Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

there. This Harold Grimsson character just rubs me the wrong way. You know, the kind of handsy, condescending jerk who calls you ‘sweetie’ and ‘hon’ and looks at you with X-ray vision.”

“She’s not wrong about that,” Van Dyke said. “Grimsson is a weasel. A big weasel with a beard that looks like a skunk.”

“His wife supposedly drowned in the bathtub,” Maycomb said. “Way out on his little private island. No witnesses. Odd circumstances if you ask me.”

Van Dyke scoffed, climbing back on her hating-horse. “So now you’re a homicide detective? Give me a break, Lori, and let us do our jobs.”

Maycomb shrugged it off. “Anyway, Grimsson donates money to the library, supports Juneau Douglas High School sports, provides a lot of jobs – so he buys himself the title of hero. But he’s been cited something like twenty-seven times for safety and land-use violations. Indigenous groups have sued Valkyrie Mine Holdings because the mine is located right on top of our ancestral lands. A couple of months ago, Grimsson was trying to get an old right-of-way approved as an existing road so he could dig another hole… or at least, dig deeper in an old one. Apparently, there’s still a lot of gold in them thar hills. Most everyone was surprised when he got approval so quickly, but there were rumors he had a couple of politicians in his pocket.”

“Senator Fawsey?” Lola mused.

“That was the whisper,” Maycomb said. “But nothing was ever substantiated.”

“Maybe that’s what Donita Willets was going to substantiate,” Lola said.

“Grimsson had to get approval for a road on his own claim?” Cutter asked.

Van Dyke nodded. “The Tongass is one hundred percent roadless. If there was no old road there already, there can’t be any new road now…”

Beason rubbed his face again, squinting hard as his thoughts cut through the exhaustion. Cutter didn’t blame him there. Few things were less exciting than land claim disputes – but it was often the boring particulars that provided motive for murder.

The agent blew out a forceful breath, trying to wake up.

“Okay,” he said. “Check and see if JPD or the Troopers have had any calls for service out at the Valkyrie or dealt with any Valkyrie employees recently.”

The man was a level 10 jerk, but he was also a decent investigator.

Van Dyke gave him a thumbs-up, stepping to the back of the group, bringing up the rear while she called her office.

“How far away is this Port Snettisham?” Lola asked.

“About thirty miles south of here,” Maycomb said. “On the north side of Stephens Passage.”

“And the Crystal Mine?” Cutter asked. “Who operates that?”

“No one,” Maycomb said. “It’s been closed for decades.”

Beason’s phone rang at the same moment Van Dyke trotted forward, catching up with Cutter.

“Turns out we did get a call for service,” she said. Beason put his cell phone to his ear and, for a time, tried to listen to two conversations at once. In the end, he brightened, said, “Is that right?” and then fell to the back of the group to concentrate on his own call.

“Go ahead,” Cutter said to Van Dyke.

“JPD got a welfare check request yesterday from a Mrs. Merculief in Anchorage. She said her son, Isaac, is an archeologist working on contract at Valkyrie mine. She hasn’t heard from him in two days.”

“Why would the mine need an archeologist?” Lola asked.

“Some contracts require it,” Maycomb said. “I imagine that was one way Grimsson got his go-ahead to push through construction on the old corduroy road easement, even though it’s been proven to be on our ancestral grounds. An archeologist on-site would make sure nothing was damaged or disturbed.”

Cutter’s eyes widened. “Like a bone rattle.”

“Exactly like a bone rattle,” Maycomb said.

“Anyway,” Van Dyke said, looking miffed that Maycomb was still playing explainer when she had more to say. “Initial calls to Valkyrie Human Resources say Isaac Merculief hasn’t shown up for work for two days.”

Maycomb’s phone rang next. She checked the caller ID, then said, “Sorry, have to take this.”

“What do you think, boss?” Lola asked, looking at Cutter. “Go show a screen shot of our runner to the people at Valkyrie Mine Holdings, see if they know him?”

They’d made it back to the hotel lobby.

“And dig a little deeper into this archeologist,” Cutter said. “Beason may want to ask Judge Forsberg for a warrant so we can take a look at any reports Isaac Merculief may have on file.” A hard shiver racked his entire body. Standing in the warm hotel made him realize how chilled he’d actually become. “First, I’m going to put on dry pants.”

Lola and Van Dyke went to the lobby couches to wait, while Beason with his phone call was near the front door, out of earshot. Still shivering, Cutter pressed the button to summon the elevator, but Maycomb walked up and put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“That call was from my radio station,” she said. “I asked a friend to do a little research. He found video on YouTube from when Levi Fawsey’s father was running for senator. I just watched a couple of minutes of it. I think it’s going to give us a direction to look for Donita.”

“Outstanding,” Cutter said. “I’ll change and we’ll watch it on the way to Valkyrie’s main offices.”

Lori Maycomb fiddled with an unlit cigarette and chewed on her bottom lip.

“I’m banned from Valkyrie mining offices because of some of the questions I asked when I was doing my story. Rockie would love nothing more than to arrest me for criminal trespass if I go back.”

Cutter chuckled, his teeth chattering badly now.

The elevator doors opened, offering an escape to a hot shower. “You go do whatever it is you’re going to do with that cigarette,” Cutter said. “I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”

Beason finished his phone call and yelled out for Cutter to wait.

He let the elevator shut without him in it. Released a tremulous breath. Wouldn’t that be something? Dying of hypothermia in the hotel lobby.

“What’s up?”

Beason grinned. “Looks like all