Dead Water (28 page)

Her face fell at the answer. “Oh, well.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only nine. I know, I know, tell the producer I’ll be ready in two minutes.” She hung up.

“Gina is making an offer on the Gilligan property, I’ll bet you anything,” said Osborne.

Lew stood up and looked at her watch. “Would you two do me a big favor and see what you can find out about Zenner Frahm and those gun purchases? I meant to take care of that first thing this morning and now—”

“You took the words right out of our mouths,” said Ray.

“I did?” Lew looked surprised. “Well, good. Just so you know, Gina installed her software on our system, but the boys had just a few minutes to help with the debugging last night. Barely a start. She’s a little frustrated because nothing will run, so it could be a couple days before we can work with it here. By the time it’s up and running, the data should be ready, too. One of the gals from the county assessor’s office said she could do data entry for us in the evenings.

“These registrations under Zenner’s name? I’m real worried. During dinner last night, Gina and I worked over the printout she ran on her computer for Oneida County. It’s right there on paper: Carl Frahm has purchased twenty-one firearms—rifles, shotguns, and handguns—all purchased under his name and driver’s license. Here’s a copy of the printout.” She handed a stack of wide, flat pages to Osborne. He flipped through the pages quickly as Ray leaned over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you, I am not comfortable leaving Hank Kendrickson in the dark on this.”

“I agree, Lew,” said Osborne, “but Ray and I both feel bringing the boy in as a suspect isn’t fair to him unless we have hard evidence. He’ll be haunted all his life if we’re wrong.”

“I know,” said Lew. “Too bad we couldn’t find a bullet to give us a better reading on the rifles used on our two victims.”

“Not even a cartridge,” said Ray. “Like I said, they were shot elsewhere and dumped, Lew. If we can find the site of the shootings, we’ll have a decent chance of finding a bullet.”

“And until then, I have no way of knowing what gun was used. Not even the type. Golly, try explaining
that
to Georgia Herre! People just don’t understand: This is Loon Lake, not TV.

“That reminds me.” Lew shuffled through papers on the desk. “I had a fax in from Bob Marlett this morning. His maggot analysis showed the time of death for Sandy Herre was approximately six
p.m
. Monday. Ashley Olson’s was four-thirty the same afternoon.” She sat back in her chair. “What he can’t tell me is
when
they were dropped where we found them, however.”

“Still,” said Osborne, “the fact that Sandy died after Ashley and that she had that box with Ashley’s name on it in her car tells me they knew someone in common.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Lew rocked in her chair. “I just wish Sandy had been dressed for work. What I don’t understand is why she was in a halter top. If it weren’t for that, I would put money on the killer being someone related to her new business. Except for the bite marks … those give me pause.”

Osborne bit his tongue. Ray studied the printout.

“Both victims were wearing casual clothes, weren’t they?” mulled Osborne. “One for running and one for—”

“Fishing,” said Ray. “Sandy looked to me like she was going fishing.” Lew and Osborne studied him thoughtfully. Ray was still scanning the printout. “What’s this circled down here?” he asked, pointing to a red circle on the first page.

“Oh, one of Zenner’s firearm purchases, an early one, had a different driver’s license number listed. Gina is checking it against the DOT database this morning. I’ll let you know what she finds.”

Osborne stood up. “We’ll get out of your hair, Lew. Zenner is working out at Wildwood this morning—”

“Yeah, we thought we might amble in for a little chat about deer hunting,” said Ray.

Lew looked at them. “The boy could be dangerous. You be careful, you two. And if you see Hank, tell him I am very sorry, but I have to cancel our fishing plans for tonight. If he looks offended, tell him I am up to my ears, exhausted, but maybe we can go early next week.” She rolled her eyes. “If you don’t tell him next week works, he’ll be calling me this morning. So please, do me a favor, okay?”

“Don’t you worry, Lew. I’ll take care of it,” said Osborne, standing up and heading toward the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “By the way, I have one question. Was it really necessary for Roger to lock Ray up last night? I mean, did he have to be behind bars? Couldn’t he have waited here in your office or, you know, been treated in a way that was a little less embarrassing? I’m not saying Roger didn’t have to keep him under surveillance given the circumstances, but really, Lew. Locking him up?”

Lew looked a little confused. She glanced at Ray. “Didn’t you tell him?”

It was Ray’s turn to look chagrined if not a little sheepish. “My fault, Doc. I insisted on being locked up. A couple of my buddies were here. We had a nice … I mean, I had to wait somewhere, may as well be with friends.”

“Jeez,” said Osborne, shaking his head. “Honest to God, Ray. Some days I just don’t know about you.”

As he and Ray walked down the drive to Ray’s truck, Ray studied the printout. “Doc, has it struck you that our little friend, the Z-man, seems remarkably unconcerned about helping out with the ATF data? I mean, he seems pretty cool about working with exactly the information that will expose him if he is doing something out of line.”

“You betcha that crossed my mind,” said Osborne. “The kid is either ignorant or innocent.”

“Or so evil, he’s fooled all of us, including his old man.”

Osborne looked at Ray. “Little late for that thought. What time is it?”

“Twenty after nine.”

thirty-one

“Fishing is a perfectable art, in which nevertheless no man is ever perfect.”

Gifford Pinchot

Two
miles before the turnoff for the Wildwood Game Preserve, Ray signaled right and pulled into a parking lot. The lot served as the entrance to the Bearskin Trail, an old logging road used by mountain bikers, snowmobiles, and crosscountry skiers. The trail ran along the back boundary of the game preserve, where it snaked along the Bearskin River.

In spite of the warm, clear morning, the lot was nearly empty, which did not surprise Osborne. Cool nights through the end of June tended to keep tourists to a minimum until after the Fourth of July.

“What are we doing
here?”
Osborne looked over at Ray, puzzled.

But Ray didn’t answer. Instead, he relaxed back into his seat, letting his legs sprawl open as he gazed out the window. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. After a minute or so, as if it made a difference, he removed his fish hat and, reaching behind his head, set it down gently on the lure boxes and worm canisters piled in the space behind his seat. Then he crossed his arms and stared out the window again.

“Ray,” said Osborne, anxious to get where they were going and knowing it was his duty to ask, “you look like a man with something on his mind.”

“That I am, Doc…. That I am. Got some curious thoughts to share. V-e-e-r-r-y, v-e-e-r-r-r-y curious.” Osborne knew from experience that when Ray turned his words into a taffy pull, there was no rushing him. And so he waited while Ray continued to stare out the window of the truck, the thumb and index finger of his right hand knitting a curl in his beard.

Finally, Ray inhaled sharply and turned to Osborne. “When I was guiding Hank that day with his blond friend, he had a lot to say about the stock market. Not to
me,
of course. I’m below a tree stump in his food chain. But he did speak freely, assuming, I’m sure, I would have no inkling what he was talking about. As you well know, I have no quarrel with that.”

Osborne knew very well. They had both made a few bucks in the stock market, thanks to information Ray gleaned while guiding. More than once, they had sat on Osborne’s screened-in porch, sipping fruit juice cocktails and chuckling over Ray’s access to stock tips.

They found it amusing that the city boys with their overaccessorized tackle boxes would assume growing up in the Northwoods was tantamount to being raised in a wolf pack. Seldom was it ever in Ray’s best interests to correct that impression. Particularly when it involved someone like pushy, arrogant “Answer Man” Hank Kendrickson. “Just feed out that line and watch ‘em go,” Ray would chuckle.

“At first, I thought he was just bragging, but pre-t-ty soon I could see that jabone was working overtime. He wanted control of her divorce portfolio. Now that I think about it, Doc, he was a lot less interested in her ass than her assets, which explains why he was so pissed when she paid too much attention to yours truly. But it wasn’t until that Daniels woman described spoofing this morning that I made the connection.

“Market timing, instant trades:
That’s
what he was trying so hard to sell to the blond. He kept it simple so she could understand and, thank you, I have to admit I benefited, too. He went on and on how he had perfected this unique system, using the Internet, that made it possible for him to time the market so closely that he could be in and out in seconds.”

“If that’s the case, why does he tell everyone he runs a game preserve?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, Doc. I am not averse to the concept that this game preserve is a front.” Ray’s vocabulary always improved when he thought he was on the mark. “Then …” he paused for effect, “I happened to have a most interesting conversation as I sat in the slammer last night.”

Osborne, forcing himself to be patient, watched a van with four bikes lashed to the roof pull up next to them.

“Y’know Greg Kanuski got six months for four DWIs?”

“That’s too bad,” said Osborne absently, wondering what on earth Greg Kanuski had to do with the price of pigs.

Ray sat silent.

Finally, Osborne offered up, “I knew Greg’s folks. They’d be pretty upset if they were still around. You know the old man didn’t drink at all. Did you invite him to our AA group?”

“Nope, I did not. We were discussing women. Greg’s real afraid that gal he’s been living with is gonna kick him out. You know Marcy Miller, the hairdresser?”

“I know Marcy. She was a patient. Erin’s family gets their hair cut at her place. So what did you say? Based on your experience, he has good cause to worry. But, Ray, why does all this concern us right now?”

“One of Marcy’s clients is Hank Kendrickson.”

Osborne checked his watch. Gritting his teeth, he said, “Ray, we’re already ten minutes late. That Hank gets his hair cut by Marcy Miller is no big deal. So the man likes a good hair cut? I know
many
men who get their haircut at her place, including Judge Bellmore.”

“Oh, Hank pops for more than a haircut,” said Ray, straightening up in his seat and pulling his knees together. He hunched forward, leaning his elbows over the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. “He gets it colored every … three … weeks. Greg said he made Marcy go in nights a couple times, he was so worried about his roots. To the point Greg accused Marcy of having an affair with the commode and wouldn’t believe her until she let him hang around one night so he could see for himself.”

“What color
is
his hair?”

“Black. He gets it straightened, too. Not as often.” Ray looked over at Osborne as he spoke. “But it’s the facials that Greg thought were really weird.”

“A facial?” That
was
odd. Osborne thought only women had facials.

“Right after he moved here, he had facials twice a week to help reduce the swelling from his surgery.”

“His surgery?”

“Yeah. Before he moved up here, he had a nose job and an inch removed from his jaw, both sides. Greg said Hank paid for Marcy to go to Minneapolis for training on how to massage his face. But that was well over a year ago. He hasn’t had any facials for a while. And, Doc, Greg told me this in strictest confidence. Kendrickson paid Marcy ten thousand bucks not to mention his surgery or his treatments to anyone. Said he was trying to avoid an ex-wife with debts in Las Vegas.”

“Ray, you can’t take an inch out of your jaw. I don’t think that’s medically possible.”

“A portion of an inch then. But a chunk, Greg said a chunk.”

“That’s different…. So what made Greg decide to tell
you
all this?”

“Eh, we were just talking about goombahs. I think he’s worried Marcy’s a little too interested in the guy.”

“I’ll bet she is; he’s rich.”

“Our conversation didn’t seem all that important, Doc, until I heard that woman talk about spoofing. That got me thinking, y’know.”

While Ray was talking, Osborne remembered the description of Michael Winston. “That fella Gina’s looking for, the one she’s convinced murdered the woman from Kansas City? He has black hair,” said Osborne. “And I remember she said something about Hank seemed so familiar. But she sure didn’t recognize him….”

Even as he spoke, Osborne thought of the rock wall in the background of Hank’s trout photo. He had missed identifying a landmark as familiar as his own backyard. Light does funny things; it can flatten curves, shave angles. One of his fishing buddies, Larry Knight, a trial lawyer, had a succinct way of explaining his success in trying personal injury cases: “Worst witness is an eyewitness.”

“Ray, just how long do you figure Hank Kendrickson has been around? Two years? Longer, maybe?”

“O-o-h, not quite that, I don’t think,” said Ray. “Two years at the most, I’d say.”

“We were due at his place twenty minutes ago,” said Osborne. “I’m getting worried about Nick—”

“I’m worried about both those boys,” said Ray, reaching for the keys that hung motionless in front of him. He looked over at Osborne, the expression in his eyes as hard as the twist he gave the ignition.

“And what about Gina?” said Osborne as Ray spun the tires backing up.

“What about her?”

“She’s the one looking for this Winston guy. She said something seemed familiar about Hank Kendrickson.” Osborne thought back to the conversation the day before. “He knows where she’s staying, too. Oh, boy. I don’t like this, Ray. Not one bit.”