Free Collecting the Dead by Spencer Kope Page B

afternoon
    Diane calls at 1:32 P.M. and by 1:49 we’re in the air heading for Carson City, Nevada; more specifically, we’re heading for Washoe Lake State Park, just north of Carson City.
    Brilliant amaranth and rust: now we’ll see how good my memory is.
    Landing at Carson Airport, we leave Les and Marty to figure out where to park the plane and make our way to the terminal looking for our local contact. He’s already there, a big grin on his face, his eyes hidden behind dark aviator glasses.
    “You boys look like hell!” he bellows, pumping my arm and slapping Jimmy on the back. Detective Bobby Decker of the Nevada Highway Patrol looks impeccable in his suit and tie; his obsidian hair is perfectly and precisely in place and I detect a Goldilocks portion of Stetson aftershave—not too much, not too little, but just the right amount.
    Bobby’s nickname around the office is GQ and he earns both letters. Buried under the pretty exterior, however, is a smart, ambitious cop with a head for details and a memory like a titanium lockbox. Bobby was with us two years ago for the Natalie Shoemaker homicide; it only seemed fair to give him a heads up.
    Besides, we need a ride.
    “Diane told me what you’re up to,” Bobby says as we get into his unmarked Dodge Charger. “She didn’t tell me why, but then I remembered that she’s really good at playing dumb when it suits her.”
    “Yes, she is,” Jimmy and I say in unison.
    “So, are you gonna fill me in?”
    “It’s this case we’re working in Redding,” Jimmy says. “Steps thinks it’s connected to the Shoemaker homicide.”
    “Really? How?”
    “It’s just a hunch,” I lie, letting the words settle where they fall as I stare out the window. Bobby takes the hint and doesn’t push the issue. We make our way to Interstate 580 and then head north. I let my mind wander, grounded only by the slow count of the mile markers as they flash by in green and white.
    The more I think about the Lake Washoe case, the more I’m convinced the shine is the same. We’ve handled maybe two hundred cases since then, but I remember shine—I have to—and if Redding isn’t a match, it’s uncannily close. Plus, there was something odd about the Lake Washoe case, something I can’t yet remember, something that didn’t mean anything at the time, but that’s now nibbling at the ragged edge of my mind … like a rat let loose in a pantry.
    I need to return to Lake Washoe.
    The signs along the freeway tell me we’re close, and then I see sunlight dancing on water: Washoe Lake. It’s a bit of a misnomer, as the lake is actually a marriage of Big Washoe Lake, Little Washoe Lake, and the marshy Scripps Wildlife Management Area that connects the two. The lakes are shallow—no more than twelve feet deep—and during severe droughts they’ve been known to dry up completely. Almost daily winds beat and flay the shallow waters into a turbid broth.
    Washoe Lake State Park, established in 1977, extends to the south and east of the lake and sprawls across more than eight thousand acres, offering miles of trails and abundant wildlife: mule deer, coyotes, hawks, eagles, even pelicans.
    We turn onto Eastlake Boulevard and travel the short distance to the park entrance. It’s hot when we get out of the car; the stygian-black asphalt of the parking lot soaks up the sun in scorching gulps and belches it back in waves of shimmering heat.
    It’s June in Nevada; what was I thinking?
    The average summer temperature here is hell, with a 25 percent chance of purgatory. I console myself with the knowledge that our hike will be short, mostly level, and through high-desert grasses and shrubs … no forests. The fact that the park sits more than five thousand feet above sea level should help: the temperatures tend to be slightly cooler than, say, Reno to the north, or Las Vegas to the south. Like when you preheat your oven to 425 degrees and the beeper hasn’t gone off yet because it’s only at