Jill Sorenson - Freefall

“Thanks,” Hope said, cracking hers open. “Where’s Kruger?”

“He called in sick today.”

Bill Kruger was the head ranger at Kaweah. He’d gotten the job through a family connection with the park manager, and he shirked his duties on a regular basis. She was glad he wasn’t here to screw anything up.

Bernice Cordova had a great attitude and lots of energy, like most rookie rangers. She was a cute little thing with brown eyes and a pixie cut. Her girlfriend was a park attendant at Giant Forest. They were “out” as a couple, which drew some attention from the male staff. Although she didn’t play for his team, Cordova seemed mesmerized by Sam.

“This is Sam Rutherford,” Hope supplied.

“I know,” Cordova said. “I’m a big fan of yours. I started kayaking when I was ten, after I watched you on TV.”

Sam had earned two gold medals in whitewater slalom twelve years ago, but he was better known for his daredevil ascents. The Olympics had made him a local hero; extreme rock climbing had made him famous. Not to mention rich, through lucrative endorsement deals and sports-related business ventures.

He took a drink of his soda, seeming embarrassed by the praise.

“What have we got?” Hope asked.

Cordova pulled her gaze away from Sam. “Deputy Meeks dusted for fingerprints in the men’s room, but he didn’t find a good set. Too much traffic in there.”

“Where are the clothes?”

“Bagged and taken to the crime lab. Here’s the information from the labels.” She handed Hope a printout.

“Ferragamo loafers, size twelve,” she read, glancing at Sam. “Are those expensive?”

“Yes.”

“What about...Bugatchi Uomo?”

He leaned over to read the name on the paper. “Never heard of it.”

“The shirt is a large and the pants are thirty-two/thirty-two.” She studied the length of Sam’s legs. “What size are you?”

“Thirty-two/thirty-four.”

“You’re bigger than he is?”

“I’m taller.”

Ranger Cordova gave her another printout. “I also have a description of the stolen backpack and a list of the items inside.”

“Excellent,” Hope said, scanning it. “Do you know if any single men left the campsite yesterday morning?”

“Just one, according to Morgenstern. A young guy in a red truck. He bowed out of the rafting trip at the last minute, complaining of stomach problems.”

Hope frowned at this news. Alan Morgenstern was a VIP, or volunteer-in-park. He actually did most of Kruger’s work around the campsite for a small stipend. “Did Ron check in this morning?”

“Yes.”

“How many in his group?”

She consulted the computer. “Seven, including him.”

“That’s strange.”

“Why?”

“I was supposed to be on that trip, in a group of eight. If two rafters are missing, there should be six left.”

Cordova found the original list and confirmed the numbers. “You’re right.”

“Maybe that guy in the truck was our suspect,” she said, her heart racing. “Where’s Morgenstern?”

“In his trailer.”

Hope leaped to her feet. She wanted to talk to him in person.

“Should I come?” Cordova asked.

“No need,” she said, waving her hand in the air. Morgenstern hated rookies, especially females. He probably hated lesbians, too. To be fair, he also hated Bill Kruger, and pretty much every employee on staff. He was an equal opportunity asshole.

Cordova smiled at Sam, eager to chat with him one-on-one. He stood and followed Hope out of the office.

“You didn’t want to be alone with Cordova?” she teased.

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Aren’t you interested in adoring women?”

“Not remotely.”

“I think you’re safe. She has a girlfriend.”

His brows rose. “Now I’m interested.”

She laughed, knowing he didn’t mean it. He had a dry sense of humor that she found very appealing. He’d joked around a lot that night at the bar. Paired with his rugged good looks and ridiculously hot body, he was hard to resist.

He also seemed surprised by her amusement. That was another attractive quality. He didn’t expect compliments or laughter, like most celebrated people. His gaze lowered to her lips and lingered there. If Sam was interested in anyone, it was Hope. He stared at her with a mixture of longing and confusion.

Clearing his throat, he glanced away. “Melissa was my fiancée,” he said, answering the question she’d posed earlier. “She died in a climbing accident in Greece.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, stricken. “I didn’t know.”

“It wasn’t a big news story. Only our families and close friends knew we were dating. She was a professional climber, and she wanted to be judged on her abilities, not mine.”

Hope felt terrible for him. It was speculated that head trauma during the San Diego earthquake had knocked the sense out of him. In reality, another tragedy had inspired his current, reckless free-soloing habits.

“When I woke up this morning—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, touching his arm.

His mouth twisted at the contact. “I’m not going to forget about it.”

After a moment, she realized he was referencing her offer from yesterday. He didn’t want to forget their night together, or his unwitting advances from this morning? She searched his dark eyes, curious. His triceps tensed beneath her fingertips. He had lean muscles, like most rock climbers, but she’d never felt such raw power.

“Okay,” she said, dropping her hand. She wouldn’t forget, either.

Morgenstern’s trailer was at the campground entrance. Once a ranger, he’d been forced into early retirement after a knee injury. His wife, also a NPS employee, had died of cancer. He’d given the best years of his life to the park in exchange for an aluminum shelter and permanent squatting rights.

She didn’t blame him for being bitter.

“Have you met Morgenstern?” she asked Sam.

“No.”

“He won’t be as fawning as Cordova.”

“Good.”

She rapped on the door.

Morgenstern opened it with a glare. His eyebrows were bushy, his hair coarse and wild. He reminded her of the mad scientist character from Back to the Future. “What?” he barked, his mouth half-full of bologna.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “I wanted to ask about the sick camper who left yesterday.”

“What about him?”

“Did he look suspicious?”

“No, he looked sick,” he said with disdain. “He was a zit-nosed kid, not a damned Mexican drug smuggler.”

She didn’t bother to tell Morgenstern that they didn’t know the ethnicity of the suspect. He was a cranky old coot, but he did his job, which was more than she could say of Bill Kruger. If he carried some extra resentment toward Hope, it was because she’d taken over his position at Mineral King. He was also from a different generation of rangers. A lot of throwbacks like him didn’t believe women should be wearing the Smokey the Bear Stetson.

At least Morgenstern was up-front about his prejudice. She’d take bald sexism over the subtle, insidious bullshit any day.

Morgenstern took another bite of his sandwich and set it down next to a cell phone. He eyeballed Sam, still chewing.

Hope considered the possibilities. If the guy in the red truck wasn’t her suspect, who was the seventh person in Ron’s group? “Oh my God,” she said, an icy hand trailing down her spine. “He’s on the rafting trip.”

“Who?”

“The killer!”

Morgenstern harrumphed in disbelief. “Ron wouldn’t add a random stranger on a whim. Reservations are made months in advance.”

“Did you see them depart?”