Not about Drago or Elise. That did not mean he had forgotten. Nobody who lived through Drago would ever forget. Elise, either, for that matter. You just didn’t want to talk about it.
He picked up a paperback novel from the other desk in the pine-paneled office, the one shared by his two deputies. Ed McBain. 87th Precinct. It must belong to Milo Fernandez. The trainee. Roy Nevins’s taste ran more to Hustler.
Milo was an eager kid, still excited by the idea of police work. Roy Nevins wasn’t excited by much of anything these days, except finishing up his twenty years of public service and living the rest of his life comfortably off the taxpayers of California.
They should be returning soon. It was after four and getting dark. Ramsay felt a little guilty about sending them out on what he figured to be a wild goose chase, but he could see Milo getting restless with nothing to do, and Roy had been on the verge of falling asleep. They were not likely to find Abe Craddock and Curly Vane in the woods. Those fearless hunters were more likely holed up in some saloon down in Saugus, where everybody had a tattoo and a pickup truck. Still, Abe’s wife had called to say she was worried about him, and it had been three days, so Ramsay was more or less obligated to look into it. Anyway, Milo would probably enjoy getting out of the office, and Roy could sure as hell use the exercise.
The gravel crunched outside and Orry Yates’s panel truck pulled onto the parking area. YATES PLUMING was painted on the side in no-nonsense black letters. Orry claimed the misspelling was done deliberately to attract attention. Ramsay had his doubts.
Orry got out of the driver’s side of the truck, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl wearing backpacks, climbed out of the other. Orry led the way toward the office.
Ramsay swung his feet down to the floor and waited for them to come in. A tightening in his gut warned that this was going to be trouble.
Orry held the door open for the young backpackers, then herded them over to Ramsay’s desk. “Got a little problem, Gavin,” he said.
“Oh?”
“These kids think they found a dead man in the woods.”
“They think?”
“You know how sometimes the light plays tricks coming through the trees. A tree stump or a mossy log can look like something else.”
The boy shot Orry a dark look. “If that’s a log laying out there, I’m Beaver Cleaver.”
Ramsay studied the young couple. The boy was thin and wouldn’t be bad looking if he shaved off the apologetic, little mustache. The girl wore a UCLA sweatshirt and elastic jeans that showed off her firm little ass.
The sheriff cleared his throat and got businesslike. “Tell me about it.”
“We were, you know, hiking,” the boy said. “On a trail that leads off the old Drago Road, and Debbie goes, ‘Hey, you smell that?’ And I go, ‘Smell what?’ And she goes, ‘Like spoiled meat.’ And I go…”
“Never mind the dialog,” Ramsay said. “Tell me about finding the dead man.”
“That’s what I’m doing, man.”
“Could you speed it up?”
The boy looked sullen and Debbie took over. “We found him a little ways off the trail. A big guy, you know. Smelled really bad.”
“How big?”
The girl shrugged. “It was hard to tell. He was laying down. Dead, you know.” She looked at the boy and giggled.
“What did he look like?”
“Like a dead man,” the boy said.
“His face,” Ramsay prompted.
“Who knows?” the boy said. “There wasn’t much of it left. Like something had chewed on it.”
“Gross,” the girl confirmed.
Ramsay levered himself out of the chair. “Think you can take me to him?”
They nodded without enthusiasm.
“You gonna need me anymore?” Orry Yates said.
“Not now, Orry. Thanks for bringing them in.”
They walked out of the small wooden building that served as La Reina County Sheriff’s office. It was built twenty years before as a sales office for an optimistic developer who
He picked up a paperback novel from the other desk in the pine-paneled office, the one shared by his two deputies. Ed McBain. 87th Precinct. It must belong to Milo Fernandez. The trainee. Roy Nevins’s taste ran more to Hustler.
Milo was an eager kid, still excited by the idea of police work. Roy Nevins wasn’t excited by much of anything these days, except finishing up his twenty years of public service and living the rest of his life comfortably off the taxpayers of California.
They should be returning soon. It was after four and getting dark. Ramsay felt a little guilty about sending them out on what he figured to be a wild goose chase, but he could see Milo getting restless with nothing to do, and Roy had been on the verge of falling asleep. They were not likely to find Abe Craddock and Curly Vane in the woods. Those fearless hunters were more likely holed up in some saloon down in Saugus, where everybody had a tattoo and a pickup truck. Still, Abe’s wife had called to say she was worried about him, and it had been three days, so Ramsay was more or less obligated to look into it. Anyway, Milo would probably enjoy getting out of the office, and Roy could sure as hell use the exercise.
The gravel crunched outside and Orry Yates’s panel truck pulled onto the parking area. YATES PLUMING was painted on the side in no-nonsense black letters. Orry claimed the misspelling was done deliberately to attract attention. Ramsay had his doubts.
Orry got out of the driver’s side of the truck, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl wearing backpacks, climbed out of the other. Orry led the way toward the office.
Ramsay swung his feet down to the floor and waited for them to come in. A tightening in his gut warned that this was going to be trouble.
Orry held the door open for the young backpackers, then herded them over to Ramsay’s desk. “Got a little problem, Gavin,” he said.
“Oh?”
“These kids think they found a dead man in the woods.”
“They think?”
“You know how sometimes the light plays tricks coming through the trees. A tree stump or a mossy log can look like something else.”
The boy shot Orry a dark look. “If that’s a log laying out there, I’m Beaver Cleaver.”
Ramsay studied the young couple. The boy was thin and wouldn’t be bad looking if he shaved off the apologetic, little mustache. The girl wore a UCLA sweatshirt and elastic jeans that showed off her firm little ass.
The sheriff cleared his throat and got businesslike. “Tell me about it.”
“We were, you know, hiking,” the boy said. “On a trail that leads off the old Drago Road, and Debbie goes, ‘Hey, you smell that?’ And I go, ‘Smell what?’ And she goes, ‘Like spoiled meat.’ And I go…”
“Never mind the dialog,” Ramsay said. “Tell me about finding the dead man.”
“That’s what I’m doing, man.”
“Could you speed it up?”
The boy looked sullen and Debbie took over. “We found him a little ways off the trail. A big guy, you know. Smelled really bad.”
“How big?”
The girl shrugged. “It was hard to tell. He was laying down. Dead, you know.” She looked at the boy and giggled.
“What did he look like?”
“Like a dead man,” the boy said.
“His face,” Ramsay prompted.
“Who knows?” the boy said. “There wasn’t much of it left. Like something had chewed on it.”
“Gross,” the girl confirmed.
Ramsay levered himself out of the chair. “Think you can take me to him?”
They nodded without enthusiasm.
“You gonna need me anymore?” Orry Yates said.
“Not now, Orry. Thanks for bringing them in.”
They walked out of the small wooden building that served as La Reina County Sheriff’s office. It was built twenty years before as a sales office for an optimistic developer who
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