“That’s not the interesting stuff. Lift up the tray.”
Harry carefully removed the tray full of fishing tackle. “Jesus. Such neat little bales of smack. In this case, the black tar variety.”
He fondled one of the bundles. “Could take a while to inventory the tackle and check everything for prints.”
“Take whatever time you need and log your hours,” I said. “Just speculating here, but if our Oxy slingers were trying to find the heroin drop, could that mean they were just expanding their inventory?”
He shrugged. “Could be, especially if they planned to mix heroin with fentanyl. Doing that increases the potency. And likely their profit.”
“Ah, I didn’t know that.”
“Guess drugs aren’t your specialty.”
“Definitely not,” I admitted.
He had emptied the tackle box of its contents and retrieved his fingerprint kit.
“One more thing. Trooper Vaughn told me the only way anybody can drive to the headwaters is by taking an all-terrain vehicle.”
“Sounds about right, but I wouldn’t really know. Did he notice ATV tracks?”
“Yeah. Took photos too.”
“Send me those,” he said. “I’ll see what I can come up with on tire size at least.”
I pulled out my phone and forwarded the shots to Harry. “Think I’ll be on my way now.”
“Leave your card beside my laptop.” He nodded toward the desk across from the metal table. “Got no idea what happened to the one you gave me last year.”
“You still have access to LEDS, right?” I asked.
“I arranged for an extended agreement with State Police brass. Includes access to LEDS and the western states fingerprint database,” he bragged.
“So I’ll know more tomorrow, then?”
He smiled. “You’ll hear from me when you hear from me.”
Harry Bratton was nothing if not straight to the point. I also knew he was thorough and worked at lightning speed.
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “I’ll hear from you when I hear from you.”
I drove north on 395 heading back toward Duncan’s place, the sun high in the western sky. I planned to create a new category for our murder board tomorrow, call it something like ancillary facts and scribble a note about the Proto tackle box. Not that we needed another puzzle piece, but in theory, it was at least a tidier fit with the Cruise and Porter puzzle piece. Doug Vaughn’s discovery of the metal container full of drugs and paraphernalia had also dampened my enthusiasm for pursuing any Sugar Muldaur suspicions. At least for now.
I fiddled with the radio knob in an effort to find something besides the local AM station. I’d already had my fill of gospel, honkytonk, and bad pop music for the day, but the only other station available via analog out in the sparse wilds of eastern Oregon was an arts show on public broadcasting, its reception scratchy and sporadic.
I turned off the noise and let my thoughts wander back to Lillian. Years ago, she worked for the Burns Paiute Indian Reservation as a natural resource specialist. After wounding an armed intruder who’d broken into her home, she reported the shooting to the local OSP unit. Hollis was the responding officer, and when he arrived to interview her, he found a tough-as-nails beauty. They were married within six months. Lil wore a traditional Paiute wedding dress, and Holly wore an African-print jacket. The lone witness, I stood next to them in a borrowed silk shift and out-of-date heels.
After the ceremony, we gathered for a late lunch at the Juniper Cookhouse in Burns. Apparently, we were quite a sight. The other customers gawked something fierce, trying to make out why a pasty-faced gal in semi-formal attire, a tall Black man in a colorful outfit, and an American Indian woman in beaded white buckskin had shown up at the Cookhouse on a Tuesday afternoon.
I didn’t know what prompted me to pull up that particular memory. Possibly because that meal was the first time I had a real conversation with Lil. It started with some crack I’d made about the denizens of Burns. She had laughed and responded with a one-liner of her own.
“Oh, I get how it is,” I said to her then. “You and Hollis are about to start your own comedy act.”
“Nah. I’m going on the road by myself, playing all the casinos, and billing myself as The Native Samantha Bee,” she responded.
“Ah. So you do snarky, huh?”
“Yep. Snarky and political,” Holly offered. “Kind of reminds me of you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t do political. Just snark and profanity.”
“Politics and profanity? Aren’t they one and the same?” Lil added.
To which I laughed loud enough to make the patrons near our table uncomfortable.
That bit of back-and-forth might have inspired a close friendship, but that’s not how Lil rolled. She took things slowly, learned to trust over the long haul, built a relationship one encounter at a time. The only exception to that standard had been Hollis.
My phone buzzed. With no Bluetooth access in the old Jetta, I couldn’t legally drive and talk, so I pulled off the highway and parked. This was a call I wanted to take.
“James Patrick Morgan! How the hell are you?” I cried.
“Well, Margaret Belle Blackthorne, I’m doing great!”
Morgan had always pronounced great as if it were two syllables long, elongating the first one and accenting the second one—grrr-ATE!
“How’s your business holding up?” I asked.
He owned a used-record shop in Portland called JP Morgan Retro.
“Great! But I’m thinking of selling it and moving to Hawaii.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. That’s probably a ways off, though. In the meantime, and this is why I’m calling, William and I are getting married.”
“Congrats, bud.”
“And I want you to be there.”
“To give you away?”
“Well, yeah, actually.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“C’mon, Maggie. My ex-wife giving me away to my new husband, it’ll be fun. And you’ll love William. He’s almost as funny as you are.”
“You always were a fan of funny.”
“Yep, and we plan on having a lot of funny at the ceremony.”
“If I come, should I wear a black dress and veil?”
“I was thinking you could come in your cop outfit.”
“If I come in my cop outfit, I might arrest your ass.”
“Now that would be hilarious.”
“Yeah, well, if I come to your wedding, I’m not wearing my uniform. And I’m sure as hell not giving you away.”
“All right, all right. But promise me you’ll be there. Saturday, October fourth. And bring Drummond.”
“You mean Duncan?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
I didn’t believe for a heartbeat Morgan was sorry, but I left it at that.
“Speaking of Duncan, he and I just got engaged,” I let him know.
“Great! Great! Can’t believe you’re getting hitched a third time, though.”
I couldn’t either. “Neither can I.”
“How about a double wedding ceremony?”
“Now who’s being funny?”
Morgan laughed in his familiar kid-like giggle. “Okay, Mags. I’ll send you an invitation. I’d really would love to have you there.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“All right. Hugs and kisses. It would be great to see you.”
“Bye, Morgan. It was good talking to you.”
I had gotten used to our bantering conversations and to the fact that, over the years, they occurred less and less. I was certain I could attend his wedding and be just fine with the whole thing, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Some things, even once significant people in your life, are better left in the past where the old you still resides.
About a mile from the turnoff to Duncan’s place, I came across Cecil Burney parked on the road shoulder, changing a flat tire on his rust
ed-out pickup. I hadn’t seen the sorry bastard since Ruben Vickers was tried and convicted for being an accessory in the murders of Dan and Joseph Nodine. Burney had added a tad bit of detail to the case, information he neglected to bring forward earlier in our homicide investigation so as to avoid possibly incriminating himself.
Cecil was an evil cuss and a poor specimen of a human being. And he hated cops more than anything. For that reason alone, I pulled up behind his rig. Did so despite this being one of the most constricted sections of the narrow, winding highway, Canyon Creek roiling on the left and igneous cliffs ascending on the right.
“Need help, Cecil?” I asked, stepping out of the Jetta.
He yanked his head my way. “Do I goddamn look like I need help?”
“Why else would I ask?”
“No, I don’t need no help.”
“A couple of flares, maybe?” I offered. “I’ve got some in my trunk.”
“Don’t need no fucking flares. I’m almost done.”
“All right. If you say so.”
“Did your man tell you I called?” he asked.
“My man?”
“Whoever in hell answered the phone at your pig shop earlier this afternoon.”
“Trooper Vaughn, most likely. What’d you call about?”
“Some stuff got stole outta the back of my pickup,” he said and bore down hard on his lug wrench.
Cecil owned the only gas station in Seneca, a former logging town now on its last legs. I’d passed through there twenty minutes earlier on my way back from Harry Bratton’s place.
“So Trooper Vaughn took your theft report over the phone?”
“Hell no,” he said and tightened the last lug nut. “You’re the only fucking cop I talk to.”
“How flattering.”
He rose creakily from a stooped position. “Yeah, well, don’t get no swelled head or nothin’. Don’t much like you, either.”
“How did I already know that?”
The old fart tossed the lug wrench into the bed of his pickup, riling a young hound, the replacement for his collie the Nodine brothers shot dead a few years ago.
“So, I was headed to your pig shop when my tire blew,” he said. “Don’t seem like that’s where you’re goin’, though.”
“I wasn’t planning to, but I could be persuaded. Under one condition.”
Cecil wiped his grease-covered hands on his pant legs. “What’s that?”
“Don’t ever call my office a pig shop in my presence again, or you’ll have to find some other fucking cop to talk to.”
“I’ll try’n remember that.”
“Meet you back at the police station.”
Unfortunately, Vaughn had turned off the swamp cooler before leaving the office. There was nothing like standing in a heated, confined space with someone who smelled like cheap beer, dank sweat, and motor oil. But even under more pleasant circumstances, Cecil Burney was tough to take.
I opened Sherry Linn’s computer on the front counter and pulled up the crime report screen. “Date of the theft?”
“Ain’t sure. Last time I used it was last Tuesday. Only noticed it was gone this afternoon when I was about to head out fishing.”
“What was stolen exactly?”
“My Proto tackle box.”
Cecil had piqued my interest now.
“Dumbass didn’t even take the fishing pole along,” he squalled.
“What color’s the tackle box?”
“Dark green.”
Also intriguing. “Had you put your name and contact information anywhere on it?”
“What? Course not. It was just a tackle box, old and beat-up, too. Only had some hooks, lures, handmade flies, stuff like that in there.”
I’d never known Burney to be into buying or selling OxyContin, but that meant nothing.
“Plus a Buck knife I bought a while back to gut fish with.”
Even more intriguing. “What kind of Buck knife? Need that for the report, too.”
“Shit. It’s called something-or-other hook.”
“Guthook?” I prompted.
“That’s it. Damn thing’s too big for guttin’ most trout around here, though. Anyway, you probably ain’t heard, we live in God’s country. Neighbors don’t steal from neighbors.”
“Anything else for the theft report?” I asked.
“Nothin’, except I want you to find out which one of my asshole neighbors stole from me.”
“I’m on it, Cecil. Right after I figure out who killed a police officer out near Murderers Creek a few days ago.”
Unfazed, he shrugged.
I sent his report to Sherry Linn’s printer. “Had you heard about that murder?”
“Nah. When’d it happen?”
“Thursday afternoon.”
Cecil smiled his crooked-teeth smile. “My niece’s son Lyle went with me to Boise on Thursday. Had an appointment to see a doctor. Somethin’s wrong with my insides.”
I slid a pen and pad of paper toward him. “Sorry to hear about your insides. Now, write down Lyle’s name, address, and phone number. I’ll need to verify your whereabouts on Thursday.”
“What the fuck for? Did somebody hit the cop over the head with a green Proto tackle box?”
“Something like that.” I pulled the report from the printer tray and placed it beside the pad of paper. “After you jot down your great-nephew’s information, sign and date the theft report. Oh, and Cecil, if there’s anything you need to tell me in connection with the Murderers Creek killing, you should let me know sooner than later. You wouldn’t get off with just a fine this time around.”
He hen-scratched great-nephew Lyle’s info on the pad, signed and dated the report.
I shot the man a sharp glare, punched in Lyle’s number on Sherry Linn’s phone, and clicked on the speaker. A young guy answered. Rather grumpily.
“This is Sergeant Margaret Blackthorne, Oregon State Police. I’d like to speak to Lyle Davis.”
“That’s me,” the kid confirmed.
“And you live at 111 Rebel Hill Road in Canyon City?”
Canyon City was the old gold mining town right next to John Day. They were platted so close to one another you couldn’t tell one from the other.
“Yeah, with my mom,” Lyle clarified.
“Your great-uncle, Cecil Burney, is here at the police station, and he claims you accompanied him to Boise last week.”
“Yeah, on Thursday. Why’s Uncle Cece at the police station?”
“Are you sure it was last Thursday you drove to Boise?”
Lyle cleared his throat. “I work two jobs. Thursday’s my only full day off. But why’s my uncle there with you?”
“What time did you and your great-uncle leave and come back on Thursday?”
“Uh, left at eight something in the morning. He dropped me back off at my place, like late. Nine thirty or so that night.”
“I may ask you to sign a statement to that effect,” I warned. “In the meantime, next time you see your uncle, he can explain why he came in to see me today.”
“Uh, all right,” the boy said softly.
“Appreciate your cooperation, Lyle. That’s all I need for now.”
As I hung up, Cecil placed a fist on the counter. “You really are a royal bitch, aren’t you?”
“I surely am. And that’s why I’m the only cop you deign talk to, right?”
12
Late Afternoon, August 16
After Cecil took off, I sprayed some of Sherry Linn’s room freshener in the foyer and over the nearby counter. I sauntered to our murder board in the alcove, created a new category with the title I’d come up with earlier: Ancillary facts.
I dashed off a note about Doug Vaughn’s discovery of the army-green Proto tackle box at the source of Murderers Creek. I jotted down another comment remarking on the theft of Cecil Burney’s green Proto tackle box, his fishing gear, and his Buck Guthook knife.
It all had to be more than a coincidence. But
cantankerous knucklehead that Cecil was, I didn’t believe for one second he’d driven his front-wheel-drive beater of a truck to a roadless wilderness area and stashed a tackle box full of drugs at the headwaters of Murderers Creek. The scrawny old fart was at least seventy-five going on ninety.
Not to mention it wouldn’t be all that hard for Boise authorities to check his story about visiting his doctor on Thursday. Plus the man wasn’t an idiot. Well, yes, he was, but he was too savvy to come to me and ultimately cop to owning the make and model of knife likely used to kill J.T. Lake.
But I knew I would have to convince Al Bach that Cecil wasn’t our suspect. Also knew we needed to figure out who in hell was.
I pulled up in the small parking lot outside my second-floor apartment and found Dorie weeding the patch of dahlias and rudbeckia in front of her thrift store.
She wiped her brow and stood as I emerged from the Jetta. “Hey, Maggie. Join me for a glass of iced tea?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“You need to check on Louie first?”
“Nah, he’s out at Duncan’s place. I came by to pick up some clothes and toiletries, that kind of thing.”
Dorie sat down on the wooden bench under the front awning of her store and patted the space beside her. “Come sit. I have some news.”
“Good news, I hope.” I wasn’t sure I could take more bad news.
“With you moving out soon—sooner than I thought, it seems—I think I’ve decided to sell this place.”
“Wow, you’ve owned the Castle Thrift Store since I was a little girl.”
“I’ll miss it, all my customers especially, but I’m ready to retire, find a little house with a nice view where I can grow a garden and get myself my own Louie.”
“You looking at staying in town or moving out to the countryside?”
“Don’t know, really. I’ve only been thinking about this a couple of days.”
“Well, you might want to check out Three Flags Landing,” I suggested. “Those two houses built on either side of Duncan’s still haven’t sold.”
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 11