Dead Creek Read online

  Meanwhile, Lew’s silence on the other end of the line implied many things, not least that she could be reconsidering their relationship. Whenever it came to Ray Pradt, she was dubious, and rightly so. Ray—to put it mildly—had a checkered past. No felonies but a long, long list of misdemeanors. Years of misdemeanors. Only strategically timed deliveries of of fresh-caught bluegills had served to keep the stuffed trout hat out of jail on more than one occasion.

  Nevertheless, Osborne plunged ahead. He owed Ray.

  “I’m not kidding, Chief. I’m very worried.” When intimidation doesn’t work, try deference. Mentally, he crossed his fingers.

  “Doc, you know Ray. You and I both know it is not unusual for that man to take off without saying a word to anyone, to be gone for days. He’s in Canada fishing walleyes, for God’s sake!”

  “Now listen to me, Lew,” Osborne struggled to make his case. “He didn’t come home at noon when he should have. The dogs weren’t fed and Ray always feeds those dogs on time, especially now that he’s got ‘em in field trials. Also, he’s got one that’s injured and bleeding. Ray would never deliberately leave a sick dog alone so long….”

  “I’m still listening….” He heard her shuffling papers. Her tone was cool.

  “Then Gordy from the cemetery just came by madder ‘n heck ‘cause Ray was supposed to have dug two graves this morning.”

  “Ah. Doc, I’m sorry, but I need to return calls to the mayor and the Loon Lake board before I do anything else. I have to let them know this situation is under control—which, of course, it is not.”

  Knowing that could take hours, Osborne dropped his voice as if he was sharing confidential information in a crowded room. “Lew, I hate to tell you this on my party line phone, but you’re forcing me: Ray said he had a lead on one of those bodies, a lead he was checking out with someone who lives way back past McNaughton. You know that crazy truck of his—he could be stuck on one of those back roads….”

  “Doc, if he’s stuck, he can stay stuck. Ray Pradt is a big boy who can pull himself out.”

  That was it. Osborne launched his last lure. If this didn’t hook her nothing would: “I think you should talk to him before the Wausau boys screw it up.”

  “What does Wausau have to do with this?” A deadly calm crept into her voice.

  A nibble, thank the Lord. Could he get her to bite? If Osborne knew anything about Lew, he knew she was ambitious. Ambitious, dedicated to detail, and determined to keep the condescending know-it-alls from the regional lab sixty miles south from messing around in her law enforcement operations.

  “John told me he was sending the bodies down to the lab first thing this morning.”

  “Oh, brother! Now why…. okay, Doc, start over. Why on earth do I need to talk to Ray Pradt about all this?”

  “Two reasons.” Osborne went back over the dental IDs, his confusion over the sex of the fourth victim, and the information he found in his files. “I am sure his brother-in-law can ID that individual, and Ray is the only way we can reach him in Chicago.” A long silence, and Osborne sensed he was more than halfway to victory.

  “You mean Ray’s brother-in-law knows something about one of those bodies?”

  “Without doubt—but more important, you need to talk to Ray about Dr. Shanley’s work before Wausau does anything. It’s my opinion, though I could be wrong, that Shanley should run his tests before they do theirs.”

  “You mean before they screw it up so he can’t run his tests? Geez, Doc, you’re obviously nervous about this. I’ll go with you; you don’t have to talk me into it. I’ll tell you what. Ray hangs out at Thunder Bay about this time every Saturday, looking for new clients. Meet me there in twenty minutes. I got problems with the new ownership anyway. They need some spot-checking.”

  “Lew, he’s not at Thunder Bay. Something’s wrong. The dogs …”

  “Look, Doc, I know the man’s habits, good and bad. If you want me to do this, we do it my way.”

  “Fine.” Osborne hung up, marginally happier than when he had called in.

  Much as he hated walking from the brilliant sunshine into the dark, smoky interior of Thunder Bay, Lew had a point. Ray did stop in here every Saturday. The bar was notorious for topless dancing, rumors of prostitution, and excellent barbecue ribs—all of which made it a natural hangout for “da boys” out of Milwaukee or Chicago when they headed north for hunting, snowmobiling, or fishing. Fresh meat for a Northwoods guide.

  Ray wasn’t always complimentary about the clients he picked up at Thunder Bay, describing some as “bearded wood ticks” and others as “Kenny Rogers throwbacks.” But the reality was that after five or six rounds of draft Michelobs and a dose of Ray’s ribald humor, Osborne’s neighbor could name his price and fill his boat. Once, he bragged to Osborne, he pulled down a thousand-dollar tip. When it came to throwing money at women or fish, Ray knew he could bank on the clientele of Thunder Bay.

  A major attraction of the bar was that it operated on both sides of the law, which produced a steady shift in proprietors. A recent drug bust had booted the former owner out of his liquor license and into the hoosegow, putting the bar under new management.

  But that appeared to be all that was new, noted Osborne as he entered. As the bar door swung shut behind him, he took a moment to survey the two-room joint, left to right, for any familiar faces. This was only the second time he’d set foot in the place, and he would rue the day anyone he knew saw him there. He scanned the few full tables and the nearly empty bar. Any former patients? None. At least so far.

  In the room to his immediate left, the action was just getting under way. A jukebox had started up toward the back of the room where there was a small stage. Osborne saw one cluster of three men sitting around a table in the far corner with a larger group at a table closer to the stage. A few were paying attention to a young woman who had strolled out and was moving lazily to the dance music. As best Osborne could tell in the dim light, she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit.

  Off to his right he spotted Lew, perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, staring intently at something on the counter. The forest green of her winter uniform with its slim-legged pants and a close-cropped gabardine jacket over a tailored shirt and darker green tie suited her compact frame. She was a sturdily built woman with strong legs, a solid butt, and wide shoulders. Seen from behind, you might mistake her for a man of modest height but never would you make that mistake from the front.

  She looked up as he approached. “Hi, Doc. Just reading over John’s memo one more time. No sign of Ray yet, but I think we should sit tight right here. I’ll betcha he walks in that door in any minute now. And I talked to Wausau. They’ll hold on the autopsy on the fourth body until I can talk with Shanley.”

  Lew tapped the lid of the can of soda pop in front of her and lowered her voice. “Remember what I told you last time we were here: Don’t drink from the glasses. If you want something, get it in a bottle or a can. Trench mouth.” She leveled an informed, no-nonsense look at him along with the instructions. Lew had been a patient of his up until his retirement and took pride in letting him know she had memorized well his tips on oral hygiene.

  Quite a bit younger than Osborne, Lew had had her children early and was the mother of three who had gone through school with his own. When she joined the police force ten years ago, she was the first woman on the Loon Lake force. He had wondered if she wouldn’t be better off in a proper job as a secretary at the paper mill instead. He caught himself thinking that again when they first fished together, but then he’d remembered: Lew had divorced her husband many, many, many years ago, long before it was socially acceptable. She always was a little different.

  Osborne nodded at the tip on trench mouth and asked the bartender for ginger ale—in a can. He turned to Lew. The soft glow of the bar lights heightened a healthy ruddiness in her cheeks. She might have sounded tired, but she looked great. Osborne loved the lines around her eyes.

  “Well, Lew,” he
said as he eased onto the stool beside her. “Have you been marinated in fly-fishing?”

  Any guilt he felt for dragging her out to search for Ray vanished as her face lit up at the mention of her trip. “Doc, I hope I never have to sit through a trial like that again. Bor-ring. But three days at Wulff School of Fly Fishing made it all worthwhile. I swear,” she slapped a palm on the bar, “it changed my life.”

  Then she cut her eyes to give him a look of pure mischief: “I have a new fly rod.”

  Osborne feigned shock. “Another one? Lew, rods aren’t like trout flies—you don’t need a hundred.”

  “And I won’t tell you what I paid for it.”

  “Yes you will.”

  Lew chuckled and ran her right hand through the mass of dark brown curls that gleamed above her brow. She had a friendly way about her that always surprised Osborne. She was as easy to talk to as one of his fishing buddies. No fancy footwork, no pretense.

  “I’ll tell ya, they make it impossible for you not to buy the rod of your dreams. First you have six or seven hours of intensive casting practice, see. One on one. I still have problems with my backcast, but I am much improved. Anyway, then they set out thirty, maybe forty different rods around one of the ponds. Different makes, weights, lengths, and grips. You move around the pond, casting with each one until you find … magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “Magic. This rod feels like an extension of my arm, of my hand even. It is like a part of me.” It crossed Osborne’s mind that she sounded like she was describing a lover, but he was too shy to even kid her about that.

  “I had to have it—the Joan Wulff Favorite by Winston—the only one with the thumb groove. You won’t believe how easy this rod is to cast. You’ll have to try mine, Doc. They say it’s a woman’s rod, but two of the men in my class bought it, too. Picked up some new leaders and tippets and a very, very light fly line that I want to show you—”

  He was enjoying the sparkle in her eyes when suddenly the bar door swung open. Osborne turned, hoping to see Ray Pradt’s lanky form unfold itself through the doorway. Instead, a gaggle of five women crowded in. Five well-dressed, carefully coiffed women he pegged to be in their late thirties or early forties. Giggling and shoving at each other. Clucking as if they were embarrassed to be there, several, nevertheless, made sure their table gave them a sight line to the stage. From the corner of his eye, Osborne was relieved to see the dancer was still in her one-piece swimsuit. If he was lucky, he and Lew would be out of there before things got serious.

  “Now what the heck brings them here?” Osborne whispered to Lew.

  “I doubt they’re up for crappies,” said Lew after a cursory glance and a shrug. “A little too smart-casual for the boat, doncha know.” She lifted her can of soda, clearly unconcerned. At times Lew had an edge and a vocabulary that surprised the hell out of Osborne. He was still hoping to be invited into her house someday. He wondered if he would find books on the shelves. Books on something other than fishing, that is. He wouldn’t be surprised.

  Smart-casual, huh? “Smart-casual and expensive,” Osborne whispered back. Breezes wafting in from the door behind the women carried a wave of mixed perfumes, nudging enough of a hint of Mary Lee into his memory to remind him that these were exactly the type of women he wanted to avoid.

  “And overaccessorized for Thunder Bay,” said Lew with a lifted eyebrow, ready to have a little fun. “If gambling were legal in this joint, I’d put a nickel on Milwaukee—Shorewood.”

  “A nickel it is. I put my money on Chicago—Winnetka. Seriously, Lew, aren’t you a little surprised to see them in here?”

  “It’s a tourist thing: cocktails at Thunder Bay, dinner at the Whitetail.”

  She was probably right. The Whitetail, one of the region’s most elegant restaurants, had the bad luck of being situated just across the road from the Thunder Bay Bar. The owners had gone to great expense to put up a stockade fence in order to block their lowlife neighbor’s lurid neon sign. Unlike today, patrons of the two establishments didn’t usually overlap.

  When it became obvious Thunder Bay didn’t offer table service, at least for drinks, one of the women stepped up to the bar, standing just behind Lew and Osborne. Short and rounded with straight, chin-length black hair framing an open, pleasant face, the woman’s bright, curious eyes seemed less involved in the drink order than in sizing up Lew.

  Osborne watched her gaze take in the uniform, then the revolver on Lew’s right hip. His eyes followed hers and, for the first time, he noticed that Lew had substituted a .40-caliber SIG Sauer for her usual airweight .38. Was she expecting trouble? Ignoring the woman behind them, Lew caught his glance, “Lends presence,” she said.

  As usual, she was educating him to the reality of the universe where he had been practicing dentistry for nearly forty years. Where once he couldn’t imagine crime in the Northwoods beyond the off-trail snowmobiler or drunken deer hunter, since getting to know Lew, he had come to learn that the sins of the cities were as invasive to these forests as acid rain. And, of course, there were the random bodies in the lakes.

  “Something is out of synch around here,” said Lew. “I feel it in my bones. Judith Benjamin just paid over three hundred dollars per lake shore foot for this building and a thousand acres—”

  “Geez,” said Osborne, “that’s half a million bucks.”

  “More,” said Lew. “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Where’d she get that kind of money?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” said Lew as she flagged the bartender and motioned to the woman to step forward.

  “Still waitin’ on Ray?” the bartender said as he walked up. “You might be outta luck. If he comes, it’s usually by now—round four o’clock or so. He wants to talk to guys before they get all drunked up. If he doesn’t roll in here in the next half hour, I’d say he ain’t comin.”

  Frustrated with the lack of attention from the bartender, the dark-haired woman moved off to the other side of Lew where she could crowd closer to the bar. Now he paid attention and took her order for the table. Another member of the group, a tall, slender, haughty-looking woman decked out in a buttercup-yellow cashmere sweater set with matching curls tucked crisply behind heavy gold earrings, got up to help carry the drinks. Waiting side by side, the two looked like Mutt and Jeff.

  As they waited, they watched the dancer in the other room. A friendly banter was under way with the men at one of the tables, and the dancer was casually pulling down the top of her swimsuit to reveal a set of pasties on her abundant breasts.

  “I guess we’re the only women in the room not working,” said the blond to her friend, her snide voice as piercing as a needle.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Lew. Her tone was jovial, but Osborne was aware of a tightness in her tone.

  “Oh, she doesn’t mean you, of course,” said the dark-haired woman. She thrust a hand forward, “Hi, I’m Rosemary Barron from Evanston. This is a friend of mine,” she gestured toward the blond, “Deirdre Thomson, and you—are you a forest ranger?”

  “Lewelleyn Ferris, Loon Lake chief of police,” said Lew, shaking the proffered hand, reserved but friendly. “This is Dr. Paul Osborne, one of my deputies.” Osborne was happy to hear that. Did it mean Sloan’s appointment of the night before was official?

  “What brings you ladies out here?” asked Lew.

  Rosemary’s eyes had widened at the words chief of police. With her bright black irises set into pale skin under a smooth cap of black hair and wearing a black-and-white striped jacket that ballooned over the legs of her dark brown designer jeans, she reminded Osborne of a black-capped chickadee, a perky little bird, the kind that flew out of nowhere to perch on his shoulder as he walked from his house to his car on snowy winter days.

  “Fun,” said Rosemary in answer to Lew’s question. The woman had a breathy, birdy voice, too. “We all belong to the same book club down in the city, and one of us, Miriam Wilson, has a cabin up her
e, so we escaped for a girls-only weekend. No husbands, no children,” she trilled, then lowered her voice conspiratorally. “We came in here on a dare.”

  “My mistake,” complained Deirdre, rolling her eyes, “I didn’t think they’d do it. Now I have to buy dinner.”

  “Ouch! At the Whitetail?” said Osborne, though from the look of her, he figured the woman could afford it easily.

  “Say,” Rosemary jerked her head toward the dancer, “isn’t that stuff against the law?”

  Lew looked past her to study the woman who was now down to a G-string and bare-breasted, bobbing and weaving in front of the table of men. “So long as they don’t violate Code 2116B, they’re fine,” she said matter-of-factly. “We haven’t had any problems up here in, oh, six months or so. Tourist season is just around the corner, and they don’t want to risk getting shut down before then. Now, if this was late August and some of the city boys were laying down some big bucks, it might get pretty raunchy. That’s when we step in.”

  As the women watched, the dancer opened her legs to semistraddle one of the customers, her breasts deliberately sweeping his face. “That’s not raunchy?” asked Deirdre.

  Lew studied the action. “A little raunchy, but that’s table-dancing. She’s wearing her G-string.” Lew turned away. The two women remained glued to the scene.

  “How do you learn to do that?” mused Rosemary. “Can you take classes in table-dancing?”

  Deirdre gave her a withering look. “It’s a God-given lowlife talent. C’mon, Rosemary, that doesn’t take training. The woman’s a hooker. Pure and simple.”

  Osborne braced himself. She wasn’t the first person to make such a remark in the company of Lew. He still cringed at the memory of his own loose-lipped faux pas. This was going to be interesting.

  “O-o-h, I don’t know about that,” said Lew genially.

  “Well, I do,” snapped Deirdre.