by Mark Young
“What else did the body tell you?”
Irritation flashed across Lafata’s face. “You mean postmortem lividity and all that mumbo jumbo?” He glanced at Frank. “You two wanna hear all this. I can …”
Frank waved a hand. “Jessie and I will be going. Catch up to us when you’re through.” Father and daughter began to retracing their steps to the deputy’s vehicle.
Lafata turned on Travis. “Look, pal. I’m doing this as a favor to Frank. Anything to help him get through the night. But, personally, I think it’s a bad idea sharing information with someone like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah, like you. I hear you refuse to follow orders. I also heard that when you didn’t get your way, you packed up your marbles and skipped town to become a professor. Well, this ain’t a classroom, school boy. This is the real world where real people get hurt.”
Travis warily eyed Lafata. “You know nothing about me, Lafata. I’m doing this as a favor to Jessie. If I had my way, I’d be back at the university. Since we’re stuck with each other — tell me about the body.”
Steele chuckled, eying the two men. “This might be fun to watch. I feel like you guys are dying to jump into the ring and have at it. This could get real interesting.”
Lafata relaxed as if he just declared a temporary truce. “Here’s what we’ve surmised from the evidence. The victim was shot somewhere else and brought here. Time of death is going to be hard to determine. At least three days, maybe more based upon the condition of the body. Coroner and lab will tell us more later. No clue where the murder happened. We’re still trying to track the victim’s movements before he disappeared.”
“There’s a gap in time between when he disappeared and when he was killed, right?”
The agent nodded. “A huge gap. He was killed just before the body dump, maybe a couple hours or less. The onset of rigor became evident after they tossed the body. They must have held him captive for nearly two weeks before offing him. We found some markings on his chest. Looked like he was tased, but I’m waiting until Steele’s people have a chance to study the body more closely.”
“What about his car?”
Lafata shook his head. “Nothing that helps us right now.”
Steele turned to leave. “I’ll let you guys know when those reports are ready.” The deputy began following the path taken by Frank and Jessie.
Lafata turned to leave, but Travis grabbed his arm. “I don’t know where you got your information, but I never skipped out on a case in my life.”
Lafata scowled at him, jerking his arm back. “Tell it to someone who gives a rip, Columbo. And don’t ever lay a hand on me again.”
Travis held the man’s gaze.
The agent rubbed his arm before continuing. “I don’t give a flying leap why you quit, professor. Just stay out of my way.” He edged closer to Travis. “And if you withhold information from me, I’ll hit you with obstruction. I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. I don’t care if you are Frank’s friend.”
“I wouldn’t call us friends.”
“Or whatever you’re doing with Frank’s daughter on the sly. Get my drift?” The agent started down the trail. He looked back with a sneer. “Just don’t get in my way again.”
“Again? What’re you talking about?” Travis struggled to remember where he and Lafata crossed paths. He came up empty.
Lafata stalked away, following the others back down the hill.
Chapter 10
Orofino, Idaho
Creasy adjusted the police scanner, listening to conversations between tribal police officers and dispatch. One officer squawked to another about the FBI, a sheriff’s deputy and a body found above the Lochsa River.
A source already whispered into Creasy’s ear that police found a body. He wanted more information, but there were no further details broadcast over the air.
Frustrated, he flicked off the radio and crawled out of his car. Striding toward an earthen berm ahead, he heard the soothing white noise of the Clearwater River as it rushed past. A mound of soil held back the river’s floodwaters from swamping a nearby parking lot where he now walked. Only one other car was in the lot, a vehicle he recognized. As he reached the grassy lip of the earthen barrier, he saw a man standing on a bicycle path alongside the river a few yards away.
Shane Foster. Client.
Foster glanced his way and turn back toward the river. As Creasy walked up, he saw his client slip a hand into a pocket of his denim jacket. He knew a gun must be hidden inside. Smiling, he eyed the bulge in Foster’s coat pocket. “This is not a good idea. Meeting here in public.”
The other man shrugged. “Just two men watching the river. Old friends passing time.”
“We’re hardly old friends, Foster. You hired my company to take care of your business problem. I told you I’d let you know when the job is finished. Until then, leave me alone. No contact. Those are my rules.”
“Maybe I just want assurance you’re working on my problem — not someone else’s.”
“What’re you driving at?”
Foster stared back with cold green eyes. “I heard about that body they found upriver last night. Along the Lochsa. Your handiwork?”
“Why’d you think that?”
“Oh, I dunno. People just seem to die when you’re around.”
“You paid me to do a job. I’ll get it done. That’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t hire killers. Just … reason with him.”
“The body they found last night has nothing to do with you. Now, don’t contact me again. Are we clear?”
Foster swung around, eyes narrowing. “Don’t talk to me like that. You know the connections I have? The trouble I can cause?”
Creasy smiled without warmth. “And yet — you hired me. That says something about your so-called connections. So don’t lecture me, Foster. That would be a mistake. A deadly mistake.”
The man seemed undeterred. “You came to me and said you’d take care of this problem. People say you take care of business. Well? I wanna see some action.”
Creasy faced the river, watching the white-capped water tumbling beneath the bridge. “Your situation is profitable to me because of other plans. You heard what I can accomplish and you jumped at the chance. Now, shut up and let me do my job.”
“I’ll have you taken —”
Creasy wheeled around and grabbed Foster by the throat, crushing the man’s windpipe just enough to make him gasp for air. At the same time, he trapped the hand still resting inside the pocket. He felt the metal of a gun and turned the weapon inward towards Foster’s gut.
“I’ll kill you and everyone you love before anyone can lift a finger,” Creasy hissed into the man’s ear. “Are you really prepared for that kind of trouble?”
He shoved Foster away with contempt. The man staggered, still choking, glaring at him with fear and loathing.
Creasy turned away. “Don’t call me again. I’ll let you know when the job’s done.” He strode away, knowing Foster’s hand rested on a gun. He also knew the man was too frightened to pull the trigger. Another gutless wonder.
Creasy walked as if he feared nothing. A man on fire.
Chapter 11
After leaving the crime scene, Travis followed the police chief back here to Orofino to begin their investigation. He followed Frank up a flight of stairs to the law offices they planned on searching. The police chief fumbled with his dead son’s keys, struggling to unlock a glass-paned door. As Travis waited, he read Thomas White Eagle, Attorney at Law stenciled in black letters across the smoky glass.
This must be tough on him, Travis thought, watching the older man opening up his dead son’s office. Going through these personal items must be like throwing alcohol on a fresh wound, he thought, stinging remembrances of Frank’s loss.
He heard the lock click open, and saw Frank swing open the door. A wave of musty old books and stale fried food lingered in the air, evidence the office must
have been sealed up for awhile. As he entered, Travis caught a glimpse of the Clearwater River a few blocks away through a window. He glanced around the office; two rooms on the top floor of this second-story office building. Not a bad set-up.
He watched Frank hesitate before entering, as if the man was gearing up his resolve. A large oak desk, battered from years of abuse, dominated the room. File cabinets stood to one side, opposite the window overlooking the river. “What kind of law did he practice?”
“Criminal, civil, anything that came along. Whatever legal protection his people needed, Tommy jumped into it with both feet.”
“His people?”
“We call ourselves Nimiipuu, the name my people used before Lewis and Clark and the others showed up calling us ‘pierced noses, Nez Perce.”
Travis grinned. “I can’t picture you with a ring through your nose, Chief.”
Frank rolled his eyes, sitting down behind the desk, staring outside for a moment. He uttered something under his breath that Travis could tell was not a compliment. “You know,” Frank said, pointing toward the mountains with a look of sadness, “All this land once belonged to my people. Beyond where the eye could see — into Washington and Oregon. And now, people like my son struggle to hold on to what remains — the land, the water. All that my people swore to protect.” Frank’s voice sounded hoarse, words from a man whose world seemed to be collapsing.
Standing across the room, Travis stood in silence. Frank seemed to be reaching into the past, into a world of his father and his father’s father. Or maybe it was a father struggling to come to terms with what happened to his son, a grieving parent trying to survive. Wrinkles in the man’s face seemed deeper, more pronounced, as if thinking of the past aged him during this brief conversation. There was a framed photo resting on the desk, a black and white snapshot of a younger Frank and a small boy fishing along a river.
Travis felt like an intruder as he watched Frank work his way around Tommy’s desk. Through an interior doorway, he saw another room. He walked in and glanced around: a small kitchen crowded into one corner of the room; a couch in the middle; and a queen-sized bed shoved into the opposite corner. To his right, a small television and bookcase loaded down with books. He ran a hand over some of the books. Tommy’s reading interests seemed diverse — history and literary fiction, crime novels mingled with books on hunting, fishing, gambling and religion.
Travis glanced back at Frank still lingering near his son’s desk. “Tommy lived here, too?” he asked, walking back into the office.
Frank picked up the photo, caressing its edge like a carpenter inspecting the smoothness of planed wood. “He lived to work. Always something in the oven. Kept all his own files, ran his own office to save money. And, yeah, he lived here. Tommy never needed much.”
Travis glanced toward several file cabinets against the far wall. “When are they starting the search?”
“Steele said the prosecutor wanted to get a special master to help them search since Tommy was an attorney. You know, so they don’t have to worry about attorney-client problems later if one of his clients turns up as a suspect.”
“What about the search warrant?”
“They’ve got it signed, but they’re waiting until the master’s appointed.”
“I thought they’d have this place sealed.”
Frank grimaced. “Fortunately for us, they’re anxious to get started on the case. Once a special master comes on board, it’ll take days for them to get their hands on these files. I think they’re hoping we’ll give them something to roll on right now before the master takes over.”
“Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”
“Lafata’s not one to let the rules get in the way of his investigation. I don’t know how Steele feels about it. I guess the way they see it, there’s plausible deniability if anything backfires and the defense finds out we got here first. They’ll just say they never knew about it.”
“Right. Well, let’s get started. I’ll start looking through the hard files. You take the desk?”
Frank just nodded and reached for a drawer. They began work in silence, each lost in their own worlds.
Nine hours later, darkness hid any view of the river. Travis needed a break. He glanced over and watched Frank using the computer, clicking through various programs. Earlier, Frank rifled through all the desk drawers, pulling out a number of files, thumbing through some and reading others more carefully. About an hour ago, Frank found a password to the computer in the bottom drawer, giving access to all programs. “Tommy seemed to have no appointments on the day he turned up missing,” Frank said.
Travis shut a file drawer and sauntered over to the desk. He leaned over the older man’s shoulder. Frank clicked on each day prior to the disappearance. “Look here,” he said, pointed a particular day on the calendar. “Two days before he disappeared, Tommy typed in the words ‘Jessie re: problem’ See that?”
Travis nodded.
Frank peered up at him. “She never mentioned it to me.” Turning back toward the screen, he drummed his finger on the keyboard, apparently lost in thought.
Travis straightened and felt tightness grip his lower back. “Maybe I should be the one to talk to her, Frank.” He knew what those words inferred.
Frank seemed to bristle. “We’ve got no secrets. She tells me everything.”
“Trust me, Frank. Everyone has secrets.”
The older man scowled. “Maybe in your family.” Frank closed his eyes for a moment, slowly opening them. “Sorry about that. I don’t know anything about you.”
Travis walked over to the file cabinet. “Actually, you’re right. I’m not the best person to give advice about families. I never really knew my parents.”
“I thought you knew your mother? Jessie told me about that middle name your mother gave you. The one you try to hide.” Frank tried to smile.
“She did, huh?” Travis returned the smile with a grimace. “I barely knew mom. She died when I was five. My father never entered the picture.”
“Sorry about that.” Frank looked up again. “If you don’t mind me asking, who raised you?”
Opening another file drawer, Travis peered inside, not really focusing on anything as his mind strayed to his youth. “No other relatives that anyone could find. They just shipped me from one foster home to another until I was old enough to escape.”
“Must have been tough on a little tyke.”
Travis shrugged. “I survived.” He peered at the darkened windows, catching his reflection in the glass. Frank kept pecking away at the keyboard, apparently searching for more information. The man seemed to know Travis did not want to take this journey down memory lane.
Frank’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’ll go back a few weeks. See if we can get a clue as to what Tommy was working on.”
The clock on the wall showed midnight when Travis finished with the files. Frank still pecked away at the keyboard, hitting the down arrow as he scrolled through another program.
Travis blinked several times. His eyes burned from squinting over reams of legal documents without adequate lighting. The files revealed nothing of importance. It seemed Tommy’s work load consisted of a smattering of criminal cases, water rights issues for the tribe, and representation of the Whitewater Casino.
He glanced at Frank, still bent over the computer. “Tommy’s hard files show a lot of work regarding water rights and treaties research for the Nez Perce executive council. Could any of this make someone angry enough to harm him?”
Frank rubbed his eyes. “Sure. Just the Snake River Basin alone had about 150,000 water rights claims, each one significantly impacting people’s lives.”
“What was his involvement?”
The man looked haggard. “Tommy did a lot of work on that settlement along with other attorneys representing the tribe. In 2004, they reached an agreement that recognized the Nez Perce water rights claims all along the Snake, the Clearwater and other tributaries. A hu
ge step forward.”
“Enough motive to make someone want to murder him?”
Pain filled the older man’s eyes. “Yeah. It might fire up someone enough to kill. Tommy rode point on some of these claims. But so did other attorneys and they’re still breathing. And if it were one of these claimants, where do we start? There are hundreds of potential suspects here.”
“Whatever happened to that other guy, Axtell. He ever show up?”
“Pete Axtell?” Frank sat up, resting on his elbows. “Still missing. Nobody’s heard hide nor hair.”
A thought crossed Travis’ mind, something he spotted in one of the files. He picked up a file labeled Whitewater Casino he’d set aside earlier. Grasping it, he opened it and found what he was searching for — a handwritten note lying loose inside. “Frank, I saw this earlier. Someone wrote here ‘Pete called. Problems at casino. Meet at his trailer. 8 p.m.’ You think this refers to Pete Axtell?” He laid the note on the desk in front of Frank.
A frown creased Frank’s face. “Could be. Maybe someone got to Pete too?”
Travis slipped the note back in the folder and jammed the file into the cabinet drawer. “Who knows? No date. Could have been written anytime. You know where we can find Pete’s trailer?”
“Yeah, upriver near Kamiah. We’ve already searched his place when he turned up missing. Found nothing.”
“Let’s take another look in the morning. Your guys might have missed something.” Travis closed the cabinet drawer slowly until he heard it click before turning toward Frank.
The older man’s eyes missed nothing. “What’s troubling you, professor?”
Travis leaned his back on the cabinet, staring at the floor for a moment. “As you know, in a homicide investigation we’re suppose to look at everyone. Anyone who might have problems with the victim.”
Frank nodded, still watching.
