Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(34)

Maybe the time had come to end my fool’s errand and return home before the snow made the road through the mountain pass even more treacherous.

Someone loomed beside me. “Sir?”

I looked up into the face of a man in a blue uniform. At first, I assumed he must be a police officer. He was wearing a gun belt with a holstered .45 and pouches for handcuffs, a flashlight—all the usual tools of my trade. He had a badge, too: Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. But the cap on his head was emblazoned with the trademark Widowmaker logo. Was he a cop, a security guard, or what?

“Yes?” I said.

“Can I ask you a couple of questions real quick?” It was the same verbiage I had been taught to use whenever I began a conversation with a potential suspect that was serious and not likely to be quick.

“What about?”

The officer was a tall man in his early twenties with a nondescript face I might have had trouble describing to a sketch artist: dull brown eyes, mousy hair, lips on the thin side, a few moles on his pale neck. He wasn’t overweight, exactly, or at least not obese, but he seemed to carry an extra layer of fat over his entire body the way seals do. It made him appear soft, but I had a sense that the muscles were solid under that coating of blubber.

“Were you in this bar an hour ago?” he asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“We had a report of a man matching your description having an altercation with a kid.”

“The ‘kid’ was old enough to drink. Who ‘reported’ this altercation?”

“That’s not important. Can you come with me, please?”

What the hell was up with this half-assed inquisition?

“Where?” I asked.

“I have an office downstairs.” The officer kept a blank expression that made it impossible to read his emotions. “I’m just trying to straighten some things out.”

“Russo, leave the guy alone!” said the bartender.

“Lexi, you do your job, and I’ll do mine.” The words themselves had an edge, but he managed to keep his tone even.

“The guy’s a f*cking forest ranger. Show him your badge, Mike.”

“Is that true?” the man named Russo asked.

“I’m a game warden.”

“Are you on duty here today, Warden?”

“No, I’m not.”

“And have you been drinking today?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Can I see your badge real quick?” Russo had the patter down, that was for sure.

Whatever this guy was, he was no ignorant rookie following a script he’d just learned. He had shown up here for the deliberate purpose of hassling me, and I had no idea what it was about.

I reached slowly—very slowly—into my inside chest pocket.

Russo examined my badge and photo ID. His eyes remained as absent of human response as a doll’s.

With all the noise from the dining room, I hadn’t heard another person approach me from behind.

“That’s all right, Russo,” a man said. “We saw everything.”

The officer stood at attention. “Mr. Cabot.”

I turned and found myself face-to-face with the mustached member of the Night Watchmen.

The whites of Cabot’s eyes were more of a lemon chiffon color. His breath smelled strongly of beer. “My friends and I witnessed the whole incident. Warden Bowditch acted appropriately. He defused the situation before it could get out of hand.”

I had come to the conclusion that Russo must be some kind of deputized security guard. Perhaps Widowmaker had an arrangement with the sheriff that granted some of their people arrest powers. I had seen similar setups on certain offshore islands.

“That’s good enough for me, Mr. Cabot,” said Russo, as if he worked for the man.

The guard returned my badge to me. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Warden. Just trying to straighten some things out. You have a good day now.”

Meanwhile, the man with the gold-rimmed glasses extended his hand. “Name’s John Cabot. Like the explorer. I apologize for Russo. He’s a zealous officer, and usually that’s a good thing here. Widowmaker has always attracted a certain unsavory element.”

The odor of alcohol coming off Cabot was overpowering, and yet he spoke more coherently than almost anyone else I’d met that day. Clearly he was a person of some power, too, the way the officer had practically bowed to him.

“Thanks for backing me up,” I said.

“Those brats were out of line.” He gestured to his corner table. “Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink?”

I remained fixed in place. “How did you know my name, Mr. Cabot?”

“What’s that?”

“You said, ‘My friends and I saw the whole incident. Warden Bowditch acted appropriately. He defused the situation.’”

His sallow skin sagged around the mouth. “You have a remarkable memory, young man.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His teeth were as yellow as the rest of him. “I knew your father. He worked for my company years ago, although we never met at the time. I got to know him later at various watering holes. Jack was quite the character, needless to say. He made a sizable impression.”

“You own Cabot Lumber?”