Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Okay.”

  The idea that had been evolving in my mind was bubbling to the surface, and I was thinking maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. “How are your radio skills?”

  “My what?”

  “Ever done any dispatching work?”

  “No.”

  “Want to?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t hire you—the opening I’ve got is part-time dispatcher on weekends.”

  He looked at the chief, who nodded. “Nothing else?”

  “Nope.”

  He thought about it as he looked at the cardboard Budweiser version of the Adams painting propped up on top of my filing cabinet. “Do I get a uniform?”

  “Sure, if you want one.”

  “A gun?”

  I shook my head. “Not till after the six weeks in Douglas.”

  “So, two semesters working part time as a dispatcher, and then in the spring you’ll send me to the academy and give me a job as a real deputy?”

  “We’ll see how you do and then go from there.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I stood. “That gives you nine months to impress me.”

  He also stood. “Deal.”

  “Not yet. Not till you meet your real boss for the next nine months.”

  I walked out of my office, and Barrett turned Lonnie’s chair and pushed him out after me. Ruby was talking to Vic and Saizarbitoria, but the conversation broke up when we arrived at her counter. “Ruby, this is Barrett Long. I just hired him as a part-time, weekend dispatcher.”

  It was hard to read all the emotions that played across her face, but she entertained an honest smile and held out the second hand that had been offered to him and they shook. She glanced at me. “Does he know what he’s getting into?”

  “He’ll eventually figure it out.” Allowing the two to get acquainted, I took the handlebars of Lonnie’s wheelchair and moved past the rest of the staff, who were waiting at the top of the stairs.

  “New dispatcher?”

  “Yep.”

  She tilted her head to look past me. “Since when?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “Those are big shoes to fill.”

  “Yep.” I glanced at Sancho. “Questions?”

  He held up his hands in compliance. “Not a one.” Walking past, he introduced himself to Barrett as Vic studied me. “What about Double-Tough?”

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t it the usual practice to bump the Powder Junction deputy up here and put the low man on the totem pole down there?”

  “Yep.”

  She glanced past me at the young man again. “He know that?”

  I shrugged. “He’s got nine months to find out.”

  She looked down at Lonnie. “Kind of quiet down there in Powder Junction.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Kind of quiet up in Lame Deer too . . . Um hmm, yes, it is so.”

  Reaching out, I touched her arm to get her attention. “I’m headed over to Sheridan to talk with the KGB. You can read the file on him as I drive?”

  “The who?”

  “Serge the arm-breaker, kind of like Ivan the Terrible but without the charm.”

  “How can I turn that down?”

  I glanced at Lonnie. “Want me to get you out of here?”

  The chief glanced at his mode of locomotion. “No, I will wait on him—he is mine until Friday, right?”

  “Right.” I started down the steps with Vic. Dog didn’t join us but rather had planted himself in front of Barrett and was now getting an ear massage from the new hire.

  Smiling, I pushed open the door, and we walked across the parking lot toward my truck. “So, No Count is dead?”

  Opening the door, I climbed in; she did the same on the other side. “So it would appear.”

  “And the woman is at the motel?”

  “Yep, along with the grandson, Bass, later this afternoon.”

  “Are we bailing out the KGB guy and putting him at the Blue Gables too?”

  “Probably not.”

  “We could do it like an Agatha Christie—I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today . . .”

  I started my truck and headed north. “You miss a lot when you go home to bed.”

  “Didn’t miss a night’s sleep.” She turned to gaze at me. “You look like shit.”

  Negotiating the ramp at the edge of town, I eased onto I-90. “Thanks.”

  She lodged her boots up on my dash. “No, you really do.”

  I slipped on my sunglasses in an attempt at creditable appearance. “Really, thanks.”

  She watched the early morning scenery whiz by as the sun rose, illuminating the mountains to my left and highlighting the small remainder of snow at their tops.

  After a while, I asked. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She turned, looking straight ahead at the road. “So, Ruby’s calling it quits? We’d spoken about it a few times.”

  I passed a group of lingering minivans in the right-hand lane. “I think she’s just tired.”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced at her again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I just liked having at least one other woman on the force.”

  I drove on. “Me too.”

  12

  The Sheridan County sheriff was kind enough to loan us his interrogation room, so we did not have to look at Serge through Plexiglas. Vic was enjoying posing in front of the two-way mirror. “So, this is what a real sheriff’s department looks like?”

  “Big sheriff’s department.”

  She vogued some more and then turned to look at me, her hand on her hip.

  “So, Serge kicked some guy in the head in a bar fight?”

  “Just a little old-fashioned fun—some nineteen-year-old. I guess there was an altercation, and the kid swung at Serge, missed, slipped, and then fell on the ground. Boshirov kicked him and unfortunately connected with the kid’s head—knocked him out cold. From what Branden told me, the kid woke up about three hours ago and decided not to press charges. So, unless we discover something, Serge goes free after he talks to us.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “I don’t think Carson has relayed that to him, no.”

  The door jostled and then opened, revealing Serge Boshirov and the Sheridan County sheriff, Carson Brandes, himself. The massive prisoner smirked upon seeing me and then held his belly-chain handcuffs out to Carson. “You want him loose?”

  “Sure.”

  As Brandes uncuffed him, Boshirov smirked some more and then spoke in his adenoidal voice. “You are sure you handle me?”

  I turned to Vic. “You got the rubber hose?”

  She patted herself, coming up empty. “I thought we were just going to kneecap him, but they took our weapons.”

  He sat in the plastic chair across the metal desk from us and straightened his orange jumpsuit, and I had to wonder where Brandes had gotten one that big—the Big & Tall Prisoner shop? “That would be violation of my Geneva Convention rights.”

  “You’re not involved in an armed conflict, so the convention doesn’t pertain to you.”

  He looked uncertain.

  “I know that because I was actually in the military.”

  He looked even more uncertain.

  “Unlike you.” I glanced up at Carson. “I bet you’ve got better things to do.”

  He backed away, twirling the cuffs in one hand. “I did, but this is getting interesting.”

  I stared at the prisoner. “I hear you’ve been doing a little head-kicking.”

  He smirked. “I am bad man.”

  “I heard the victim is nineteen years old and half your size?”

  He open
ed his hands in absolution. “My training, it kick in.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes for effect. “Look, we can do this one of two ways . . .”

  “Serge Boshirov, Militsiya VDV Spetsnaz, Spetsial’nyy Otryad Bystrogo Reagirovaniya, special attaché to OMON units, SOBR Terek—and of course, KGB.” He sat there, crossing his arms and looking supremely satisfied with himself and his knowledge of the alphabet.

  I turned to Vic. “Sounds pretty impressive, huh?”

  She snorted, and he glanced at her and then back at me, perhaps not quite so sure of himself. “Serge ol’ buddy, I have good friends in the intelligence community, and I had them do a little digging on your background, and it wasn’t too difficult in that everybody was willing to tell us what a piece of crap you are.” Pulling a manila folder from under my leg, I tossed it onto the table between us.

  He stared at it like it was a bowl of poisonous borscht and then ran a hand through his hair. “What is you think you know?”

  Vic laughed. “Enough to know that you are one major bullshit artist.” She reached out and flipped open the folder, revealing his youthful arrest photo and reams of printed material. “First off, you’re not even Russian, you’re Chechen. You were a driver for Ivan Gorinsky in Urus-Martan where he made a fortune for himself working meat import scams with the Russians and starving his own people. From there you graduated to working for Mikhial Kodorkovsky, who made his fortune by taking over the energy giant Yukos during the ‘Wild East’ period in the nineties, but then you got caught screwing his housekeeper and had to run for your life.” She looked at him. “Showing up in Bulgaria, where you were arrested for stealing women’s lingerie.”

  He looked a little uncomfortable. “Underwears in great demand at that time.”

  She continued reading. “Then, for some reason, you were released and made your way to Napoli, where you were once again detained for not paying import taxes on outgoing shipments . . .”

  “It was drug charge.”

  Vic made a sound like a buzzer in a game show. “The detector test determined that is a lie, goombah; says here it was sex toys.”

  Carson chuckled.

  Looking a lot less sure of himself, Boshirov mumbled, “Must be mistake.”

  “I don’t think so. The next time you surfaced in an official capacity was because of a child pornography ring in London . . .” “My, you are one greasy, slimy, worldly thug, aren’t you?”

  “Look . . .”

  “Finally coming to rest in Baltimore, as if that city doesn’t have enough problems. And got yourself associated with Philippe Lehman as a driver and bodyguard by passing yourself off as ex-KGB.”

  “You think what you wish.”

  “Look, fuckwit, the Committee for State Security, or KGB, as the direct successor of Cheka, NKGB, NKVD, and MGB, was dissolved in 1991—what, you worked for all these agencies when you were twelve?”

  “Assassins can do trade any age.”

  “Evidently, so can bullshit artists.” She sat and then leaned back in her chair. “You’re a small-time driver and child pornographer who sells neon dildos, and I wouldn’t touch you with a proverbial ten-foot pole.” She leaned forward and stared at him. “So, are you going to play ball or are we going to ship you off to one of the multiple global organizations that would gladly hang you up by your gonads and use you for guard dog practice?”

  He studied her for a good long while and then stammered, “What . . . what you want to know?”

  I stated it with as much matter-of-fact as I could. “Who killed Philippe Lehman?”

  He stared at me, his eyes finally growing wide.

  “If that’s who you think was going to sweep in and get you out of this mess, then you’ve got some rethinking to do.”

  His voice wasn’t much above a whisper. “Philippe is dead?”

  Vic glanced at me. “That was pretty good, really.”

  “It was.”

  “Stanislavski-like, almost.”

  Serge glanced at Carson, who nodded, and then looked back at the two of us. “He is dead for true?”

  “It would appear.”

  “But who kill him?”

  I stood and walked over to the mirror but quickly turned to avoid the view. “We had a chat about that, and funny enough your name came up—at least until we dug up your past, which, as tawdry as it might be, hasn’t included any acts of violence until now.”

  Serge sprang up. “That cowboy boy, he crazy . . . I bump into him, and he swing at me. He slip and fall and as I was try to get away, I happen to step on head, but I not mean to kick him.”

  Carson stepped over and put a hand on Serge’s shoulder, carefully but firmly placing him back in the plastic chair.

  Boshirov placed his head in his hands and sobbed suddenly. “I try so hard to live good life, but I getting with bad people.” Raising his face, he shook his head. “I not mean to hurt boy.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Philippe Lehman.”

  Wiping his eyes, he sniffed. “What?”

  “Philippe Lehman?”

  “The count, I drive for him. Sometimes I stand around and look tough, but he never ask me hurt anybody, just be there so look like I hurt people. Difficult situation in Russia long time ago, there was period when I help him get into certain places and help with certain things.”

  “Like Katrina Dejean?”

  His face suddenly took on a look of concern. “She all right?”

  “She’s fine, a little shaken up, but fine.” I sighed, studying the concrete floor. “What about Conrad Westin?”

  He wiped his face some more. “The things I help with? Different. People I deal with, not so fancy, but full of power.”

  “Was it someone like that who was trying to buy the Custer painting?”

  He stared at me.

  “Cassilly Adams’s Custer’s Last Fight; bigger than a bread box?”

  He snarled out the next words. “That fucking painting, I think it not exist.”

  “Really?”

  “Philippe pay the man, but we no see painting.”

  “The count paid a million dollars in cash for a painting without seeing it?”

  Serge nodded. “He see photographs, but competition so great that he pay man before seeing.”

  “And just for the record that man would be Charley Lee Stillwater?”

  Boshirov shrugged. “Black man in soldier home, yes?”

  “Yes.” I placed my elbows on the table, palming my face with both hands and speaking through my fingers. “Okay, just so I get this straight . . . Charley Lee gets the word out that this painting is in existence and available for sale, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “How?”

  He looked confused. “How what?”

  “How do you sell a legendary painting, which supposedly no longer exists, on the black market, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  For the first time he smiled, I’m sure at my naivete. “Very simple to do on internet. In this time, nobody believe old man actually have painting, but the count, he research and find man and speak to him since he is living local.”

  “So, Philippe and Katrina talked to the old guys in front of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home?”

  “Yes, funny old mans in wheelchairs with flags.”

  “And finally Charley Lee.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, walk me through this. Charley Lee shows the count the photos, and Philippe gives him the million dollars in the boot box . . .”

  “No, was in IGA grocery bag.”

  I uncovered my face and looked at him. “Well, I’m glad it was something secure.”

  “Yes.”

  Apparently, irony was not one of the languages he spoke. “So, what happened then?”

  “We meet o
ld black man at soldier home late one night, but he not show up.”

  I sat back in the chair and sighed. “Bingo.”

  Vic snorted. “Oh, shit.”

  “Next thing we know, old man is dead. So, no painting.”

  “Who took the proof?”

  He looked genuinely confused. “Proof of what?”

  I stood and walked away, one of my old interviewing techniques. “The small painting that I had that was stolen at the Buffalo Bill Center for the West. I’m assuming that was you?”

  “I no know what you talk about.”

  “You didn’t knock the conservator on the head over in Cody and run off with a small painting of a cavalryman and Indian fighting?”

  “No. Who says I do this?”

  I leaned forward. “Nobody, but you were my number one suspect. Where were you the night of the ball? I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was in hotel, watching football game; soccer.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No, but I order room service three times.” He patted his substantial stomach. “It was big match, and I get nervous, and when nervous I eat.”

  “Who trashed Charley Lee’s room?”

  “What room?”

  I walked back over to the desk. “At the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, somebody tore the place apart in an attempt to find the painting. Either they found it or found out where it might’ve been hidden.”

  “So, painting is true?”

  “Well, the place where it might’ve been hidden exists.”

  He shook his head. “Not me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “This not something the count tell me to do and only do what count tell me do.”

  “Wasn’t he a little upset about losing the million dollars?”

  He shrugged. “Saw it as reasonable business expense on black market. I am sure would like million dollars back, but he dead, yes?”

  “Possibly.”

  He folded his arms, sat back in his chair, and took on a different demeanor. “As legitimate business partner, I would to lay claim to million dollars.”

  I stared at him. “We’ll get to that.”

  “I prefer original the cash, if please.”

  “Right . . . So, you mentioned that there were other people who might’ve been interested in the painting?”