Dangerous Refuge

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Hard to tell. Body wasn’t exactly in prime shape, what with the scavengers and all.”

  Shaye’s mouth thinned at the reminder.

  “What does the report say?” August asked bluntly.

  “Uh, best they could decide, it was probably Wednesday, give or take.” Feldt looked at August. “If it was night, he maybe wouldn’t need his hat.”

  “Then he’d need a jacket,” Tanner said. “He wasn’t wearing one.”

  Feldt looked intently at the report, a man hoping to find a jacket. There wasn’t one.

  “Then there’s the question of his boots,” Tanner said.

  “He was wearing boots,” Feldt said, tapping the report. “We got ’em all wrapped up waiting for someone to claim them.”

  “His regular work boots were on the bench inside the house,” Tanner said.

  “The ones on his feet were shiny,” Shaye added.

  August lifted his hat, ran his fingers through his thick hair, and resettled the hat. “I thought about that, even brought it up to the sheriff more than once. But it didn’t have much weight.” He shrugged. “Not enough to order an investigation, for sure. From where we are, you can’t even see circumstantial.”

  Point made, Tanner thought. August tried to do cop work and was shut down by the sheriff.

  “So you’re sure it was an accidental death?” Shaye asked.

  There was a flash through the front window, sun glancing off an approaching car. August looked over Tanner’s shoulder to the front door behind him. His suntanned hand closed around the newspaper once again.

  The front door opened, rattled in its frame by someone in a hurry.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” August said.

  The cop in Tanner knew that August had deliberately ignored Shaye’s question. What Tanner didn’t know was why. Unless it was Conrad’s presence. Turning slightly, he got a good look at the sheriff.

  Without the stage lighting of the Conservancy gala, Sheriff Conrad had the command presence of dryer lint. His long, slight frame was drawn. Dissatisfaction with life radiated from him like heat ripples off asphalt.

  Two cell phones hung on the sheriff’s belt. Instead of making him look important, they made him look ridiculous, especially as one of them was a cheap piece of crap any kid could purchase by the handful at a convenience store.

  Since Conrad had settled for being sheriff of the rural county of Refuge, Nevada, Tanner doubted that the man could afford much more than a free dog to worship him. Tanner also had no doubt that he was looking at a man who was like his new captain back in L.A.—huge ambition but no real talent to back it up.

  Must be real good at ass-kissing, Tanner thought in disgust. When it comes to promotions, that beats good work almost every time.

  If Sheriff Conrad recognized Tanner, he didn’t show it. He nodded curtly to Shaye before he stalked through the open area to his office and closed the door. Hard.

  “Never saw a man wearing a Do Not Disturb sign that big,” Tanner said into the silence.

  “You’d think somebody would be happy he’s the bookies’ favorite in the next election,” August said.

  The corner of Tanner’s mouth kicked up. Under other circumstances, he probably would have liked August. But right now the deputy stood between Tanner and the answers he wanted.

  He leaned over and said very softly to Shaye, “Am I the only one who looks at the sheriff and sees a kid playing dress-up?”

  She tried not to laugh, and settled for not being loud about it.

  “FELDT!” The window-rattling yell came from behind the closed door. “Where in the sainted name of Jesus H. Christ is that final inquest? It’s supposed to be on my desk!”

  “I’ve got it right here, Sheriff. All ready for your signature.”

  The door opened and Conrad stalked toward them.

  Tanner knew that Conrad was trying to project someone-is-going-to-die, but he just didn’t have the right stuff.

  Probably why Conrad hired Feldt. Somebody he could intimidate.

  “Damn it! That was supposed to be put to bed already!” He stood so close to Feldt that the edge of his hat brushed the deputy’s eyebrows.

  That’s got to tickle, Tanner thought in disgust. He’d known too many fear-biters like Conrad. Give them a little power and they were hell on the half shell.

  In Refuge, the sheriff had more than a little power.

  “Uh, sorry, sir,” Feldt said. “I was just—”

  Tanner interrupted. “That has to rank as the fastest inquiry ever spit out by a county bureaucracy.”

  “Who the hell are you?” The older man’s voice had an unfortunate tendency to squeak under pressure.

  “Sheriff, you’ll be pleased to meet Tanner Davis, nephew to the deceased in question,” August said, deadpan. “He has some questions and observations to share with you.”

  Conrad looked at Tanner like he was boot scrapings. Then the name seemed to register. “Kin to Lorne Davis?”

  Tanner nodded impassively. “Sheriff.”

  Conrad’s mouth tried for sympathetic and settled for harried. “Look, I’m sorry for your loss. But what we have here is a natural death. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “What about the gold?”

  Shaye made a startled sound. She hadn’t expected Tanner to mention anything about gold.

  August watched the sheriff like a man interested in what he would say next.

  “What gold?” Conrad asked before turning to the deputies and asking the same question, only louder because it was much more important right now. “WHAT GOLD?”

  “I—I—I—” stuttered Feldt.

  “Never heard of it,” August said calmly.

  “No damn good, either one of you!” He exhaled a curse and turned to Tanner. “What gold?”

  Since the sheriff had dropped his voice, Tanner answered. “At least one roll of pre-Depression gold twenties.”

  “What?” Conrad’s voice was rising again.

  “He kept them in a family hiding place in the house. A place you could only find with a wrecking crew. The house wasn’t wrecked. Wasn’t even messy, so nobody conducted a search before or after Lorne died.”

  “Son,” Conrad said. “You’ve been away too long to know how hard times have been. Lorne probably spent any gold he had long ago. Doesn’t change the fact that he died a natural death at eighty-plus years.”

  “He wasn’t wearing a jacket or—” Shaye began.

  “Hello, Ms. Townsend,” the sheriff interrupted. “Looks like the Conservancy has bagged another ranch. Which tells me Lorne was flat out of cash or he’d never have given the land to you.” He glanced at Tanner. “You got a problem with your uncle’s death, take it up with the Conservancy. The sheriff’s office has real crimes to fight.”

  August’s creosote-dry voice filled the silence growing between Tanner and the sheriff. “The hyoid bone was intact, no strangulation. Toxicology came back clean, no poison. No gunshot wounds, cut marks, or major trauma. His body was good until the coyotes and vultures got to him.”

  Without looking away from Tanner, the sheriff nodded curtly. “There you have it,” he said. “Your uncle died on his own ranch with his boots on. There are worse ways to go.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve seen most of them,” Tanner said. “I’ve also learned that face value often isn’t worth a handful of cold spit.” He turned and walked toward the front door.

  Shaye watched August watching Tanner. When the deputy’s attention switched to her, she turned and followed Tanner out.

  “Thanks for your time,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Don’t mention it,” August said.

  She was certain that underneath his deadpan exterior the deputy was laughing his ass off.

  “It could have been worse,” she said as they approached Tanner’s car.

  He gave her a look of disbelief and opened the passenger-side door. As she sat down, he asked, “How?”

  “The sheriff could have arrested yo
u for contempt. Didn’t your mother tell you that a smile goes farther than a snarl?”

  “Not in a place where people want to ignore you. And Sheriff Conrad wouldn’t know a snarl if he saw the teeth.” Tanner slid in behind the wheel and slammed the door. “He’s a leaky balloon trying to float a badge. August is probably a good cop when he’s allowed, but the sheriff keeps a real short leash on everything except himself.”

  “August knows more than he’s saying,” she said.

  “He figured out real quick that I’m a cop.”

  “That’s a no-brainer. One look at you out of a semi-tux and anyone would know you’re not a citizen.”

  “I think I’m insulted.”

  “Tanner, surely you look in the mirror when you shave.”

  “Every day. So what?”

  “You don’t look like the guy next door,” she said.

  “I’ll leave that to August.”

  “News flash. August is a hard case.”

  “August wouldn’t mind patting you down real good,” Turner said, starting the car.

  She turned her head so fast her hair swung out. “What?”

  “Trust me. A guy knows.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You should see the look on your face.”

  Shaye told herself she wouldn’t blush. For once, she didn’t.

  “I get August,” Tanner said as he backed out of the parking spot and turned into traffic. “What I don’t get is the sheriff. You mind checking at the vet’s before I buy you lunch?”

  “I’d like to see how Dingo is, too. Is that who you’re going to piss off next? The vet?”

  “I’m expecting a call,” Tanner said. “If it doesn’t come, we’ll start talking to the men who played cards with Lorne. Do you know who the regulars are?”

  “Berne Mason would. He manages the Silver Lode Lodge, where they played on Tuesday nights.”

  “Do you know Mason well enough to get in to see him on short notice?”

  “The Conservancy makes it a point to use the lodge for meetings with ranchers. It’s a favorite with the locals. I often handle the arrangements.”

  “Good,” Tanner said. “Call him and find out if you can get in to see him early this afternoon. With a guest.”

  “Why?”

  “To talk about Lorne and poker buddies. As a favor, if nothing else will work. You’re the Conservancy and the Conservancy brings money into the lodge. And you’re a sexy woman.”

  She made an inelegant sound and reached into her purse. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  While she talked to various lodge employees, the town sputtered out along the road, becoming boarded-up tourist stores, Mexican restaurants, fields of Black Angus, and ranches all the way up to the mountains on both sides of the valley. Horses posed as if at shows, muscles defined beneath tight skins that gleamed in the pouring light. Hawks and falcons patrolled the grasslands.

  “We’re on,” she said. “Two o’clock.”

  “Good work. Thanks.”

  Damn it, Brothers. Call me. I could chase Lorne’s poker pals all over Nevada and not be any closer to the truth.

  It’s called a homicide investigation, Tanner reminded his impatient half. Suck it up. Impatience is a rookie mistake.

  “If it helps,” Shaye said after a few miles, “the sheriff sold Mercedes-Benzes until just a few years ago. I guess he got the political itch before that. I heard he ran for supervisor, right around the time that Harold Hill was vacating the spot.”

  “Wonder how much the post cost him?”

  “Hill?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We go cheap in Refuge,” she said coolly. “But we like the appearance of law and order. You know, breaking up rustling rings and making sure the hangings go on time.”

  Tanner gave her a sideways glance. “Not what I meant. Whatever the sheriff did in his past life, he doesn’t take the stress of this one real well.”

  “How could he? The population of the county is small. The sheriff knows every missing person or robbery or domestic violence or car wreck or whatever else that comes across his desk. He can’t drive the street without seeing problems he should fix.”

  “I hear if you can’t take the heat you should stay out of the kitchen,” Tanner said. “Yet the sheriff walked in today with the oven on high and frying pans blazing. Something is bugging him. And something is riding August. Notice how he took Conrad’s side the second he walked in the room?”

  “And let me guess—you argue with your bosses all the time?”

  “Hey, I give them Fridays and holidays off.”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “I don’t think that August is any happier with how things are going than you are. Only he doesn’t have the luxury of coming right out and saying it to the sheriff’s face.”

  Tanner didn’t argue. He’d told the truth to power and now he was opening drawers in the morgue. He didn’t blame August for being politic.

  He just didn’t like the way the deputy had looked at Shaye.

  Since when have you been territorial about a woman? You weren’t mad at your wife or her yoga instructor—you were mad at yourself for being stupid.

  No answer came to Tanner but the memory of first hearing Shaye’s voice and thinking of tangled sheets and sex.

  Thirteen

  The vet had silver hair and beard, and blue eyes behind wire reading glasses that he peered over half the time. Tanner was surprised to find the vet’s face unlined.

  Dr. Warren smiled like he could read the other man’s mind. “I went gray when I was thirty,” he said. “Good for business. Been getting early-bird specials since I was forty.”

  Smiling, Tanner shook the vet’s hand. “Sorry to put you to the trouble of a private consult.”

  “I was one of the few people in the valley who actually liked Lorne,” the vet said. “Cantankerous old coot, but he took care of his animals and paid his bills. Left a gold coin with me to pay for Dingo, because he didn’t have any other cash.”

  Shaye went still.

  “Did he do that often?” Tanner asked easily.

  “A couple times,” the other man said. “I’d hold the coin until he got the cash. He always paid.”

  “What kind of coin?”

  The vet shrugged. “Looked like the same one every damn time. I’m not a coin collector. It’s in my safe. You can have it when Dingo is released or you can use it to pay for the dog and I’ll give you the change.”

  Tanner nodded. He could insist on seeing the coin, but there was no reason to irritate the vet. “When did Lorne bring Dingo in?”

  “Early Wednesday morning, and I do mean early. Rousted me out of bed. Good thing, too. The dog nearly died.”

  “How’s Dingo now?” Shaye asked.

  “As good as can be expected. Like I said, Lorne didn’t ignore his animals. He caught on real quick that Dingo was deadly sick. But the dog still suffered some seizures and hyperthermia. That’s elevated body temperature, really high. Nearly lost him.” His eyes glanced down at the rest of the chart. “He’s stable now, still on fluids and light sedation to keep him comfortable. He should pull through, but it will be a long time before he eats steak again.”

  “Steak?” Tanner asked.

  “Yeah. Found some red meat in Dingo’s gut that he hadn’t puked out yet. Too weak. Lorne said he didn’t remember having any steak lately, and Dingo wasn’t a counter thief anyway.”

  “My uncle wasn’t the kind of man who fed steak to his dogs.”

  The vet nodded. “Lorne was cussing fit to scorch paint, trying to figure out what kind of damn fool son of a bitch, pardon my language, would leave varmint bait where his dog could get it.”

  “Was it carrion?” Shaye asked.

  “No. Meat was fresh beneath the stomach acids.”

  “Maybe Dingo went onto a neighboring property,” she said.

  And maybe someone wanted Dingo out of the way, Tanner thought. But he kept it to himself.

  “Could be, but Dingo didn’t
wander around roads or other ranches,” Warren said. “Dogs that do end up as bobcat or coyote bait, or get run over. I patch those dogs up or put them down too often. And I yell at the stupid owners, for all the good it does. Dingo was seven. Only time I ever saw him was for his shots. Except for the time when he took on a porcupine when he was young and stupid.”

  “Did the toxicity levels look like an accidental dose?” Tanner asked.

  Dr. Warren looked at him curiously. “And here I was explaining hyperthermia to you. What line of work are you in?”

  “Public safety.”

  “Dingo weighs about twenty-two kilos, just shy of fifty pounds. He ingested maybe twelve or thirteen milligrams of the active ingredient. I’ve seen dogs die with less and I’ve seen dogs take a lot more and still be ticking.”

  Tanner looked interested.

  Dr. Warren took the hint and kept talking. “From the severity of the symptoms, I’d say that Dingo got a pretty good dose. Maybe it was some idiot trying to get rid of coyotes and getting ranch dogs instead. Whatever, Dingo paid the price.”

  Tanner nodded. “Accident?”

  “He’s the only dog anyone has brought in during the last few weeks with poisoning, but not everyone brings a sick animal to the vet. And sometimes people put out poison without thinking about what happens to the squirrels or varmints after they die, or thinking that something you like having around might eat the poisoned carcass. People . . .” Dr. Warren shrugged. “Never could figure them out. That’s why I like animals. They can’t lie to me.”

  Shaye still looked worried. “But Dingo’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  Dr. Warren put a hand on her shoulder. “You can come back and see him if you want, but he’ll be sleeping. We’re keeping him that way so he won’t pull out the IV line.”

  “Thanks, I’d like to see him.”

  “Been a rough week for you, hasn’t it?”

  She smiled wanly. “Yes.”

  Tanner and Shaye followed the vet to another area of the office. Quietly they looked inside the animal hospital’s version of a critical care unit. Dingo lay on the towel-lined floor of one of the kennels. An IV line led into the cage. He was breathing shallowly, legs twitching like he was chasing dream rabbits.