Authors: Nadja Bernitt
M
eri Ann and Mendiola stood outside the door to the detective unit. She asked him point blank, “What did Wheatley mean by leads slipping through your fingers?”
“Wheatley’s a blamer, a finger-pointing prick who likes to make trouble.”
Meri Ann knew for a fact that Wheatley had blamed her father. She recalled Wheatley saying he’d blamed the detectives and hired his own investigator.
“Over here, guys.” Lieutenant Dillon stood in her doorway, arms folded against her chest, feet spread apart in a military at-ease pose.
Meri Ann and Mendiola approached her.
“So what about our man Wheatley?” Dillon asked.
“He admits he was at the scene,” Mendiola said. “That’s damning enough for me.”
Dillon turned to Meri Ann. “What about you, Fehr, what’s your take on him?”
“I’m not sure. Seems too cerebral to send up a red flag in his own backyard.” Meri Ann shifted her weight. “Harold Graber, on the other hand, comes closer to the profile.”
Dillon tugged thoughtfully on a lock of her corn-colored hair.
Meri Ann continued, “I think we should talk to him. Even if he had an alibi, in my book he warrants another interview.”
“Okay,” Dillon said. “Check him out, but later. Right now I like Wheatley, and I want more background.” Dillon reached for a pink while-you-were-out message on the edge of her desk. “Joe Uberuaga called. Maybe he’s got some test results. If he does, let me know.” She handed the message to Mendiola. He slid it into his pocket.
“And Jack,” she said. “Some cowboy reported hearing gunshots out by the Lazy J Ranch early this morning. It’s another hay theft. Check it out in your spare time. Our yuppie rancher might be playing cops and robbers again.” Dillon pointed to the pink triangle poking out from his pocket. “Maybe you could delegate Uberuaga to Fehr.”
Mendiola’s posturing hinted annoyance, at least from Meri Ann’s vantage point. But he hastily fished out the note and smiled in the most agreeable way. “Why not?” he said. “Call the doc, Fehr, and what say we meet back here at three?”
“Fine with me,” she said, eager to be off on her own.
Dillon nodded approval with the decorum of a mother superior.
Then Meri Ann remembered the message on her home answering machine. “Did anyone from this office call me in Florida on Sunday evening?”
“You mean after we spoke?” Mendiola said.
Meri Ann nodded, watching Mendiola and Dillon exchange shrugs, shake their heads no. “My ex husband happened to be in my house and said he heard a message on my machine from a woman. The caller ID indicated Boise. That’s all I know right now.”
“Follow up,” Dillon said. “We may need to run a check on the Idaho number to see whose phone it came from.”
“You bet I will.” Meri Ann strolled back to her desk and dialed Ron’s number. No one answered and his answering machine wasn’t turned on. She frowned at the phone, then turned her attention to the pink slip and pecked out Uberuaga’s number.
He answered on the third ring. “Detective Fehr,” she said.
“Well, well.” He sounded more contemplative than surprised. “You are officially a member of the team.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Bet your life it does,” he said. “I’ve got preliminary test findings.”
“I didn’t expect anything so soon. By the way, did your technician pick up the dental records?”
“They arrived an hour ago, and I’d planned to meet Jack for lunch to discuss the results.”
“He’s tied up with a case out in Eagle and asked me to handle this. I’d be happy to meet you.”
“I’m at the courthouse now. Let’s meet at Bar Gernika on Grove and Capitol—say thirty minutes? Food’s good and cheap.”
“I’m hungry already,” she said.
“Just want you to know, I hope we catch the miserable bastard.”
She had dreamed that dream for half her lifetime, wished on stars and passing hay trucks. “Not as much as I do.” She said goodbye and hung up.
The office was lunchtime quiet as she donned her coat and headed outside into a balmy, sixty-eight-degree day. For Boiseans, it might be a tad too warm for a green wool sweater and a topcoat, but not for her.
Meri Ann parked on Grove Street several blocks east of the cafe, walked up the street and passed the Basque Center where she’d met Mendiola the night before. An old two-story brick boarding house stood next to it as much a part of the Capitol city as any of the grand sandstone edifices. She had stopped to read the free-standing historical plaque when someone called her name.
“Hey, Meri Ann.” Uberuaga, standing at the cafe’s entrance on the corner, waved her over.
“How are you?” she asked at closer range.
“Happy with the weather.” He held the door open for her.
The heady odors of lamb and garlic filled the air. Voices rose and fell to the tune of clinking knives and forks against heavy restaurant plates. It looked dark yet cheery and old, as if nothing had changed since the day it was built.
A tall lanky man with sandy hair called to Uberuaga from behind the counter. “Where you been keeping your sorry face?”
“Busy.” Uberuaga waved in passing.
Only one table was empty. Meri Ann sat across from the doctor, a small window to her right side.
“It smells meaty. Rich,” she said.
He took off his glasses and wiped them on a paper napkin. “Rich enough to make steam.” He slid his glasses back on and reached for the interoffice envelope he’d carried under his arm. “This is the report, but I’d like to wait till we’ve eaten before talking business. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me.” She was dying to know the results, but didn’t push him. She unfolded her napkin, her eye on the envelope as he placed it on the floor beside his chair.
He picked up two menus wedged between a bottle of catsup and the salt shaker, handed her one. “Ever eat here before?”
“Maybe once or twice when I was in high school. It used to have a different name, didn’t it?”
“Bar Gernika gives it soul.” He pointed to a drawing of a tree on the menu. “Our sacred tree. I saw you stop at the old boarding house, so you saw our Gernika oak in the yard. It’s young, but growing.”
“And I noticed your name on the historical plaque. I must have read it before, but it’s been a while.”
A young boy with a white kitchen towel tied apron-style around his waist stopped at their table. He filled their water glasses and took their drink orders. Coffee for Uberuaga, tea for Meri Ann.
The doctor ruffled his mustache self-consciously. “About that plaque, my great, great granddad started the boarding house as a home for sheepherders to spend the winter. His business was in operation when my dad’s father came over just before the Spanish Civil War. I guess he had an inkling the fascists would win. It’s all about freedom. We, Basques, lost so much, and now the ETA, those damned extremists, do our cause more harm than good.”
Meri Ann had read about the attacks, what little was covered on network news.
“ETA doesn’t target women and children, or civilian men on their way to work,” he said. “But they’re terrorists just the same.”
“The world’s gone crazy.”
“ETA used to—” Uberuaga stopped himself. “I don’t mean to preach, but I’ve still got family in San Sebastian.” He took a drink of water. “Don’t suppose Jack bends your ear like this?”
“Nope,” she said. “We pretty much stick to business.”
“I rib him all the time about his mixed blood. His mother’s Scotch-Irish, you know?”
Meri Ann recalled Mendiola’s blond nephew. “And Tony’s on his mother’s side?”
“How do you know Tony?”
“We stopped by his automotive shop.”
“Interesting kid, but a hell-raising teenager, had one close call with the law. Jack straightened him out, practically raised him. He kept him out of trouble as best he could. Jack’s a good man, Meri Ann.”
The waiter reappeared and refilled their water glasses. “What’ll it be?”
She reached for a menu. “I’m not sure.”
“Take your time,” the boy said and hurried off to another table.
“Looks like he’s got his hands full.” Meri Ann opened the menu. Meat dishes dominated—lamb, beef, chorizo—but she found lots of other dishes as well, including a veggie and chicken kabob which she ordered when the waiter returned. She seldom ate meat or chicken, but today her body needed the protein and that was that. Uberuaga ordered two lamb stews.
“Two?” she questioned.
“I meant to say something. Jack called just before I got here. Said he’d meet us. But if he doesn’t make it in time, I’ll eat it.” He checked his wristwatch. “If I could change one thing about my cousin, it would be his sense of time. You could grow mold waiting for Jack.”
Mendiola strode in ten minutes later, ordered a Dr. Pepper at the counter and carried it to the table. He sat beside Uberuaga, nodding to Meri Ann. “Damn foothills traffic,” he said. “Did I miss anything?”
“You almost missed lunch,” Uberuaga said.
The waiter approached, arms laden with heavy dishes, two steaming bowls of stew and Meri Ann’s kebobs.
Mendiola settled himself. As he started eating, he complained about the ten-acre pseudo farms taking over the fertile Eagle Valley. Though he didn’t come right out and say it, he sympathized with the derelicts stealing hay and other tantalizing goodies left within reach.
He finished eating first and changed topics. “So, Joe, you’ve gathered us together. What’s going on?”
Uberuaga took a napkin to his mouth, daubing it politely. He reached to his side and brought out the report, handing it to Mendiola.
“Let me begin with the preliminary findings on the teeth.” He directed his gaze to Meri Ann. “This second skeleton is not your mother’s. The dental records proved that. This unidentified female owns a very distinctive set of teeth, including a missing upper right molar. It’s something to work with, and I’ve got someone checking a list of missing persons right now.”
Meri Ann’s shoulders slumped. “So we’re still guessing.”
Uberuaga pushed back from the table. “We still don’t know the cause of death on the first set of remains. I suspect suffocation, or a severed windpipe, but without the vertebrae at the neck I can’t say. On the second victim, we’ve identified the mark around the circumference of the skull as being made by a fine knife blade or scalpel. But the most surprising find came from the mass spectrometer where we found traces of bi-sulfide and naphthalene.”
Mendiola set down his soda. “Whoa. In lay terms, Doc.”
“Primarily, those chemicals are used in taxidermy.”
Meri Ann scooted back from the table, sick at the thought. “Are you saying someone stripped her bones, as in some weird science project?”
“We can’t say exactly how the bones were cleaned, but at some point those chemicals were used.”
“The whole thing sucks,” Mendiola said under his breath.
Uberuaga then rose from his chair and picked up the bill. “This one’s on me.” To Meri Ann, he said, “See, we didn’t need this before lunch.”
He left, and Mendiola asked her, “Want a beer or something stronger? Anything I can do?” He looked truly concerned and at a loss for what to say.
And so was she. The smell of lamb was no longer rich but nauseating. She picked up her backpack and stood. “I need some fresh air.”
She grasped her throat, started for the door. It was only when she glanced back that she saw Mendiola had picked up her coat. He was right behind her.
T
he hideous lab report had shaken her and it took several blocks of brisk walking to settle her nerves. Without thinking, she had taken his arm for support. It seemed awkward when they slowed to a stroll and she removed it—Meri Ann Fehr strolling beside Jack Mendiola like an ordinary woman out to lunch with a friend. Of course he wasn’t a friend, and circumstances of the murder investigation had obliterated “ordinary” from her immediate vocabulary.
“Mind if we walk to the park?” she asked, glancing in the direction of Julia Davis Park, one of the oldest in Boise.
“Sounds good to me. I got about an hour’s sleep last night, and I feel like shit. Pardon my French.”
“Don’t give up French on my account.”
He smiled and scratched his chin. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”
She tried to remember the last time she’d laughed hard, really let go till her stomach hurt. “I did, once.”
“It’ll come back one of these days.”
They meandered at a snails pace down Sixth Street and across to the park, a veritable forest of ancient elms, sycamores, and oaks, which bordered the Boise River. The sparse golden and brown leaves on the trees against the brilliant sky resembled dark lace, that and the sound of the river drew her as always. It also reminded her that someone or something had followed her in the woods two nights ago. Obviously that wouldn’t happen in this busy bend of the river. No wild animals larger than squirrels hung around here. This particular spot reminded her of happy times when she and friends rode on black inner tubes, screaming through the rapids and gossiping through the peaceful patches.
“I miss the tubing,” she said.
“Nothing like it. A six-pack floating beside you and the sun on your face. Almost as good as fishing.” His enthusiasm showed in his face and mannerisms. “I’m talking about going after trout in stream beds with hand-tied flies.”
Ron came to mind, another man who fished, but he warranted a mere two-seconds of thought. Student chatter from a busy path on the other side of the river caught her ear. Boise State University students milled about in between classes. She had always thought BSU would be her school. She glanced at the book-toting throng, briefly wishing she were eighteen again. Not like she was at that age, but as she imagined they were, unburdened and without emotional baggage.
“Did you go there?” she asked Mendiola.
“Two years in education,” he said. “I wanted to teach history.”
“So what happened?”
He shrugged. “Teaching takes a quiet kind of hero, one who’s not so angry. I was pretty angry in those days. My older brother served in Desert Storm. As far as wars go, there weren’t many casualties—not like in Vietnam—but he was one of the few.”