“As far as I can tell, the only thing hurting Vegas is overdevelopment,” I said, pushing my untouched cup back across the desk.
Garrett sipped at his scotch, savoring the taste. “Nobody in this town ever said no to a developer before all this nonsense over turtles began. It’s damn near high time common sense was brought back into the equation. After all, we’re talking about the future of Las Vegas here.” Garrett finished his drink, then reached for mine.
“Actually, what we’re talking about is money,” I retorted. “Like it or not, development is going to have to be reined in. In case you haven’t noticed, building in the valley is impinging on the habitat of everything from endangered plants to bighorn sheep.”
Garrett leaned back in his chair, his dark suit blending in with the black leather until all that stood out was his face. “You must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit, Porter.”
Without a doubt big development had mucho power in this county, and I was sitting across from its political hammer. They had to be paying him off big time.
“You might not give a shit, Commissioner, but I’m willing to bet a lot of voters in Nevada do.” I sweetly smiled.
Garrett cracked his knuckles one at a time, giving it some thought. “Extinction is a natural process, Porter. That’s just the way life is. Of course, you’ll have to find a new job. Maybe something in the line of receptionist here? By the way, I require all my female help to wear skirts. Preferably short.” Garrett grinned. “Now I have a meeting to attend.”
I planted my elbows on his desk, making it clear that the interview wasn’t yet over.
“One more thing, Ed. You’ve been spreading a rumor that Fish and Wildlife hired environmentalists to break into the conservation center and steal tortoises that were then dumped on ranchers’ land.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed as he stood and approached my chair. “What am I supposed to think, Porter? After all, you’ve already met with those paranoids in the ark: an angry former Fish and Wildlife biologist, an illegal wildlife trapper, and a deranged nut who was fired for trying to sabotage the Department of Energy. Those three are the perfect blueprint for terrorist material. I, on the other hand, am involved with a group of defenseless ranchers working hard to feed their families.”
“Why, Ed, have you been following me?” The fact that he knew my whereabouts caught me off guard.
“I know about everything that takes place in this county.” Garrett’s eyes focused in hard on me. “Don’t ever forget that.”
He placed his hand against the small of my back as I got up. Quickly turning around, I pushed it away.
“Good. Then you won’t mind telling your troika to back off. I don’t take well to threats,” I snapped.
Garrett leaned up against the doorjamb so that I’d have to brush past him as I walked by. “People get mad, Porter. And when that happens, if I were you, I’d get out of their way.”
“In that case, Commissioner, I’d suggest you get out of mine.”
Garrett laughed and stepped aside. But as I started to leave, he suddenly placed a hand on either side of the door frame, blocking my exit. “We ought to go hunting together sometime, Porter. It could prove to be fun.”
I didn’t bother to tell him that I’m not a hunter. I’ve never shot an animal. But I have killed a man. It’s just one of the things that sets me apart from other federal wildlife agents. That and the fact that I’m a woman. Most consider the combination to be lethal.
I shook my head. “Commissioner, I have the feeling we’d be aiming at two entirely different things.”
Garrett quietly studied me a moment before removing his hands. “Should I take that as a threat, Agent Porter?”
“Not at all, Ed,” I assured him. “But maybe you should consider wearing something bright the next time you’re out on a hunt. I’d hate for those constituents of yours to think they had some honest, hardworking official lined up in their sights and end up shooting you by mistake.”
Since I was already in the building, I decided to pop down a few floors and pay a visit to my neighbor, Lizzie Burke, who worked as a computer programming whiz for the county. Lizzie had befriended me the day I moved in, introducing herself by bringing over a bag of tortilla chips, guacamole dip, and a bottle of tequila. I could always tell when Lizzie was home by the music blaring out her windows.
Determined to become a star, Lizzie’s obsession was tap dancing. I had to give her credit. She practiced every spare moment she had, which was usually when I was asleep. It had reached the point where I now couldn’t doze off unless the strains of 42nd Street were bouncing off my walls along with the pitter-patter of Lizzie’s tap shoes. In its own way, the din was as lulling as the sound of garbage trucks had been in New York. I had suggested she give her dream a shot by moving to New York or Los Angeles, where there was more work than in the Glitter Gulch strip clubs or the casinos. But Lizzie insisted she wasn’t yet ready for the big time. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at twenty-eight years of age, her star was already on the wane for breaking into show business.
Lizzie jumped up from her desk upon seeing me, her mass of short dark curls bouncing with a beat all their own.
“Hey, Rachel! What are you doing here? Things slow today?”
All I was slamming into were dead-ends and angry ranchers, but I’d have my tongue cut out before I’d admit it.
“I was just here to meet with one of our county commissioners, Ed Garrett,” I told her.
“That prick,” Lizzie replied. “The slimeball is always trying to cop a feel anytime I pass by his direction.”
Standing at five feet two, Lizzie must have seemed like easy pickings to a man of Garrett’s size.
“Someday I’m gonna punch his lights out for him,” she added.
Hailing from New Jersey, Lizzie probably could. Just the fact that she entertained the thought made me feel all warm inside.
“If you’ve got time, let’s get some lunch. There’s someone I want you to meet,” I said.
Lizzie grabbed a shoulder bag almost as big as she was from under her desk. She never traveled anywhere without tap shoes, a leotard, and a recording of 42nd Street, on the off-chance she heard of a job opening.
“I’ve got plenty of time, especially if you’re talking about someone tall, dark, and handsome,” she said eagerly.
I chuckled as she followed me to the elevator. “You just described him to a tee, Lizzie.”
“Uh, it’s not Lizzie these days, Rach. My new name is Tamara Twayne.”
Lizzie’s name changes happened on a monthly basis. Her life philosophy was based on a quote from Cher: “We all invent ourselves. Some people just have more imagination than others.” Lizzie felt sure that if she just hit on the right name, everything in her life would fall into place. We’d already gone through Shana Shames and Lorna Loon since I’d known her. After those, Tamara didn’t sound half bad.
We grabbed three sandwiches from a vendor’s stand on the bottom floor and sauntered outside. I opened the door of the Blazer and Pilot jumped out.
“This is it? This is the big surprise? What the hell is this thing, besides huge?” Lizzie asked as Pilot jumped up, his paws reaching her shoulders.
“Meet Pilot, my new wolf dog.” I grinned as Pilot gave her a slurp.
“Well, he is kinda cute.” Pilot licked her again as Lizzie struggled to hold her sandwich out of his reach. “What does he want? Me or my food?”
“I think it’s your sandwich,” I remarked. I unwrapped a ham and cheese hero for Pilot, who dashed over to me.
“Typical man,” Lizzie grumbled. “Sees something he thinks is better and he’s outta here.” Lizzie took a bite of her avocado and alfalfa-sprout sandwich. “So what were you and Hot Hands Eddie talking about?”
“Development,” I said. “Seems we have different views as to how much should be going on in the valley.”
Lizzie almost choked on her lunch. “I would think so. You’re talking to
a man who’s one of the bigwigs on the board of Alpha Development.”
The name rang a huge bell: billboards for housing subdivisions slapped up by Alpha decorated the valley from one end to the other. It didn’t take much to know that Alpha was the largest and most powerful development company in Clark County. No wonder Garrett was heading the drive to have all public land released to the county commission. The money to be made on such a deal would be mind-boggling.
“Along with that clown Harley Rehrer, he’s scheduled to be one of the speakers at some barbecue the ranchers are having. They’re hoping to get all the local yokels worked up,” Lizzie revealed. “With any luck they’ll storm the county building, and I’ll be able to take a few days off and audition for some gigs.”
Pilot had wolfed down his ham and cheese and was zeroing in on my turkey sandwich when a thought occurred to me. “Is there any chance you could access Garrett’s personnel file? Maybe dig up some background on him for me?”
“You mean dig around for dirt?” Lizzie grinned.
“More or less. I’d like to know how long he’s been on Alpha’s board and who else might be on it,” I said. “Also what other real estate interests he has.”
Lizzie bit into a brownie that tempted me severely.
“If you can, there’s something else I’d like you to check out as well.” I filled Lizzie in on the tortoise theft at the conservation center.
“So who are we targeting for the gig?” she asked, letting Pilot lick her fingers.
“No one yet. But I’d like to know more about the guy in charge of the place. His name is William Holmes,” I told her.
Lizzie brushed back the hair from her eyes. “His check is paid by the county, right?” I nodded. “Piece of cake. Speaking of which…” Digging into her bag of tricks, she pulled out a pack of Ring Dings. All of one hundred pounds dripping wet, she could afford to eat all the sweets she wanted. Pilot and I both eyed her with envy, lusting after the chocolate cake that filled her mouth. At times like this, I didn’t care if Lizzie was my best friend west of the Rockies. I hated the girl. Pilot let out a frail whine as the last Ring Ding disappeared. I couldn’t have agreed with him more.
With time to kill and no clues to go on, I decided to pay Noah and the gang another visit. The rancher’s accusations against them seemed absurd but had made me curious. Besides, I was hoping to talk my way inside the ark and do some snooping around. If I had to pick a suspect out of the three for any dirty deeds, my choice would be Suzie Q. I wanted a chance to quiz her more closely—preferably without Frank Sinatra perched on her shoulder, watching my every move. My fondest wish for Frank was a one-way ticket to the jungles of Venezuela.
The sky went from a brilliant aquamarine blue to Pittsburgh steel gray in the space of a half hour as I crossed the desert. The sky was in one hell of a pissed off mood. Clouds formed low and dark, like the back ends of the offensive line at a Giants game. The wind picked up, and soon it was rocking my car from side to side in an effort to dislodge it from the road, howling like a banshee demanding my soul. Dry lightning flashed in the distance, then suddenly everything became ghostly quiet.
I jumped as a bolt of lightning hurtled to earth nearby, its fingers splitting cacti like a galvanized pitchfork. My hair stood on end as a rush of electricity crackled through the air, roaring into my legs, torso, and arms, reaching my ears and causing their tips to tingle. Rain barreled down in torrents, and visibility plummeted to near zero. I slowed, passing cars that had the good sense to pull off the road. I was more into the sport of hydroplaning, my tires gliding giddily on a raging river of water—making good time while saving on gas, if I could just manage to stay on the road. The radio warned that a flash flood was in full force, and that I should cease, halt, and desist. I had never felt more invigorated in my life.
Shifting into four-wheel drive, I turned away from civilization and onto the dirt road that led to Noah’s. The Blazer’s engine groaned in misery and its tires spun. I navigated the mountain as best I could, going up and down switchbacks and floating over rocks, until the ark swam into view.
I pulled up, barely missing Noah, who stood outside screaming at the storm in a knock-down, drag-out with Mother Nature, clenched fists raised to the sky. Rain poured from his limp strands of hair, over his bare chest, down his tire of a stomach, and past a pair of flowery bikini bathing trunks, finally settling inside his cowboy boots.
“Come and get me, you motherfucking, son-of-a-bitch-of-a-bastard storm! What’s the matter? Haven’t you got the goddamn balls? I’m right here, you asshole!” he screamed at the sky.
I stood in the rain and stared, sure he had lost his mind. A brilliant downstrike of lightning hit close enough for me to hear its sizzle bore into the center of the earth. I stood frozen in fear until an ear-shattering clap of thunder jerked me out of my stupor, and Pilot and I made a mad dash up the steps of the ark to its door.
I pounded on it only once before Georgia Peach let us in. Pilot was immediately swarmed by the roving band of dust balls, yelping at the top of their lungs. Emitting a high pitched squeal, he dove over them to huddle at my feet.
“Glad to see you found some kind of friend out here, Porter, even if it is a damn wolf.” Georgia snorted. She was dressed in a gold halter top that barely contained her chest. A black vinyl hip-hugger skirt revealed a pair of legs as sturdy as tree trunks. She padded away on bare feet, with each toenail painted a different bright, shiny color.
“You’re just in time for my afternoon tea break.” Georgia flicked on a blender, then poured out one of the best banana daiquiris I’d ever had. She may not have been up to snuff in the Lhasa breeding department, but she would have made one hell of a bartender.
I sipped my drink as I listened to Noah screech over the rain. “Should I ask what his problem is? Or settle for simple possession?” I asked.
Georgia grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes from off a makeshift counter, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up. Inhaling deeply, she hacked out a cloud of smoke.
As I waited for her to reply, I checked out what the eco-gang called home. From the decor, it was obvious that Georgia was an equal opportunity drinker: all brands, shapes, and sizes of empty liquor bottles adorned a ledge that ran the length of the room. The kitchen sink was piled high with a jumble of plates, and bowls filled with day-old dog food sat hardening on the floor. It made my own kitchen look pretty good.
Thunder crashed as lightning flashed above the solar panels that had been built into the roof of the ark. On the floor, a collection of pots and pans plinked with the steady drips of water leaking from the ceiling. I glanced down at Pilot, who lay on one of the giant foam floor pillows, the mad frenzy of Lhasas now an adoring harem around him. A tie-dyed curtain closed off the other half of the ark, but a rustle betrayed the presence of somebody there.
Georgia flopped onto one of the pillows, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She crossed her legs, and her skirt slid up to her hips, as she pulled one of the dingy pedigree mops onto her lap. I sat down opposite her, focusing my attention anywhere but on her crotch. Pilot laid his chin on my knee.
“You might be just as wacky as Noah if you’d experienced what he’s been through,” Georgia finally answered.
I tamped down my impatience with a gulp of banana daiquiri.
“Noah moved out here with his wife and two kids a couple of years ago, after that run-in on his job.”
“What run-in was that?” I asked.
Georgia ignored the question. “He parked a mobile home down on the other side of the mountain in a wash. It was a popular spot, close to a man-made lake where people docked their boats.”
I couldn’t get used to the idea of man-made lakes plunked down in the middle of the desert. It’s all part of the illusion that one of the driest spots on earth is actually an oasis, complete with palm trees—which are trucked in. It’s also one of the reasons why the county was now running clear out of water.
“One day, when Noah was in Veg
as hunting for a job, a flash flood like this one blew in,” she continued. “His family was home in their trailer when a solid wall of water came roaring down the wash. It was only five feet high, but that much rushing water is powerful stuff—every trailer in its path got knocked right down into the lake. It happened so fast, there was no escaping.”
Georgia looked out at the storm. “Noah arrived to find his family standing on top of their mobile home, his wife clutching their fourteen-month-old son, while his four-year-old clung to her legs. They were screaming and waving for help, just like the others who’d been caught. But there was nothing that anyone could do. The water was still so wild, it would’ve been suicide to try to swim out. Noah had to stand there, watching his family drown as their trailer sank. Not long afterward, he came out here to the desert and built this ark.”
The sweat on my skin had turned cold. I was surprised Noah was even as sane as he seemed.
“How did you meet him?” I asked, hoping to escape the nightmare vision.
One of Georgia’s mops made a lunge for her drink, and she threw him off her lap. “Disillusioned government employees seem to have a way of finding each other. Isn’t that right, Porter?”
I stared at her, not sure what she meant. “You’ve got me lumped in with the wrong crowd. I like my job,” I replied after a long pause.
Georgia cracked a smile and slurped at her drink. “That’s what we all said, Porter. But there’s a breed of us who actually wanted to get something done. That’s the rub. That’s where big business steps in and digs its heel into your neck. Sometimes the government will go to bat for you, but most times it won’t. If you’ve got any ethics at all, that’s when you walk.”
“And what makes you think that will happen to me?” I asked.
“First off, you’re in Nevada, where money rules.” Georgia’s chest hit ground zero as she bent down to reach for her Lucky Strikes. She grabbed the pack and sat up, shoving a runaway breast back inside its golden holster with her free hand. “Second, I know your type. You’re a do-gooder, Porter; determined to save the land and its critters. Face it: you’re doomed.”
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 10
