Page 47 of Silent Ridge

“Tell her, Ronnie.”

“Tell me what?” I ask.

Ronnie looks ready to bust. “I’m released back to active duty tomorrow. And that’s not all.”

She pauses, staring at me with a stupid grin. I want to slap it out of her. I don’t like anticipation and we have business to discuss.

“I’ve been permanently assigned here. Tony—Sheriff Gray—asked for it. And…”

I try to look excited to hear what else, but I’m truly just anxious for her to spit it out. I have things to do, people to track down and punish.

“…and he’s going to hire me full-time as a deputy,” she says. Then she does something that I always hate to hear from women: she squeals like a schoolgirl. “Can you believe it?”

No. Yes. Maybe.

“I’m really happy for you, Ronnie. You deserve it. You’ll make a good addition to the office.”

I think that about covers all the nice things I’m expected to say. I even mean some of them.

Sheriff Gray adds his platitudes, but he means them, and turns to me. “Now, what’s the favor?”

“Before I tell you, when are you planning Ronnie’s official hiring ceremony?”

“Next week. She’ll need new uniforms. And she’ll have to get some other plain clothes. I think I’m going to assign her to you for training.”

“As a detective?” I ask. I’m not really surprised.

He gives me a defensive look. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am. I mean, that’s great.” I shake Ronnie’s hand and this time I say, “Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks, partner.”

Don’t get cocky.

“I was asking because I want to get Ronnie an assigned log-in for the computers. And I want her to have access to all of our resources and databases. I have something for her to do this morning but it can only be done on your computer or mine.”

“Already done,” Sheriff Gray says. “Before I went to the Civitan meeting Wednesday.”

“Oh. Well, the favor I want to ask is this.” I tell him about Michael Rader’s deeper involvement per my conversation with Debra Blume on Wednesday. I don’t tell him about my past knowledge of this scumbag. “He was, and still might be, working at the men’s correctional facility in Monroe. Ronnie tried to track him down and she thinks he no longer works there. I’m going to check the utility records this morning to see if I can get a forwarding address and confirm the last address, but I—we—need to know if he still works there. I thought if he doesn’t, he must have gotten in trouble. If he has a record with Snohomish County of any kind, you can find out.”

“So you want me to call the sheriff and not the prison because he might still be working there and tip your hand?”

I nod emphatically. “Plus you have a working relationship with the sheriff, don’t you?”

“We’ve had a few drinks together at conferences. I don’t know him well, but enough to believe he can keep his yap shut.”

Forty-Four

I leave for my office and hear Sheriff Gray on the phone asking for the Snohomish County Sheriff. Ronnie comes to my desk.

“You should have access to the database of the Jefferson County Public Utility District,” I say, and pull my chair out for her to sit at my computer. “Go ahead and log in and we’ll see what IT has given you.”

Ten minutes later, we have the information on Michael Rader’s water account. I don’t have to instruct her. She catches on quickly, intuitively. Like me. She pulls up the monthly bills, his account information, payments, payment types: whether check or credit or cash. She finds his address from six months ago and where his account was transferred one month ago. His address is in Clallam County, a small town called Silent Ridge about thirty minutes south of Port Angeles. It sits along the Elwha River running north from the Olympic Mountains into the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Salish Sea.

We try to find the town itself, but there is very little information except that the Elwha River hiking trail is a popular destination and the trailhead is in Silent Ridge. No population given. The road from Port Angeles ends at the trailhead.

I can’t imagine why a city boy like Michael Rader would move to such a remote spot unless he wants to kidnap hikers and kill them. The Olympic National Forest would be the perfect dumping ground for a serial killer.

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