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“Will do.”
She punched the call off with her thumb and drove along the winding two-lane road through the inland forests.
Marshal Service? she wondered. Something to do with the Toompas case? The Great Abalone Caper? Neither seemed likely.
She missed the turnoff to the Umstead place again. She still hadn’t seen the spot coming from the coast direction. However, the results were the same—snarling dogs, chained to block direct access to the house, and either no one home or no one responding.
She had to figure out some way to corral this joker. Did she have to stake out the place or shoot the dogs? The latter seemed more appealing at the time.
She cruised through dirt roads in the southeast corner of the county, timing it to get to Hebo for the meeting. At exactly fifteen minutes before noon, she pulled into the Hebo Pub parking lot. It looked like a busy day for the place—three customer vehicles in the lot. It wasn’t hard to figure which one had to be Mr. Marshal’s, between a pickup with an occupied gun rack in the back window, a beat-up Volkswagen Rabbit missing the back fender, and a new white Ford Taurus with a federal government license.
The identification inside the worn little pub was almost as difficult. Calling the place a pub was an exaggeration. Closer to reality would be a bar that served sandwiches and chili on weekdays. Greta had only stopped there a few times and only when in dire need of something to eat. Today she figured the chili was acceptable. She spotted the marshal at a table well away from the bar, sitting upright so stiffly that she wondered whether a stake held him rigid via a certain orifice. Early forties, light frosting in short hair, persimmon expression, dark suit and tie.
He spotted her as she entered and shifted in his chair. The Greta of Nixa, Missouri, and So
uthwest Missouri State University would have been a nervous wreck that a U.S. marshal wanted to talk to her. The Greta of Tillamook wondered what this joker wanted.
She stopped at the table. “I’m Sheriff’s Deputy Havorsford.”
He didn’t stand, offer a hand, or assume a polite expression; however, he did speak. “Sit.”
The preemptive command solidified her suspicions.
Okay, dickhead, she thought. That’s the way it’s going to be.
“I’m Supervisory Deputy United States Marshal James Marshall.”
Marshal Marshall? she thought. You gotta be shittin’ me.
“I’m sure that’s very nice. So, what do you want?” she asked in a laconic tone that she hoped conveyed indifference to his lofty job title. From his expression, she assumed the message was understood.
“Your fingerprint query is impinging on matters of no concern to you or your department. I’m here to order you to stop any further inquiries, is that understood? You are also to tell me how you came upon those fingerprints.”
“As it happens, it’s not understood. What’s so important to pull you out of your comfortable office in Salem to drive over here to demand anything?”
“You have no need-to-know. Just stop. This involves federal issues out of your jurisdiction.”
Greta stared for most of a minute, while she considered her response. Marshal Marshall had royally ticked her off with his manner, but she didn’t know exactly what the legal or political reach was of the U.S. marshals.
In her sweetest tone, she said, “As it happens, a murder investigation is well within my jurisdiction. Without any known reason to suspend looking into those fingerprints, I see no reason to listen to any demand to cease and desist.”
“A murder investigation,” Marshal blurted out. “What murder investigation?”
“One Howard Toompas was murdered not far from here last October. One of the results of looking around for possible connections to the victim was those fingerprints.”
“That’s crazy,” snarled an exasperated Marshal Marshall. “There’s no connection whatever.”
“Well . . . that is a relief,” she said dryly. “And how am I to know this?”
“Because I just told you so!” Marshal Marshall’s raised voice was enough to draw the attention of the bartender, who raised an eyebrow at Greta. She shook her head slightly at him to indicate all was well.
“Excuse me. I must have missed that part of deputy sheriff training when we find out we’re supposed to take the word of someone we don’t know about a case they have no knowledge of. Was I out sick that day?”
“If I have to make this official, I can bring down a load of shit on you and your entire department.” His voice had turned cold, having gone from mere anger to threats.
“I’m sure you can. But is that the best course of action? Let’s see now . . . U.S. Marshal Service. Not caring about a local crime—even murder. Blocking access to fingerprint identification. What could possibly be going on? Could it be . . . something related to witness protection? Could it be that these fingerprints are from someone testifying for the feds in a case to enhance multiple careers? Somehow, I doubt any such possible case overrides a murder investigation, so if you want to do whatever you want to do, go right ahead. Of course, it would be a shame to draw too much attention to all of this when someone might connect the dots about where you might be hiding Mr. Simpson.”
Marshall’s red face faded, as he obviously tried to cool down. Finally, he spoke in a calmer voice. “Now see here, Deputy Havorsford. We’re both in law enforcement, just different aspects. Sorry if I came on too strong, but what you’re stirring up impinges on matters of great importance. Your activity jeopardizes more than I’m at liberty to discuss. If you persist in this, I can honestly tell you that not only will there be negative consequences for your career, it’ll gain you nothing in your case.”
