Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Tell him it’s great, but he needs to answer my questions.”

  She translated, and he responded with a quick gesture as my undersheriff turned to look at me. “He wants to know why?”

  “Why, what?”

  Carol ventured. “Why answer your questions?”

  “No, I suppose why do we want to know if he knew Charley Lee Stillwater.”

  She made a series of gestures to which he responded, and she made a face. “No, he wants to know why we like the tea; he says he makes it himself from the herb garden in the old chicken shed. He says it’s a pu-erh, fermented and oxidized.”

  Carol nodded toward the back of the building. “The National Register of Historic Places chicken shed.”

  I nodded. “Tell him it’s the greatest tea I’ve ever had in my life, which is not much of a stretch.”

  To our surprise, Magic Mike laughed heartily.

  Carol nodded. “He reads lips pretty well.”

  I sighed, shook my head, and turned back to him. “Did you know Charley Lee?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you know about the painting he had?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you help him show it to the Wavers?”

  He nodded again.

  “And then put it back in the cubby behind the closet where Charley kept it hidden?”

  Mike nodded once more.

  “After he died, it was taken from his room, right?”

  He shrugged.

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve taken it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you ever see anybody talking or visiting with Charley Lee who seemed suspicious—people who shouldn’t have been around here?”

  He smiled, finally gesturing, and Vic translated. “You mean the Russians?”

  “Possibly. Which Russians?”

  He raised his face, then sipped his tea, and signed as Vic translated. “There was one man who was very heavy set, with another who had a head of wild-looking hair, and a woman.”

  “Blonde, small, attractive?”

  He glanced at Vic and signed. “Not as attractive as me, evidently.”

  “When did he see them?”

  There was a flurry of signing. “Charley Lee would talk to them on the porch of the administration building or out where the benches are near the old missiles park.” She paused for a moment. “He showed the woman the National Register of Historic Places chicken shed where he grows the herbs for his tea.” He turned back to Vic and gestured some more. “He’d like to know if we’d like to see his chicken coop.”

  “Maybe some other time.” Dropping the hand signs, she smiled. “Apparently, it’s pretty unique. He says he captures the rainwater in a cistern and uses that for a gravity-fed irrigation system.”

  Carol nodded. “It’s quite a layout.”

  “I’m sure it’s very interesting.”

  Vic watched him sign some more. “He says the chicken manure makes for a very rich soil content.”

  “I’m sure.” I put the mug on the floor. “Mike, when were the Russians here last?”

  He gestured, and Vic spoke. “The woman and the man with the hair were here about a month ago, and then the fat guy showed up asking some questions about a week ago. He showed him the historic chicken coop.”

  “The heavyset guy, Serge Boshirov, did he seem nervous or anything?”

  He answered in the negative.

  “Somebody killed him this morning.”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the news.

  “Yep, and it would appear that the guy with the hair, Count von Lehman, is also dead.”

  He said nothing.

  “You don’t have anything to say about that?”

  Not so surprisingly, he remained silent.

  “You seem kind of involved in all this.”

  He took a moment to respond with his hands as Vic spoke. “Not really, he says he just knew Charley Lee and helped him when he needed it, that’s all. Not against the law, is it?”

  It was about then that “I Fought the Law and the Law Won” dropped onto the turntable, the 45 catching traction as the needle fell.

  “Nope.” I studied him, and Vic signed my words. “You’re sure the woman was with Serge about a week ago?”

  He took his time, his face hidden in all the hair, and then stared at me and slowly nodded.

  I stood and looked at the record spinning. “That singer, Bobby Fuller, died in ’66 overcome by gasoline fumes from an open gas can in his unlocked car, no keys in the ignition. His body was covered in bruises, and he was soaked in fuel, a number of his fingers broken. The L.A. county coroner ruled his death a suicide, but then three months later they changed the cause of death to accidental asphyxiation.” I moved toward the door as the women joined me. “Personally, I think the record label mob connections were responsible, and they were getting ready to torch the car with Fuller in it when they got interrupted.”

  Bursaw still sat, looking up at me and signing as Vic spoke. “And you’re telling me this because?”

  The two women joined me at the door as I ushered them out and then turned to look back at Magic Mike. “It’s a big, dangerous world out there, and it’s important to have friends.”

  “By the way, I know you’re the one who called Bass Townsend and informed him that his grandfather was dead.”

  I turned the doorknob in my hand and slowly closed the door behind us as the song played on.

  14

  When we arrived back at the office, Barrett was sitting on my dispatcher’s counter. He was reading a copy of Outdoor Life with his hiking boots on Ruby’s desk.

  I stopped at the top of the stairs. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He looked up from his magazine. “It’s Friday.”

  “It is?”

  “Yep.”

  He stared at me as Vic joined us, and I turned to her. “Is it Friday?”

  “All day.”

  “Nobody tells me these things.” I turned back to the kid. “One of your jobs is going to be telling me what day it is.”

  “It’s Friday.”

  “You only have to do it once a day.”

  “Got it.”

  “Get your feet off Ruby’s desk.” Starting toward my office, I muttered. “What time is it?”

  “Am I responsible for that too?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “This job is far more wide-ranging than I thought.”

  I glanced up at Seth Thomas on the wall above the old fireplace and noted it was two minutes before five p.m. “Ruby leave early?”

  “Wow, two minutes before the hour is early around this place?”

  Vic nodded. “We run a tight ship.”

  Barrett lowered his feet and stood, then walked around the counter, and I had my first look at him in the uniform of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department. I had to admit, the kid looked pretty sharp. “You know you don’t have to wear that when you’re dispatching, right?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at himself. “I kind of like it—helps to remind me that the job is real.”

  I tried to hide the smile as best I could. “The thrill of the badge is what we used to call it, but it can get heavy after a while.”

  “I’m kind of enjoying it.” He actually polished his star with a cuff. “Ruby said I was doing so well that she was going home.”

  “Five minutes early?”

  “Yeah, it’s not much in the way of confidence, but it’s something.”

  I continued ahead to my office. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  He followed us, making it as far as the doorway, where he hung an arm. Vic occupied the guest chair, and propped her boots on the edge of my desk. He glanced at her. “How come she gets to put her feet up on the
desks?”

  “ ’Cause I do what I want, Meat.”

  “Meat?”

  “As in rookie or new meat.”

  He folded his arms and leaned on the doorjamb. “When do I stop being meat?”

  “When you cease being a liability. Of course, for some guys that can be a fucking career.” She glanced up at him. “Now go away—the real cops want to talk.”

  He sighed and looked at me. “One more thing . . . Um, I was wondering if there was anything else I can do? I mean there are long times when I’m just sitting out here.”

  “Not like TV, is it?” I studied him with a smile. “‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’”

  He stared at me.

  “John Milton, Sonnet 19.”

  He continued to stare at me.

  “There’s a department library out there in the main office. I suggest you continue your reading?”

  “Or badge polishing.” Vic flipped her fingers at him in dismissal—one in particular.

  Shaking his head, he swung away with a smile.

  I lowered my voice. “Kind of hard on the kid, weren’t you?”

  “Not really.” She turned to look at me. “So, how did you know it was Mike that called Bass?”

  “Bass said the man had a mechanical voice and that he had simply stated that Charley Lee was dead and hung up, something a man who was deaf would do, being incapable of hearing the person on the other end.” I raised my face and turned a bit, looking out the window. “I have an undercover operation in mind, but it needs to be done under the cover of darkness, so we have to do something else for a while.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, we could go check on Bass Townsend and Katrina at the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Annex over at the Blue Gables Motel.”

  “Deal.”

  Suddenly remembering something, I shouted out to the new dispatcher trainee. “Hey Barrett, where’s my dog?”

  He appeared in the doorway with the dog at his feet. “Is this one of my responsibilities too?”

  * * *

  —

  Bass Townsend and Katrina Dejean were enjoying iced coffees while sitting in the metal lawn chairs at the Blue Gables Inn. I climbed out of the vehicle and headed for the office. Vic called after me. “Where are you going?”

  “To get a cup of coffee to wash out my taste buds from that horrible tea.”

  “Get me a cappuccino. Please? My mouth tastes like ass.”

  When I got back, Bass was strumming the old resonator guitar in his lap and softly singing an Elmore James tune, “Dust My Broom.”

  “How do you feel?”

  He smiled and looked up at me as I handed Vic her fancy coffee. “Pretty good. I’ve just been sitting around here entertaining this fine young lady.”

  I glanced at Katrina before taking off the top of my cup and sipping. “And you?”

  Her smile was a little less enthusiastic. “I’m here.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Preferably alone.”

  She glanced at the others and then back at me. “Yes, sir.”

  I led the way back to my truck—Vic began talking with Bass as he continued to strum. Flipping the tailgate down on my truck, I gestured for Katrina to sit. “Welcome to my office.”

  “Nice view.” Having a little trouble, she handed me her coffee and sidled up, looking around as I handed it back. “How can I help you?”

  I sat next to her. “I’ve been talking to the boys up at the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, and there’s an individual who claims Serge came by no more than a week ago.”

  She looked surprised. “Who says that?”

  “Never mind for the moment. Do you think it’s true?”

  She started to speak but then stopped, finally breathing out the word. “Yes.” She sipped her coffee. “If something were to happen to Philippe, I can only surmise that Serge was under orders to retrieve the painting, or maybe he was after it for himself.”

  “Someone broke into Charley Lee’s apartment at the Veterans’ Home.”

  She shrugged. “If it was broken into, I can only surmise that Serge did it.”

  “If he was released from the Sheridan County Jail yesterday and as near as DCI can tell, he was killed only hours later, it would’ve been kind of difficult for him to get over here and break into Charley Lee’s room in that amount of time.” I shook my head. “Let’s say he did it the night before; what would he have done with it?”

  “If he had found the painting, then he would’ve taken it for himself or someone else.”

  “Someone like Krovopuskov?”

  She looked slightly shaken at the thought. “I hope not.”

  “Why?”

  She put her empty coffee cup on the tailgate. “Well, then it’s gone.”

  “Not necessarily. I spoke with him on the phone an hour ago, and he’s turning his plane around in Helsinki and coming back.” I shrugged. “If our runway is long enough.”

  She looked stunned. “Why would he do that?”

  “I was kind of wondering about that myself.” I turned to look at her more closely. “Do you suppose he has the painting?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then why would he come back?”

  “Perhaps he left the painting in Helsinki?”

  “Nope, I made a call and spoke with the ground security of the private section of the airport and they assured me that nothing came off the plane and the only things that were brought onboard were paperwork, food, and fuel.”

  “Maybe he thinks he can still get the painting now that Philippe and Serge are dead?”

  “Maybe.” I waited, but she said nothing. “Which means that whoever has the painting is in danger if Klavdii Krovopuskov is as capable as I’m led to believe.” I waited a moment before adding. “You don’t get a name like the Bloodletter for nothing.”

  She turned away, studying the distance. “I don’t know where the painting is.”

  I continued to study her. “Okay, I believe you, but who does?”

  Her head dropped. “The only two people I know of who could’ve had such knowledge are dead.”

  “And in all honesty, those two unsolved murders are the priority for me.” I sipped my now cold coffee. “I think they are connected with the painting, and if I find it, it might give me more to work with as far as finding the murderer.”

  I put my empty coffee cup down. “Let me pose a hypothetical: if Serge had gotten the painting, where would he have put it?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Where was he living?”

  “Mostly at Philippe’s.”

  “In Story?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it’s hidden in that place, would you have any idea where it might be?”

  “Philippe had a hidden vault in the basement, with a combination lock.”

  “Do you know the combination?”

  “I do.”

  I glanced up at the road leading north, out of town, toward the tiny hamlet. “So, would you like to take a ride to Story?”

  She turned back to meet me, eye to eye. “No.”

  * * *

  —

  “I just want to go on record as saying that this is a really fucking bad idea, and when I think something is a really bad fucking idea, it’s a really fucking bad idea.”

  I glanced at my undersheriff as we took the Story exit off I-90. “Duly noted.”

  “A quick reminder, I am the patron saint of really fucking bad ideas.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We should tell Sheriff Brandes that we’re over here.” She shook her head. “You remember him, the guy you said you’d keep in the loop?”

  Hitting the straightaway, I resisted the tem
ptation to flip on the emergency lights—after all, we were for all intents and purposes, undercover. “Right.”

  “But we’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  “I already did.”

  “You did what?”

  “Called someone.” A parked Suburban flashed its lights at us as I pulled in alongside the Sheridan County sheriff’s investigator’s vehicle. “Howdy.”

  The silver-haired woman fixed her blues on me. “Don’t you howdy me, you outlaw.”

  “Thanks for doing this, Lori.”

  She gestured one-handedly with an air of futility. “May end my career.”

  “We just want to take a look, and I didn’t want to trouble your boss.”

  “Even though my sheriff specifically requested that you trouble him with anything concerning this investigation?”

  I made a point of not glancing at Vic. “Something like that.”

  She pulled out, and we followed, accelerating along the creek as I finally turned to glance at Vic, who sat there smiling to herself. “No comment?”

  “Yeah, she’s about as batshit crazy as you are, and here we are on our way to the batshit-crazy cave.”

  Lori turned into the circular drive at the end of the road, and I’m pretty sure we were all surprised to find some lights on in the back part of the house. “That’s odd.”

  Vic sat forward, peering through the windshield. “Sheridan SD could’ve left the lights on . . .”

  “Or DCI.”

  We both got out with our guns drawn.

  Lori joined us at the front of her vehicle, her Colt Python in her hands. “Weird, huh?”

  I moved toward the house. “Let’s go.”

  The front entrance was blocked with POLICE LINE tape, which I ducked under before pushing the latch and slowly swinging the unlocked door open. The lights were off in the great hall of the stone building, but in the direction of the kitchen, the light spilled out onto the uneven, flagstone floor.

  Stepping forward, I allowed my backup to enter and look around as I held a finger to my lips and continued across the room before running into a heavy lamp that tipped over and crashed to the floor with a tremendous amount of noise.

  In the silence that followed, Vic’s voice carried through the darkness. “So, do we still have to be quiet?”