Dead Float by Warren C Easley Page B

would come, my gut still tightened at the sound of it.
    â€œYour place or mine?”
    â€œWell, we’re conducting some interviews over at Government Camp, the Clackamas County sheriff’s substation. Maybe you could meet us there? It’s halfway, give or take.”
    â€œWhat time?”
    The small village of Government Camp sits at four thousand feet on the southern slope of Mount Hood. I’d passed it countless times on my way to Timberline Lodge to ski. I wished I were headed for a ski trip this time rather than the third degree from a couple of hard-nosed detectives who’d love nothing better than to nail my butt for first-degree murder. I turned the situation over and over again in my mind as I drove toward the mountain. Escalante had been noncommittal, but I was worried that he and Dorn had found something. My knife? The phone calls to Alexis? Both? In any case, they were still treating me like a witness instead of a suspect. For how long?
    The sheriff’s substation was a low, wood frame building painted institutional green, trimmed in white. A large American flag mounted on a silver pole in front of the building snapped loudly in the afternoon breeze. I arrived ten minutes early for my four o’clock meeting and parked in the designated lot. I opened the back door of my car and let Archie out to stretch his legs. I had no idea how long the interview would take, but I thought the ride out there would be a treat for him. After a quick walk on the edge of the lot, I put him back in the car, cracked the windows, and went into the substation.
    Needless to say, I wasn’t brimming with confidence when I presented myself at the front desk. The desk officer had me escorted to an office on the second floor, third door on the right. “The Jefferson County detectives are in there,” my escort told me, and then waited while I rapped twice and entered.
    â€œWell, well,” Dorn said as he looked up, stubbed out his cigarette, and showed a thin, reptilian smile. “If it isn’t the hotshot L.A. lawyer.”
    I met his eyes for a moment but didn’t speak. Escalante gave his partner an annoyed look, then motioned for me to sit. “Hello, Mr. Claxton. Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.” After a modicum of small talk, Escalante turned on a small tape recorder and stated the location, date, and time of our discussion. He didn’t waste any time. “Mr. Claxton, do you know anything about a fishing knife with a salmon fly in the handle and the initials CCIII on it?”
    â€œUh, that sounds like my knife.”
    â€œIs it in your possession now?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat happened to it?”
    â€œEither you folks impounded it with my fishing gear or it’s missing. I used it to peel potatoes the first night of the trip, washed it with other utensils after dinner. I thought I left it to dry there. When I noticed it wasn’t there the next morning I assumed I’d put it back in my fishing vest in the boat without thinking about it. I’ve been known to do that.”
    I realized now with sparkling clarity that I should have told them at the first interview that my knife might be missing. But it was too late now. The explanation I offered sounded lame, but at least it was the truth.
    â€œWhen did you first miss your knife?”
    â€œLike I said, I didn’t think it was missing at the time. I noticed it wasn’t with the other knives sometime that morning after the body was discovered.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell us about this?” Escalante asked.
    â€œAt the risk of repeating myself, I didn’t think my knife was missing at the time.”
    Leaning forward on the desk with both hands, Dorn said, “But you did notice it was missin’ from the other knives. So you must’ve been lookin’ for it. You want us to believe you didn’t think that was important? Come on, hotshot, you can do better