“Call it what you want,” he said. “I know you’re not investigating the death of the Alverez woman, but I would like to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“I’d be up for a steak,” she told McCain. “I’ll even buy you a beer.”
“Yeah, I’m really not much of a beer drinker.”
“Not a beer drinker!” she responded. “You live in the hop-growing capital of the world, and you went to one of the biggest beer-drinking universities in the country, and you don’t drink beer?”
“Long story,” McCain said. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
After they hung up, McCain sent her a text: Why do Oregon graduates place their diplomas on the dashboard of their cars? So they can park in the handicapped spots.
He immediately received an emoji of a yellow round happy face, flipping the bird.
They met at the Sea Galley in Union Gap, a restaurant famous for their “We Got Crab Legs” advertising. McCain had never checked, but it might have been one of the last Sea Galleys left in the country. And, even though it was mainly a fish place, they served a darned good steak. Both McCain and Sinclair ordered up ribeyes, with a baked spud, all the fixings, and a dinner salad. Sinclair ordered a Bale Breaker Pale Ale, brewed just down the road in Moxee, and McCain had a Coke.
“So, what are you a recovering alcoholic or something?” she asked.
“That’s not very sensitive. What if I am?” She briefly looked apologetic, and then McCain laughed. “I just never developed a taste for the stuff. Kinda tastes like donkey piss to me.”
She laughed. “Have you ever tasted donkey piss?”
“No, but if I did, I bet it would be bitter and bad tasting, just like beer. I’m not big on any alcohol really. Plus, alcoholism runs on both sides of my family, and I figured if I had the addictive gene, well, I didn’t really want to risk it.”
“Makes sense,” she said.
As they ate their salads and steaks, she talked a little about her work on the missing and murdered Native women. He told her about the bear-poaching Johnsons and how he’d run down the old man and tackled him.
“Yeah, I saw the deal on the jailbreak on the news,” she said. “Did they really break out using a table?”
“Evidently,” McCain said. “I think they’ve got it fixed now. Did you see the photo of the Alverez woman they identified as the body we saw in the mountains?”
“I did,” Sinclair said. “I was the first person the coroner called, and he emailed me her photo. In a way I was glad it wasn’t another Native woman. Still, it looks like a murder, and if it is related to the woman you and Jack found, well, that’s not good.”
“Did you notice how much the two women looked alike?” he asked. “From the two photos I saw, they could have been sisters.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” she said.
“You know, I’m not telling you how to do your job or anything, but if it was me, and I was an FBI agent, with all kinds of resources and fancy computers and minions who could do research for me at the drop of a hat, I might take a look at other women, Native and not, missing from the area that fit that same age and hair color profile.”
“Good thinking,” Sinclair said. “I asked our research folks to do that very thing just this morning.”
Because the two bodies found in the Cascades were in Yakima County, off the reservation, the investigation was solely under the jurisdiction of the Yakima County Sheriff’s Office. Still, she said she was watching the case with interest.
“I am too,” McCain said. “Now, what do you want for dessert?” When they finished with dessert Sinclair said she had to get going, as she still needed to finish up a report before morning.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said as they walked out the restaurant door. “I’m buying next time.”
The next morning before McCain and Jack headed out for the day, McCain heard his phone buzz. There was a text. I really enjoyed our dinner last night. Thanks again.
McCain was thinking how nice the dinner was too, and then his phone buzzed again. But I wouldn’t call it a date. I can’t date a Cougar. The text ended with a smiley face. McCain grinned.
He and Jack had just fired up the pickup when dispatch called him. Someone, the dispatcher told him, had phoned in a report of some anglers fishing with night crawlers in the Yakima River above Roza Dam. The anglers were camped in the Big Pines Campground. McCain radioed back and said he’d head that way
When he arrived at Big Pines there were several RVs set up in designated spaces, with a few tents scattered around. McCain always wondered why anyone would choose this place to camp. There were thirty campgrounds along the rivers up in the mountains, surrounded by lush, green forest. This place was mostly dry desert and sagebrush. Whatever the appeal was, McCain didn’t know, but the campground was almost always full in the summer.
The man who called in the report about the bait fishermen, a Dallas Grimes, had told the dispatcher he was in a small Coachman motorhome with maroon and gold accent stripes. McCain spotted the RV, pulled up in front, left the rig on with the AC running for Jack, and went to knock on the door.
The man must’ve been watching for him, because he was just opening the door when McCain stepped up to knock.
“Mr. Grimes?” McCain asked.
Grimes was an averaged-sized man, probably seventy-five, with not much hair and a little too much belly. As soon as McCain started talking to the man a little dust-mop-type dog started yapping.
“Shush, Millie!” the man yelled at the dog, and then turned to McCain. “Yes, I’m Grimes. The guys who were fishing illegally just left. They were in a rusty-brown Ford Bronco II. You know, one of those older smaller ones that were
