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Authors: J. Carson Black
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a safe house?”
Jolie was pretty sure they didn’t have a safe house; the subject had never come up before. The FBI might. “I could probably arrange that,” Jolie said. “But you’re going to have to give me more information. We could meet—”
“I didn’t hire that lawyer.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t hire him. I think they wanted to make sure I didn’t end up in jail. I think.” She paused. Jolie could hear her swallow. “I think they want to get to me.”
“Who wants to get to you?”
There was silence. Then: “You know what? This isn’t a good idea.”
“If you could just give me some idea who they are—”
“You think I’m crazy.” Jolie could hear her breathing, ragged and fast.
“Amy—”
“I’ve got another call.”
“Amy—”
“Okay. Why don’t you check this out? See if I’m telling the truth, okay? And I can call you back. You have missing persons, right? You’re police, you do missing persons. Was there anything like that? On Memorial Day weekend?”
Jolie was completely at sea. “A missing person?”
“I’ve got another call. This is not a good idea. Forget I said anything.”
Then she disconnected.
Jolie sat in the kitchen, looking past the screened porch to the trees beyond. She could just make out the pond between the trees. Her stomach tightened.
She’d put it off long enough. She went into the bathroom and looked at the shower. Sunlight arrowed off the chrome nozzle. She took a deep breath and turned on the faucet. To her surprise, she was okay. She pulled the lever that started the shower. The spray hit the bottom of the tub. She undressed. Pretend it was just like any one of the thousands of times she’d taken a shower in her life. Nervous, yes. Terrified? No. Like her trip to the ponds with Maddy yesterday, nothing bad materialized. No big thunderclap. No crushing darkness.
She was fine.
16
Nick arrived in Aspen late in the afternoon. He got settled into his condo on Durant and went out to grab dinner. Saturday night, he couldn’t get into Cache Cache. There was a line on the sidewalk outside Locust, so he left his name with the maître d’ and took a short walk, watching the people on the street and window-shopping.
As he passed the newspaper vending machines, the front page of the Aspen News caught his eye. He fumbled with his change, dropping it on the sidewalk, all the while staring at the headline. Pulled out the paper and dropped that , too. Stared at it hard, his heart going hammer and tongs, heat suffusing his face.
“ ASPEN MAN FOUND DEAD IN STARWOOD HOME .”
It wasn’t the headline so much, but the photo on the right.
Mars.
In the photo Mars wore a heavy cable-knit sweater, his arm wrapped around a ski bunny at a local bar. His flared nostrils gave him a spoiled rich-boy look. He was spoiled—a congressman’s son. Nick knew for a fact he was rich. When he’d seen Mars last, the guy was offering him a ride in his yellow Lamborghini. In hindsight, Nick knew Mars was trying to get him out of there before the killing started.
He swallowed, but his mouth stayed dry.
Please let the cause of death be cancer.
Someone on the sidewalk brushed by him, and he jumped a foot.
“Excuse me,” the man said, and Nick muttered, “’S okay.”
Please let it be something he’s had for a while.
But Mars had looked pretty healthy that night.
Heart drumming, Nick read the story fast, then read it again, slower this time. His appetite gone.
Mars’s real name was a mouthful: Frederick Cable Hollister III. Reading between the lines, Nick got the impression Mars was a rich ski bum who liked prescription drugs. In fact, he liked prescription drugs so much he died from an overdose of them in his fancy wood-and-stone house in Starwood.
Kid was a druggie. He probably came close a dozen times.
Maybe.
Or maybe there was a connection to the Aspen murders.
Maybe Brienne’s killers found Mars and killed him to keep him
Jolie was pretty sure they didn’t have a safe house; the subject had never come up before. The FBI might. “I could probably arrange that,” Jolie said. “But you’re going to have to give me more information. We could meet—”
“I didn’t hire that lawyer.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t hire him. I think they wanted to make sure I didn’t end up in jail. I think.” She paused. Jolie could hear her swallow. “I think they want to get to me.”
“Who wants to get to you?”
There was silence. Then: “You know what? This isn’t a good idea.”
“If you could just give me some idea who they are—”
“You think I’m crazy.” Jolie could hear her breathing, ragged and fast.
“Amy—”
“I’ve got another call.”
“Amy—”
“Okay. Why don’t you check this out? See if I’m telling the truth, okay? And I can call you back. You have missing persons, right? You’re police, you do missing persons. Was there anything like that? On Memorial Day weekend?”
Jolie was completely at sea. “A missing person?”
“I’ve got another call. This is not a good idea. Forget I said anything.”
Then she disconnected.
Jolie sat in the kitchen, looking past the screened porch to the trees beyond. She could just make out the pond between the trees. Her stomach tightened.
She’d put it off long enough. She went into the bathroom and looked at the shower. Sunlight arrowed off the chrome nozzle. She took a deep breath and turned on the faucet. To her surprise, she was okay. She pulled the lever that started the shower. The spray hit the bottom of the tub. She undressed. Pretend it was just like any one of the thousands of times she’d taken a shower in her life. Nervous, yes. Terrified? No. Like her trip to the ponds with Maddy yesterday, nothing bad materialized. No big thunderclap. No crushing darkness.
She was fine.
16
Nick arrived in Aspen late in the afternoon. He got settled into his condo on Durant and went out to grab dinner. Saturday night, he couldn’t get into Cache Cache. There was a line on the sidewalk outside Locust, so he left his name with the maître d’ and took a short walk, watching the people on the street and window-shopping.
As he passed the newspaper vending machines, the front page of the Aspen News caught his eye. He fumbled with his change, dropping it on the sidewalk, all the while staring at the headline. Pulled out the paper and dropped that , too. Stared at it hard, his heart going hammer and tongs, heat suffusing his face.
“ ASPEN MAN FOUND DEAD IN STARWOOD HOME .”
It wasn’t the headline so much, but the photo on the right.
Mars.
In the photo Mars wore a heavy cable-knit sweater, his arm wrapped around a ski bunny at a local bar. His flared nostrils gave him a spoiled rich-boy look. He was spoiled—a congressman’s son. Nick knew for a fact he was rich. When he’d seen Mars last, the guy was offering him a ride in his yellow Lamborghini. In hindsight, Nick knew Mars was trying to get him out of there before the killing started.
He swallowed, but his mouth stayed dry.
Please let the cause of death be cancer.
Someone on the sidewalk brushed by him, and he jumped a foot.
“Excuse me,” the man said, and Nick muttered, “’S okay.”
Please let it be something he’s had for a while.
But Mars had looked pretty healthy that night.
Heart drumming, Nick read the story fast, then read it again, slower this time. His appetite gone.
Mars’s real name was a mouthful: Frederick Cable Hollister III. Reading between the lines, Nick got the impression Mars was a rich ski bum who liked prescription drugs. In fact, he liked prescription drugs so much he died from an overdose of them in his fancy wood-and-stone house in Starwood.
Kid was a druggie. He probably came close a dozen times.
Maybe.
Or maybe there was a connection to the Aspen murders.
Maybe Brienne’s killers found Mars and killed him to keep him
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