Read Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) for Free Online Page B

Ben said.
    “You were an Air Force policeman, right?”
    “For the first four years,” Ben said.   “Then I transferred to OSI.”   When Lester gave him a blank stare, Ben said, “Office of Special Investigations.   Kind of like the FBI of the Air Force.”
    Lester nodded understanding.
    “I’m guessing you’re here to ask me about a body found down by the bridge the other night.”
    The deputy’s eyes gazed at Ben’s gun on his right hip.   “I see you still carry.   Glock Seventeen?”
    “Roger that.   You think I might have popped your vic?”
    Lester shook his head.   “Not likely.   I’m guessing if you had done it, you would have disappeared the body much better.   Whoever did this just left the man alongside Cantina Creek.”
    “You ID the guy yet?”
    “Nope.   Might not, either.”
    Ben thought about the photo he had of Maggi’s brother inside his jacket.   Could the dead man be Tavis McGuffin?   “What can you tell me about your victim?   You have a photo?”
    “Not a chance,” the deputy said.   “Someone popped the guy in the back of the head.   Probably at least a nine mil, but maybe forty cal or above.   Most of his face is gone.”
    “Race?”
    “Mexican or some other Central American country.   Why?”
    “SOP.   Just curious.   What about age?”
    “Based on his skin and teeth, the ME thinks the guy is at least twenty-five.   Maybe thirty.”
    “What about his hands?”
    “What about them?”
    “I’m guessing they’re pretty torn up.   Probably from working the fields of the Willamette Valley.”
    “Good guess.”
    “You pull his DNA?” Ben asked.
    “That’ll take a while.   Same with the dental work.   But based on the preliminary exam, the ME thinks the guy grew up somewhere in Central America.”
    “Yeah, dental work down there is pretty specific,” Ben agreed.   “Anything else I can do to help you?”
    “Maybe,” Lester said.   “I hear there was a black BMW in the area recently.   You know anything about that?”
    He could deny that he knew Maggi, but Jim Erickson might have given the deputy her license number.   “Just a friend of mine visiting from Portland.”
    Lester nodded.   “All right.   I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you do these days.”
    “Hobby farm.”
    “Right.   I heard your eggs are amazing.   Any chance of getting my hands on some of those?   How much do you charge?”
    “I don’t,” Ben said.   “I barter for other stuff.”
    “I’m guessing I don’t have anything you might want.”
    “Don’t be so sure.   I heard you make your own beer.”
    “I do a little brewing in my garage.”
    “Then I think we can make a trade.”
    “Outstanding.   How do I get in touch with you?   I tried to find a number for you, but it seems that Ben Adler doesn’t have a landline or a cell phone.”
    “Guilty.   Just drop by some morning and I’ll get you some eggs fresh from the coop.”
    Lester nodded his head and shook with Ben before spitting one more time and then getting into his rig and heading off down the road.
    Ben looked at the ground at the brown juice that the deputy had spit out, like a grasshopper does to ward off its predators.   Nasty habit, Ben thought.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    6
     
    Ben spent the afternoon combining his trout and salmon chunks into a massive plastic container, covering it completely in a salt and spiced brine.   He would leave the fish in this until the next day, Friday, when he would pull them from the brine and stack them into his large smoker that he had built about fifty feet from his house.   To the casual observer, the smoke house looked like a three-holed outhouse with a wood stove attached to one side.   Inside he had built sliding racks with a chicken wire type material.   What fish and meat he didn’t can or jar, he smoked.   He would do enough fish to last through the winter.   Then, in December, he would smoke jerky from wild game