Free Fire - C. J. Box [48]
The third rough category he classified as Desperate Pleas to Women. In these, Joe found himself smiling and cringing at the same time. Men away from home in their early twenties could be shameless, and Hoening was no exception. Yellowdick was relentless,equal parts charm, desperation, and rakishness. He seemed to have tried to revive every friendship and chance meetinghe had ever had with a female while growing up in Minnesota,stretching back to childhood. In each correspondence, he started out recalling the particulars of their meeting, often citing what she wore and the cute things she said. He said he missed her. If she replied, he continued the long-distance back-and-forth,writing about Yellowstone and what he and his friends were doing and seeing, extolling the clean air and healthy lifestyle or, if she liked the darker side, how great the parties were. A girl named Samantha Ellerby apparently liked parties so much she had moved from Minnesota to L.A. to find really good ones. Hoening claimed the events he staged in Yellowstone rivaled anythingshe had found. She doubted it, she wrote. He said he’d prove it if she came to see him, and closed with the same line that he apparently felt was the clincher: “We’ll have some cocktails and laughs, watch the sun set over Yellowstone Lake, go hot-pottingand light a couple of flamers.” Another e-mail said, “I can’t wait to see you. I’ll be at the airport in Jackson.”
From what Joe could tell, she was the only woman Yellowdick had successfully persuaded. Based on the last two e-mails betweenthem, one to him that said “A-Hole!” and his reply, “Bitch!”, their time together had not gone well. But despite his low batting average, Yellowdick never stopped swinging for the fences. In the most recent e-mails, he had turned his sights on visitorshe apparently had met and exchanged e-mail addresses with, having exhausted his list of females from Minnesota.
Although there were still plenty of e-mails to go through, Joe admitted to himself that what Demming had told him was essentiallycorrect. There were no references to Clay McCann or anyone like him, and nothing revealing about their plans for the annual reunion at Robinson Lake. Except one thing, Joe thought. Bob Olig had been copied in on every message. It meant, Joe thought, Hoening had no reason to assume Olig wouldn’t be there.
A thought struck him.
What if Olig was at Robinson Lake? What if the employee records at Old Faithful were wrong on that fact, or Olig had manipulatedthem to appear as if he’d been working that day?
Joe retrieved his file from the box and reviewed the crime-scenereport in detail once again, looking for something that would confirm his suspicion. Like finding five sleeping bags insteadof four.
After reading and rereading the report and going over the inventoryof items found at the scene, Joe could come up with only one conclusion: either Olig or McCann had removed every single shred of evidence of Olig’s presence, or he’d never been at the camp at all, just like Layborn had said.
Joe looked up and realized he was the last diner in the restaurant. A knot of workers, busboys and waiters, had gatherednear the kitchen door, pretending they weren’t waiting for him to leave.
Joe stood, said, “Sorry!” and left a big tip he couldn’t afford.
Carrying the box outside, Joe noted how incredibly dark it was with no moon, and no ground glow from streets, homes, or traffic. The cool air had a slight taste of winter.
He called marybeth from a pay phone in the lobby of the hotel, having learned in Jackson not to rely on his cell phone in remote or mountainous places. Plus, he liked