And every single meeting with his so-called superior is a humiliating kick in the crotch.

Res police, like all cops, tend to work on their own timescale, so it was surprising that it only took about ten minutes before three red Dodge Durangos with the tribal crest on their doors had pulled up. Took another half hour to get the eleven foot Coleman Crawdad to a dock, but we were there when they hauled Fred Johansson‘s lifeless form from the heavily modified jon boat.

Weirdly I handled the dead body better than Anwyn did. By the time we’d given our statements to the cops she was a nervous wreck, so we suspended our work for the day and I drove us back to the casino. I held her for hours before she calmed down enough to sleep.

The next morning she was all business, having woken several hours before me. I opened my eyes to the clicking of a keyboard, and her sitting on the side of the bed with her face buried in a laptop. She’d apparently been doing research since waking, and had also sent off a report to Didi and the Council as to our findings so far and how they confirmed her suspicions about our quarry not being a cannibalistic hunger spirit. Fred Johansson’s autopsy was set for later today, but the preliminary findings of the tribe’s answer to a coroner was that death was due to coronary infarction (which would be confirmed, along with the not so shocking information that it was a wonder that it hadn’t been his liver that gave out first). The fact that he hadn’t even been gnawed on a little bit was a big mark in favor of there not being a Wendigo stalking the res.

Didi had left Duluth heading north last night after getting word of our discovery, and Anwyn had asked her to meet us at Franklin Ostrander’s trailer at ten.

Ostrander’s home was a doublewide Airstream parked on a concrete pad set back away from the main residential area of the res, a rusted LP cylinder hovering above a badly tended lawn that was strewn with the kind of detritus you picture when you hear the words “Florida Man”: plastic flamingos shared space with a random assortment of car parts arranged around a little victory garden of poorly tended cannabis plants, a beaten up canvas awning stretched out over a deck clearly made from wooden shipping pallets, the aluminum hide of the trailer was (poorly) painted in sickly shades of baby puke green and monkey shit brown. The totality of it revealed a few things about the owner, mainly that he was… unmotivated, and that he lacked any sense whatsoever of taste in decorating.

Didi was waiting for us when we pulled up, having traded her business attire for much more comfortable form fitting jeans and a loose flowing poet shirt that made her look both like she belonged on the res, and also like she knew exactly how good her ass looked in those jeans. But more importantly she had three styrofoam cups in a cardboard drink carrier. A woman who brings you coffee is a wonderful find, boys. Don’t ever take her for granted.

“One of my minions will be tending the office for the rest of the week while I’m up here to be your on-site liaison.” She sat on the hood of her Civic while Anwyn began a cursory inspection of the exterior.

“Minions?” I had hung back to let the person who actually had a clue look for clues. And let’s be honest here, Didi was sexy as fuck.

She giggled at my question, showing almost incongruously cute dimples. “That’s what I’ve been calling my office staff since one of them offered me a banana. Hell, they even dressed up like it for Halloween last year.”

I chuckled in response, the image of the three uptight stuffed shirts we’d seen at the office wearing a bunch of yellow face paint and overalls being enough to make me thankful I’d swallowed my last sip of coffee before she started speaking. Passing hot coffee through your nose hurts. “So what can you tell me about Franklin?”

“Frank Ostrander is… well lemme see how I can put this in the nicest terms possible. He’s 47, a grandfather multiple times by his six daughters, and none of the four mothers of his daughters are willing to speak to him. I’ve heard him referred to as a stereotypical BDI, but as best I know he only imbibes on occasion and stays well within a safe tolerance for his build, which, by the way, is massive. He’s six foot four and weighs in at close to three fifty.”

“BDI?”

“Big drunk Indian. He’s also kind of a manwhore in case you hadn’t picked up on that. I’ve never really figured out why, cause while he isn’t exactly ugly per se, he’s also no movie star.” She took a sip of her coffee and let her eyes do a quick sweep over me from my Timberlands up, her cheeks coloring a little. “I guess he has a sort of geeky vulnerable teddy bear charm to him though. Girls generally want to ‘fix’ him. I personally don’t get the allure. He likes ‘em young too. Not weirdly young, just way younger than him. Don’t think he’s ever been with someone older than twenty-five.”

I dunno when it started, but I realized around that time that somehow I knew that she was turned on. I don’t want to say I could smell it because that’s not exactly it, but the realization that I already knew that she found me attractive sort of smacked me in the mouth. It was like having an extra sense. Sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste, and horny meter. I filed this new weird sixth sense away for later and pressed on with the questions. “What does he do? Clearly it’s not yard work…”

That got me a laugh and a deepening of the blush that still hadn’t faded. “He’s one of the short order cooks at Mamie’s Diner. I’ll take you… er… you two there for lunch after you finish looking around.”

Anwyn took that moment to return to us. “Ready to look in the house?”

Didi looked a bit reluctant to extract herself from my presence, but dutifully lead the way to the front door, while Anwyn leaned in close to my ear. “You gonna hit that?”

That made me blush, causing my petite goth companion to have to stifle a giggle fit.

After all, it was time to inspect the interior of Chateau Osterander.

(Title: “Synchronicity II” by The Police)