One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(8)

“I’m not taking questions at this time,” he says.

“I’m not a reporter.”

“I’m still not taking questions.”

The older man with the cap of thick silver hair has twisted around to regard me. Gotta be Nemeth, the legendary local guide. He gives me an assessing glance, then glances up at Marge.

“We’re good,” he says, clearly speaking one local to another.

Marge gives me the side-eye, clearly less convinced. But when Nemeth continues to be unconcerned, she finally stacks up a pile of dirty dishes along one arm, then disappears.

I notice the four younger men remain disconnected from the entire exchange—present but distant. They must be the bachelor party buddies, given the palpable weight of their collective guilt. That left the gorgeous female dog handler and the massive, red-bearded male for me to sort out.

I peg Bushy Beard as the North American Sasquatch hunter, though I’m cheating a little. Add body hair, and Bushy Beard could be the Sasquatch. An interesting example of owners matching their pets.

So this is the dream team. An experienced local, a grieving father, four guilt-stricken friends, a search-dog handler, and a Bigfoot hunter. Interesting combination.

“I have experience in woodland searches,” I volunteer now.

“No, thank you.” Martin O’Day returns his focus to the map, tapping the tabletop pointedly. Just like that, I’ve been dismissed. Not the first time. I’m an unknown variable. People don’t care for unknown variables.

I start my case with the least judgmental member of the group. I slide off the stool, squat down, and stick out my hand toward the yellow Lab. The dog, not currently garbed in its working vest, gets up and crosses to me. The dog isn’t leashed, but apparently no one—including diner owner Marge—cares.

“Name?” I ask, scratching the dog’s ears.

I was right; the gorgeous Latina is the dog handler. She answers immediately: “Daisy.”

“You named a cadaver dog Daisy?”

The fact that I recognize Daisy’s role earns me a longer assessment from the exotic beauty, and a frown from Martin O’Day, who clearly wants to get back to the business at hand.

“Daisy is a rescue from the Philippines,” the woman provides. “My partner and I started feeding her scraps while we were working a mudslide there with our professional canine crew. We ended up bringing her home to be a pet. But she gravitated toward training immediately. Next thing we knew, she’d outpaced our official roster of Belgian Malinois. Her problem-solving skills are second to none.”

“Your name?”

“Luciana. Luciana Rojas.”

I flash her a smile, then turn my attention to the enormous redheaded male. Want to know a trick for dealing with unfriendly alphas such as Martin O’Day? Don’t deal with them. Ignore them completely. Ultimate power play.

“You’re from the North American Bigfoot Society,” I address Bushy Beard.

“Bob,” he provides cheerfully, ignoring Martin O’Day’s warning grumble.

It clicks then, what I’d been trying to remember earlier: “Your organization has the most complete picture of missing persons on national public lands,” I burst out. “You guys know more about what’s going on in the woods than even the authorities do.”

I’m not making this up. If your loved one goes missing in the wilderness, the best data on potentially related cases comes from Bigfoot hunters, not the federal government. The world works in mysterious ways.

Then the second piece of the puzzle falls into place.

“Hang on. You’re BFBob, aren’t you? In the missing persons forums. Bigfoot Bob. You’re working on the North American Project, mapping all the disappearances in this hemisphere. So nice to meet you!”

I rise to standing as Bigfoot Bob’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Wait. Frankie Elkin? As in FElkinFinds?

I nod vigorously, pleased to meet a fellow amateur searcher in person. “You’re conducting an operation in Wyoming? I thought the latest Sasquatch theories were focused on the Pacific Northwest. You’d been working the Olympic Peninsula.”

“If you don’t know where a creature is, then you don’t know where it isn’t. Plus, this search is”—Bob hesitates, glances at Martin—“in an area of particular interest.”

I get it. The other missing hikers Lisa Rowell mentioned. Which would show up on the Bigfoot Society’s national map as a cluster of red flags. A hot zone missed by the official government types, but credible fodder in the fringe community where Bob and I live.

“We need to get back to work,” Martin interjects sharply.

“Just a sec, Marty.” Bob turns to the team leader. “Frankie here is the real deal. We know each other from online. She doesn’t just work cold cases; she solves them. Like dozens of them.”

Closer to sixteen, but who am I to argue?

Martin doesn’t seem to know what to make of that statement. He has his plan, probably months in the making. Viewing it as a series of steps and logistics, versus a mission to bring home his son’s body, is how he’s getting the job done. Now here I am, messing with his tenuous hold on sanity.

I understand. All of my missions start with this moment—coming out of nowhere, ripping the Band-Aid off a family’s wound and hoping it doesn’t lead to arterial spray.