Free Dead Float by Warren C Easley Page B

questions?”
    â€œSure. Another drowning?”
    â€œNo. A man was murdered.”
    â€œFar out. You a cop?”
    â€œNo. A lawyer. Were you working here last night, Billy?”
    â€œSure. I’m here Monday through Friday, four to twelve.”
    â€œI see,” I replied, trying not to show my disappointment. The intruder could have boarded the train after Billy left work. “What time did you leave last night?”
    â€œThree. I covered for Franny Halstead at the last minute.”
    Relieved, I continued. “A northbound freight came through here last night at 12:30 or so. Right?”
    â€œRight. That would be the 504 heading for The Dalles.” His eyes quickly scanned the screen in front of him. “Twelve thirty-two, to be exact.”
    â€œHang on a sec,” I said as I took a pen and small notebook from my shirt pocket and jotted the information down. “You see or hear anything unusual around that time? Like maybe someone hopping it?”
    â€œNo,” he said as he scratched his temple with his index finger. “I wouldn’t see anything from in here, and I didn’t hear about any hoppers. Usually only hear when somebody gets hurt. It was quiet last night.”
    â€œWho would have told you about hoppers?”
    â€œYou know, security,” he answered.
    â€œCan you give me a name of someone in security I can talk to?”
    â€œSure.” He pulled up another screen and obligingly read off a name and a number that I jotted down.
    â€œHow about a second train? I continued. “Was there one coming south on the same tracks?”
    â€œSure was. That would be the 1520 from Spokane. The 504 lets her pass at Kaskela.”
    Bingo , I said to myself. “How about that crew in there?” I nodded in the direction of the crane. “Any chance they saw something?”
    â€œNah, they get off at eight. They would’ve been long gone last night.”
    I thanked Billy and left. As I was driving back to the highway I noticed some kids skateboarding under the lights in the parking lot of a large warehouse. The loading dock with all its ramps, stairs, and railings provided a challenging set of obstacles. I pulled over and watched for a few minutes, wincing at some of their maneuvers. Then on a whim, I turned into the lot. When they saw me they took off around the building.
    I stopped, got out of the car, and yelled, “Hey, guys. It’s cool. I’m not a cop! I just want to talk to you about something that happened last night.”
    They didn’t answer, so I followed the four of them around to the side of the warehouse. I guessed they came from the Warm Springs Reservation, which was only a couple of miles up Route 26. I found them sitting under the only light on the side of the building, their skateboards propped next to a row of low-slung dirt bikes. Insects were spiraling in the light, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of cedar. The warehouse must have been full of raw lumber.
    â€œI saw some pretty awesome moves out there. You guys skate here often?” I began.
    No answer.
    â€œLook guys, I’m looking for information about something that happened last night. I was wondering if any of you noticed someone coming down this road last night between, say, ten and twelve? Were you here then?”
    After a pause that was so long I was ready to give up, the boy sitting closest to me looked up and said, “So what if we did?” His dark eyes shone in the harsh yellow light, his cheeks were flecked with acne, and the hair on his upper lip looked more like a shadow than a mustache.
    â€œWell, it could be really important. I’m trying to find out who killed someone last night on the river.”
    The boy who’d spoken up eyed me. “No shit? Someone got murdered?”
    â€œYes. Did you see someone around here last night?”
    Their spokesman said something under his breath that I didn’t