Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Yes, there is always market is interested.” He smiled. “The heavy-lined pocket.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Were any of them actually here?”

  “Here?”

  “Physically, in Wyoming?”

  “Yes, once other buyers realize the count is interested in painting, they think it is real.”

  “You know who ‘they’ are?”

  He tossed off the next remark. “Some of them were in bar the night I meet you.”

  I thought back to the group of people who had been there, at first not so happy to see a sheriff in their midst. “Do you know their names?”

  He cleared his throat and looked at the table, and I couldn’t help but think that he was sorry he’d mentioned them. “No.”

  “Kiki.” He looked at me, and the fear there was palpable. “A man named Kiki, Klavdii Krovopuskov, with a woman by the name of Nadia. Russians. You know them?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? They were at the table that night and leaving by private jet.”

  He was breathing funny, almost panting. “It is mistake.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, I can check with my sources and find out who he is.”

  His eyes widened a bit. “Do not do that.”

  “Why?”

  He glanced around the locked room. “You be sorry if you do.”

  “Really? Well, now you’ve peaked my interest. Who is he?”

  “Krovopuskov, it means . . .” He was literally sweating at this point. “What is translation? Bloodletter.”

  I glanced at Vic first and then Sheriff Brandes. “The Bloodletter?”

  He shook his head, gesturing with his hands. “Bloodletter, as to bleed the persons.”

  I stared at the man. “Charming—and what does this bloodletter do?”

  His hands froze there between us when he suddenly withdrew them and folded them, sticking them under his arms. “I say too much.”

  “You think this Krovopuskov might be the buyer of the painting in question?”

  “I say nothing.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  He sat there with his arms folded, refusing to make eye contact.

  “I said, do you know where he is?”

  He still didn’t answer but turned to Sheriff Brandes. “I will need the lawyer now.”

  The Sheridan County sheriff glanced at me, indicating that the jig was up and unless I could find some other reason to hold him, he is going to have to let Serge free as the proverbial Russian or Chechen bird.

  Vic leaned in. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you want to tell us?”

  “Lawyer.” He stared at the surface of the table. “And I want cell phone.”

  * * *

  —

  “No one has ever heard of him, and that’s what worries me.”

  I held the phone in the crook of my neck. “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He said the plane was his. Now how can he have a jet licensed in the US and not have his name pop up anywhere?”

  Donna Johnson sounded as exasperated as I felt. “Corporate or group ownership . . . I’ll have the logs checked in Cody, but like I said, he’s a ghost, Walt.”

  “Do you think that’s his real name?”

  “Difficult to say, but the literal translation is bloodletter.”

  “Where do you get a name like that?”

  “Oh, I can think of a number of places . . . So, Boshirov hit the bricks?”

  “For now, but he seems to think he has a right to the million bucks the late count paid for the painting that may or may not exist.”

  “You’re sure Lehman is dead?”

  “I’m not sure of anything in this case, but like Woody said, nobody loses that much blood and lives . . .”

  “The Bloodletter?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks, Donna.” I hung up the phone and stared at my undersheriff staring at me from across my desk. “Bass Townsend?”

  “Still asleep in his room.”

  “Katrina Dejean?”

  “Sitting in our office, waiting for you to finish playing Longmire, Secret Agent.”

  “We need to go to the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home.”

  “Do we finally get to use the rubber hose?”

  “Maybe.” I stood, and she followed me into the main office where Katrina sat, typing on a laptop. “Klavdii Krovopuskov.”

  She looked up at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Klavdii Krovopuskov. Ever heard the name?”

  “A friend of Philippe’s.”

  I sat in the wooden chair beside her. “What do you know about him?”

  “He collects art.”

  “He was there at the bar in Cody the other night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he be involved in all of this?”

  She closed the laptop. “I don’t know. I have only met him twice, there at the Irma and at an opening in San Francisco years ago.”

  “Could he be attempting to acquire the Adams painting?”

  “It’s possible—he has a fascination with the American West, and as I recall he was a patron of Philippe’s.”

  “A patron?”

  “Philippe procured art for a number of clients, and even if he was never referred to in that fashion, the relationship between the two at least gave the appearance of being close.”

  “Any reason Krovopuskov would want to do the count ill?”

  “None that I know of, why?”

  “Someone ran off with my study, someone ransacked Charley Lee’s room, someone may have killed Philippe Lehman, and I’m fresh out of suspects. Did von Lehman have a million to spare in attempting to buy the Adams painting, or would he have needed backers?”

  She laughed.

  “Something funny?”

  She opened the laptop again and turned it toward me. “Aside from being one of Philippe’s personal assistants, I was also at least partially in charge of his finances.” She tilted the screen back. “As you can see from this spreadsheet, he was about four million dollars in debt.”

  I scanned the screen, and what she said certainly appeared to be the case. “So, he wouldn’t have had an extra million in cash lying around?”

  “It’s possible but highly unlikely.”

  “So, where can I find Klavdii Krovopuskov?”

  She closed the computer. “I have no idea.”

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “I don’t mean to be unhelpful, I simply don’t know.”

  I nodded, turning to Ruby, the font of all knowledge. “See if you can get Sheridan County Detective Lori Saunders on her cell phone for me?” I turned back to Katrina. “Where would Philippe keep his contact information, address book, cell phone, computer files, Rolodex?”

  Katrina thought. “He had a small black-leather book that he kept on him that he would refer to occasionally. He never put anything down on the computer or cell phone in that he didn’t trust them.”

  “I know how he felt.”

  “Walt, Lori, line one.”

  I got up, approached the dispatcher’s counter, and took the phone from the Font. “Hey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you at Philippe Lehman’s place?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Could you do me a favor and keep an eye out for a small black-leather book with names, addresses, and phone numbers?”

  There was a jostling as she adjusted the phone. “Something like the one I’m holding in my hand as we speak?”

  “Possibly.”

  “French manufacture with a small sterling-silver pen attached?”

  I turned back to Kat
rina. “Does the leather book have a sterling-silver pen attached?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s the one. Can you look and see if there’s contact information for a Klavdii Krovopuskov?”

  There was a pause. “You wanna spell that?”

  “Like it sounds.”

  “Right.” She rustled around, and I could hear the pages flipping. “You’re never looking for a John Smith, you know?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  There was another pause. “Nothing.”

  “At all?”

  “Nothing as close as I can get to the spelling of that name, K-L-A-V-D-I?”

  “Close enough. What about Kiki?”

  “K-I-K-I?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, he’s got a whole page to himself—addresses, phone numbers, email addresses, even bank account and routing numbers.”

  Pulling a Post-it from Ruby’s pad, I snatched a pen. “Cell phone, please.”

  “There are five of them.”

  “Is there a US one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me that one.” She read the number, and I scribbled it down. “Hey Lori, take a photo of all that information and text it over to Vic, would you?”

  “You trying to catch my murderer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I want an executive producer credit.”

  “You got it.” I gave the phone back to Ruby and turned, walking over and handing the number to Katrina. “Call him.”

  She stared at the number and then up at me. “Why me?”

  “He sees this call is from the sheriff’s department, then he may not answer.”

  She nodded, then punched the number, and held on to the phone for a bit before placing it to her ear. After a moment, she started and then spoke. “Hello?” There was another pause, and I could hear someone speaking on the line. Her response seemed strained. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Krovopuskov?”

  Extending my hand, I gestured for her to give me the phone, which she did. “This is Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire, and I need to speak with Klavdii Krovopuskov.”

  “This is Mr. Krovopuskov’s personal secretary, can I help you?”

  The voice sounded familiar. “Mr. Westin?”

  “Yes, can I help you, Sheriff?”

  Convenient. “Is Mr. Krovopuskov there, wherever you are?”

  “Sheridan, and no, he’s not here.”

  “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “I can give you some numbers—all of which he most certainly will not answer—or I can contact him myself and have him get in touch with you, if that would suffice.”

  “I guess it’ll have to.”

  “Is this the number you would like him to call?”

  “No.” I gave him the number of the office and then hung up, figuring if I ever heard back from anybody it would be a miracle.

  “So, how long are you going to give him?”

  I handed Katrina her phone and then turned to Vic and frowned. “About an hour, then I’ll call Mr. Westin back and impress upon him the importance of the murder investigation in which we’re involved.”

  I turned back to Ruby. “Bass Townsend?”

  “Still resting in his cabin.”

  Katrina put her phone into her purse. “The grandson of the man who had the painting? The one in the cabin next to mine?”

  “Yep.”

  “He seems like a nice man.”

  “A suddenly rich man, that’s for sure.” I studied her. “What are your plans?”

  “I really don’t know.” She twisted the expensive rings on her finger. “I had no official standing with Philippe, so I suppose I’m out on the streets.”

  “You might want to contact the Sheridan Sheriff’s Department to see when you can go back in the house for your belongings.”

  “I will.”

  “Did the count have any family?”

  “No, I’m afraid the creditors will be the only ones picking the bones.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She gathered her things and headed down the steps. “I’d like to stay in touch? I’m curious as to how this is all going to play out.”

  “I’ve got your number, and I promise to keep you in the loop. If you decide to leave the state I’d appreciate a call.”

  She stared up at me. “I’m still a suspect?”

  “Nope, just an interested personage.”

  She smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

  Watching her go, Vic leaned against the wall by the stairs. “Are we going to the Veterans’ Home, ’cause if we’re not, I’m going to go study the options catalog for my new truck.”

  “I’m going to the Home, but you don’t have to.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world—besides, it might be walleye and Tater Tots or pizza.”

  “We live in hope.” We’d just started down the steps when the phone rang. Ruby picked up the receiver and simply handed it to me. “Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire.”

  Sheriff Carson Brandes’s voice rang in my ear with all the finality of the bell on a ten-round bout. “All right, get your ass over to aisle thirteen in frozen foods—your buddy Serge Boshirov was found dead up at the rest stop on I-90.”

  13

  “This is the last time I’m ever letting you in my county.”

  I kneeled, studying the dead body as flies buzzed in the high grass around the mound of flesh that until recently had been Serge Boshirov. “It’s not my fault.”

  “You should start your own funeral home.” Sheriff Brandes kneeled beside me. “You know, keep it in-house.”

  “Shot?”

  He nodded curtly. “9mm.”

  “Smallish caliber for a man this big.”

  “Not in the back of the head it’s not.”

  Vic joined us and watched as Woodson and the DCI crew gridded the scene and gathered evidence into plastic bags. After seeing me, the director of DCI and thwarted fly-fisherman walked over in his yellow jumpsuit.

  Vic looked him up and down. “Nice Tyvek.”

  Pulling his hood back, he lowered his glasses and mask and smiled through his beard at my undersheriff. “Thank you—DuPont Tychem.”

  “The yellow is a nice change.”

  He nodded. “Keeps us from getting run over sometimes.”

  Vic gestured toward the body. “So, he’s dead?”

  “Through deliberate and diligent detection, we’ve ascertained that he is, indeed, dead.”

  “Long dead?”

  He looked at her. “I’d say about four hours.”

  “So, right after the interview at the Sheridan jail?”

  “Couldn’t have been too long after.”

  I got up and turned to Carson, who was still kneeling. “You’ve got security cameras in front of the jail?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Anybody pick him up?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look at the footage, but I’ll check with the front desk.” He glanced around. “Kind of isolated over here on the scenic loop. People sometimes walk their dogs, but unless you want a view of the Montana border there really isn’t any reason to come this direction—all the services are down the other way.”

  “Close range?”

  Woody turned to me. “Very. He’s got powder burns all over the back of his head. Hell, part of his hair caught on fire, but that might just be because of the amount of hair product.” He smiled. “Maybe it was Vic.”

  “She was with me.”

  Woody shrugged, his yellow hazmat suit crinkling. “Back to zero.”

  Looking at the pull-out, I could see the dry dirt and gravel ceding to the Johnson grass and thistle. “Vehicle tracks?” />
  “Plenty of passenger cars and pickup trucks, take your pick.”

  “He didn’t walk here in that amount of time.”

  “No.”

  “So, somebody picks him up and drives him up here and gets him out of the car and then walks up behind him and shoots him in the head.”

  “Sounds like the most plausible of scenarios.”

  “I need tracks, all of them.”

  Woody nodded. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He called over part of his crew.

  I turned back toward the body. “Cell phone?”

  Woody shrugged. “Not yet.”

  “It should be around here, he was preoccupied with the thing.” Turning back to Carson, I mended fences. “You don’t mind if I take point on this?”

  He gestured toward the dubious surroundings. “Be my guest, just keep me tight in the loop and credit me in the papers.”

  “Deal.” Taking a few steps to the right, I placed my hands on my hips and stared at the recently departed. It was true that he wasn’t a man I particularly liked, but fate had brought him in contact with me and now he was dead and that made me partially responsible.

  Who did he know?

  Who would he trust?

  Who would kill him and why?

  “Earth to Walt.” I turned and looked at her as she smiled. “So, you’re getting pissed, huh?” She stood beside me, toeing a tuft of grass. “There’s always a point where you start taking it personally. I like that part because that’s when shit starts happening, and I like when shit starts happening.” She turned her face toward me, listening as I clenched my fists, like a cinch being tightened on a saddle. “So, is shit about to start happening?”

  “I believe so.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and joined me in gazing at the dead man. “God, I love my chosen profession.”

  * * *

  —

  We were speeding across the ridge along the Bighorn Mountains that separated it from Lake Desmet, running through the potential suspects, but not coming up with much more than we already knew.

  “So, if we find the painting we find the killer?”

  “Possibly, but if you’ve got the painting, why kill Serge or the count for that matter?”

  She lodged her boots on my dash like she always did. “Covering your tracks?”