A Witness Above by Andy Straka Page B

Since you used to be on my side of the table, I'll spare you the bluster. You know as well as I do, most in our business don't think too highly of you people on the private side. I like to keep an open mind, though, judge each person on their own merit. You know what I mean? And I gotta tell you, you ain't started off on the right foot.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I'll give you a couple days to think things over. Tomorrow's Sunday and not much is going to happen then anyway. But come the end of the day Monday, at the latest, I want to hear back from you as to exactly what you were looking for when you went over my crime scene, you got that? Otherwise, you'll have more than your license to worry about.”
    “Would you buy professional curiosity?”
    “I don't buy shit, Pavlicek. You push too hard and you're not going to like what happens.”
    He hung up.
    Just peachy. Not only was I playing cat-and-mouse with my daughter, now I had to fend off the official gumshoes. I couldn't really blame Ferrier. Guy was just doing his job. But, hey, Nicole said she'd call me back well before his deadline, and I'd get a better idea where we stood. If need be, maybe I could even turn up the charm and keep him at bay a little longer than he'd indicated. But something told me that might be easier said than done.
    No call came from Nicole the rest of that day. Cat Cahill did call me back, however. He said he was sorry he'd missed me the night before, that it was probably a good thing I had been the one to make the discovery of Turner's body, rather than his uncle, whose ticker might not have survived the experience.
    Saturday's Charlottesville Daily Progress carried a single quarter column on the front page of the inside regional section about my discovery of the late Dewayne Turner. The only mention of me in the article was that “a hunter” had discovered the body. Cat's uncle and Special Agent Ferrier were quoted. The dead man had been a drug dealer all right, according to the sheriff's office in Leonardston. The shooting was thought to be gang-related.
    That afternoon I caught Toronto at home. He lived on a small farm surrounded by neighbors who allowed him to fly and hunt with his birds on their land. He had managed to sock away enough in various investments that he was able, supplemented by the occasional nebulous “security consultant” assignment, to support his Spartan lifestyle. I had tried his number twice earlier—Jake didn't believe in answering machines.
    “Yo, my hawk-man,” he said.
    I told him all about what had happened, using the same approach I had employed with Marcia when it came to the part about Nicole.
    “I was over there too last night,” I said. “A quick trip to see Nicky at Cahill's. I managed to talk to her, but she wasn't exactly forthcoming. Promised to call me back before the end of the weekend though.”
    “You see Cat?”
    “No. They said he was taking the night off. I just talked to him on the phone this morning though.”
    “Hey, maybe the dead kid you found had a crush on Nick, something simple as that. She's a fine-looking young thing.”
    “Don't get any ideas.”
    “I'm just saying, that's all.”
    “Yeah, well it's almost time for season. How's Jersey?”
    “Primed,” he said. “The ghost of the forest will be ready.”
    Jersey was a three-year-old goshawk, the only raptor Jake was flying at the moment. Not being one to waste any resource, Jake, during season, would usually take what was left of Jersey's bagged quarry after the bird had eaten enough to maintain her weight. He made rabbit stew, cooked squirrel, possum, and even fashioned clothing out of some of the skins, and necklaces out of song bird feathers. Hard to believe from a guy who grew up in Elmhurst, New York, whose father had been a cop, and until he was twenty-seven years old had wanted nothing more in life than to be a detective. He said it was the Indian coming out in him.
    When he first told me he was taking up falconry, I