satisfied there was none.
14
----
T he Big Timber Truck Stop outside Bellingham was one of the largest in the Pacific Northwest.
It was a twenty-four-hour operation offering fueling, a restaurant, a store, laundry and shower facilities, a chapel, motel rooms, and customs preclearance. The perimeter was dotted with ten-foot chain-saw wood sculptures of bears, moose, wolves, and eagles, produced by Odell White, the former logger who had opened Big Timber twenty-odd years ago.
Detective Stralla rolled by dozens of idling rigs and stopped near the restaurant beside a Sawridge County Sheriff’s four-by-four. It was Raife Ansboro’s, a detective in the division who was helping him on the Harding case.
Ansboro had called Stralla just about an hour ago. He was a calm, monotone-voiced man who lived alone in a cabin. Nothing much excited him. But today Stralla detected a degree of optimism.
“Got something at Big Timber, Hank. Better get over here.”
Stralla entered the lobby, went down the hall to where Odell was telling Ansboro, “I got Percy working on it,” then to Stralla he said, “You two go use my office. Everybody’s here now, I’ll go round em up.”
Odell’s office was cluttered with a battered file cabinet, a desk stained by forgotten cigarettes that had burned to the butt, and two swivel chairs upholstered with what looked like animal fur. There was also a small table with invoices, order forms, and catalogues specializing in truck supplies.
Ansboro held up a sealed plastic bag containing two credit card slips.
“She was here.”
Stralla’s eyes narrowed to Karen Harding’s signature on both slips. In clear, neat, and almost cheerful script. One was for gas. A second for the restaurant. The information on the slips faded, but Stralla saw the date and time. Although he already knew, he opened his slim binder to his case log. The time was consistent with the phone-in report by a trucker who said he’d seen Harding standing next to her Toyota on 539.
The receipt’s code indicated who had served her.
“Odell’s got everyone coming in who worked that night.”
“This is good, Raife.” Stralla looked around the office. “Odell’s got security cameras all over the place, doesn’t he?”
“That’s the good news. But Percy thinks they crapped out in the storm.”
Stralla cursed to himself.
“He’s in the back working on them.”
One knock sounded on the door before Odell cracked it.
“All here.”
Stralla and Ansboro followed Odell down the hall beyond the hum and soapy smell of the laundry rooms where truckers were folding shirts and jeans, to a small room where four people sat in metal chairs around a Ping-Pong table. The group of staff who had been on shift when Harding was at the restaurant. Two women, a man in his twenties, and a man in his sixties, who looked pissed off. They were studying the sketch of the restaurant floor plan Ansboro had made. Fingers tapping booths as they determined who sat where and who ate what.
“I told them what this is about,” Odell said.
Stralla asked the staff to tell him all they could remember about Karen Harding and the others in the restaurant.
“She was here.” Betty Dane tapped her nail on a booth by the window. “I brought her a chicken sandwich and side salad. That poor little girl.”
“Describe her demeanor.”
“Like she had plenty on her mind. I think she was writing a letter.”
“She talk to you or anybody?”
Betty’s hoop earrings chimed as she shook her head.
“And the other people?”
“You had truckers, here, here, here, and here.” Lorna, the older waitress, tapped the tables on the drawing. “Here you had a man by himself, older, quiet, reading a book.”
“Right,” Betty agreed. “Looked like a minister. And next to him there was a retired couple. I think they’re locals.”
“Jimmy and Connie. Got a place in the country two exits south. Next to them was a woman and her daughter, who was maybe twelve
14
----
T he Big Timber Truck Stop outside Bellingham was one of the largest in the Pacific Northwest.
It was a twenty-four-hour operation offering fueling, a restaurant, a store, laundry and shower facilities, a chapel, motel rooms, and customs preclearance. The perimeter was dotted with ten-foot chain-saw wood sculptures of bears, moose, wolves, and eagles, produced by Odell White, the former logger who had opened Big Timber twenty-odd years ago.
Detective Stralla rolled by dozens of idling rigs and stopped near the restaurant beside a Sawridge County Sheriff’s four-by-four. It was Raife Ansboro’s, a detective in the division who was helping him on the Harding case.
Ansboro had called Stralla just about an hour ago. He was a calm, monotone-voiced man who lived alone in a cabin. Nothing much excited him. But today Stralla detected a degree of optimism.
“Got something at Big Timber, Hank. Better get over here.”
Stralla entered the lobby, went down the hall to where Odell was telling Ansboro, “I got Percy working on it,” then to Stralla he said, “You two go use my office. Everybody’s here now, I’ll go round em up.”
Odell’s office was cluttered with a battered file cabinet, a desk stained by forgotten cigarettes that had burned to the butt, and two swivel chairs upholstered with what looked like animal fur. There was also a small table with invoices, order forms, and catalogues specializing in truck supplies.
Ansboro held up a sealed plastic bag containing two credit card slips.
“She was here.”
Stralla’s eyes narrowed to Karen Harding’s signature on both slips. In clear, neat, and almost cheerful script. One was for gas. A second for the restaurant. The information on the slips faded, but Stralla saw the date and time. Although he already knew, he opened his slim binder to his case log. The time was consistent with the phone-in report by a trucker who said he’d seen Harding standing next to her Toyota on 539.
The receipt’s code indicated who had served her.
“Odell’s got everyone coming in who worked that night.”
“This is good, Raife.” Stralla looked around the office. “Odell’s got security cameras all over the place, doesn’t he?”
“That’s the good news. But Percy thinks they crapped out in the storm.”
Stralla cursed to himself.
“He’s in the back working on them.”
One knock sounded on the door before Odell cracked it.
“All here.”
Stralla and Ansboro followed Odell down the hall beyond the hum and soapy smell of the laundry rooms where truckers were folding shirts and jeans, to a small room where four people sat in metal chairs around a Ping-Pong table. The group of staff who had been on shift when Harding was at the restaurant. Two women, a man in his twenties, and a man in his sixties, who looked pissed off. They were studying the sketch of the restaurant floor plan Ansboro had made. Fingers tapping booths as they determined who sat where and who ate what.
“I told them what this is about,” Odell said.
Stralla asked the staff to tell him all they could remember about Karen Harding and the others in the restaurant.
“She was here.” Betty Dane tapped her nail on a booth by the window. “I brought her a chicken sandwich and side salad. That poor little girl.”
“Describe her demeanor.”
“Like she had plenty on her mind. I think she was writing a letter.”
“She talk to you or anybody?”
Betty’s hoop earrings chimed as she shook her head.
“And the other people?”
“You had truckers, here, here, here, and here.” Lorna, the older waitress, tapped the tables on the drawing. “Here you had a man by himself, older, quiet, reading a book.”
“Right,” Betty agreed. “Looked like a minister. And next to him there was a retired couple. I think they’re locals.”
“Jimmy and Connie. Got a place in the country two exits south. Next to them was a woman and her daughter, who was maybe twelve
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