Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  As they made a left into his office, Alex remembered this and found himself once again grateful. If anyone could unlock the secrets of the body of the woman from the plane, it was Timmons, and he had a hunch there were several secrets to be unlocked.

  There were. The woman in the plane had not only been shot, from the evidence of massive bruising on the body and tow broken fingers, she had also been savagely beaten as well.

  “Happened not long before she was shot,” Timmons informed them. “That’s all I can tell you after this amount of time. It was done with something hard and heavy, a little over two inches wide. I’d guess a club of some sort—maybe a gun stock. There are signs of some sharp ninety-degree edges. There are also restraint marks on her wrists from some kind of cord about half an inch in diameter. You can make your own speculations, but I’d guess it was an attempt to get information, or force some action, not one to beat her to death. There is no sign of her being hit in the head, and that’s one area that indicates intent to kill. She was pounded repeatedly in the stomach and chest area. Must have been pretty painful.

  “She died of a ruptured spleen, result of the beating, but it took a while for her to bleed out internally…after she was airborne, I’d say. Lividity occurred in a seated position. I’d be willing to bet she was already dead when the bullet hit her. Could have been just a lucky shot.”

  An hour later, Jensen and Caswell sat down for a quick lunch at O’Brady’s, the nearest restaurant to the crime lab and offices of the state troopers, and a frequent stop for officers and personnel who wanted to get back to work in a hurry. The food was good and the atmosphere of green curtains and brass rails cheerfully suggested an Irish pub.

  “So,” Caswell mused, frowning around bites of a Reuben sandwich, “Karen Randolph. You were right. What made you think it might be her?”

  “Something Jessie said last night, to be honest. She suggested that whoever shot down the plane might have been after the woman, not Lewis. I knew that Randolph disappeared about the same time he did and just put the two together. It seemed likely, and stranger coincidences have happened. I couldn’t say for sure, but John made the same connection and came up roses with her dental records, then the report on the prints confirmed it.”

  “That’ll bring the feds sniffing around, won’t it? What the hell was she doing in his plane?”

  “Now that’s the stopper. I haven’t a clue and it’s got to have something to do with his disappearance and the fur-and-feathers sting. The possibilities are practically endless, but we can start with the assumptions that either he was involved with her, her investigation, or—barring that—with who she was investigating.”

  “The guides they were setting up, you mean?”

  “Specifically Dale Stoffel, I mean. He was the one she was assigned to, was supposed to have gone hunting with, but he keeps claiming she never showed up and we couldn’t prove otherwise because she was never found. Just disappeared.”

  “But I thought that whole thing was supposed to have happened up north—ANWR.”

  “Most of it was, but there were several other suspicious sites under consideration, including west of Susitna, where some inconclusive evidence was located. She almost had one guy on Kodiak—an independent, not connected with Stoffel’s bunch—but a bear got him. Obviously she wasn’t up north when Lewis’s plane went down, was she?”

  “So they’re related.”

  “Looks like it. We need to find out how.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Another conversation with Stoffel would probably be a waste of time.” Alex scowled. “Now that we can prove she was beaten and shot, he might change his story, but I doubt it.”

  “John said the slug was too messed up to be any good.”

  “Right, but it came from a heavy piece, something used for big game, for instance. Nothing small-caliber. Had to punch through the door of the plane before it hit her, and it didn’t kill her, remember. But Stoffel wouldn’t know that, or that it was unidentifiable, and they confiscated most of his guns along with the planes and other related stuff. We might get lucky, if he knows the right gun was among them. It’s a long shot for later, maybe.”

  “And Lewis?”

  “I’d be willing to bet he’s either as dead as Randolph, or somewhere almost impossible to track down. Possibly both. Stoffel isn’t the kind to take chances on informers, and Lewis just doesn’t seem to have been the type to take off on his new wife.”

  “Like to wager?”

  “Nope. Not until it’s a sure thing. But I want to talk about it with Chelle Lewis again—and, sometime down the road, I suppose, to Stoffel. For now, we’d do better to take a look at who was connected that we couldn’t jail. Might be a lead there somewhere to tell us who may still be in business.”

  “Where’s Stoffel?”

  “Spring Creek facility in Seward. Not due to be released till August.”

  “You want to fly down there?” Caswell grinned his eagerness to get into the air, but Jensen shook his head.

  “Not yet. One of his people made a deal and spilled a few names, if I remember the reports. And wasn’t there a cousin we didn’t have enough on to convict? We need to hunt him up, but even more, to go over the trial transcripts and get all our ducks in a row before seeing him. Maybe he’ll have something to give us a lead. Then Stoffel might jump, if he thinks we know something more than he anticipated. Besides that, I don’t want to give him any information at all. I seem to remember there were threats made toward some of the witnesses—including some of the feds—after he was locked up. And not all his flunkies were corralled in the sting.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I sat in on the last day of his trial and the way he expressed it was that, win or lose, he would straighten out whoever had framed him.”

  “Framed him? Ha! Why don’t you go pick up a copy of the transcripts, while I check with Fish and Wildlife on a couple of things. Later this afternoon I want to hunt up Rochelle Lewis, so I’ll leave a message, or meet you back at your office after that.”

  “Curses, foiled again. Back on the ground, just when I thought I was liberated. If we miss each other, don’t forget you and Jessie are coming over for dinner tonight.”

  “And miss one of Linda’s fine meals?” Alex went on to promise, “We’ll get this show in the air soon. Okay? I didn’t spring you just to sit around on the ground.”

  9

  WITH CASWELL HEADED DOWNTOWN TO RETRIEVE a copy of the trial transcript, Jensen returned to headquarters for information from the Fish and Wildlife service. In less than half an hour he was back in his truck, heading west with the names of several poaching suspects, and one in particular that interested him, Tom Greeson, the cousin of Dale Stoffel whom he remembered from the Brooks Range case.

  “He’s never been arrested?” he had asked the Fish and Wildlife agent.

  “Oh, arrested, yes, several times. Never had enough evidence to convict, but we know he was, and undoubtedly still is, involved in the same illegal activities as Stoffel—hunting the same day they fly, and taking game inside protected areas like ANWR and Denali National Park for the most part. We didn’t catch him in the Brooks Range sting because when it went down he was playing flunky for Dale back in town, wasn’t seen in any of the hunting camps we sent undercovers into to get firsthand evidence. He slipped through the net and has kept his head down ever since, as near as we can tell. Pretty quiet, but that doesn’t necessarily mean clean.”

  “So he could be back in business—just being more careful?”

  “Or running a very small, tight operation. Sure. Anything’s possible. We haven’t anyone following him around. Can’t afford the manpower to anticipate violations. Unfortunately we have to be more reactive than anything else—following up on cases where the damage has already been done. My guess would be that, with Stoffel inside, Tom’s got a chance to take up the slack and will probably take it this season. But he’s nowhere near as smart and twice as mean. He’ll pro
bably make a mistake we can get him on if he tries to fill Dale’s boots.”

  “If you wanted to find him, where would you look?”

  “Well, Stoffel’s got a ranch in the valley where he runs some of his business. Tom’s there sometimes, I guess, but usually he hangs out in town. Out at the airport, or at a couple of the bars nearby—the Cockpit, maybe. They’re the hub for a lot of stuff.”

  Jensen had thanked the agent and gone. Now he headed for the Cockpit and hoped to get lucky and find…well…he wasn’t quite sure what, besides Tom Greeson, but perhaps something that might give him direction or a clue to solving the problem of the death of the Randolph woman and the disappearance of Norman Lewis.

  It was still early in the afternoon, when Alex pushed open the door of the Cockpit. Its hinges whined their need for lubrication, setting his teeth on edge. The contrast of a day full of sunshine with the interior darkness of the building caused him to blink and pause while his eyes adjusted, as had Darryl, the mechanic, the day before.

  The place was all but empty, a couple of hours away from the arrival of the usual late-afternoon barflies. An elderly man, with a fringe of white hair in need of a trim around his ears and skinny, corded neck, sat nursing a draft beer on the far side of the large bar. A pair of cues lay on the green felt of the pool table next to a rack of balls, ready for some players to come and start a game. On one of the tall stools closest to the door, a barmaid in a miniskirt and tight sweater waited to go to work. Perched at the bar with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, she swiveled to watch Jensen walk across the room, her expression carefully neutral, a look that he knew meant she had identified him as law enforcement. Some people seemed to have a sort of sixth sense about police and were cautious as a result.

  As he approached, the bartender on duty came through the door of a refrigerated room into the area behind the counter, carrying two cases of Coors to restock the glass-fronted cooler. The space seemed suddenly smaller in the presence of this tall, heavyset man of about thirty-five, though he moved easily, without haste, not a threat to the abundance of glassware and bottles around him. Glancing up, he nodded, recognizing Jensen, set the beer down on the floor by the cooler, and stepped across to hold a massive hand out which engulfed the one Jensen offered in return.

  “Hey, Alex.” He grinned. “Haven’t seen you for months. How you been, buddy?”

  The barmaid visibly relaxed. The stranger might be John Law but he was an acquaintance at least, therefore provisionally acceptable.

  “Johnny Raite. Hey. Didn’t expect to find you here. Last time I saw you you were leaving O’Brady’s to go outside last fall. You get enough of the lower forty-eight and decide to come on home where you fit in better?”

  “Yeah, well. The old country isn’t what it used to be. Too many people and cars in not enough space. I came back up right after the holidays and this’s the only place needed a booze jockey. I worked here a couple a years ago, so they took me back when their other guy busted a leg falling on the ice on his own front step.”

  “Good to see you.”

  “Hey, you too. Whatcha doin’ in here this time of day? Anchortown given up on crime?”

  “Naw, I’m just looking for some information on a couple of guys that may or may not hang out around here. You know a Tom Greeson? Ever come in here?”

  The grin faded as Raite cast a swift glance at the barmaid, who straightened slightly and returned his look with a frown. Turning back to Jensen, he nodded.

  “Yeah, he’s in and out pretty regular. Why? He got a problem?”

  “Don’t really know,” Alex told him. “Lots of rumors about illegal activity in the hunting arena. I was told this might be a place to locate him for a few questions I have about a case I’m working on.”

  “Isn’t hunting in the fins-and-feathers department?” Raite asked. “Thought you were on the homicide squad.”

  “Yeah, well other things sometimes tie in.”

  “This about that plane that you guys found over by Susitna yesterday?” the barmaid suddenly asked, turning to face him and combing her fingers through her hair to pull it away from her face. As she turned, Jensen caught the scent of her perfume, some kind of pleasant floral aroma that seemed out of place in the present surroundings. Her hair was bottle-blond, but she had honest eyes and an easygoing attitude.

  “Could be,” he allowed cautiously. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Heard it was there all winter, right?”

  A slow, nodded confirmation.

  “And there was some woman in it?”

  “Can’t say much about that. But it’s interesting that you heard about it. Who told you?”

  “Oh, just something I overheard last night in here. Couldn’t really say who, just talk.”

  “Was Greeson here last night?”

  “Oh yeah.” She shrugged, a motion that suggested she might have been happier had he been elsewhere.

  Raite agreed from behind the bar. “He was here most of the evening.”

  The barmaid frowned. “I remember. It was Ed Landreth who mentioned the plane. Remember, Johnny? He came in with that flaming redhead?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Only stayed for a couple of drinks and took off right after he had a short conversation with Greeson. Didn’t hurt my feelings. He looked like he was ready to tie one on.”

  “Right. Well, he was on his way out and stopped to talk to Tim Cole. I was taking beers to the guys playing pool.”

  She pointed across the room and Jensen noted that she would have had to pass between the bar and the door to reach the table. She went on.

  “As I went by I heard him telling Tim about a plane they found in some lake out there, and the woman in it. Said he’d been out there and seen it. Makes my skin crawl. Think of being there all winter and nobody knowing where you were. Yuck.”

  “That all he said?” Alex asked.

  “Well—I don’t know because I had to come back for another round, but he left before I got back, so he couldn’t have said much.”

  “But he talked to Tom Greeson. How long? Did you hear any of it?”

  “No. I stay as far away from Greeson as I can get. He’s a mean SOB—drunk or sober.” She wrinkled her nose as if she had caught an unpleasant odor, and tapped her long fingernails against the side of her coffee mug. “Trouble. He’s trouble. Makes me uneasy, the way he watches people all the time, playing big shot, and setting up deals.”

  “What kind of deals?” Jensen asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s sort of slimy-acting. The sort of deals that make you feel they’re mostly in his favor. Anything with cash attached, I guess. He’s got a vicious temper. Put a girl in the hospital once a couple of years ago. She refused to press charges—too scared, I think—but she left the state as soon as she was well enough to travel.”

  “Hey,” Raite interrupted. “Can I get you something? Beer?”

  “No thanks, Johnny. I got work to do.”

  “Coffee, then? Coke?”

  “Sure. Coffee’d be great, thanks. You know any more about this guy?”

  Raite shook his head no as he set a mug down on the bar before Alex and filled it with coffee. “My opinion’s about the same as April’s. Not a very nice person, our Mister Greeson. Ah…watch that. I just made it and it’s hot.”

  “Thanks, I will. Ever hear his name connected with Dale Stoffel?”

  “Yeah, that’s old news. They’re related somehow. But Stoffel’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. For the next few months. He’ll be out in August.”

  Across the bar, the old man, who had finished the beer he had been drinking since Alex walked in, suddenly pounded on the bar with his glass. As Alex jumped, both Johnny and the barmaid smiled at his reaction.

  “That’s just old, deaf Charlie,” Raite told him. “He can’t hear and when he drinks he thinks nobody else can either. Lets me know he’s ready for a refill by banging. We’re used to it.”

  He went to d
raw another draft for Charlie. April got down from her stool, went behind the bar, and began transferring bottles from the case of Coors into the cooler.

  Jensen sipped his coffee thoughtfully and wondered if any of what he had learned in the last half hour would fit into the equation he was trying to solve. When Raite returned from serving the draft, he changed the direction of his inquiries.

  “You acquainted with Norm Lewis?” he asked.

  The bartender stopped to look questioningly at him. “You mean Norm Lewis that disappeared last fall on some flight to Glennallen, right? Yeah, I knew him. Hell of a nice guy. Used to come in here in the old days, but I hadn’t seen him for a long time when I heard he’d gone missing. Ever find out what happened to him?”

  “Haven’t found him. No.” Alex saw no reason to include the information that the plane they had been discussing had belonged to Lewis. They hadn’t found him after all.

  “He ever have anything to do with Greeson that you know of?”

  “Shit no. Walked two different sides of the street, those two. Don’t think I ever saw them so much as say hello. Nothing shady about Lewis. He was building a neat little charter business with his lady friend. Working hard at it, as far as I heard.”

  “You mean his wife, Rochelle?”

  “They got married then? I heard they were pretty tight, but didn’t know about the wedding.”

  “So Lewis hung out here?”

  “Naw. Only came in once in a while, with Jeff Bunker. Neither of them fit in much with this crowd. The location is just handy to Lake Hood, where they both kept their planes, so they’d stop once in a while for a quick beer after a flight.”

  As Jensen paused, trying to think of anything else he wanted to ask Raite, the door squealed open and three younger guys tromped in.

  “Hey, Johnny. Couple a Buds and a Heineken, okay?”

  “Time to earn my check.” Raite grinned and, as Jensen stood up to leave, dropping a dollar on the bar, added, “Good to see you. Stop in again. It’s pretty slow this early.”