Killer View by Ridley Pearson Page A

inhaled.
    “Maybe you didn’t hit a tree. Maybe you can identify one or two of these guys from photos.”
    “I hit a tree.” Eyes still fixed on the ground.
    “They threaten you? I can help with that.”
    He huffed out a laugh and some smoke with it.
    “Why don’t you ask someone else?”
    “Because most kids are afraid of them.” Walt gave that a few seconds to sink in. “You don’t strike me as a kid who’s afraid of much, Crab.”
    Crabtree glanced up briefly from the toes of his boots.
    “I’d like to know how many there are. What they drive. Where they’re staying. Who they know. Anything along those lines. You think you could do that?”
    He shrugged.
    “Community service can’t be too wonderful this time of year. What do they have you doing, shoveling sidewalks at Rowan House? Cleaning the dog shit off the ski trails? I can make that go away.”
    “You’re the one put it there in the first place.”
    “Was I the one who broke into that laundry to steal chemicals? Don’t put that on me.”
    Elbie banged on the inside glass of the door to the garage and held up a three-ring binder.
    Crabtree snuffed out his cigarette and shuffled back inside, Walt trailing behind. Walt took the manufacturer’s product description—the sheet included a print of the tread pattern—and thanked Elbie. There was no mistaking its similarity to the tire tread in Fiona’s photo.
    As he climbed back into the Cherokee, Walt caught a glimpse of Crabtree’s bruised face through the filthy gray glass of the garage doors.

10
    MYRA, WALT’S SISTER-IN-LAW, SAT ON THE ONLY FREE chair in Walt’s crowded office. Pushed back into a corner against a bookshelf, she faced his desk, her skinny legs crossed, a solemn expression dominating her shrunken face. Her awkwardly cropped brown hair was held out of her eyes with a pink plastic clip. Brown eyeliner was smudged over her right eye.
    “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, giving her a peck on the cheek as he crossed to his desk. She returned the kiss, and then grabbed his arm and worked the thumb of her left hand against his cheek to remove the lipstick left behind.
    “You look tired.”
    “I am,” Walt answered. “And I’m busy, Myra. A lot on my plate.” He’d received an update from Search and Rescue: forty percent of the mountain below the Drop had been searched, with no sign of the missing skier.
    He didn’t want to say how she looked. And he didn’t want to get her talking. Once started, she was like an avalanche.
    There had been a time, three years ago, back before the death of Walt’s brother, when she’d had some weight to her breasts and hips. Had even turned a few heads. But grief had freeze-dried her, and there was no reconstituting that original Myra. Robert’s death had cost Walt too—his marriage, among other things.
    Myra kicked the office door closed. Walt rarely shut his office door; he could almost hear the gossip begin on the other side of it.
    “You asked Kevin about something going on at school.”
    “I’m talking to a bunch of the kids,” he said. “Just spoke to Taylor Crabtree a few minutes ago.”
    “You could have told me.”
    “It’s kind of quiet right now. I asked Kevin to keep it between us.”
    “If you’re turning your nephew—my son—into an informer, I’d like to know about it.”
    “And if it gets that far you will.” Walt shuffled some papers. “You and Kevin have dinner plans?”
    “Now we do. Eight o’clock?”
    Walt smiled. “Good.”
    “Girls okay?”
    “Nikki needs a new coat. Emily’s growing out of her boots.” He looked up exasperated. “I suck as a father.”
    “Not true.”
    “Work is taking over again.”
    “It goes in cycles. You know that. You’re tired. Give me the girls for a couple days. Catch a movie or something.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “You can’t be everything for everyone. There’s no one complaining but you. The girls are happier. You’re better off than you were with