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  MURDER IN MISSOULA

  LAURENCE GILIOTTI

  Château Noir Publishing

  MURDER IN MISSOULA

  Published by Château Noir Publishing

  Copyright © 2014 by Laurence Giliotti

  All rights reserved.

  Murder In Missoula is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. In all respects any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is coincidental.

  ISBN: Print: 978-0-9909266-2-7

  ISBN: ebook: 978-0-9909266-3-4

  Cover design by Rebecca Swift

  Château Noir Publishing, P.O. Box 19110, Boulder, Colorado 80308, U.S.A.

  Smashwords Edition

  Contents

  Dedication

  Begin reading MURDER IN MISSOULA

  Also by Laurence Giliotti

  Acclaim for GAMBRELLI AND THE PROSECUTOR

  Forthcoming from Château Noir Publishing in 2016…

  Dedicated to

  The Innocent Victims of Evil

  One

  The body was a few feet below him in a depression at the base of a large tree. The undulating terrain kept the decaying remains hidden from any vantage point other than the knoll on which he was standing.

  FBI special agent Leonard Pandori shifted his weight onto his left leg. The leg he referred to as his “good leg.” He leaned heavily on his walking stick. The climb down from the road had left him winded, his muscles shaking from the effort.

  “You all right?” Undersheriff Doug Martin asked.

  “Fine, just getting my sea legs.” Pandori looked back toward the road where a deputy was interviewing a man and a young boy. “Who found the body?”

  “The boy. They were walking along the creek, looking for a spot to build a tree stand. The father sent the kid up the hill to check out this tree. When the kid climbed up and looked around, he spotted this necklace.” Martin pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. “It wasn’t until he climbed down to get it that he saw the body.”

  Pandori looked at the silver and turquoise of the Navaho squash blossom necklace. He had seen it a hundred times before on the flyers that had been posted all over the county six months ago.

  Martin put the bag back into his pocket. “Sorry to drag you out so early on a Saturday, but once I saw the necklace, I figured I better give you a call. We can’t be certain, but I’m willing to bet we’re looking at Candice Wilson.”

  Except for a few training seminars, nothing in Pandori’s twenty-five years with the FBI prepared him to run a homicide investigation. Martin supervised all of the county’s investigation teams. Pandori was grateful to have him in charge.

  “I called for Bennigan to bring out his bloodhound, Duke,” Martin said.

  “Looks like the body has been here quite a while. You think a dog will be of any use?”

  “You never know. My bet is someone had to bring her down from the road. Maybe the killer comes back to visit with her on sunny afternoons. There’s a scarf around her neck that looks fairly new. It could be a recent addition to the scene. Bennigan can use it as a scent article to give the dog something to go on. If there’s a scent of the killer on it, maybe Duke will find it.”

  “How reliable is the dog?”

  “We’ll see. If he does get a scent, it will probably just go as far as the road. The killer had to use a car.”

  “I read somewhere that bloodhounds could follow the scent of a vehicle.”

  “As far as I know, that kind of thing happens only in fiction, not in the real world.”

  “We should probably get some photos from up in the tree to show the view from where the boy spotted the necklace,” Pandori said.

  “The crime scene unit will be here in about twenty minutes. We can go back up to my car. I’ve got a thermos of hot coffee, unless you want to wait here and—”

  “Coffee sounds good.” Pandori patted his coat pockets. “Must have left my cell phone in the car. Can I use yours?”

  “There’s no service until you get back up to the road.”

  They started to climb the steep hillside, Undersheriff Martin moving slowly to allow Pandori to keep pace.

  “I should have called to cancel my breakfast date before I left the house.” Pandori breath became irregular as he struggled with the effort.

  Martin stopped and extended a hand to support his trailing companion. “Your wife leaves town and you already have a date lined up?”

  “It’s an old friend, Joe Nicoletti. He’s a—”

  “I remember him, the DEA agent… He was here, visiting you last spring, when Candice Wilson went missing.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Pandori used the leverage of Martin’s arm to take the lead. “Now he’s back and so is she.” He pointed the cane toward the corpse.

  “Sanchez is gonna be pissed.”

  “What?” Pandori turned to see a grin spread across Martin’s face.

  “Lieutenant Sanchez—She was really hot for your pal—swore if she ever saw him again she’d take him home for dinner, even if she had to cuff him.”

  “I’ll warn him.”

  “No need, she’s on leave, visiting family in Salt Lake City.” Martin signaled a deputy to grab hold of Pandori and pull him up onto the road.

  “Well, Lt. Sanchez may get her chance if I can convince Nicoletti to take a job at the university. Since he retired he’s—”

  “Retired? I thought he was a younger guy.”

  “You mean not as old and decrepit as me?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it that way, but since you mentioned it…”

  “Get the coffee. I’ve got a call to make, then let’s focus on Candice Wilson.”

  Two

  Charles Durbin depended on sunny Saturday mornings. They were his source of joy, providing inspiration for his darker fantasies.

  While meticulously grooming Mrs. Coulter’s brown-and-white cocker spaniel, Durbin dreamed of his special time with Marie-Justine. He glanced at the clock—9:30, right on schedule. Mrs. Coulter promised to pick up her little darling at 9:45 sharp. He had cautioned her, “Now don’t be late, dear.”

  Durbin fluffed the cocker’s back with the dryer, supporting the lustrous fur with his sinewy fingers. The muscles of his right forearm bulged against the veins as he rhythmically moved the dryer side to side. Satisfied with the results, he shut the dryer off, returned it to the stainless steel holder at the end of the grooming table, and brushed the freshly cleaned fur one last time. He carried the dog to a wooden pen near the front door. He filled a small aluminum bowl with water and set it inside the pen, then put the grooming tools in the sterilizer, swept, and vacuumed the wooden floor.

  “Mommy should be along any minute,” he said to the dog.

  In the kitchen at the rear of the house, he poured a cup of tea and turned on the stereo. Puccini’s romantic visions drifted through the old house. Durbin hummed, knowing that he was soon to be with his Marie-Justine, a woman who would appreciate his music and be thrilled to find that they both drank the same brand of tea. He even had the same style teacups she preferred. What a wonderful coincidence.

  Mrs. Coulter was late.

  He stalked into the grooming area at the front of the house and stared at the dog. “I’ve got places to go. Where the hell is that senile, old bitch?”

  He looked at Mrs. Coulter’s red leather leash among the row of black nylon leads hanging on wooden pegs in the front entry.

/>   The dog lowered his ears and submissively tucked its tail.

  Durbin moved toward the dog. He wanted to attach the little beggar to the red leather leash, drag him outside, and swing him through the air like a bolo, smashing his perky little skull onto the front walk. That would teach her to be on time.

  Durbin calmed himself and walked back to the kitchen. No sense in letting that genie out of the bottle, he thought. He didn’t want any unpleasantness to interrupt his new life in Montana. He had been careless in Colorado and leaving there had saddened him. Living in Colorado Springs had been comfortable, and his home there had been more charming than the rambling Victorian he now occupied. But Missoula was safe for now, as long as he was careful and under control.

  He didn’t like the idea of playing cat and mouse with detectives. He didn’t like the police. Toying with them always ended badly for his kind. That was why he had decided to leave Colorado. It had been a preemptive move. They were not looking in his direction, but one cannot be too careful when eluding bloodhounds.

  Fortunately, the police do not have the dedication of the hound and are easily sidetracked with new priorities. By now, his little Colorado adventures were “old news.” He had nothing to fear from his past and was free to renew his strength in the Saturday morning light of western Montana.

  At ease in his new surroundings, his future was promising. He had taken over the house and pet grooming business from an elderly couple for a few thousand dollars down and a promise to pay, secured by a handshake.

  Since then things had gone well, and as long as he remained cautious, they would stay that way. He was not some crazed, frenzy-driven maniac hunting for isolated prostitutes or forgotten old women living alone. Those temptations were everywhere, and their abundance made the hunter careless, wasteful, like a grizzly standing in a river teaming with salmon, snatching the writhing silver bodies teeth and claw, tearing into the pink flesh for a greedy bite, then tossing the gasping carcass onto the riverbank as the glutton’s attention is drawn to the next victim.

  That behavior was the downfall of his kindred spirits. Durbin had read of their exploits in books and newspapers that chronicled their foolish mistakes, compounding one on top of another as they deteriorated in their selectivity and technique. They were savage bears, believing only in their own omnipotence, oblivious to their transformation from noble hunters into pathetic peasant harvesters. In each and every case, their downward spiral was predictable. The police, unable to stop the killings, waited, hoping the predator would eventually provide a trail leading back to his cave. The greater the feeding frenzies, the clearer the trail.

  Durbin rinsed the teacup and set it on the drain board under the yellow-and-white café curtains fluttering above the sink. He inhaled the cool breeze. He was not concerned with the plight of the others. They were Philistines, settling for whatever mongrels the gods might toss them. He was different. His women were special—exotic and intelligent; they had elegance and style and were the rare, best of breed. He was an aristocrat with aristocratic taste.

  Sensing Mrs. Coulter’s approach, he went to the front door. “Here’s your little treasure,” he said as he led the dog out on the red leather leash.

  “I’m so sorry to be late, Charles. I know you have an appointment.”

  “Don’t worry yourself for a moment, Mrs. Coulter. I have plenty of time.”

  “Well, I know how you young people are. So busy, so impatient. I hope your young lady appreciates what a catch you are.” She turned and walked toward her car, the cocker trying to run ahead, pulling, straining at the lead to flee the fear of being nothing more than helpless prey.

  Durbin went upstairs to his bedroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, he watched from the front window as Mrs. Coulter drove away. He had to hurry. He was too late to meet Marie-Justine at her home. He would have to catch up with her at the café. But first, he must shower and put on fresh clothes. He never carried the scent of business to the table of pleasure.

  Three

  Across the river, the October sun dappled the roof of a yellow-and-white cottage nestled amid the mature landscaping of the university section of Missoula. Inside, Marie-Justine sipped a cup of tea and looked at the empty FedEx envelope. Her Los Angeles attorney had addressed it in her maiden name, Marie-Justine Junot.

  She had not decided if she was going to use her maiden name after the divorce. For now, she was listed in the Genetic Sciences section of the University of Montana Faculty Directory as Professor Marie-Justine Cantrell, PhD. The divorce proceedings had been dragging on for two years, but it had been amicable. Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Dr. Richard Cantrell, had been cautious but fair.

  She spread the pages of the final settlement on the kitchen table, initialed and dated the bottom of each page, signed the last, and slid them into the return envelope.

  Could this be all there was to it, after all this time?

  She would drop it in the FedEx box on campus before meeting Anne for their regular Saturday morning coffee. After years of listening to the late-night calls and reading Marie-Justine’s sad, painful letters detailing the frustration of her unhappy marriage, Anne would also be relieved that it was finally over.

  Marie-Justine had other news for Anne. Last night, the silent stranger had once more come to her in a dream. For months in a recurring dream, she felt herself running through a dark, damp forest, hunted by an unseen force. Running, gasping for air, trying to scream, but no sound came. Hands reached at her from the darkness. She stumbled between thorn bushes and vines that alternately tore and pulled at her flesh.

  Just when she felt she could breathe no more, a stranger would appear, running at her side. He would wrap her in his muscular arms and carry her into a field bathed in moonlight. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the stranger would be gone, leaving her alone yet at peace.

  Last night, the dream was different.

  Last night, there was no terror. She had held the stranger’s hand, and they walked on a mist-covered hillside. She spoke to him in French. He never replied, but she could see his eyes and knew his thoughts. Under the trees, on a bed of soft, silver pine boughs, they made love, and when she awoke, she still felt his warmth around her.

  She pressed the teacup against her full lips. How odd, she thought, that her dream conversations were always in her native French. She had learned English as a child and had spoken it almost exclusively for the last thirty years. Now, except for overseas phone conversations with her father and grandfather and occasional confidential remarks to Anne when in the company of others, she never spoke French. In fact, she was sure she no longer even thought in French. But in her dreams…

  Marie-Justine looked for her cell phone. She had left it on the patio. She picked up the house phone. Anne would have a simple, logical explanation for last night’s dream, rejecting any prophetic qualities and attributing it solely to the pressure and final release of the divorce.

  The line was busy.

  Marie-Justine set the teacup in the sink and reached through the yellow-and-white café curtains to close the window.

  She crossed the house and stepped onto the flagstone patio. Her thick, chestnut-colored hair was still damp from the shower. On the patio she brushed it against the breeze. The cool strands whisked into the warm sunlight and fell across her shoulders, heightening her senses. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so aware of her life and the joy of it. Maybe Anne was right and her sense of foreboding had been tied to the divorce.

  Eight years of marriage, each more difficult than its predecessor, followed by two years of legal separation, were finally at an end. She was happy. She was free. Free of a childhood infatuation mistaken for love, a mistake that imprisoned the woman she had become.

  She took the cell phone from the patio table and dialed Anne’s number again.

  “What?”

  “You sound pleasant.”

  “Hey, M-J. Sorry, I thought it was Jim again. He knows I’m running behind, tryi
ng to get out the door. He’s called three times in the last half hour.”

  “It’s done.”

  “What’s done?”

  “The papers. They’re signed and ready for the mail.”

  “Let me guess…You agreed to everything and are walking away with nothing.”

  “I don’t care about his money. I don’t need it. I just want to be done.”

  “I can’t believe after all you’ve been through, after all he’s done—”

  “Anne, don’t start. I refuse to dwell on the negative.”

  “That’s what you get for marrying a man twenty years your senior. I told you when he asked you it was wrong.”

  “I still think he loved me, in his way.”

  “Think what you like. It was never meant to be. You said it yourself a hundred times: in your heart and in those damned dreams, you knew it was a mistake.”

  “He was good to me, for a while.”

  “It didn’t help that he kept a constant string of mistresses.”

  “Enough. I’ll see you in thirty minutes. And try to be more positive.” She pulled her hair back and twisted it into a thick braid. Squaring her shoulders and stepping past her reflection in the patio door, she shook her head and smiled. What a life.

  With one finger on the number in the phone book, she dialed O’Connell’s Auto Repair. “Good morning, Mr. O’Connell. This is Marie-Justine Cantrell. Would you have time to do an oil change on my Mercedes today?” She closed the phone book and pushed it to the back corner of the desk. “Great, I’ll drop it off right away. See you in a few minutes.”

  Systematically, she went from room to room, checking every door and window. They were locked. She pulled on a black fleece vest over her gray turtleneck, picked up the keys to her silver Mercedes, and put them in the pocket of the vest. From the center drawer of the desk, she plucked a second set of keys to leave with the car at the repair shop. She struggled with the key ring as she tried to remove her house key. The metal clasp would not release. Running late, she gave up and jammed the extra set of keys in her pocket.