Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (11 page)

He handed Osborne the hat, which was an exact copy of his, down to a shiny new fishing lure draped with care across the body of the trout. “Kaye made it up for me,” he said, referring to the elderly friend he kept supplied with fresh bluegills in return for the care and feeding of his precious hats (summer and winter versions).

“Say, you jack pine savage,” Bud interrupted. “You still living in that crummy house trailer out on Loon Lake?”

“Oh, golly, if it isn’t the talking boulder,” said Ray, his voice cheery as he batted back the remark. “Speaking of lifestyles, how’s that place of yours? The yard with the toy trees.”

A confused look crossed Bud’s face. Osborne realized he was unaware that some residents of Loon Lake considered Nancy’s aggressively landscaped lawn to be as fake as her smile.

“Come on, you two,” said Osborne with an attempt at a chuckle. “You know you love each other.”

Bud shrugged. “So, Pradt, what do you suggest for crappies on a hot day like today? Might take my boat out later.” Getting to his feet, Bud hitched up the golf shorts he was wearing.

“The Lil’ Hustler spinner baits have been working for me,” said Ray. “I change colors ’til I find ones they like. By the way, if you’re looking to invest some of those millions you got, I’m working on developing an app for muskie fishing. Got this teenager buddy of mine who’s a whiz of a developer. We’re putting in the best locations, size of fish caught and when, the baits used, even the time of day. Could be mega bucks.”

“Now why would I throw money at a guy with a fish on his head?” asked Bud as he walked toward the exit. He paused and turned to look hard at Ray. Shaking a finger at him, Bud said, “You know what I think every time I see you in that stupid hat? If my son had lived, he would have made something of his life.”

Before Ray could open his mouth Bud had disappeared.

“Whoa, what was that all about?” said Ray after Bud was gone.

“Not sure,” said Osborne. “But Nancy Jarvison is here recovering from shoulder surgery so I think he’s out of sorts a bit. I’m glad you walked in when you did. He was bugging me for information about Lew.”

“Planning to hit on her, maybe. Wouldn’t surprise me—he’s getting a little long in the tooth for the young ones.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Osborne. “Old Bud may be a practiced adulterer but he knows his type and I doubt Lew is it. No, he was less interested in Lew than in what she was
doing
, what the two of us were—”

“Dr. Osborne, sorry to interrupt,” said the woman sitting at the reception desk in the far corner. “I couldn’t help overhearing you and I thought you might like to know that Mrs. Jarvison went home yesterday.”

“She did? Then why was he here?”

“I assumed he was waiting for you,” said the woman. “Wasn’t he?”

Lew sat on a fallen log, finishing up her notes while Bruce and a colleague worked their way around the body, scouring the shoreline and river shallows for evidence. “Chief, did Ray find anything when he walked the perimeter?”

Lew glanced up. “No, no signs whatsoever. At least not yet. He thinks it was a rifle shot from quite a distance. I’ve asked him to take time tomorrow to walk farther out, a good half-mile if he can.”

She turned to Jake, who was sitting on a stump a short distance away watching as his son’s body was slipped into a body bag for transport to the crime lab in Wausau. “Jake, you and Ray didn’t happen to see anything unusual when you were up in the plane today, did you? Any indication of people living back in here? Tents? Shacks? I know where the campgrounds are and none are close to this area.”

“We were up on the far end where Liam had been working his square on the grid. I’d say a good five miles or so from there—so, no, we didn’t fly over this area.”

Bruce walked over to where they were sitting and knelt beside Jake. “Mr. Barber, your son never knew what hit him. I am confident the bullet entered from behind. He died instantly with the force of the bullet throwing his body forward.”

“Thank you,” said Jake. “Based on what I’ve seen here, I’ll bet you anything my son was in the midst of a cast with his tenkara rod. That means he died with his heart full of anticipation. And look around us,” said Jake with a wave of his arm. “Think of where he was at that moment: standing in a pool of sunlight, watching the ripples on the river, hearing the whispers of these magnificent pines. If death has to happen,” his voice cracked, “could there be a better place to die?”

Lew turned to him with a soft smile. “I wish I could have felt that when I lost my son.”

“You lost a child?” asked Jake.

Bruce sat on the grass near Lew, legs akimbo as he listened.

“He was seventeen and a troubled kid.” She resisted adding
too much like his father
. Instead she said, “Knifed in a bar fight. On a dark night in a parking lot.”

Jake thought that over before asking, “How did you feel at the time?”

“Numb… and a failure as a parent.”

“Hmm,” said Jake.

“But my grandfather to whom I was very close—the person who taught me how to fly-fish—knew how to help me in my grief. He made me go fishing.”

“He did?” asked Jake, taken aback.

“Yep. I waded into the trout stream near my grandfather’s place where I had fished as a kid and I stayed in that water for two whole weeks. Gramps said the water would heal me. And it did. At least I came out a whole person.”

“I know you mentioned earlier that you fly-fish,” said Jake.

“She doesn’t just fly-fish—she’s the expert,” said Bruce. “She taught me everything I know from casting to fly tying. That’s why I finagle to get assigned up here. Get a lesson every time.” He smirked in satisfaction. “Getting one this weekend, right?”

“You nut,” said Lew, batting at his head. “Yes, of course.”

“I have an idea,” said Jake. “I have to stay in Loon Lake until my son’s body is released from the crime lab, right? And I am thinking I may have him cremated while I’m up here, too. So, have you two ever tried tenkara fishing?”

“Never heard of it until we met you,” said Lew. “Have you, Bruce?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll teach you. We’ll use Liam’s rod and I’ll have my office courier up my equipment. If the weather holds, we’ll give it a try Friday. Right here on the Pine where my son…”

“I would like that very much,” said Lew.

“What about me? Can I tag along?” asked Bruce, looking more like a twelve-year-old kid than a forensic scientist nearing age thirty.

“That reminds me,” said Jake. “I searched all through Liam’s fishing vest and I could not find the wooden box he carried his trout flies in. He only ever had two flies in the box. It’s only this big and not heavy.” Jake held out two fingers.

“That’s too bad. He may have been holding it and it flew out of his hand when he was hit,” said Bruce. He looked toward where his colleague was finishing up near the tag alder where Liam died. “I’ll take a close look all around over there before we head back today.”

“Thank you,” said Jake.

As they walked back through the forest to their vehicles, Jake said, “Chief Ferris, I would like to find the Catholic Church in Loon Lake. Can you tell me where it is?”

“Doc attends Mass several times a week. I’ll have him give you a call. I’m not sure what the daily schedule is.”

Returning to the station, Lew was relieved to find her office empty and her desk just as she had left it. She poked her head into the conference room where the weasel sat hunched over his laptop. “Alan,” she said, “any luck? How’s it going?”

He looked up and pushed his chair back. “Actually, yes. I reached a local bank officer who was able to tell me all about your friend.”

“My friend?” Lew walked into the room, crossed her arms, and waited.

“Mr. Jarvison. Bud.”

“I know the man. He is not my friend.”

“Oh well,” Alan smirked, “whatever. Turns out Chairman Jarvison has been making deposits to his personal bank account every few days in amounts just below the legal limit of ten grand that triggers SARs—Suspicious Activity Reports.”

“How much money are you talking about?”

“At the rate he’s been depositing? Forty to fifty thousand a week. And staying just under the radar we use to target money launderers.”

“So
that’s
why you’re here,” said Lew. “I’ve been wondering what would bring the FBI to Loon Lake. The Jarvisons are very wealthy people. He inherited millions and since he’s retired from the day-to-day operations maybe it’s an oversight. Probably thought he didn’t have to worry about it.”

“Doubt that. Fact is our regional office was tipped off about this activity months ago. Last December, in fact. But we had to prioritize Homeland Security directives so I didn’t get around to checking on this until I saw the posting about the banker found dead in your national forest.”

“You mean Peter Corbin?”

“I remembered the name the minute I saw it. He’s the banker who tipped us. He said that he brought the issue of the multiple deposits to Mr. Jarvison’s attention because he didn’t want the Jarvison Bank Corporation held accountable and fined. All he asked at the time was that Jarvison document the source of his funds in order to keep the transactions transparent for bank regulators. Up until then, he assumed Jarvison was selling stocks. When Jarvison blew him off, he had second thoughts and came to us.”

“You think Bud Jarvison had something to do with Peter Corbin’s death?”

Alan’s eyes searched Lew’s. “I wouldn’t go that far—yet. The first question is where is the money coming from?”

“That’s easy to answer. The family is filthy rich.”

“
Was
filthy rich.”

Lew pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now how do you know that?” The guy might look like a weasel but she was impressed with his work ethic. “Is the bank allowed to share personal financial information?”

“I didn’t need it. I used the old ‘hunting and fishing’ technique: talked to a stockbroker who duck hunts with the banker and was an advisor to Jarvison until very recently. He said Jarvison made some really big and really bad bets in the market last year. Lost $32 million.”

Lew whistled. “So what next?”

“Like I said—I need to find the source of that money. Is he laundering from someone or some group? Is it mob money? Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened up here. Yep, I’m looking for the source.”

Lew said, “We found another victim in the Nicolet National Forest today. That makes two bodies in an area so remote that few people hunt, fish, or camp in there. Plus it’s a wolf rendezvous site so it’s dangerous to be in there alone.”

Alan studied her. “Sorry I disturbed your office. I had no idea you have so much happening in this town.”

Lew waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Does Jarvison know you’re looking into this?”

“Not yet. Please don’t say anything to anyone. I need to learn the source of the cash before I confront him—or his wife. Both their names are on the deposit slips.”

• • •

Not until Osborne was driving home late that night did it occur to him the one question Bud did not ask:
What happened to the missing student?

The owl swiveled his majestic snowy-white head to stare at Osborne, amber eyes boring into the doc’s. Was the owl trying to tell him something? Before Osborne could ask, the bird flew a few feet away. He landed in fog with his back to Osborne. The air felt chilled. Osborne started to follow him but the bird kept hopping just ahead. Osborne noticed that the owl’s wings had disappeared and the big white head had the body of a small boy and the boy kept just ahead of Osborne, walking with the firm footsteps of a fearless child.

Osborne could see a hand pulling the boy-owl. A hand that belonged to a snowman—a snowman who towered over the boy. The two beings stopped and looked back at Osborne. The owl’s eyes blazed and seemed to pulse with meaning. Osborne was sure he should be seeing or hearing some message. He reached out both hands, begging for more information, but the boy-owl turned his back again. Again the snowman pulled the boy-owl along.

Only now the snowman was growing larger, the boy-owl smaller. Osborne wanted to call out for them to wait for him but his voice wouldn’t work. Even at a distance Osborne could see the snowman was missing the back half of his head. It didn’t seem to bother the snowman. He wasn’t bleeding.
But of course not
, thought Osborne,
snowmen don’t bleed.

Just as he questioned why an owl would have a boy’s body and why an owl would walk not fly, the air changed. Grew warm, then hot. The owl shed its body and charged Osborne, the eyes a lurid greenish-yellow as it hovered in front of his face. Osborne struggled to know what the eyes were trying to tell him.

As fast as it had come at him, the owl flew off. It landed and again the pristine white head floated on the body of a boy. And again the boy-owl held tight to the hand of a tall figure as the two walked away. This time the figure was not the snowman but someone wearing a white T-shirt emblazoned with a familiar bright green logo: the emblem of the Natural Resources Society.

Osborne chastised himself. He should have known. It’s Jake’s son, Liam Barber. He’s rescuing the boy-owl, keeping him safe. Showing him the way.

• • •

Osborne woke from the dream in a heavy sweat. He pushed the coverlet away and stared up at the ceiling, thinking back on the details of the dream. Why a snowy owl? Then he remembered Cody’s favorite hand puppet: a white-feathered snowy owl. But why the snowman with half his head gone? And why that poor young man whom they just found shot to death?

He decided to sit up, drink some water from the glass on the bedside table, and try to make his heart stop pounding. The digital readout on the clock radio indicated it was only three
A.M.
Mike was sleeping soundly on his dog bed in the corner of the bedroom. Osborne lay back down, his eyes wide open. He knew the significance of the dream and it broke his heart. It would be difficult to wait for sunrise but he would and then he had to see his daughter: Erin had to know.