“That’s one of my questions.”
Angie looked up, distracted. “What is?”
“Is that an engagement ring? The coroner’s service still has possession of the ring, along with the cuff bracelet. They haven’t yet released Jaz’s remains or finalized their official report. But I still have connections, and I managed to obtain a copy of the pathologist’s preliminary postmortem findings.” The judge pointed at the photo in Angie’s hand. “Those diamonds are real. High-end. It’s a very expensive ring. I’d like to know where Jasmine got it—who might have given it to her. Or whether she bought it for herself.”
“Was she involved with anyone at the time of her accident?”
“Not to her parents’ knowledge nor mine. None of her friends mentioned a significant other from what I know. And no one came forward when she went missing.”
“So maybe she did buy it herself.”
“Then I want to know that. That’s my first question. My second is, where is her journal? Jasmine was a compulsive recorder of events, a born storyteller. She’d been keeping journals since she was nine years old. She has one in her hand in this photo here.” The judge dug into her file box and found another picture, which she held out to Angie.
“This is the group of them together at the campsite on the second evening of their trip.”
Angie studied the image. Jasmine Gulati sat on a log. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling. In her hand was a purple book. Standing behind her and seated alongside her on the log were eight females who varied significantly in age. The youngest looked as though she was barely a teenager. The oldest Angie guessed to be in her seventies. The group was flanked by two males. One of the men was tall and slender with sandy hair. The other was slightly shorter and built like wrestler. He sported a shock of thick black hair and a trimmed black beard. Blue eyes. Blue like cornflowers, and piercing. He looked eerily familiar. “Is ... is this a young Garrison Tollet?” Angie said, pointing to the dark-haired man.
“That was the guide’s name, yes.”
“He owns and runs Predator Lodge now,” Angie said. “It was his daughter, Claire, who guided our boat.”
The judge held Angie’s gaze. Quietly, she said, “See? You are the right choice for this.”
“Who’s the other guide?”
“Jessie Carmanagh.”
“Carmanagh? Our other guide was a Hugh Carmanagh. Is he related?”
“I have no idea.”
“There’s a Carmanagh Lake up near the lodge. I was told it was named after a family that settled the area a long time ago. Who took this group shot?”
“Garrison Tollet’s wife, I believe.”
“She was on the trip, too?”
“No, just brought some supplies to one or two of their camps.”
Angie set the photos back on the table. “You want to know where Jasmine’s ring came from and where her journal went?”
“Yes. I have an inventory of her belongings that were returned to her parents. There is no journal listed. I believe Jasmine was hiding something. I think there was indeed a special man in her life. I want to know why he never showed his face when she went missing. I want to know exactly what was happening in her life during the months leading up to her drowning. And I want to know exactly how she came to go over those falls.”
Angie regarded the judge. Rain gusted against the large windows, sending watery spatters across the panes.
“You don’t think it was an accident.”
“I don’t.”
“You know, sometimes it’s hard to accept the news when it finally comes. Sometimes people need to find someone to blame—”
“No.” The judge leaned in, eyes turning hot and beady like an eagle. “This isnotlike that. When I learned it was Jasmine in that shallow grave, I got out this file box, and I went through the contents. I had not done this before. That box came to me after the death of Jasmine’s parents. My daughter and son-in-law died in a car accident seven years ago, and by the time the box came to me, Jasmine had been gone for almost two decades, so I didn’t give it much thought until I saw the news and the coroner’s service confirmed for me that it was my granddaughter who’d been found. In this box are copies of the original police interviews with witnesses from the river trip, plus the search and rescue report on the search for Jasmine’s body and some photos of the group. Going through it all now, something just doesn’tfeelright to me.”
“Feel?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never acted on gut feelings or followed hunches as a detective, Angie. Do not deny to me that the best investigators out there develop a sixth sense that tells them when something is off or when someone is hiding something. Even if I am wrong, I’m Jasmine’s only remaining kin. Her going missing near killed my daughter and her marriage. I just want some answers before I lay my grandchild’s remains properly, and finally, to rest.” She paused, catching her breath. “As long as you do your best to paint me a picture of Jasmine Gulati’s life and her acquaintances in the months leading up to her death, as long as you interview whoever was connected to that trip who is still alive, as long as you try your level best to find that journal and discover who her secret fiancé might have been, this is what I will pay.” She scribbled some numbers onto a piece of paper, folded the paper in half, and shunted it across the table along with a signed check.
Angie picked up the piece of paper. As she unfolded it, the judge said, “The first figure is an advance—a retainer. The second figure is what I will pay per hour before expenses if I am satisfied with your progress. The third figure is the bonus if I’m satisfied with the results.”
