad, well, it’s hard to predict. He remembers the old days when he was outfitting very clearly. It’s the things that happened this morning or yesterday he has trouble with.”

“Thank you,” Cassie said from the chair and holding out her hand.

Rachel shook it and said, “I’ll let you know later tonight. There’s no point talking to him until he’s had dinner. After dinner—and before he sits down to watch Fox News nonstop—that’s the sweet spot to talk to him about anything.”

*

IT WAS FULL DARK when Cassie went outside to her car. She’d need to find a motel in Bozeman and as she scrolled through those available on her phone a text from Leslie Behaunek chimed in.

It said CALL ME.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

“THE MURDERED BOY was Raheem Johnson,” Leslie said. “The DNA results are 99.5 percent conclusive.”

“Shit,” Cassie said.

She’d just pulled off the road and she was parked under the check-in alcove of the Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of Bozeman. The parking lot was empty except for two other cars. The neighborhood she was in consisted of branded mid-market hotels and fast-food outlets and obviously serviced Interstate 90 that pulsed to the north. Fields of brown grass surrounded the Holiday Inn Express and gave it the feeling of being more isolated than it actually was.

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