Wicked Eddies Read online

  Mandy smiled at him while she slathered it on her toast. He knew one of her favorite breakfasts was sliced bananas and peanut butter on toast. Just as she knew he savored his mother’s homemade jams. They were getting pretty comfortable with each other’s likes and dislikes, she realized with a jolt. It was almost as if they could live together…

  To get off that dangerous train of thought and to tease Rob, she stuck her finger in the peanut butter jar then put her finger in her mouth to slowly suck off the sweet treat.

  He let out a low growl. “Woman, you are going to make me late to work.”

  Mandy removed her finger and sat up primly to take a bite of toast. “Whoops, got some crumbs on my chest.” She swept her hand across the bare tops of her breasts rising above the low-cut slinky top she’d worn dancing the night before.

  Rob’s dark gaze followed her hand while Mandy trailed her fingers down her cleavage. When he glanced at her face, she gave him a sly smile.

  He shifted in his chair and tugged at his jeans. “You are an evil temptress.” He tore his gaze from her breasts and looked out the window while slurping his coffee then taking a deep breath.

  “I’m just giving you something to think about while you’re on the river.” Mandy laughed lightly to change the mood and took another bite of her toast. “So what trips are going out this weekend?”

  Showing his relief at being distracted, Rob quickly told her about the rafting trips scheduled for that day and Sunday while the two of them finished their breakfast. Sunday was nowhere near as busy as Saturday was going to be.

  “How about if I fix you dinner tomorrow night?” Mandy asked, while she put her cup in the sink. “I haven’t cooked for you in awhile.”

  Rob grinned as he stood to refill his coffee cup. “Is my little wildcat becoming domesticated?”

  She gave him a kiss and slapped him on the butt before she walked out. “No way, José!”

  _____

  After Mandy took Lucky for a long run and showered, she called Quintana to see if he was in his office and had the autopsy report. He said it was coming off the printer as they spoke, and if she came over they could read it together. Itching to know what the coroner had concluded, she hopped into her blue Subaru and zipped over to the sheriff’s office. Soon, they were both pouring over the pages while sipping weak coffee from Styrofoam cups. Mandy knew the bitter brew was made from the cheapest tub of ground coffee the administrative assistant had been able to find.

  “Estimated time of death is Saturday evening,” Quintana said. “So Faith Ellis couldn’t have killed her uncle, who was axed on Sunday afternoon.”

  Mandy set aside her coffee while making a face. She’d given it a chance, and it had failed miserably. “But could he have killed her?”

  “Maybe.”

  The report was inconclusive on the manner of death. Faith had suffered a blow to the back of the head, enough to render her unconscious, but not enough to kill her. However, the forensic pathologist couldn’t determine if the blow came after her body was in the river, from hitting something like a rock or a submerged tree branch, or if it came before. His official opinion of cause was drowning. She was alive and still breathing when she went into the water, because she had sucked water and river debris into her lungs. But he couldn’t say whether the manner of death was accidental, suicide, or homicide.

  Quintana leaned back in his chair and smoothed his mustache. “Faith could have fallen, or she could have jumped in the river herself. Her family told me she had been pretty despondent lately. And you said Cynthia told you Faith had been depressed.”

  “But how did she get into Brown’s Canyon?”

  “She could have caught a ride from almost anyone driving north out of Salida on 285. And whoever that was could have dropped her off at Ruby Mountain, Fisherman’s Bridge, or Johnson Village. I’ve assigned a couple of patrol officers to ask around at those locations, to see if anyone saw her or gave her a ride. At least we know that she didn’t ride her bike up there because it’s still in the garage.”

  Quintana paused. “Did you read the rape kit results?” When Mandy shook her head, he found the page and handed it to her.

  While she read the report, a wave of sorrow washed over Mandy. That poor girl. The physical evidence showed that she had been raped and lost her virginity no more than a few hours before she died. The forensic pathologist found semen inside her, too, protected from the river’s waters by the tight seal of the vaginal sphincter. The swab had been sent to CBI for DNA analysis.

  Mandy looked at Quintana. “So Faith wasn’t having an ongoing relationship with her uncle or some young guy, because she had just lost her virginity.”

  “Not necessarily,” Quintana said. “Sexual stimulation can take many forms. But the rape kit results also show she wasn’t a willing participant in this encounter.”

  “Does this make you think someone raped her and knocked her unconscious, then threw her in the river?”

  “Or an alternate scenario is that she threw herself in the river after she was violated, possibly by someone she trusted.”

  “Someone she trusted? You mean her uncle.”

  “That’s precisely who I mean. I’m going to call CBI to suggest they compare Howie Abbott’s DNA with that semen sample before they try matching it to anyone else in their databases.”

  While Quintana made the call, Mandy sat in stunned silence, her mind racing over the implications. When he hung up, she said, “So if Howie Abbott raped his niece and someone found out, someone who cared about Faith—”

  “That someone could have been the one who killed Howie Abbott,” he added. “But until I know there’s a match, I can’t make that conclusion and question Faith’s family. Her rapist could have been someone else, maybe someone who gave her a ride out of Salida.”

  Mandy sat back, the damning report heavy in her hands. “This is awful. When do you think we’ll know?”

  “Not until Monday or Tuesday at the earliest. The lab techs don’t work on weekends like we do.” Quintana reached over and took the pages from Mandy, tapped them together with his pages and slid the whole report into his growing Faith Ellis file. “I did get some news, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ira Porter’s fingerprints matched some of those lifted off the beer cans at Howie Abbott’s campsite.”

  “So his story that the last time he saw Howie was when they fished together last Wednesday afternoon is a lie.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The beer could have been Ira’s to begin with, and Howie ended up with it somehow. That’s something to explore with Ira. I asked him to come in for questioning this afternoon, saying I wanted to follow-up on the last session. He agreed. I’d like you to observe, compare what he says today with what he told you on the river. Can you do it?”

  The laundry she was going to do on her day off would have to wait, as would cleaning her bathroom. Oh well, if she closed her eyes while she showered, she wouldn’t see the soap scum. “Sure.”

  Quintana checked his watch. “He’ll be here at one. That should give you time to grab some lunch.”

  Instead, Mandy used the time to stock up on groceries, putting together a menu for the dinner she was going to fix for Rob from what she found on sale—ground bison for burgers, mushrooms and steak sauce, toasted onion buns, salad fixings, and brownie mix. She munched on an apple and a cheese stick while driving home and called that lunch.

  After she put away the food, she spied the real estate agent’s card in her purse, Ms. Bridget Murphy. She almost didn’t call, but she knew Rob would ask if she had. She picked up the phone and dialed.

  The agent listened while Mandy described the property then said, “I can take a look at it this afternoon, see what needs to be done.”

  “I’ve got business at the sheriff’s office this afternoon. In fact, I’ve got to go there now. Maybe Tuesday? That’s my next day off.”

  “I could get the key from you and look at the property by myse
lf,” Bridget replied. “Then we can talk later this evening. How about if I meet you in the parking lot of the county government building in ten minutes?”

  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

  “Great. See you soon.” She hung up.

  Mandy stared at the handset. Boy, the woman is in a hurry. Come to think of it, if she wasn’t out showing properties to clients on a Saturday afternoon or hosting an open house, she must really be desperate for listings.

  When Mandy returned to the sheriff’s office, a middle-aged brunette wearing a crisp white shirt and a gray pantsuit stepped out of a late-model tan sedan. “Mandy Tanner?”

  “Yes,” Mandy replied while walking toward her.

  The woman shook Mandy’s hand. “I’m Bridget Murphy. We just talked on the phone. Do you have the key to your uncle’s property?”

  Mandy fingered the key on her keyring. “I’d really rather go with you.”

  “Oh honey, you can trust me,” Bridget said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t be a real estate agent for long in this town if I messed with people’s stuff. I won’t touch a thing, I’ll lock the place up tight when I’m done, and I’ll return the key to you tonight. Seven okay?”

  “Um, I guess.” Mandy gave Bridget the address, pulled the key off the ring, and placed it in the woman’s outstretched hand.

  “See you at seven.” Bridget turned on her heel and strode to her car.

  Mandy had the distinct impression that she was being railroaded.

  _____

  By one o’clock, Mandy was ensconced behind the one-way mirror looking into the interview room in the sheriff’s office. She had a pad of paper, a sharp pencil, and another cup of the raunchy coffee. She needed some caffeine to keep her alert after being up late the night before, and bad coffee was still better than tea.

  The door opened to the interview room, and Quintana showed Ira Porter to the seat facing the mirror. Ira looked nervous, glancing around and wiping his hands on his pants before sitting down.

  Detective Quintana sat and tapped his fingers on a thick case file, probably Howie Abbott’s. While Ira squirmed in his chair, Quintana opened the folder, took out a paper with some typing on it, closed the folder again, and leaned back in his chair. He clicked his pen a few times and smoothed his mustache while studying the paper.

  Ira squirmed again. “Well? Will you get on with it already?”

  Quintana looked up, a placid expression on his face. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He returned the paper to the file and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, crowding Ira’s space.

  “Can you tell me if Howie borrowed beer from you in the past few weeks or if you bought any together, divvied up a case, maybe?”

  After a moment’s thought, Ira shook his head. “Can’t remember doing anything like that. We usually just take turns buying.”

  “So, tell me again about the last time you saw Howie Abbott.”

  Ira exhaled. “Why do we need to go over this again? It was the Wednesday afternoon before he was killed. We fished the upper Arkansas together, wading upstream from Granite.”

  “You sure you didn’t see him after that? Maybe to share a few beers?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Here’s the deal, Ira. The lab has matched your fingerprints with some that were found on the beer cans at his campsite at Vallie Bridge. Care to explain how that happened?”

  Ira’s eyes widened. After a long pause, words rushed out of his mouth, “Beer cans? Hell, I camp at Vallie Bridge all the time. There’s good fishing there. Maybe I didn’t pick up my trash carefully enough last time I was there.”

  “When were you there last, Ira?”

  With a shrug, Ira said, “I don’t remember.”

  Quintana stared at him, hard. “These beer cans also had Howie’s fingerprints on them.”

  “Howie and I have camped there together lots of times.” Ira crossed his arms.

  “And, even more interesting is that not all of the beer in the cans had evaporated,” Quintana added, cocking his head to one side. “The lab techs told me they had been recently opened, on the weekend Howie was killed.”

  Ira sputtered. “Well, they’re damn wrong.”

  It was Quintana’s turn to cross his arms. “You lied to me, Ira. You were with Howie Abbott last weekend. And lying about it sure seems suspicious.”

  “Howie Abbott and I were friends! Why would I kill my friend?”

  “You’ve said the man can be kinda gruff at times.” Quintana leaned forward again, getting into Ira’s face. “While you two were sharing a few beers, maybe you got into an argument. Then that argument got physical. Alcohol can do that to people.”

  Ira sat back and waved his hands in front of him. “No, no, you’re not pinning Howie’s murder on me. I didn’t do it.”

  “For me to believe that, Ira, you’ve got to come clean and tell me the truth about last weekend. The whole truth.”

  Lips pursed, Ira rubbed his forehead. “Dammit. I’ll probably get thrown out of the tournament.”

  “Better that than getting thrown into jail.”

  “Shit. I’ve got no choice, do I?”

  “Not if you don’t want to be charged with murder.”

  “Okay, okay, here’s the story. Howie and I camped at Vallie Bridge together Saturday night. We fished downstream during the afternoon, then had dinner and drank a few beers together that night.”

  Quintana lifted his pen from the paper where he’d been scrawling notes. “And?”

  “Since only one family from out-of-town was camping there that night, Howie got the great idea to fish upstream, in the competition area, early the next morning.”

  “Which is cheating.”

  “Hell, yeah. I told him no way was I doing that, especially on a weekend, and we argued back and forth.” Ira looked at Quintana and held up his hands, palms out. “But no, it didn’t get physical. I said I wanted nothing to do with his scheme and moved my sleeping bag to the next campsite. I crawled in, turned my back to him, and refused to say anything else.”

  “Then what?”

  “I heard him moving around a little, dousing the campfire. He kept mumbling things like, ‘You’ll change your mind tomorrow, Ira. I know you will. Hell, no one will see us.’ I covered my ears. Finally, he got in his sleeping bag and I fell asleep. When I woke up Sunday morning, he was still sawing wood, so I packed up my stuff and left.”

  “You left? When?”

  “It was around eight in the morning. I didn’t want Howie to start up again and talk me into cheating with him. But, if word gets out that I was camping with him, no one will believe I wasn’t cheating.” His jowls drooping with dejection, Ira rested his chin on his hand.

  “You see anyone at the campground Sunday?”

  “Just that family, but they were all asleep when I left.”

  “How do you know they were from out-of-town? Did you talk to them?”

  Ira shook his head. “Their van license plate was from Texas. We didn’t really talk to them, just waved and said howdy.”

  “Did you find out how long they were planning to stay at the campground? Get their names?”

  “They said they were pulling out Sunday morning. We didn’t exchange names.”

  “Too bad,” Quintana said. “They could have corroborated your story. What did you do after you left the campground?”

  “I went to visit my mother in Colorado Springs, like I told you.”

  Quintana pulled a sheet out of his folder. “The visitor log shows you didn’t sign in until almost three. What were you doing between eight in the morning and three in the afternoon?”

  “I didn’t get much sleep Saturday night. I was too steamed over the argument with Howie and worried that I’d have to find a new partner for the tournament. So when I got home Sunday morning, I collapsed into bed. Slept ’til noon, cleaned up, and headed out to Colorado Springs. I stopped at a Safeway there to buy a sandwich for myself and some flowers for Mother before I sa
w her.”

  “You use a credit card?”

  “No, I paid cash.” Ira paused and looked at Quintana’s impassive face. “I swear that’s the whole truth. There’s no way I’d kill Howie. Even though the man could piss me off at times, we were friends, fishing buddies for life.” His eyes filled and reddened. “His life was cut short, though.”

  “What about Howie’s ring?”

  “His ring? What about it?”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  “You mean the one he wore on his little finger? It was his Salida High School ring, class of ’79, but it didn’t fit on his ring finger anymore. Gold with a brown stone.”

  “Was he still wearing it Sunday morning?”

  Ira scratched his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t go near his sleeping bag, because I didn’t want to wake him. He was wearing it Saturday night, though. He twirls it when he’s agitated, and I remember him doing that. Why all these questions about his ring?”

  Quintana ignored the question and tapped his pen a few times on the folder while reviewing his notes. “Okay, let’s go over the story again. Construct a timeline.”

  Ira’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Should I?”

  “Fuck yeah!”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I just said I wanted to construct a timeline.”

  While the two of them rehashed Ira’s story, Mandy looked over her own notes. She knew Quintana would make Ira repeat his tale at least twice to try to catch him in any slip-ups or inconsistencies. If the man had lied once, he could very well be lying again, changing his story to match the fingerprint evidence.

  But he had teared up both during this interview and when she had talked to him on the river about Howie. Could he really manufacture grief so easily?

  If Ira was telling the truth, that meant Howie Abbott was left alone from the time when the Texas family left the campground Sunday morning until he was killed that afternoon. Quintana probably would never find the family, and even if he did, they probably didn’t see anything suspicious. If they had, wouldn’t they have contacted someone?

  Unless they killed Howie. A family with kids ax-murdering a stranger? Nah. Mandy would lay odds that whoever killed Howie Abbott knew him.