Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler

by Victoria Houston

  She set the gun back in its box, tucked the velvet lining over it and, opening the long drawer where she kept the laundered bed linens, she shoved the box under and back. It left a barely discernible bump. She found some folded pillowcases and set them over it to reinforce a reason for the slight bulge in the linens.

  Before going up to bed, Nancy checked to be sure Cynthia had set the timer for the coffee. What time was Bud expecting to be picked up? Six or seven? She couldn’t remember so she changed the timer to six A.M.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The white impatiens lining the Jarvisons’ circle drive glistened with dew under the morning sun as a black SUV drove up on the dot of seven the next morning. Watching from the living room, coffee mug in hand, Nancy turned away for a moment to check her image in the hall mirror.

  She had slept so well it had been a struggle to look sleep-deprived but she thought she was managing: no makeup, hair tossed to one side to appear limp. To herself, at least, she looked bad. A hesitant, faltering voice should complete the impression.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, opening the front door. “My husband is still sleeping. He was up most of the night… actually we both were. He told me you were coming at eight—” She dropped her eyes as if in pain.

  “We’re sorry, Mrs. Jarvison,” said the first man. He was dressed in a dark suit that fit so badly she figured he must buy his clothes at Walmart. “I’m Alan Strickland with the FBI and my colleague here is Ron Hardin with the DEA, I mean, ah, the Drug Enforcement—”

  “I know what DEA stands for,” said Nancy in a blunt tone. Treating her like she was an idiot was so annoying she forgot about keeping her voice small.

  “Well, good,” said the man named Alan. He hesitated before saying, “I, ah, is your husband available?”

  Ignoring his request, Nancy blocked the way into the hall saying, “I don’t believe a word those drug dealing monsters have said. How can you believe criminals? My husband is a good man. He has done so much for our community—”

  “The details will be straightened out, Mrs. Jarvison,” said Alan Strickland, looking fatigued himself. “If he is innocent, he’ll be fine. This morning is a formality and very likely we’ll have him back home late this afternoon. Please. Tell him we’re here.”

  Nancy gave the two men a grim look then called up the hall stairway, “Bud, honey, they’re here. Are you ready, sweetheart?” She waited for an answer. “He may be in the shower. I’ll go check.” She ran up the stairs, walked through the master bedroom, adjusted the coverlet and pillows and lingered another minute before walking back to the top of the stairs.

  “I don’t see him. But he likes to have his morning coffee down on the dock or on the deck of his boat. Oh, now I remember. I’m so sorry. He got up in the middle of the night. He may have fallen asleep down there. I didn’t fall asleep until four maybe and then just woke up myself so—”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Jarvison. We’ll check the boat.”

  “Are you sure? I’m happy to—but okay.”

  “Is this the door to the kitchen?” Strickland asked as Nancy came down the stairs.

  “Yes,” she said, pointing. “If you’ll go through there, you’ll see the sliding doors that open to the deck and the walkway down toward the dock.”

  The two men walked through the kitchen. They slid open the door to the deck and ran across the lawn toward the boathouse and the luxurious yacht moored there.

  Nancy watched from the kitchen window. When she saw the two men emerge from the boat, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. She tried to look busy at the small antique desk where she kept her calendar and household lists. She looked up as Alan rushed in.

  “What? What’s wrong?” She kept her voice noncommittal. “If he’s not there, he may be in his workshop. That’s the building behind the garage. He does woodworking to relax. Better than Prozac, you know.” She managed to produce an ingratiating and pained smile.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Well… um… right around midnight. Bud has sleep apnea so we don’t share a bedroom—we haven’t in years. He wears one of those noisy machines that keep his heart from stopping or something like that. Yes, it was late last night.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “He was drinking pretty heavily and I couldn’t… well, I don’t blame him. The man is devastated. Why?”

  “Your husband is dead. He’s been shot.”

  “Oh no.” Nancy slumped in her chair. “I was afraid he might do that. I thought I made sure all his guns were locked in the gun cabinet up in his study. He must have hid one from me. This is all my fault—poor Bud.” She dropped her face into her hands.

  “He did not commit suicide. Someone killed your husband, Mrs. Jarvison.”

  She popped her head up to stare at Strickland, a stunned look on her face. “That’s preposterous. You’re trying to trick me.”

  The two men stared at her, saying nothing. Nancy looked from one face to the other.

  “You’re sure? You’re sure he’s not just… if that’s true, you people are responsible.” She shook an angry finger at them. “You should have been protecting him—protecting us.” She raised her voice to a near scream. “It’s your fault those drug people came after Bud.”

  Alan raised his hands, gesturing for her to quiet down.

  While the DEA agent walked off to the far corner of the kitchen to make a call, Alan Strickland pulled up a kitchen chair to sit beside Nancy. “How much do you know about your husband’s involvement with the drug operation?”

  “Nothing. Not one iota. All he ever told me he was helping a young immigrant family start a farming business—potatoes and blueberries. The money he deposited for them was their first harvest of berries.” Nancy’s voice faltered. “He said he had set up a foundation that would bring more families into that business.”

  Through tears she tried to speak clearly. “Bud told me he thought he was being a mentor to that young man. He had no idea they were growing marijuana. Bud and I don’t even know what that looks like.” She inhaled, pressing tissues to her eyes as she ground out her words.

  The back door opened and Cynthia walked into the kitchen. She stopped at the sight of the two men and Nancy. “Mrs. Jarvison, what’s wrong?”

  “This is my housekeeper,” said Nancy in a hoarse voice. “She stays in the apartment above the boathouse. Maybe she saw them. Maybe she heard them.”

  “Heard who? What?” asked Cynthia, her eyes widening. “I heard loud fireworks sometime after midnight—woke me up they were so loud. If that’s what you mean. But that happens all the time when people are partying late at the public beach. I’m kinda used to it or I’d never get any sleep.”

  “We just found Mr. Jarvison dead in his boat. He’s been shot,” said Alan.

  Nancy peered at Cynthia through her tissues. The look of shock on Cynthia’s face was so genuine that Nancy felt relief. She must not have seen a thing last night.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Osborne was on his third cup of coffee at Ray’s when his cell phone rang.

  “Hi, Dad, where are you?” asked Erin, sounding cheerful for the first time in days. “Can you call Ray for me? Cody is doing so well that the hospital is releasing him today. Ray has called at least three times insisting he help us pack up. But he might be out fishing with a client.”

  “No, hon, he just got back. He’s right here—we’re having coffee together. How soon are you leaving the hospital?”

  “In an hour.”

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Osborne clicked off his phone and got to his feet. “Ready for action?”

  “You bet,” said Ray, reaching for the shopping bag he had set aside for their mission. “If we get arrested, I’ll take the fall, old man.”

  When they got to the hospital, they went straight to Cody’s room. Erin had an overnight case in which she had brought Cody fresh clothing to wear home. All the gifts, including the hat with th
e stuffed trout, were stacked on the bed. Cody sat in a nearby chair, a baleful look on his face. The good news was he was sitting up; the bad news was how sad he looked.

  “I can’t take anything home except my clothes, Grandpa,” he said. He looked up at Ray, tears glistening in his eyes, and said, “not even my magic fish hat.”

  “Not to worry, kiddo,” said Ray. He reached for the hat and stuffed it into the shopping bag.

  “Wait, this too,” said Osborne, grabbing Lunkers Love Nightcrawlers and shoving the book into the bag with the hat.

  “Stop it, you two,” said Erin. “The hospital instructions are quite clear: no items are allowed to leave the isolation ward. They may be contaminated. Even Cody’s clothes that he was wearing when he was admitted have to be discarded. That’s the rule, guys.”

  “And you’re going to follow that stupid rule?” asked Ray.

  “Yes, I am going to follow the stupid rule. Now put everything back. Please. Dad? You, too. Put that book back where it was.”

  Just then, Cody’s doctor walked into the room. “Hi, fella, just came to say goodbye and thank you for being such a good patient. Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Cody burst into tears. “They won’t let me have my magic fish hat.”

  “What hat are you talking about?” asked the doctor, looking confused.

  “This hat,” said Ray, pulling the hat out of the shopping bag. “I had it made special for Cody.”

  “Yes,” said Osborne, “and we have a special book too.”

  Cody sobbed, “My nightcrawler book.” He resumed an energetic bawling.

  “Can we all settle down?” asked the doctor. “This is not a problem. Yes, we have a general policy for patients in isolation but I can waive it. The fact is the type of meningitis that Cody had is caused by a bacterium that survives only a minute or two outside the body. It cannot live on things like that hat or the book.” He turned to Erin. “If it makes you feel better, you can put both in the freezer for half an hour but, trust me, all these gifts including the hat and the book are safe to take home.”

  “So I don’t… have… to steal the items?” asked Ray.

  “Absolutely not. I’ll walk out with you folks just to be sure you don’t have a problem. Now, Cody, wipe those tears, okay, son?”

  Cody sniffed and smiled and stood up. To see that child walking filled Osborne’s heart. The day was looking good.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “This time of year I like…” Ray paused as he cast toward the sky “… to fish muskie from late afternoon… to midnight.” Standing beside him on the pontoon, Jake watched Ray reel in his lure, finishing with his arms extended to make a wide figure eight swirl at the side of the boat.

  “And when I fish later like this…” again the lure flew from Ray’s spinning rod “… I prefer bucktails with larger blades… those big girls can sense the vibrations through the dark, doncha know.” Ray grinned. “And that’s what you got on there, Jake.”

  “Big girls?” asked Jake. “Why do you call them that?”

  “With muskies, it’s the female fish who grow larger, fight harder… it’s like life… isn’t it always about the women?”

  “Well, okay then,” said Jake, smiling. “I’m not going to argue that one.”

  “Nothing makes Ray happier than night fishing,” said Lew. She stood near Osborne at the rear of the big pontoon. The evening breezes were calm enough that she and Osborne could cast without fear of snagging one another.

  “What are you using, Lew?” asked Jake. “A bucktail like Ray’s?”

  “Oh no, tonight I’m trying out a six-inch slammer in the Red Dragon color. It’s got a nice tight wobble to it. Last summer a friend of mine caught fifty muskies using a Red Dragon. Doc here is fishing his favorite: a yellow mud puppy surface bait. We’ll see who wins—or none of us may. This is a tough time of year to catch muskies, Jake. When the water warms up, the big ones suspend over deep water. You might want to ask Ray if you should add a half-ounce weight to that bait of yours to get it deeper.”

  “Will I know when I get a strike?” asked Jake. “Or is it like tenkara that I need to see or feel a change in the drift?”

  “Oh, you’ll know,” said Lew as she cast the slammer. “If a big girl hits, you’ll think you caught the bottom of the lake. And muskies are unpredictable. They can come toward your bait from the right or the left or drop down so sudden it’s like they came right out of the sky. Or they can come so hard they’ll knock you down.”

  “Lew’s right about that,” said Osborne. “They can catch you off balance and wham! I learned a long time ago to use Garcia Ambassadeur reels for just that reason. That reel is built so that once a muskie hits the fish can’t snap the handle out of your hand, which happens with too many other reels.”

  “Now… the key to landing a muskie,” said Ray, “is once you think you’ve got a follow, bring your lure toward the boat… but keep it in the water doing the figure eight move… like this.”

  Jake leaned over to watch Ray’s rod as he swirled the lure close to the side of the pontoon.

  As dusk fell, Osborne let his thoughts wander while he listened to the soft patter of his friends’ voices, their words as smooth as ripples on the water. He relished the serenity of an evening like this: the lake holding bands of ivory and silver crisscrossed with streams of diamonds cast by the setting sun. And he had an invitation to Lew’s place later. The promise of her warm roughness calmed his heart.

  “Awfully nice of you folks to take me out this evening,” said Jake. “I’ve never tried muskie fishing.”

  “Fair trade,” said Lew. “Doc and I had never even heard of tenkara fly-fishing much less had an opportunity to learn how to do it. I love it—takes me out of myself if that makes sense. Maybe we can do it again before you leave?”

  “We’ll have to save it for my next visit. I’m heading home tomorrow. Your colleague from the crime lab, Bruce, was kind enough to deliver my son’s remains to the funeral home for cremation. I’ve been told I can pick up his ashes early in the morning.”

  “I hope it helps a little to know what happened,” said Lew, “that he was shot by one of the drug traffickers guarding the marijuana operation.”

  “Does anything help when you lose the person you love most?” asked Jake. “Losing Liam will never be easy for me but Bruce told me he was sure my son never knew he’d been shot. His last thought had to be one of getting ready to cast his tenkara fly rod.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” said Ray. “Those guys had Winchester Model 70 rifles… 30-06 caliber with telescopic sights on ’em. Classic sniper rifles… Sheriff Moore told me.”

  The pontoon drifted on, the only sound the whir of a lure flying out and over nearby weed beds.

  “What’s the latest on that drug crew anyway?” asked Ray, setting his muskie rod down as he reached into the cooler. “Coke? Ginger ale… anyone? Jake, Chief… either of you want a beer… I got a couple Spotted Cow brewskis.”

  “I’ll have a Spotted Cow,” said Jake.

  “Ginger ales for myself and Doc,” said Lew. “Thanks, Ray.”

  “Alan got himself an unbelievable break,” said Lew. “The guy running the operation, Miguel Estevez is his name, is cooperating 100 percent. He’s hoping to avoid getting deported and is bargaining to get into the Witness Protection Program, which may be impossible since he isn’t a U.S. citizen.

  “On the other hand, given the valuable information he’s been providing to the FBI and the DEA, I expect they’ll go easy on him. By the way, that woman who is pregnant is Miguel’s wife and they really want to stay in the country if they can, even if Miguel does prison time.”

  “So Bud was not the father of her child?” said Ray.

  “No. But Bud didn’t know that,” said Lew. “Turns out she was bait. Miguel met Bud at the casino one night when Bud was losing at craps and the casino cut off his credit. Miguel had been watching and offered to loan him $1,000. This was right on the heels of
Bud’s losses in the stock market and he was drinking heavily. Didn’t take long for Miguel to learn his new friend was a not-so-smart drunk who was well connected to banks and chased women: an easy mark.

  “Not long after loaning Bud the thousand bucks, Miguel asked for a small favor in return: He wanted Bud to handle cash deposits for him. The money would go into the Jarvison branch in Loon Lake and be transferred to a financial institution in Chicago that had a subsidiary in Mexico City. A simple transaction.

  “Miguel offered Bud 20 percent of each bundle of cash. With three to five deposits a week averaging just under ten grand, the FBI thinks Bud was clearing as much as forty grand a month since last September. Good money for a guy who just lost his shirt in the stock market.

  “That’s when poor Peter Corbin made his big mistake. He flagged the sequence of the deposits, not realizing Bud was behind them. Then feeling he owed it to the chairman of the bank’s parent company, he alerted Bud that he would be filing a Suspicious Activity Report on behalf of the bank. He thought he was doing a good thing. He thought that would earn him a bonus if not a promotion.

  “At that point we think Bud responded in a very friendly way. He asked him to hold off until Bud could notify his other bank executives and in the meantime invited Corbin to a weekend of snowmobiling up at his hunting lodge—an executive perk. Bud lured him out onto the Pine River after alerting Miguel to have one of his guards prepared to shoot Corbin as they drove their sleds along the river. Bruce told me the other day that the crime lab confirmed that the patterns of blunt trauma to Corbin’s skull and the shattered section of the snowmobile helmet match. Peter Corbin did not drown, he was shot.”

  “You keep that crime lab busy, don’t you?” said Jake with a smile.