The door opened.
Standing there was a tall, uniformed man in his thirties with wide shoulders and hips so narrow his pants seemed in danger of sliding off him. His blond hair was short on top and longish in back, as though the hair was sliding off his head. He held a sweat-stained Stetson in his hand. His face looked like it had been out in the sun and wind since his birth. His facial features were long and slender, like narrow gullies cut through hard rock by water.
“Thought you were on patrol,” said Malloy, frowning slightly.
The man took a long step forward. “I was. Finished. And heard they were in town.”
“And how’d you hear that?” asked Reel.
The man glanced at her. “Folks saw your Yukon.”
“Is that so unusual?”
“It is if we don’t know who’s driving it. Know every Yukon round here. Hell, there’s only five. And none of ’em are black. Or new, like yours. With Florida plates. Rental, most likely,” he added knowledgably.
He pulled up a chair, sat down next to Robie, and put out a big, weathered hand.
“Deputy Sheriff Derrick Bender. Pleased to meet you. We don’t get many Feds out here.”
Robie shook his hand. “Will Robie. My partner here is Jessica Reel.”
Bender offered his hand to her. After they shook he glanced at Malloy.
“We were just going to go over the file on Mr. Walton,” said Malloy.
Bender grunted and sat up a little straighter, his holstered gun smacking lightly against the wood of the chair. “Damnedest thing. Man comes into town and then disappears.”
“He came out here every year,” said Reel. “So I suppose you’ve run into him before?”
“I haven’t,” said Malloy. “Because I’ve only been here about a year. In my official capacity. Before that I would come and visit my sister, Holly, who lives here. But I never ran into your Mr. Walton.”
Bender rubbed his face and then tossed his Stetson across the room, where it neatly settled on a hook on the wall.
“I met him before. Lots of times. Like you said, he came out here most every year. Fishing up in the rivers, lakes, and streams. Watched him a few times. Man knew what he was doing. People think fly-fishing is easy. Well, it ain’t. Takes skill. And patience.”
“Did you ever speak to him?” asked Robie.
“Oh yeah. Nothing in particular. Just chitchat.”
“He was from this area,” said Reel.
Bender nodded. “My momma knew Mr. Walton pretty well. They went to high school here together. Long before I was born, he’d gone. Headed east. Guess he wanted to get the hell out of here.”
“He ever do anything besides fish?” asked Reel. “Did he mingle? Catch up with old friends?”
“Sometimes. There’s the Walleye Bar. He’d go there. Most visits he’d have dinner with my momma at her house. I was there for a few of them. Once he brought some fancy French wine.” Bender shook his head. “Just give me a good old American beer.”
“Did he visit your mother this time?” asked Reel.
“Not that I know of.”
“We’ll have to confirm that,” said Reel.
“Did you see him this trip?” asked Robie.
Bender nodded. “He was staying at the same place he usually did. Little cabin up on the north face of Kiowa Butte. One road up and down. About a half mile from the cabin is the river he’d fish in. A trib runs off the North Platte. It’s tailwater fishing.”
When they looked at him quizzically he said, “Meaning downriver from a dam. In this case the Jedediah Smith Dam. Water releases from the bottom of the dam so it keeps the temperature stable. Good for fishing. You can catch brown and rainbow trout, some perch, walleye, smallmouth. Now, the South Platte over near Denver is better fishing. Lots of tourists go there to fish. But we get some here, too.” He paused. “The Platte’s where we get most of our water. We don’t get too much rain here. Only way we can farm is to irrigate the crops. The North and South Platte Rivers hook up to form the Platte River in Nebraska. Then it connects with the Missouri and the Missouri to the Mississippi, and that sucker flows all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. Quite something when you think about it.”
Reel and Robie exchanged a puzzled glance at this long tangent, then Reel said, “Did you talk to Walton this time?”
Bender waggled his head. “No, I sure didn’t.”
“When was the last time anyone actually saw him?” asked Robie.
Malloy opened her file. “Three days ago. He came into town to get some more fishing line. He ate at the restaurant across the street. I’ve spoken to the waitress and she said he seemed perfectly normal. Same for the fishing gear shop. Then he drove back up to his cabin and that’s the last anyone saw of him.”
Robie said, “Any signs of something unusual at the cabin? Our notes say his rental car was still there.”
“No signs of a break-in or a struggle, if that’s what you mean,” replied Malloy. She closed the file. “Now maybe we should head up there and look around. Might find something that strikes you. After all, I assume you knew the man.”
Did we? thought Robie as they headed out.
CHAPTER
9
The dirt road to Blue Man’s cabin snaked upward, with switchbacks and narrow straightaways intersected with hairpin curves making up most of the journey. Though the elevation wasn’t that great, the sun seemed more intense and the air thin enough to be noticeable to your lungs.
They finally pulled to a stop in front of a rustic cabin about nine hundred square feet in total. It had weathered cedar siding, a planked front porch with an overhang, a shingled roof, a stone chimney, one front door, one rear door, and four windows all on one floor.
A dark blue Chevy Colorado pickup truck was parked in front.
Robie and Reel had followed Malloy’s Mustang. Bender had ridden shotgun with his superior.
They all got out and congregated in front of the cabin.
Reel and Robie took in the surroundings, each gazing at angles and flanks from where trouble could have come. There weren’t many of them. As Malloy had said, this was the only road up here.
“Any other people living around here?” asked Robie.
Malloy shook her head. “Just this cabin.”
“Who owns it?” asked Reel.
“Roark Lambert. He lives in Denver. He owns about a dozen cabins and houses around here. Rents ’em out to tourists.”
“All fishing?” asked Reel.
Bender answered. “No. Some are here to photograph wildlife. Others to hunt wildlife. Some come to just get away. Go hiking, camping. Smoke pot without being hassled.”
“I take it the house and truck have been searched?” said Robie.
Malloy nodded. “Didn’t find much of anything. But we can take another look. You might notice something we missed.”
Reel looked at the truck. “Colorado? Seems appropriate.”
“Nice set of wheels,” said Bender. “You got rear seats plus the truck bed. Pretty popular here. Can handle the terrain real well.”
Malloy pulled out the truck keys. “We found these in the cabin.” She popped the locks and opened the driver’s-side door. “We swept it for prints and other forensic residue. Came up empty. State police did, too.”
It didn’t take long to search the truck. It was pretty much empty of anything.
There was a Georgetown Hoyas ball cap on the rear seat.
Bender said, “I thought he went off to Stanford. That’s what my mom told me.”
“He had multiple degrees,” said Reel, picking up the cap. “Georgetown was where he got his master’s.”
“Good school,” said Malloy. “In Washington, DC. You never did mention what Mr. Walton did for a living.”