Scorched: Burn Me Once..., page 22
When we finish, Perez is quiet. Then he hits a button on his desk. “Is Agent Frazier here?”
A voice answers through a speaker. “Affirm.”
“Tell her it’s going to be another thirty minutes.” He tosses the pen on the table. “Okay, Z-man…we’ve talked about Davis. Now tell me about you going after Tristen and everything you know about Algood taking Monica and Frazier.”
CHAPTER 34
My truck can make it from home to the Denver International Airport in two hours and forty-five minutes if I plan around rush-hour traffic. That’s why I’ve opted for the redeye flight to Phoenix. Well, that and ticket prices. Denver to Phoenix runs less than a hundred bucks on Frontier Airlines.
Winding down the Rocky Mountain foothills into the Front Range, a text message buzzes my phone. I check my mirrors, then gauge the traffic before tapping the message. A picture of Amore curled up on my next-door neighbor’s couch fills my screen. June captions it: He’s found a new home! I jab a partial reply before pausing when the road hairpins. At the second sharp curve in the road, I give up. I want to rib June about spoiling Amore, but am putting my life in jeopardy trying to respond to a funny dog picture. I’m turning into one of the idiots I complain about on this high-altitude highway.
Frazier knows I’m heading to Arizona, but she’s the only one. I didn’t tell Perez. I didn’t let Lin Li know, even though it was her idea for me to find Karla in Arizona. But I’m only partially interested in tracking down her youngest daughter. My true motive is just a little crazier. Davis’s description of the Asian woman in the art thieves’ van niggled at me the entire time I was trapped in The Lodge. My conversation with Perez about the woman on the pass that night has now turned the niggle into an itch that won’t abate.
My brain knows how Kristee disappeared. I saw the evidence. If people ask me, I agree she died. How can I not acknowledge it without appearing unhinged?
But my heart keeps singing a different tune. I won’t stop hoping until they find her body. Before The Lodge, this maudlin belief only poked its head up during my second beer of a night alone at my dining room table. Even after five days of sobriety—between The Lodge and my return home—I still feel there’s a chance.
So here I am—off to Arizona. Because who is the one person Kristee would reach out to if she was still alive, but hesitant to return home? That would be Karla. Find one sister, find the other.
I text June while waiting for the plane, flipping her shit about letting Amore on to her furniture. I haven’t admitted to my neighbor that while Amore is banned from my couch, the same doesn’t hold true for my bed.
Frazier is my next call. When I told her yesterday I was heading to Arizona for personal reasons, she didn’t question me. I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded taking a little time off herself after our ordeal. She probably assumes that’s what I’m doing. Instead, we talked about the Broncho Buster theft, and how its subsequent destruction fit into her investigation.
Today I call for a different reason. Perez hasn’t shared many details on the Sheriff’s side of the investigations. I’m curious whether they have made any progress into finding out Algood’s motives for kidnapping Frazier. Plus, I miss talking to Frazier.
“Nothing new,” Frazier says. “Perez gave me a two-hour grilling and pulled out details I didn’t even know I remembered.” She pauses. “Did he do that to you too?”
“Yep.”
“I misjudged him. I think I carried some prejudices about small-town law enforcement, but he’s crushing those. He’s impressive.”
I say nothing. Impressive is almost an understated description of my best friend. The more time we spend together, the more talent he reveals. Of course, the longer I know him, the more of a pain in the ass he can be. His black-and-white investigative skills don’t always mesh with the out-of-the-box perspective I bring to cases.
“And he found something of interest for the case,” Frazier adds. “Or at least his guys did.”
“What’s that?”
“They retrieved Monica’s body from the river. The fire’s pretty much under control near The Lodge, so they’re letting everybody in.”
The only thing interesting about Monica’s death would be if it wasn’t accidental, but the woman who saw her perish is the same one I’m talking to on the phone. “OK. You’re doing a Perez on me—just tell me what you got, Emma.”
“She had an SD flash memory card on her. Took us a couple of hours to dry it out, but when we did, we got three photos off of it. All the same.”
“Go on.”
“Yeah, it was a picture of the stolen Remingtons.
“From the California museum exhibit?”
“Yep. But the pics weren’t taken there.”
“What do you mean?”
“These photos are time-stamped the day the paintings were stolen. You can see the packing crates at the edges of the picture. I think they took the pictures in the transport vehicle.”
My mouth drops and I almost blurt out the first thought that comes to my mind. Monica was with Davis and his partner in the van with the Remingtons and Laura’s painting? But as soon as the theory forms, I realize where I’ve gone wrong. An SD card in Monica’s pocket doesn’t mean she took the picture. It could mean she took the SD card.
“Davis,” I say, “Davis photographed the paintings and Monica must have taken the SD card.”
“That’s what we’re theorizing. We just haven’t figured out why.”
I say nothing. What would make a photo of the Remingtons so valuable that Monica might kill for it? Monica wasn’t really on our suspect list for Davis’s death. But this is the first genuine lead we have.
Frazier waits for my response—I assume. When I remain silent, she speaks again. “So now Perez and the team are looking at Monica for Davis’s murder. We’re looking at it now too, since it appears to have something to do with the stolen art.”
“Do you think Davis took the pictures as a keepsake? Like he was thinking ‘Look at me, I’m guarding the most famous Western paintings in the United States?’”
Frazier’s response sounds skeptical. “Do you?”
“Not really.” I don’t really think that’s what’s going on here. I just tend to spitball ideas as they come up. It’s my way of processing. “Two reasons I don’t think they took the pictures for fun. The first: if it was a souvenir pic, then why wouldn’t Davis—or the other guard, because maybe Davis got the SD card from the other guard—be in the pic? Kind of like a famous art selfie?”
“Maybe?” I picture Frazier on the other end of the phone, nodding her head at my question. “What’s the other reason?”
“Why take the picture in the truck where you have to unpack everything? Why didn’t they just photo it back in the museum while they were packaging the paintings for travel?”
“Huh.” Frazier goes silent for a moment. “That makes sense. Perez said he was going to run this by you, so I guess I beat him to the punch. He said you had experience putting yourself in bad guys’ heads. That you’re good at it.”
I don’t respond to Frazier’s indirect compliment. She’s right—it’s worked before. Until it didn’t. “You didn’t tell him I was going out of town, did you?”
“I assumed he already knew. When he said he planned to talk to you, I mentioned something about you having time to think since you’d be sunbathing in Arizona.”
I wince. “That’s not why I’m going.”
“I know. You said it was personal. You didn’t tell me the reason, so obviously I couldn’t share it with Perez.” Frazier pauses. “He acted like he knew. You didn’t tell him you were leaving?”
I don’t answer.
“What’s going on, Tyler?”
CHAPTER 35
My flight touches down at Sky Harbor International Airport fifteen minutes early. I take the shuttle to the rental car center, the road paralleling the construction of the new Sky Train intended to replace the bus I ride. Thirty minutes after landing, I zip down the freeway toward Los Angeles before taking the exit to Luke Air Force Base. The air conditioning in my pale blue Chevy Cruze combats the summer heat with a roar like the jet engines on my inbound flight.
My Phoenix frame of reference is based on twenty-seven-year-old memories of pilot training at the now-shuttered Williams Air Force Base southeast of the city. We would fly our asses off all week before spending weekends floating down the Salt River, swilling beer and decompressing from the most stressful year of our lives. I didn’t explore much of the state during that busy year. I just remember the major landmarks—the Grand Canyon, the desert we trained over, trips to Tucson, and all the retirees—especially near Luke Air Force Base.
Robert, from The Aerie, gave me the address of the store where his company card was used. It’s within five miles of the active fighter base.
I review my cobbled-together plan on the drive. It doesn’t take long. All I know is that The Aerie credit account was used at a Fry’s grocery store in Sun City twice before Robert canceled the card. So my assumption is that just because the card doesn’t work anymore, doesn’t mean the user stopped buying groceries. I’m going to watch the store.
I check into a Super 8 two blocks from the Fry’s. Inside the room, I unpack my overnight bag. I don’t have much: two changes of clothes, workout gear in case I have time to get a jog in, and toiletries. I haven’t decided how I’ll attack the surveillance yet—obviously I can’t watch the store 24-7. Then again, whoever used the card probably isn’t making midnight grocery runs either.
The walk to Frys only takes three minutes. I’m sweating within two. The obvious setup location jumps out at me like neighbors throwing a surprise birthday party.
It’s perfect. The store hosts a gas station at the entrance, an Olive Garden, and a Waffle House. The Waffle House front windows offer a broad view of the grocery store entrance—and I like my hash browns smothered and covered. I’d been worried if I would need binoculars, but the Waffle House is close enough to pick out faces. I enter to a “Welcome to Waffle House” greeting and grab an empty table at the window.
I’m not dense—I’m stubborn. I recognize this escapade as a long shot. Some people might question my willingness to fly all the way to Phoenix at the request of a mother who hasn’t hidden her dislike of me. But I’m not doing this for Lin Li. I’m doing this for me. Kristee has been on my mind throughout this entire ordeal. Following this lead is the only way I can think of that will ease my confusion about her ambiguous death. If a stranger stole The Aerie’s account card, then I’m screwed. I’m counting on spotting either Karla walking up to this grocery store, or—in my little fantasy world—Kristee. I won’t recognize anyone else.
My hash browns arrive with a smile and a “Here ya go, hun.” I pace my eating, making them last fifteen minutes. Two cups of coffee and a small salad later, and I’ve been at my post for three hours, excluding two bathroom breaks. I’ve done surveillance before in the Air Force, but not with the Mark-I eyeball—a military term for using our own eyes. We always had equipment set up in the back of the plane—beeps and squeaks we called them—to monitor ground activity, and an accompanying team of operators who knew what they were looking for. All I had to do was fly the aircraft in long ovals, tell bad jokes, and complain when my copilot let one rip. All of which was better than staring out a window for three hours.
The rest of the afternoon isn’t much better. I break the monotony with laps around the parking lot, stretching my legs while keeping my eyes locked on the store entrance. By seven in the evening, I’ve had enough. Returning to my hotel, I change into my gym shorts and a t-shirt, stretch for two minutes, and head out for a jog. Within the first minute, I’m soaked in sweat, but my energy level is higher. That’s when I remember the altitude change. I’ve been shuffling along at a jog back home at over nine-thousand feet elevation. Arizona’s desert isn’t that far off of sea-level. So my evening jog actually feels like a run.
After a shower, I check my phone for updates. Not that either Perez or Frazier consider me part of their team. Perez used to keep me up-to-date on cases he knew interested me. Before he accused me of going whacko whenever I got involved.
Frazier and I have just endured a near-death experience, so I feel a bond with her. Evidently my friends aren’t reciprocating my love, because I have nothing from them in texts or emails.
I recline on my bed while dialing Laura. Straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message, but I wonder how she is processing our experience. I’m pretty sure we won’t be getting together for that dinner date any time soon. But I also don’t want her to think I’m ghosting her.
Snatching the remote, I power up the TV, and search for something more exciting than my Waffle House day. On AMC, Rocky fights a boxer from Russia or the Soviet Union—I haven’t quite nailed down the timeframe—and I watch him train in Siberia for twenty minutes before I give up. Hearts on Fire? Maybe for Stallone. Not so much for me.
The clock reads eight thirty. I’m still wired. Sleep isn’t peeking over the horizon, so I decide to aid that process. I walk across the Super 8 parking lot to the AM/PM convenience store to grab a beer. Through the glass refrigerator doors, the neatly bundled six-packs whisper my name. Ignoring their siren call, like the disciplined man I am, I choose a tall IPA from New Belgium Brewing and return to my room. An hour later and I’m sawing logs.
The next day looks like the first, except I finally hear from home. Frazier’s first text pops in mid-morning while I’m tackling my second variation of hash browns, the peppered and capped.
Enjoying vacation? I’ve got Frazier in my contacts, so the texter’s identity is no mystery.
Yup. Needed the time. I wanted to open with What’s happening with the case? Or, Find out anything new? But I remember she’s working with Perez. Who knows what he’s shared with her about my tendency to go all in on cases like these?
Not sure if you wanted an update or not?
My daughter once explained to me that when I type a return text, the other person can tell I’m working on a message. I will myself to take five deep breaths before replying, so Frazier won’t see an instantaneous bouncing dot.
I got time. I type. What’s the news?
I answer my cell before the first ring finishes, figuring she already knows I’m right next to my phone.
“We’ve made progress.” Emma sounds breathless, like I’m the first person she’s called with this news. “Something connecting Laura’s painting to the Remingtons.”
“You mean a stronger connection than the paintings being inches apart from each other when they were stolen?” I can’t help myself—and I figure I’ve got a bead on Frazier’s brand of humor by now.
“Exactly. We did a deep dive on Bruce Davis’s phone. Guess who he had been in contact with?”
“Who?”
“Duane—Monica’s boyfriend. We’ve pulled some interesting text messages between the two.”
Frazier isn’t uncovering anything new with the Bruce Davis-Duane Dahl connection. I watched Duane exit the hospital room when I went to ask Davis about the phone. The guard told me Duane helped get him the art security job. This sounds like old news. I push my hash browns from one side of the plate to the other before answering. “I thought we already established they were acquaintances?”
“We did. But now we’ve found proof Duane asked Bruce Davis for photos of Laura’s Broncho Buster with the Remingtons. The photos—like the one we found on the SD card, but with Laura’s painting added—aren’t there, but the texts are pretty damning. Duane set it all up.”
“Why?” I’m missing the obvious here. “What’s so important about these photos?”
“They were planning to make NFTs out of them.”
I recall Nate’s description of non-fungible tokens. These must be the NFTs to which Frazier refers. “What does that mean? Like they were going to mint an NFT of the photo?”
“Look at you.” Frazier laughs. “You even got the verb right. That’s exactly what they planned—an NFT of Broncho Buster with the Remingtons.” She sounds satisfied, as if her explanation is clear. It’s not. Not to me, at least.
“That painting was displayed next to the Remingtons in an art gallery in LA for a month. In perfect lighting. Why would they decide on the ‘back-of-the-van’ shot…?” My voice trails away as it hits me. What the difference in setting might mean. “Did the picture on the SD drive come with a time-stamp?”
“Perez said it was easy to underestimate you.” Frazier doesn’t continue right away, as if realizing she hasn’t exactly said what she wanted to say. “I mean, not that I ever thought that way. You were great at The Lodge. You—”
“Got it,” I interrupt. “So what we have is the last known picture of the Remingtons before they were stolen; perhaps never to be seen again, right? So if someone turned that into an NFT, then it’s permanent. Like forever. And if they sell the NFT before the Remingtons are recovered, they’re bringing in some serious change, right?”
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
I’m still confused. I raise my eyes toward the Fry’s entrance and spy the back end of a petite woman with black hair disappear into the store. I stand from my booth. “But if Duane is behind the theft of the Remingtons, then why do you need the NFT? Aren’t the paintings more valuable than the NFT?” The woman vanishes before I can discern if she is Asian or not. “So I guess you’ve arrested Duane?”
Frazier laughs. “No. He’s still walking around.”
“What?”
“Let me explain. You’re right about the paintings being more valuable. Two things on that, though. The first is that the Remingtons would be incredibly difficult to unload. I mean, you have to find a collector that wants them so badly, they will buy stolen art. So if you didn’t have a buyer, the NFT could still provide income. Hell, even if you had a buyer, you could sell the NFT because the buyer wouldn’t dare disclose they had the paintings. The date-time stamp would prove the picture was taken before the paintings were stolen.”
