Blood Runs Cold

Paul laughed. ‘Yeah, for the crazies.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What was I thinking?’

Ren laughed, then sighed. ‘So … Jean Transom. I don’t know what you know at this stage. Did you hear that Denis Lasco, the coroner, is OK?’

‘No. And …?’

‘All he would commit to was GSW. He didn’t have long with the body.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s going to be cautious. He blacked out, so he’s doubting his memory – number one. And number two, this is a federal agent we’re dealing with, a high-profile case. I doubt he wants to be the one making big statements, in case he’s wrong. Or he derails the investigation. And? The body could show up in the morning and contradict anything he tells us.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Anon,’ said Ren. ‘I would venture a backcountry skier who was not supposed to be where he was. And with the FBI all over it, he won’t be showing his face any time soon.’

‘I see,’ said Paul.

‘Can I ask?’ said Ren. ‘Why me as case agent?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m flattered, but why am I the chosen one?’

‘Desperation is a word that comes to mind.’

‘I was thinking …’

‘You know why?’ said Paul. ‘No body … does it better.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Look, you’re good at your job,’ said Paul. ‘There it is. The thing you can’t believe in.’

‘Well, thank you for your faith.’

‘And thank you in advance for solving the crime.’

‘And thank you for the pressure.’

‘Any time.’

‘Oh – you never answered me earlier. Did you know Jean?’ said Ren.

‘I didn’t know her personally. But I taught her at the academy. She was quiet, kept to herself.’

‘The poor woman.’

‘I know. OK, I gotta go. Sleep well.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. ‘You too.’

‘And dream gently.’

She paused. ‘I’ll try.’ Damn you, Paul Louderback.

The South Ridge Seafood Grill was the kind of place that sucked you under its awning and through its open doors. It was on a quiet strip on Ridge Street, but had taken most of the Tuesday-night diners in Breck. It was the right size with the right atmosphere and the right food. Ren walked in and moved in to order beside the two guys at the bar whose heads were not hung over their beer. They were both drunk, wind-burned and fit, dressed in green and navy fleeces, black pants and boots.

‘Well, hello there,’ said the tall one, leaning an elbow on the back of his bar stool to turn to her.

‘Hi,’ said Ren.

‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing in the personal space of the elderly?’ he said.

‘How elderly?’ said Ren, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m sixty-two, he’s seventy-two,’ he said, pointing to his short friend.

‘What?’ said Ren. ‘No way.’

They nodded.

‘Why are we telling her our age so soon?’ said the short guy.

‘We could have been a contender,’ said the tall one. ‘So then, what’s your name?’

‘Ren.’

‘That’s a very pretty name,’ he said.

‘What’s yours?’ said Ren.

‘Mauser here,’ he said, shaking her hand.

‘Mauser?’ said Ren.

‘Yes. Mauser. No first name. And this is Little Dick.’

Ren laughed. ‘You let him away with that?’

Little Dick gave a shrug.

‘You will join us for a glass of red wine,’ said Mauser. He nodded at the barman. ‘Put it on our tab.’

‘Well, thank you very much,’ said Ren. ‘But I’m not really drinking. I’ll just have water.’