The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

Soctomah at last. “We’re just trying to cover all the bases. Let’s talk about Brenda.”
    “What do you want me to ask her?”
    “Just get her talking about your father. Show you’re concerned about him.”
    “I
am
concerned about him.”
    “Then you won’t have any trouble convincing her to trust you.”
    “I’m no lawyer,” I said, “but it seems like you’re going to have admissibility problems with anything she says to me. Did you talk to the A.G. about this?”
    Soctomah put up his hands, a halting sort of gesture “We’re not looking to make a case against her. That’s not why we brought you here.”
    “We want to find out where that son of a bitch is hiding,” said Menario.
    I leaned back, and the old chair gave a creak like it might break. “You think she knows where my dad is?”
    “If anyone does, she does,” said Soctomah.
    “Or you,” said Menario.
    It was hard working up any anger over Menario’s accusation when I felt so complicit, anyway. My dad wanted me to talk with Brenda Dean, and the detectives, unwittingly, were giving me the opportunity. But what if Brenda really did know where he was hiding? What the hell would I tell them then?
    “You’re putting the young man in a tight spot here,” said Charley Stevens.
    “We realize that,” said Soctomah. “But what’s the alternative? The longer his dad is on the run, the more likely it becomes that he—or somebody else—gets hurt. Do you want that on your conscience, Mike? Or are you willing to step up here and help us resolve this situation today?”
    “I’ll talk to her,” I said, as if I weren’t desperate to do so, anyway.
     
    We descended a flight of warped wooden stairs and then passed through a darkened hallway lit only by a glowing red exit sign. My buddy, Deputy Twombley, was standing outside a door at the end. When he saw me, his lips pulled back from his teeth like a chimp mimicking a human smile.
    “How’s she doing?” Soctomah asked him.
    “She keeps bitching about going to Rum Pond.”
    The door opened, and at first I thought no one was there. Then I saw a barefoot young woman sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up in front of her. Her face was dark-eyed and angular, all cheekbones and jawline, and she was wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless top that showed her lean, brown arms. A pair of work boots lay on the floorboards beside three cans of Diet Pepsi.
    “Mike?” she said.
    “B.J.?”
    I felt like I’d been sucker punched. The last time I’d seen Truman Dellis’s daughter she’d been a shy little twelve-year-old chopping carrots for soup in the kitchen at Rum Pond. Now she was a woman, and an attractive one, too.
    “I didn’t know your name was Brenda,” I stammered.
    “Brenda Jo.” I could see she had just been crying. “Who were you expecting?”
    Soctomah loomed over my shoulder. “What’s going on, Mike? You said you didn’t know her.”
    “We worked in the kitchen together at Rum Pond when we were kids. I thought her last name was Dellis.”
    She rose to her feet, pushing against the wall to get there. “That’s my old man’s name. I use my mom’s.”
    Suddenly I made the connection. “You’re my dad’s girlfriend?”
    She lowered her eyes and nodded yes.
    How old was she now? Twenty? Twenty-one? I’d seen my father charm some younger women, but none as young as this. The idea made me queasy. “He never told me.”
    “So you two have a history after all,” said Menario, not even bothering to hide his animosity. In his mind we were all covering up for a murderer.
    Brenda glared up at the detectives with tear-reddened eyes. “This is a pretty cute trick. I should’ve figured a ride home from jail was too good to be true.” She raised her chin in Soctomah’s direction. “You jerks are still going to bring me to Rum Pond, right?”
    “That’s what we agreed,” said Soctomah.
    “We’ll leave you two to get reacquainted,” said Menario.
    When he closed the door, it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. I heard muffled conversation from the hall, a harsh laugh, then echoing footsteps moving away.
    There was a single, cobwebbed window at ground level, above her head. It let in a little dusty light that left most of the room in shadows. There were filing cabinets and bookshelves with heavy ancient volumes gathering dust. Brenda and I studied each other.
    “So I guess they haven’t found Jack yet,” she said.
    “Why