Scorched: Burn Me Once..., page 4
“I swung by on the way here. He knows you guys have it.” Shit. Now I have to tell Perez about Davis sending the email.
“I thought I asked you not to get in—” A warbling tone fills the room. Perez turns to the radio console.
Attention all units. Attention all units. The fire at the hatchery has jumped. All units respond for evacuation enforcement.
The hatchery. That’s the fire I passed on the way to Salida.
“Got to go.” Perez walks past me toward the door. As he grabs his gear, he turns. “Stay out of this shit, Zahn. You’re not law enforcement.”
I intend to explain how right he is—to tell him about my mistake in letting Davis handle his phone. But Perez leaves before I utter a sound.
On the drive home, I try to shove thoughts of Kristee away. There’s no way Davis saw her on the pass. Crazy thoughts. It’s a good thing Perez is busy. If I’d revealed these Kristee musings, he might have locked me up and thrown away the key.
Twenty minutes out of Buena Vista, my phone buzzes in its dash mount. I read Laura’s name on the screen.
I stab the answer button, heart pounding. She’s calling. “Hey! Got you on speaker. Driving back from Salida.”
“Hi, Tyler. Just checking in after last night. Sorry about the little argument there at the end. What’d you think of the Coker gals?”
I thought leaving before dinner was downright awkward. But I see no reason to share this with Laura. She and Monica can figure out their problems with this Duane guy on their own.
Duane. Same name as the hospital dude. I file that away for future reference.
“Really appreciated the invite, Laura. Always great to meet family.” My daughter’s sarcastic response “Not” pops into my head. I ignore it. “But we’re still due a dinner for just the two of us, right? Any thoughts on that?” My voice involuntarily pitches up at the end of my questions. I cringe at my obvious desperation.
“Just about all I think about, big boy.” Laura switches her voice to sultry.
I stifle a laugh and inadvertently let out a snort. We’re both closer to fifty than forty, and this kind of stuff makes me laugh now. I pull myself together. Laura might not share my off-brand humor.
But Laura laughs too, before switching to her normal voice. “Can’t be tonight, though. I’ve got a guest in town, and a favor to ask.”
“What’s up?”
“Tristen LaFrance just checked into his room at the Surf Hotel. He’s my dinner date tonight. Can you believe it?”
I say nothing; my habit when I have nothing to say. I’ve never heard the name.
“The Tristen LaFrance. The owner of LaFrance Gallery in Ft. Worth?” Her emphasis on The indicates the man is important enough that Laura thinks even an art cretin such as myself must have heard of him. I’m prepared to continue the silent technique when Laura spills the beans.
“He’s the owner of the stolen Remingtons.”
Relieved from the pressure to guess, I follow on with the logical question. “Law enforcement made him travel all the way out here to interview? Why didn’t they have someone from Dallas ask him questions?”
“No. That’s not why he’s here. He’s already been through all that. He’s coming out to see where it happened. To ‘walk the ground,’ so to speak.” She lets out a small laugh. “Sounds kind of military-like, doesn’t it? Did you do that stuff when you were in? Survey the battlefield?”
“It’s a thing.” I leave it at that. I’ve walked the beaches of Normandy with Army battalion commanders and studied Gettysburg with military historians. But I need to let Laura get to the point.
“It’s kind of funny. Tristen is as far from the stereotypical warrior as you can imagine. He’s exactly what you’d expect from someone named Tristen.”
I’m not a hundred percent sure what she means, so I don’t say anything.
“So what’s the favor?”
“Can you take him up to Cottonwood Pass and show him where it happened? I told Tristen I would ask the Sheriff’s Office if they’d do it. He didn’t like that idea. He said he’s had too much time with law enforcement lately. When I told him about you, he liked that plan better.”
The whole time Laura’s talking, I know I’m going to say yes. Not because I have the slightest interest in playing tour guide for this Tristen guy, but because I’m interested in getting Laura to do that sultry voice thing again.
“Sure, I can do that. When are we talking about?”
“He’s got the whole day free tomorrow. Maybe longer after that if I can talk him into staying in town for my exhibition. What works for you?”
I glance at my watch. Plenty of time to knock out this task today if Tristen can deal with a change of plans. I need to get home and let Amore run around outside first. My gut tells me Tristen won’t be a dog guy. Especially with a dog accustomed to roaming around my truck’s interior. I survey the back seats in my rear-view mirror. Tristen might not be a guy who likes riding in trucks like mine, period. I’ll need to do a quick clean up.
“I’d just as soon go today if he’s up for it. I figure if I pick him up in two hours, I’ll still have him back in time for his dinner with you. What do you think?”
“I’ll give him a call. And, Tyler?” Laura switches back to that voice thing again.
“Yes?” Shit. My voice sounds like a frog’s croak.
“Did I mention how much I’m looking forward to our own ‘me-and-you’ dinner?”
. . .
Tristen staggers when he steps from my truck at Cottonwood Pass. I grab his arm and turn to his photographer for some help. Nate, wearing an ear-to-ear grin, is already aiming for the parking lot’s edge, snapping pictures on the way. From the guard rail, the switch-backed road winds like an alpine snake toward smoky Buena Vista—on a clear day it’s one of the more iconic photos in this part of the Colorado Rockies.
“You OK?” I say to Tristen, even though I know he’s not. He was gasping for air when I picked him up at the hotel, unaccustomed to the 8,000-foot elevation in Buena Vista. Now we’re 4,000 feet higher. He still seems to be in shock from the twisting climb to the pass.
Tristen takes a pill, chasing it with the water I provided him and Nate. I don’t ask what he’s taking, but I doubt it is altitude sickness medication. Tristen rolls his eyes at me before speaking.
“You know I’m not. I always feel like a fish out of water back home in Texas. But obviously I’m not meant for Colorado either.”
I smile at that. I haven’t spent much time in Texas, but I’m guessing he’s right. Tristen wears a light blue polo shirt and tan khakis without pockets. His shoes are polished leather and he’s wearing a visor like I’ve seen golfers use. Not that I watch a ton of golf, but I’ve spotted the visors before while channel surfing. I worried about my truck smelling like dog when I offered to drive them, but now it smells flowery or tangy, like some kind of man spray, I guess. Tristen’s definitely not the ten-gallon hat, Levi-wearing, belt-buckle-flashing stereotype I’ve come to expect from the largest state in the Lower 48.
Tristen turns a circle in the lot. “So, where did it happen?”
I point to the opposite end of the lot from where Nate snaps pictures. “This way.”
We walk toward the sign marking the Colorado and Continental Divide Trails on the Gunnison side of the pass. Halfway across the lot, Tristen stops. I pause, waiting for him.
“We need Nate,” he says. “We want pictures.”
I turn toward where Nate disappeared to shoot pictures of the view. The young man is nowhere in sight. Tristen follows me back to the truck, where I check the back seat in case Nate climbed back inside. Nothing.
“Nate?” Tristen’s voice rings shrill against the wind.
“Here.” The voice comes from the guardrail. I move toward the edge, scanning left and right for the missing photographer. “Down here. I slipped.”
Eight feet down the near vertical slope, Nate clings to a clump of grass while his designer sneakers scrabble for a purchase on the disintegrating slope. It’s not like he’s in mortal peril, but the pitch doesn’t begin to level for another thirty feet. If Nate loses his grip, it’s going to hurt by the time he stops sliding.
“Hold tight.” I race back to my truck, where I open the rear canopy. I yank out my 24-hour bag used on SAR missions. Rummaging in the back pouch, I pull out one of two 15-foot cordelettes I use for a variety of purposes on our rescues.
“Oh my God!” Tristen’s breath is ragged. “Should we call 911?”
I glance at the man before securing one end of the rope to the wooden post anchoring the guardrail to the pavement. I have to remind myself that these two see the situation differently than I do. Nate’s waiting for a rope, feet dangling from the side of a 12K-foot mountainside. Of course these men are frightened.
What they don’t realize is that I could climb down the slope to Nate and push him back up to the parking lot. I’m using the rope because I have it and…well, because I don’t really want to go down there after him if I don’t have to.
Three minutes later, Nate sits against the guard rail, feet splayed straight ahead in the parking lot, sipping the water I offer him.
“Oh my God, Nate. Are you alright? What the hell?” Tristen gives the young man a mini-lecture on safety. I decide to let them catch their breath while I put my ropes away.
When I return, I extend my hand to Nate. “Ready to go take a look at the scene?”
Nate looks at Tristen, then at my hand, as if he’s unsure what to do. Tristen turns to me. “Do you think it’s safe to move him?”
“Are you hurt, Nate?” I want to smile at Tristen’s misplaced concern, but don’t.
Nate shakes his head. “Just embarrassed is all.”
I pull him to his feet. “Let’s go check out where the van was parked.”
Cleaning blood off asphalt is not a top priority in central Colorado. Drivers crash into elk, deer, and even moose, every day out here. It’s hard for the road crews to keep up. So I’m not surprised bloodstains still mark the spot where Brandon radioed in the incident on our SAR channel.
I run through the robbery timeline with Tristen and Nate, weaving in the story of SAR’s part in the rescue. Our organization didn’t have much to do with the theft, but I never pass up an opportunity to promote our SAR work, especially in front of a potential donor.
Nate takes pictures of the blood-stained asphalt. He steps back for an angle, which puts the trailhead signs in the background.
“You might want to talk to law enforcement, Tristen. They might share some of their photos with you.” I step backward so I’m not in Nate’s crime-scene pictures.
“Do you think they would? Do you think they would give us digital copies?”
I figure Perez and his guys would show Tristen the pics, but I’m unsure if they would give them to him. “Are you planning on running your own investigation?”
“NFTs,” Nate calls from behind his camera. “We’re going to make NFTs.”
Tristen looks at me and tilts his head toward Nate. “He’s going to pick a single shot of the robbery scene and mint it.”
“What do you mean mint it?”
“Nate, you want to explain the details or risk me screwing up the explanation?”
Nate looks up from his camera. “We’re going to turn the picture into a non-fungible token, or NFT.”
I consider myself a technology neophyte, but I have learned about the cloud, apps, and crypto over the last several years. I’ve heard of NFTs. Non-fungible tokens. I read an article about pictures of cartoon monkeys being sold for thousands of dollars. Something to do with an image that can transfer ownership through a digital ledger–called a blockchain. Because of the blockchain thingie, each NFT can be unique—and therefore, rare.
“But there are tons of pictures of this pass,” I say. “I’m not sure why your picture would be unique.”
Nate’s smile fades. “Nothing is going to replace Tristen’s Remingtons. And he’s expecting to recover those.” Nate glances at Tristen, who nods. “But in the meantime, Tristen is helping me with a side hustle. Sort of like squeezing opportunity from a crisis. This is the opportunity.”
Nate looks at me like he’s expecting to see a flash of understanding. He gets nothing.
“Our picture, after we mint it as an NFT, will be unique in several ways. It will be a picture from immediately after the theft of Tristen’s art. But more importantly—” Nate stops speaking and waves his hand where he wants Tristen to stand near the trailhead sign at the end of the parking spot. Nate lines up the shot so that he gets the blood-spattered pavement, Tristen, and the view looking down from the pass.
Nate presses a button and the camera whirs as it takes multiple shots. He looks back at me and continues. “Most importantly, it will be the only picture in the world of the owner at the scene where his art was stolen.”
“So you’re going to make money off your boss’s misfortune?” I turn to Tristen. “And you’re OK with that?”
Tristen laughs. “More than OK. I’m Nate’s angel investor. If his plan works, I’ll make more money than he will.”
I look from Tristen back to Nate, then shift my gaze to the mountains I’ve grown to love.
The mountains might be unpredictable but at least I understand them.
Art connoisseurs? Not so much.
CHAPTER 6
I drop Tristen and Nate at the hotel in time for their dinner date with Laura before pointing my truck toward home. Amore has been cooped up in the house for a couple of hours. He’ll need dinner and a walk. But I’m hungry too, and the home fridge holds nothing but beer. Not as much beer as it held while I dealt with Kristee’s disappearance. But enough for nutritional purposes. I squeeze into a parking spot at Rocks, Rapids, & Eats for a to-go order.
The line is three couples deep. I recognize the woman ahead of me. Laura’s sister Monica nudges the man next to her. When he turns, I recognize him—the short, stocky guy I bumped into at my hospital visit to Bruce Davis.
“Duane, this is Tyler Zahn. Laura’s friend.”
Duane gives me an I-know-something-you-don’t smile, like he’s just passed gas and isn’t going to admit it. His eyes dart from me back to Monica, then back to me before he thrusts his hand forward.
“Duane Dahl.”
We shake while I try to guess if anything would be gained by mentioning our earlier meeting at the hospital. He hasn’t brought it up in front of Monica, so I stay silent.
The line shifts. Monica moves forward, then turns again. “Tyler’s the one who caught that asshole taking little girls last year.” She looks at me. “Right?”
“Well, I was working with the Sheriff’s Office.” I don’t go into the details because she got it right. Monica’s already said more words in my presence than she did during the entire dinner the other night.
Duane appears interested. I’m unsure why. “You’re with the Sheriff’s Office?”
“Not yet. I’m working toward becoming a Reserve Sheriff.” I don’t tell him I’m on an indefinite leave of absence from the Law Enforcement Academy after the episode with Kristee Li. “I was just a liaison in that case from last year that Monica’s talking about.”
“Lee-ayy-zawn.” Duane sounds like he’s trying the word on for size. He turns to Monica. “He’s friends with the law. Maybe he can get someone out to take a look at our problem.”
“Shut up, Duane. He’s Laura’s friend—that’s it.”
“What’s your issue?” I probably can’t help, but I can’t help asking.
Monica tugs on Duane’s shirt, trying to turn him back to the counter, but Duane doesn’t get the signal.
“Monica got her computer stolen last week. Her laptop. She called it in to the cops, but they haven’t even sent anyone out.”
Monica turns away, her body rigid. This is clearly a topic she does not want to discuss. I consider asking Duane more about the specifics of the theft, but decide I’d be better off preserving my new relationship with Laura than making friends with Duane.
“Been a busy week for law enforcement.” I throw my comment out as a platitude. Duane recognizes it. He squints, waiting for me to speak again.
I don’t.
“Well, it’s sure been nice meeting you, Mr. Tyler Zahn.” There’s no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice. To seal the deal, Duane cuffs my shoulder before turning to Monica. I wait for her to lay into Duane again, but she stands as stiff and motionless as the rock formations on the outskirts of town.
I check behind me, curious if our awkward conversation has drawn interest from other customers. A woman outside the restaurant window waves at me. I shade my eyes from the glare of the interior lights. Julie Coker Keller, Laura’s other sister, waves again. She points in my direction, then beckons me outside. I lift my hand toward the line, but she doesn’t stop motioning for me to join her. Duane and Monica pay me no attention. I give up on takeout and head for the door.
Stepping outside, I scan both directions for Julie. She’s nowhere in sight. A car flashes its lights in a slot three spaces down the street. I squint in that direction and it flashes its lights again. As I approach, the driver’s side window lowers. Julie does that beckoning thing again. She must be good at it because here I am.
I lower myself into the passenger seat. Julie shifts into reverse.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here. I still owe you the Coker sisters briefing.”
Just when I’ve almost suppressed the awkward dinner, the jealous sister returns for another round. And I’ve made myself a captive audience.
. . .
Julie drives two blocks down Main Street before easing us down the gravel road to the River Park. She pulls in behind the public restroom. I flash back thirty years to my high school sweetheart, also named Julie, slipping the car behind the Brady Grange for a stolen hour of groping and professed love.
“Uh, Julie?”
Julie parks and turns off her headlights. I rest my hands on my knees, uncertain what else to do with them. She lets out a laugh.
