Astride a Pink Horse

by Robert Greer

  Bernadette glanced back at Cozy before stepping through the front door and nodded toward the shotgun lying next to his chair. As the door closed behind Bernadette, Cozy picked up the shotgun and activated the pump action. A live shell ejected and thumped down onto the porch deck. “Always seems to be one left in the chamber with these pumps,” Cozy said, looking at Buford.

  “Always does,” Buford said, grinning and staring out toward the orange glow of sunset.

  Carlos Alvarez, the OSI officer whom Joel DeWitt had assigned to keep tabs on Bernadette, was having trouble hearing the colonel on his cell phone. “We’ve got a bad connection, Colonel. I can hardly hear you. Just a sec.” Alvarez moved the phone to his opposite ear.

  “How about now?” DeWitt asked impatiently.

  “Better,” said Alvarez.

  “Want to finish bringing me up to speed now, Captain?”

  Alvarez, who’d had his binoculars trained on Sarah Goldbeck’s front porch for the last fifteen minutes, said, “Major Cameron just went inside the house with the Goldbeck woman. Kane’s still outside on the porch with the guy who’s been taking notes.”

  “Describe your note-taker for me.”

  “Tall, six-two or six-three, and sort of Hispanic- or Indian-looking. He’s got curly black hair and an oval-shaped face, he’s clean-shaven, and I’d say he’s got a bum leg.”

  “He’s one of those reporters from last night, no question. Name’s Coseia. Anything else?”

  “Not much, except that it’s one real strange situation here. When I first drew a good clean bead on the front porch through my binocs, that reporter was unstrapping the big redheaded guy we interrogated at Warren this morning from a chair.”

  “Sounds like old Buford Kane must’ve been a bad boy. I’ll be sure and ask Major Cameron what the old motorcycle rider did to deserve such treatment once she’s back here.”

  “It won’t be long, sir. She’s out of the house now and back out on the porch, and it looks like she and that reporter are leaving together. Yep. They’re headed down the porch steps.” Following a lengthy silence, he said, “The major’s getting into a truck with him. She’s leaving her vehicle here, sir.”

  “Odd that she’d leave her vehicle there. Tail them.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alvarez, who’d been unsuccessfully trying to bed the statuesque African American major since the day she’d arrived at Warren.

  “And Alvarez, I said tail them, not jump on her tail, if you get my drift.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid …”

  “Can it, Captain. Just stay off their radar. I don’t want Bernadette to know I’ve got somebody following her around. We’ll compare notes once you’re back here at Warren.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alvarez, snapping his cell phone closed. As the dually headed slowly back down the winding gravel lane toward him, he cranked his engine, made a U-turn, and moved slowly down the lane to keep from kicking up any telltale dust. Two miles up the highway, he pulled off at the entryway to a ranch and swung in behind the dually after it passed him. Envious of the man behind the wheel of the truck because the driver was going to have a full hour alone with Bernadette Cameron, Alvarez settled in glum-faced for the drive back to Cheyenne.

  Cozy had just set the cruise control on the dually (a fifty-thousand-dollar gift Freddy Dames had given him for breaking a story about a four-state Bureau of Land Management cattle-grazing rights scam involving nepotism and old-fashioned good-old-boy favoritism) at seventy when Bernadette, pushing up her fatigues shirtsleeves, said, “I didn’t thank you properly back there for saving my bacon or for offering me a ride home. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, but I think you would’ve been quite capable of saving your own bacon, Major.”

  That issue settled, Bernadette relaxed back in her seat, extended her legs, which were nearly as long as Cozy’s, and said, “Quite a combo, Ms. Goldbeck and Mr. Kane, don’t you think? Peacenik and beatnik, or dove and hawk, perhaps.”

  “Like they say, when it comes to love and war, you never know,” Cozy said, dimming his lights for an oncoming semi. “Hawks generally do a lot more killing than doves do, though. You’d have to wonder if an old biker like Kane might not be capable of killing someone.”

  “Food for thought. But you’d have to come up with a reason for that killing, and in this case a reason for dumping a body at a former nuclear-missile site. Could be that Ms. Goldbeck, Mr. Kane, and Sergeant Giles have a past. A confrontation that occurred at Tango-11 during the ’70s or ’80s, perhaps.”

  “Are you speculating, or do you have facts?” Cozy asked, smiling.

  Bernadette returned the smile. “There you go, Mr. Coseia, sounding like a reporter and spoiling my supposition. It was just a thought.”

  “It’s a terrible cross to bear, this thing we call the truth. And by the way, I prefer ‘Cozy’ to ‘Mr. Coseia.’ Only the IRS and folks I owe money to call me that.”

  “Then Cozy it is. And just so we’re even, I’m partial to Bernadette. Now that we’re on a first-name basis, mind telling me how Digital Registry News scooped the major networks, CNN, and the newspaper big boys on both coasts with your Tango-11 story?”

  “That’s easy. My boss, Freddy Dames. Only one thing in the world drives him—winning.”

  “I see. So how’d you get wind of the Giles murder so fast, being that you were 175 miles away in Denver?”

  “Simple. We work the territory. Regional news, it’s our beat. Casper to Albuquerque—Salt Lake City to Kansas City. Our job is to get there first.”

  “That’s certainly lots of territory, but you really didn’t answer my question.”

  Thinking, Savvy sista, Cozy said, “Guess I didn’t. Let’s just say that even in this age of computers, we have folks out there who are paid to listen in on police scanners. Old-fashioned but effective.”

  “Whatever works for you, I guess. So where will you be heading next with your headlines?”

  “I’m thinking my next stop should probably be the Takatas. Did you see the sparks that started flying when Buford Kane mentioned them?”

  “Would’ve been hard to miss. The question of the hour, however, is how would either of the Takatas have crossed paths with Sergeant Giles?”

  “As part of the antinuclear movement back in the ’70s and ’80s; how else?”

  Bernadette smiled. “Easy to speculate. Harder to prove. Remember, now, we’re only interested in the facts here.”

  “Touché,” said Cozy, watching Bernadette ease up in her seat and glance into her sideview mirror. She stared silently into the mirror for the next mile before turning to Cozy to ask, “Would you slow this rig down a bit? But don’t hit your brakes, okay?”

  “Sure.” Cozy turned off the cruise control and let the truck coast momentarily. “Mind telling me what’s up?”

  “I think we’ve got somebody on our tail. Somebody in an air force–issue Jeep like the one Buford Kane plugged. They’re easy to spot even in the dark when that’s the vehicle you look at all day. I want to see if the gap between us closes as we slow down.”

  Cozy glanced in his mirror at the set of headlights behind them. “Still there.”

  “Yeah, I see. And the gap between us is pretty much the same.”

  “Any idea who it might be?”

  “Someone my immediate superior has following me around.”

  “Take it your boss doesn’t trust you.”

  “He doesn’t trust anybody. But I can handle him.”

  “No evasive maneuvers necessary, then?”

  “No, just keep driving.”

  Certain from what he’d seen of her that Bernadette Cameron could take care of herself, Cozy asked, “So how long have you been in the air force?”

  “Pretty much all my life. My father was an air force fighter pilot. His father was a Tuskegee airman—99th fighter squadron.”

  “Man! You’re talking one iron-willed pair of color-barrier-busting brothers there.”

  “They were,�
� Bernadette said proudly. “But my granddad always claimed that they were a lot more badassed than barrier-busting.”

  “So what’s your dad do now?”

  “He’s retired.”

  “Pretty proud of you, I guess.”

  “Yes, but a little disappointed that I’m no longer flying A-10s.” The somberness in Bernadette’s voice let Cozy know he’d broached a subject that he should have avoided. Returning to the business at hand, he asked, “So besides the Takatas, the shotgun-toting Mr. Kane, and Sarah Goldbeck, do you have any more murder suspects on your list?”

  “You’re starting to sound like a reporter again, Cozy. I’m afraid my investigation can’t be quite the open book you’re looking for. So far you’ve ended up being in all the right places at all the right times with this Tango-11 thing. But I’m afraid your information pipeline’s about to end.”

  “You’re cutting me off,” Cozy said, sticking out his lower lip in a mock pout.

  “Have to,” said Bernadette, seeing the lights of Cheyenne twinkle in the distance.

  “Tell me you’ll still take my phone calls,” Cozy said with a wink.

  Unsmiling, Bernadette said, “I’ll take them, of course.”

  “Glad to hear that.” Cozy slowed down to just under sixty and glanced in his rearview mirror. “He’s still there. Maybe we should just stop and confront him.”

  “He’s my problem, Cozy, okay?”

  “Your deal, Major. Sorry for pressing.”

  “Thanks. Now, mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “It’s a little personal.”

  “As personal as mine have been?”

  “More so, I’m afraid. It’s about that limp you tend to hide so well. It’s not service related, is it?”

  “Nope,” said Cozy, wondering when Bernadette had first spotted his limp. “A present from a motorcycle accident. That’s why I drive trucks. Lessens the chance of me ever becoming pavement bait again.”

  “Sorry I pried.”

  “No problem. Things happen.” He eased the dually off the interstate onto Randall Avenue and past the three Minuteman missiles flanking the guard gate. When he stopped, Bernadette leaned over, said, “Hi, Skip,” to the guard at the gate, flashed him her ID, returned the guard’s salute, and said to Cozy, “Let’s head this chariot of yours to my office.”

  “Funny what a ruckus mama bear, papa bear, and baby bear back there can cause,” Cozy said, pointing back toward the three missiles, which stepped down in size from east to west.

  “I’m afraid they’re not storybook characters to be loved.”

  “I understand their purpose. I’m just wondering if they might not have cousins out there somewhere in the world who are linked to our murder?”

  Ignoring the question, Bernadette glanced out the rear window. “No more Captain Alvarez.”

  “Guess he got cold feet,” Cozy said, happy to be able to attach a name to the person who’d been following them.

  “I wish. He’s just using a different entrance. My car’s parked out in front of my office, by the way.”

  “So how will you explain your missing Jeep?”

  “With reams of paperwork. No worries, though. I’ve got motor-pool friends who’ll help me out.” She flashed Cozy a knowing smile. “The air force still has brothers around who revere the Tuskegee airmen.”

  “And their granddaughters, no doubt,” said Cozy.

  The impish smile on Bernadette’s face told Cozy that she obviously knew when to be spit-and-polish and when to work the system.

  Pointing at the only vehicle parked in front of her building, Bernadette said, “There’s my car.”

  “Nice,” Cozy said, admiring the Austin-Healey roadster that was lit up by his headlights.

  “It was my father’s. He used to race it. It’s a ’67 3000 MK III—totally restored. When he gave it to me after the air force grounded me, he claimed it would give me a chance to still be able to fly by the seat of my pants.”

  “Has it?”

  “Some. But I’m neither the pilot nor the driver my dad is.”

  Cozy flipped the cab lights on and flashed the green-eyed major an encouraging smile. “I bet you are.”

  Recognizing a refreshing earnestness in Cozy’s tone, an earnestness that she’d found lacking in the competitive and all-too-often jealous air force jet jockeys she’d rubbed shoulders with for years, Bernadette said, “I’d hate to take that test.”

  “You’d pass,” Cozy said, watching her get out of the truck. “Like the bigwig politicians and Madison Avenue types say, let’s keep the communication lines open, okay?”

  Looking concerned, Bernadette asked, “You don’t write stories that smear the military like your boss, do you? I’ve read a piece by him and it wasn’t very flattering.”

  “Haven’t yet.”

  “Then we’ll keep the lines open. Good-night.” As Bernadette slipped into her car, she had the feeling that she’d just returned from the absolute strangest of dates. As she pulled the sleek-looking roadster away from the curb and fell in behind the dually, she had no way of knowing that Cozy was thinking the very same thing.

  Cozy’s two cell-phone calls to Freddy Dames, placed as Cozy headed south down I-25 for Denver, went to voice mail, remaining unanswered until just after ten thirty, when a noticeably tired-sounding Freddy finally called back.

  “What’s up?” Freddy asked, talking over a high-pitched whine in the background.

  “Not much. Other than the fact that I just spent an evening with that dropkicking air force major from the protest last night.”

  “Miss Black, Beautiful, and Buxom,” Freddy said with a snicker.

  “Yeah. But I’m thinking after tonight you’d best add ‘brainy’ and ‘badassed’ to that list. So what about you?”

  “I’m in Denver at Centennial Airport, about to head Sugar down to Phoenix for a business meeting tomorrow morning. From there I’m headed to Albuquerque to talk to a guy named Howard Colbain. He’s the former husband of an air force lieutenant who had an affair with Sergeant Giles.”

  Aware now that the whine in the background was coming from Freddy’s twin-engine Gulfstream, a plane Freddy affectionately called Sugar, Cozy asked, “How’d you get the lowdown on the ex-wife and on this guy Colbain’s whereabouts so fast?”

  Quoting their No excuses, sir, former college baseball coach, Freddy said, “Ours is not to reason why, Cozy boy. Ours is but to do or die. But since you asked, I got the info from a place that you, my yellow-tablet-writing friend, would probably never have looked. The internet.”

  “Maybe not,” Cozy said smugly, “but my Converse All Star ways have managed to help me dredge up four suspects in the Giles murder to your one.”

  “So, who are they?” Freddy asked, chagrined at having apparently been outdone.

  “For starters, I’ve got a World War II–era Japanese internment camp survivor—and her cousin. They’re a couple of nuke-protesting buddies of Sarah Goldbeck’s who for some reason didn’t find it necessary to show up last night for that press conference and protest in Wheatland. There’s Goldbeck herself, of course, and Goldbeck’s Easy Rider ’60s throwback of a common-law husband, Buford Kane, who, by the way, got himself involved in an O.K. Corral–style standoff with Major Cameron earlier this evening.”

  “Didn’t he get enough of her at that press conference?”

  “Seems like he didn’t. This time he leveled a shotgun on her—and lost,” Cozy said, failing to mention his role in the incident.

  “Did she shoot him?”

  “Nope. Just kicked his ass again.”

  “Tough lady.”

  “On top of being bases-loaded fine.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Elgin Coseia, I’d say you sound smitten.”

  “Come on, Freddy. Lighten up.”

  “Okay. Just promise me you won’t start sending the major any sweetie-pie candygrams. Hold on. I’ve gotta tell the tower something.”
Sounding disgusted, Freddy was back on the line twenty seconds later. “You want anything done right these days, you’ve got to do it yourself, damn it. You still there, Cozy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what about your two Japanese suspects? They got names?”

  “Takata. Kimiko and Rikia Takata.”

  Freddy slipped a pen out of his shirt pocket and jotted the names on a notepad. “Wish I’d had their names before I posted the story I just wrote. Adding those two to the mix would’ve made the piece a whole lot juicier. But what the hell. The way this Tango-11 thing is unfolding, you and I’ll be writing stories for months. So what did you get Major Cameron to give up for the cause besides pheromones, my man?”

  Recalling his pledge to Bernadette not to smear the air force and wondering what Freddy had written, Cozy said, “Not a lot. I do know that her boss is having her tailed by some kiss-ass captain, though.”

  “Umm,” Freddy said as the second of his two cell phones began ringing. “Wait a sec. Got another call I need to take.” Returning quickly to his conversation with Cozy, he asked, “Where are you on the interstate?”

  “Coming up on the Dacono exit.”

  “Afraid I’m going to have to turn you around and head you back to Wyoming.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to head back north, Cozy. That call I just took was from Lillian. I tagged a request for additional information about the Tango-11 murder to the end of that story I posted. Told our readers we were looking for anything out there that might shed light on the killing and that we were willing to pay for it. Lillian says she’s already had more than a dozen responses. Most of ’em pure horseshit, of course, but she said a couple sounded legit. One of them came from some guy who lives up near Buffalo, Wyoming. Needs to be checked out.”

  “And I’m guessing that I get the pleasure?”

  “You do unless you want to fly Sugar down to Albuquerque. The man who called Lillian didn’t give his name. Just told her he knew someone, a rancher neighbor of his, who hated the air force and anybody associated with it. Now, get this, and I’m quoting the guy who called: ‘Especially missile-squadron types.’ ”