“Were you driving your car?”
It took her a few seconds to answer. “No.”
“Then who was?”
“What are you saying?”
“Without laboratory analysis I can’t be absolutely sure, but it looks to me as if somebody hit your son with your car. There was gold paint on the Harley and there appears to be damage to the right front fender of the Cadillac.”
“There’s damage all over my car; it’s a beater.”
“It’s a flake gold beater, a pretty unusual paint job.” I folded my arms and studied her. “I’ll ask again: Who was driving your car?”
“And I’ll say how the hell should I know? Everybody borrows it.” She smoked some more. “The thing was sitting where it is now that day with the keys in it, so I literally have no idea.”
“Who usually borrows it?”
“Everybody—everybody in the club anyway.” She stopped talking and looked up at me.
“I think your exact words were, no one outside the Tre Tre Nomads would touch that car.”
“It couldn’t be someone from our club.”
“You’re sure of that?” She didn’t seem so, all of a sudden. “How many club members are there here?”
“A couple dozen maybe?”
“Can you get me a list?”
“No, I can’t do that.” She took another drag on the cigarette. “It would be like dropping a dime on them—ratting them out, you know?”
I smiled my everybody’s-an-outlaw-until-the-outlaws-show-up smile. “Well, I don’t have the time to go around and ask fifty thousand bikers if they happen to be members of the Tre Tre Nomads.”
“I can point them out to you.”
“And then what? I ask them if they happened to borrow your car on the night your son was run over? No, I think it would be a lot easier if you just asked around among your friends.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“No, the exact term you used was family.”
She said nothing, and we both watched as a tandem of motorcycles thundered across the bridge above.
“Just tell them that somebody used the car and didn’t fill it up and that you want some gas money, or tell them that somebody left something in the car and you want to give it back to them.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—money.”
“They’re not going to buy that.”
“Well, then think of something. You’re an enterprising woman.”
Finishing her cigarette, she turned back toward the river and flicked it into the water, where it disappeared in the mist but for a brief sizzle. “Thanks for your help.”
She turned to go, but I called out to her. “Look, I’m willing to do this, but if you want to know what happened to your son, I’m going to need your assistance.”
She lodged a hand on her hip. “Junior detective, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long; after Henry’s race tomorrow, we’re out of here.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe I’ll just ask Henry.”
“You’re welcome to, but I’d advise against it.”
“And why’s that?”
I gestured toward the river and, more important, the bridge. “Lot of water, huh?”
She studied me for a moment more and then swiveled on a heel and walked away.
• • •
When I got back to the cabin, I was surprised to see one of the two Hulett police cars preparing to back out from the spot in front of our door. Dog and I came around the left rear just as the reverse lights came on, so I tapped the quarter panel and Dougherty jerked to a stop.
I leaned on the sill. “How come you’re not driving the new and improved MRAP?”
“He’s calling it the Pequod; even ordered up decals to put the name on the side. Now where did he get that name from?”
“Heck if I know, troop. Better than the Andrea Doria.” I checked on Dog, who was sniffing the squad car’s tires. “What’s up?”
He handed me a bulky manila envelope through the window. “This is the cell phone that was on Bodaway, or, more exactly, lying in the grass where the incident took place. Sorry it’s taken so long to get it to you, but I’ve been kind of busy.”
I stuffed the envelope under my arm. “Anything else?”
“The preliminary accident report along with the testimony of the witness.”
“Witness?”
“After the fact.” He reached up and tapped the package. “Local girl by the name of Chloe Nance; she’s the one that found him.”
“Nance. Why does that name sound familiar?” The thought struck as the words left my lips. “Related to Bob Nance, the guy that underwrote the Pequod?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s underwritten about half the county.” He gestured toward the manila bundle again. “Look, the phone is dead, and I haven’t had time to find a charger to fit it.”
I pulled the device out and studied it and was pretty sure it was similar to Henry’s. “I’ll find a way to get it to talk, even if I have to use a rubber hose.”
I started to back away so that he could get going when he called after me, “So, what the hell is a Pequod?”
“You mean other than the ship in Moby Dick?”
“Yeah.”
“A Native tribe in Connecticut, although it’s spelled differently now, with a T instead of a D. By the early twentieth century, there were only a little over fifty of them left.”
“Are they still around?”
“One of the richest tribes in the country—casinos. Good night, troop.”
“Good night, Sheriff.” He backed the cruiser the rest of the way out and crunched gravel as he left.
Dog and I made our way to the cabin door, and I was surprised to find it ajar when I was pretty sure I’d closed it. Figuring it might’ve been Henry, I gave pause but then slipped my .45 from the small of my back just in case. Training it through the opening, I pushed the door wide.
“I thought for sure that cop was going to come in here, and that would’ve been bad.” He was sitting on the guest chair, leaning backward against the wall with the television on mute. In one hand he had a beer and in the other a 9mm semiautomatic. “Hope you don’t mind, but I made myself at home.”
I kept the Colt on Brady Post, the Tre Tre Nomad enforcer, and stepped inside, sticking a leg out to restrain the growling beast behind me. “I don’t mind, but I think he does.”
“Keep a handle on that dog or I’ll shoot him.”
“You do, and he won’t be the last one to get shot here tonight.”
The biker lowered the Glock and stuffed it in the front of his pants. “I figured you and I ought to get introduced; besides, the ice machine is broken up at the Pioneer.”
I waited a second and then lowered my weapon. “I thought we had been.”
“Not formally.” He reached into his pocket again and tossed something onto the bed near me.
It was a nifty leather wallet not unlike the one in my shirt pocket, but unlike mine, his read DEPARTMENT OF THE TREASURY.
“ATF?”
“Special Agent Post at your service. I don’t usually break cover to the locals, or anybody for that matter, but you seem pretty capable and I could use some help—sure didn’t throw any kind of scare into you at the hospital parking lot earlier today.”
“Generally, I’m too stupid to be scared.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
Holstering my Colt, I picked up his badge and ID card. “So, which one is it, alcohol, tobacco, or firearms?”
“Firearms—the Nomads are responsible for about thirty percent of the illegal guns showing up in the Southwest these days, mostly imported from their chapters in
Mexico.”
I sat on the bed and called Dog over. He still growled at Post but recognized that the dynamic had changed. “So, the enforcer for this particular chapter happens to be a federal agent?”
He set the beer bottle on the nightstand, crossed the room, and closed the door. “Sorry, can’t be too careful these days.” He crossed back and sat, reaching a hand out to Dog, who pulled back a lip, giving his interpretation of the night of the long knives. “Whoa . . . easy there.”
“He’ll warm up to you; just ignore him.” I folded my fingers in my lap and looked at the man, younger than I’d thought underneath the Buffalo Bill facial hair. “So, what’s the deal with the kid, Bodaway?”
“A major pain in my ass is what it is.” He picked up his drink and took a long draw. “Bodaway is involved in the gun trafficking—he’s the conduit to all the other clubs.”
“Gangs.”
“Whatever. Anyway, all cats being gray in the dark, the kid is getting weapons to all the other gangs and I’ve been working on his source, but so far, nada.”
“I thought you said it was the connections in Mexico that were coming up with the guns.”
“Until recently. We were able to motivate the Federales with all the Fast and Furious fallout, and when that source dried up, we thought we had them, but now they seem to be getting them from here in the U.S.”
“So you’re just shadowing Bodaway to find the source?”
“That and some information on some other things—been deep undercover for more than nine months now.”
“Like what information?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Lola have anything to do with it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, but who the hell knows with her.”
“Any sign that she’s involved up to now?”
“No, but she loves the little asshole and would do anything for him—including getting you and your Indian buddy involved.”
“Cheyenne.” The three of us looked up to see Henry standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb with his arms folded, neither of us having heard the door itself open. “If you please.”
“Henry Standing Bear, meet Special Agent Brady Post.” I turned to look at him as Dog sidled over to the Cheyenne Nation. “Is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Do you want to tell us what your real name is?”
“No.”
I shrugged and turned back to the Bear, gesturing toward the tattooed man in the chair. “ATF.”
Post interrupted. “Why don’t you just tell everybody?”
“My bet is that he heard everything anyway.”
Henry nodded and closed the door behind him. “I heard about the guns and the fact that you have been in deep cover for the last nine months. Amazing that you have risen as far as you have in that short amount of time.”
Post gestured with a thumb toward the accessories on the back of his denim vest. “Fully patched.”
“So, what is it you want from us?”
“Well, I thought it would be nice if we weren’t working at cross-purposes.” He turned back to me, picked up his beer, and rolled it between his hands. “Look, I know you’re investigating the accident at local request, and I’m assuming also because of Lola Wojciechowski?”
I shrugged again. “It’s still debatable as to whether we’re going to take the case.”
Henry smiled. “We?”
Post sipped his beer and studied me for a while before slowly smiling. “That why you’ve got a manila envelope under your arm that says Bodaway Torres?”
• • •
Amazingly enough, Torres’s phone fit the Bear’s charger. Henry plugged it in and set it on the nightstand between the beds. I studied the small screen as he stripped off his motorcycle gear. “Isn’t it supposed to do something?”
“It is probably so dead that there is no power to the screen yet.”
“How long does that take?”
He climbed in his bed in his underwear and a T-shirt. “You know, I think I am going to buy you one of those things one of these days.”
A dim red light appeared on the screen inside a graphic of a depleted battery. “It’s charging.”
He flipped off the reading light on his side. “It will take almost an hour to fully charge; are you going to watch it the entire time?”
“Technology fascinates me.”
He grunted and rolled over, and I could see the road-rash scrapes on his back through the thin shirt. “You do not have to keep me informed as to the progress. Good night.”
“Good night.” Dog rested his head on the bed and looked at me. I patted the spread, and he was up in an instant, occupying a full half of the surface area. “Hey, Henry?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you want to help this woman?”
“She is a manipulator, and I do not think she has done anything in the last thirty years besides sharpen her skills.” He waited a moment before adding, “Not all fair maidens are worthy of rescue, Walt.”
“Maybe she is this time.”
He studied me over his shoulder and then, reaching out, turned off my light. “I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.”
I sighed, stood, and undressed, hanging my clothes on the chair by the desk. I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and then stood there looking at myself, trying to figure out what to do next. Corbin Dougherty needed my help, Lola Wojciechowski needed my help, maybe even Bodaway Torres needed my help. On the other hand, Special Agent Brady Post didn’t need my help, and Henry Standing Bear didn’t appear to want to be involved with anything that included the Lola.
Sometimes it was like that, I suppose; some people become so important in your life that they’re almost like a trademark, but then they’re gone. Sometimes they might reappear, but they’re nothing at all like what you’ve assembled in your mind since their departure; sometimes you can’t even stand them anymore, because they break up the legend and nothing dies harder than a good, personal legend.
I looked at the crumbling giant in the mirror, nowhere near as young as he used to be. Maybe if I were thirty or even forty I might think about hanging around Hulett, but I’m not. Plus, it was the Bear’s call since he knew Lola, and the Bear was softly snoring in the next room, blissfully unconcerned.
So tomorrow I’d watch him attempt another hill, and then we’d load up and go home. It was that simple—that, or I wanted it to be.
By the time I got back to the bed, Dog was taking up a full two-thirds, and I was relegated to the one-third left, clutching the mattress like a mountaineer in a hanging bivouac. I had just closed my eyes when I heard a buzz.
Flipping the light back on, I looked at Bodaway’s phone, but it was dark. Then I noticed it was Henry’s cell lying next to it that was making noise.
The Bear hadn’t moved, so I picked it up and stared at the screen, confirming the fact that I was in deep trouble. I hit the button and took my medicine.
“So, you’re not dead?”
I kept my voice low in an attempt to not wake the Cheyenne Nation. “Nope, I, uh . . . escaped with my life. Just now.”
“You know, if you had called me back I would’ve been worried.” Her voice took on a fake Western tone, emblematic of every bad cowboy movie made in the ’40s. “The last time we encountered the good sheriff he was at gunpoint. . . .” Her voice slipped to serious. “So, who’s pointing a gun at you this time?”
“People are always pointing guns at me.”
“Daddy?”
“Lola.”
There was a pause. “You don’t mean the Lola.”
“I do.”
“Henry’s Lola?”
“The one my granddaughter is named after.”
“Don’t start.” Anothe
r pause. “I assume she’s gorgeous?”
“In a rough, roadhouse kind of way.”
“Oh, my.”
“Yep, her son was hurt in a motorcycle accident over here.”
Another pause. “Umm, so how are she and Henry?”
“They’re not.”
She laughed that lovely, melodious laugh that reminded me so much of her mother. “Then don’t you get involved.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Planning has nothing to do with it.”
“Right.” I smiled and held the phone close, knowing full well that part of it was that she was my daughter, but also just from the sheer joy of knowing her. “Did you call just to give advice to the lovelorn?”
“No, I called to make sure you didn’t have any bullets in you.”
“I’m bullet-free. So, how’s my Lola?”
“Sleeping, finally. She’s a night owl. Was I like that?”
I glanced at the time on the phone. “You still are.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I thought I’d better give you a heads-up. Lena said that Vic is planning on flying into Rapid City tomorrow and surprising you guys.”
I dropped my voice even lower. “I hope she gets in early. Henry’s talking about skipping the Show and Shine and just heading home after the hill climb tomorrow.”
“He’s not going to show Lucie this year?”
“I guess not, so hopefully Vic will get here early.” I smiled into the receiver. “Is my undersheriff’s imminent arrival the reason you warned me about Lola?”
“No, I warned you because you’re stupid when it comes to females of all shapes and sizes when they are in distress.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been cautioned about that tonight.” I tried to touch on the next subject as lightly as possible. “So, there’s still nothing going on with the investigation in Philadelphia?”
“No, and she says she misses Wyoming, but I think she misses you.” I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so I just remained quiet and listened as her tone changed yet again. “Hey, when are you coming down here to see the new digs?”
“Probably next week. I told Ruby that I was taking a few days off to go spend time with my family.”
An Obvious Fact Page 7
