Page 17

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

It’s the next day and this time I’m the one behind the wheel as I drive Jack and me out to Aspen Heights. The Colorado summer sky is crisp and blue and the scent of fresh pines permeates the air on the scenic drive over.

I’ve brought Buddy along, but only because he looked so hopeful when I was getting ready to leave. We pull into the hospital parking lot and I park under a bushy willow that offers enough shade for half the planet, roll the windows down all the way, and fill up a water bowl I brought along and set it on the floor in the back seat of my 4Runner.

“Sorry, Buddy,” I say, giving his ears a quick scratch and he promptly rolls into a ball and closes his eyes as if he were resigned to his fate. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’ll make sure she makes it up to both of us,” Jack says, adjusting his sunglasses. “Lunch sounds good. Sandwiches, maybe? I think Buddy agrees.”

“I’m sure he does,” I say as I lead the way into Aspen Heights Memorial Hospital.

As soon as we step inside, the crisp antiseptic scent that can only rival the coroner’s office hits us. We check in with the orderly at the front desk and she directs us to the third floor where a labyrinth of beeping monitors, a handful of distant conversations, and the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes on the linoleum floor greet us.

“I’m not a fan of these places,” Jack says as we try not to get lost in the white labyrinth of hallways.

“Unless you’re getting paid to be here, most people aren’t.”

“Technically I’m getting paid to be here, but I’d rather sit in the car with Buddy.”

“For Pete’s sake, think of the sandwiches,” I tell him as we continue to hunt for the room number we were given.

We navigate through the corridors, following the directions to Stella Johnson’s room, where we find both sisters waiting for us.

Stella Johnson—forty-five, shot in the upper left thigh. A mild infection set in so they’re pumping her full of antibiotics. And since she has a history of rejecting an entire litany of drugs, they’re keeping an extra eye on her for another day. Jack and I gleaned that on the report the sheriff’s department sent us this morning.

Her sister, Connie Berkley, is forty-nine, grazed by a bullet in the upper left arm. Both women are lucky to be alive.

Either the kidnapper was a lousy shot or never intended to kill them. Most likely both.

We find a dark-haired woman propped up in bed, the yellow hospital gown making her already sallow skin color look pallid.

Next to her sits Connie, short dark hair neatly curled under, full face of makeup, dressed as if she’s on her way to a board meeting. She stands as we enter and offers a kind smile.

“You must be the officers,” she says, shaking our hands without waiting for an introduction.

“Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Berkley.” I nod to each of them. “I’m Special Agent Baxter, and this is my partner, Special Agent Stone. We appreciate you agreeing to speak with us.”

Stella offers a pained smile. “We’re willing to do anything at all to help catch whoever did this.” She winces a moment. “Please tell us they found that poor woman.”

Jack shakes his head. “That’s why it’s crucial that you tell anything at all that you can remember.”

Stella leans forward with her brow furrowed with concern as she looks at her sister.

“It was a nightmare,” Connie starts, nodding at her sister with a look of lingering fear. “We never thought something like this could happen at a house showing. And believe me, we’ve been looking for months on behalf of our mother. She’s in Texas now and wants to move back to the area to be closer to the two of us. Of course, now that house is off the table.” She says that last bit firmly as can be.

Jack pulls out his phone to take notes and I do the same. “Can you walk us through what happened that day?” he asks gently, encouraging them to open up at their own pace with his tone.

Stella takes a deep breath as her gaze steers out the window. “It all happened so fast. One minute we were admiring the yard out back, and the next, there was just...chaos.”

Connie reaches out and takes ahold of her sister’s hand. “There was this person, all in black. We didn’t even see where they came from. We heard a powerful pop—twice. Stella got hit first, then I felt this sting on my arm.”

“The person in black,” I start. “Did you see their face? Anything distinctive about them? The skin around their eyes? Could you see the color of their flesh?”

Both sisters shake their heads.

“It was all such a blur,” Stella admits. “But they were definitely there for Brittney. They grabbed her and—and that was the last we saw of her.” Her voice grows weak and wobbles.

I lean in. “Before the perpetrator arrived, what was going on? Was anyone else with you on the premises? A gardener, a painter, anyone at all?”

They exchange a look and shake their heads at one another.

“Just Brittney, the realtor,” Connie says. “And the daughter of the woman who owns the property.”

“Blondish, light brown hair,” Stella says, nodding. “She introduced herself as Nessa, I think?”

Connie nods back, affirming the fact. “We met briefly in the driveway. She and Brittney were chatting away when we arrived.”

“Did you happen to hear what they were discussing?” I tip my ear her way so as not to miss a word.

“Oh, this and that.” Connie waves it off. “It sounded like small talk.”

“Something about a reunion.” Stella lifts a finger as if it was coming back to her. “They mentioned someone named Derek and then they laughed. I remember thinking I missed laughing with my friends like that.” She pats her sister’s arm. “Who am I kidding? Only you can make me laugh like that.”

They share a quick chuckle because of it.

“Laughing about Derek?” I say to Jack just above a whisper and he shrugs as if he didn’t blame them for that one.

“They mentioned someone named Alicia, too,” Connie says with furrowed brows. “Something about her being a snitch,” she whispers that last word as if it were salacious. “Alicia Adams, I believe. They both said her name.”

I jot it down before making eye contact with Jack, subliminally asking if he knew her, too.

He nods my way, affirming the fact. Or maybe he’s admitting to dating her? At this point, it’s the same difference.

I’m really lucky I didn’t go to that school.

“Did you hear the getaway vehicle?” I ask and they both shake their heads.

“We were screaming our heads off,” Connie says. “We were deaf to everything else.”

We ask a few more routine questions before a candy striper delivers Stella’s lunch. A mystery meal contained in small mauve plastic dishes, the smell of which is making my stomach churn.

We thank them both and give them our cards, encouraging them to call us if they can think of anything else.

At least we got a couple of names. Whether or not we can use them, that’s another story. Let’s hope the pieces of this puzzle are finally coming together.

Jack and I bolt from the building as if it were about to blow up, and we both take in a lungful of fresh mountain air once we step outside.

“I guess I owe you a sandwich,” I say.

“And I owe you some answers I gleaned last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me on the ride over?”

“I didn’t want you to get lost in your own head. It’s not about the case,” he says just as I unlock my truck. “It’s about your sister.”