“So we have to go with the little we do know. Somebody wrote that message on your mirror, and it makes sense to assume that they weren’t addressing your vast knowledge of musical history. What about the personal experience part?” Scotty asked her. “What does make honky-tonk angels?”
The seriousness of his tone steadied her enough to think, and to answer. “Music. Dancing. Booze. Company. Sex. Up here, maybe just getting the hell out of the house on a slow night in a long winter. Or celebrating the fact that it isn’t winter at the moment. In Monette’s case, it seems like she was looking for any old kind of human contact. From all she’d learned growing up, a girl like her couldn’t be real choosy about what kind of attention she got. There are probably a lot of girls who end up in bars for similar reasons.
“Then again, try to see it from her point of view. The guys she picked up could have made her feel like she was at least getting treated better than her mother. Plus, in a strange way, Monette was ambitious. She wasn’t satisfied with just being promoted from shelf stocker to checker. I had the feeling, from what she said to me at the Lifeway Monday morning, that she was aiming a lot higher. You probably can’t imagine how anybody would believe that going to bars is some kind of self-help strategy, but I bet plenty of people think that’s exactly the case.”
Scotty reflected on what she’d said. “So how about you? Why would a woman who obviously has as much on the ball as you do waste her nights closing down the honky-tonks?”
Sally gave him the easiest explanation. “In my case, the music was the main attraction. I was getting paid to spend my time in bars. I figured that sooner or later I’d get discovered as the songwriting genius and charismatic performer I was, and then the golden doors would open.”
Scotty snorted.
“Come on, Scotty. You must have had a dream or two. Every gym rat who ever shot a thousand free throws at a time, and kept score, thought he was headed for Michael Jordanville.”
“I got over it,” he said.
Mr. Conversation strikes again. Sally carried on. “I also did my share of just hanging out, listening to bands I liked, and plenty I didn’t like. Plus, remember, the bars were the places I got together with my girlfriends. Delice and I have been known to have a few beverages and laugh until our stomachs hurt.”
She dug a bottle of water out of her backpack, twisted the top, took a drink, and slanted a glance at him. Now it was time for a little harder story. “I’d be a liar if I said the whiskey and the boys had nothing to do with it. And the music was a part of that too. I said Monette wanted the attention. Hell, so did I.” She fiddled with the bottle cap. “At some point, you get to where there’s nothing left to prove. If you’re lucky, sooner or later you figure out there’s something better you could be doing. For my part, I’ve come to prefer spending my time in silent rooms, reading and writing about the dead. When I get tired of that, I go into big noisy rooms full of college kids and talk about the dead. It’s my calling.”
She took another swig of water and looked him over, wondering. “You’re a Laramie boy. Didn’t you ever indulge in party time?”
“Only when my friends dragged me out. Even heard you sing a time or two,” he admitted. “But I was a jock and a grind. I was a fanatic about staying in shape, and keeping up with my studies. I didn’t even know what scotch was until I was thirty-five.”
“It’s a thirty-fivish kind of drink,” said Sally, who only ordered scotch when she felt both jaded and snobbish. “As you can probably figure, I’ve heard people talking about what a jock you were. And I heard about your knee. It’s kind of surprising that you’re still playing basketball,” she offered in sympathy.
“What Hawk and I play,” Scotty said, “isn’t basket-ball. Half court. No D. If we took on the scrubs from the UW women’s team we might not score a point. Granny hoops.”
“Beats eatin’ donuts and smokin’ cigarettes,” said Sally. “I worry about Dickie.”
“So do I,” said Scotty.
“Maybe you could get him to consider working out a little,” Sally told him.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Scotty answered. “You and the sheriff have been buddies a long time. I just started working with him.”
“You grew up here. You must have known the Lang-hams.”
“Knew who they were. Especially Delice,” he said, the shadow of a grin ghosting across his mouth and disappearing. “I probably bought a beer or two from Dickie. But we didn’t have much in common, considering the other line of work he was in, and the fact that I was a real straight arrow.”
Sally was defensive on Dickie’s behalf. “Don’t dump on my buddy Dickie. He’s been to hell and back and still has more than most people’s share of wits. Not to mention a sense of humor and a giant heart.”
“Relax. I’m one of the boss’s biggest fans,” said Scotty. “He’s remarkable. It’s not everybody who could sell drugs to half the people in town, take it on the lam, live some secret life for years and come back and get elected sheriff, and then turn out to be both honest and competent.”
“Yeah. A lot of people would assume that he won that election because he had the goods on all those voters who’d scored dope from him. Law enforcement pros like you don’t expect much from the politicians you work for, do you?” Sally challenged.
“Why should we?” Scotty countered. And then, at last, “Sheriff Langham’s a good guy.”
“Got that right,” said Sally.
“But, admit it. He’s pretty close to this case,” Scotty said.
“Sure. He feels for Mary. And after all, he’d do anything to solve it for her. How many wives would take back some cokehead who’d been on the run for twelve years and then showed up one day hollering, ‘Hi honey, I’m home’? You’d have to be either nuts or desperate or some kind of saint. Or maybe just loyal—if there’s one thing about those Langhams, they’re practically zealots when it comes to family.”
Scotty looked at her again, and for a change said nothing. They’d gotten off the highway, onto the dirt road that would take them past Vedauwoo Glen and on to their destination. Gripping her thighs with hands that had begun to shake, Sally knew the literal meaning of the word “dreadful.”
“You didn’t come this way on Monday,” Scotty said, beginning the process of taking her through that miserable experience all over again.
She took a breath. “That’s right. We parked up by Abe Lincoln and then walked along the back side of the climbing rocks, following Middle Crow Creek. We did some meanders, here and there, across meadows.” She felt her temper rising. “Hawk and I were just out for an afternoon stroll, Scotty. I mean, we weren’t looking for the shortest route to Monette Bandy’s body, now were we?”
“Settle down, there, princess,” Scotty told her, his own patience visibly stretching. “Just tell me all about it, as carefully as you can.”
And so she did, as they bumped over earth and rocks, churning up red dust, in that majestic beautiful place. She had no idea whether what she was saying to him now told him anything new, or beamed light into any dark corner. It all sounded to her like something she’d rehearsed and rehashed until she was seeing it in her dreams. Scotty Atkins drove on, past hikers and climbers and picnicking families, all those strangers blissfully unaware of the fact that willful, cerebral Sally Alder, telling her story along that road, wanted nothing so much as to start screaming, and not stop.
By the time they got to the Devil’s Playground, the talking and the struggle against panic had pretty much emptied her out. Scotty pulled the 4runner over and parked at the bottom of the hill she’d watched him walk up, only those few days before. He got out of the truck, but Sally didn’t move. He walked around, opened up her door, took her by the hand, and said, “Let’s go.”
She let him lead her up the hill, conscious of his warm, dry hand holding hers, of the thirsty, uneven ground, red dirt, and pink pebbles she could feel through the thick Vibram soles of her boots. The words popped into
her head—the devil is in the details—and she giggled like an idiot at the notion.
But for the life of her, as they came on the ring of blackened stones, where so many Wyoming party animals had built their fires and drunk their beers and sucked at their smokes, she couldn’t make her brain do more than flit around the scene, and leap, like a flea, from one bit of trivia to the next. Oh look, she thought, this is good: The police have cleaned up all the litter. Now that’s what I like in my public servants. But oh, see how all those heavy cop shoes have stomped all over this place. Not a blade of grass longer than an eyelash. It would be next summer, at least, before those ants she’d seen toting that piece of straw would have anything to practice their collective carrying instincts on.
Sally was a flea brain and Scotty was relentless. Dragging her along by the hand, he strode past the fire ring and on toward the outcrop. A sudden, too-vivid mental image of the jumble of rocks, that arm sticking out with the rope around the wrist, made Sally stagger and pull Scotty back. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t do it, Scotty.
Please don’t make me. I keep seeing her arm and that rope.”
Scotty let go of Sally’s hand, grabbed both her arms above the elbow, shook her. “Get a grip, Sally. I want you to see it. When Dickie and I watched the autopsy, we saw rope abrasions on both her wrists. But she hadn’t been dragged. She let somebody tie her up. And then whoever she was with led her over there, had intercourse with her, shot her, and tried to hide the body. We’re saying it looked like rape, but maybe it was just some rough game that got a little out of hand. We’ve just gotten the results of the blood tests, and it looks like they had some beers and smoked a little weed. One thing led to another, but somebody lost control. And then, when he’d killed her, he couldn’t get her down in that crack with her hands bound like that. So he cut the rope, and he just left it dangling off the one hand while he pushed her body down.”
“Please,” she pleaded, heart pumping, breath coming hard. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Think about it, Sally. Why would he go to all that trouble and leave her hand sticking out?”
Hmph. The question brought her up short, cut through the horror, made her . . . reason. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, removed Scotty’s hands from her arms and looked him in the eye. “I can imagine two explanations. One, the crack turned out to be too small for her body, but by the time he’d gotten her wedged in there, it was too hard to get her out. It took you guys a long time pulling her body up— she was stuck pretty tight.”
Scotty stood silent and motionless, still looking at her. “The other explanation is that he heard somebody coming as he was pushing her down, and he ran off. Maybe he heard Hawk and me. Christ, maybe he saw us.” She was nearly too numb to be unnerved by that possibility.
“And maybe he knew you. Maybe that’s why he turned his attention from Monette to you. Of course, this is all wild speculation, isn’t it, Sally? In my business we try not to jump to conclusions.” Scotty was forcing the issue, retreating, then forcing it a little further.
“Knew me?” she whispered. “How could he know me?”
“Lots of people do, ma’am,” said Scotty, sounding like a man who wore a Stetson instead of a shirt with a little pony guy on it. “But there is one piece of evidence I’d like to share with you. It’s something the sheriff is having trouble considering, because, as I said, he could be just a mite too close to this case. As you know, that rope around Monette Bandy’s wrists was a calf roper’s piggin’ string.”
“I know,” said Sally, a sick foreboding feeling welling up inside.
“And as I believe the sheriff mentioned, only two such ropes were purchased here in town recently, both by local cowboys.”
“Yes. He did mention that.”
“What I don’t believe he told you,” Scotty persisted, “was that one of those cowboys was Jerry Jeff Walker Davis. Your friend Delice’s boy.”
Chapter 16
Sentiment, Logic, and Damned Lies
“Did you hear me?” he said. “Jerry Jeff Davis. The sheriff’s nephew. Your friend’s son.”
The cool pale eyes held her. She had to fight to look away.
Two things about Scotty Atkins pissed Sally off. First, that he was such a coldhearted bastard. Second, that he was such a fascinating coldhearted bastard. The man was perfectly willing to believe that a kid not even fifteen, who mowed lawns and took in stray kittens and whose mother loved him, could have done what had been done to Monette. And by now the detective had Sally doubting the people she cared about most. Scotty made Sally feel like a mouse facing a snake, cornered, mesmerized.
Jerry Jeff was big and strong, and you never could tell about teenagers these (or any other) days, but he was still in some ways a little boy. You didn’t need any better evidence of that fact than the lame explanation JJ had come up with when the detective had asked him about buying a new piggin’ string.
“He told me, ‘Oh, yeah. I was out at the fairgrounds last week, checking out the stock, and I left my gear on the tailgate of somebody’s pickup. When I came back, my piggin’ string was gone.’ ” Scotty shook his head in disgust. “Jerry Jeff couldn’t remember exactly whose pickup it was, or precisely when he’d left his stuff. He was even fuzzy about what day it was. Dickie was willing to cut the boy some slack—way too much, if you ask me. He said, sometimes, kids were sketchy like that, and told me to back off. If you ask me, the sheriff just couldn’t bring himself to question his sister’s son about a story that sounded like the calf roper’s version of ‘the dog ate my homework.’ ”
Sally glared at Scotty. “This interview is over, Detective,” she said, turning and taking off down the hill. “I’ve got a band practice tonight, and things to do before then. I need to get back.”
“Look, Sally,” Scotty said, striding up beside her. “I’m sorry this has to be unpleasant. Do you really think that browbeating traumatized people is my favorite part of this job?” He started to reach out to touch her, but then put his hands in his pockets.
Best he keep those hands to himself. “I don’t think you enjoy hammering away at the bereaved, no. And though I hesitate, at this point, to be nice to you, I will say that I admire your dedication. You believe in justice. You’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. But you know, Scotty, you could use a little lesson in finesse. You might want to think about who you’re hurting when you push to the limit.”
The air around him seemed to crackle as his patience snapped. “I won’t take that crap. Murder hurts everybody it touches. And even if the attacks on you have nothing to do with Monette, you’re a crime victim yourself. Sometimes justice is cruel. If you can’t handle the idea that my inquiries are liable to turn up dirt on people you know, or even on you, for that matter, you might think about moving to another state.”
“Thanks for the advice. Don’t worry about me getting scared off by gossip. I’ve had plenty of experience with that.” She wished she had a dollar for every rumor about her. Hell, wished she had five dollars just for the ones that had been true.
“It’s not just the gossip. Face it, Sally, this case is about more than words. Dickie and Mary and all the rest of the Langhams, and you yourself, want to think that some crazed transient predator killed Monette Bandy. That remains one possibility. We’ve spent more time than we probably should have grilling guys out at the fair-grounds and down in the bars. Nothing I’ve turned up so far points to a stranger, and experience tells me to look closer to home. Most crimes are committed by somebody the victim knows.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “And up until this morning, my money would have been on Monette’s father. But after he tackled me in Washington Park—”
“Tackled you.” Scotty made it a declarative statement, not a question. “In Washington Park?”
“I don’t think that was his plan. He grabbed me by the arm and tried to pull me into his truck, and I kind of slugged him, and the next thing
I knew, we were down on the ground.”
“Right,” said Scotty. “This happen to you a lot?”
“Hardly,” she answered.
“You’re taking it in stride. Weren’t you afraid?”
“Of course! I was terrified! That’s why I wasn’t about to let him drag me to his truck. Forget about it. Bone’s a drunk and a shithead, but I’ve changed my mind about him. I don’t think he killed her. We sat on a bench in the park and talked. He thinks Monette was blackmailing somebody, a cowboy maybe, and it sounded like he wanted a piece of whatever action she thought she had.”
“Tell me what happened this morning, and what he said to you, and what you told him. No fooling around, Sally. Every little bit. Beginning to end. Every gesture, including the tackle. The exact words.”
She told him, right down to Monette saying she’d “roped a good one” and planned to ride it down and get out of town. And the sad part, about how Monette had always thought she’d find a cowboy and ride away.
Scotty grimaced. “I’d better get back and pay a call on Bone. I need to hear what he’s got to say, today. Before I visit with Jerry Jeff again.”
“And I’m telling you, I don’t think JJ is capable of murder. He’s a kid, Scotty.”
“And you’re his mother’s best friend. Kids aren’t always innocent. Leave criminal investigation to the pros, Sally. They know how to separate sentiment and logic.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “I would never dream of accusing you of possessing sentiment.” He winced. “But in this instance, there’s also a serious flaw in your logic. Whoever killed Monette had to get her up here somehow. She could have driven herself, of course—I assume she had a car?”
“She did,” Scotty said. “An old beater Pontiac. According to several of her neighbors, it’s been parked out in front of her apartment building for the past couple of weeks, with a dead battery. She’s been walking to work or getting rides.”
Bad Company Page 18
