Death Takes a Gander (15 page)

“What if someone shows up?” Lark’s voice rose in pitch.

“We’ll say we want to join the club.”

Coot nodded. “It looks like a great facility.”

“The samples won’t be admissible,” argued Lark.

“Granted,” Angela said. “But this way we’ll know if we need to come back. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?”

The plane swooped lower. Lark’s eyes widened with fear.

“We could get shot?”

The plane rolled to
a stop on the runway and Coot shut down the engine. Angela waited for his signal, then pushed open the door and disembarked. A white-crowned sparrow trilled a greeting as her feet hit the ground, and she stretched, looking around.

They had come down three thousand feet in elevation from Elk Park. Instead of cold, the air was balmy. Instead of pine trees, cottonwoods and sandbar willows buffered the view of Barr Lake to the west. Brown agricultural fields rolled away to the east. And, in the far distance, white-capped mountains etched across the bright blue sky.

Coot climbed out, then reached back to help Lark.

“I’ll go look around,” Angela said. “You two can hang here.”

Coot gave a two-fingered salute, then lounged against the wing of the plane, slurping the dregs of his coffee.

Lark eyed him, then moved to follow Angela. “I’m going with you.”

Was she was afraid of Coot? Slouched against the plane, he looked more like an old, stoned-out hippie than a retired air force pilot, but to Angela he seemed harmless enough.

“Suit yourself.” She led the way along a path flanked by tall shrubs and strewn with high-grade stone. Crunching toward the clubhouse with Lark in tow, it occurred to Angela they weren’t wearing any orange. Lark had on a dark coat, and Angela was bundled up in black down. “Let’s hope we don’t encounter any hunters.”

Around them, branches snapped as the sap running through them warmed. Squirrels chattered incessantly from the trees. Small birds twittered. Distant flocks of geese and ducks quacked and squawked.

Keeeer
. The call of a red-tailed hawk split the air. All around them, the day hushed. Lark moved closer.

Angela plowed forward, breaking free of the bushes, and the clubhouse sagged before them. It stood in the throes of renovation. Green paint slivered and peeled from the outer walls like leaves drooping on a flower’s stem, and a pile of abandoned screens rested along the side of the building. Scaffolding splotched with green paint climbed the back wall, blocking the only visible entrance. The parking lot was empty.

“Let’s try the front door, just in case someone’s here,” Angela said, skirting the building and a pile of patio chairs on the brown grass. Leading the way, she climbed the stairs to a newly refinished wraparound deck. Before her, a bank of large windows spit back her reflection, broken in half by a set of wide double doors. Overhead, a sign reading “Barr Lake Hunt Club, Founded 1887” banged in the eaves.

“This place is old.”

“I thought you liked historical buildings.”

“I do. It’s trespassing I’m not fond of.”

Angela knocked on the door.

No one answered.

Cupping her hands around her eyes, she peered through one of the windows. A mounted deer’s head glared back from above a massive stone fireplace. Navajo rugs were scattered in haphazard fashion on the wooden floor. Leather rocking chairs, couches, and floor lamps were clustered around the room in random order. “It’s a pretty nice place, no doubt drenched in decades of cigar smoke.”

Lark didn’t look, she just wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Angela knocked again. “Hello? Anyone here?”

There were no signs of life.

She knocked a third time for good measure, then moved to the railing. Looking down toward the water, she could make out the skeet houses and trap bunkers tucked into the trees. In contrast to the clubhouse, each building sported a fresh coat of paint.

“Ready to head back?” Lark asked.

“Is anyone here?” Coot asked.

His voice caused both women to startle.

“Man, you scared me,” Angela said, her hand patting her chest, keeping time with her pounding heart. “I thought you were back at the plane.”

He held up his thermos and a small bottle of freeze-dried coffee crystals. “I needed a fix.”

He rattled the door handle, and the door swung open. Sticking his head inside, he hollered, “Anyone here?”

A young man in his late teens or early twenties poked his head out from a doorway in the back. Tall and spindly, he had dark hair cut closeto his head. Acne marred his face in angry welts. “What can I do for you?”

“The name’s Coot,” the pilot answered, ducking his head through the doorway.

The man rolled his eyes. “So what do you want?”

Angela wanted to ask him why he hadn’t answered her knock, but the blare of Led Zeppelin at his back answered her question. He must not have heard her. For that matter, how had he heard Coot?

“Great place you got here,” the pilot said.

The young man puffed out his chest. “It belongs to my dad.”

Angela stepped forward. “Any chance he’s around?”

“Nope.” The young man sized her up, from her feet to her breasts. “He ran into town,” he said to her chest. “He’s coming back, though.”

“Mind if I make some coffee?” Coot asked, holding up the thermos.

“Sure, it’s okay.”

“Mind if I look around?” Angela asked.

The young man hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Want an escort?”

“Nope. I’m fine on my own.”

Angela shot back out the door, leaving Coot talking with the kid. “Let’s go,” she said to Lark, scrambling down the stairs. “I can’t believe our luck. The owner’s son gave us permission to look around.”

“He didn’t ask why?”

“He wasn’t the least bit interested, and he’s over eighteen.” Heck, if she had unbuttoned her shirt and showed cleavage, he might have collected the samples for her.

The hunt club outbuildings provided a great view of the wetlands. Each station was set so clay pigeons and shot fell toward the water. Shards of broken pottery littered the marshy grasses, along with numerous plastic shotgun wads. In addition to spent shot, toxins from massive amounts of broken clay presented a problem for waterfowl. At a glance, Angela decided they needed to test this area for polyaromatic hydrocarbons too.

Producing a small vial from her coat pocket, she slogged to the edge of the marsh. Plunging her hand to her elbow in the frigid water, she scooped material from the bottom and watched the mud, clay particles, and shot settle into the vial. A murky layer of water settled on top, and she plugged the tube, slipping it back in her pocket.

“Hey!” Lark whispered, waving her arms frantically from the shadow of the skeet house. “Someone’s here. Get out of there.”

Angela complied. Lark was right about one thing. Permission from the son not withstanding, trespassers in Colorado risked being shot—even when guns weren’t a prevalent part of the entertainment. No sense in making anyone’s day.

Slogging up to the path, the two of them hiked back to the clubhouse. In the driveway, a well-dressed man unfolded himself from behind the wheel of a late-model BMW. Wearing short boots, wool slacks, a flannel shirt, and a down vest, he looked like he’d stepped off the pages of an L.L.Bean catalog. Gray tinged his sandy hair, and crow’s feet crinkled the edges of his eyes. Angela recognized him immediately.

“Special Agent Dimato. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, flashing a smile that gave new definition to the word charismatic.

Lark gaped.

“Mr. Radigan.” It was the grandpa from Elk Lake. The one whose grandson had caught the undersized fish. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks.” He turned to Lark and extended a hand. “And you’re Lark Drummond, correct? The woman who owns the Drummond Hotel?”

“That’s me,” Lark said.

Angela floundered for conversation. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Out of context?” He smiled. “I own this club. One of my sharecroppers told me about the tournament. It sounded like a fun thing to do with my grandson.” He looked up and down the driveway, then wrinkled his brow. “I have to admit, I’m a little curious about where you came from, though. And why are you here?”

This was the part of the training with Ian she’d missed. Did she tell the truth or make up a lie?

Lark’s face turned the color of mashed potatoes.

Angela opted for the truth. “We were conducting a search of this area and spotted your place from the air. I had my pilot land on your airstrip. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” The fact he remained unruffled, ruffled Angela’s feathers.

“I noticed you have skeet houses and trap bunkers. Not all the clubs do.”

“Shall we cut to the chase, Special Agent Dimato? My time’s rather limited this morning.”

Okay, she could give it to him short and sweet. “We’ve got 136 poisoned geese in Elk Park. Some are sick, some are dead, and some are dying. All appear to be the victim of some type of lead poisoning, possibly from lead shot.”

Radigan opened the rear door of his car and reached inside. Instinctively, Angela’s hand moved back on her belt.

Her heart sank.

She wasn’t wearing her gun. She’d left it inside her backpack, on the plane.

“How does that concern me?”

She kept her eyes on his hands. “Looking at weather conditions the night they arrived, and factoring in the storm and migration patterns—”

“You think the shot came from here.”

Short and sweet
.

“Yes.” She watched for some reaction, but Radigan remained cool. “Lark and I took a walk down by the skeet stations. I notice there’s quite a buildup of clay pigeons and spent shot cartridges in the water.”

Radigan chuckled and came out of the car holding a Wendy’s take-out bag. “You won’t find things much different at any of the hunt clubs around here, and the area’s full of them.” He shut the door. “Frankly, our operation is a helluva lot better than most.”

“Are you talking about clubs along the Drainage Loop?” Lark asked, finding her voice for the first time. Angela noted her color looked better.

Radigan stared at Lark, as if assessing an adversary. “Are you a birder?”

She nodded.

“The Drainage Loop, as Lark calls it, follows the irrigation canals along the chain of reservoirs and duck ponds that run from the eagle watch at the Arsenal to Banner Lake. It’s a great hunting area. We’ve taken some interesting species.”

Lark scowled.

Angela refused to be baited by his choice of language or his reference to hunting. But if the club sat along an irrigation system, it did mean any or all of the clubs upstream could be a contributing factor to the pollution. Samples would need to be taken up and down the drainage area.

“If it puts your mind at ease, we don’t allow the use of lead shot on the premises. The club switched over to steel shot in the mid-eighties,
before
it was fashionable.”

“What type of shot do your members use now?” Angela asked.

“Hevi-shot or Bismuth.”

“No other type?”

Radigan leaned against his car and crossed his ankles. “Rest assured, Special Agent Dimato, none of what we use here is harmful to the birds.”

His answer was evasive and hard to believe. “Except you’re shooting them, aren’t you?”

Radigan chuckled. “I meant not harmful when ingested. Speaking of which, I need to get my son’s lunch inside.” He started toward the clubhouse, then spoke over his shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong place, Special Agent.”

Angela stared out at the birds gathered on the open water of Barr Lake. Why didn’t she think so?

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded, turning to find him stopped at the edge of the driveway.

“You know, at one time, all this land belonged to my great-grandfather.” He swept his hand in a wide arch toward the lake. “Before the state built the reservoir in the 1880s, this was all shortgrass prairie.”

“Did your great-grandfather sell the land to the state?” Lark asked.

Radigan nodded. “It worked out well. The state got their reservoir, the birds flock to the water and fields, and we get to hunt them.”

“Sweet,” Angela said, making no attempt to mask her sarcasm.

He smoothed away a tire track with the toe of his boot. “You know, my company, Radigan Enterprises, takes conservation and our relationship with the community very seriously, Special Agent Dimato. We do regular cleanups, sponsor youth events, operate during reasonable hours, and restrict the use of lead shot. You can’t get much better than that.”

Angela wondered how many times he’d given that speech. She toyed with the vial in her pocket. “Then you won’t mind if I collect a few samples?”

Radigan’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Lark to Angela, then his gaze dropped to her boots. Angela stilled her hand.

“Funny, I was under the impression you already had.”

Angela’s fingers twitched against the sample. Should she confess or wait to see what happened?

He saved her the angst. “I don’t mind at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He raised the Wendy’s bag. “I’ll see you back up at the clubhouse.”

Braced for a different reaction, it took Angela a few seconds to realize they’d been given carte blanche to sample the area. “I say we get to work before he changes his mind.”

“I was sure he was going to say no.”

An unpleasant thought crossed Angela’s mind. “What if he has nothing to hide?”

“Do you believe that?”

“No. I don’t know.”

Maybe they
were
wrong. Or maybe Radigan knew she’d come back with a warrant. Besides, even if he was developing a new type of shot, as long as no one hunted with it, it was perfectly legal to use it in the traps—provided it wasn’t contaminating the wetlands. Was he convinced of that, or did he have some other trick up his sleeve?

Rather than stand around second-guessing his motives, Angela got busy taking samples. They collected from three separate areas. She scooped. Lark tagged and bagged. Once they had collected enough to justify ordering an assessment of the wetlands should the lab results test positive, Angela led the way back to the clubhouse to find Coot.

Cresting the hill, they discovered him lounging on the porch with Radigan, drinking coffee and smoking cigars.

“Ready?”

“Sure thing, Angela.” Coot stood, swaying slightly on his feet. “Thanks, Chuck.”

“My pleasure.”

The men shook hands.

“Did you get what you need?” asked Radigan.

“Yes.” His amiability unnerved her. She would have preferred Radigan to be a little more nervous. Most people under investigation were.