“Only what his aunt told us that first day. His name is Calvin, and he’s twenty-eight years old. He’s stationed back east. I assumed Stan checked to make sure of his alibi.”
Arnie leaned forward. “I heard you think there might be foul play involved in the disappearance of the Stevens family.”
“Yes, I’m leaning toward that idea.”
“What information do you have that makes you think they just didn’t go on a trip and forget to call their relatives?”
The very idea caused Robert to assume his friend was having a little joke. After a moment, Robert realized Arnie’s expression looked anything but joking.
“Even you can’t believe that.” Robert returned dryly.
“Why ‘even me’?” Arnie’s brows furrowed to a straight line above his brown eyes.
“I know you’ve read the reports. Karl and Debra’s past record proves that they never went anywhere that they didn’t tell someone. It would be incomprehensible they would have picked this time just to forget. Besides, one doesn’t just leave for weeks, and not remember to rectify the mistake.”
Arnie didn’t agree or disagree; instead, he leaned back and rested his hands on the arms of his chair.
“What do you think of the idea that both Mr. and Mrs. Stevens had heart conditions and maybe Mr. Stevens had a blackout and went over the edge near Cascade Locks?”
“I suppose there’s going to be an all-out search of the area and the dam.” Robert forced himself not to show a reaction and roll his eyes at Arnie’s comment.
“Yes. Do you want to head it up?”
“No. I’d like to go where my investigation is leading, farther up the river. If there’s any confirmation to your story, let me know.” Robert started to stand.
“I didn’t think so. I’ll have Stan at the Locks. Robert, go easy, this is going to be a peculiar case.” Arnie motioned for Robert to sit.
“Why? Do you know something I don’t?” Robert rested his forearms on his knees as he leaned forward.
“Just a feeling. Like the one you have. Sometimes intuition is more reliable than evidence.” Arnie paused a moment, “Be careful, my friend.” It was more of a warning than an admonishment.
“Why the warning? This doesn’t sound good, and if there’s something you aren’t telling me—”
“Robert, I am your superior officer, I can tell you or not tell you anything I damn well please. The fact that I gave you a choice to work at the Locks is a privilege. The fact that I’m allowing you, for a time, to continue on your present course of the investigation is also a privilege. Don’t push me too far.”
Robert kept his gaze on Arnie, but the man wasn’t looking him in the eye. His eyes darted from the phone to the papers and then just above Robert’s head. The chief was hiding something. A distinct feeling hovered in the air. Robert didn’t cotton to the idea that Arnie might find out something he didn’t like. He stood, and Arnie didn’t move.
“If you have something you want to tell me, you know where I am,” Robert added as he closed the chief’s door behind him.
In his office, Robert closed the door to the noisy chatter of the squad room. The conversation weighed heavily on his mind. That niggling thought the mob was involved with this case became more prominent. If it were true, where did they come in and why? There didn’t seem to be an obvious connection, just an irritating notion. This was the second suggestion he’d had referencing a possible relationship to organized crime.
“I thought we were through with them,” he muttered. It seemed just too far-fetched to connect the mob to an ordinary family going on an everyday outing.
He spent the rest of the afternoon pinning cards to the corkboard. When he finished, he had a timeline similar to the one in the paper. His had a few more information cards. He stepped back and crossed his arms as he looked at the cards. This timeline showed the activity of the family, not the motive. Why did they go on a trip that particular day?
Robert stood at Cascade Locks where Stan oversaw his men. He looked at the map stretched out on a board. The area between the diner and the gas station, then where? If the Stevens family had bought gas near The Dalles earlier in the day, then drove to Larch Mountain, what did they do from that time until they went to dinner? What had interrupted their trip home?
“Robert Collins?” asked a man who wore a quilted vest under a Pendleton jacket. His heavy boots and a full backpack completed the outfit.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I think it’s more, can I help you? Is there someplace we can talk privately?” The man, near Robert’s height, sported a neat beard and mustache. For a moment, Robert almost asked if he was a professor.
Robert led him to his car, and they sat inside. The man introduced himself as Brice Lane.
“Now, what is it that you have for me?” Robert asked.
“I am a naturalist. I write books as to the type of nature here in the Northwest. I keep a journal about when things happen according to the changes in the seasons. That has nothing to do with why I’m here.
“On the evening of December seventh, I was on my way back to my camp about 6:30 or 7:00 p.m. I came over a ridge when I saw the headlights, then the taillights, of two vehicles, slowly making their way along the road by the bridge. I thought at the time that kids had found someplace to park or someone was going to throw trash in the river. I took out my binoculars and watched for a few moments. One set of lights disappeared. I thought the one car must have decided to stay near the road.”
He paused, then continued. “After a few moments, the first set of lights moved in a path directly toward the river. I found it odd. Then the lights went out, and they never came on again. I camped that night up on the mountain. After I reached my car, I decided to check out the area where I’d seen the cars. When I got to the site, I saw one set of tire tracks went into the area, but none came out. It wasn’t until the other morning, while I was eating at a restaurant, that I overheard people talking about what happened. I bought a paper and located you.”
Robert spoke up, “I think you know more than that. Having your natural curiosity, I can guess you looked around a bit more closely.”
Brice nodded, “Right. I found some paint scrapings on some of the boulders and a deep gouge in the rock at the edge of the bluff, like something had been pushed over the edge into the water. The rocks had scrape marks about this wide.” He held his hand out about three feet apart. Then he pulled a waxed paper pouch from his pocket. “Here are the paint scrapings I took from the rocks.”
“Would you show me on a map where you got this?” Robert unfolded the paper to see it contained some red and white paint scrapings.
“Sure. I’d like to help any way I can.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry if I sounded abrupt.” Robert held out his hand.
Brice took it and smiled. “No harm done.”
Robert took Brice to the large map on a table under the tent. An officer leaned over the map shading in areas they’d searched. “Could you excuse us a moment?” he asked the young man. With a nod, he straightened and moved away.
“Where were you?” Robert asked.
Brice pointed to a spot farther upriver, almost to The Dalles.
“There isn’t a road or a path that goes from the highway to the river,” accused Robert.
“I know, that’s why it’s probably the perfect place. No one would suspect anyone was going there, so kids hang out down there and drink beer. There’s not even a clear path, but with careful negotiation, a car can easily make it from the road to the river. The rocky ground doesn’t leave tire impressions, I’m sorry to say. One other thing, as I walked the area toward the river, I noticed some of the larger rocks had been moved to make a wider path. Someone had been there before.” He moved his hand across the highway. “I stood up here.” He indicated his vantage point.