The brick building was a plain one-story structure with no distinguishable features. It looked as if it had been built fifty years ago and was in need of a major renovation. In Montana, real estate was at a premium, and she bet it was still expensive to rent.
She pushed through the front door and walked up to an empty receptionist station and waited a few seconds before knocking on the desk. “Anyone here?”
In the back, she heard papers shuffle, so she followed the sound to a small room in the back where a man knelt by a copier. He had opened the machine’s front access door and was yanking on sheets of crumpled paper jammed inside.
Joan knocked on the doorjamb. “I’m looking for Darren Halpern.”
The man glanced over his shoulder. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a face weathered by the sun, and bright-green eyes that peered over a pair of reading glasses. “I’m Darren.”
She reached for her police ID out of habit but caught herself. “My name is Joan Mason.”
He rubbed the back of his hand against his damp forehead. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m a cop and in town for a few days. I know a few things about arson, and I’m assisting Detective Bailey.”
He placed a hand on his knee and, as he rose, stifled a groan. “I’ve driven by the shop. It’s awful.”
“What’s with the knee? Looks like it hurts.”
“Twisted it while I was hiking a few weeks ago. I always underestimate the terrain out here.”
“It’s beautiful country, but it does take its toll.”
Darren was not swayed by her less-than-stellar attempt at small talk. “What do you want from me?”
“What can you tell me about Lana Long?”
“I didn’t usually see much of her when I came by the shop.”
“How many businesses do you and your wife own?”
“The beauty shop and a dozen houses in town that we’re renovating.”
“Are they doing well?”
“Yeah, sure. The beauty shop had great cash flow and was supposed to keep us afloat until the rental properties came online. Ask Becca Sullivan. She should have our bank statements now.”
“When were these properties going to be available for rent?”
“Three months, four at the latest.”
“Were you highly leveraged?”
Halpern shook his head. “Sounds like I should have a lawyer with me.”
Instead of pressing, Joan shifted her line of questioning. “I’m trying to track down Lana Long,” she lied. “Someone said she might be holed up with her boyfriend.”
“I didn’t realize she had a boyfriend, but I didn’t know her that well.”
“Apparently, she was sporting an engagement ring at the diner late last week. Dan Tucker said you two shared a booth.”
“She texted Jessica and wanted to meet.”
“But you met her?”
“My wife was packing for our trip to Chicago.”
“What did Lana want to talk about?”
“She was quitting her job and heading back to Denver.”
“Did you notice her ring?”
“I did not. She kept her hands in her lap, I think.”
Darren’s face projected a mixture of boredom and annoyance, but she could not tell if the reaction was genuine. “How much do you and your wife stand to make from the insurance company when the claim is settled?”
“You’ll have to ask my wife. She handles all the finances. I handle the renovations.”
“Would she tell you if there was a financial problem with the company?”
“There wasn’t a problem.” He tapped his index finger on the copier as his expression tightened. “I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door and looked back at him. “You know what strikes me about Lana?”
“No, what?”
“She looks like a younger version of your wife.”
“Get out,” Darren said through clenched teeth. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
She had hit a nerve. Good.
An express package was waiting for Gideon when he returned to his desk. It was from the warden of Montana State Prison. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and sat. He ripped open the tab and removed the thin bundle of copied letters that had been written to Elijah James Weston, prisoner #2317104. There were letters from five women.
The warden indicated that Elijah had received many more letters in the last decade, but these were the only ones in Elijah’s file. His staff was searching for the remaining letters.
Gideon knew the letters would never be found. The warden had said Elijah had worked in his office during his last year in prison. He likely had removed the letters.
The warden also indicated that because of Elijah’s excellent record within the prison, he had been allowed six contact visits a year. These visits allowed the prisoner to hug or shake hands with the visitor and to sit across from each other at a table, not separated by glass. The women who visited Elijah Weston were Scottie Winter in 2014, Sarah Rogers in 2019, and Lana Long, who had visited him six times in 2020.
According to the warden, all the women were required to submit a questionnaire detailing not only basic facts about their lives but also if they had prison records. All Weston’s visitors had been incarcerated at one point in their lives. Infractions included prostitution, identity theft, and narcotics possession.
There was nothing of real note in any of the letters. Given the strict guidelines of the prison, the letters simply detailed their day-to-day lives. On several occasions, the women would send books to Elijah via a mail-order book service. All the women except Joan were on Elijah’s preapproved visitor list and were able to send him money via the prison systems.
Gideon set Joan’s letters on top of the pile and studied her bold cursive handwriting. She had asked him several times in different ways why he had set the College Fire, but each time he had vehemently denied it. Finally, she had stopped asking, as if she hoped he would reveal his motivations. Elijah had never revealed anything significant about himself, and yet she had continued to write him right up to this year. Her last letter read:
Elijah,
It’s been a few months. What can I say? Work’s been crazy. I have a tough case on my docket. I am digging into case facts and motivations, but it seems the deeper I go, the more I come up empty. I want to solve this case badly, but as a friend of mine once said, “There are no guarantees in life,” and that includes finding the answers that explain painful events.
Excuse this grim, short letter. Perhaps my next one will be more upbeat when I am less reflective.
Sincerely,
Joan Mason
He glanced at the date. The letter had been written on February 7, 2020. He shifted to his computer and searched Avery Newport’s name. Newport’s house had burned down February 1, and Joan would have been in the early and, most would argue, ugliest stage of the investigation.
He pictured her sitting alone writing this letter. Was she pouring out her frustration to a man thousands of miles away and locked in prison? It didn’t sound like she was working him as an asset at this point.
A knock on his door had him looking up to find Detective Sullivan. “Got a second? I have some of the Halperns’ financials.”
Gideon rose, and when she took the seat by his desk, he sat again. “Are they in debt?”
“Technically no. But they own several properties around the city that they’re renovating. Right now, they’re seeing negative cash flow, but by the first of the year, that should turn around.”
“But . . .”
“They have a balloon payment due on the Beau-T-Shop building in December. That’s going to be a tough payment for them to make unless they have a secret stash of cash that the IRS doesn’t know about.”
“If the insurance policy Jessica took out in February of 2020 pays out, they would be flush with legitimate cash.”
“To the tune of two million dollars.”
When Gideon saw Joan pull up in his driveway, he was somewhat surprised. She had said she wanted a hotel, but after a day of checking around, she’d likely realized it would cost a fortune. With the leaves turning and the air now crisp and clean, Missoula was inundated with tourists willing to pay high hotel rates.
“Is that Joan?” Kyle asked.
Gideon pushed away from the laptop he had placed on the dining room table next to Kyle and his homework. “It is.”
“She’s come to stay in the apartment?”
“I think so.” If she was a target, Gideon liked the idea of having her near. He already knew he would be sleeping with one eye open until she left town.
“Is she going to eat with us?” Kyle asked. “It seems like the polite thing to do.”
“Yes, it does.” He watched Joan hoist her backpack on her shoulder and run her fingers through her short hair. It had been longer in college, soft as silk, and as thick as a horse’s mane. He had liked the way it skimmed the top of her breasts when she was on top of him.
He shoved the memory aside, recalling that her hair had been scorched in the College Fire and that she had cropped it short. Why she had kept it that way over the years, he did not know, but it seemed to suit the person she was now.