Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “I always mean to tell you, if we were ever in a crash, the airbags on this thing expand at about a hundred miles an hour and are going to drive your kneecaps through your collarbones.”

  “I guess my new truck will have airbags, right?” She shrugged. “Anyway, not with my catlike reflexes.” She turned back toward me, moving her legs and placing her feet in my lap. “Anything from DCI on the murder scene in Story?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “How the hell do you get rid of a body like that, roll it up in a priceless painting?”

  I glanced at her.

  “Just a thought.” We were interrupted when her phone rang with the Philadelphia Eagles fight song. She fished around to her back pocket and answered. “What fresh hell is this?” There was a pause. “He’s right here, hold on.” She made an exaggerated look of shock and then covered the phone. “It’s Klavdii Krovopuskov.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  Luckily, there was a truck pull-off where the 18-wheelers could strap on their chains only a quarter mile ahead, and I took the phone as I eased into the parking area that had a marvelous view of Blacktooth Mountain. “Mr. Krovopuskov?”

  “Hello, Sheriff, I hear there has been a terrible accident?”

  I lowered the windows to let in a little air and switched off the engine. “Well, I’m not so sure it’s an accident. Do you mind if I ask where you are?”

  “Helsinki.”

  It was a surprisingly good line from about a quarter of the way around the world. “Finland.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long have you been there?”

  “Well, the flight was the night I left your company there in Wyoming.”

  “I see.”

  He laughed. “You sound disappointed.”

  “No, not particularly, but I’m sorry to tell you that two of your associates are possibly dead.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, Philippe Lehman and Serge Boshirov.”

  “Who?”

  “The count’s bodyguard and driver?”

  “The fat one.”

  “He was rather large, yes.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Shot.”

  “Conrad Westin informed me Philippe had been killed . . . was he shot too?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  There was a silence on the crystal-clear line. “You think I had something to do with this?”

  “Not necessarily, but you did know both victims.”

  “Not really. Philippe was a business associate, and I did not know this man Boshirov at all.”

  “Funny, he claimed to know you.”

  “A lot of people claim to know me, Sheriff.” A moment passed, and I was acutely aware of the tenuous thread that connected me to this man, fully aware that all he had to do was hang up, and I would never have the opportunity to speak to him again. “This is a murder investigation, yes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you like me to come back to Wyoming?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think that’s necessary at this point . . .”

  “I can be there in twelve hours, where is the nearest airport from your town?”

  “Well, Durant has an airport.”

  “How long is the runway?”

  “I . . . I honestly don’t know.”

  “Never mind, I will find out.”

  The phone went transatlantic dead in my hand, and I gave it back to Vic. “What?”

  “He’ll be here in twelve hours.”

  “From Finland?”

  I nodded, started the truck, and pulled back onto the highway as she postulated. “Do you ever get the feeling that there are people out there who are living lives that we know absolutely nothing about?”

  “I’m pretty certain of it.”

  “So, he was flying to Helsinki when both of these individuals were killed and has an ironclad alibi?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Then why is he coming back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The borscht thickens.”

  * * *

  —

  When we pulled into the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, “Spooky,” by the Classics IV, was blaring into the empty parking lot from the speakers above. Taking the closest parking spot, I got out and stretched my back, feeling a stitch in my side.

  “You know, I might just start hanging around in this parking lot when I get my new truck.”

  I sighed.

  “What, you don’t like this music?”

  I started toward the glass doors of the main building. “It reminds me of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the Tet Offensive.”

  Carol Williams was waiting for us in the entryway. “I’ve got them corralled in the library section of the recreation room, but they’re restless.”

  “I’ll try not to say anything that might touch them off—we don’t want a stampede.”

  She smiled and led us into the interior of the building, where we wound our way down the corridors, finally making a left by the ramp next to the pool table, which led us into the open area where I’d been before.

  The four flagships were in field presentation, the major branches of the armed forces sitting in their wheelchairs with their arms collectively folded. They ignored me with Talmudic concentration.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “We didn’t do anything.” Clifton unfolded his arms, but then with nothing else to do with them, adjusted his boonie hat.

  “Well, for starters, what do you suppose I think you did?”

  “Stole that painting.” Delmar blurted it out before realizing what he’d said and then glanced at the others before slamming his mouth shut.

  Kenny turned to him. “Damn it, Delmar.”

  Trying to hide a smile, I addressed all of them. “And what painting is that?” They tightened their folded arms in a collective wall of silence. “All right, guys, let me tell you what I think I know and then you better start filling in the blanks, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Ray fixed me with a defiant glare.

  “I’ll bust all of you. As near as I can tell the painting in question is the property of the United States government and theft thereof is in direct violation of federal law, which means I can charge all of you as accessories in a conspiratorial act on a federal level akin to terrorism. Now that means I’ll be dishonorably discharging all of you, and you’ll be relieved of your military benefits.”

  Vic, having walked past them to stare out the window, turned to glance at me with a wide-eyed look, fully aware that this was an inordinate and monumental display of horseshit.

  Figuring I needed to ratchet it up yet another notch, I turned to Carol. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  She fixed them with a hard stare. “Pizza.”

  The four horseman looked at one another, torn at the thought of being deprived, Navy grumbling at Air Force. “I told you it wouldn’t work.”

  “Shut up, Kenny.”

  “You shut up, Ray.”

  The airman grunted. “He was always talking about that damn painting, about how it was going to be his retirement.” He gestured to the area around them. “Like he wasn’t already retired here in God’s Waiting Room.”

  “Tell me about the painting—you’ve seen it?”

  Clifton grumbled a response. “Oh, we called bullshit on it so many times that he finally hauled it out and showed it to us.”

  Kenny added. “With some help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That thing was huge, and with all of us in wheelchairs it was kind of unwieldy, if you catch my
drift.”

  “So, who helped?”

  None of them spoke.

  “Gentlemen, if you don’t cooperate with me on this, I will make sure that you never see another pizza as long as you live.”

  “Magic Mike Bursaw.”

  Semper fi.

  I thought about the second floor window, plastered with stickers, and the speakers blaring 60’s music over the parking lot. “The disc jockey?”

  “Yeah, him. He’s a big guy and could carry the thing.” Delmar the marine rolled his chair backward and pointed toward a large event table. “Late one night, Charley Lee got Mike to wrestle the thing out here and unroll it on the table, rolled the damn thing right off the end of the table in fact, and started off down the hallway.”

  Navy nodded. “Mike’s big, but he ain’t real handy.”

  Army added his two cents. “Deaf as a post.”

  Air Force affirmed. “All that damn rock and roll music or working the decks on an aircraft carrier and didn’t wear his ear protection.”

  I sighed as they collectively nodded. “When was this?”

  “Vietnam.”

  I sighed. “No, when was the last time you saw the painting?”

  “About a month ago, when the Russians showed up.”

  Navy added. “He’s deaf-mute, now how the hell did working on an aircraft carrier rob him of speech?”

  Ignoring him, I tried to get the conversation back on the rails. “Then what happened to the painting?”

  Air Force shrugged. “Waddaya mean, ‘then what’? Mike rolled it up and carried it back to Charley Lee’s room.”

  “And that was the last you saw of it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marine Corps spoke up. “We tried to get him to cut it up.”

  Vic glanced at me again and then addressed the man. “What?”

  “Well, it was a big ol’ thing, so we thought he could cut it up and share it. You know, give us all a piece for our retirement.”

  I smiled and massaged the bridge of my nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Did he happen to tell you how he came into possession of the painting?”

  Clifton took the lead. “Said he saved it from a fire in Texas.”

  “Fort Bliss in ’46?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So, he stole it?”

  “No, he didn’t.” I said nothing and waited as the old soldier pulled at his lower lip. “He told me about it after he showed us the damn thing, about how he worked in the commissary connected to the officers’ club, washing dishes in the kitchen when the place caught on fire. He said it was bad, an old wood building that went up like rice paper and kindling. The CO was a real asshole and ordered them into this thing to try and save the silverware and whatnot, but nobody said anything about the painting. Anyway, Charley Lee went back in three times, the next-to-last time hauling one of his buddies out by covering the two of them up with the only thing that was handy . . .”

  “The painting.”

  Clifton nodded. “With the heat, whatever it was they glued the thing to the wall with let go and it was lying there on the floor. Charley Lee said that the rafters were falling and there was fire everywhere and that covering themselves up with the painting was the only thing that saved ’em.”

  “Go on.”

  “When they got out the CO started screaming at them for not getting the company loving cup or some nonsense, and Charley Lee started to tell him about the painting but the piece of shit tells him to shut up and get to policing the area, and Charley Lee does as he’s told and hauled the painting away—rolling it up and throwing it in a trash bin. Later that night he was coming back from taking a shower and the damn thing was still there, so he took it. And I don’t blame him one damn bit.”

  “He had it all these years?”

  “In his closet.”

  “Where did the smaller painting come from, the proof?”

  They looked at me blankly.

  “Never mind about that. You gentlemen are aware that the painting is no longer in Charley Lee’s room, right?”

  They looked genuinely surprised. “It’s not?”

  “No, it’s not.” I looked at each of them, one by one. “Do any of you have even the slightest idea as to who might’ve taken it?”

  Delmar looked at me like I was the fort idiot. “Told ya, Russians.”

  “Did any of you actually see Russians take it?”

  They all looked at one another.

  “I mean, physically see Russians in here taking it?” They were silent, for the first time. “Is there anything else you think you should tell me?”

  They looked at one another once again and then agreed, Kenny the first to speak. “No.”

  “If you think of anything more, any of you, will you tell me?”

  They nodded.

  I turned and headed back into the main building. “Let’s go.”

  Vic and Carol trailed after, Vic pulling up beside me. “Where?”

  “To make a request, with a bullet.”

  * * *

  —

  “He can be difficult.”

  I paused. “Is he really deaf-mute?”

  Carol nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Then how do you communicate with him?”

  “We have a staff member, Diane Morris, who knows sign language, but . . .”

  “Is she around?”

  “I doubt it, she generally works nights.”

  “I can sign.” We both stopped on the landing between the stairs, and I turned to look at my undersheriff, who rested her hands on her hips. “What?”

  “You can sign?”

  “Yeah, I learned from the kid who worked the snack shack at the pool where I lifeguarded every summer back in Philly. I might be a little rusty, but I think I can get the thought across.”

  I shook my head. “Wonders never cease.”

  “Sympathy for the Devil” rattled the door in its frame. Above was a glowing red light that read ON THE AIR.

  I looked at Carol. “It’s just wired to the lights in his room, maintenance did it kind of as a joke, but at least you can always tell if he’s home or if you need him to answer the door. He’s even got a text-to-speech recorder for when he needs to use the phone.” She raised a hand and flipped the light on and off.

  Nothing happened for a few moments, and then the volume of the music dropped a bit as Carol reflipped the switch. “He’s used to us asking him to lower the volume on the music.”

  She continued flipping the switch, and finally the knob turned and the door opened approximately three inches. There was a lot of hair and one luminescent blue eye, which stared out at us.

  “Hi, Mike Bursaw?” Vic ran her tongue over her teeth and smiled a Pepsodent smile, making a quick movement with her hands as he continued to stare at her with the one eye. She signed. “Can we come in?”

  His hand, decorated with numerous rings and bracelets, the index and middle finger being taped together like a bird’s mouth, came out the door as he signed back.

  Vic, undeterred, made the same gesture and a bit more. “No, really?” She persisted, her hands dancing. “We’re from the sheriff’s department and have a few questions?” He didn’t respond but didn’t close the door either.

  I spoke as Vic turned to look at me. “You know the Stones didn’t play the song for seven years after the stabbing at the Altamont Speedway Concert in ’69?”

  She translated, and he opened the door a little more.

  I began again. “Bobby Kennedy was killed the day Jagger started writing the song, but you probably know that.”

  She translated, but the door didn’t move.

  Vic stared at him and then joined in singing and signing the chorus. “Whoo, whoo . . .”

  The door swung open a bit, a
nd she leaned forward, peered inside, then pushed it open and disappeared. We followed. I went in after Carol and stood there looking at the floor-to-ceiling racks of old 45s. “Good Lord.”

  There were thousands of records that took up every inch of available wall space, all carefully arranged in the wire racks with labels noting the artists. Fishing nets and tie-dyed fabric covered the ceiling and incense burned on a sideboard where an elaborate turntable spun the Stones, seven more singles stacked above the needle, ready to drop.

  Magic Mike was nowhere to be seen but soon returned through a beaded curtain that covered an opening that looked like it had been sledgehammered through the concrete blocks. He was carrying what I assumed to be a cup of tea and handed it to Vic. Then he glanced at us.

  Carol nodded, and he disappeared again.

  I gazed around the room, especially at the psychedelic-looking painted floor with sweeping stars and galaxies. “I feel like I just fell into the Velvet Underground.”

  Carol slipped sideways and looked into the homemade expansion. “We may be the only ones who’ve been in here since the Nixon administration.”

  He returned with two more mugs with fluttering tea tags and then gestured toward the four beanbag chairs that slouched on the floor. Doing the best I could to leverage myself down, I joined the others as we sat and got a better look at Magic Mike Bursaw.

  He wore a wool watch cap, his hair, a mottled explosion of black with gray streaks blossoming from under the elastic and trailing over his shoulders and down his back, where it joined with a massive beard of the same color that sprouted out from his face and dropped down to an impressive stomach. He was wearing a pair of brown sweatpants and a faded Hawaiian shirt.

  Both hands were completely encased in rings and bracelets, and he studied all of us for a moment, but mostly concentrated his attention on Vic.

  The record changer finished up with the Rolling Stones and dropped Marianne Faithfull’s “Monday, Monday” as we sat there drinking tea. Getting Vic’s attention, I promoted the line of questioning I wanted to pursue. “Ask him if he knows Charley Lee Stillwater.”

  She made a few quick gestures, and I watched as he responded.

  Vic said nothing, so I asked. “What’d he say?”

  “He wants to know if we like our tea.”