“Like the unbroken strip by Lake McDonald?”
“That’s right.”
“Before the wildfire of 1920, Lake McDonald was starting to look almost as crowded as any old lake in Montana at the time and people were constructing more and more cabins on their own property. But the fire wiped some eighteen of them out and then the Park Service went in and bought up as much of the land as they could. People thought they were getting a good deal after losing their cabins in the fire. But the homesteads that hung on now know how priceless what they have is. To the inholders, the land has economic and family value—the priceless value of home. To the park, it’s about the wilderness and drawing the public in to enjoy it—the whole point of the park.”
“So you don’t know much about the Sheltons?”
“Not until just today after Ford told me about him”— he gave a sly, sketchy smile and held up a finger—“so I looked at his file.” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I copied Ford’s notes.”
I leaned in, surprised that he’d done this. “And Ford knows you’ve done this?”
“I didn’t say anything to him. But why should he care? If the guy’s a suspect, then he’s a suspect. Right?”
“Absolutely.” I reached for the paper and scanned it. There were just a few notes scribbled down by Ford, noting the background with Roger and Eloise Shelton, that the cabin would be Lou’s for his life span and that nothing had been designated as far as the grandchildren were concerned. On the second page was a note on an incident in June of 2010 stating that Lou Shelton refused to allow the Park Service to test his septic system. “Why do you suppose he didn’t want his septic tested?”
“I don’t know. Most of the inholders hate some of the regulations the park imposes, so they take a stand. All the test involves is putting some bright-blue dye in the system and if the dye shows in the lake, then the park demands they clean up the system. Most people around here hate the interference. They despise having government tell them what they need to do with their own property.”
“I bet.” I took another sip of my drink. “And Shelton definitely strikes me as an antiauthority kind of guy. Thought he was going to rip my DOI badge right off of me and flush it into that system you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, and it’s the DOI that sets the septic regulation, so when the Park Service goes in, it’s the department that gets mentioned.”
“So judging by his financial records—his Chapter 11 filing in the nineties, he might just not be so good at managing his money and he might not have had anything to spare if his system was leaking into the lake.”
“Could be the case.” Monty grabbed a few more chips, wiped the grease on his pants, and took another sip of whiskey. “Which tells us what in terms of the case?”
“Not much really. Just speculation. But really, what we need to do is to refocus on the crime.” I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my forehead. “What I can’t figure out is whether we’re looking for one person or two. The fact that he was out there for over eighteen hours is confusing. Gretchen hasn’t found evidence to suggest that someone was hanging around with him for that entire time, no clothes fibers on fallen logs or nearby large rocks big enough for sitting and waiting. No obvious prints. So assuming that whoever bound him left—was it the same guy that returned to do him in? Or was it someone else doing the dirty work for him?”
Monty shook his head. “That’s way beyond my expertise.”
“Well, I’m not a profiler, but I’ve learned a lot in all my background analysis work, and here’s what I think.”
Monty quit chomping on a chip and looked at me like a kid ready to hear a good story.
“I think whoever did this wasn’t quite sure about whether they actually wanted Victor dead or not.”
“And why do you think that?”
“More of a hunch than evidence.” Monty’s eyes were on me, waiting intently for me to say more. “The fact that the shot was fired so close and from a strange angle”—I held my hand up like I was holding a pistol and pointed it downward toward my rib cage—“it . . . it makes me wonder if the killer went back to talk to him again. Maybe he needed information and he left Victor out there to torture it out of him. And when he went back to get it, something went wrong and he shot him instead. Maybe Victor said something that angered him, or maybe Victor wouldn’t give him the information he needed, or maybe Victor tried to grab the gun because the guy got too close—in his face. After all, his arms weren’t bound, just his waist and chest. His wrists were bound, but his hands were capable of grabbing for something.”
“Sounds so mafia-like.”
“It wouldn’t be the first mafia incident in a national park. There’s still a presence up in Eureka, although very much watered down. But Victor Lance was a lowlife. Forgive me for saying, but these meth dealers aren’t the brightest of the criminals and the mob wouldn’t waste their time with ’em.”
“I’ll forgive ya.” Monty half-smiled again, and I began to laugh. I was definitely feeling tipsy and thankful for it—the relaxation of my chest and gut—even though I knew I’d pay for it the next day.
• • •
Before the night was over, I made a fire because the cabin was getting cold. Monty and I continued to go over some of the files, and, of course, rehashed what happened with Stimpy.
“You think that guy’s it?”
“He’s no angel. That’s for sure.”
“What about his alibi?”
“That’s why you need to go get some rest because that’s what you’ll be working on tomorrow. Along with a million other small details.”
Monty nodded and lifted up his notebook to show me. “I know. I’m keeping a list.”
“Good,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t have a strong feeling. He’s weird. Typical. But he didn’t act guilty.”
“Then why did he go see Megan?”
“Like I said, he’s typical. He’s an out-of-control goon who needs to throw his weight around and because he doesn’t want anyone sniffing around his business.”
“But he didn’t seem too concerned about the local police, and he didn’t seem to care that much that we were there. He wasn’t nervous or on his best behavior with us.”
“He was nervous, even with the drugs. The drugs just disguise it. But still, there’s a part of him that feels special, important, because he’s the big guy in the neighborhood now. And because of his ego, he’s too stupid to be humble around the law, especially when he’s got a friend around to impress.”
Monty chuckled. “You’re pretty good at reading people.”
I shrugged. “How hard is it to read a meth dealer?”
13
HEADQUARTERS SEEMED BUSY the next morning when I arrived. While getting some water from the cooler for some Tylenol, I noticed Bowman, Smith, and Ford arguing over something in one of the conference rooms. Then I heard someone up front announce his name was Will Jones and that he was a reporter from the Daily Flathead and wanted to speak to Savannah Williams, Ford’s lead PR manager.
I quickly swallowed the capsules and hurried up front and introduced myself.
“So you’re the detective working the case?” Jones asked. He seemed young, maybe twenty-five, had a Denver Broncos cap on and shoulder-length hair curling out from underneath. He looked completely harmless—boyish—and I could see why Megan felt like she could say anything.
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re with the sheriff’s office?” He was looking my clothes over. I was wearing my navy DOI jacket, but other than that, no clothes that would look like a uniform. I had on jeans and a striped shirt under my jacket.
“No. The Department of the Interior.”
“How does that work?”
I explained to him how it was with Series Eighteen-Eleven, and he began to jot the information down.
“I thought the FBI would be called in since it’s federal?”
“Sometimes they are, but usually we get called because local FBI is working on other issues. Look.” I held up my palm. “I’m sure you can appreciate how dangerous it is for you to ask questions in places where things are a little touchy.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“For one, meth users might be a bit on edge about people snooping around their business, no?”
He didn’t say anything.
“You could potentially jeopardize this entire investigation, not to mention endangering Victor Lance’s sister by dropping her name around the wrong people.”
He continued to give me a stupefied look. “Well.” He shifted stances, then cleared his throat, and I could tell he hadn’t considered such a thing. “I’m, I’m just trying to do my job. It was obvious once rumors started flying that the sheriff’s department wasn’t giving us the full story.”
“May I ask which rumors?”
“In the department. You know, I go there every day to check the log. Don’t you think someone’s eventually going to say something to me?”
I nodded. “No, listen, I agree. You should’ve been given more, but you need to understand that there are sensitive situations here. All I’m asking is that if you need any information in the future that you’re not getting from the park’s PR department, make sure you come to me before investigating on your own.” I handed him my card. “I promise to make your job easier.”
Jones smiled widely as if he’d just won at poker. “Deal.”
• • •
I found Monty in our office down the hall. He was drinking coffee and going over his list of things to accomplish. He had fetched me a cup as well and pointed to it on the desk. “Heard you down the hall,” he said. “Figured you could use some.”
I paused, the small act of kindness on Monty’s part making my brow furrow for a brief moment. “Thank you.” I picked up the mug. “I appreciate it.”
“No biggie,” Monty said. “Needed to stretch anyway. Been at it for a bit.”
“You got it covered?” I was referring to the long to-do list.
“Go over the victim’s phone record, check the dental office and the grocery store, check the timber company and the hardware stores in Kalispell and Whitefish. The hardware stores in Columbia Falls had no recent sales of duct tape to anyone suspicious in the last week. And by the way, there’s no record of Victor owning either a Toyota or a motorcycle.”
“Figures,” I said, then paused and looked at him, at his youthful energy permeating the room. “You feeling all right?”
Monty smiled. “Feeling good, sir. You?”
He didn’t appear to be remotely affected by the whiskey like I was. Suddenly I felt old and pushed away the voice reminding me of how tired and shaky I was beginning to feel. “Fine,” I said. “I’m off to track down Rob Anderson, the owner of that dog. Call me if anything interesting at all turns up.”
“Will do, sir.” Monty took another sip of coffee, and I wondered how the hell one keeps their teeth white if they’re a coffee drinker. I walked away picturing him using those silly-looking plastic trays filled with some type of bleach, then admonished myself for being such a prick for thinking such a thing after Monty had been nice enough to fetch me a cup of coffee.
• • •
When I walked into the rental car agency by the county airport in which Rob Anderson worked and saw a tall man with thinning blond hair punching away at keys on his computer at the front desk, I was surprised to realize that I knew him. Of course, Robbie, Robbie Anderson, who went to Whitefish High School. Even though Flathead High was Double-A and Whitefish only Single-A, our basketball teams sometimes played each other for local rival fun. Robbie was a forward. I played a guard. I never considered myself any good, but since I was tall, everyone told me I should try out, and my ma insisted, saying that the exercise would be good for me. At that point, I would do anything she asked if it made her feel better. Plus I figured basketball was reams better than the therapy I had tried.
When Anderson looked, I’m not sure if he recalled who I was, just that he recognized me. I introduced myself, mentioning basketball, and saw it come together for him. “That must happen quite a bit around here for you, seeing someone from the old days.” I thought of how age had a way of pronouncing people’s flaws once the youthful baby fat was gone. His nose seemed bigger and his lack of chin more obvious.
“Every once in a while.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “And what are you up to these days?”
“Working,” I said. “Mostly out of Denver—where I live.”
“What do you do?”
I filled him in, and he said he vaguely remembered that I used to work on the local force. I told him I was on it in my twenties and asked him how long he’d been working for the rental agency. He said for about five years and shrugged, saying it wasn’t the greatest job, but it beat construction or logging and came with health benefits, something very difficult to get in the Flathead unless you worked for one of the chain stores or restaurants or had a full-time position at the community college or one of the hospitals. Then things fell silent.
“So you’re not here to rent a car?”
I shook my head. “I’m really sorry to hear about what happened to your dog last spring.”
Rob furrowed his brow. “How did you know about that?”
“I’m here investigating a crime in Glacier Park. You hear about it?” I studied his face.
“Sure, read about it in the paper. Weird thing.” He furrowed his brow again. “And that has something to do with my dog?”
“Not necessarily. Just following all leads.”
“Leads? And you’ve got something that connects this to my dog?”
“We’re not sure, but there’s a chance that the victim may have been involved.”
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Rob stared at me, his mouth hanging half open.
I didn’t answer.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “Really?”
“Possibly.” I held out my hand. “Again, not a hundred percent sure, but a few fingers have pointed in his direction.”
“Fuck me.” He stood abruptly. He began pacing behind the counter. “Jesus, so the guy who was found dead was one of those bastards that hurt Logan?” His voice was high-pitched.
I gave a half nod.
He stared at me, then slammed the flat part of his fist on the counter. “Yes,” he hooted like his favorite team just scored. “Serves the asshole right. You have any idea what they actually did to my dog?”
“I do,” I said.
“Well, then you know”—he nodded—“you know how bad it was.” Intensity and hatred flooded his eyes.
“I got your name from your vet.” I wanted to suggest that he sit back down, but I knew he was wired now. “I just need to ask you a few questions to just make sure we have it on record that we checked out all avenues.”
He stopped pacing and looked at me. “You mean you think I had something to do with that Glacier Park thing?”
“Like I said, just have to cross all the t’s and dot the i’s or else we pay later when we get to court. You follow me?”
He studied me, then sat back down and folded his arms before him. “I never even knew who did it.” He softened his voice and furrowed his brow. “He was just left there.” He looked down again. “By the fence like that.”
“You said, ‘one of those bastards,’ so you think that there was more than one?”
“Not for sure. I’d heard a few rumors around that there were two guys involved. But I never heard names.”
“Do you remember where you heard the rumors?”
“I think it was from a friend of mine that works in town at that sandwich shop on the highway. She’d heard from her boyfrie
nd or something that he’d heard from who-knows-where that more than one guy was involved. You can imagine how much I talked about this when it happened, to anyone I knew.”
“Have you ever heard of Victor Lance?”
Rob brought one hand to his mouth and waited a moment before responding. “I have.”
I lifted my brow.
“But never met him, just heard the name around. Not sure where and definitely not in conjunction with what happened to my dog. I’d remember that.”
“You can’t remember where you heard his name?” I prodded.
Rob looked at the ceiling, thinking, then shook his head. “Really, I don’t know how I’ve heard that name. Maybe in a bar in C’ Falls or something. I live up that way, you know. I tried to recall when I saw his name in the paper but couldn’t then either. You remember how it is around here—names being thrown around all the time and you think you ought to know someone since it’s such a small world, but you don’t.”
“Do you recall what you were doing on Friday evening around seven p.m. of last week?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” He shook his head.
“Again.” I shrugged. “Just dottin’ the i’s and—”
“Crossin’ the fuckin’ t’s,” he finished. “I was home. Making dinner. Watching TV.”
“Anyone with you?”
“No, but I was online for a while, if that helps.”
I grabbed a card from my pocket and held it out to him. “If it comes to you how you know Victor’s name, do me a favor and let me know. Anything at all can help during an investigation.”
• • •
When I was sixteen, two and a half years after the loss of my father, we still lived in the same neighborhood out of the Kalispell city limits among thick pines and tall tamaracks near the Columbia Mountain Range. It spread out for miles and was more like a wilderness area than an actual neighborhood. The whole place always seemed as if the woods barely tolerated the houses that tried to squeeze in and exist without nature’s permission. Homes were built against hillsides and on top of large, rocky hills as if some houses had won king of the mountain, while others were relegated to hide in the trees below.
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