Dead Water (15 page)

“Got it,” said Lew.

“It’s a week before my interview, and Ashley and Michael invite me to a party they’re giving, a Sunday brunch to celebrate Michael’s affiliation with Ashley’s company.”

“Wait, what about his commodity firm?” asked Osborne, confused.

“Oh, he had that, too. And his real estate interests.
And
his personal investments. Remember, this is Superman we’re talking about here. He would toss off any questions about how he juggled it all with comments like ‘My people are running things’ or ‘Multitasking is my talent” or ‘I’m easily bored.’ Fact was, he had no plans to be in Kansas City long-term and he was siphoning money out of those ventures as fast as he could.

“But back to the party. I’ll never forget that morning. Ashley’s home was still under construction, so they held the brunch at this horse farm north of Kansas City that Michael supposedly owned. Later, of course, I found out it was rented.

“As you approached the main house, which was perched at the top of a rise—” Gina gestured with her hands—“there was this long drive through a field covered with purple, pink, and bright-yellow wildflowers. Absolutely breathtaking. And the house was expensive. Lots of glass, lots of marble. Not exactly your Midwest farmhouse. Very impressive.

“We were greeted, about twenty of us, with champagne and caviar, and everyone milled around oohing and aahing over the antiques and the art and the horses. The usual status bullshit. The other guests were all business types with their wives. I was the only single woman there,” said Gina. “I’m still not sure why Ashley included me, although there was a recently divorced lawyer, so maybe she was matchmaking.

“That went on for a while; then we were marshaled into the dining room, where we all sat down at this long, long rosewood table. That was funny. Someone commented on the table, and Winston said he spent thirty-two thousand dollars on the damn thing. Oh, and he said he got a deal. Can you imagine spending that kind of money on a dining room table for God’s sake?”

“So we had this fancy breakfast, and after the entrée, the subject of hunting came up. Michael was taking Ashley hunting in Mexico—for white wing doves. This led to a discussion of expensive shotguns, and suddenly Michael had to show off his gun collection. So all the men—and me—got up from the table and headed downstairs.”

“And you?” said Lew. “Do you shoot?”

“Yes,” said Gina. “I’m originally from Upstate New York. My dad taught me how to hunt when I was a kid— deer and grouse—but I haven’t hunted in years. I am good with a pistol, though. And I just bought a new Smith & Wesson Airweight. I like having a gun around these days … for obvious reasons.

“Anyway, we trooped down the stairs to the basement, where Michael had a closet full of
guns, full
of guns. Shotguns, rifles, pistols. He must have had at least thirty, maybe forty guns down there. Old, new, beautiful guns.

“He started handing them around, which alarmed me a little because several of the men had no idea how to handle a gun. They were pointing them every which way. But that aside, it was clear to me Winston has a passion for guns. Just the way he stroked them. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yep, sure do,” said Lew.

“So then, just to tease, I asked where his Uzis and his AK 47s were. This was just a joke, okay? But he gives me this look, turns right around, walks back into the closet, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t walk out with an Uzi and hand it to me. Then he winked and said, ‘Now don’t tell Ashley.’ ”

“Were his friends impressed?” asked Lew.

“Oh, it was a manly moment. I’m sure he enjoyed the look on my face. It’s one thing to own an illegal weapon, but to show it off like that? What arrogance.”

“I see it all the time,” said Lew. “So he left town with the money and the guns?”

“No. He took only the money. And that’s how I think we can find him. Winston loves guns. He loves hunting. I cannot imagine him living up here without buying a gun. Make that plural—without buying
guns.”

“Gina,” said Lew, “do you have any concept of how many guns there are in the Northwoods?”

“I know, I know. But that’s why I brought my computer. I was hoping you would let me run a database analysis of the ATF records for this region. All your gun dealers have to register sales, right?”

Lew groaned. “ATF: my nemesis,” she said. “They’ve been on my back to update records for months.”

“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms?” asked Osborne. “What would you have to do with them, Lew?”

“They fund us to keep the gun registrations up to date in this region. I’m responsible for three counties,” said Lew. “Six months ago, I agreed to take their money and try to fit it in. Saves them manpower. Gina, I don’t see how this would work,” said Lew. “Even if you’re right, and Michael Winston is hiding up here, he has to be using another name, don’t you think?”

“I have a way around that, Chief. I have database software that I can use to pinpoint certain patterns. The source information behind the patterns shows me where to start. I know it works. We use this constantly in our investigative reporting at the newspaper, like with arrest records, vehicle licenses, FAA data, that kind of thing. Federal and state databases are almost always available for this kind of analysis.

“Look, I’ll show you what I mean,” said Gina, pointing to the screen on her open laptop computer. “I brought an ATF database from Kansas City to demonstrate.”

Osborne and Lew walked over to stand behind Gina. Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys. The information on the monitor was easy to read; a detailed description of guns sold, date of purchase, name of buyer, driver’s license of buyer, name of dealer, and location of sale. She hit more keys, highlighting categories of information. “We customized the software ourselves,” said Gina. “This is proprietary, but I have an okay to share it with you for the purpose of investigating this case.”

“You’re looking to see names of buyers?” asked Lew.

“Names of buyers and, just as helpful, names of dealers who are moving certain types of guns, or guns at certain prices, or I might see a pattern where a specific type of gun is being sold frequently, and I can check that frequency against the norm for recent months. Basically, I can enter any field I want in order to search the data from different angles.

“But assume I find a pattern in your records, Chief. Given that those photos of Winston should arrive tomorrow or the next day, I can show those to any dealer whose sales pattern is suspect. So even if he has changed his name, we may still have a way—”

“I see,” said Lew. “Now I get it. That makes more sense. Except for one small problem, Gina.”

“What’s that?”

“The situation with our new system and staffing. As you might expect, this is one slow-moving bureaucracy up here. Even though the assignment and the money from the ATF to update the county files came in months ago, the installation of our new computer system was just completed. I didn’t get an approval to hire an information services manager to run it for us until several weeks ago.

“We have someone starting July first, but I have waited on purchasing software for the system until that person is on board. In the meantime, I have templates from ATF for the data, and I have basic word processing and spreadsheet software, but I am afraid that’s as much as I have right now.

“And I am simply not familiar enough with the system yet to know how to do what you are suggesting. Also, this is not a small job. I must have at least twenty-five gun dealers in my region—”

Gina raised her hand, a bright smile on her face. “Not to worry. That’s why I’m here, Chief. We can copy my software onto your system and use it to look at the data you’ve got.”

“But …” Lew shook her head helplessly, “I’m afraid that’s what I don’t have.”

“You mean, if I call the dealers and they fax in recent sales, you don’t have someone who can just type the data into the system?”

“No. I’ve got two switchboard operators and my deputies. That’s all.”

Gina looked perplexed. Then she shrugged. “Okay, what do you figure, maybe a thousand records? I mean, the new law hasn’t been in place that long, right?

“It’s about that many,” said Lew. “Maybe less, even.”

“So I’ll get started with the data. Do you need to get an approval from somewhere for me to work on your system?”

Lew thought for a moment before answering. “I see no problem with that.”

“Good. That’s good. But just so you know, I am likely to have one small hassle as I get started,” said Gina. “I know from experience it will take some tweaking to get my software up and running on your system. I’ll need to connect with somebody who has some basic programming skills and can help me work out the bugs. That’ll take a few hours, no more.”

Lew raised her hands in a gesture of futility. “Now we’re back where we started. The tech guy doesn’t get here for another two weeks.”

“But you’ve got a PC system, right?”

“Right. We have six PCs and Internet access with T1 lines.

“What if I find the tech support
and
a few bucks to pay for their time. Got a problem with that?”

“No. But I have a miscellaneous account I can use for emergencies, Gina. You don’t have to pay for it if it’s reasonable.”

Gina looked over at Osborne. “That kid at the airport today. Think he needs a summer job?”

“You mean Ray’s son?” said Osborne.

“Ray’s what?”

Osborne had to grin at the look on Lew’s face. She was flabbergasted.

nineteen

“Muskie fishing can be compared to tracking a deer all day and seeing only some tracks. A muskie can be a gray ghost appearing as a shadow behind your lure only to fade and disappear, making you talk to yourself and wonder if you really saw something after all.”

Ray Ostrom, bait dealer and muskie expert

It
was after five when Osborne finally got home. He eased the two bags of groceries down onto the kitchen table, then reached into the tall wicker basket standing just inside the kitchen door.

“Sit!” he commanded Mike. The black Lab stopped bouncing and settled his butt on the floor, eyes eager with anticipation. “Now, what do I have to do to get Lew to look at me that way?” Osborne flipped the dog biscuit into Mike’s mouth.

“Cook her a steak, light a candle, and touch the woman, for God’s sake.”

“Thank you, Mike. I knew that.” Osborne got a kick out of ventriloquizing with his dog. Sometimes he surprised himself with the words he put in Mike’s mouth. “I can do just fine with your first two instructions, but I’m not sure about that third step. I don’t think she’d let me. Plus … I think I’m too old.”

“Yep, too old.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay, you’re not. You figure it out. I need to pee.”

Osborne opened the door and followed the dog out into the fenced yard. The late afternoon sun was high and the air still warm but with a hint of humidity. The puffy white clouds that had scudded high against the sky all day drooped now, gray underbellies visible through the canopy of Norway pines that guarded Osborne’s shoreline.

He studied the muted sky, happy with the threat of a good thunderstorm. Nothing titillated the big girls better than an active barometer. He could get lucky, this could be an excellent muskie night, even if they only got in a couple hours. Osborne almost skipped back to the house.

He checked the answering machine. The solitary message was from Mallory, canceling her visit. Her excuse was too much to do: “Dad, I have a project due in the environmental lab course and my time at Hazelden is going to make it tough to get everything done. Can we reschedule?”

The best part of the message was the word on Hazelden. He was relieved. She was sticking with it. Rehab was becoming a family tradition. He knew he was lucky to have been forced through it. When he and Erin encouraged Mallory after the divorce, he hadn’t been sure she would listen. But she did. Every time she called, she sounded better. He jotted a note on the pad by the phone reminding himself to call Marlene and let her know Mallory would not be coming this weekend.

Back in the kitchen, he sorted quickly through his freezer. “Aha!” he exclaimed to the pheasant mounted on the wall when he located the package of venison chops. He laid it on the counter next to the two perfect Idaho potatoes he had selected at the grocery store. Alongside those was a plastic bag of freshly washed lettuces. He had been careful to follow Erin’s instructions and avoid the homely iceberg heads. Still, unsure if he had made the right choice, he had stopped by his daughter’s house on the way home.

“Looks fine, Dad,” Erin had said with amused eyes. She would turn thirty this year, but to her dad she looked nineteen: tall and slender with long, straight, honey-blond hair. Today she wore it twisted into one thick braid that hung down over her left shoulder. As he stood there, displaying his selection of lettuces, she was distracted by Cody, who had just assaulted his older sisters with a squirt gun. The toddler giggled hysterically as his mother chased him round and round the big oak table in the dining room of their Victorian home.

“Sorry, Dad. This kid is driving us all nuts. What are you using for dressing, that same old bleu cheese gunk?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Erin collared Cody, grabbed the gun, and booted him out of the room. She opened her refrigerator and reached in. “Take this. Just in case. Give her a choice.” She handed him a bottle of peppercorn-buttermilk dressing. Then Erin leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “Have you cooked for her before, Dad?”

“No.”

“Well, if you want to cook for her again, you better do it right, doncha think?”

Osborne, studying the bottle of dressing, glanced up to find her watching him with a funny smile on her face. “Dad, seriously, do you mean to tell me after all the times you have fished with Chief Ferris, this is the first time—”

“She’s a busy woman.”