guessing she probably takes after dear old dad in that category.”
“So you’re going to tell me she shoots the deer with a bullet first, from a more reasonable distance, and then stuffs an arrow down the bullet hole?” Bulatt guessed.
“Three bow seasons in a row,” Hager said. “Got caught at the check-points the first two years, pled guilty both times after the x-rays revealed the bullets up ahead of the broad heads, and daddy paid her fines. This year, when one of the wardens heard a gunshot in the range area reserved for bow hunts, went investigating on his ATV, and found her loading a buck with an arrow sticking out of its neck in the back of a old pickup, she must have decided she didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting daddy to pay up again, so she took off… and made it across the border before the warden could get the state patrols to set up a road block. The warden told the story to a local reporter who wrote a standard ‘rich girl cheats on bow-hunt and then runs from the law’ story; which is what I’m marking up right now.”
“Did Idaho Fish and Game follow up with a warrant?” Bulatt asked.
“No, unfortunately, they didn’t,” Renwick said as he hung up the phone. “Mostly because the warden recognized her, but didn’t get the license plate of the truck — which he assumes was borrowed from one of her friends, because she apparently gets a new truck from daddy every year. The warden and his supervisor talked it over, came to the conclusion that the fine wouldn’t be worth the cost to the State to take on dad’s legal firm and a likely mistaken-identity defense, and then decided to just wait and catch her dirty next bow season. But the warden did submit blood from the scene to our lab,” Renwick added with a smile, “and he said he’ll be happy to file for the warrant, right now, if we’re interested in following up on the Lacey Act violation.”
“We ran a quick mass-spec on the hemoglobin, confirmed the blood was mule deer; then extracted the DNA, and put a sample in the ultra-freezer pending any further work requests,” Ferreira said, looking up from the computer.
“Meaning you could match that DNA to a mounted mule deer head if I brought it in?”
“Sure. Or a little piece of dried hide would work just as well; whatever’s easier at your end. It makes no difference to us.”
“And where does Sam Fogarty and his daughter live?” Bulatt asked.
“In Bend, Oregon,” Reston said.
Bulatt looked over at Achara. “I think it’s time I paid Miss Fogarty a visit,” he said. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Absolutely.” Achara started to say something else, and then hesitated.
“Yes?” Bulatt said inquiringly.
“You’re planning on confronting her with the Lacey Act violation, and then using that as a twist on her father to make him take us to the hunt, right?”
“Something along those lines,” Bulatt said, nodding his head. “You have a better idea?”
“I was just thinking that if we were to call her up and identify ourselves as outdoor writers who want to do a story on her bow hunting adventures, she might be more helpful and cooperative than her father.”
“What, no violence? Just walk in and con her out of the information? There’s a novel approach,” Reston said sarcastically.
“Federal agents working covert assignments have certain limitations on posing as a member of the media,” Bulatt said hesitantly. “I’d have to ask for permission from the Washington Office, and I doubt that Fred or the Chief would say yes. It’s a touchy issue.”
“You’d have to ask permission, but I wouldn’t,” Achara said. “It just so happens that I’m an internationally published outdoor writer with two articles in print. I wouldn’t be role-playing, just engaging in one of my hobbies. And you could come along as a hired local photographer.”
“We’d even lend you a professional-looking camera, as long as you promise not to hit anyone with it,” Renwick offered.
“Sounds good to me,” Bulatt said with a shrug. “Do we have a phone number for the house?”
“That we do,” Reston replied cheerfully. “Here’s her address and phone numbers — residence and cell — and a map showing the way to her house.” She handed Bulatt a brightly colored map from her printer, and a second typed page. “Take I-Five to the Crater Lake Highway, and keep on heading north. You ought to be able to make it in three and a half hours, max, if the roads are still clear.”
“Or we could probably get Woeshack to fly us up there,” Achara suggested. “It might save some time.”
“Let’s not,” Bulatt said, “I try not to live quite that close to the edge.”
CHAPTER 34
Sam Fogarty’s Ranch, Bend, Oregon
The young woman who came to the door looked angry and frustrated and depressed; and quite possibly ready to hit someone with the hand-sewn leather quiver of arrows she held in her right hand. To Bulatt and Achara’s surprise, she also appeared to be of Southeast Asian descent.
“Yes, may I help you?” The young woman said curtly, her mind clearly elsewhere.
“Uh, my name is Achara, I’m here to meet with Carolyn Fogarty,” Achara said. “I called ahead and she’s expecting us.”
The young woman blinked, first in confusion and then in surprise. “Oh, right, you’re that outdoor writer. You meant today?” She shook her head as if to trying to dislodge some dark, hovering cloud from her mind. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just… upset today.”
“If this is an inconvenient time, we can certainly come back later,” Achara said soothingly. “But I really do want to interview you for the article. I think your interest in bow hunting is fascinating, and I’m sure my readers will feel that way also. It’s not something you find many women hunters doing these days. And now that I know you’re of Asian descent, I’m even more intrigued because I don’t think I’ve ever met an Asian women who bow-hunts. Would you mind if I asked you where you were born?”
“I — no, I don’t mind, I just don’t know where I was born, or who my parents are,” Fogarty said hesitantly, acting as if she wanted to slam the door in Achara’s face; but, at the same time, wanted desperately to talk with someone.
“You look as if you might be Thai, like me,” Achara said, pressing cautiously. “Were you an orphan?”
“Yes, I was adopted by Mr. Fogarty from an orphanage in southern Thailand. Their records indicated that I’d been found on the beach after a severe storm, but nobody seemed to know where — ”
Carolyn Fogarty shook her head again, looking more confused now than upset. “I’m sorry, please come in, I didn’t mean to leave you standing out here.” She stepped back inside the foyer and opened the door wider.
“Are you sure we’re not intruding,” Achara said as she quickly stepped into the doorway.
“No, not at all,” Fogarty said. “In fact, it would be helpful to talk with someone right now.”
“In that case, I will be happy to listen,” Achara said. “Oh, and this is Gedimin, my photographer,” she added. “I hope you won’t mind if he takes some photographs to illustrate my article.”
“Uh, no, of course not; he’s welcome to do so,” Fogarty said as she closed the door. “Would either of you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”
“Coffee, please,” Bulatt said as he took the strobe-mounted digital camera he’d borrowed from the lab out of its carrier bag and thumbed the power switch to the ON position.
“Yes, coffee would be wonderful,” Achara said as she and Bulatt followed Fogarty into the wide-windowed kitchen, and then stood at the window and looked down at the expanse of landscaped yard behind the house — a huge grassy area that butted up against a densely-forested area — while Carolyn Fogarty set the quiver aside and poured coffee into three earthen mugs. Near the trees, a man was doing something with a mounted bulls-eye target; one of three that extended out at increasing distances from the back porch.
“Milk or cream?
“Black will be fine,” Achara said. “What a beautiful place you have.”
“Spectacular,” Bulatt agreed as he accepted the steaming mug. “I see you even have a set of distance- targets for your bow. Do you think we could try to get a photograph of you from an over-your-shoulder view, with your bow drawn back, and the target in the distance hovering just over the arrowhead?”
