Ken Goddard - Chimera

“But, at the moment, they are the only link we have to the men who killed our Rangers and shot my father,” Achara said.

“Yes, that seems to be the case,” Bulatt agreed. He tossed the report set down on the table and turned to Reston. “Do you have anything else on these guys?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It appears that all four of them are making arrangements to fly to the state of Washington the day after tomorrow.”

“How do we know that?” Bulatt asked, now staring intently at the four faces displayed on the white wall.

“It takes a lot of coordinated effort and behind-the-scenes work to keep four Gulfstream G-Fives in the air,” Reston explained. “The pilots of these planes like to schedule maintenance checks when they know they’re going to be laying over for a couple of days at a major airport; especially if they’ve been flying in bad weather conditions. Turns out the pilots of all four of these planes scheduled routine maintenance checks at SEA-TAC two days from now.”

“Does that mean SEA-TAC is the probable get-together point?” Bulatt asked.

“Not necessarily, but I’m guessing the get-together point is probably within an hour’s flight radius of SEA-TAC. The pilots could drop their passengers off at a local airport, lay over at SEA-TAC, and be available for a pick-up a couple of days later. That would fit within their previous maintenance check patterns.”

“And now they are planning to fly to the same location again, in Washington State, only a few days later? Have they ever gotten together like that before, apart from their annual meetings?” Achara asked Reston

“Not according to the records we have now, but they could have used different planes.”

“So they must be going to Washington to hunt,” Achara said. “What else would bring these three together?”

“And if they’re all getting together to hunt for the first time,” Bulatt said thoughtfully, “my guess is they’re going to want to have their guides and helpers along. These characters don’t strike me as the types who like to do all the heavy lifting themselves.”

“So we have to be there, when the hunt takes place,” Achara said firmly. “Somehow, we have to be there.”

“Yes, we do,” Bulatt agreed. “The question is how we manage to pull that off. We’d need a federal warrant to satellite-track those planes; and, so far, just about everything we’ve got on these characters is either inadmissible in court or based on supposition. And I doubt that we’re going to be able to talk one of them into taking us along on their hunt.”

At that moment, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate on his hip.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said after checking the Blackberry’s screen, “I’ll be right back.”

When Bulatt returned to the conference room, he found Achara looking over Hager’s shoulder while the latent print expert marked up one of the last pages of the report marked FOGARTY with a yellow highlighter; Reston typing away on a computer with Ferreira hovering over her shoulder in one side of the room; and Renwick talking on his cell phone over at the opposite side.

“You folks come up with something interesting?” Bulatt asked as he closed the door and sat down at the table.

“Could be,” Hager mumbled, still highlighting sections of the page with short sweeps of the pen. “Might have stumbled across one of those ‘good-news bad-news’ deals that could actually work in our favor.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“You remember saying, just before you left, that we probably weren’t going to be able to talk one of these characters into taking us along on their hunt?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, it turns out that Sam Fogarty lives in Oregon with a twenty-four-year-old adopted daughter who apparently likes to bow-hunt deer in Idaho.”

“Okay, I’ll bite, why is she relevant to our problems?”

“It seems dear daughter likes to hunt with a bow; but doesn’t necessarily like to waste a lot of time trying to get close enough to her targets to make a fatal shot, or to pack her kills a couple of miles back to her truck. I’m guessing she probably takes after dear old dad in that category.”

“So you’re going to tell me she shoots the deer with a bullet first, from a more reasonable distance, and then stuffs an arrow down the bullet hole?” Bulatt guessed.

“Three bow seasons in a row,” Hager said. “Got caught at the check-points the first two years, pled guilty both times after the x-rays revealed the bullets up ahead of the broad heads, and daddy paid her fines. This year, when one of the wardens heard a gunshot in the range area reserved for bow hunts, went investigating on his ATV, and found her loading a buck with an arrow sticking out of its neck in the back of a old pickup, she must have decided she didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting daddy to pay up again, so she took off… and made it across the border before the warden could get the state patrols to set up a road block. The warden told the story to a local reporter who wrote a standard ‘rich girl cheats on bow-hunt and then runs from the law’ story; which is what I’m marking up right now.”

“Did Idaho Fish and Game follow up with a warrant?” Bulatt asked.

“No, unfortunately, they didn’t,” Renwick said as he hung up the phone. “Mostly because the warden recognized her, but didn’t get the license plate of the truck — which he assumes was borrowed from one of her friends, because she apparently gets a new truck from daddy every year. The warden and his supervisor talked it over, came to the conclusion that the fine wouldn’t be worth the cost to the State to take on dad’s legal firm and a likely mistaken-identity defense, and then decided to just wait and catch her dirty next bow season. But the warden did submit blood from the scene to our lab,” Renwick added with a smile, “and he said he’ll be happy to file for the warrant, right now, if we’re interested in following up on the Lacey Act violation.”

“We ran a quick mass-spec on the hemoglobin, confirmed the blood was mule deer; then extracted the DNA, and put a sample in the ultra-freezer pending any further work requests,” Ferreira said, looking up from the computer.

“Meaning you could match that DNA to a mounted mule deer head if I brought it in?”

“Sure. Or a little piece of dried hide would work just as well; whatever’s easier at your end. It makes no difference to us.”

“And where does Sam Fogarty and his daughter live?” Bulatt asked.

“In Bend, Oregon,” Reston said.

Bulatt looked over at Achara. “I think it’s time I paid Miss Fogarty a visit,” he said. “Want to go for a ride?”

“Absolutely.” Achara started to say something else, and then hesitated.

“Yes?” Bulatt said inquiringly.

“You’re planning on confronting her with the Lacey Act violation, and then using that as a twist on her father to make him take us to the hunt, right?”

“Something along those lines,” Bulatt said, nodding his head. “You have a better idea?”

“I was just thinking that if we were to call her up and identify ourselves as outdoor writers who want to do a story on her bow hunting adventures, she might be more helpful and cooperative than her father.”

“What, no violence? Just walk in and con her out of the information? There’s a novel approach,” Reston said sarcastically.

“Federal agents working covert assignments have certain limitations on posing as a member of the media,” Bulatt said hesitantly. “I’d have to ask for permission from the Washington Office, and I doubt that Fred or the Chief would say yes. It’s a touchy issue.”

“You’d have to ask permission, but I wouldn’t,” Achara said. “It just so happens that I’m an internationally published outdoor writer with two articles in print. I wouldn’t be role-playing, just engaging in one of my hobbies. And you could come along as a hired local photographer.”