The address on the car registration was 4110 Tuttle Road in Greeley, which turned out to be several miles from town in the flat, expansive backcountry. Every once in a while Hauck saw a farm, cattle grazing, fields penned in by wire fences. Ford F-150s were definitely the preferred mode of transportation out here.
Tuttle Road was at an intersection off the main road, CO 49.
The traffic out here was sparse. Every minute or two a pickup or a Bronco would speed by. The homes he saw were white or red farmhouses and most had barns. He finally pulled up to a mailbox marked 4110 with just a hand-scrawled number on it at the end of a long, dirt driveway. A white pickup whooshed by and Hauck waited until it was out of sight. He turned in and decided to drive down the rutted road, dense brush crowding on each side.
About a hundred yards down he came upon a dilapidated house.
More shack than house actually. The front porch was askew and the stairs rotted and falling apart. The front door hung unhinged and slapped against the walls in the wind. It seemed totally abandoned. Clearly, no one had actually lived here in years.
Hauck got out of his car, the wind whipping through the creaking shutters.
His antennae began to buzz. Colin Jerrod Adrian. Who the hell was he? From near the same town as Trey. But Trey hadn’t lived there in years. With no bank accounts, no taxes paid. No present at all. Only a murky, ill-fated past.
Staff Sergeant Colin Adrian was killed in Fallujah in 2006.
Hauck kicked around the deserted shack for a while, stepping onto the creaky steps, finding nothing there, just a dried-up well. Frustrated, he got back in his car and drove back out to the main road.
He considered going to one of Adrian’s neighbors and asking about him. The nearest house was probably a quarter mile away, and this was clearly the kind of place where people wouldn’t take to outsiders coming in and asking about their neighbors. It was quiet in all directions. The county road seemed to stretch endlessly into the hazy mountains miles and miles away.
A kid was dead. Five others, possibly connected. A police chief was withholding evidence. Why? To keep what quiet? They’d have to have the means to carry it out, he had said to Dani. And the will.
Who would possibly have the will?
Hauck looked around again and climbed out of his the car. The wind kicked up, carrying a few branches and dust in its path. He stepped up to the mailbox. It was a roomy, rectangular lockbox. A couple of unopened newspapers or phone books were on the ground, bundled in plastic. Hauck took out the Swiss Army knife that was attached to his keys. The road stretched empty in both directions. He inserted the tip of the pick blade into the keyhole and jiggled it around. He knew what to do. He could take a lawn mower apart and reassemble it with just a screwdriver. And this lockbox wasn’t exactly built to withstand much of a challenge.
After a minute or so he felt the lock click.
Another twist, and the tiny lock pin released. He swung the box open. There wasn’t much inside. A few envelopes. Local junk mail. A magazine or two. Mailers from Safeways supermarkets and Walmart. All were addressed simply to Resident. It didn’t tell him much. Only one thing.
The magazines were current. Which meant that someone came out here on a regular basis to pick them up.
Finding nothing else, Hauck stuffed the stack of mail back in the box, ready to close it back up.
An envelope fell out that had been folded inside one of the mailers.
It was the only thing in there that even bore a name.
And it wasn’t Adrian’s.
It was addressed to a John Robertson. From something called the Alpha Group. An address here in Greeley. Hauck jiggled it and held it up. This wasn’t junk mail. There was a piece of paper inside. It actually looked like a check.
So someone did receive mail here. Adrian or Robertson, or whoever it was who had taken Adrian’s ID.
The Alpha Group.
Hauck jotted down the address, 2150 Turner Street. Then he put the envelope back in the pile and closed it back up. The owner would know the minute he came back out here that someone was on to him.
But an hour or so from now that wouldn’t matter anyway.
An hour or so from now he was pretty sure John Robertson would know exactly who had been here to find him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He drove back into Greeley and followed the GPS to the location for the Alpha Group in a small office park outside town.
He parked outside the modern, redbrick building and stepped through the glass doors. The reception area was small, but upscale. A receptionist sat behind the front desk, a large logo behind her of an oil well trestle with lightning bolt running through it. Three words on a banner underneath it: INFORM. CHANGE. INFLUENCE. Hauck stepped up to her and she put some work aside and said cheerily, “Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find a John Robertson,” Hauck said. “Is he here?”
“Mr. Robertson …” The receptionist’s reaction seemed to have multiple things going on in it: The first was surprise. Clearly, she knew the name, but it was obvious people didn’t just come in off the street asking for him. But Hauck also detected some uncertainty, too. Uncertainty as to what to do. “Mr. Robertson isn’t in the office right now. But I’ll be happy to take your name.”
“Does he work here?” Hauck inquired.
“He doesn’t exactly work here …” she replied after a bit more hesitation. “I mean, out of this particular office.”
“So how can I reach him? It’s just on a personal matter.” He could see he was making her a bit uncomfortable. However she’d been taught to respond to this particular question, it was getting beyond her training.
“How about I ask our administrative VP, Mr. McKay …? I’ll see if he’s busy. What did you say your name was?”
“Hauck.” He gave her a business card.
“Please hold on a moment Mr. Hauck …”
She got on the line and said something in a low tone to what sounded like the manager’s assistant. “He’ll be right with you.” She came back with a smile. “He’s just finishing up a call.” She pointed toward a couch with some magazines on the table.