Reggie nodded.
“J.C. was a true-blue soldier. You know, he still had his dog tags. Put them in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got jumped. I think we were the only ones he told.”
“Can you recall any other details about the man’s interest in J.C.?”
“He started bringing him clothes, pants, boots, jackets, stuff he said he no longer needed, or never wore,” Delmar said.
“Yeah,” Reggie said. “Good stuff, because they were practically the same height, build, age, the same everything. The guy told J.C. the clothes were his and he didn’t need them anymore.”
Brennan and Dickson exchanged a glance.
“Do you recall anything else?”
“They were getting chummy,” Delmar said. “I remember, about two weeks before we last saw J.C., he was saying that he might have a lead on a good job but it was across the state.”
“In Rampart?” Brennan asked.
Delmar shook his head. “Didn’t say, but he sure was feeling good about things, you just saw it on his face and stuff.”
“Then that was it,” Reggie said. “We never saw J.C. after that.”
* * *
Brennan and Dickson shared their theories on the case on the long drive back to Rampart.
“What do you think, Ed? Nelson was making bondage, porn movies at the barn, maybe invited Pollard to take part?”
“Maybe, but look again at what his note said.”
Dickson read it aloud. “‘I only wanted someone to love in my life. It’s better to end everyone’s pain. God forgive me for what I’ve done. Carl Nelson.’ Okay, so something else was going on. Where does Pollard fit?”
“We need to get warrants on Nelson’s house, his bank records, credit card and his computer.”
“Wait, how did Nelson use Pollard?”
“Look at their physical particulars, both are white males, both are six feet tall. Nelson’s in his forties and Pollard’s thirty-nine, almost the same age and both have the same body type.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think Nelson selected Pollard to stage his own suicide.”
CHAPTER 16
Calgary, Alberta
The Southern Alberta District headquarters for the RCMP’s K Division in northeast Calgary was housed in a glass-and-brick building overlooking Deerfoot Trail, the city’s major expressway.
Thankfully, it was also near the airport, Kate thought as she wheeled her rented Toyota into the parking lot.
Kate had arranged to meet a Corporal Jared Fortin at 9:00 a.m. to discuss Tara Dawn Mae’s disappearance and Vanessa’s case.
She had ten minutes before her meeting and checked her phone for messages. Nothing new. Smiling at her daughter’s face, she remembered what Grace had said before giving her a million hugs goodbye yesterday.
“I hope you find out what happened to Aunt Vanessa, Mom.”
Kate entered the building and went to the front desk.
“I’m Kate Page. I have an appointment with Corporal Jared Fortin, who I believe is with Major Crimes.”
“Yes, one moment, please.”
As the receptionist’s keyboard clicked, Kate looked at the wall map behind her. The Southern Alberta District had more than thirty detachments and covered everything in the southern region of the province west of Calgary to British Columbia, east to Saskatchewan and south to Montana, an area larger than most states.
The receptionist stopped and looked at Kate.
“Kate Page, from New York City?”
“Yes.”
“Did Corporal Fortin not contact you about today?”
“No. Is there a problem?”
The woman resumed concentrating on her monitor, then, finding something, her expression changed, indicating all was well.
“No, it’s fine. Sorry.” She then requested Kate exchange two pieces of photo ID for a visitor’s badge and her signature on a sign-in sheet. “Thank you. Please have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”
Kate went to the waiting area, wondering if the receptionist had inadvertently signaled a problem. She sat in a chair and glanced at the spread of magazines on the table. Something was up. She took out her phone. She hadn’t received any new messages. She scrolled through news sites out of Rampart, scanning stories for any updates.
She’d found nothing new.
“Ms. Page?”
A man in a dark blue suit had materialized. He was about six feet tall with a solid build, short brown hair and thick mustache. He looked to be in his late forties.
“Staff Sergeant Ian Owen.” He extended his hand. “I’m Corporal Fortin’s supervisor. Right this way.”
He led her to his office. Through the large windows Kate saw jets approaching the airport. Sergeant Owen directed her to a chair before his desk.
“Can I get you a coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Owen sat, took up his pen and leaned forward, staring at it for a moment.
“Ms. Page, I’ll come to the point. I know why you’re here. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do to help you.”
“But Corporal Fortin assured me he was willing to discuss my sister’s case and the cold case of Tara Dawn Mae.”
“He explained your call to me. All I can say is that we’re supporting an active investigation in another jurisdiction.”
“But the case in Rampart, New York, and the case in Brooks, Alberta, are linked and there’s every possibility they’re linked to my sister.”
“I understand, and I can only imagine how terrible this sounds to you, especially after you’ve traveled here from New York.”
As Kate’s heart sank, she grew angry. Angry at herself for believing police here would help her when, in the back of her mind, she knew cops were all the same. As her resentment rose she realized what had happened.
“You’ve been talking to Ed Brennan about me, haven’t you?”
“As I said, we’re supporting another jurisdiction in an ongoing investigation.”
“I got that. Forgive me for being blunt, Staff Sergeant, but I’m not an idiot. Let me give you some context, which I’m sure you know from talking to Rampart. Ed Brennan called me, requesting my help. He asked me to bring my necklace to him so he could compare it to one found at his scene, which resembles my sister’s necklace.”
Owen said nothing, letting Kate continue.
“At the same time, there’s evidence at the Rampart scene that’s tied to the disappearance of Tara Dawn Mae, which is in
