P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

He walked back over to the cabin and searched the ground around the small building for Mitchell’s boot prints, but there were none. Just his own and the scattering of the two dogs’ prints from where they’d come out of the cabin and done their usual morning romp, Frack insulting trees and Frick checking out the scents left over from the night. But there was absolutely no sign of where Mitchell had walked in or out, either. He looked up into the surrounding hills, where birches, pines, and a host of bare-branch hardwoods stood frosty sentinel duty on the slopes. A crow lifted off from a distant tree and started raising a racket. How had he managed that, Cam wondered. Walking in and out without leaving a trace?

Then he thought about the paw print. Maybe this was Mitchell’s way of telling him something about cat dancers after all. He shivered in the cold mountain air.

He saw two sheriff’s cruisers in front of the local Waffle House when he drove into town, so he pulled in. He’d quit going to Waffle House about five years ago, when’d he’d begun to watch his girlish figure, but felt right at home with the sudden aroma of cigarette smoke, hot grease, bacon, and road-grade coffee. Two bulky deputies were having breakfast at the counter, so he took a stool and ordered his usual. He nodded at the nearest deputy, who’d been in the Carrigan County Sheriff’s Office headquarters the day before.

“Y’all find White Eye?” the man asked, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting up a replacement. He was fat but muscular, with a round red face and a belly that strained his uniform shirt. His Glock looked like a toy gun in its side holster. His shiny green jacket looked to be a size fifty-two, if not bigger.

“Actually, he found me,” Cam said.

Both deputies nodded at that, as if confirming something they already knew.

“Get what you needed?” the second deputy asked. He was younger and thinner than the one right next to Cam, but he had the oversize forearms and biceps of a weight lifter. One of the waitresses came banging by behind the counter and refilled their coffee cups in three quick movements while calling in an order over her shoulder in Waffle House code to the grill man.

“No, I didn’t. He was agreeable enough, but said he didn’t know anything about what I was asking him.”

“And what was that, Lieutenant?” the big deputy said, eyeing Cam through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Cam hesitated but then thought, What the hell. “We’ve got us a murder investigation going back in Manceford County. A term has come up that we can’t figure out- cat dancers. This Mitchell guy supposedly knows what it means.”

The two deputies glanced at each other and then resumed work on their breakfast platters. Cam could hear a low mutter of operational traffic coming from their shoulder mikes.

“Y’ all ever heard that term?” he asked.

Both of them shook their heads at the same time.

“Manceford County,” the big guy said. “That’s a ways east of here. Who put you onto White Eye?”

“A suspect,” Cam answered. “Someone who’s no longer alive.”

The deputies absorbed this news with equanimity. There were always risks associated with being a suspect. Cats, Cam thought. He remembered the big paw print. “Are there any big cats up here in the Smokies?” he asked.

“There’s lots of stories,” the smaller of the two said. “Hikers and rafters come back saying they seen a mountain lion. Some ranchers on the edges of the park claim they’ve lost stock. But officially, the Park Service says they’re all gone in the East.”

“We’ve got bobcat, now,” the big cop offered. “Coyotes, some say wolves, even, and lots of bears, too.” The smaller one agreed.

“One couldn’t easily mistake a bobcat for a mountain lion, though,” Cam said.

They both agreed that was right. Cam asked if there were other guides in the area. The deputies told him yes but said most of them closed up their operations and headed south to warmer weather during the winter-not enough business.

“But White Eye stays?” Cam asked.

“White Eye does his own thing,” the big deputy said, stubbing his cigarette out on his breakfast plate. “He guides, but he’s picky. Likes to do unusual stuff, from what I hear. Take folks out to caves, or secret trout pools. I hear he’s kinda expensive, too. Picks and chooses his customers.”

“Is he really part Indian?”

“So they say,” the man answered. “But there’s lots of cons being run up on the reservation, especially around the casino. A lot of those so-called Indians came down here from New York City. But hey, as long as the tourists don’t care, we don’t care. If a hustle gets out of hand, we smack somebody down.”

The smaller deputy pulled his shoulder mike over to listen to something and then nudged the big guy. “MVA ‘with,’” he said. “Rock and roll.” They both threw some bills down next to their platters, nodded good-bye to Cam, and headed for their vehicles.

Cat dancers, Cam thought. Something definitely there, the way both of those guys had immediately denied it. No discussion, no asking him to repeat it, no back-and-forth between them, kicking it around. Just plain denied hearing the expression and quickly changed the subject. And White Eye, talking cryptically about conversation having to go two ways. It had to have been White Eye who left that paw print on the hood of his truck. Screwing around with him a little bit?

He was walking back out to his truck when the pager went off in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the number. There was a pay phone back in the Waffle House’s anteroom, so he went back in. The sheriff himself answered.

“You having any luck?”

Cam described what he’d seen and heard so far. “I think some people around either know what the term means or have heard it. But everyone’s being pretty closedmouthed.”

“Find a woman,” the sheriff said. “Someone who runs something up there. Isn’t there a casino? Find the hookers. They know everything, and women like to talk.”

“Hookers? Up here?”

The sheriff chuckled. “Hookers are everywhere, Lieutenant, despite your limited experience.”

Cam laughed out loud. “How’s it coming with the feds?” he asked.

“Had a brain fart,” the sheriff told him. “Asked the SBI to broker a meeting with the Bureau and the ATF. We’re calling it a ‘comprehensive case review.’ We’re getting together tomorrow in Raleigh. I used the fact that Marlor was dead to break the logjam.”

“So he really did the deed?”

“He did. Surry County found the body. One under the chin. Forty-five, like you said.”

Messy, Cam thought. Very messy.

“Kenny and the guys come up with anything more on the bombing or what happened at that warehouse?”

“He’s checking statewide to see if there’ve been any reports of ‘accidental’ shootings in any of the sheriffs’ offices,” Bobby Lee said. “Nothing yet. I have to tell you, he still doesn’t think cops are involved in what happened to the judge.”

“Well, it wasn’t Marlor,” Cam said.

“We have only his word for that. I need you to pull something out of the hat out there, Lieutenant, and sooner would be better than later.”

“All right, I’ll go find me some hookers,” Cam said, and hung up. He decided it was time to go on up to the casino at Franklin and check it out.

In fact, the casino and attached resort hotel were a total bust in the hooker department. The place was ultramodern, filled with families having a great time, and all the games were digital. He then drove out to some of the smaller strip towns on the approaches to Franklin, cruising streets lined with grease-burger joints, guide shops-most of which were closed for the winter-and motels with names like the WigWam Lodge and the Tee-Pee Campground. He drove around for a while, not quite sure what he was looking for, until he saw Carter’s Trading Post, which was a faux log building, complete with a porch lined with rocking chairs. Stone chimneys flanked each end, both of which were serving apparently operational fireplaces. He remembered the name from his little talk with Mitchell, so he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, let Frack out, put him to heel, and went in. The store was exactly what he expected, filled with racks and shelves containing a few thousand tourist trinkets and featuring a sandwich bar in one corner. One of the plainest females he had ever seen was doing paperwork behind the main counter. There were no other customers in the store.