Free Full Tilt by Rick Mofina Page A

with the men.
    Next were photos of Tara Dawn Mae, from her missing persons file from Alberta.
    Again, nothing.
    Then they showed them enlarged photos of the necklace with the guardian angel charm.
    Nothing.
    “What’s this really about?” Scott was clearly troubled. “I get the feeling there’s something more serious going on. Do you think J.C. had something to do with these people?”
    “At this point, we’re not sure what to think,” Brennan admitted.
    Then came photos of Carl Nelson.
    “That guy.” Delmar tapped his finger on Nelson’s face.
    “He used to come around, talk to J.C.,” Reggie said, nodding.
    “When did he start coming around?” Brennan stared hard at the men.
    “It started a month or so back, maybe two months,” Reggie said. “We were in the park, passing a bottle of Thunderbird. J.C. wouldn’t take none, he was on the program doin’ fine without preachin’ to us. That’s when this guy—” Reggie pointed at Nelson “—came up and just gave us money. Fifty bucks each. Said he remembered when his family had hard times. We get that sometimes.”
    “Did he give you his name?”
    “Jones, Adam Jones, I think,” Reggie said.
    “Then the guy came around more,” Delmar said. “Bought us lunches and took an interest in J.C., his military time, telling J.C. how thankful and honored he was.” Delmar jabbed his forefinger into the table. “I tell you, sir, that meant the goddamn world to J.C. because he was still carrying the ghosts of the men he lost.”
    Reggie nodded.
    “J.C. was a true-blue soldier. You know, he still had his dog tags. Put them in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got jumped. I think we were the only ones he told.”
    “Can you recall any other details about the man’s interest in J.C.?”
    “He started bringing him clothes, pants, boots, jackets, stuff he said he no longer needed, or never wore,” Delmar said.
    “Yeah,” Reggie said. “Good stuff, because they were practically the same height, build, age, the same everything. The guy told J.C. the clothes were his and he didn’t need them anymore.”
    Brennan and Dickson exchanged a glance.
    “Do you recall anything else?”
    “They were getting chummy,” Delmar said. “I remember, about two weeks before we last saw J.C., he was saying that he might have a lead on a good job but it was across the state.”
    “In Rampart?” Brennan asked.
    Delmar shook his head. “Didn’t say, but he sure was feeling good about things, you just saw it on his face and stuff.”
    “Then that was it,” Reggie said. “We never saw J.C. after that.”
    * * *
    Brennan and Dickson shared their theories on the case on the long drive back to Rampart.
    “What do you think, Ed? Nelson was making bondage, porn movies at the barn, maybe invited Pollard to take part?”
    “Maybe, but look again at what his note said.”
    Dickson read it aloud. “‘I only wanted someone to love in my life. It’s better to end everyone’s pain. God forgive me for what I’ve done. Carl Nelson.’ Okay, so something else was going on. Where does Pollard fit?”
    “We need to get warrants on Nelson’s house, his bank records, credit card and his computer.”
    “Wait, how did Nelson use Pollard?”
    “Look at their physical particulars, both are white males, both are six feet tall. Nelson’s in his forties and Pollard’s thirty-nine, almost the same age and both have the same body type.”
    “So what are you saying?”
    “I think Nelson selected Pollard to stage his own suicide.”

16
    Calgary, Alberta
    T he Southern Alberta District headquarters for the RCMP’s K Division in northeast Calgary was housed in a glass-and-brick building overlooking Deerfoot Trail, the city’s major expressway.
    Thankfully, it was also near the airport, Kate thought as she wheeled her rented Toyota into the parking lot.
    Kate had arranged to meet a Corporal Jared Fortin at 9:00 a.m. to discuss Tara Dawn Mae’s disappearance and