by C. J. Box
“They’re doing what they think they need to do,” she said. “And we’ve pledged our cooperation and assistance. The governor is fully on board with this.”
“He is?” Joe said, knowing Governor Rulon’s legendary battles with the federal government over a range of contentious issues. He had once challenged the secretary of interior to an arm-wrestling match to determine a state versus federal policy on wolves, for example.
“We really don’t need to get into the political weeds on this,” she said. “It’s not something you need to get involved in. But can you assure me you’ll provide your full assistance and expertise to Mr. Batista and Mr. Underwood?”
Joe took a sip of coffee. “Yes,” he said, “as long as they calm down a little. They’ve been offering rewards to nail Butch Roberson. That’s not the way to do this.”
“No caveats,” she said, again instant steel. “Do I have your assurance?”
Joe took a deep breath and said, “Sure. They haven’t called me yet to meet with them, but I expect that will happen later today. I might be able to help them and make sure it’s not some kind of execution at the same time. I don’t trust this Underwood guy. He seems like the type who would love to pull the trigger on Butch. Maybe I can stop him, and make sure Butch is behind bars where he belongs-for his own safety, if nothing else.”
“That’s good, Joe,” she said, though without her previous enthusiasm. “You sound like you have doubts about their motives.”
“I don’t doubt their motives one bit,” Joe said. “They’ve got two special agents down. I’d be the same if it were two game wardens. But they need to let the sheriff do his job.”
When she looked at him askance, Joe said, “We see this kind of thing too much, and it’s a big problem. Sometimes the Feds are too quick to rush in and assume everyone local is incompetent. It’s like an absentee owner who overreacts because they want to make sure everyone knows who’s boss.”
“But it’s a federal matter, not a local matter.”
“Do you know the story behind it?” Joe asked.
“I’ve heard some things.”
“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever heard,” Joe said, “if true. And it’s not the first time it’s happened.”
She said, “That isn’t our concern right now. I’m sure you’re aware of the conflicts going on between the state and the federal government on a variety of fronts. There has even been talk that the Department of Justice and the Department of Interior may sue us because of decisions Governor Rulon has made. He doesn’t want another problem.”
“No one does.”
“Maybe,” she said, reaching across the table and touching his hand again in an odd gesture that belied what she said next: “Maybe you’re a little too close to the people involved.”
Joe looked back, stung by the truth in it, and said, “And maybe you’re too far away.”
Her smile wasn’t a smile at all, and he knew at that moment that one of the reasons she was offering him the new job fell partially under the category of Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Her iPhone started skittering across the table, and she caught it and looked at the display screen.
“I need to take this,” she said. “See what I mean about pressures?” And she slid out of the booth. He watched her as she walked swiftly through the atrium, talking on the cell and gesticulating wildly with her free hand.
She returned as he finished his breakfast. A new fruit plate had been delivered that, Joe thought, looked exactly like the first, except moister. He wondered if MayVonne and the cook had spit on it.
Lisa Greene-Dempsey glared at it and pushed it aside and said, “There has to be somewhere I can get fresh food in this town if I have to go to the supermarket myself. Unfortunately, I came here in the governor’s Suburban and I don’t know where he is right now. I assume your town doesn’t have any taxis?”
“Correct. But I’d be happy to take you,” Joe said.
“You would?” she asked, genuinely pleased.
“I’ve got an errand to run first,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
He grabbed the check. He didn’t feel right about her buying his breakfast when she didn’t eat.
Joe said, “Before you make all your plans to transform the agency, do you want to come along and see a little of what I do?”
“Then you’ll take me to the supermarket?” she asked, looking at her watch.
“Yup. Come with me, Director LGD.”
“I’ll get my jacket.”
At the cash register, MayVonne looked at him and shook her head.
“Piece of work you’ve got there,” she said.
“My new boss.”
“I could tell she wasn’t from around here. Is she staying long?”
Joe shrugged.
“Because if she does, her and me are going to go round and round like two wet socks,” MayVonne said, ringing him up.
Joe grinned. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he got the gist.
“One more thing,” MayVonne said, lowering her voice in a way that made Joe take notice. “If those assholes did to Butch Roberson like I heard they did, I hope he takes out the whole damned lot of them.”
Joe said, “You may not want to mention that to the governor if you see him.”
She said, “I already did.”
“What?”
“I saw him this morning,” she said with a wry grin. “He had biscuits and gravy, and he left me a nice tip.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “He said he was going crazy.”
11
“His name is Bryce Pendergast,” Joe said to Lisa Greene-Dempsey, “and his partner in crime is a guy named Ryan McDermott.”
She sat in the passenger seat wearing a sweater over her shoulders with her briefcase on her lap and her phone in her hand as Joe drove through Saddlestring. She looked to Joe like she was trying to be a good sport by coming along with him. He was embarrassed by the unkempt appearance of the gear and paperwork stuffed into every nook and cranny inside the cab, and he was grateful he hadn’t brought Tube or Daisy along as well that morning.
“It’s kind of my office,” he said.
“I understand. So what is it we’re doing?”
“Checking on a couple of low-life poachers,” Joe said. “I’ve seen them around. They bounce from entry-level job to entry-level job and usually quit in a huff. Neither one of them graduated high school, although Bryce may have gotten his GED. I’ve seen Ryan McDermott’s name in the police blotter a few times for DWI, and I think Pendergast might have been picked up once for breaking into cars. I haven’t seen them out in the field, though, so I always considered them city troublemakers, not poachers.”
She shook her head as he talked, and said, “It’s troubling what happens to youth that are without opportunities.”
Joe shook his head and said, “Bryce’s parents are high school teachers, and Ryan McDermott’s dad is an Episcopalian bishop. They’ve had plenty of opportunities-they just didn’t want ’em.”
“Oh,” she said quickly, and looked away.
Joe said, “Sometimes people just turn out mean. You’ll go crazy trying to figure out ways to prevent it from happening altogether. The only thing we can do is arrest the bad guys and put them away if we can.”
She nodded and said, “This we can agree on.”
“Some common ground,” Joe said, smiling. He said, “People who violate our game and fish regulations often go on to do real harm to innocent citizens. It’s like a gateway drug to them to worse crimes down the road. You’ve heard of the ‘broken windows’ theory of law enforcement?”
She nodded. “If we rigorously prosecute even the smallest crimes, it will set a tone and prevent bigger crimes, right?”
“Right. Well, this is the frontier version. Someone who would kill an animal out of season for the thrill of i
t indicates a general lack of respect for rules and laws, and sets the stage for something worse to come. That’s why I throw the book at ’em if I catch ’em.”
She considered what he said, and seemed to agree, he thought.
He drove into an unincorporated area that hugged the west side of the town limit. The asphalt road gave way to rutted dirt, and the neat rows of suburban homes gave way to wildly incongruous houses, trailers, and lot-sized collections of junked cars and weeds.
He briefed her on the crime itself and the entries Sheridan had found on Facebook. LGD listened with interest and said, “Do you really think they’re stupid enough to put the pictures up on the Internet?”
“Oh, yeah,” Joe said.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yup. And nothing makes me madder than slaughtering an animal and leaving it to rot.”
“But to post things on Facebook. . How dumb can they be?”
“Dumb,” Joe said. “Most criminals aren’t very smart-that’s why they’re criminals. I’ve caught guys because they mounted the heads of illegal trophies in their living rooms. This is a new wrinkle, though, putting up a kind of cyber-trophy.”
“These people,” she said, looking out her window at the ramshackle homes and trailers with tires thrown on the roof to keep the tops from blowing off in the wind. Then, catching herself, she said, “You know what I mean.”
“They’re not all bad,” Joe said defensively. “The kind of crime we’re investigating is actually pretty rare. Most folks around here hate poachers as much as I do, and they turn them in. They look at wildlife as a resource. They don’t want it violated any more than we do.”
“There are degrees of violation,” Joe said, knowing he was pushing the line. “If I find somebody who killed a deer to feed his family, I usually don’t come down on him as hard as someone who killed a deer for the antlers only. And this type of thing-leaving the carcass-deserves no mercy at all.”
She didn’t look at him when she said, “So you’re telling me you make your own rules?”
“I’d consider it discretion,” he said.
Then: “Do all my game wardens make their own rules?”
“Can’t say,” Joe said, realizing he’d provided fuel to one of her burning fires.
“I worry that getting too close to the locals might make some of my people go. . native,” she said, looking closely at him for his reaction. “You know, it might not be as easy to arrest somebody whom you saw at PTA board the night before, for example. Or you might be a little more sympathetic than necessary to a local rancher making a damage claim if that same rancher is on your softball team.”
Joe shrugged. “Seems to me we do a better job if we know the people we’re working for-if we’re among them.”
“Unless you forget who you’re working for,” she said, and shifted in her seat in a way that said the conversation was over.
He turned on Fourth Street and slowed down under an overgrown canopy of ancient cottonwood trees. The duplex he was looking for, Bryce Pendergast’s last known address, was one half of the house. There was a marked difference between the condition of the duplex on the left side and the one on the right. The right side was freshly painted, and there were flowers planted on the side of the porch and floral curtains in the window. The right side of the lawn was green and well maintained. An ancient Buick was parked under a carport.
On the left side of the duplex was a jacked-up Ford F-150 parked in front on the curb so it blocked the sidewalk, and the small yard between the unpainted picket fence and the front door was dried out and marked by burned yellow ovals on both sides of the broken walk between the gate and the door.
“Guess which one Bryce lives in,” Joe said, pulling over and killing the engine.
He called in his position to dispatch and said he planned to question a potential suspect in a wildlife violation and gave the name and address.
“GF-forty-eight clear,” he said, and racked the mic. Then he remembered and said to Greene-Dempsey: “I should have said GF-twenty-one, I guess.”
She nodded nervously, her eyes dancing between Joe and the dark duplex.
Joe dug a digital audio micro-recorder out of the satchel on the floor and checked the power, then turned it on and dropped it in his front breast pocket.
She said, “Is that legal? To record somebody like that?”
“Yes. As long as one party knows the conversation is recorded, it’s legal,” he said patiently.
“So you’re just going to walk up there and knock on the door?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to call for help? For backup?”
“Don’t have any,” Joe said, trying to maintain his calm. “Plus, I think the sheriff’s department has enough on its plate right now, don’t you think?”
“Still. .”
“Relax,” he said. “This isn’t unusual. I’ll go up there and see if Bryce is in, and if he is, I’ll check him out.”
“How? You don’t have a warrant. .”
Joe said, “Here’s what I do, and I’ve done this many times. It’s my standard operating procedure. If Bryce or Ryan McDermott come to the door, I’ll be friendly and professional and say, ‘Hi, guys. I guess you know why I’m here.’ And then I’ll see what happens, whether they act like they don’t know, or they start lying and overtalking, or what. I’ve had people confess right on the spot quite a few times. Sometimes, they blurt out confessions to crimes I didn’t even know about, and sometimes they implicate their buddies.”
Greene-Dempsey looked at him with obvious doubt.
She said, “Maybe you should wait a few days for this. You know-after the sheriff’s department can provide some help.”
He thought about it, then shook his head. He said, “It’s been a week since that antelope was shot. They probably think they got away with it. But something about killing wildlife bugs many of them worse than if they’d shot a person. It’s like that little tiny bit of conscience they’ve got tells them it’s really wrong. So when you just ask them, sometimes they’ll start spilling.”
He touched the digital recorder with the tips of his fingers. “So if they confess, I’ve got it here.”
Joe said, “Even if they keep lying and don’t admit a thing or invite me in, they’ll know they’re under suspicion. That alone sometimes leads to them turning themselves in later or ratting on their buddy. Just showing up gets things moving in the right direction.”
She shook her head and looked at him as if he were crazy.
“Tell me this isn’t what you do all day.”
“It isn’t.” He reached for the door handle.
“You can stay right here. I’ll be back in a few minutes, I suspect.”
“No,” she said. “I want to see this. I want to see what my game wardens do. I can’t be a proper director if I don’t know how things work in the field.”
“Deal,” Joe said, swinging out and clamping his hat on his head. “You can be my backup.”
She grinned nervously at that.
The morning was heating up into another warm August day. Tufts of translucent cotton from the ancient cottonwood trees were poised on the tips of the grass, awaiting a breath of wind to transport them somewhere. As he approached the broken gate, he instinctively reached down and brushed his fingertips across the top of his Glock, his cuffs, and the canister of bear spray on his belt, just to assure himself his equipment was there. The hinges on the gate moaned as he pushed it open. Lisa Greene-Dempsey maintained a ten-foot distance behind him, and followed him cautiously into the yard.
He was wondering about the burned splotches in the grass on the left side of the shared yard when a woman pushed the screen door open on the right side and stood behind it.
“Are you here about the cat urine?” she asked. “It’s about time.”
She looked to be in her seventies, and wore a thick robe and pink slippers. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“Pardon?” Joe said.
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“It reeks like cat urine,” she said, gesturing next door with a tilt of her head. “When it’s calm like this, the smell just about makes me sick. I’ve told them to clean it up, but they just laugh at me and tell me they don’t own no cats.”
Then Joe smelled it, the whiff of ammonia.
“I’m surprised they sent the game warden,” she said, “but I’m not complaining. I expected the sheriff, but I guess you’re in charge of animals around here.”
“Sort of,” Joe said. “But I’m here on another matter.”
“Figures,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Nobody seems to care that much about my problems. Even the guy who owns the place just shrugs and tells me he won’t do anything because they pay the rent on time. I showed him where in the lease it said you can’t have pets, but he just doesn’t care.”
“I’m sorry,” Joe said. “I’m not here for that.”
“Just make sure to ask them about the cats.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
She stepped back and closed the door in front of her. A moment later, Joe saw the floral curtains part an inch so she could watch what happened next.
He turned to Greene-Dempsey and shrugged. She looked nervously at the front door of the left side of the duplex.
“You can still wait in the truck,” he said.
She shook her head no.
“Then make sure you stay back and to the side, please,” he said.
The odor got stronger on the porch when he knocked on the door. Because of the Ford pickup in front, he assumed somebody was home. When he leaned his head close to the door, he could hear and feel the thumping of bass notes from a radio or music player of some kind.
He knocked again, and heard the scuffling of feet. To his right, there was a glimpse of a face in the dirty window, and he waved at it as if to say gotcha.
Then, after some low murmuring on the other side of the door that indicated there was more than one person inside, a series of bolts were thrown. Joe thought, Bolts?
