Best Laid Plans(154)

Her heart thudded. She had them.

“How long do you keep the records?”

“One year.”

She drained her Bloody Mary and left the fifty on the bar. “Thank you, Johann. That’s just what I needed.”

*



Max drove toward the police station to give Detective Horn all the information she had and ask what she was going to do about it. If Max were the cop, she’d haul all three of those boys into the police station and question them until they admitted they killed Scott Sheldon. At this point, Max didn’t think it was an accident. Maybe they hadn’t intended for Scott to die, but their callous actions resulted in his death. Manslaughter at a minimum, and maybe even second-degree murder.

If premeditated? That would put this crime on a whole other field.

Her phone rang; it was Chuck Pence.

“You have news?” she asked.

“Officially, cause of death was hypothermia. Scott’s organs shut down. The coroner is sending tissue and blood samples for further analysis, particularly drug screenings, but right now the preliminary cause of death is accidental.”

“It wasn’t an accident!” Max pounded her fist on the wheel of her SUV.

Chuck remained silent. Max needed to control her temper. This case had gotten under her skin, and it wasn’t Chuck’s fault. “Chuck,” she said, “I have proof that Arthur, Carlos, and Tom left Scott at the campsite then drove to a hotel where they stayed the night.”

“Proof?”

“That photo I mentioned to you last night—my guy in New York pulled out the GPS of where and when it was uploaded. At a hotel, Saturday morning. The photo was tagged with the hotel’s Wi-Fi and GPS location. It’s a fingerprint. I spoke to the bartender and he pulled records from the night of October thirtieth—Carlos Ibarra ordered a bucket of eight Coronas. The night they were supposed to be at the campground.”

“The hotel just gave you that information?”

“I asked nicely.”

“You should tell Detective Horn. I’m not a cop, Max.”

“But you agree with me.”

“You can’t know that it wasn’t an accident.”

“If they left Scott Sheldon alone on that mountain with no means of getting home, except on foot, they are responsible for his death.”

“He should have been able to survive the night,” Chuck said. “We found his backpack and tent near the body. He never set it up; had he, he may have survived.”

“You don’t know that! And hypothermia causes delusions and poor judgment. And just yesterday you said if he’d fallen in the creek and gotten wet that hypothermia could happen faster. He may not have had the mental capacity to pitch the tent or consider that he was suffering. And if they were drinking, that speeds everything up, right?”

“There’s no indication that anyone forced him to drink.”

“Scott Sheldon is not to blame for his death,” Max said. “That’s like saying a woman wearing a short skirt is to blame for her rape.”

“That’s unfair,” Chuck snapped.

Maybe it was, but it was also true. “If those boys had not left the mountain, Scott would be alive. They played a cruel joke on him, and he ended up dead.”

“Good luck in convincing Amelia. You’re going to need a lot more than a photograph.” He hung up.

Max took a deep breath, but it didn’t make her feel any calmer. She hadn’t wanted to antagonize Chuck—she liked the guy—but didn’t he see what she saw?

Horn hadn’t impressed her as someone who saw the possibilities of the situation. Max needed something more, something that would convince the police that there was a criminal case to pursue, that three selfish college students had led another student to his death.

She drove past Colorado Springs and continued south, to Cheyenne College.

It was nearly noon when she walked into the bookstore. Jess wasn’t there. She approached the long-haired guy behind the counter. “I’m looking for Jess,” Max said.

“She doesn’t work today.”

“I called earlier. Maxine Revere. Did she get my message?”

“Like I said, she doesn’t work today, and I’m not her personal message service.”

“Do you know where I might find her?”

He sighed dramatically. “I’m not supposed to give out information about students.”

Max didn’t want to line this jerk’s pockets, but she’d paid bigger *s for information. She slid over a twenty.

“Music theory, Stevenson Hall.”

She didn’t bother to say thank you, and strode over the Stevenson Hall.

By the time she arrived, students were streaming from the building, some carrying instruments, others with the typical backpack or messenger bag. Her height was an advantage, and she stood on a small, decorative bridge that gave her a better vantage point. The gray sky suited her mood.

Max had to convince Jess that her theory was solid. The girl already suspected something went wrong that weekend, even if she didn’t say anything at the time. Maybe Jess didn’t realize she knew something important, or maybe she did but she was too scared to talk.

As the crowd thinned to a trickle, Max grew increasingly discouraged, fearing she’d missed Jess. Then she saw the petite sophomore walking with her head down, her messenger bag slung over her shoulder.