CHAPTER
6
PULLER HAD CALLED the police officer in charge of the investigation a number of times on the drive to West Virginia and left multiple messages. He hadn’t received a response. Maybe the locals were not going to be as cooperative as his SAC had suggested they would be. Or maybe they were just overwhelmed with four bodies and a massive forensics puzzle. Puller could hardly blame them if they were.
The motel was a one-story courtyard configuration. On the way to his room Puller passed a young man lying unconscious on a strip of grass near a Pepsi machine that was chained to a metal post thirty feet from the motel office. Puller checked the man for injuries and found none. He made sure he had a pulse, smelled the liquor on his breath, and kept going. He carried his bag into his twelve-by-twelve room. It had a bathroom so tiny he could stand in the middle and easily touch the opposite walls simultaneously.
He made some coffee from his own stock and using his portable percolator, a habit he’d picked up while on assignment overseas. He sat down on the floor with the file spread in front of him. He eyed the numbers, slid out his cell, and punched them in.
The voice was female, groggy. “Hello?”
“Sam Cole, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Sam Cole?” he asked again in a louder voice.
The voice became rigid and more alert. “Short for Samantha. Who the hell is this? And do you have any idea what time it is?”
The local accent thickened with the level of anger, Puller noted.
“It’s 0320. Or twenty after three for civilians.”
Long pause. He could see her wheels spinning, translating this to something comprehensible.
“Damn, you’re Army, right?” Her voice was now husky, attractive.
“John Puller. CID special agent from the 701st MP Group out of Quantico, Virginia.” He recited this in staccato fashion as he had a million times before.
He envisioned her sitting up in bed. He wondered if she was alone. He didn’t hear any male mumbles in the background. But he did hear the percussion of a Zippo followed by a few seconds of silence. Then there was an intake of breath followed by an elongated exhale of smoke.
“You miss the surgeon general’s warning, Ms. Cole?”
“No, it’s right here on the side of my smokes. Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“You’re listed in my file as the officer in charge. I just got into town. I need to get up to speed. And for the record, I called you four times over the last six hours and left messages each time. Never got a call back.”
“I’ve been busy, haven’t even checked my phone.”
“I’m sure you have been busy, ma’am.” He thought, And I’m sure you did check, but didn’t bother to call me back. Then his SAC’s admonition came back to him.
Play nice.
“I’m sorry to roust you out of your sack, ma’am. I thought you might still be at the crime scene.”
She said, “I’ve been working this thing all day and most of the night. My head just hit the damn pillow an hour ago.”
“Which means I have a lot of catching up to do. But I can call back later.”
He heard her get up, stumble and curse.
“Ma’am, I said I can call back later. Just go back to sleep.”
“Will you just shut up a minute?” she snapped.
“What?” Puller said sharply.
“I have to pee!”
He heard her drop the phone on the floor. Footsteps. Door closed, so he didn’t actually hear Cole relieving herself. Another minute went by. He wasn’t wasting time. He was reading through the report again.
She came back on. “I’ll meet you there at seven o’clock—excuse me, oh zero seven hundred o’clock a.m. or whatever the hell it is you say.”
“Zero-seven-hundred Juliet.”
He listened to another long inhale and then exhale of smoke.
She said, “Juliet? I told you my name is Sam.”
“Means local daylight saving time. If it were the winter and we were in eastern standard time it would be zero-seven-hundred Romeo.”
“Romeo and Juliet?” she said skeptically.
“Contrary to popular belief, the United States Army has a sense of humor.”
“Goodbye, Puller. Oh and just so you know, it’s Sergeant Samantha Cole, not ma’am, or Juliet. Romeo!”
“Got it, Sergeant Cole. I’ll see you at zero-seven. Look forward to working with you on this case.”
“Right,” she growled.
He could visualize her throwing the phone across the room and falling back into her bed.
Puller put the phone down, drank his coffee, and went through the report page by page. Thirty minutes later he gunned up, slipping one M11 into his front holster and the other into a holster attached to his belt in the rear. After fighting his way through the Middle East, he never felt as though he had enough weapons on his person. He put on a windbreaker and locked his motel room door on the way out.
The young man who’d been lying in the bushes was now sitting up and gazing around in bewilderment.
Puller walked over and looked down at him. “You might want to think about cutting back on the booze. Or at least pick a place to pass out that has a roof.”
The man blinked up at him. “Who the hell are you?”
“John Puller. Who are you?”
The man licked his lips as though he was already thirsty for another round.
Puller said, “You got a name?”
The man stood. “Randy Cole.” He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans.
Puller reflected on the last name and wondered about the obvious possibility but chose to keep it to himself.
Randy Cole was good-looking and appeared to be in his late twenties. About five-ten with a lean, wiry build. Under his shirt he probably had six-pack abs. The hair was brown and curly, the facial features strong and handsome. There was no wedding band on his finger.
“You staying at the motel?” asked Puller.
Randy shook his head. “I’m local. You’re not.”
“I know I’m not.”
“So what are you doing in Drake?”
“Business.”
Randy snorted. “Business. You don’t look like no coal man to me.”
“I’m not.”
“So why, then?”
“Business,” Puller said again, and his tone indicated he was not going beyond that description. “You got a car? You okay to drive?”
“I’m cool.” Randy climbed out from the bushes.
“You sure?” asked Puller. “You need a ride somewhere I can give you a lift.”
“I said I’m cool.”
But he staggered and grabbed at his head. Puller helped to right him.
“I’m not sure you’re all that cool yet. Hangovers are a bitch.”
“Not sure it’s just a hangover. I get headaches.”
“You ought to get that checked out.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll go get me the best docs in the world. Pay ’em in cash.”
Puller said, “Well, next time I hope you can find a bed to sleep in.”
Randy said, “Hell, sometimes bushes beat the shit out of beds. Depends on who you’re sharing the bed with. Right?”
“Right,” said Puller.
Puller aimed his ride west, following the GPS, but really listening to his own internal compass. The high-tech stuff was good, but your head was better. High-tech sometimes failed. The head didn’t unless someone had put a bullet through it, and then you had far bigger problems than just being lost.
He again wondered briefly if Randy Cole was related to Samantha. Cop and drunk. Not an unheard-of situation. Sometimes the cop was also the drunk.
Forty minutes later, after winding in and out of surface roads barely a car wide and fighting switchbacks and becoming lost once, he reached the street he wanted. By his internal compass it had taken him forty minutes to go about seven miles, and he noted that the GPS agreed with this. There were no straightaways in the mountainous terrain, and he had never once cranked the Malibu above forty.
He slowed his car and eyed the surroundings. One of the CID’s credos came to him.
Look. Listen. Smell.
He took a deep breath. It was all about to begin.
Again.