Free Killer View by Ridley Pearson

particular?” Fiona asked.
    He shrugged. “We’ll know when we find it.”
    She started making pictures, her camera flashes annoying him. To the left of the front door was a narrow harvest table and a laptop computer.
    More flashes.
    “Don’t you think it’s a little weird for a veterinarian to have animal heads on his walls?” There was a bull elk, a buck deer, and, more of a surprise, the head of a mountain goat, a protected animal.
    “Anyone local—and the Akers are local—hunt. They do it for food. For tradition. Because their granddads taught them to.”
    “I still think it’s strange,” she said. “They heal them Monday through Friday and kill them on the weekends?”
    “I doubt they’d see it that way,” Walt said, having trouble taking his eyes off the goat head. Mountain goat hunts were by lottery, with only a few tags sold each year. And they were the most expensive tags offered, along with bighorn sheep and moose. He thought he would have heard from Mark if Randy had bagged a goat. Considering the dust on the elk and deer, the goat was a recent trophy.
    He searched all the kitchen cabinets, the refrigerator and oven, knowing people hid things in strange places. He tapped the plank flooring, listening carefully for a hollow sound. If the rumors about Randy’s illegal poaching were true, Walt expected to find some evidence. The goat head wasn’t proof of anything. He wanted a bank account, checkbook, or a cashbox. He planned to take the laptop with him.
    “You know anything about radio collar hunting?” he asked Fiona, as she clicked off more shots.
    “Isn’t that where these rich golfer types hire someone to tree a cougar, then fly out to shoot it?”
    “Exactly. The guide uses dogs to hunt down the game. It can take days. When the dogs get a cougar treed, they look up at it, barking, and keeping it there. The poachers follow the signal to the tree. They phone their client—it can take most of a day for him to get there—then he climbs out of the helicopter and is handed a rifle. He shoots the cougar, then flies off. Single shot. Ten minutes, max. The cat is taxidermied and shipped to him a few months later.”
    “And that’s called hunting?”
    “It’s called poaching . The collars are illegal to use, and the cats require a tag from Fish and Game. So the whole thing is one violation after another. A hundred-thousand-dollar fine, and up to five years in prison. So it’s an expensive way to hunt. The client pays about ten grand an animal.”
    “Why are you telling me this?”
    “Randy’s name surfaced in a bust in eastern Washington. It reached me through a friend. Word was, he’d begun taking clients on his own. And that kind of thing can get a man killed out here.”
    “And Mark?”
    “Probably knew. He has his ear to the ground.”
    “That couldn’t have been easy. And you’re looking for a possible connection,” she said.
    “ We are. Yes.”
    “That’s right: I’m deputized.”
    “Don’t let it go to your head.”
    “You want the contents of the kitchen cabinets?” she asked.
    “Why not?” he answered.
    Walt searched the tiny bedroom and small bath while Fiona sparked flashes in the kitchen. Frustrated by a lack of evidence, or even anything interesting, he climbed on a chair and lifted up all three game heads in succession, hoping an envelope or paperwork might have been hidden behind the trophies. All he got was dusty.
    “Here’s a curiosity,” Fiona called out.
    Walt joined her in the kitchen.
    She pointed to the kitchen cabinets. “Box of nongluten pancake mix. Several boxes of pasta, also gluten-free. And a breakfast cereal— all corn. Lots of rice and rice noodles. No pretzels or chips.”
    “So he’s gluten-intolerant,” Walt said. “Where’s the crime in that?”
    “Check it out, Sherlock.” The toe of her boot pointed at an open drawer. There were some potatoes, a bag of onions, and a loaf of bread. “What’s he doing with the loaf of bread