Read Online The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 by Craig Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig Johnson
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Garfield.
They were in cabins 7 and 8, so I walked down the row beside the imprint of Turk’s 50-series tire tracks. Topflight detective work. I’m sure with the glass-pack mufflers he had been as inconspicuous as the Daytona 500. There was a brand new Suburban parked between the two cabins, Michigan plates. I couldn’t believe he had called them in. I knocked at the door of the nearest cabin and heard a muffled groan. I knocked again.
“Oh God . . .”
I knocked again. “Sheriff ’s Department. Could you open the door, please?”
“Randy, this is not funny . . .” I leaned against the glossy, green doorjamb and knocked once again. After a few seconds, a young man in his underwear and a camo T-shirt snatched open the door. “Do you know what time it is?!” He was short and kind of round with light brown hair and a two-week beard. It did not take long for him to figure out I wasn’t Randy.
“Good morning. I’m Sheriff Longmire, and I’d like a word with you.” At first he didn’t move, and I could see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out what it was that he had done to bring himself in contact with me. These few moments in the beginning can often tell me what I need to know. You hear about eye movement, nose touching, all that crap but, when you get right down to it, it’s just a feeling. The little voice in the back of your head just says, “Yeah, this is the guy.” My little voice had taken the fifth, and I figured this was not the guy. Besides, I was probably looking for a perpetrator who had acted alone. I told him he could put his pants on.
I waited out by their SUV and watched the cars go by. The air was brisk, and I was starting to regret not bringing my coat from the Bullet. The aspen trees around the cabins and adjacent campground were a bright butter and shimmered in the light wind. They had been tenacious in the face of the small snowstorm of the evening before, trying to hold onto fall. Only a few loose leaves tumbled across the gravel toward the alley behind the motel. But the sun was shining this morning, and the whole place just seemed to glow.
He remembered his jacket. After he closed the door to the cabin, the curtain flipped back just a touch and then hung slack as it had before. “You want the other guys, too?”
I introduced my most ingratiating smile. “No, I figure you’ll do.” He didn’t seem happy with this turn of events. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, mister?”
“Anderson, Mike Anderson.” He was quick with it, and the name matched the registration of the vehicle.
“Mr. Anderson, do you mind taking a little walk with me here?” I gestured toward the office, where the Bullet was parked and, more importantly, where my jacket lay on the seat. He started, and I figured this guy’s never had any dealings with law enforcement in his life other than traffic violations. I figured to start easy. “Why don’t you tell me about last night?”
He bit his lip, nodding his head in agreement. “I am really sorry about all that noise.”
“Um-hmm.”
Um-hmm
was one of my secret weapons. I could give out with a noncommittal
um-hmm
with the best of them.
“We didn’t tear anything up . . . I mean we made a lot of noise?”
“Willis did mention it . . . But that’s not why I’m here.” Now he looked really worried. “I just need to ask you about the areas that you might have hunted in your visit here.” We had arrived at the Bullet, where I opened the door, fished out my coat, and pulled it on. “Sorry, it’s getting a little cool. The areas? Sections for your hunting permits?”
His eyes stayed in the truck, taking in the radio, radar, and especially the Remington 870 that was locked to the dash. After a moment he spoke. “You mean the numbers?”
“Yep, that would be helpful.” I waited. “You’re not sure what the numbers are?”
“No, but they’re in the truck.”
As we started back, the tone became a little more
They were in cabins 7 and 8, so I walked down the row beside the imprint of Turk’s 50-series tire tracks. Topflight detective work. I’m sure with the glass-pack mufflers he had been as inconspicuous as the Daytona 500. There was a brand new Suburban parked between the two cabins, Michigan plates. I couldn’t believe he had called them in. I knocked at the door of the nearest cabin and heard a muffled groan. I knocked again.
“Oh God . . .”
I knocked again. “Sheriff ’s Department. Could you open the door, please?”
“Randy, this is not funny . . .” I leaned against the glossy, green doorjamb and knocked once again. After a few seconds, a young man in his underwear and a camo T-shirt snatched open the door. “Do you know what time it is?!” He was short and kind of round with light brown hair and a two-week beard. It did not take long for him to figure out I wasn’t Randy.
“Good morning. I’m Sheriff Longmire, and I’d like a word with you.” At first he didn’t move, and I could see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out what it was that he had done to bring himself in contact with me. These few moments in the beginning can often tell me what I need to know. You hear about eye movement, nose touching, all that crap but, when you get right down to it, it’s just a feeling. The little voice in the back of your head just says, “Yeah, this is the guy.” My little voice had taken the fifth, and I figured this was not the guy. Besides, I was probably looking for a perpetrator who had acted alone. I told him he could put his pants on.
I waited out by their SUV and watched the cars go by. The air was brisk, and I was starting to regret not bringing my coat from the Bullet. The aspen trees around the cabins and adjacent campground were a bright butter and shimmered in the light wind. They had been tenacious in the face of the small snowstorm of the evening before, trying to hold onto fall. Only a few loose leaves tumbled across the gravel toward the alley behind the motel. But the sun was shining this morning, and the whole place just seemed to glow.
He remembered his jacket. After he closed the door to the cabin, the curtain flipped back just a touch and then hung slack as it had before. “You want the other guys, too?”
I introduced my most ingratiating smile. “No, I figure you’ll do.” He didn’t seem happy with this turn of events. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, mister?”
“Anderson, Mike Anderson.” He was quick with it, and the name matched the registration of the vehicle.
“Mr. Anderson, do you mind taking a little walk with me here?” I gestured toward the office, where the Bullet was parked and, more importantly, where my jacket lay on the seat. He started, and I figured this guy’s never had any dealings with law enforcement in his life other than traffic violations. I figured to start easy. “Why don’t you tell me about last night?”
He bit his lip, nodding his head in agreement. “I am really sorry about all that noise.”
“Um-hmm.”
Um-hmm
was one of my secret weapons. I could give out with a noncommittal
um-hmm
with the best of them.
“We didn’t tear anything up . . . I mean we made a lot of noise?”
“Willis did mention it . . . But that’s not why I’m here.” Now he looked really worried. “I just need to ask you about the areas that you might have hunted in your visit here.” We had arrived at the Bullet, where I opened the door, fished out my coat, and pulled it on. “Sorry, it’s getting a little cool. The areas? Sections for your hunting permits?”
His eyes stayed in the truck, taking in the radio, radar, and especially the Remington 870 that was locked to the dash. After a moment he spoke. “You mean the numbers?”
“Yep, that would be helpful.” I waited. “You’re not sure what the numbers are?”
“No, but they’re in the truck.”
As we started back, the tone became a little more
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