Camelback Falls (David Mapstone Mystery 2)

“OK,” I said, nursing my own pain. “They may be waiting for you at home.”

She looked at me as if I had slapped her. I suggested, “It’s time to call the police.”

“No,” she said, too loud. Lindsey glanced at me. Beth stared at the floor and said, “They wanted Leo. They wanted me to tell them where he was.”

“I thought you hadn’t talked to Leo,” I said.

“You know I did.” She smiled unhappily. “We corresponded by e-mail. It was censored by the prison, of course. He was coming up for parole, finally. He was actually hopeful that this time he might make it.”

“When did you last hear from him?” I asked.

There was a commotion in the hall and my stomach knotted up, sending a sharp pain into my ribs. Lindsey sprang up, drew her Glock, and moved lightly to the door, which was already bolted. She just shook her head. The noise died down. I asked Beth the question again.

“I got the last message from him just before Christmas.”

“Did you have any sense he was planning an escape?”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently, tossing her fair hair, pushing it back with an agitated hand.

“Why would he escape if he thought he might get parole?” Lindsey asked, returning to sit on the bed.

“I don’t know,” Beth said.

“Really?” Lindsey asked.

“Yes, really.”

Beth stared daggers at Lindsey.

“So what did you tell these tough guys when they wanted to know where Leo was?” I asked.

“I told them I didn’t know,” she said, lightly touching a finger to the cut on her cheek. The motion made my face throb.

“So Leo hasn’t contacted you since he escaped?”

“No, damn it. He hasn’t. Why would he come to Denver if he was in Phoenix last week?”

Lindsey and I kept poker faces. But Beth was quick, if dulled a bit by being beaten up. She realized instantly we hadn’t told her that Leo was seen in Phoenix. She muttered an obscenity and stared into her lap.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded in a raw voice.

“The truth would be a good starting point,” I said.

She stared out into the room for a long time. Then, quietly, she said, “Tell me about you guys. I’m usually very intuitive about people, and you two definitely don’t look like cops.”

I’d seen Peralta break down hard guys in the interrogation room. He could browbeat, threaten, manipulate, and sometimes be the most compassionate man in the city. But his interview skills always had a beginning, a middle, and an end designed to wear down the suspect. He never let the suspect take control, as Beth had just done. But I went along with it.

“Lindsey works with computers.” I said. “I’m the acting sheriff.”

“You’re the sheriff?” she asked, with enough incredulity to sting my ego. “How did that happen?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” I said quietly. “The real sheriff is badly wounded. I told you that yesterday. I guess the county brass figured I’d be the safest choice to fill in for a few days.”

“You’re a cop?” she demanded.

“Not really. I work on old cases. I’m a historian by training, and I used to teach. I kind of landed in this job three years ago.”

“Unbelievable,” she said, but seemed pleased with this information.