Chapter 2
Before
At the forty-eighth latitude, I drive through the Continental Divide skirting the outside of Glacier National Park. Paxton Rhoads, the guy who hired me, calls it the “Backbone of the World,” and it’s hard to argue with that image.
Saw blades of mountains rear up on each side of me.
The Middle Fork of the Flathead River snakes its way through small valleys tucked in between the river and the foothills.
Old homesteads and roadside cafés cling to the old ways in the middle of nowhere, far from the transformation taking place where I live in the Flathead Valley, where wealthy out-of-staters buy up every inch of available real estate.
This countryside—brimming with all its beauty—always perks me up.
Even quells the simmering rage inside me.
But this isn’t the time to think about my sister—and the upcoming anniversary of her hooking up with the wrong guy—or to wonder if the curtains will close around her and stay weighted in place.
And whatever internet craziness is going on with the sketch-to-murder trend that is gripping the nation, the nuttiness with that crap seems even less likely to be a “thing” out here.
My investigative work involves a lot less hype and a lot more stuff closer to reality.
When I reach Browning, past the Great Divide, vast, tawny prairies open before me. A strong wind hits my car and almost pushes it into the oncoming lane. I grip the wheel and stubbornly force the vehicle back between the lines. I’m on a mission for Paxton.
And for Clarissa.
And definitely for myself. New career. New opportunity—the first big one I’ve gotten since I switched to PI work nine months ago. And new chance to leave the past behind, like a snake shedding its skin.
Paxton’s from the Blackfeet Nation, and he’s hired me to investigate the death of his half sister, Clarissa.
She was a journalist looking into the shady practices of a local oil and natural gas company owned by a wealthy businessman named Robbie Ridgeway.
Her body was located downstream from rapids in the Teton River not far from his ranch.
My sister, Jess, is the one who referred Paxton to me.
She works for a company called Rotical NanoLabs, a genetic research firm I use myself.
Years earlier, Paxton and Clarissa had hired Rotical to find out if they were blood relatives, as their foster parents claimed.
They had different surnames, but their foster parents said they came from the same mother.
Jess told Paxton I was getting established and likely to give him a deal. That was true. But I think he liked the idea that I used to be a cop. Key phrase: used to be. Dealing with a non-tribal PI meant he wasn’t breaking social norms by hiring someone in the system.
Clarissa was a natural athlete, a star basketball player in high school who made it on scholarship to the University of Montana, graduated with a degree in environmental science, and was later drawn to journalism.
Growing up on the reservation on the edge of the Divide, she was an experienced outdoorswoman.
She would never have “slipped off some rocks” as the initial investigation suggested.
Paxton says Clarissa was undermining Robbie Ridgeway’s plans to sell his oil and natural gas company to a bigger firm.
Ridgeway’s firm is the not-so-cleverly-named Ridgefield.
The buyer was Volanex, based in Louisiana.
Clarissa was in the process of exposing how Ridgefield’s extractions were polluting a spring-fed peatland or fen that was nutrient and species rich and contained diverse flora that needed protection.
Paxton maintained that Clarissa was close to making the pollution public and that the resulting stain would’ve scuttled the deal.
And then Clarissa drowned. The police concluded accident. But I agree with Paxton. It all sounds too convenient.
After the reservation, I turn south toward Ridgeway’s ranch north of Choteau. My plan is to drive around the town, ask some questions, get the community flavor for the guy.
I hit several gas stations first. Everyone needs gas. And Ridgeway definitely drives fuel-powered vehicles.
The gas station clerks don’t have much to offer other than a little gossip about Ridgeway loving the young ones.
And it’s easy to come by other talk, too, at two of the bars, at a café, at a bakery, at the hardware store.
Small towns are known to protect their own and don’t love nosy strangers, but there are enough people in town who don’t like Ridgeway that not all my questions go unanswered.
Rumors and mention of sex trafficking, money laundering, and other shady operations all fuel my suspicions that he murdered Clarissa.
And, if I can help it, I am not going to let another man get away with harming another woman.
After leaving the hardware store, I hit pay dirt.
A shiny black F-150 with a license matching Ridgeway’s sits out front of the café I already visited.
I park on the opposite side of the street in some shade, kill my engine, roll my window down for a clear view for snapping photos, and sit. Being a PI involves a lot of waiting. But so did being a cop on patrol, which I did for four years before I resigned.
I quit for several reasons: First and foremost, to be there for Jess since the assault.
And second, because my coworkers all saw me as toxic for reporting sexual harassment.
But the third is the real reason, something I can barely even think about without feeling like I’ve suddenly grown a thick, slimy coat of skin.
Fortunately, I don’t have to because I see a man matching the Ridgeway I’ve googled walk out of the café with another guy.
Ridgeway’s tall and imposing—probably six three—with dark, wavy hair and a broad forehead, but he has a weak jawline, making the lower part of his face look lifeless.
He’s wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a lotus-pink, perfectly pressed button-up.
The clothes look less like a rancher’s and more like they belong on someone straight out of Los Angeles.
But I know he’s from eastern Montana. I’m not sure what’s worse: wealthy cowboy going for the city look or rich city guy going for the cowboy vibe.
The other guy wears jeans and has dark hair also, but it’s curlier. He’s in a black T-shirt. They’re in a heated discussion about something. I pull out my telephoto and start snapping photos.
There’s a lot of gesturing going on, and when the arguing intensifies and Ridgeway’s voice rises, I catch words: “You shouldn’t . . . Never . . . What if someone . . . On straight.”
Finally, Ridgeway strides off, shaking his head, and hops in his truck.
I give him a moment to disappear down the road. I get out and go back into the café and find the same gal I cozied up to earlier. I pull out my camera, flick through some of the shots for her, and ask her if she knows the guy Ridgeway was chatting with.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Aaron Lasserio. He used to be one of Ridgeway’s ranch hands.”
“Used to be?”
“He was one of the rowdiest of the crew. But he’s moved.”
“You know where?”
“Actually, to your neck of the woods. Last I heard, he’d gotten a job at the local timber mill in Columbia Falls. Heard he got injured on the job, though, so I’m not sure what he’s doing now.”
Bingo.
Before I drive out of Choteau toward Ridgeway’s ranch, I call Linda Holbrook at Graham Insurance, the company I know handles the timber mill’s comp cases.
Since I became a PI, I’ve been surviving on no bennies and getting paid small amounts following a spouse around to document their cheating, tracking a teenager when the parents suspect them of doing drugs, or locating a deadbeat parent.
But occasionally, an insurance company, like Graham, hires me and pays a decent wage to follow one of their claimants around to see if their assertions are legit.
Linda says she’ll ask her boss and lets it slip that Lasserio’s asserting that he fell on the job and hurt his back and was having a problem lifting heavier objects. I strongly suggest to her that they might want to hire me to check on the legitimacy of Lasserio’s claim.
I hang up, hoping Lasserio’s case will be a double gift: that I can deepen my partnership with Graham Insurance and dig more into one of Ridgeway’s goons. And get paid.
But in the meantime, I want to talk to Ridgeway. Why is he still communicating with a ranch hand who is no longer cashing his paychecks?
The turnoff to Ridgeway’s place is gated. I hit a buzzer and wait for a voice that comes through a speaker. Within a minute, someone asks, “What can I do for ya?”
“My name is Crosbie Mitchell,” I say. “I’m a PI from the Flathead. I’d like to speak to Mr. Ridgeway. I need to ask him some questions about a former employee of his.”
He tells me to hold on. I wait a few minutes more until finally the voice tells me to come on up and the electronic gate swings open.
Ridgeway’s place stands below the eastern front.
Yes, I say stands even though usually everything below the imposing ridges of the Rockies appears to squat.
The house holds its own against the commanding backdrop.
It’s huge. Impressive, with towering prowl windows and massive beams. It looks like it comes right out of a glossy high-end real estate catalog.
I park behind the shiny black F-150 I saw in town. For whatever reason, Ridgeway didn’t bother to park it in his six-car garage, where I imagine the Porsche and Jeep Wrangler I also know he owns must be safely stored.
The wind pushing my car on the highway has settled.
It’s over eighty degrees. A tractor drones in the distance.
Crickets hop randomly out of the dry grass in the field beside the drive.
The pungent, sweet scent of dry hay envelops me as I head up the long stone walkway to the front entrance with sprawling slabs of dark slate leading to a massive wood door.