“Sure. Why not,” Constable Roberts said, though he had no intention of recommending the hotel. The city cops he had met would have no interest in staying in a place like this. They stayed in the resorts up the coast.
Back in his office, Constable Roberts ran Ike Tressler. He was not in the local directory, or in any of the yearbooks the constable kept on his shelves. Finally, he called the department of motor vehicles and got his address. It was listed as way up the Nehalem River, in the woods. In his adjoining office, which functioned as the local records storage room, Constable Roberts pulled the land deed.
Ike Tressler had bought his place almost a decade before, with cash. He had written down Brightwood as his place of employment. He had no past, and no history the constable could uncover.
Curious, the constable drove to Ike’s place. He found a small cabin, solidly built. The sun reflected on the nearby bubbling river, which was rich with salmon. The sky was complacent overhead, and the constable knew the woods were full of deer and elk. It was a sportsman’s paradise.
The chimney was cold, and there was no vehicle out front. Ike was apparently still at work. The constable tried to peek inside through the curtains. He caught a glimpse of a kitchen counter. He walked around back and found a small shed, for dressing game. An out-of-season turkey was hanging in it. The constable frowned.
“Evening, Constable,” the bartender at the Wheel Stone Tavern said.
Constable Roberts wasn’t fond of the tavern. It was the scene of too many brawls between drunken fishermen, and he never got calledon most of them. The bartender had been raised on the fishing boats, where the only law was that of the captain. It didn’t even occur to him to call the police. The same was true of many of the locals.
It was just as well, the constable thought, sitting on a stool. Otherwise he’d have to arrest most of the men in the town, instead of just seeing their bruised faces the next day, and hearing the stories.
“I’ll have the Tillamook chili cheese dog,” the constable said, knowing he—and his wife—would regret it later that evening.
“Coming right up. Drink? Or can you, on shift?” There was an edge to the man’s voice.
“Pepsi, please, if you got it.”
“Course we got it.”
The constable looked around the bar as he drank his soda. There was the mandatory bank of pinball machines in the corner, and the newer addition, the bane of every adult protective services worker in the state: video poker games. A few widows in town had become so addicted to these games, they lost every penny they and their husbands had ever earned. Constable Roberts had been called after one of them—a Mrs. Simmons, who later had to be sent to an assisted living facility in the city—had been evicted after a foreclosure. She hadn’t paid her utilities for months, and her fridge was empty.
He remembered her paltry belongings in the street. The world could be a sad place.
The chili dog arrived. The bartender stood there for a moment, like he knew damn well the constable was there to ask him questions. Constable Roberts picked up his knife and fork—those dogs were tasty but messy—and began to eat. The bartender left to tend to two tourists down the bar. They were drunk after a day spent crabbing in the local bay and starting to get obnoxious. Constable Roberts was suddenly glad the bartender rarely called him.
“So?” The bartender was back. He had kicked out the asshole tourists.
“Just enjoying my meal. And wanting to ask you about this fellow,” Constable Roberts said. He handed over the driver’s license photo of Ike Tressler he had printed out. He felt a little foolish, because he had no reason to suspect the man of anything. He just had a bad feeling about him.
“Yeah, I know him. Comes in here drinking sometimes.”
“Alone?”
“Mostly. Sometimes he’s with that fucker Brett Jarvis. But Brett drinks with anyone who will buy him a pint.”
“His wife has a whole cooler at his disposal.”
“I heard she puts a lock on it at night. Otherwise her husband would put her out of business.”
“I don’t recall seeing this fellow around, myself.”
“Well, why would you? You see everyone who lives on the coast?”
“No,” the constable said, finishing his hot dog. He weighed his words. “He ever talk about work?”
“Naw. Just sits there and complains about the fishing boats and how he would never work on one.”
“Why’s that?” The constable held back a burp.
“Probably just lazy. Why you asking about Ike?”
“Dunno. Curious about him.”
“Yeah, right. You’re curious about nothing, Constable.”
