Standing off to one side, she rapped on the door of the hut. “Hello?”
No answer.
Nearby, the Sanolet door banged again, and a shot of adrenaline raced through her veins. Listening, she thought she heard a faint squeak, like the sound of a buoy scraping a dock.
She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then knocked again. “Who’s in there?” This time she pounded on the door, determined to raise the occupant. “This is Special Agent Angela Dimato. Please open the door!”
Still no answer. Maybe the owner had come down earlier and left a light on.
She tried the handle. The door was locked.
That’s weird. No one locked their fishing huts. It was part of the code of honor. Others were free to take shelter, provided they replenished used supplies.
She heard another noise from inside and circled the hut, trying to peek through the cracks in the seams. She caught glimpses of color but was unable to make out anything more. The light seemed to be coming from near the ice.
The bottom of the hut was raised half an inch off the ground in back. Angela stretched out on her stomach and peered under the edge. From this vantage point, she could make out a chair, a cooler, a small table, and a stove. In the middle of the hut, the hole in the ice was uncapped.
Scooting around for a better angle, she pressed her face to the ice. A strange glow spread through the layers beneath her. The light seemed to be shining up from below the surface. And it looked like something was stuck to the edge of the hole.
A black glove.
A hand.
Her breath left, and she sat upright, huffing for air. Digging out her cellphone, she hit 9-1-1.
“This is nine-one-one, please state your emergency,” said a cheery voice.
“This is Special Agent Angela Dimato.”
“Who?”
“Special Agent Dimato. I’m calling from Elk Lake. There is someone in the water down near the fishing huts. I’m requesting backup and emergency personnel.”
“Yes, ma’am. Please stay on the line. Tell me, how do you spell your last name?”
“Just get an ambulance and Bernie Crandall down here, stat! Elk Lake, by the fishing huts.”
The town siren blared as she kicked in the door. It took two tries to knock it off its hinges. The first sent a jarring shock wave through the pad of her foot, up her calf, and into her knee. The second slammed the door inward, buckling the metal jamb.
She darted inside. The room glowed eerily, illuminated from under the ice. In addition to what she had seen through the cracks, a couch lay tipped on its back, knocked aside in a scuffle. A nice stereo system stood in the corner, and four Bose speakers were mounted on the walls.
Lark moved toward the body in the water. Gouges in the ice indicated that the person in the hole had tried climbing out. Or that someone kept pushing him back in. The hand belonged to a big man.
Frakus?
There was no way she could pull him out by herself. His glove was frozen to the ice at his wrist. He must have fallen through, then reached back out, the wetness of his clothes securing him to the lake’s surface like a tongue on frozen metal. A flashlight bobbed in the water, half-encased in newly formed ice.
Afraid to grab him for fear of losing him into the hole, she searched for something—anything—to safeguard his position. A rope?
All she could find was a roll of fifty-pound test line. It’s not heavy enough.
Suddenly, the hut filled with firemen. Nomex-clad men hauled the body out of the water. A National Park Service insignia flashed from the victim’s shoulder.
Angela sank to a chair. Her ears rang. Her head spun. The man in the water wasn’t Frakus. It was Eric Linenger.
What was Eric doing in the fishing hut? And why was the door locked?
The second question nagged at her.
Staying out of the firemen’s way, she walked over and examined the lock. Her kick had knocked off the catch plate on the inside of the door frame, but the door handle mechanism was still in place. Made of stainless steel, it was keyed on only one side. The outside. Which meant someone had locked Eric in.
Who?
Who would have had a key? The owner of the hut, anyone he had given a key to, and possibly Frakus. It ran in her mind that the owners of the ice fishing huts were required by permit to provide one for entry in the case of an emergency. Keys were normally kept in the marina office—in this case, the office was in the Visitors Center.
“Chief.” She tried catching Bernie Crandall’s gaze without drawing the attention of the reporters and film crews who had arrived on site, but several heads turned at the sound of her voice.
“What?” The beefy police chief left his post beside the ambulance and swaggered toward her.
She noticed one reporter edging over with him and dropped her voice. “Who locked the ice hut?”
Crandall gave the reporter a mean glance, took Angela by the elbow, and led her farther away. “Let’s go over your story again.”
She had told it a number of times—about Velof passing the message to meet Frakus, the vehicles in the parking lot, the eerie light, and the Sanolet door—but she told it again.
“And Velof told you it was Frakus who called?”
“That’s what he said.”
Crandall jotted something in a notebook. Slapping it shut, he eyeballed her. “Now, what was your question?”
“Do you know who this hut belongs to?”
“Yep,” he answered, but his attention seemed drawn by some commotion near the ambulance.
“Whose is it?” she prompted, flashing her fingers in front of his eyes.
He broke his stare. “Donald Tauer’s.”
The CEO of Agriventures? What had Eric been doing inside Tauer’s fishing hut?
Just then a cheer rose from the firemen. Crandall made a dash for the ambulance. Angela scrambled behind.
“What’s going on?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to see over the heads of the firemen. Their broad, shoulders blotted out the view.
“He’s alive!” someone shouted. “We have a pulse.”
“What?” Eric was alive. A giddiness washed through her, followed by a chill of fear. How long had he been under water?
“This is good,” said Crandall, elbowing his way back through the crowd. “When he can talk, maybe he can tell us what happened.”
“If he can talk,” she muttered. She hated to be pessimistic, but she was afraid of getting her hopes up. “It’s my guess he was under there quite a while.”
“It’s a cold-water drowning.” Crandall ducked under the crime scene tape and moved back onto the ice.
Angela followed. If he was trying to make her feel better, she wasn’t convinced. She knew they could warm him up slowly, but as often as not, victims like Eric didn’t remember anything once they woke up—not even how to tie their own shoes.
“What this?” Frakus’s voice cut through the crowd behind them, and Angela groaned.
Now he shows up.
“I’ll second that,” mumbled Crandall.
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on around here?” Frakus bullied his way through the firemen packing up gear and tugged down the yellow ribbon cordoning off the fishing area. Behind him, Donald Tauer and another man picked their way past the concession stands.
Nathan Sobul. The sight of her former boyfriend caused Angela’s breathing to shallow and her legs to tremble. What was he doing here? She wondered if it was too late to throw up.
“Someone get that tape back up,” hollered Crandall. “Dammit, John, you’re messing up my crime scene.”
Like three more people mattered, thought Angela. Between the firemen, policemen, and Angela, any evidence on the ice had been trampled by now, or contaminated. Inside the hut was a different story. Besides herself, four firemen, Crandall, and the crime scene investigators, only Tauer and anyone else with a key could have been inside.
By the time the men reached the hut, Angela had pulled
herself together. She’d also figured out the connection between Nate Sobul and Tauer. Nate worked for the USDA. Tauer was in organic foods. No doubt they’d met on the job. No wonder Nate wouldn’t help block the use of Agriventures’s geese-depredation permit. He and Donald Tauer were friends.
Nate looked up.
Their eyes met.
Angela knew, in this business, sooner or later she would see him again. Why did it have to be now?
“I am talking to you, Dimato,” barked Frakus.
“Sorry.” Angela glanced at Crandall, hoping to deflect Frakus’s negative vibes. “Eric Linenger fell through the ice. They’re transporting him to the hospital.”
To his credit, Frakus blanched. “Is he okay?”
“It’s too soon to say,” answered the chief. Crandall eyed the three men. “What brings you gentlemen down here so early?”
“It’s the last day of the fishing tournament,” Frakus said. The “duh” was implied.
Tauer moved forward and pointed to the lit-up fishing hut. “Is everything still intact? Was anything damaged?”
Angela scowled. A man was in critical condition, and Tauer was worried about his things?
Crandall ignored him. “According to Special Agent Dimato, you called her about an hour ago, John, and asked her to meet you down here?”
“I what?” Frakus looked surprised. “I didn’t call anyone.”
Now Angela frowned. “Velof tracked me down at McDonald’s. He said you wanted to meet me here early.”
Frakus stared at her like she’d lost her mind.
“No?” Crandall jotted another note in his book.
Why would Stephen have lied? wondered Angela. Her mind drew a blank. More likely Frakus was lying, except he seemed truly surprised. Had someone else called pretending to be Frakus? But who? Eric? No way. Velof would have recognized his accent. Someone else who wanted her down on the ice to find Eric? Or had Eric come down to the ice and stumbled into an ambush meant for her? The thought sent chills up her spine.
One thing was certain; someone had locked Eric inside the fishing hut after pushing him into the water. Someone had wanted him silenced. But why?
“What time did you get here this morning, John?” asked Crandall.
“Why?” Frakus glanced around, absorbing the scene. “Are you suggesting this wasn’t an accident?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Well, I didn’t do anything. I’ve been with Donald and Nate here all morning.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Nate said. “We met in the parking lot at about five thirty and took my car into town to the Elk Park Diner for breakfast”
Tauer suddenly pushed past them and stepped through the door of the fishing hut.
“Hey,” Crandall blustered, going in after the man. “This area is off limits.”
“I want to know what that guy was doing inside my fishing hut.”
“So do I,” said Crandall, jostling Tauer out of the hut. “Now, move back, or I’ll bust your heinie for hindering an investigation. All of you. You too, Angela.”
Crandall started to shoo them up the hill when Angela thought of the one-sided lock on the door. “Hold on a second! Mr. Tauer, do you have a key for the hut?”
“Sure.”
“May I see it?”
He pulled off a glove and produced a key on a blue coil.
Crandall showed a sudden interest in Angela’s line of questioning. “Were you in the hut this morning?”
Tauer shook his head. “I never ventured past the parking lot.”
“Do you keep the hut locked?” asked the chief.
“Most of the time. I keep some expensive equipment in there. I don’t want anything stolen.”
“Right. Except Angela here kicked the door down.”
“Well, you know what they say about locks,” ventured Nate. All eyes turned toward where he stood shivering in the dawn, hands tucked into his armpits.
“No,” said Crandall. “What?”
“Their only purpose is to keep honest people honest.”
Crandall’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tauer said. “This is Nate Sobul, U.S. Department of Agriculture.” Tauer gestured towards the chief. “Bernie Crandall, Elk Park Chief of Police, and this is Angela Dimato, U.S. Fish and Wildlife.”
Nate shook hands with Crandall, then stuck out his hand to Angela. She refused it, tucking a stray curl into her cap instead.
“Who else has a key?” she asked.
“Any number of my associates, and the town has a copy.”
“Do you keep a spare key inside?” asked Crandall.
“Yes. Why?”
“Someone had to unlock the door to get inside.”
Tauer gestured toward the hut. “I keep an extra key on a screw to the left of the door.”
Crandall stepped back to the door of the hut and poked his head inside. Angela heard him tap on the metal, then he emerged empty-handed. “It’s not there now.”
“Are you positive?” Tauer asked. “It should be on a red string.”
“It’s gone. Any idea when it went missing?”
Tauer shook his head. “I was in and out of the hut all day yesterday. I didn’t bother to lock it; there were so many people around I figured nobody would try and take anything in broad daylight.”
Wrong, thought Angela.
Crandall rubbed his chin. “It looks like somebody took the key planning to come back here and burglarize the hut. Eric must have caught them in the act.”
“That doesn’t explain the phone call,” Angela said, unable to shake the feeling it should have been her floating under the ice.
Silence shrouded the ice until Crandall broke the veneer. “Maybe Velof can shed some light on the subject, but first I need to tell Lark about Eric.”
Telling Lark about Eric wasn’t going to be easy. No doubt she would take it hard. She was going to need a lot of support. Thank heavens she had some close friends like Dorothy, Cecilia, and Harry to help her get through it.
Angela smiled sympathetically, then said, “Unless there’s something I can do… ”
“There is,” said Crandall. “I need you to make sure the Raptor House volunteers put someone else in charge up there.”
“Sure, I can do that.” In fact, she would relish the chance to get away from the crime scene.
“Great. I’ll notify the National Park Service.”
Angela figured NPS already knew. Elk Park was a small town, and the fire department and ambulance service were primarily volunteer. She would be surprised if half of the town—and maybe even Lark—didn’t know by now.
Frakus pushed forward. “Hold on a cotton-picking minute, Bernie. Dimato’s been assigned to oversee the fishing.”
“She’s a sworn peace officer. Do you have a problem with that?”
Getting no support from the others, Frakus backed down. “When are you going to take down this yellow ribbon?”
The combination of Eric’s situation, Nate Sobul’s presence, and Frakus’s attitude proved too much to bear. Anger flashed inside of Angela and burned hot.
“Is that all you care about?” she asked, unleashing her temper. “Opening the ice?”
Frakus looked startled and took a step backward.
Angela advanced. “What’s the problem? We’re not being hush-hush enough for you? Are you afraid that someone’s near-fatal accident might ruin your little party?”
Crandall pressed a hand to his mouth, and Nathan laughed out loud. “Oooh boy, watch out!”
Frakus looked dumbstruck. At first he stared at her, his mouth agape, then he started sputtering. “You better… how dare you… I don’t think you… ”
“Yoo hoo!” called out a female voice.
Angela’s back was to the woman, but she noticed a shift in Frakus’s attitude. He dropped his shoulders and plastered a smile on his face.
Turning to see what had caused the transformation, Angela spott
ed a reporter with bleached hair and makeup visible from a distance making her way toward them. She had a cameraman in tow, and a television station logo was embroidered on the right shoulder of her parka. Balanced on high-heeled boots, she spread her arms to the side like a tightrope walker and picked her way down the slippery path.
“May I have a word with you?” she asked, with a pointed look at Angela.
“Smile, Dimato,” Frakus ordered. “This may be the only thing that saves you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“William Kramner is a friend of mine.”
Fraternization, the buzzword of the day.
“How could I forget?” Angela asked. She figured she’d pay for the outburst, but didn’t care.
“Watch what you say to this woman,” he warned. “That is, if you value your job.”
The flames of anger fizzled. Frakus was right. She was already skating on thin ice with Kramner. One more incident, and she might easily find herself out of a job.
“Linda Verbiscar, KEPC-TV,” announced the reporter once she’d slid her way onto the ice. “This is Charlie.” She flicked her finger in the air, and the cameraman began rolling tape. “I understand you’re the one who found the body,” she said, jamming a microphone in Angela’s face.
Angela nodded, turning away from the lights.
Verbiscar signaled for Charlie to change angles. “We’re live in ten.”
Crandall stepped forward, looking official in his uniform. “Give the kid a break, Linda. I’ll give you an interview. Or better yet, talk to John. After all, this is his Jamboree.”
Frakus plastered a PR grin across his pudgy face.
“I’m going for the human interest angle,” said Verbiscar, dismissing the men. “We’re live in three… ” Reaching around Crandall, she grabbed Angela’s arm and drew her forward. “Two… one… Hello, Dan. We’re at the site of Elk Park’s First Annual Ice Fishing Jamboree where a body has just been pulled out from under the ice.”
Verbiscar mugged for the camera while Angela tried wiggling free.
“The victim is a thirty-five-year-old National Park Service employee whose name is being withheld pending notification of his family. All we know at the moment is the man fell through the ice sometime early this morning and now clings tenuously to life at a local hospital. We are joined this morning by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Special Agent Angela Dimato, the woman who found him.”
Death Takes a Gander Page 10