by J. S. James
Delia winced. She should not have said that.
“Exactly my point.”
A phone line lit up. He punched a button and put the receiver back to his ear. “This is Polk County sheriff Gus Grice. Who’s this?” His mouth twitched at one corner. “Well, don’t you have a Jerzy Matusik running a dive school out of your marina?” His wiry brows knit. “No-o, he’s not wanted. Is he there?” Delia chewed at the edge of her lip. “Okay then, have him phone me when he brings his dive class back to the dock.” He left a callback number, hung up, and faced her, sighing dramatically.
“Young woman, in the time since Schenkel was hospitalized and I handed you this career-making case, I have let you run around in your hot rod and rack up extra clock hours pursuing leads that may not even pertain to this case. I’ve signed off on all your mileage claims. Also—no small thing—I’ve gone to great lengths to relieve your caseload. And what’ve I got from you? A fledgling start on a murder book and speculation that a serial pattern exists. Well, I’m inclined to agree on that speculation, and it’s time to ramp up this investigation.”
He sat back. “Now where was I? Hunters, river—”
“Military?” she filled in. He stared at her, a second too long, and she went for it. “Rumor has it a naval officer’s been in contact—”
“He did give me a call, yes.” By Annie’s count, five calls, plus the mailings. “It was on another matter.” Grice fidgeted with the pen on his desk. “Nothing to do with this case. But you have brought up that third element—military.” Delia drew her chin back inquisitively. A diversion tactic? “Among other things, your account of the Zodiac and those rescued hunters prompted me to bring in Matusik.”
Shit. Delia swallowed at the sourness in her mouth. Maybe it was the aftertaste of getting outmaneuvered, or that her maneuvering hadn’t mattered one iota. Or was it just the growing need to pee? That coffee was really perking through her system. Either way, she had to reset.
She got up and returned her empty mug to Grice’s coffee alcove, thinking about her failure to uncover much of anything useful, ignoring the eyes she felt appraising her backside.
Outside, the rain beat against the basement window.
Given time and enough leeway, she’d make up that ground. But his insistence on hiring this Matusik character was the puzzler. So a hunter and his buddies got partially rescued by a boat they could’ve mistaken for something else. She saw plenty of other avenues to investigate.
She turned around and leaned against the counter. “Granted, both of our victims were hunters, both were found on the same river where all kinds of weird activity has gone on …”
“Your point is?”
“Most of the guys—and one woman I questioned—hunt in groups or pairs.” She shrugged with her mouth. “There could have been a dispute that ended in bloodshed and a dumped body. And Lord knows, there are extremists among those antihunting groups. Several hunters mentioned a kayaker that hovered around out there.”
Delia cocked her head. “But now you’re narrowing the case down to this military angle, based on what, that veteran’s flashback to the Iraq war? And what else? Missing fingers? Last I heard, the Pentagon frowns on soldiers running around cutting off enemy body parts for souvenirs.”
“Soldiers are Army.”
“Oka-a-ay. I’m still not following. Unless there’s something more …” She let the words hang like a fishhook.
Grice didn’t bite.
“I’m basing my decision on that vet’s description and experience. Trust me, Cha-vez, it takes one to know one.” The sheriff stood. “I’m ex-Navy.” He picked up his Hula Babe mug, came around the desk and approached her. “Having time on the pond—Southern Command—I’d bet my sweet patoot against an ace-high straight the killer we’re after has experience in special operations.”
She made room, catching a whiff of something other than coffee on his breath as he ran water into the mug before hanging it on a rack.
“That’s why we need somebody who acts and thinks with military logic, a trait you’ll grow to appreciate. More important, Matusik’s outfitted to help you take this case to the scenes of the crimes, which you seem anxious to palm off on others.”
Delia’s gaze had drifted past him. Out the window where the drenching rain threatened to turn the parking lot, the courthouse lawn, the whole world into a river of water.
“Still my case, right?”
He paused, then nodded.
“Well. I’m running checks on this guy.”
* * *
She booked it for the women’s restroom, barely noticing that Darrell, Annie’s new dispatch intern, had replaced her at the com desk.
Minutes later and much relieved, Delia emerged from the second of two marble-partitioned stalls and found Annie had hiked herself onto the counter to the right of the washbasin. Her crossed ankles swung in a lazy circle as she popped her chewing gum.
“Phone message in your box.”
“Zack Lukovsky. Charlie’s brother, right?”
Annie nodded. “Said he found the Isuzu and gave directions.”
“Well, that’s something. Means I’m out for this afternoon.”
“When’ll he be here?”
Delia stepped to the basin, knowing Annie didn’t mean Zack. She adjusted the water temperature and pumped a dollop of soap. Despite a lingering tincture of urinal, the refurbished former men’s room had become their testosterone-free haven. “Who?”
“That blond Coastie with the sexy Polish name. Coming to guard my shores, if I play my cards right.” Delia smiled, thinking back to before they could even talk like this.
She and Annie hadn’t always been close. That was on Delia, who’d kept her distance, despite the dispatcher being one of the more intriguing persons she’d known. During high school, Aunt Matilda’s constant admonishment against Delia having anything to do with chicas flojas—loose girls—had done its damage.
So what had brought Delia around? Target practice. She’d happened across Annie and her hot-pink home-protection semiauto at Salt Creek Rifle and Pistol Club—kicking up dirt all around the target paper. After watching Delia put four of five cowboy loads in the bull’s eye with her chunky .44, Annie had asked her for pointers. She’d shown Annie the power isosceles stance and support-hand placement. Afterward, Annie was at least hitting targets. Several shooting meet-ups later, they’d become fast friends, and it dawned on Delia how the woman had pulled a Ben Franklin on her—find something your “unfriendly” is good at and ask her for help.
“What about Harvey?” Delia asked, with feigned innocence.
Annie stopped chewing. “What about Harvey?” She shrugged. “He’s, you know, home alone now. I’m helping him convalesce, okay? Making sure he eats right.”
“Hope he’s feeling loads better.” Delia yanked paper towels from the dispenser. Having Annie off-balance for a change, she squinted at her friend’s jumble of curls. “Bad hair day, Cox?”
“Huh?”
“Kinda mashed down on one side.”
Annie fluffed reflexively, exposing her ear in the process. Delia clucked her tongue. “Guess the keyhole imprint’s faded already.”
Annie put on a look of mock affront. “Well, Miss Smarty Sleuth, I don’t listen at office doors. Just put two and two together from the sheriff calling Matusik again.” She double-popped her gum. “So? When does the big guy get here?”
Delia balled the paper and swished it into the far wastebasket. “Maybe never, if I can help it.” She performed the briefest of mirror checks, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Your prospective boy toy seems more burden than blessing—an outsider with no law enforcement creds.”
“Then why does the sheriff want to hire that gorgeous guy?”
“Besides the fact your ‘gorgeous guy’ works dirt cheap? Good question.”
“Well, with Harvey out and these murders, and now the boating mishaps, you need—”
“Wait. Mishaps?” Delia asked.
“As in more than one?”
Annie confirmed with a grim face as she slid off the counter. “Castner radioed in from Buena Vista Marine Park. Two hunters paddled back to the launch ramp with a mangled motor on a swamped boat. They swore up and down some weird obstruction yanked the back end under the river, then let go, shearing off the prop. Which makes my point: you need to take any kind of help Grice gives you. Especially somebody who knows his way around the outdoors.”
Delia swallowed and said nothing. By outdoors, Annie meant that assbite river.
* * *
The little blue Isuzu’s plates matched Delia’s notes, as did the attached Calkins trailer.
Zack had met her where the farm lane butted against the highway. He’d driven her to Ham’s pickup in his own truck, along the lane that ran beside an irrigation feeder pipeline and stopped down at the river. An electric pump sat in silence under the chill November rain. Behind the trailer, a makeshift ramp sloped into the water. Delia kept her eyes averted.
They both got out and together walked a ground perimeter around the vehicle. With everything rain-washed, nothing stood out. Facing uphill, the pickup was locked and waiting, revealing an empty truck bed and nothing scratched or broken. No sign of vehicular trauma.
“I checked all the surfaces,” Zack said. “A few mud spatters. That’s it.”
He meant no blood. Of course not. It wasn’t the crime scene. No such lab technician’s luck.
Peering in, the truck cab appeared clean to Delia. A full canvas bag occupied the passenger’s bucket seat. “What are those flat bird heads sticking out?”
“Goose silhouettes, maybe seventy or eighty. You’re dead hunter must’ve field-hunted, too.”
Delia straightened up. “I forgot to thank you for finding the truck. Any luck on the boat?”
He shook his head. “Been slow-trolling the riverbank brush and sloughs upstream of the ferry. My guess? That Starcraft’s long gone.”
She blew out a puff of air. Unless the county motor pool techs found something, she was looking at another snuffed lead. There was one takeaway.
“Zack, am I looking at this right? That this hunter went out by himself?” If Ham did hunt single, it suggested the killer preyed on lone targets. In a way, it made sense—one shotgun to contend with compared to three or four.
“Think so, Detective. Only one guy fit in this little truck, and we didn’t find any other tire tracks.”
“Well, that’s something.” She pulled out her iPhone. “Zack, I need to get back. You okay with guiding the county tow truck down here?”
* * *
“Told you our boy was clean.”
Sitting in Harvey’s cubicle that afternoon, Delia stiffened at the pooh-poohing tone in the sheriff’s voice, but checked an urge to blank the computer screen she’d parked in front of. A glance at the floor beneath her chair confirmed Grice’s Tony Lama snakeskins jutted well into the space, giving him a bird’s-eye view of her work. For a big man, he moved like he wore felt slippers.
She’d gotten nil results, running Jerzy Matusik’s name through crime databases. Paper records yielded little—an open-container hassle back in high school, but no conviction. Was an outstanding wants-and-warrants sheet or a dishonorable discharge too much to ask? His Enlisted Field Service Record had lines and paragraphs redacted. Something wasn’t right about the guy. Or how Grice insisted on using him.
She swiveled in her chair, noticing the sheriff had written something on the cover of the portfolio he clutched. Her murder book. “Our boy separated from the military on a general discharge. Why?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean a damned thing. So long as his discharge classification was not ‘dishonorable’ or ‘other than honorable,’ I’m okay with it.”
She rapped a knuckle against the monitor’s glass facing. “I’m wondering how he’d explain these inked-over paragraphs at the end of his service record.”
Grice bent forward, squinted at the screen, then straightened up, shaking his head. “SOP for a combat operation.”
She shot him a questioning glance. “Combat?”
“Iraqi Freedom. It’s likely Matusik was in on the early invasion stuff with the Navy.” He looked at his watch. “That all you got?”
“Sheriff, I’m just exercising due diligence—”
He thumped the cubical frame, kicking dust into the air. “No more stalling. I have to put off the media, now. Give them something. So I’m announcing we have persons of interest—”
“Like who?” she asked, throwing her hands up. “The ferryboat driver? Some antihunting wing nut with a taste for finger stew?”
“—and I’m telling them I’ve formed a special team.”
“Team? What team?”
“Get used to having Matusik as your interim partner. First off, work up a new canvass-and-search plan for me to approve. You will use him to move this investigation forward. Period.”
He plopped the murder book onto her lap and pounded away toward his office. No felt slippers this time.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Delia read the title Grice had added to the cover and choked back a knee-jerk guffaw. Then she let go with a gut laugh bordering on mental. Using a tangerine Sharpie and bold strokes, her one-upping boss had printed and double-underlined The Argonaut Case.
Inside the cover, Grice had attached a stickum note for her, written in block letters: MEET ASAP WITH MATUSIK—RUN EQUIPMENT CHECK.
Delia stifled another round of convulsions. Whatever the sheriff meant, she knew what Annie would make of that.
16
SIX WEEKS INTO WATERFOWL SEASON
Delia’s meeting with Jerzy Matusik was put off until students in his dive class were certified. By then, the sheriff was fit to be tied, insisting she catch up with his new hire at a backwater restaurant near Salem. Never mind it was Thanksgiving morning and she’d miss helping Aunt Matilda make tamales stuffed with turkey and spiced with gossip on the relatives.
Even in fog, nobody driving down River Road South missed the Flapjack Corral. Its neon-rimmed sign featured farm livestock in tutus, merrily dancing along a wood rail fence. Below that, Laissez les bons temps rouler was written in artful scroll.
Delia swerved into a parking lot so full of pickups it could have passed for a truck seizure auction. She backed her brother’s Super Sport into a space opposite the bared-teeth grille of a yellow Hummer. Attached was a strapping big boat on a tandem-wheel trailer. Matusik’s “equipment,” she surmised.
In the quiet of a stilled engine, she repositioned the mirror and angled her head to check the French braid she’d coiled into a seashell bun. Scrunching her face, she removed Mama’s heirloom comb, and her duty braid fell free. Leave the primping to Annie; this was business. To get her head right, Delia concentrated on why she was there.
The sheriff had demanded she “deploy” Matusik by next morning, leaving her only a breakfast meeting to scratch beneath the ink of those redacted paragraphs in his service jacket. One day to size up his capabilities—whether he’d do her investigation any good. Given a pass, she could start him canvassing by proxy what amounted to a forty-mile-long crime scene. Because no way was she setting foot in that boat or going on that river.
Overcome by a sensation of being watched from behind, she re-aimed the mirror and picked out a blurry image through the yellow vehicle’s reflecting windshield. Two brown eyes and a hockey-puck nose, a pink tongue lolling beneath. A large, light-colored dog waited patiently behind the steering wheel as if ready and able to chauffeur its master anywhere. Delia snickered, grabbing her bag and getting out of the car. Likely Rover was just waiting for a greasy treat.
As she made a pass around the Hummer-boat combo, Rover reeled in his tongue but stayed quiet, watching her survey the vehicle’s contents. The back seat held one suitcase and a duffel bag. The rest of the inside was crammed with assorted scuba gear, including several wet suits. She knew nothing about boats, so the walk around it was perfunctory.
&n
bsp; With the sheriff’s mandate for an equipment check satisfied, she headed for the restaurant. Pushing open the heavy plank door, she was taken aback by a pungent clash of sausage gravy, buttermilk biscuits, and charred bacon. A carnivore’s idea of heaven.
For a Thanksgiving morning, the place was noisy with hunters, enthusiastic pig eaters, and waitresses scurrying in and out of a kitchen door, bearing platter-laden trays.
The lobby sign said, Don’t just stand there! Park it! She headed in.
Booths lined the sides of an aisle that hooked left at a pony wall. It was latticed with fake climbing ivy and blocked her view of the back. Except for a clutch of white-haired ladies, most of the patrons looked to be charter members of the ball-cap-and-field-jacket clan.
Delia made it to the ivy when her feet stalled. “Híjole,” she hissed, on a steep intake of breath. For once Annie hadn’t exaggerated. Mesmerized, she stood there, taking in the suave-looking Anglo seated at a back table and framed by a corner window. The misty river barely registered beyond those squared shoulders.
If that man was Jerzy Matusik, he was gorgeous. Although his slightly shaggy head was bent over a map, his even features stood out. Not the body-builder physique she’d imagined. More like what’s-his-name. That new actor Viggo something, only not so rugged. And taller. And blonder. And tanner, and … Stop it now. Get a grip.
She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, telling her legs to get moving.
Her legs were about to follow through when he looked up and their eyes met. Her hand had a mind of its own, leaping to the base of her throat. She faked a lame glance around, then back to him, open mouth now closed, then into a grin. With that jaw, he could’ve modeled for Michelangelo, smiled for Da Vinci. Feeling schoolgirl stupid, she yanked her hand down, stuffed it in a coat pocket, and strode up to his table.
“Jerzy Matusik? I’m Detective Delia Chavez.”