With that unhappy thought in mind, I threw on some clothes and went down to breakfast. If the kitchen was going to run out of supplies, I wanted to be sure I had something to eat well before that happened. While I was eating, I heard a few sounds of machinery moving outside on the street level, so someone had finally gotten out the snowplows after all. Better late than never.
I went back to my room determined to let my fingers do the walking, since due to the snow being out and about didn’t appear to be an option. I had those three guys to look up in Anchorage, but until I had a better idea about driving conditions, there was no point in attempting to make appointments with any of them. Instead, realizing that police officers are considered to be essential workers, I picked up my phone, checked my contacts list, and dialed a number at Anchorage PD. Then I waited for Detective Hank Frazier to pick up the phone.
As a homicide cop or as an investigator for Special Homicide, I was pretty much assured of a cordial response when calling in to unfamiliar police departments. As a private investigator? Not so much. Since Homer PD was a totally unknown entity as far as I was concerned and because I wanted a positive result, I felt the need to have an intermediary, and Hank Frazier was it.
A couple of years earlier, while still employed at SHIT, I had teamed up with him on a case where a guy named Winston Hale had murdered both his mother and stepfather before fleeing to Alaska. Because the parents were retired and lived in a cabin out in the boonies, the homicide wasn’t discovered for several days. The son’s name came up early on, because friends and neighbors knew that he despised his mother and hated his stepfather even more, but by the time he was on law enforcement’s radar, the killer had already fled Washington State and flown to Anchorage. Frazier was the guy who had picked up the Alaska end of the investigation. Between us, and without ever meeting in person, we’d managed to bring Hale to justice. A year after being given two life-without-parole sentences and being remanded to the Monroe Correctional Complex, Hale committed suicide—thus sparing taxpayers a lifetime’s worth of trouble and expense.
But the connection between Hank Frazier and me had been forged, and as soon as he knew who was on the line, he sounded pleased to hear from me. “Hey, Beau,” he said. “How the hell are you? Still working for SHIT?”
When you worked for the unfortunately named Special Homicide Investigation Team, that line was always good for a laugh. It still is.
“Nope,” I said. “The new attorney general shut us down as soon as he came on board.”
“Too bad,” Hank said. “That was a good outfit. What are you up to now?”
I told him, giving him a quick overview of the whole Chris Danielson missing-person saga. “How can I help?” Hank asked when I finished.
“I was hoping maybe you could run interference for me with Homer PD,” I answered. “I was planning on taking a drive out there today—”
“In this weather?” Hank interrupted with a hint of disbelief in his voice. Perhaps it was more concern than disbelief.
“Well, there is that,” I conceded, “but the thing is, whenever I get there, whether it’s today or tomorrow, most cop shops don’t exactly welcome visiting PIs with open arms, so I was wondering if you could put in a good word for me at Homer PD.”
“Turns out you came to the right place,” Hank said with a laugh. “It so happens I went through the academy with a guy named Marvin Price who’s now in charge of investigations in Homer. I’ll be happy to give Marve a call on your behalf and let him know you’re a straight-up guy. I’ll also text you his contact information, including his cell and direct number. Anything else I can do for you while you’re in town?”
There was another unknown entity on my list—the forensic anthropologist at the University of Alaska Anchorage.
“Ever heard of someone named Harriet Raines?” I asked.
Hank let out a hoot of laughter. “Of course I know Harry,” he said. “That’s what everybody calls her. She’s a character with a capital C. Smokes like a steam engine and prefers cigars to cigarettes. Do you ever watch that show NCIS: Los Angeles?”
Most cops I know wouldn’t watch a scripted crime TV show on a bet, and if they do, it’s usually a closely guarded secret. Personally I’m partial to America’s Funniest Home Videos. I love watching people do stupid stuff without ending up dead as a result. But the interesting thing about getting married is that you sometimes don’t find out all your spouse’s dirty little secrets until after you say “I do.”
Along with her propensity to collect Christmas decorations, that was another of Mel’s closely held secrets—she does watch those shows. Because she was raised as a military brat, she adores anything that has NCIS in the title. She watches all three of those shows—NCIS, NCIS: LA, and NCIS: New Orleans—avidly. Since spending time with Mel is my favorite thing to do, I end up watching them right along with her.
“I’ve seen it a time or two,” I allowed. “Why?”
“You know that funny little woman on NCIS: LA, the one who sits at the front desk drinking either tea or scotch. She never seems to do much of anything herself, but she sees all and knows all.”
“You mean Hetty?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Hank replied. “Well, Harriet Raines is a whole lot like Hetty. She’s a little bit of a thing, but smart as all get-out, and if you give her any guff or try to pull a fast one on her, she’ll fix you with a cold, hard stare that’ll shrivel your balls. But when it comes to piecing human skeletons back together, no one can top her. If someone turns up in her lab with a banker’s box full of bones, she’s all over it. Those remains are real people to her. They can be a month old, decades old, or a hundred years old—it doesn’t matter. She takes the bit in her teeth and runs with it.”
“So scary but good,” I said, “sort of like my old high-school English teacher. But in weather like this, what are the chances she’ll be in her office today?”
“One hundred percent,” Hank told me. “She’s pretty much a one-woman show, and I have it on good authority that on snow days she sleeps on a cot in her office just in case she’s needed. So you’re thinking your missing kid ended up dead somewhere?”
“Seems like a real possibility,” I answered.
“Well, give Harry a call, then,” Hank said. “I’ll text you her direct number, too. You’re welcome to tell her that I suggested you be in touch.”