“I thought you were going Tuesday?”
“They shut the whole mountain down for some fancy wedding.”
I scoff. “They do that?”
“It’s a rich people thing.” He snaps his fingers. “Which reminds me. Maryanne knows the groom.”
“And we care because?”
“He’s Linnea’s ex.”
I shoot him a questioning glance. “No shit?”
“And we don’t like him. I guess he’s super controlling. Toxic.”
I want to know more, but this feels like Linnea’s story to tell. “That night at the Sweetwater, she was celebrating him marrying someone else.”
He snorts. “Sounds like a worthy cause.”
A hard gust sends a wave of spindrift at the windshield and rocks the truck.
Bear shoots me an inquisitive glance, one eyebrow arched. “Nice story in the Journal, by the way. Have you arrested anyone yet?”
“Dude, what?”
“That woman you pulled out of the lake. There was a story on it. Sounds like she was murdered, yeah? So let’s fucking go, man.”
“I didn’t talk to any reporters.” I pause at a stop sign. “Show me the story.”
He leans sideways to slip his phone from his pocket, then taps his screen a few times before handing it over. Though the piece is brief, the journalist, Annaleise Bell, gets right to it. There’s one diplomatic quote from Deputy Director Shay, and several from Jake Kelso, the Cascade Lake Lodge owner who accompanied us onto the ice that night. Annaleise somehow got her hands on a couple of pictures, too. One of the boat ramp from that night flanked by the emergency vehicles, red and blue lights glowing against the ice. Another of the frozen lake, taken during the day. And what looks like an ID badge shot of Samantha Bowen, though the only feature I recognize is herlong dark hair. No mention of Rowdy’s suspicion that ties her death to a possible cover up, or Sons of Eden. Maybe this Annaleise is just getting started, or maybe it means those theories are false. Either way, it’s troubling to see the details of that rescue splashed across the Journal.
I return Bear’s phone and turn onto the mountain road heading back to town. “Do I need to remind you that I don’t investigate murders? Poaching, yes. Fishing without a license, yes. Abusing resources, yes.”
“But she was found on public land, right?”
I follow a tight turn down the freshly plowed road. It’s snowing again, tiny flakes dancing in the headlight beams like ash. “Yeah, but the sheriff’s the one who—oh shit, I didn’t tell you. Guess who’s sheriff of Clearwater County?”
He gives me a shrug.
“Harlan Thomas.”
His eyes widen. “The fuck?”
“We crossed paths yesterday or I wouldn’t have believed it. I looked him up last night. He got elected sheriff of Clearwater County last year.” The smallest county in the state as well as the least populated since a big slice of it is wilderness.
“Who in their right mind would elect him?”
The road curves around another wide bend. “He must have made some powerful friends.”
Bear shakes his head. “What does that mean for this murder case?”
I stare into the swirling snowflakes. “I don’t know. At least he’ll have to work in tandem with several other agencies.”
“Good. Because there’s no way Harlan knows the first thing about running a murder investigation.” Bear taps his thumb on his knee the way he does when he’s thinking. “Did he recognize you?”
“Not that I could tell, but maybe he’s been practicing his poker face.” I stop at a four-way intersection then turn toward town.
“Watch your back, dude. Harlan’s the kind of guy who plays dirty.”