Raked Over

  * * *

  The next morning I finished my routine, including reading the much-missed newspaper, and was making a new pot of coffee when Agent Wade arrived about ten minutes late. A train had delayed him, a usual occurrence in these parts, but I could see he wasn’t used to waiting in traffic. After inspection from the dogs, he followed me to the study, its wide door open to the morning air. In his fifties, almost militarily fit, he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie, and was of average height with receding brown hair and blue eyes. His fair-complexioned face was slightly sunburned and had an easy grin, looking much like the older version of Michael Keaton, or John Elway without the big teeth.

  He took his coffee black, as I did. We sat down in the worn, soft chairs for our chat, the dogs huddled around us, Pecos close to me. He reached down to give Patsy a scratch on the neck under her red bandana, and she leaned into him. I liked him immediately.

  “I’m here, Ms. Raffenport—” he began.

  “Really, just Lily is fine, Agent Wade,” I said.

  “And you can call me Henry, ma’m” he smiled and went on, “I’m just following up on some information we received in the investigation into Barry Correda’s accident. Your name came up several times in our reports and I’m here to check on some details.” He put on a pair of reading glasses and reviewed his notes.

  “How did my name come up? I didn’t really know him,” I said.

  “According to the report, Nancee Kepler from Mr. Correda’s office was interviewed, and her records show that you, along with others, had an appointment with Mr. Correda in the last several months. We check out all information of this type, just routine,” he said, and flipped a few report pages over. “And then Sgt. John Boyer of the Weld County Sheriff’s Department forwarded a report of a phone call he had with you about Shannon Parkhurst that included information about this Barry Correda. As he reviewed the recent Correda accident file he remembered that he had this information gathered from the other investigation, and sent it along.”

  Hmm, so Sgt. Boyer was listening, I thought. “Yes, I see …”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning of your information about Mr. Correda and then we’ll proceed from there?” Henry asked.

  “I just heard about Barry’s accident. Are you investigating for a reason?” I asked.

  “We investigate all accidents, yes, ma’m. There’s just some loose ends that I’m trying to tie up before the case is closed. That’s all,” he answered. “I’m interested in whatever you can tell me.”

  “But first, can you tell me anything about Shannon Parkhurst’s case? Are you re-opening it?” I asked.

  Henry Wade said he couldn’t share any information about Shannon, one way or another, or if there even was a case on Shannon. No information was coming from him, that was clear.

  Disappointed, I started on the story, from my point of view, and Henry nodded at times and kept his eyes on his notes. I figured he was comparing this version with the report of Sgt. Boyer so I tried to be a precise as I could, and not get too elaborate with my theories. My search had been for information about Shannon Parkhurst and coincidentally involved information about Barry Correda, I explained. Henry Wade made a few notes of his own on the side of the reports as I went along. I admitted that I had no real reason to talk to Sgt. Boyer except that the story about Shannon’s death didn’t feel right, that Barry’s statements didn’t add up, and that the whole trunk thing seemed odd.

  “Yes, ma’m, I have copies of the reports about the incidents that took place at your residence here,” he said, and then smiled. “And, well, sometimes intuition can give us some good leads. Please continue.” Just then Patsy and Pecos jumped up and rushed out the open door, loudly barking at some unseen foe in the yard.

  “Sorry about that! But they have their duty to perform, too,” I laughed.

  “Oh, it’s okay. The little one, Patsy’s her name? Reminds me of my dog in Montana. She was a feisty black and tan healer mix like her.” He looked out at the dogs, now sniffing around a tree. Then, looking back at me, his steady blue-eyed gaze holding my own, he repeated, “Please continue.”

  I started on the information I had since my talk with Sgt. Boyer. Again, I admitted, a lot of it was based on things not seeming to fit, not on any proof of wrongdoing. Looking for information about Shannon only coincidentally turned up information about Barry Correda, I repeated.

  I told him about Shannon at Ghost Ranch; how I managed to get my chat with Andrea Brubaker, and her narrative on Barry and Shannon in New Mexico; Brubaker Properties; Ayudar a los Oprimidos; and Andrea’s ostentatious PR gift to Nueva Oportunidad to pave Shannon’s career in northern Colorado. I discussed how Andrea’s story didn’t jibe with Barry’s version, but I didn’t have any whys. And now, with Barry Correda’s death, it all seemed like a dead end.

  Henry Wade nodded and took a few notes, but I couldn’t tell if any of this was new information to him or not. I asked him if he wanted more coffee.

  “No, thanks,” he said, “but I would suggest to you at this time that if you have any suspicions, or ideas, or feelings that there is something wrong, that you contact me or my office immediately, and leave the investigating to us. That’s our job and not the job of the public such as yourself.” I was wondering when the lecture would come, but it appeared that that was all there was to it.

  “Is that about all you know? Anything else? As I said, in Correda’s accident report there are some loose ends and I don’t like loose ends. I’ll take your intuition and all,” he continued, smiling again.

  As almost an afterthought, I told him about Regina Baca thinking Barry Correda may be Momo Morgan, maybe not. And then I had to explain who Regina Baca was, and then how I knew her, and then about Tomás Baca. Probably too much information, I thought.

  Henry Wade continued to take notes with no indication of a reaction to any of it. Then he thanked me, closed up his folder, and stood to leave. The dogs came running back inside at the sound of movement in their house, their tails wagging. Henry gave each one an affectionate pat on the head, and turned to shake my hand.

  “Thanks again. That about ties things up. If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” he said.

  “Please, can you tell me anything about Shannon’s case? I really think they’re linked. Don’t you think there are too many coincidences? I think Barry had something to do with her death.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not able to divulge that information,” he said politely, of course. He walked down the steps to his white Crown Victoria in the hot driveway, took off his dark jacket, and loosened his tie before he opened the door and got in.

  Well, I thought, as I turned back into the cool interior of the depot, I didn’t get much information from that interview, but maybe he did. But for what? If there was anything suspicious about Shannon’s death, my “leads” seem to lead to Barry Correda, and Barry Correda was dead. The CBI was closing the file. I felt pretty empty with that realization.