Lie Catchers Read Online Free PDF Page A

Parker smiled.
    “Detective?”
    Parker shook the harbormaster’s hand across the counter. “Didn’t want to bother you while you were on the short-wave radio. Guess you know who I am.”
    “My job to know,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, her small frame half-hidden by the counter. “Actually, Matt Harkins, who took your dad out this morning, told me your name. We’ll figure out why you’re here before you have to tell us, too.” She grinned, deepening the wrinkles on a face used to maybe fifty years of smiling.
    “I’m Detective Parker Browne. How’s your day been so far?”
    “On my third cup of coffee. Matt’s the last to go out this morning, so I can relax awhile.”
    “Ivor said you hold the most important position in town. Thought I should say howdy to you first this morning.”
    She waved a hand. “He’s always been jealous that my window looks out on more action than his does. Ivor’s number one on my speed dial since most of the crime starts here.” She thumbed toward the marina.
    “Territorial disputes, Liv Hanson called them.”
    “Right on. It begins out on the waters, hits the dock, travels up the gangway and boils up in the taverns. The old saloon was named The Bucket of Blood for a reason.”
    “Ivor says you’re smart and a history buff regarding Petersburg. He comes to you for advice.”
    She opened her palms. “We work well together.”
    “Well, protocol requires I talk to a few others before I come back to you. Promise you won’t take offense?”
    With a laugh, she said, “I’ll know what’s up by the end of the day, Detective.”
    Parker pushed open the door to leave. “Good. That means you’ll have answers prepared. Nice meeting you, Candy Peterson. Enjoy your coffee.”
    Parker took a right off Nordic Drive, checked through security at the Ocean Riches guard gate, and walked the quarter mile of elevated boardwalk to the canning facility, built entirely on pilings. He had to watch his footing on the rain-slicked, mossy planks, eventually choosing to walk on a narrow pathway made of composition roof shingles. Motorized carts raced past him, carrying loads of plastic fish-packing containers; 6:00 a.m. shift workers walked briskly by, determined to clock in early. On the rooftop hundreds of sea gulls screamed, eager to sample the cannery’s leftovers.
    He located the administration wing, painted forest green like the rest of the clapboard complex, but looking more important with its slick glass double doors. A twenty foot-long, chest-high metal counter separated him from a series of closed-door offices, giving an institutional feel to the place. Parker figured that except for a fresh coat of paint, the Spartan room had probably looked this way for fifty years.
    A receptionist flipped up a section of the shelf and led him to the manager’s office.
    “Detective Parker Brown, Seattle PD.”
    The short, stout man dressed in a green plaid flannel shirt and jeans shook Parker’s hand and glanced at Parker’s proffered badge. “Robert Halley, Manager. Have a seat. How can I help you?”
    Parker considered the questions he’d written down the night before. Boilerplate. Organized. Pointed. He took a seat across from Halley and instead of question number one from his list, said, “I read last Thursday’s Petersburg Pilot . Is it true that this is the best fishing season since the sixties?”
    Leaning back in his chair, Halley grinned, brushing his hand over his bald head. With his pop-out eyes, fleshy mouth and florid complexion, Halley had the look of a chunky, genial snapper. “You heard right. I’ve worked in this cannery for fifteen years at one job or the other. Never seen anything like it.” He pointed to a picture of the cannery from earlier times. “We were half this size back then, and never could have handled the tonnage we took in this year.”
    “Maybe Petersburg will turn into a boom town; similar to the gold rush.”
    Halley shook his head. “I wish.