LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Don’t cry on us,’ said Mike, smiling.

      Lasco squeezed his fingers to his eyes. ‘Jesus. That was the worst … that …’ He paused. ‘I’ve never …’

      ‘Damn right it was,’ said Bob. ‘And here we all are, OK? We’re good. We’re living to tell the tale.’

      ‘Have I been out long?’ said Lasco.

      ‘Not long enough,’ said Bob.

      ‘Where’s my camera?’

      ‘In a snowy grave,’ said Bob.

      ‘That was brand new,’ said Lasco. ‘Top of the range. And all the photos I took of the scene …’

      Bob’s phone rang. He held up a finger to Lasco and took the call.

      ‘You have to be shitting me,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘Jesus Christ. Sit on this for now. I’ll call you.’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘Your camera’s the least of our problems,’ said Bob. He stared up at the ceiling. ‘It turns out the body’s gone too.’

      ‘What?’ said Mike.

      ‘Search and Rescue weren’t able to locate it,’ said Bob. ‘That’s it. Swept away in the slide.’

      ‘What?’ said Lasco. ‘What? It was on top of me! How’d you get me out without pulling the body off of me?’

      ‘It wasn’t there when I checked on you,’ said Bob. ‘I guess you blacked out when it landed on you. It probably slid right over your head, kept on trucking.’

      Lasco turned his head into the pillow, pressing his hand to his stomach.

      Mike turned to Bob. ‘Are they going back up there to get it?’

      ‘Hell, no. They got us out. Hung around as long as they had to. But it’s way too unstable. They won’t risk anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘Shit. No body. We’re going to have to have a press conference.’ He shook his head. ‘So … let’s get in agreement about a few things. OK. Victim – female, aged between thirty and forty –’

      ‘Or male,’ said Lasco.

      ‘What do you mean “or male”?’ said Bob.

      ‘The body was wedged right in. We could only see from the chest up, really.’

      ‘So you’re saying you didn’t see tits and a va-jay-jay, so it could be a male? Give me a break. This noncommittal thing of yours is starting to get ridiculous.’

      Lasco looked patiently at him. ‘Well, I’m still not sure you’re getting it,’ he said. ‘How many scenes have I been to where you guys have messed with shit before I show up? Pulling up people’s pants, taking weapons and laying them on a night stand … You guys walk in and take a guess at what happened. What you need to do is go on exactly what is there in front of you. Not what you’re adding to the picture. I could imagine all kinds of things happened to that body, but it doesn’t mean I would be correct.’

      Bob stared through him. ‘FEMALE, aged thirty to forty, maroon jacket, white stripes down the arms. A navy blue wool hat?’

      ‘Fleece,’ said Lasco.

      ‘Fleece,’ said Bob. He was writing as he spoke. ‘What about eye color?’

      ‘Hard to say,’ said Lasco. ‘I wouldn’t be happy making that call.’

      ‘Hair?’

      ‘Hat.’

      ‘Nothing sticking out?’

      ‘I don’t recall.’

      Bob looked patiently at Mike.

      ‘Obviously, neither do you,’ said Lasco.

      ‘Yeah, ’cos you’re so good about letting us get close to the body.’ He paused. ‘So,’ he said, ‘in conclusion, we have … fuck all.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Flashback: her hair went up my nose. Blonde.’

      Bob sucked in a breath.

      ‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Gunshot wound. Massive exit wound through her back.’

      ‘Holy shit,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘But why gunshot? You sure that wasn’t a puncture wound, a tree branch …’

      ‘No. It was a GSW,’ said Lasco.

      ‘You sure?’ said Bob. ‘It wasn’t a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Let’s keep one of those open minds here.’

      ‘Ha. Ha,’ said Lasco.

      ‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ‘Not one bit.’

      There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’ He turned back to Lasco. ‘It’s a special visit from some Special Agents.’

      The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies – RAs – across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.

      ‘We were on a call-out to Frisco,’ said Tiny Gressett. ‘We heard the report, thought we’d stop by, see how Mr Lasco is … see if there’s anything we can do.’

      There was no irony in Tiny Gressett’s name – a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.

      ‘You enjoy the snow today?’ he said to Lasco.

      ‘Total blast,’ said Lasco.

      Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. ‘Heard you were snowcorpsing.’

      ‘Nothing is sacred around here,’ said Lasco.

      ‘Sure isn’t,’ said Gressett.

      There was another knock at the door.

      ‘Let me get that,’ said Gressett.

      The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriff’s Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.

      ‘Uh, we got an ID,’ he said. ‘One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at, Mr Lasco.’ He turned to Gressett and Todd. ‘I’m sorry. Are you guys FBI?’

      They nodded. ‘Yes. From Glenwood.’

      Lasco had an instant stab of memory – he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.

       6

       Denver, Colorado

      The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.

      Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control,

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