Walk the Wire Page 3

  “So it wasn’t a shock when you found out she was dead?” said Jamison. “I mean, prostitution is a high-risk occupation.”

  “Well, it was surprising, actually, because murders are rare, at least around here, even for prostitutes. And it was a shock how she was found.”

  “I can see that,” replied Decker evenly, watching Kelly closely.

  “But what I don’t really get is why you folks were even called in for this. After Walt called me I went to talk to my chief. It was only then that I found out the autopsy and police reports had been sent to DC after a request came in from the Feds. I mean, it’s a weird-ass murder, sure, but there are lots of weird-ass murders, and the locals handle them by and large.”

  Decker said, “Why do you think we were called in? You must have a theory.”

  “Why should I have a theory?”

  “You strike me as the type.”

  In answer Kelly pointed to the table and the body on it. “She’s got some connection to something that has you Feds interested. I just don’t know what that is, but I’d sure like to.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” muttered Decker.

  “THE PAINT IN MY ROOM smells fresh and the carpet looks like they just laid it today,” said Jamison.

  They had checked into their hotel on the main street of London and were having dinner in the restaurant off the lobby. Despite the late hour, it was pretty full.

  “Comes with the cycle of booms and busts,” responded Decker as he glanced over his menu and frowned. “They have tofu here? In rural North Dakota?”

  “Why not?” asked Jamison. “I’m sure people here eat tofu.”

  “Yeah, maybe with their bacon and sausage. And elk.”

  They ordered, and Decker sat back in his chair cradling the bottle of Corona with a lime wedge the waitress had brought him while Jamison sipped on some iced tea.

  “So what do you think of Detective Kelly?” she said.

  “I think his talents might be wasted in a place like this. But then again, this might be a hotbed of crime for all I know.”

  “Men with too much money,” mused Jamison. “Like he said.”

  Decker nodded absently. “Kelly wants to know why we’re here. And so do I. I called and left a message with Bogart but I’ve heard nothing back yet.”

  “I did too, with the same result. What do you think after looking at the body?”

  “It could be some psycho with a forensic fetish, or someone is leaving a message of some sort.”

  “What sort of message?”

  “If Cramer was killed because of something she knew, and others knew it as well, then it’s a warning not to talk or the same will happen to them.”

  “What could she have known?”

  “Well, if I knew that, we could make an arrest and fly home,” said Decker.

  “Point taken.”

  Decker’s expression grew dark. “I don’t think this is a one-off, Alex.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You heard what Walt Southern said. Medical-grade incisions and tools. You don’t walk into a Home Depot and buy a Stryker saw. And the body was cut up before it was laid out there, otherwise there would have been traces of the procedure and at least some blood. And he had to transport her out there. He evidently picked the spot with care.”

  “So that shows he knows the area. Or at least scoped out that particular location beforehand.”

  Decker nodded. “That takes planning and patience.” He looked over her shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. He blinked twice as though to clear his vision and make sure he was seeing correctly.

  “Stan?”

  The big man who had just come into the dining area glanced sharply over at them when he heard the name. His look of astonishment mirrored Decker’s.

  “Amos?”

  The man named Stan came over and Decker stood to shake his hand as Jamison looked on, puzzled.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Decker.

  “Could ask the same of you,” said Stan.

  He was nearly as tall and broad as Decker, with reddish hair going gray at the edges, a florid face, and twinkly green eyes. His short, trimmed beard matched the color of his hair.

  “Hello,” interjected Jamison as she rose and extended her hand. “I’m Alex Jamison. I work with Decker at the FBI.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Decker. “Alex, this big lug is Stan Baker, my brother-in-law. He’s married to my sister Renee. They live in California.” He glanced curiously at Baker. “You’re a long way from home.”

  Baker rubbed his thick, muscular fingers, his expression suddenly nervous. “I, uh, I live here now. And soon, well, I’m going to be your ex-brother-in-law.”

  “What?” snapped a visibly stunned Decker as he took a step back.

  “Renee hasn’t talked to you?”

  “About what?”

  “We’re getting divorced.”

  Decker stared at him in disbelief. “Divorced? Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Blame on both sides.”

  “And the kids?”

  “They’ll stay with their mom.”

  “Are they still in California?”

  “Yeah,” Baker said uncomfortably. “The younger kids are in school and all. And Renee has a good job.”

  “But you’re here in North Dakota, Stan. How exactly does that work?” he demanded.

  “I moved to Alaska and worked there for a while, but that’s slowing down. You know Tim was an oil exec up there. He got me the job.”

  “What do you mean Tim was an oil executive?”

  “Who’s Tim?” interjected Jamison.

  “Our other brother-in-law,” replied Baker. “He’s married to Amos’s sister Diane.”

  “What about Tim?” said Decker.

  “He got canned and last I heard drives an Uber and does some accounting for small businesses. And then my position got cut, too. I wanted a fresh start. This place is booming. They needed experienced field hands. Been here over a year now. And you can’t beat the money.”

  “And your kids?” said Decker again.

  “I Skype with them most every day,” Baker said defensively.

  “You can’t Skype a hug or teach your son to swing a bat from thousands of miles away. You were in the Army when the first two were born. You were gone a lot.”

  “I was fighting for my country, Amos!”

  “I’m just saying kids need their dad.”

  Baker said in an annoyed tone, “Yeah, well, it’s the way it is for me. I mean people do get divorced. And we did try to work it out. Counseling and all that.”

  “Maybe you could have worked harder,” said Decker. “It’s family, Stan. They’re not supposed to be disposable.”

  Now Baker’s green eyes flashed angrily. “Look, I know what you’re getting at. We all know what happened to Cassie and her brother, and . . . Molly. It was awful. Never cried that hard in my life as when I was at their funerals. But . . . but that’s you, not me. It’s way different. And I wasn’t looking for this to happen, neither of us was, but it just did. That’s life.”

  Decker glanced at Jamison and then looked down. “Yeah, okay. I . . . I guess I should call Renee. I . . . I haven’t been all that good about keeping in touch.”

  “Well, if you didn’t know your sister was getting divorced or your other brother-in-law lost his job, I’d say you’re spot-on with that observation,” chimed in a disbelieving Jamison.

  “So what are you doing here?” asked Baker.

  “Investigating a murder.”

  “A murder!?”

  “You have murders up here, don’t you?” said Decker sullenly.

  “Yeah, it’s usually two drunk knuckleheads going at it, or some gang boys fighting over drug turf. Meth, coke, and heroin are like candy up here. Who got killed?”

  “We can’t go into that with you,” said Jamison quickly. “But you’ll probably hear about it on the news.”

  “Damn. And the FBI got called i
n for it? Why can’t the locals handle it?”

  Decker said, “We just go where we’re told to go, Stan.”

  “Would you like to join us for dinner?” asked Jamison.

  Baker blanched and took a step back, glancing at Decker. “What? No. I, um, I already ate my dinner.”

  “What are you doing here, then?” asked Decker, who was now clearly curious about Baker’s discomfort. “If you’ve been here over a year, surely you’re not staying here.”

  “No, I got my own place. I’m here to meet, uh . . .” he mumbled.

  “Meet who?” said Decker sharply.

  “Stan?”

  They all turned to see a woman in her early thirties saunter into the room. At least saunter was the verb that came to Decker’s mind as he watched her move. She was quite beautiful, and he could see many of the men in the room, even those there with other women, turn to stare at her.

  “Caroline, hey,” said Baker rigidly, glancing nervously at Decker. “This is Caroline Dawson,” he said to Decker.

  “Yeah, I got that,” replied Decker, gazing sternly at his soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.

  “Um, Caroline, this is Amos Decker, and his partner, Alex. Amos is—”

  “I’m Stan’s friend,” interjected Decker. “Neither of us knew the other was in town.”

  Caroline smiled. “Cool, what a nice surprise. You ready?” she asked Baker before glancing at Alex. “Hey, you guys want to join us? We’re going clubbing.”

  “There are clubs here?” said an incredulous Jamison.

  Caroline smiled and did an eye roll. “I know. You wouldn’t think, but yeah, there are maybe three good places. Well, they’re more bars than clubs. But not all of them play just country music, which Stan loves and I can’t stand.”

  “We’re good,” said Decker. “We just flew in. Pretty beat.”

  “Okay, we’ll do a rain check, then.”

  “Right.”

  Caroline gripped Baker’s hand. “Let’s roll. First stop, the OK Corral Saloon.”

  “Do you live in London?” asked Decker suddenly.

  She grinned. “Yeah. I’d prefer to live in London, England. Maybe someday. My dad owns this hotel, and a bunch of other businesses. I help him run them. He lives in a big place way outside of town. I sometimes stay there, but I also have a condo in town.”

  “Okay.”

  “See ya,” said Caroline, and she led Baker from the room. Jamison looked at Decker. “What a coincidence, huh?” Decker sat back down and stared dully at the wooden-topped table.

  “Sorry about your sister,” she said.

  “She should have called me,” said an obviously stricken Decker.

  “Are you sure she didn’t try to contact you?” said Jamison in a suspicious tone.

  Decker suddenly looked guilty. “I think there might have been some voice mails I forgot to return.”

  “Wow, for a guy who can’t forget anything that is remarkable.”

  “I know, I know,” he said miserably. “I’m bad about that.”

  “You need to talk to her. Be supportive. Let her tell her story without being judgmental.”

  “People work stuff out all the time. And Stan has already found someone else.”

  “I’m not sure he’s looking for a permanent companion in this relationship, Decker. And by the looks of it neither is Caroline. I think they’re just two people having fun.”

  When their food finally came Decker only took a few bites before mumbling to Jamison, “Sorry, I . . . I lost my appetite. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He headed out without further explanation.

  THE OK CORRAL SALOON.

  It was big, loud, and assuredly hopping.

  The lights blazed from every window and Decker could hear the music blasting out of the place. It was country, with a dash of rock and roll, at least to his ear. It shot through the air like a sound cannon.

  He stood outside and felt his skin slowly begin to pucker with the humidity that had returned after the storm.

  After he cleared the outside bouncer checking IDs, Decker opened the door, and the heat and comingled smells of sweat and spilled alcohol hit him like a tank round. Either they had no AC or it was having a struggle to keep up with the warmth thrown off by the waves of swaying people. And from what Decker could see, he might have been the only sober customer in the joint.

  He edged around a knot of young people near the front entrance. They seemed to be holding each other up, though it was not yet ten o’clock. He didn’t want to be around these folks at midnight.

  There was a live band, four guys, and a gal as the lead singer. Her hair was Dolly Parton big and swirled around her head as she danced while crooning a Faith Hill ballad to pitch perfection. The band looked like petrified wood next to her steamy gyrations. She started her next set, and from what Decker could hear, the lyrics focused principally on guys, gals, dogs, and guns, with a Chevy pickup thrown in for good measure. There was a quartet of ninety-inch TV screens on the walls, all tuned to sports channels. In one corner behind a waist-high partition was a mechanical bull, but it didn’t seem to be in operation. It just sat there looking pissed off.

  He stood near the back and took his time surveying the room. On one wall was a sign with very large letters that read, BAR RULES: YOU PULL ANY CRAP IN HERE PARTICULARLY FIGHTING AND YOUR ASS IS GONE FOR GOOD. WHEN YOU ARE CUT OFF, YOU ARE DONE. ZERO TOLERANCE. HAVE A GOOD TIME.

  A minute later he spotted the pair. Caroline was on the parquet dance floor flitting around a flat-footed Baker, like a hummingbird to a very large, very stiff flower. Or cactus, more like it. Baker moved his feet an inch or two from side to side, stuck his hands up, and tried to look like he was enjoying himself.

  Why is she with him?

  Someone nudged Decker. It was a man even larger than he was who started speaking to him in a low but menacing voice.

  “Look, bud, you want to stay here you need to buy something, food or drink or preferably both,” the man said. He weighed in at about three-fifty, bald as a cue ball, and his flabby gut was overshadowed only by the muscular breadth of his shoulders. “Otherwise, you need to go. Somebody’s got to pay to keep the lights on and the booze flowing.”

  Decker moved up to the bar, which spanned one entire wall. The bar stools were all occupied. He wedged next to a couple doing a lip-lock and somehow still managing to chug beer, and a well-dressed woman in her early forties who held a cocktail with about a pound of fruit in it.

  The bar sported a hundred beers on tap and a similar number in bottle, many of them IPAs that Decker had never heard of. He opted for Budweiser in the can that set him back five bucks and stood with his back to the bar so he could keep watching his brother-in-law make a fool of himself.

  Correction, soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.

  Caroline was now hanging off Baker, looking dreamily up into the man’s face before planting a kiss on his lips. In this stark image all Decker could see was his sister Renee and her four kids, and he had to look away before anger got the better of him. Then he caught himself. What business was it of his anyway? Why was he even here?

  “You’re the Fed, right?”

  Decker looked to his left. The person speaking was the fruit-chugging lady. She was slender and fit, the line of her triceps showing against the fabric of her tight blouse. She had on a wedding ring and a gold-plated pinky ring. Her hair was light brown with blond highlights and hung down to her shoulders. She wore a pair of jade earrings shaped as miniature Buddhist temples. Her features were finely chiseled and quite attractive, her eyes a light blue.

  “And why do you think that?” asked Decker.

  “I’m Liz Southern. My husband, Walt, just did the post on your victim. He told me you were in town.”

  “But again, how’d you know it was me out of all the people here?”

  “He said watch out for a guy in his forties who looks like an ex-NFL offensive lineman.”

  “That would fit about ten of t
he guys here, maybe more.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. He also said you had brooding, intelligent, hard-to-read features. That definitely does not match any of the ten or so guys in this room you were probably referring to. They’re as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book.”

  Decker put out his hand for her to shake. “Amos Decker.”

  “Not a name you hear much anymore,” Southern said as she shook his hand.

  “Did your husband tell you details about the case?”

  “He did not breach confidences, if that’s what you were asking. But I manage the funeral home, so I am there quite a bit. Rest assured, whatever I might have learned will go no further.”

  Decker took a sip of his beer and eyed the unused mechanical bull. “What’s the story with that thing? Thought it’d be popular with this crowd.”

  “It was. Too popular.”

  “Come again?”

  “It came down to legal liability issues. You get a fracker on that thing and he breaks his leg, arm, or neck, you got a lawsuit from him or his family and another from the company that desperately needed him out in the field. I guess it costs too much to remove, so now people just throw beer cans and bottles at it from time to time.”

  As she said this, one drunk young man in a Stetson wound up and hurled his empty glass beer bottle at the bull. It hit the bull’s hard hide and broke apart, its shards collecting on the floor underneath along with a small mountain of other debris while he high-fived his buds.

  “They clean it up every night and the next night it just fills up. But if they’re taking their hostility out on that instead of someone’s face? That’s anger management, North Dakota style.”