“Maybe they were already there, in the car.”
“But she knew she was leaving. She wrote the note at her apartment and didn’t return, right?”
“Yeah. She got off work, went home, changed, and then drove out to Cahill’s house, got into it with him; things got physical and she took off, nearly hitting the snowplow and driving like a bat through town, calling her sister and . . . then what? She didn’t just drive here.”
“Not unless it was some kind of disappearing act on her part, which I doubt.”
“Agreed.”
“So she either planned to meet someone here, or got a call and came here because of that call, or was forced to drive here.”
“And then what?” Rivers said just as he caught a glimpse of a new set of headlights, beams reflecting on the snow as a white Range Rover came into view, growling across the bridge spanning the creek. As Rivers watched, the SUV stopped to one side of the series of ruts created by the other vehicles. The driver’s door swung open, and a beefy man no more than five feet, eight inches tall swung out, slamming his door shut.
“Harold Sinclaire,” Rivers told Mendoza.
“What the hell is this all about?” Sinclaire demanded, his eyes wide, his face flushed. He was dressed from head to toe in red and black snow gear, a matching knit cap pulled down over his ears, all adding to the image of a spark plug. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Megan Travers’s car is here?”
Rivers nodded. “In the garage. We’re going to tow it back to the department’s garage.”
“But why?” Harold asked, astounded, his eyes round. “I mean why would she end up here . . . or her car end up here? What the eff is this all about?”
“That’s what we were hoping you could help us with.”
“I have absolutely no idea.” He turned his gloved hands palm up to show his state of confusion.
The passenger door of his Range Rover opened, and Jennifer Korpi, bundled in a long coat, stepped out, picking her way through the snow in high-heeled boots that were more fashionable than functional.
“What’s this all about?” she asked, glancing at the tow truck, its lights flashing as it winched the Toyota onto its bed.
“You know what it is, honey,” Sinclaire said. “I told you I want to get rid of this place. It’s just a headache. All the upkeep with snow in the winter—I’m always afraid the roof might collapse, or the pipes freeze, or raccoons make nests in the attic—that’s happened before, and what about someone siphoning off the propane?” He turned to Rivers. “Who would do that? Clear up here? Who the hell would drive all this way to steal damned propane? I was just lucky some snowshoers saw it happening, or when I came up here after the new year, I wouldn’t have had any heat!”
“When was that?” Rivers asked.
“Dunno. A month ago maybe . . .” He glanced at Jennifer for confirmation.
She nodded. “Maybe four, maybe five weeks ago. After that big storm. Which was . . . just before Thanksgiving, I think.” She bit her lip. “I just don’t get why this is happening. Why Megan’s car is here. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah,” Sinclaire agreed. “Her car is here, but she isn’t?”
“And the garage was locked. Does anyone else know the combination to your lockbox?” Rivers asked.
“No.” Sinclaire shook his head. “Well, aside from the two of us and the neighbor.” He pointed down the snow-covered lane. “Frank Miller. He comes up here more often than we do, and so he can get in if he sees something wrong. But that’s it, right, honey?” He glanced at Jennifer, who didn’t meet his eyes. “Honey?”
She let out a sigh. “Well, remember? We gave the code to Gus once. He was delivering firewood.”
“But he never showed. The wood deal fell through.” Sinclaire shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Gus isn’t involved in all of this.”
Rivers wondered.
Gus Jardine’s name kept coming up. Just here and there, always on the fringes.
“I’m telling you I’m gonna sell this place,” Harold said, draping an arm around Jennifer’s shoulders. “We just don’t need the headache.”
Sinclaire and Korpi watched as the Toyota was secured onto the flatbed and the tow truck lumbered off, almost too big for the little bridge spanning the creek.
Rivers hoped they would get lucky, that fingerprints or some other bit of evidence would be located in the car, that there would be a clue to what had happened to Megan Travers, but he wasn’t betting on it.
By the time they left the cabin in the woods, it was after seven, and they stopped at Lucy’s, ending up in a booth near the one where they’d met Andie Jeffries, Mendoza sliding onto one high-backed bench, he opposite her. The place was crowded, conversation drowning out the oldies music, several waitresses hurrying from one table to the next, the sizzle of a deep fryer adding to the cacophony. Mendoza ordered a meatless burger and sparkling water. Rivers decided on chicken-fried steak and french fries with a Coke, as he was still on duty. A beer would have to wait.
“You’re killing yourself,” Mendoza observed when the orders came and thick gravy oozed over the side of his plate.
“In more ways than one, I’m sure.” He grabbed the bottle of catsup and squeezed out a huge puddle onto his plate, right next to a pile of steaming fries. “And the jury’s still out on fake meat. You know, it can be made with some kind of three-D printer. How nutritious can that be?”
“But oooh, so yummy.” She cut the damned thing in half, exposing layers of pickles, tomatoes, onions and lettuce, before she took a big bite. “You’re missing out.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You notice how Gus Jardine’s name keeps coming up?” Rivers asked, once he’d taken two bites of the steak. “Always on the periphery, but there.”
“Uh-huh. Which links Jennifer.”
“Maybe.” Rivers thought about it.
