Paradise Valley (Highway Quartet #4)

Cassie was grateful for the distraction the work provided, and whenever she hit another dead end she thought about Lottie. And the work kept her at arm’s length from her mother, who would pop in and out of the house at any time depending on her activities.

The day before she’d purchased a used .40 Glock 27 at the Work Wearhouse in Grimstad that was just like the piece she’d turned in after her suspension. Cassie was used to carrying that particular weapon—nine rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber—and it was perfectly legitimate to do so. She still had her Concealed Carry permit from Montana, and North Dakota offered reciprocity.

While waiting for her background check to clear to take possession of the weapon, she pushed a cart around the store and added items from the shelves: three-cell Maglite flashlight, a handheld radio with a police scanner frequency, binoculars, a Swiss Army knife, and plastic bindings for fencing that could conceivably be used as flexible handcuffs.

Because she’d heard Lottie’s version of events Cassie thought it important to talk to the other complainant as well.

She tracked down Raheem’s father in Minneapolis via a law enforcement database she still had access to on her home computer.

He answered his cell phone on the second ring.

*

“MR. JOHNSON? MR. CLYDE JOHNSON?”

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“My name is Cassie Dewell. I’m calling from Grimstad to follow up on the case of your missing son Raheem.”

She could hear him take a sharp breath.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“No, no—that’s not why I’m calling. I’m investigating the disappearance of Raheem and Kyle Westergaard. I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”

“You with the police?” His tone was aggressive.

“No. It’s a private investigation on behalf of Lottie Westergaard. I’m not a member of law enforcement.”

“Well, you couldn’t do much worse than those fools, that’s for sure. I went into the sheriff’s department four times before I left town and nobody could give me any answers at all. I understand why they didn’t do much that first day,” he said. “That was the morning that truck blew up in town and killed them cops. You know about that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Some woman cop was responsible is what I heard.”

“There is a dispute about that,” she said. “But go on.”

“Anyway, there’s no damned excuse for why they didn’t do anything the second, third, and fourth time I went in there to see ’em. They weren’t doing nothing to find him I could see.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Johnson. I really am. But I’ve got the missing person’s report you filed and I’m trying to find out everything I can. I hope you’ll spare me a few minutes.”

“I got time,” he said. “I’m at my brother’s place in the Twin Cities trying to find a job. There isn’t any work in North Dakota no more.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Yeah, the bottom fell out. I didn’t want to leave with Raheem still gone. I feel bad about that. But I sat around for three weeks waiting to hear from either Raheem or the cops and the rent came due. I had to clear out.”

“So Raheem has made no attempt to contact you since he went missing on September fifteenth?”

“I don’t know if he made an attempt or not but he didn’t contact me if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Okay then. I did leave a message on the house phone where I was at if he tried. I think he’d try my cell phone anyway, though. Man, every morning I wake up and look at it to see if he called or texted me.”

“And nothing so far,” she said.

“Nothing so far. I’ve heard as much from Raheem as I have from the damn cops.”

“I know you and Mrs. Johnson are divorced but did you check with her to see if Raheem had been in touch?”

“I did,” he said wearily. “She said she hadn’t heard from him. All she did was ream me out and say what a shitty dad I must be if Raheem felt he had to run away. This from the woman who left with a salesman and moved to Texas when Raheem was four.”

She nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We assume that Raheem and Kyle left Grimstad in a drift boat on the morning of September fifteenth. But that’s just what it is—an assumption. Do you recall Raheem ever saying he wanted to visit a special place?”

There was a long pause. “Are you asking me if I think Raheem and Kyle faked leaving in the boat and went somewhere else?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Hmmm, that’s a weird one. I guess I never really thought about it that way.”

“I’ve got no reason to suggest it, Mr. Johnson. I’m just trying to rule everything out.”

“Yeah.”

“So shall we move on?”

“Yeah, next question.”

“I’m looking at your report and I don’t see that you list any identifying marks on Raheem. Is it possible you left something out?”

“New Orleans,” he said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“Raheem used to say he’d like to go to New Orleans so he could see women take their shirts off, you know? I always laughed about that. Even his favorite team is the Saints. So maybe New Orleans.”

She wrote that down. New Orleans, she knew, could be the end of their journey if they were somehow still on the river.

“About those marks. Anything?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Did someone find a body?”

“I can’t confirm that,” she said.

“Let’s see,” he said. “Well, when he was nine he fell out of a damned tree! Climbed to the top and fell down through the branches like a dumbass. I thought he might have broken his neck but he’s like a cat—he doesn’t get hurt. He jumped right back up on his feet. I think all he needed was stitches on his leg. That’s it.”

“Where on his leg?”

“His ankle.”

“Which ankle?”

“Right. It was his right ankle.”

She glanced over at the RIMN printout. The body supposedly had a scar on the inside left ankle.

“No, I’m wrong,” he said. “I was thinking that when I looked at him head-on the scar was on the right. But it was my right. The scar was actually on his left ankle.”

“Where on the ankle?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even and professional.

“On the inside. Why you asking me about his ankle?”

“Like I said—I’m trying to gather as much information as possible as well as rule things out.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “You’ve already asked me more questions than the damned cops ever did. Maybe you ought to be a cop.”

She let that go.

*

WHEN SHE’D CALLED EX-SHERIFF Jon Kirkbride at home and told him what she was doing, he’d laughed and said, “What are you, a private detective?”

“Kind of,” she admitted.

“You know what I think of private detectives,” he said.

“I remember,” she said. “You said, ‘TSA agents are folks who were too dumb to pass the test for a job at the post office, and private investigators were folks too dumb to qualify for the TSA.’”

He laughed.

“Well, I’m not an official private investigator. I don’t have a license. I’m just trying to help out Lottie Westergaard and Clyde Johnson.”

“What can I help you with, Cassie?”

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