really. But what else do we have? Daveys said Clayton’s prints from his business card didn’t match the ones on the battery.”
“That would’ve been too easy,” Nicole said.
While Nicole and I were talking to Simmons at the shooting club, Toronto had hijacked the sheriff again for a few minutes outside his office and explained our plan. In a word, the sheriff thought we were all nuts. The fingerprint from the battery hadn’t matched any in the FBI’s criminal database up in Clarksburg. The only reason Daveys even entertained the idea of heading up a mountain in the dark with the three of us was his debt to Toronto. But Toronto said the Sheriff perked up a little during a follow up phone call after hearing what we’d told Toronto about our encounter with big Tanker truck. Apparently, Wylie wasn’t the only one with suspicions about illegal dumping.
“You’re sure the chef and the doc and his wife are the only ones who could’ve stolen your other tracker?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Toronto said. “Not too many people know enough about my business to have pulled off the theft. The Claytons do because we’re neighbors and I’ve worked for them.”
“But they had no motive to kill Jazzy unless there’s something to this dumping thing. And even then, it’s a pretty thin thread.”
“Right.”
“And Maria Andros knows you and has a motive, except—”
“Except, hotheaded as she is, she’s no killer.”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
“You think we’re going in circles?” Toronto asked.
“I don’t know. Nicky and I were talking about it earlier. There’s something here we can’t quite put our finger on, and that bothers me . . .”
Toronto turned to my daughter. “What do you think it is, Nicky?”
“I don’t know either,” she said. “I’m still suspicious of both Andros and the Claytons. You really think someone is going to show up on that mountain tonight?”
“We’ve dropped enough hints, planted enough seeds.”
“Let’s just hope one of them decides to sprout,” I said.
“I think we’ll see some action,” Toronto said. “And even if we don’t, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“The worst that can happen is that some random, beer-soaked hunter from Minnesota or somewhere downed your poor falcon. While we’re wasting our time, the guy could be across five state lines by now and probably hasn’t given it a second thought since.”
17
It was cooler later up on the ridge. The night closed in like a dark anger, the bloodthirsty mosquitoes in full temper.
“You folks have got to be certifiable,” the sheriff said as he helped us take down the floodlight stanchions and clean up the remnants of Jake’s crime-scene investigation. The man’s face was still beet-red and coated with sweat from the climb.
None of us was expecting much, but we at least we were well armed—Jake, Nicole and I with our handguns, the sheriff with his own plus a pump action shotgun. We concealed ourselves and settled in to wait.
A quarter moon rose slowly above the mist and after a while stood high over the clearing. The wind stirred the branches of the trees. It was a beautiful night for doing anything but staking out a mountain.
By one a.m. I was almost ready to call it quits. The sheriff looked antsy, too—he’d already disappeared to relieve himself in the bushes more than once. Nicole remained stoic, but even she was growing tired, I could tell. Toronto, on the other hand, barely seemed effected. In fact, he barely moved and might’ve been asleep, except that his eyes were wide open and constantly scanning the dark.
I was just about to say something about leaving when a pair of headlights appeared down the mountain.
“Someone’s on the fire road,” Toronto said calmly.
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” the sheriff said.
Another pair of lights became visible in the same spot, then vanished.
“Whoever it is, they have company,” I said.
We all dug in a little
“That would’ve been too easy,” Nicole said.
While Nicole and I were talking to Simmons at the shooting club, Toronto had hijacked the sheriff again for a few minutes outside his office and explained our plan. In a word, the sheriff thought we were all nuts. The fingerprint from the battery hadn’t matched any in the FBI’s criminal database up in Clarksburg. The only reason Daveys even entertained the idea of heading up a mountain in the dark with the three of us was his debt to Toronto. But Toronto said the Sheriff perked up a little during a follow up phone call after hearing what we’d told Toronto about our encounter with big Tanker truck. Apparently, Wylie wasn’t the only one with suspicions about illegal dumping.
“You’re sure the chef and the doc and his wife are the only ones who could’ve stolen your other tracker?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Toronto said. “Not too many people know enough about my business to have pulled off the theft. The Claytons do because we’re neighbors and I’ve worked for them.”
“But they had no motive to kill Jazzy unless there’s something to this dumping thing. And even then, it’s a pretty thin thread.”
“Right.”
“And Maria Andros knows you and has a motive, except—”
“Except, hotheaded as she is, she’s no killer.”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
“You think we’re going in circles?” Toronto asked.
“I don’t know. Nicky and I were talking about it earlier. There’s something here we can’t quite put our finger on, and that bothers me . . .”
Toronto turned to my daughter. “What do you think it is, Nicky?”
“I don’t know either,” she said. “I’m still suspicious of both Andros and the Claytons. You really think someone is going to show up on that mountain tonight?”
“We’ve dropped enough hints, planted enough seeds.”
“Let’s just hope one of them decides to sprout,” I said.
“I think we’ll see some action,” Toronto said. “And even if we don’t, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“The worst that can happen is that some random, beer-soaked hunter from Minnesota or somewhere downed your poor falcon. While we’re wasting our time, the guy could be across five state lines by now and probably hasn’t given it a second thought since.”
17
It was cooler later up on the ridge. The night closed in like a dark anger, the bloodthirsty mosquitoes in full temper.
“You folks have got to be certifiable,” the sheriff said as he helped us take down the floodlight stanchions and clean up the remnants of Jake’s crime-scene investigation. The man’s face was still beet-red and coated with sweat from the climb.
None of us was expecting much, but we at least we were well armed—Jake, Nicole and I with our handguns, the sheriff with his own plus a pump action shotgun. We concealed ourselves and settled in to wait.
A quarter moon rose slowly above the mist and after a while stood high over the clearing. The wind stirred the branches of the trees. It was a beautiful night for doing anything but staking out a mountain.
By one a.m. I was almost ready to call it quits. The sheriff looked antsy, too—he’d already disappeared to relieve himself in the bushes more than once. Nicole remained stoic, but even she was growing tired, I could tell. Toronto, on the other hand, barely seemed effected. In fact, he barely moved and might’ve been asleep, except that his eyes were wide open and constantly scanning the dark.
I was just about to say something about leaving when a pair of headlights appeared down the mountain.
“Someone’s on the fire road,” Toronto said calmly.
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” the sheriff said.
Another pair of lights became visible in the same spot, then vanished.
“Whoever it is, they have company,” I said.
We all dug in a little
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