Free Crazy Mountain Kiss by Keith McCafferty

head. “They could say I was here earlier and came back just to report the body, to remove myself from the suspect pool. I work alone, I live alone. It’s not like I have a fucking alibi for every night in April. There’d be gaps in credit card records, phone—”
    Stranahan held up a hand. “I can think of about ten reasons it can’t be your girlfriend, starting with how she could get here. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If this doesn’t turn out to be the person we think it is, I’ll make some calls.” He tore a Post-it note, scribbled a few lines, and pushed it over. “These are directions to Law and Justice. The sheriff’s at the morgue, so ask to see Warren Jarrett. Tell him what you told me. He’ll make you squirm, but it’s better to do this now rather than wait and have it come out. Besides, if you don’t, I will.”
    â€œI talked to you in confidence, Sean. Isn’t that what private investigator means, your communication is private?”
    Stranahan shook his head. “You ought to know better. In criminal matters, I turn over any pertinent information I get to the authorities. I’m just on someone else’s payroll.”
    â€œIs this a criminal matter?”
    â€œNot yet. Think of it this way. Even if it was this woman, as long as she died of exposure, she’s just a crazy person lusting after her former lover. It would be one hell of a story and you’d get burned as a contributing cause, but my guess is it would sell books.”
    â€œAny publicity is good publicity?” Gallagher cocked his head. “I suppose you’re right about that.”
    â€œGet out of here.”
    Sean felt his cell phone vibrating against his thigh. He checked the number. It was none that he knew, but the 578 prefix included the Shields River Valley.
    â€œHello, this is Sean Stranahan. Could you hold a second?”
    He took the phone from his ear and shooed Gallagher out the door. “I’ll call Warren and tell him you’re coming.”
    â€œWhy do I think I’m off to the gallows?” Gallagher said. He smiled, the commas fissuring his stubbled cheeks. He shut the door. Stranahan waited until his footsteps faded on the travertine floor tiles.
    â€œMr. Stranahan, are you there?” It was a woman’s voice, a nervous one.
    â€œYes, I’m back.”
    â€œThis is Etta Huntington. I’ve just had a call from Dr. Hanson at the coroner’s office. That was my daughter who died that horrible way.” The voice broke up and Stranahan could hear her ragged breaths.
    â€œMrs. Huntington—”
    â€œIt’s Ms. Huntington.”
    â€œMs. Huntington, I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s a terrible tragedy.”
    â€œYes, I suppose those are the words people say at a time like this. But they are little consolation, even though I have been preparing for this day for almost five months, or trying to. I felt her spirit for so long and so I thought she was alive, and now I know she really was, all that time she was alive and I was right to hope . . .”
    Stranahan could hear her labored breathing.
    â€œCould you drive down to the ranch? I would like to see you before dark, so you get a sense of the place.”
    â€œDid Sheriff Ettinger give you my number?”
    â€œShe said you’re a man who can get to the bottom of a dark river. I intend to hire you to find out how my daughter ended up in a . . . in that place.” There was a silence, a sound Stranahan took as a swallow and a dull rap like a lowball glass being set down on a tabletop.
Well, I might be drinking too under the circumstances,
he thought.
    â€œYou understand that this is an active investigation. You’d be paying me to do a job that people with more resources are doing as we speak. It might be wiser to wait—”
    â€œI have already waited once for authorities to fail