by J. S. James
At Black Dog, she’d used his coat liner to slow the bleeding until they made it back to Bowman Park. Minutes after Zack called 911, the place was a cop convention—Albany Police and county-mounties, all wagon-wheeled around an ambulance.
Then Grice rolled in. Acted like he was running the show. Pressured the Linn County sheriff into sending his patrol boat to search the slough with a couple hours of daylight left. The EMTs were still working on the detective’s ear, so Grice had zeroed in on Zack, grilling him, jacking his answers around. Trying to turn blame for whatever happened at Black Dog onto the detective. Or him. Or both.
A dark-red trickle ran under the sheriff’s boot toe, reminding Zack of the important thing—the detective had never lied to him. He looked Grice right in his heavy-lidded eyes. “I was close enough to know she didn’t shoot a fucking broadhead blade through her own damned ear. Check out that van back in the woods and I bet you find something.”
Grice stepped in close. His breath could pickle a live porcupine. “One at a time, smartass. What makes you so sure it was a broadhead blade?”
Zack didn’t know what the detective had done with the shaft he’d given her, but he sensed he shouldn’t go there. “Because, fat-ass, I found—” In an instant, he was on his toes, yanked up nearly chin to chin with the bigger man. For a chubbo, Grice had lightning-quick hands.
“Guess what, you little pissant. Your sass mouth bought you a night in the bucket.”
Zack knew better than to struggle, given the sheriff had a crush grip on the front of his thermals. With his jaw tight against the man’s knuckles, he had to spit out words from between his teeth. “Wrong county, Sheriff. Not your jurisdiction.”
“We’ll see about that.” Grice’s boozy eyes darted around the parking lot, searching for the other sheriff. Zack figured his mouth had earned him a stay in the old hoosegow when somebody shouted.
“Patrol boat’s back. Body recovered.”
Grice let go of him and stalked off toward the river, catching up with the other sheriff. Zack knew he should leave. Instead, he followed. The stuff running into his collar was too white to call rain and too wet for snow, but he had to be sure about the body. For Charlie’s sake.
Rusted pipe columns punctured the edges of Bowman Park’s floating launch dock, allowing it to rise and fall with the river. Only fifteen feet of piling showed. Zack kept the column closest to shore between him and the two sheriffs standing next to their deputies at middock, staring into the county patrol boat that had tied up. Zack planned to slip away after he made sure the recovered body had been the one hunting hunters and not Tweety Bates.
Still, if it was the former under that boat tarp, the killer might’ve gotten to Tweety before Zack and the detective had made it down to Black Dog.
Or maybe somebody else had been monkeying around in that slough, like Detective Chavez suspected.
Her questions had nagged at him ever since he’d gotten her to quit searching for Tweety and motor back to the park. Questions like: Had Zack seen any scuba gear transferred from the van into the kayak that morning? Had the kayaker been wearing a wet suit? Had he been towing an underwater PWC?
Zack’s answers were no, not sure, and what the hell’s a PWC? She should’ve said water scooter first off.
The patrol craft’s center aisle stretched a good eighteen feet from an open bow to the OMC Cobra stern drive. Boats like that usually made Zack drool for one of his own. Not this time. Not after they peeled back the yellow tarp over the forward six feet of decking.
The body lay facedown, feet toward the stern. No wet suit. Neoprene short pants, waterproof paddling jacket, and aqua booties, all in puke green. Zack swallowed on seeing exposed body parts. The neck, the lower back where the shell rode up, and the calves were all the color of overripe squid. Something looked wrong with the right hand, too. Like the guy’s sleeve had melted onto his wrist.
One of the boat operators rolled the body over. It was the kayaker who’d paddled off from that dock earlier in the morning. He’d been semi-gutted. Torn open with heavy-duty loads at close range.
Zack jerked his head away, taking deep breaths as wet snowflakes skittered across his face. If that was Charlie’s killer, Zack felt no satisfaction, only deep sadness. He kept on facing the oncoming dusk, barely hearing Grice yell to somebody at the top of the boat ramp.
“Get Cha-vez down here.”
* * *
“That’s not the one who attacked me. That’s not the guy I shot.”
The cop crew lining the dockside turned as a unit and gawked at the bandaged side of Delia’s head. She rested a foot on the curve of the bow. It was the only spot that afforded her a look inside the patrol boat. Even from a poor angle, one glance was enough.
Grice struggled up off his knees and squinted at her. “Now how in hell could you know that? You can’t even see his face from that view.”
She sank her hands into her coat pockets and returned the glare. “This one still has the top of his head.” Everyone looked inside the boat at once, as if they could’ve overlooked a guy missing a chunk of skull the size of a pancake. And that burnt hand … She flashed on the flaming Heineken bottle that had drifted past her at Black Dog. “Anybody check for ID? Maybe ALF affiliation?”
They glanced her way again. One of the marine deputies tilted the body onto its side. The bulge of grayish-purple intestines from the encircling neoprene caused Delia to step backward, covering her mouth. The deputy groped the body and came up with a billfold. “Shit,” he said, displaying the open wallet to the group. “What joker would name his son Moonshaft Nastry?”
“What joker would keep it?” cracked Grice, earning a few sniggers.
“How’s your ear, Detective?” At Zack’s nearby whisper, she noticed him peering from behind a dock post.
“Fine.” Not fine. Not after that sight. Not with everybody staring. Her head felt grossly lopsided, like the EMTs had strapped on a traffic cone instead of a bandage. The whole left side of her face felt saggy, deadened by localized anesthetic until she could get to Albany General for a sew-up. She must look a hell of a lot worse than she felt. “Hurts like crazy, but thanks for asking. Zack, did they say anything about Tweety Bates?”
“Nah. Think the guy who attacked you got to Tweety first?”
“Can’t say until they fish out another body, but I have an idea who killed Nastry and came close to checking me out. But Nastry’s prints were found in the truck that rolled over our senior detective.”
“Get out! Harvey Schenkel? Charlie’s old boss? Told you that kayaker was a hyena.”
Grice had turned his back to her, was arguing with the Linn County sheriff. She stayed put. Jurisdiction issues, she guessed.
Zack inched out from the post. “I told the sheriff how I’d gone over the hill to look for Tweety. So I can’t back you up.”
Delia nodded, hoping she could fend for herself on this one. A dicey situation without another body recovery.
She stepped aside as two of the Linn County contingent trooped off the dock behind their sheriff. The confab was over. It seemed they were full up on major crimes at the moment. That left the search-and-rescue pair and Grice at the boat. He crooked his finger toward her, turned, and walked out along the dock.
Delia whispered, “Zack, if the sheriff tries to implicate you in this, I’m your witness.”
Tires crunched in the new-fallen snow at the top of the boat ramp. It was Castner’s cruiser. Jerzy wasn’t with him. Probably off knocking boots with Foushée.
She felt Zack’s knuckle-tap on her elbow. “I ain’t the one your sheriff’s after.”
* * *
Grice waited for Delia near the end of the dock, his back to a river boiling with whirlpools. She had to step around the marine patrol deputies bending over the edges of the tarp, grunting to hoist Nastry out of their boat. They lowered his corpse onto the deck and the tarp went slack. Pea-size punctures dotted the kayaker’s torso. Much of the shot had clustered, causin
g innards to spill out where his belly should have been. He’d been shot by a large-bore shotgun. Like the one she’d grabbed on to for a fleeting moment at Black Dog.
With a bare or gloved hand? She couldn’t remember.
She stopped a healthy six feet back from the sheriff and a long eight from the end of the dock. Slowly, he faced her, turning her bagged Lew Horton Special over in his hand while shaking his head.
“Cha-vez, Cha-vez. Boy, am I going to enjoy watching you try and worm your way out of this.”
She said nothing. No sense giving him more to work with.
“You say you shot somebody? I believe it.” Once more, he held up the bagged revolver. “The burnt-carbon stink alone tells me this weapon’s been fired.” He was having a barrel of fun. “Betcha dollars to doughnuts, the medical examiner digs around in yonder corpse, he’s gonna find a .44 Magnum or two amongst the shotgun pellets. But here’s what I don’t get. With you already on the cusp of dismissal, what in the Sam Hell were you thinking?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “I used my weapon on an attacker. What shooting I did was in self-defense, and I have a carry permit—”
“That permit is hereby revoked. Did you bring along any other firearms?” He nodded toward the body lying in wait for the ME. “Maybe a shotgun you used afterward? To mask the real cause of death?”
Zack was right. Grice wanted to take away more than her job. She could only stall: a slight diversion before they discovered Tweety’s ten-gauge.
“My only weapon was the Smith & Wesson,” she continued, hoping to God she’d used her gloved hand on the ten-gauge. “We heard a shotgun before we reached Black Dog. Besides, Nastry’s prints were found—”
“Oh, I’m counting on that shotgun,” said Grice, leaning to his right and yelling at someone past her shoulder. “Take Lukovsky up and search that boat on his trailer. Move it.” She craned her head in the direction he was yelling. Castner stood behind her, out of uniform and gawking at the mangled body.
“Will do, Sheriff.”
Grice stepped in close to her. “Now, I’m parked on this crime scene until I sort out the mess you’ve made. So here’s what you’re going to do.” He motioned toward the parking lot. “Get in your flaming white jalopy up there, drive it home, and confine yourself until further notice.”
“What? Like house arrest? You can’t do that.”
He leaned in, his voice lowering to a breathy growl. “No, I can’t. But you’ve given me a heap of probable cause, and I’d be only too happy to have Castner take you into custody”—a pause like a silent shoe dropping—“if you prefer that to the courtesy I’m extending here.”
She was speechless. Shaking.
“I’ll set Annie up to be your ankle bracelet.”
She unfolded her arms and her rage. “So, it matters not one diddly fuck that somebody nearly split my skull open with an arrow? Tried to drown my ass?”
He glanced at his watch. “You have forty minutes to get home before Annie’s check-in call.”
“What do I do, skip having my ear sewed back together?”
His gaze brushed over the bandaged side of her head, as if she’d gotten pasted with a snowball instead of shot by a crossbow.
“Oh. Well. Annie’s first call will go to the ER at Albany General. Clock starts then.”
* * *
With Chavez gone and Nastry’s body loaded into the EMT van for transport, Gus wasted no time talking the Linn County Marine Patrol deputies into another sweep of Black Dog Slough. They also agreed to run their searchlights a mile or so downriver along the brush lines where a second body might hang up. Assuming there was one.
Chavez was a giant pain in Gus’s ass, but she’d been truthful, and he was desperate to find out whether she’d killed his cash cow. Bannock had been tight-mouthed about why his crew alone had to take Bastida. He’d made it crystal-clear that alive was the only way Gus would see more than the ninety thou he’d collected so far.
His Interceptor had barely started kicking out heat when the radio squawked.
“Sheriff, what’s your ten-twenty?” It was Annie. He’d forgotten to call her about Chavez.
“I’m still at Albany. Hey Annie. Are you on the early or late shift?”
“Until twelve, but—”
“Okay, got a situation that might keep you over.”
“First, tell me something, Sheriff. Are you expecting company? Like that naval officer from Virginia?”
Gus stared at the mic for a second. “Come again?”
“He stopped by. In a god-awful blood-red Hawaiian shirt and nylon flight jacket. Very military. Rugged-looking, except for the walking canes.”
Shit. Shit and holy shit. “What’d he say?”
“Only that you’re to call. He’s still looking for a place to stay.”
Stunned, Gus let the mic slip into his lap. His gaze shifted out of focus. He’d rather swim with cottonmouths than hand Bannock a big goose egg. Or inform him that Bastida might be dead—shot by one of Gus’s own people. Maybe he could stall. Say that—
The radio clicked. “Sheriff, you still there?”
Gus lifted his mic hand. “Yeah, Annie. I’ll get back to you. Out.”
He rolled down and motioned Caster over to him. “Cut Lukovsky loose and park your butt down by that dock. See whether the Linn County patrol boat comes back with another body. If Chavez shot somebody else like she claims, we need to make sure it’s not Bastida.”
“Oh, ye-e-eah. About that.” Castner tapped his forehead. “Uh, with all this shit goin’ on, I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“Happened an hour ago. Right after I got the message to scoot on up here.”
“What happened?”
“Me and Matusik figured a way to narrow our search—target vectoring, he calls it. Had his boat pulled out of the water at Independence because—”
Gus slapped the outside of the door with his palm. “Get to the goddamn point.”
“We spotted that snake-sided Zodiac. Big as life and haulin’ ass downriver.”
“Around Independence?”
Castner nodded, enjoying his moment. “Sheriff, I don’t know where that Bastida character was coming from or where he was headed. But he sure as hell ain’t dead.”
Gus gazed out the windshield, blinking. Breathing easier. His cash cow was still milkable.
35
Big Juan had called while Delia was getting her ear sown back in place. She’d met him and swapped cars—him circling the loaner, making sure she hadn’t marred his beloved lowrider, her following, thanking him for the free fix-up. If only he had a fix-up for Black Dog.
Twenty minutes later, she slid to a stop in her driveway under falling snow. Why was she still shaking? Not much had happened in the last twenty-four. She’d only taken a life, saved her own skin, and gotten put under house arrest. The kind only judges could impose. This kind, she’d ignore.
She fed the cat, picked up her gym bag and .380 caliber security blanket. Grice might have confiscated the S&W, but her Kel-Tec featherweight still packed a punch.
Five minutes later, she was on the road to Dallas, a bundle of nerves in need of a workout. The little automatic was tucked in the bag. Security checks were nonexistent at Golda’s Gym.
Delia stuck to that plan until she reached the storefront gym. And rolled on past. She needed to work something out all right, but not at Golda’s. Not if she was going to salvage everything she’d worked for.
Parking a discreet block away from the courthouse, she slipped in through the front doors and made her way downstairs to the sheriff’s annex. The two joke-spewing, coffee-drinking deps on duty paid no attention as she light-footed past, reached Harvey’s cubicle, and powered up his computer. Waiting, she checked her racing pulse.
With no second body supporting her hunch about the real killer, Grice was sure to try to pin Nastry’s shooting on her. Talk about an adrenaline IV. Drip-drip, directly into her jugular.
She started at the Oregon State Marine Board website using what she had—a memorized boat number—and got an R. T. Bates of Salem, living on River Road South, followed by a series of numbers: 4487-12314. A map showed a rural road running along—she could’ve guessed—a Willamette River slough. Next, she ran his name through every law enforcement and clearinghouse database at her disposal. Nothing turned up on Tweety, not even a military service record. However, an R. T. Bates Sr. had served during the Vietnam War, distinguishing himself as a SEAL in the Brown Water Navy. She jotted down two questions: Tweety Jr.? and Home sweet evidence dump?
Time to move on.
As expected, Robert Bastida’s name appeared in the FBI’s NCIC fugitive warrant file and the U.S. marshal’s wanted list. Oddly, he wasn’t featured among their fifteen most wanted. She needed to talk to someone. Tapping in the number she found for the marshal at the Oregon district office, she got an actual person.
“Kelly Pearson? Delia Chavez. I’m at the Polk County Sheriff’s office.” Which she was. “I’m calling about a weeks-old fugitive warrant on a Robert Bastida—”
“Interesting.”
“Why’s that?”
“A week ago I received a ‘be advised’ update from my Utah counterpart, that Bastida is an alias, the last name co-opted from a Basque sheepherder who took him in as a youth. One Yuli Bastida who admitted under questioning to harboring this kid from an abusive adult. Said he thought the boy had run away from someplace along a river in the Willamette Valley.”
Delia felt a tingle of anticipation at the back of her neck. “Real name?”
“Apparently Yuli had a sudden attack of hermit’s amnesia. A few days later, he and his sheep wagon disappeared. High meadows in the Wasatch Range, they figure.” There was a pensive silence before he continued. “I’ve searched Oregon records for a missing youth, but you’d probably have better sources …” His words hung in the silence.