He opened Ren’s door.
‘I know. But,’ she said, getting in, ‘he’s in total shock. He could come around and flip out. Or his wife could put pressure on him. Or on us. The media could get a hold of him –’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bob, ‘he seems a calm type of guy. Like that kind of outside influence wouldn’t affect him.’
‘But we only had two seconds with him before he realized something was wrong and started to react. I mean, what does two seconds tell you?’
‘I just don’t think he’s the hysterical type …’
They drove in silence for a little while. Bob reached over and turned on the radio to Ren’s least favorite – Seventies rock. She sat tight.
‘Transom’s what? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’ said Ren. ‘Their daughter must be seven. Is it me or are people who marry really young and have loads of kids trying to make up for a shitty childhood?’
‘Spoken like the true single and childless.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Ren, smiling.
‘How about,’ said Bob, ‘their childhood was so amazing that they wanted to continue the tradition?’ said Bob.
‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘I like your idea better.’
‘There you go,’ said Bob. ‘Be sunny.’
The Firelight Inn stood at the cross-section of French Street and Wellington – a beautiful clapboard Victorian house in a muted blue-gray from the Breckenridge town palette. A picket fence ran around the garden. The snow had drifted up to the window sills.
‘Good night,’ said Bob. ‘Sleep well. Seven fifteen at the office, OK?’
‘Thanks,’ said Ren, waving him off, pushing in the front door to the inn. The hallway was covered in thick mats and clumps of snow. Rows of snowboards and skis lined the wall. The Firelight was half-inn, half-hostel. Ren had a cozy suite on the top floor, with an entrance from the house and an external staircase. When she got to her room, she walked over to the window and stared out at the white night.
She took out her cellphone and dialed. ‘I love it,’ she said.
At the other end, Paul Louderback laughed. ‘I knew you would.’
‘When were you here?’
‘Two summers ago. With Marianne and the kids. We took a suite –’
‘Me too.’
‘With the separate stairs up? Above the hot tub?’
‘Yes. It’s great.’
‘I thought you might like it. Marianne wanted to stay in one of the condos …’
‘I’d rather –’
‘I know.’
‘Condos are so the same everywhere,’ said Ren.
‘I know. Hey, don’t forget to sign up for breakfast before you go to bed.’
‘Do I call down?’ she said, looking for a phone that wasn’t there.
‘Are you looking for a phone?’ She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘There’s a list with a swinging pencil by the office,’ said Paul. ‘You go down and tick the box for whatever you want. It’s all really good.’
‘Is there a box for “the company of Paul Louderback”?’
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 back-country 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