Jared Danielson was my client. If the homicide victim’s remains resting in Harriet’s banker’s box really did belong to Chris, I wanted to be the one providing that confirmation to his survivors, even if the painful truth that his brother was dead was the last thing Jared ever wanted to hear. More than that, though, I wanted to be the one who answered the questions Jared and his grandmother would ask next: Who did this and why? That’s what homicide investigators do. Retired or not, that’s still who I am and what I do.
I had no doubt that once Harriet confirmed the victim’s identity, AST would launch an investigation, but the urgency of a twelve-year-old cold case would depend entirely on how much else the agency had going on right then. My personal urgency and theirs were two entirely different things.
Twink returned, bringing with her the indelible scent of cigarette-smoke-drenched clothing that was obvious from several feet away. She had barely regained her seat when our entrées arrived, and we both tucked into our marvelous meat-loaf sandwiches. During lunch, in an attempt to carry on polite conversation, I mentioned Twink’s proficiency as a mechanic.
“I’m not sure I would have known what a heater core was, much less been able to install one on the fly like that,” I told her.
“That’s all because of my dad,” she said. “Our mother was a lot younger than he was. She took off and was totally out of the picture early on. Daddy had us out in the garage crawling under cars and handing him tools before we could walk and talk.”
“Who’s us?” I asked.
“Me and my older brother, Chad.”
“Is he a wizard mechanic, too?”
“Not with cars,” Twink said. “His specialty is airplanes. Chad and Daddy had a falling-out when Chad was a teenager. Chad joined the air force. He went to Vietnam for a couple tours of duty and came home a trained airplane mechanic. Alaska is a big place, and lots of people use planes to get around here—especially them little Pipers that can land three ways—wheels, skis, or floats.
“Chad managed to turn himself into the go-to guy doing maintenance for bush pilots and family planes alike. Occasionally a pilot will keel over dead, leaving behind a plane in need of offloading. That’s especially true when some expensive FAA-required maintenance overhaul is in the offing. Chad keeps his ear to the ground. When he hears about some orphaned aircraft, he buys it up at bargain-basement rates, does the necessary maintenance work, and then resells it.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy.”
“More ornery than interesting, if you ask me,” Twink supplied. “He makes good money. Never married, lives out in the boonies all by himself. He has a condo in Hawaii and one in Palm Springs. It’s winter, so he’s probably at one or the other at the moment. I couldn’t tell you for sure—we’re not exactly close.”
This was way more Winkleman family history than I had anticipated hearing or knowing. I suspected that when it came to being “ornery,” Twink would have given her brother a run for his money, and there could be little doubt that both had come by that trait by way of their father’s side of the family tree.
The food was wonderful and more than either Twink or I could eat. We both passed on ordering dessert. At the end of the meal, when our waitress brought the check, Twink asked for a box and then loaded my remaining fries into the container right along with her own.
“No sense in letting good food go to waste,” she said. “Next stop the Anchor Bar and Grill.”
In better weather it would have been an easy walk from the restaurant to the bar, but we drove instead. As we approached the place, a pickup of some kind pulled out of a parking place in front of the army-surplus store next door. That told me pretty much all I needed to know about the neighborhood and what I could expect to find inside. Twink declined my invitation to come along.
“I’ll wait here,” she said, picking up her book. “Take your time.”
The Anchor Bar and Grill lived up to its advance notices. It might have been a piece of Alaska’s colorful history, but it was all too familiar to me. I had spent decades of my life hanging out in joints just like it—ones that came complete with acres of scarred but polished wooden bars, damaged pool tables, and worn-out dartboards. The single bright spot in the otherwise gloom-filled room was a well-lit oil painting hanging on the far wall. It featured a generously endowed young woman, reclining seminude to better display her impressive wares. Her presence hinted that at sometime in the distant past, booze hadn’t been the only temptation for sale on the premises.