Page 3 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

“Yes,” he said. “My wife had our first baby while I was deployed—”

What was the proper response to that?

Sorry you weren’t there?

Congratulations, but sorry you weren’t there?

How did she cope? How did you?

He spared me having to decide by talking on.

“—and it was a difficult birth. She was okay, our daughter was okay. But Yelena required a recovery she — we — hadn’t counted on.

Her family came to help, but they had to go back to their lives.

I was on the other side of the world. What got her through was a woman on base named Irene Jardos. Sergeant Frank Jardos’ wife.

“She had nursing experience and beyond that, she was one of those women who . . . knew. Gave Yelena the support she needed and room to grow her own confidence.” His face twisted.

Possibly toward the start of a grin, but he rubbed his palm over his mouth and chin, masking the expression.

“Maybe her own version of what Jardos did for me, though I sure as hell would have preferred Irene’s methods to his. ”

I smiled, then dug into the coleslaw to soften any discomfort he felt at sharing this. He was clearly not a man to spill his family’s history to a stranger. That he was doing so reinforced how strongly he felt about this situation.

“Army moved us on, moved them on. But they stayed in touch, Yelena and Irene. Got closer if anything. Didn’t realize that until after I got a new command, walk in, and there’s Frank Jardos, my first sergeant.

We would have done fine, regardless — both professionals — but the wives had other ideas.

Tried to talk Yelena out of it and learned later he did the same with Irene, but they insisted.

Started with groups. Didn’t push us together.

But the groups kept getting smaller. Until it was the four of us one night for a cookout in our backyard.

The kids, playing and chasing fireflies.

Mostly dark closing in. Relaxed. And we got talking. ”

He twitched a shoulder. “Not like baring our souls or anything.”

“Of course not,” I agreed solemnly, before another bite of sandwich.

“Yeah, all right,” he acknowledged my mild jab.

“But it wasn’t like you ladies do. Though if it hadn’t been for our wives .

. . Not only insisting the families spent time together, but who they are as people.

I came to hold Irene in the same regard my wife does. And he feels the same about my Yelena.”

“I’ve had promotions, more prestigious posts, but never a better working situation.

Don’t expect I ever will. He said something similar.

Said it was the one to go out on — he retired at the end.

And I got to be the one who officially thanked him, on behalf of the Army and our nation, for his service. ”

His voice remained almost uninflected, yet, darned if the insides of my eyelids didn’t prick with incipient tears.

“They bought the cabin and moved here eight years ago.”

“Not exactly an easy spot to visit for an Army officer crisscrossing the country and beyond,” I filled in what he hadn’t said. Staying in touch had been sporadic. “Your career’s kept you busy.”

“It has. And family. Three kids. Two still in college. The oldest’s getting married next year.”

Should I express sympathy for the wedding plans ahead of her? Maybe not. Some people enjoyed it.

He continued, “Jardos and Irene came to a couple events and the wives stayed in touch. But, no, he and I didn’t talk or write regularly.”

“And yet, you’re here now, saying he’s missing.”

“He is. No doubt.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“He did not respond to my wife when she wrote to him.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s a clockwork communicator.”

“For this, he would respond. My wife started a drive for a nursing scholarship fund in Irene’s name.

She messaged to tell him about the first recipient.

Sent him video of her acceptance remarks.

That he’d answer. No matter what. Then she called, several times, yesterday.

Got messages about the phone being out of service.

She checked online and found an article from your local newspaper—”

“The Independence.”

“—and a report by your station of a fatality in the cabin.”

“Which both identified Frank Jardos as the cabin owner—”

“But did not say the dead man’s identity was confirmed. I juggled things and came here.”

“Let’s go back to why you believe he wouldn’t have committed suicide.”

“I know him.”

“Since he retired, you didn’t communicate a lot—”

“With some people that doesn’t matter. You know that.

” He pinned me for two beats. Until he saw my acknowledgment that I did know that.

“After Irene died, I came here. The first night we drank. A lot. Next day, first light, we went up trails he chose. Until we lost light. Drank the second night, then out again the next morning. That night, we didn’t drink as much.

Next morning we went up, but only for half a day. I had to leave.”

He hadn’t wanted to leave.

He hadn’t been sure about leaving.

Was that why he’d come here now? Wondering if he’d left his friend too soon? Shoring up his stance that Frank Jardos had to be missing, because he couldn’t have, wouldn’t have committed suicide?

“What does your wife say now about Frank Jardos?”

He didn’t pretend he didn’t comprehend the context behind that question. “She sent me here. She knows he couldn’t have committed suicide.”

“What makes you so sure?” He could take that you as singular or include his wife in it.

“He said . . . When I was here last fall, he said he’d promised Irene he wouldn’t bug out before his time.”

I heard emotion under the control in his voice.

The control was nearly as strong as the certainty when he added, “He would never break a promise to her. He did not commit suicide.”

“Why missing? He could have been killed or—” No matter how even I kept my voice for this next part, he’d see it as provocative. “—he could have killed someone else and be on the run.”

“No.”

“He doesn’t have enemies?”

He regarded me evenly. “Plenty of people who’d like to pop him in the moment, but somebody who’d murder him, I don’t know of any. Somebody who’d be able to murder him like this, I don’t think so, but if that’s what happened, you’re finding out what happened will take care of that, too.”

“I haven’t agreed to even try to find out what happened, much less succeed. And that’s if there’s anything to find out.”

Bad, bad, bad tactical error on my part. I should have led with the possibility of there being nothing to find out. Tacking it on at the end sounded like I thought there probably was something to find out.

He caught it, but was smart enough not to jump on it, which would have put my back up.

“Besides,” I picked up, “if you’re ruling out suicide, while insisting he’s missing, there’s still a dead body recovered from that fire with a hole in its skull — presumably a bullet hole pending the autopsy — and wearing your friend’s favored brand of boots.”

“That’s the easy explanation. Doesn’t make it correct. Sergeant Shelton indicated you’re adept at solving puzzles.”

“He did?” came out of my mouth unchecked.

He almost started to smile. Or maybe not, since I hadn’t seen a smile yet, so the brief movement around his mouth and eyes could have been something else. Like gotcha.

“I said indicated. He didn’t come out and say it. But he sent me to you. And with a certain satisfaction, I believe, in finding a solution that got me out of his office and put me in yours. Two birds, one stone.”

Now that I believed.

“If Frank — Sergeant — Jardos didn’t commit suicide,” I reminded him, “there’s still the dead body to account for.”

He volunteered nothing.

“Hard as it might seem, the most logical explanation is that the body is that of your friend.”

That didn’t draw him, either.

To keep going, I tried a U-turn to see if that could shake things up.

“You said you couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to kill him. How about someone he’d want to kill?”

“No.” No hesitation, yet was there something . . .?

“How about a reason he’d run off?”

“No.” He didn’t leave any possibility of being wrong in that syllable.

“You are leaving no option open if nobody wanted to kill him and he wouldn’t kill himself or anybody else, when there is that dead body to explain.”

“There’s your puzzle to solve. I have to catch a flight in Cody.”

He put a business card on the table.

He’d already added two handwritten numbers to it. “My cell number and my wife’s. If you have questions.”

He stood.

I didn’t. I hadn’t cleaned my plate yet.

“Glad you haven’t said you’re leaving it in my capable hands,” I said with asperity, “since I’ve promised nothing. Not even to have questions.” Though I had to admit, the odds were in his favor there. “Nor have I given you my number. Though you can reach me at the station—”

“I have no knowledge about the capability of your hands except your reputation and an initial impression. Sergeant Shelton gave me your cell number. I’ll call.”

Wasn’t Wayne Shelton the busy boy? And wasn’t I looking forward to getting the colonel’s call and fighting the instinct to stand at attention?

He turned and left. Not quite quick time.

I finished my lunch.