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Greta wondered whether he was on shaky ground at work. Maybe he didn’t want her sniffing around there and bringing his bosses into this.
“That’s great. Then we can settle all this right now and save both of us so much time. As I was saying, do you own a .357 Magnum?”
“I did until a few months ago,” he said. “Some asshole broke into my garage and took it out of the cabinet I kept it in.”
“Along with ammunition?”
Snyder looked worried. “Yeah. There was ammunition taken, too,” he added with hesitation, then continued, “the standard loads.”
Hmmm, Greta thought. Why mention regular ammunition? Unless those dumdums were his.
“Did you file a report of the break-in?”
“No. I didn’t figure it’d do any good. You people don’t usually catch burglars, do you?”
“Unfortunately, the rate is pretty low. Still, it’s best to report it so we know what’s going on and in case the property shows up. For example, what if we found some .357 Magnum ammunition? If you’d filed a report, maybe we could have traced it to you, and you’d get it back.”
“I don’t know anything about identifying ammunition. How would you tell who’s the owner?”
Worried now, are you? she thought.
“One more thing, Mr. Snyder. Do you remember what you were doing around last October 8th to 10th?”
“Second week in October? I was in Reno. I go every year for three or four days with a couple other guys to gamble and take in some shows. Helen! Get in here!” he barked out toward the back of the house. The wife came in quickly. “When was I in Reno last year? October, right?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember exactly when.”
“Well,” he said impatiently, “go check your damn calendar from last year. You write everything down on it, and I know you keep the calendars.”
She walked out.
“That was the same time my gun was stolen . . . while I was in Reno.”
Snyder kept a red-rimmed eye on Greta the six to eight minutes before the wife returned.
“I wrote down October sixth to ninth, but I remember you called and said you’d stay another couple of days, so you must of gotten back around the eleventh.”
Shit, thought Greta. But hell, this was a long shot.
“I’m sure you won’t mind giving me the name of the hotel you stayed at in Reno, will you, Mr. Snyder?”
“It was the Circus Circus. Cheap rooms and food.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Snyder. If you and Mrs. Snyder remember anything about Howie Toompas, please give me a call.”
She handed her card to Snyder. Initially, she thought he wouldn’t take it, then he snatched it from her. She bet that she wouldn’t be out the door five seconds before the card was in the trash can.
Back in her vehicle, Greta called information, got the number in Reno, and called the hotel. She anticipated that they might hesitate to give out information over the phone, but they surprised her by passing her on to a supervisor who, after she explained who she was, came back shortly, confirming a Joseph Snyder had checked in last October sixth and checked out on the eleventh after paying by credit card.
Greta noted to herself that this time she didn’t feel too let down. Just another potential lead that didn’t pan out. She was getting used to it. Or was she sliding toward pessimism?
I bet Bruce would tell me I’m starting to get the hang of running down blind alleys, she thought.
She wondered whether she should write up a report on her suspicions about Snyder and the dumdum bullets but ultimately decided it wouldn’t serve any purpose. She had no evidence the bullets were his and might have to explain to Wallace why she was still spending time on the Toompas case.
The storm of the previous week had hardly passed farther to the east when another one followed on its heels. The pattern could continue this time of year as long as the jet stream didn’t move. That evening the next storm came in and was as bad as any Greta had experienced since moving to Oregon. Wind gusts up to fifty mph rose above a thirty-mph background, accompanied by hard driving rain. Although not as hard as the deluges that thunderstorms brought back in Missouri, the rain continued hour after hour.
Even at home, she was on call. She hoped for a quiet evening and optimistically tried to start a fire. However, the wind across the chimney top pushed smoke back into the living room, and she doused the effort. She opened a bottle of a dry New York riesling from the Finger Lakes region and heated a container of sweet and sour soup from the freezer. She sometimes picked up several orders from a Chinese restaurant in Tillamook City if she visited the main office. She sat at the table, blowing spoonfuls of the soup to cool it, buttering slices of sourdough, and drinking the riesling. The wind and the rain beat at the front windows, which faced the ongoing storm.
