As he walked up to the two men sitting at the counter, he stirred the pot a little, “I heard the silvers turned on up at Rimrock.”
“Bullshit,” said Kingsbury. The man was attired in cargo shorts, flip-flops and a red t-shirt that said in bold white letters: BAN SHREDDED CHEESE—MAKE AMERICA GRATE AGAIN. His Crocodile Dundee hat was sitting on the counter.
Dugdale just grinned.
“Hey, I got a couple of questions for you two,” McCain said as he grabbed a seat at the counter next to Kingsbury. “You guys know most of the people around here. You know a younger guy, stands about six feet or a bit more, wears a cowboy hat and drives an older silver Honda? Might have a girlfriend with long black hair.”
“I’ve seen them,” said Dugdale. “The girl is a looker, for sure.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them too,” said Kingsbury. “But I don’t know either of them. They’ve been hanging around town for the past couple weeks. Might be here to work in the orchards.”
It was cherry season in the Yakima Valley. Growers from the Tri-Cities up to Wenatchee and beyond grow and ship cherries, and when the fruit is ready to pick, in June and July, thousands of pickers are needed. Many of the pickers migrate with the work, starting in early June down near Pasco where the fruit ripens first, and follow the jobs up the valley as the cherries in the higher elevations are ready to pick.
“You know anyone else around who drives a 90s era silver Honda?” McCain asked.
“Those damned foreign cars all look alike to me,” Kingsbury said.
“Not just the foreign cars,” Dugdale said. “Fords look like Toyotas, and Mercedes look like Chevys. The SUVs all look alike. You can’t tell one from the other. What happened to the days when car designers wanted their cars to look different than everyone else’s?”
The man with three first names was right, of course. McCain had often thought the same thing and wondered why someone would spend $80,000 on a SUV made by BMW when they could get one from Ford that looked almost the same for half the price.
“So, you don’t know anyone around here with a silver Honda, 1990s vintage?” McCain repeated his question.
Both men sat and contemplated the question a bit more. They both shook their heads.
“Not that I can think of,” Kingsbury said. “But if we see one, should we call you?”
“No, not necessary,” McCain said. “There’ll probably be about a hundred of them coming through town over the next few days.”
Highway 12 and Highway 410 were both used heavily during the summer to get from the west side of the state to the east side. Many people from the Puget Sound area drove to Yakima and other cities in Eastern Washington to get away from the masses, and to enjoy some sun and fun. Instead of traveling on the busy I-90 freeway, they would opt for the more leisurely, picturesque drive over one of the other east/west passes. They came to play in the water, or golf, or take wine tours. And they came to fish.
“But if you see any other shady-looking characters that resemble Frank here, give me a holler,” McCain added.
He thanked the men and headed back out to the cool of the air-conditioned truck cab.
As he was heading up Highway 12 near the “Y” where 410 and 12 merged, he saw the oversized black sedan of Agent Sinclair heading his way. He flashed his lights at her and pulled off the highway on a gravel turn out, but she blew right past him.
“Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do,” McCain said to Jack.
A second later his cellphone was ringing.
McCain pushed the Bluetooth button on his steering wheel and said, “I didn’t think you saw me.”
“I saw you, but I need to get back to the office,” Sinclair said. “As of ten minutes ago, the FBI is officially on the case. I found the black hair you said you saw, and by the size of leg bones, the crime scene people believe it is another woman. So, after Williams talked to the sheriff, they have asked us to come in and take the lead.”
“Kinda saw that coming,” McCain said.
“I’d really like to talk to you,” she said. “But I have to go file about six reports to get the ball rolling. Can we meet for dinner later?”
“Sure,” McCain said. “Let’s meet at that Japanese steakhouse out by the airport. You know the one?”
“Yeah, a group of us met there for lunch a couple weeks ago. See you there about seven.”
And she was gone.
McCain finished his day up along the Tieton River, checking anglers on the river and at a couple small gravel pits that sat next to the highway. His mode of operation was to pull in and just watch people for a bit. He studied them and their reaction to his arrival. The nervous ones, who might not have licenses, or had a fish or two over their limit, would always make a move. And McCain would nab them. When they didn’t see his truck, he would keep an eye on them and watch what they did. Then, when he contacted them in person, he would ask them questions to which he already knew the answer.
One group of three younger guys he watched for a bit had caught three trout in rapid succession: bang, bang, bang. That told McCain they had it figured out and probably had several more trout in the cooler, where they’d put the three he had seen them catch.
McCain, with Jack at his side, walked up behind the group a couple minutes later and asked, “How’s fishing, boys?”
They turned, saw he was a wearing a badge, and started hem-hawing.
“We’ve got a couple, but it’s been pretty
