He was glad he hadn’t gone cop on the fireman or spoken to anyone on his way out, even though possibly they could have found whoever did it through the process of elimination. But his story would sound preposterous at first, he realized. The firefighters would quickly discover he’d dismantled his smoke detector and they’d find the small mountain of cigarette butts in his room. The conclusion they’d reach immediately was he was smoking in bed and started the fire and had come up with a story about lighter fluid to cover himself. Or they’d accuse him of accidentally-or intentionally-spilling the accelerant on the floor and it went up. Hell, he thought, given the facts on the ground he’d come to the same conclusion. Within minutes they’d have his ID and call it in, discover who he was and where he was supposed to be, and he’d likely spend the rest of the night in the Bozeman jail waiting for a Helena deputy to come get him and take him back. No doubt the damage to the hotel caused by the fire and water would cost millions to repair. He thanked God all the guests had been accounted for, or there would be a murder charge as well.
He couldn’t risk
Since the attempted method of getting rid of him had been fire, he wondered if the murderer he was tracking wasn’t on the pack trip after all, but had stayed around Bozeman. But how would the killer know he was in town, or what he was up to? And how could he possibly know he was spending the night at the Gallatin Gateway Inn, or which room? It made no sense.
Did this mean he was next on the killer’s list? Cody dismissed it, since the other victims had been clean and sober for years and he hadn’t. Unless, of course, the killer knew Cody was getting close and had decided to try a preemptive strike.
In many ways, Cody thought, the crime could have been almost perfect. The flames had moved so fast that if he hadn’t been awake at the time the match was struck, he might have been incinerated in the bed. A little digging would bring forth stories of the recent incident with the coroner in Helena, his suspension from the Denver Police Department a year ago, and his infamous alcohol-related binges.
Which meant that whoever had done it knew him well enough to know they might get away with it.
He thought about the few people he’d been in contact with who knew where he was or what he was doing. Larry, obviously, but he’d withheld crucial info from him, like his location.
Cody retraced his steps that day. Other than Cooper and the Mitchells, he’d encountered a half-dozen sales people and the hotel staff. There had also been the state trooper and the mechanic in Townsend. While each may have known a very small piece of what he was up to, no one could have realistically put it all together, he thought.
This was the kind of puzzle he liked to bounce off his partner, because the two of them could usually brainstorm their way to a plausible answer.
His cell phone had a good signal and he scrolled through his contacts until he found Larry’s home phone, but something stopped him before he speed-dialed. He sat in silence, staring at the lit screen, then closed the phone and turned it off. He opened the driver’s door and let the phone drop to the gravel, then smashed it into pieces with the heel of his boot.
Whether they’d followed him from Helena or called ahead he wasn’t sure. If they were keeping tabs on him through the GPS embedded in his cell, that would be the end of that.
Then it hit him with a force that took his breath away.
The stop in Townsend, the overnight there that slowed him down. The long delay that held him in place until tonight. Had the trooper been tipped to keep an eye out for him?
He climbed back into the Ford and covered his face with his hands. Only two people could possibly know the entire story, every part of it. Only two people knew where he was going, why he was going there, and what he planned to do.
One of them was the killer. The other …
He said aloud, “Larry, you treacherous son of a bitch. Why?”
By the light of a headlamp, Jed McCarthy stripped down to his T-shirt and underwear in his tent and jammed his outside clothing into a stuff sack he’d use for a pillow, then checked his watch. Getting late. Dakota should be back any second.
He’d left some clients at the fire. Two of the three Wall Streeters were still there, Knox and D’Amato. So was Donna Glode. And K. W. Wilson. Ted Sullivan had left a half hour after he had words with Rachel Mina, saying, “Better go try to patch things up.” Walt Franck had also gone to his tent.
