Wicked Eddies Page 5

  Lucky gave a doggy snort of disgust and plopped down on the floor.

  Giggling, Mandy let Rob draw her into the bedroom where they tumbled onto the bed.

  Four

  There’s a fine line between fishing

  and just standing on the shore like an idiot.

  —STEVEN WRIGHT

  Remembering Rob’s lingering kiss before they had parted ways in her driveway, and remembering the evening before, Mandy drove to Detective Quintana’s office the next morning with a satisfied smile.

  You know, spending a lifetime with that sexy man might not be so bad. But that word “lifetime” was sobering. Would Rob still have the hots for her when she grew wrinkled and fat? A line from an old Beatles love song popped into her head, something about wondering if my lover would still need me when I’m sixty-four. What would Rob’s answer to that question be? What would hers?

  Mandy stuffed the questions in the back of her brain while she

  pulled into the lot in front of the county government building. She had more immediate concerns to think about, like the information she needed to relay to Quintana. She zipped up her black fleece ranger jacket before getting out of the car since the morning was cool and cloudy.

  On her walk into the building, she noticed that the leaves of the oak trees planted on the parking lot medians were starting to turn yellow. Fall was on its way, as was the end of her seasonal employment as a river ranger. She was looking forward to working full time at RM Outdoor Adventures with Rob over the winter, but she’d also miss her river patrols and the camaraderie with her fellow rangers—and, surprisingly enough, with Quintana.

  She found the detective filling his coffee mug in the break room and followed him back to his office. Once there, she handed him the list of competitors who had signed up for the fly-fishing tournament. “I didn’t know if you had this or not.”

  He handed it back to her. “The tournament committee faxed one over yesterday afternoon, but thanks.”

  “I bet I’ve got some other information that you don’t have, though. Howie Abbott and his partner Ira Porter are suspected of cheating in tournaments.” Mandy gave Quintana a summary of what she’d heard from the pool-playing fishermen and Rob the previous evening.

  By the time she’d finished, Quintana had emptied his mug and filled two pages of a lined notebook with writing. “Good stuff. I’d already planned on tracking down Ira Porter to see what he knew, since he was registered as Howie’s teammate. But now I’ll be directing my questioning a little differently.”

  “Do you think he could have been the other camper who shared some beers with Howie?”

  Quintana nodded. “Likely, though Howie might have been drinking with someone who was angry about the cheating and who then ended up killing him.”

  Mandy was skeptical. “After drinking beer with him first?”

  “Happens all the time.” Quintana tapped the list of names. “I’ll have to interview every one of these competitors.”

  “Including the women?”

  “Especially the women. Howie’s killer could have been a strong woman, either a fishing competitor or someone with a romantic interest. We found a few long brown hairs that weren’t Howie’s in his sleeping bag.”

  “Any way of telling whether the hairs got there this past weekend?”

  “No, Howie could have shared his bag or loaned it to someone months ago.”

  “What about the autopsy? Did you get results from that yet?”

  Quintana nodded. “Time of death is still late Sunday afternoon. Howie died from bleeding out of the neck wound. The hatchet opened up his jugular, so it only took a few minutes. Both blood and pepper spray were smeared on his hands, as if he tried to stem the bleeding.”

  Mandy grimaced, then had a more horrible thought. “Or maybe he held up his hands in front of his face to ward off the pepper spray, and they got splashed with the blood pumping out of his neck.”

  “That’s certainly possible.” Quintana smoothed his mustache. “What a way to go. Makes being shot sound downright pleasant.”

  Envisioning Howie’s last moments was too bleak, so Mandy moved on. “What about the beer? Did Howie drink it all?”

  Shaking his head, Quintana said, “There wasn’t much alcohol in his blood, so the doc concluded Howie hadn’t drunk any beer on Sunday and probably drank four at the most Saturday night. And the stomach contents pretty much matched the food wrappers we found. Another interesting thing in the autopsy report is that Howie had a tan line for a pinkie ring on his left hand, but we haven’t found the ring. That’s one of the questions I’m going to ask Newt Nowak.”

  He looked at his wall clock. “Speaking of which, he’s coming in a few minutes. I’d like you to listen in on my interview with him, compare your recollection of the campsite layout with his and see if there are any differences.”

  “Differences? Why?”

  “Could be an indication that Nowak’s lying, or that someone was at the campsite in between your two visits, or something else.” He shrugged. “Newt’s words could stir something in your memory, too.”

  Mandy nodded. “Okay, I just need to clear it with Steve. He expected me to patrol the river today.”

  After okaying the plan with her boss, Mandy followed Quintana to the interview room and slipped into the observation room next door. Deputy Thompson, whom she had met during a previous investigation, was seated at the table behind the one-way glass that looked into the interview room. Mandy took the empty seat next to him. They shot the breeze until Quintana brought Newt into the interview room and seated him facing the glass. Thompson opened his notebook and clicked his pen while Mandy peered at Newt.

  He was a thin, pale-skinned guy with stringy red-brown hair and dark shadows under his eyes, as if he’d been up all night. The shadows made him look like he was in his forties versus his late twenties. Newt was dressed in a holey T-shirt, stained camp shorts, and flip-flops. His fingertips started a nervous staccato beat on the tabletop, accompanied by a bony knee jiggling under the table. His tongue darted in and out of his lips while he glanced around the small room. Mandy could see where his nickname had come from.

  When Newt’s gaze rested on the glass in front of him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is someone behind that watching me?”

  Quintana, who had seated himself at the end of the table so as not to block the view of Newt, answered with a placid face. “We always have another officer observe in case I miss something, but we figure most folks are more comfortable talking to one person. Just ignore the glass. Now, tell me about Howie Abbott. When did you see him?”

  “Monday morning, about ten. I’d walked into the Vallie Bridge campground and was picking up cans.” He grimaced. “Then I saw the body.”

  “You didn’t go to the campground earlier, say on Sunday?”

  Newt shook his head vigorously. “No way.”

  Quintana looked skeptical. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure!”

  “Where were you from Saturday evening to Sunday evening?”

  “Nowhere near Vallie Bridge.” Newt half-rose out of his seat. “You’re not trying to pin this on me, are you? I’m cooperating, for God’s sake!”

  “We’re asking a lot of people where they were last weekend,” Quintana answered smoothly, motioning with his hand for Newt to resume his seat. “It doesn’t mean we suspect you in particular of anything. So, where were you?”

  Newt sat but kept tapping the table. “I went to an AA meeting at six on Saturday, then hung out with my buddy, Gonzo Gordon, at his place. We grilled burgers, watched a movie, then he drove me back to my tent and I crashed for the night. All day Sunday, I was collecting cans at Hecla Junction. I took them to Safeway around seven and used the money to buy some bread and peanut butter and hiked back to my tent.”

  “Where is your tent, Newt?”

  “Oh man, do I hafta tell you?”

  “It’ll go better for you if you do, and even better if som
eone else saw you there. I don’t really care where you’re camping out right now, though if it’s illegal, I suggest you move.”

  Newt blew out a breath. “My tent’s on National Forest land, and three other dudes have tents pitched there. Any of them could probably vouch for me, but I don’t want to get them in trouble, too.”

  “I’m not going to haul them in, but I do need to question them,” Quintana said. “Or would you prefer to have no alibi for the two nights you say you slept there?”

  “Shit.” Newt’s gaze darted around the small room. “You’ve got me wedged between a rock and a hard place.”

  “We’ll go to your campsite after we finish here, then. Will any of the others be there?” After Newt gave a reluctant nod, Quintana scanned his notes. “So, Gonzo Gordon can vouch for you Saturday evening, and hopefully one of your campsite buddies can vouch for you both nights. Anyone see you at Hecla Junction?”

  Newt waved his hands wide. “Lots of folks, man, but I didn’t know any of them.”

  “I’ll ask around there today. Now, describe the scene at Vallie Bridge to me, everything you saw.”

  Newt went into a long description of the body, the campsite, and sleeping bag and fishing equipment scattered around, continually prompted for more details by Quintana. Mandy paid close attention, trying to match Newt’s description with her memory to see if anything didn’t jibe.

  “Did you see anyone else at the campground?” Quintana asked.

  “No, no one. Before I reached the dead guy’s campsite, I saw some trash at another site, but no cans, so I just left the trash there.”

  Quintana finished making notes, then raised his head. “So where did you stash the ring that you took off Howie’s hand?”

  “What?” Newt’s eyes widened. “I didn’t take any ring. As soon as I saw the dead body, I dropped my bag of cans and ran.”

  “You didn’t check to see if he was really dead, to see if you could help him?”

  “Oh yeah, but when I went to take a pulse on his wrist, I could tell he was long gone. His skin was way too cool.” Newt shuddered. “Then the flies grossed me out and I booked.”

  Mandy wrinkled her nose. The flies had grossed her out, too.

  “What about the hatchet?” Quintana asked. “Did you touch that?”

  Newt shook his head.

  “I’d like to fingerprint you,” Quintana said.

  “Why? I had work gloves on the whole time, except when I checked for a pulse.”

  Quintana smiled. “Then you have nothing to worry about. We won’t find any matches to your fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  Newt looked skeptical, and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

  “Describe your work gloves to me,” Quintana continued.

  “They’re old lady gardening gloves that I scrounged up, yellow with pink flowers. Worked pretty well, though.”

  “You still have them?”

  “One of them. I can’t find the right one.”

  “That’s because we found it at Vallie Bridge,” Quintana said, and when Newt opened his mouth to speak, added, “And no, you can’t have it back.”

  Newt sighed. “I suppose you’re keeping the cans, too.”

  “Definitely.” Quintana paused and scanned his notes. “Is there anything else you can tell me about what you saw or did while you were there? See any out-of-the-ordinary items, for instance, besides campground trash?”

  Newt thought for a moment. “Well, when I first got there, I went through the day-use parking lot and picked up a few soda cans. You know where the stile through the fence is that leads to a shortcut path to the campsites?”

  Quintana nodded.

  “I found a few more cans on the ground under some brush next to the stile. A can of pepper spray was there, too, but since it wasn’t aluminum, I left it. I remember that I thought it was odd for someone to leave it there.”

  “Good, that’s helpful. Anything else?”

  After Newt shook his head, Quintana said, “Okay, I want you to stick around town. I may have more questions for you later, especially if your alibis don’t check out.”

  Newt’s eyes widened. “I told you, man, all I did was spot the body and leave on Monday morning.”

  “But you didn’t report it as you should have. That’s suspicious in and of itself.”

  “With my priors, would you have reported it?”

  Quintana just frowned, then thanked Newt for coming in, and escorted him out to be fingerprinted. He came in the observation room a few minutes later. “So, what do you think?”

  “Doesn’t sound like he’s our killer,” Thompson said.

  “I agree,” Mandy added. “He didn’t seem to have any reason to kill Howie Abbott.”

  “Not that we know of yet.” Quintana smoothed his mustache. “We’ve got some work to do before we rule him out, though.”

  He turned to Deputy Thompson. “Drive over to Vallie Bridge and see if you can retrieve that can of pepper spray. If so, bag it and bring it in. Then go to the Hecla Junction campground and see if you can find anyone who saw Newt picking up trash on Sunday. I’ll take care of interviewing Newt’s camping buddies and Gonzo Gordon.”

  The deputy nodded and left.

  “Did Newt’s description match your recollection of what you saw?” Quintana asked Mandy.

  “Yes, and I really couldn’t come up with anything more from listening to him. He actually saw more of Howie’s fishing equipment than I did. Sorry.”

  “Something may still come to you later, and if it does, I want you to contact me.” Quintana closed his notebook and slapped it against his thigh. “In the meantime, after I verify Newt’s activities, I’m going to track down Ira Porter and have a nice long conversation with him. Fingerprint him, too.”

  _____

  Mandy treated herself to her favorite turkey avocado sandwich for lunch at the Salida Cafe. She ate it while sitting on the restaurant’s deck overlooking the water park on the Arkansas River. Kayakers practiced their twirls and turns in their tiny play kayaks in the man-made rapids. She shucked her jacket to soak up some of the afternoon sunshine that had burned off the clouds and warmed up the air enough for folks to be in shirtsleeves again. This was the “Banana Belt” of Colorado, after all.

  After lunch, she rendezvoused with Steve at the Stone Bridge campground to patrol the Arkansas River above Salida. Called the “Milk Run” by rafters, this slow section only contained one Class II-III rapid worth noting on the whitewater map. Thus, it provided some ideal fly-fishing spots. The upper half was designated as the wading section for the tournament, and teams would be dispersed along the bank at various beats marked with yellow-flagged stakes. Today, though, no competitors were supposed to be on the section, and Steve told Mandy that they had been asked to check for that.

  When Mandy and Steve carried their raft to the put-in, they encountered Rob, Kendra, and Gonzo with two fly-fishing rods. All three wore waders that were belted at the waist. The neoprene booties of the waders were stuffed into waterproof boots. Rob wore a chest pack stuffed full of gear, and the handle of a cotton fish net was stuck through the waistband at his back.

  Gonzo was trying to untangle a fly hooked on a bush. Kendra furrowed her brow while she concentrated on tying a fly on the end of her line, with Rob coaching her over her shoulder.

  Mandy eased her end of the raft onto the river bank, in sync with Steve and his end. “Hi guys. What’s up?”

  Rob looked up and grinned. “I’m training these two how to fly fish. I’m hoping I can turn them into float-fishing guides, so they can work into the fall after the water levels drop and the summer rafters go back to school. I’ll need to buy a couple of raft fishing frames, too.”

  Mandy met Rob’s even gaze and nodded to show she’d received the implied message, though she didn’t necessarily like it. Those aluminum frames provided raised, padded forward and aft swivel seats for fly fishermen, leaving a middle oaring seat free for a guide. They weren’t chea
p. Here was yet another need for the money that would come from selling Uncle Bill’s place.

  But how could she begrudge giving her friends some income during the lean shoulder season between summer rafting and winter skiing? Like many in the valley, Kendra and Gonzo had seasonal winter jobs at the Monarch ski area. Kendra had worked as a children’s ski instructor last winter, and Gonzo, like Mandy, was a ski patroller. Though this year, with the need to help Rob manage RM Outdoor Adventures, Mandy wasn’t sure she’d be able to do both. She’d barely been able to keep up her river rangering this summer.

  Gonzo yanked on his line and ducked as the two hooked flies on the end sailed out of the bush and past his head. “Controlling this line is a lot harder than it looks. It’s damned frustrating!”

  “Hey, try tying on a fly with these triple-looped knots using skinny fishing line,” Kendra retorted. Her tongue stuck out while she stared intently at the line in her fingers.

  “You using dry-nymph combos?” Steve asked Rob.

  “Yep. Got plain old San Juan worms hanging under green caddis flies.” Rob pointed downstream a few yards. “As you can see, the caddis are hatching.”

  Mandy spotted the cloud of buzzing flies rising out of the water. Two black swifts circled overhead, a sure indicator of a hatch if you weren’t close enough to see it yourself.

  With an “Aaargh!” Kendra held out her line for Rob to inspect.

  Rob rolled his eyes at Steve and bent over the tangle she’d managed to create. “We’ll have to cut it off and start over.”

  “And this is supposed to be a relaxing sport?” Kendra replied.

  Gonzo snorted in agreement.

  Steve laughed. “It takes hours on the water to get the hang of fly-fishing. Don’t beat yourself up about it. ”

  Rob turned to Steve and Mandy. “We spent the morning on the ballfield practicing casts, and I thought I’d give them some time by the river this afternoon. Being Wednesday, we only had one rafting trip scheduled to go out. Dougie and Ajax are handling it.”

  “I know you have a seasonal fishing license, Rob,” Steve said. “What about these two?”