Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  “So you think it was a suicide?”

  She studied me. “You don’t?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Well, at least we agree on something.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why was he so unhappy?”

  “Are you just being nice or do you really want to know?”

  I tilted my head, as if in thought. “It might be both; I’m kind of playing the niceness and foisting the need to know.”

  She smiled but then cut it short as Dog misinterpreted and took a few steps toward her. “Is he friendly?”

  “Overly.” She reached a hand down, and I watched as she petted him, scratching behind his ears. I leaned in a little. “I’m thinking that’s the reason your mother contacted Lucian, because she doesn’t understand why your father did it.”

  “My father, Gerald Holman, never broke a law in his life; I mean it, never.” She stood back up straight and folded her arms, dropping her head in thought. “Can you imagine what it’s like, living with a man like that—let alone what he had to do to live with himself?”

  “I understand he was a little inflexible.”

  She walked a few steps farther onto the court and stopped, her feet naturally falling into fourth position. “I wasn’t allowed to speak to a boy on the phone until I was a senior in high school.”

  “I bet you got good grades.”

  She turned and looked at me, Dog beside her. “I’m just giving you formal notice that you don’t have to do this—that it’s not your problem anymore.”

  “Giving me my walking papers?”

  She shook her head. “I’m relieving you of the responsibility of the sad ending of a very unhappy man’s life.”

  “Are you planning on having this same conversation with Lucian Connally?”

  She smiled. “I was kind of hoping you’d save me from that.”

  “I see.”

  “Not knowing him very well, I was hoping I could just talk to you.”

  “You’ve discussed this with your mother?”

  The smile faltered. “Not at length; I thought I would speak with you first.”

  I folded my arms, listening to the creaking of my sheepskin jacket sounding like bark tightening. “I’ll tell you what, you get her to tell either Lucian or me to drop it and we’ll call it off.”

  She studied me and for the first time I noticed she had brown hair and chocolate eyes—not sweet chocolate, but the bitter kind that bakes. “Why can’t you just take my word on this?”

  “Because we agreed to do this investigation with her. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it works; she has to call it off.”

  Her eyes flared a bit, and the chocolate bubbled. “Some kind of code you sheriffs have?”

  I smiled back. “Something like that.”

  “I’ll speak with her tonight.” She paused for a moment more and then walked past me to the door. “You might want to think about it . . . I’ve seen what those codes can lead to.”

  —

  “You want a cup of coffee?”

  I glanced over at the brand-new urn at the bar-back of the Aces & Eights. “No thanks, but I wouldn’t mind a beer.”

  His fans at the Campbell County Sheriff’s Office had dropped off the old sheriff, and I’d found him seated on a bar stool when I got back from Arrosa—I was going to have to find something to distract him as I investigated or every appliance on the high plains would be in peril.

  “Hey, Haji.” He raised his voice to the Indian bartender who had replaced the morning Hispanic girl in an attempt to be heard over the small crowd that had filtered into the tiny bar, mostly workers from the nearby oil refineries, their companies seeking lodging wherever they could, the tang of petroleum and dirt strangely comforting. There were four of these men seated by the door, who were laughing loudly at a story one of them was telling.

  I leaned into him. “Lucian . . .”

  He gave me the horse eye. “What?”

  “You can’t go around giving people names according to their nationality.”

  The small young man, dark-haired, with an enormous if crooked smile, approached from the back, and the old sheriff gave him the high sign for two more before leaning into me and whispering fiercely, “Damn it, his name really is Haji.”

  The bartender in question, who indeed had a name tag that said Haji, sat two more Rainiers on the bar along with a bowl of stale peanuts. “How are you?” He smiled an enigmatic grin and disappeared into the back as I took a sip of my beer in an attempt to wash down the nutty meal in my mouth.

  “Where the hell did you go all day?”

  I pointed toward the coffeemaker as the bartender reappeared and studied the oil workers with a worried grimace. “Kmart, for one . . .” I sipped my beer again. “Met with Richard Harvey, Gerald’s replacement.”

  He nodded. “The pointy-head from New Mexico?”

  “Yep.”

  “Never have figured out why they call that state by that name, it ain’t new and it ain’t Mexico—am I right, Haji?”

  The bartender nodded and smiled again.

  “What’d pointy-head have to say?”

  “We just discussed the cases Holman was working on.”

  He pursed his lips and readjusted his prosthetic leg on the bar stool. “Like what?”

  “A couple of missing persons; three women from this vicinity and all in the last year.”

  He grunted and gave the oil workers a dirty look as another outburst of braying erupted from their table. “Hey, you assholes wanna keep it down over there? We’re tryin’ to have a conversation.”

  They all looked at him, somewhat thunderstruck, and then waved him off and went back to yowling among themselves.

  Lucian turned back around and grumbled. “Campbell County?”

  “Gillette proper and within a ten-mile radius.”

  “Sandy know about all this?”

  “I’m assuming, since it’s his detective’s reports I’m working from.”

  The door opened, and the oil workers hooted and howled even louder. I’d just about made up my mind to go over and badge them when I turned and saw that the biggest of the men was holding Lorea Urrecha’s wrist.

  Once again, the missing stripper’s sister was holding a stack of posters and a staple gun, obviously intent on putting a fresh one up on the bar’s bulletin board near the door.

  The large man was trying to engage her in conversation even though she was attempting to pull away. He was kind of in shape but carrying a lot of beer fat and wore a jacket that read FOREMAN.

  I slipped off the stool and turned, walking over to the table, catching only the tail end of the oil worker’s statement: something about him, her, and a meaningful relationship of about three minutes. “Let her go.”

  He glanced up at me. “What?”

  “I said let her go.”

  The nearest man turned in the booth, and I now had the attention of all four. The big guy pushed the bill of his greasy welding cap back and looked at me. “Hey pard, we’re just havin’ a little conversation. The lady and I know each other, so how ’bout you just run along?”

  I glanced at the young woman, but she wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “I don’t think the lady appreciates the attention.” I let my arms drop to my sides, my face growing cool and my hands still. “Let her go.”

  It probably would’ve ended there, maybe with a few parting barks, but it was at that moment that Lorea dropped the photocopies, raised the staple gun, and slapped a round in the guy’s forehead.

  I don’t know how deep the thing went, but she’d put a lot of emphasis into the action and I had a sneaking suspicion it was going to take a pair of needle-nose pliers or a quick visit to the emergency room to get the thing out of the thin layer of skin that covered his thick skull.

&nbs
p; The staple to the head had the expected response in that he let go of her wrist and grabbed his head with a roar, trying to get a fingernail underneath the staple to pry it from his face. He shouldered her as he lumbered around, and she fell backward into the wall where she bounced against a coatrack, taking it down with her.

  I made a move to catch her, but the three other guys started climbing over the bench seat, possibly thinking that I was the one that had damaged the foreman, who was now trying to get his hands on me but was impaired by the blood flowing into his eyes.

  He managed to slam an elbow down on my shoulder, and one of the others grabbed my right arm before I could get loose. Another grabbed the back of my coat and propelled all of us through the glass door onto the sidewalk, where we landed with a thump in the snow that had been piled in the handicapped spot.

  I pushed off, but the three of them were still attached to me as the staple guy pulled my head back and swung, glancing a fist off the crown of my ducked head and busting a few knuckles in the process. I forced one of my assailants down and then got an arm loose just enough to push one of the others back into the one of the four who seemed undecided about the whole melee.

  Getting my feet under me, I was half standing when the big guy brought a knee up, sending me flailing backward into the ice-capped snow. I started to get up, but he was on me pretty quick and was winding up with his left hand in a fist when, in the echoing chamber of the concrete alcove, there was the thunderous report of a gunshot.

  The foreman froze, and as I forced my eyes to focus, I could see the four-inch barrel of a Smith & Wesson service revolver stuck in his left ear.

  He slowly raised his hands as Lucian Connally spoke as though holding a pistol against someone’s earlobe was an everyday occurrence. “You know, you look like one of those guys that lifts weights and I bet you are strong as a bull-ox.” He leaned forward into the big man’s line of vision, his grin in the half light looking like a death’s head. “I been workin’ out a lot lately myself—you know, gettin’ in shape.” He continued to smile. “But mostly I been exercisin’ this finger enough so that I can pull the couple of pounds of pressure on this trigger that’ll scatter your chickenshit brains all over this parking lot.”

  —

  “Do I need to set up a sheriff’s substation over here at the Wrangler Motel to keep you two out of trouble?” Sandy Sandburg looked at the two of us as though we were truants. “And remind me again about how the two of you are over here to make my life easier?”

  “Lucian started it.”

  The old sheriff looked at me. “And how the hell’d I do that?”

  “You called them assholes.”

  “Just introducin’ myself, and I’m not the one who went over there and attempted to single-handedly take on Marathon Oil’s second shift.”

  I adjusted my hat, held the bag of ice Haji had given me against the swelling on my head, and addressed Sandy. “How’s Lorea?”

  “We disarmed her and cut her loose.” He looked over his shoulder at the big guy, now seated in the back of a Campbell County cruiser and being ministered to. “Damn, did you see the staple in that guy’s head? I mean that was one of those big industrial jobs—”

  “I think she wanted the thought to stick.”

  “One of my deputies is trying to pry it out with a Spyderco knife.” He smiled. “The guy’s got some priors, a battery and a few controlled-substance abuses; you want to press charges?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he does.”

  “On me?”

  “No. On her, but I think I can dissuade him if you want.” He blew his breath out between his teeth. “I’m half a mind to let him have her and then send her butt back to Boise, she’s been such a pain.”

  “She’s just concerned about her sister.”

  He shook his head. “The stripper, the one that evidently packed up all her stuff into her car and drove off without telling anybody, the one that we haven’t found any sign of foul play, the one that has a history of packing up her stuff and heading out for the road less traveled?”

  “Just like Linda Schaffer and Roberta Payne.”

  He captured his lip with his teeth and then released it. “Who?”

  I readjusted the ice pack on my head and stretched my jaw against the tightening there. “Linda Schaffer vanished from the Kmart parking lot seven months ago, and Roberta Payne disappeared from the Flying J truck stop three months ago.” I studied him. “You didn’t know about those women?”

  “They were in Holman’s reports?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the cruiser again. “I need to see them.”

  “They’re your reports.” I waited a moment before continuing. “You really didn’t know about them?”

  His hand brushed the brim of his hat. “Vaguely, but I rely on my men to tell me the things I need to know.”

  “Why wouldn’t Gerald Holman have told you about two missing persons cases?”

  “I’m not saying he didn’t, I just don’t recall.”

  “What about Richard Harvey?”

  The sheriff of Campbell County inclined his head. “We don’t talk much.”

  I nodded but left it at that. “I’ll run the reports by tomorrow. I want one last look at them.”

  “I’ll make you some copies.”

  “There’s an idea.”

  —

  Things had quieted down, and I had even made the effort of going over and saying hey to the oil refinery workers, especially the one with the multiple holes in his head. They’d gotten the staple out, and an EMT had him bandaged up. We shook hands, and I wondered about the nature of things as I stooped to pick up the scattered posters on the floor of the bar/café.

  I stared at another photocopied version of Jone Urrecha and wondered absently how many photographs her sister had of her. I crouched there by the booth and asked myself if my fixation on this particular young woman was irrational. The statistics said that all three women were most certainly dead, even though Jone was missing only five weeks. They say statistics by their nature don’t lie, but in my opinion they sometimes do and damnably at that.

  Scooping up the posters, I stood and was confronted with Haji, who was also holding a collection of the copied sheets. “Hey.”

  “These slid over near the bar, and I think you want them.”

  I shuffled the papers and placed them under my arm. “Where are you from, Haji?”

  He smiled the crooked smile. “Mumbai, just to the south.”

  “You related to Rankaj Patel?”

  “He is my father’s brother.”

  “Mind if I ask how you ended up here?”

  His face darkened as he stood the coatrack back upright, pushing it against the wall. “I worked the summertime in Yellowstone Park and then found job here with my uncle for the winter.” He studied me. “All of my papers are in order—”

  I raised a hand in supplication. “I’m sure they are; I was just curious.”

  He glanced around. “With the oil and gas industry, no one wishes to work at bar job. I am of hopes to buy motel self?”

  “Buy a motel yourself?”

  “Yes, in attempt of the American Dream.” I started out the door, but he stopped me. “You are a sheriff?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the old man with you, he is sheriff, too?”

  “Yep.”

  He nodded. “Lots of sheriffs in Wyoming.”

  “I guess that’s true, as of late.” I reached a hand out, and we shook and I held on to his hand while percolating an idea. “Hey, you don’t happen to play chess, do you, Haji?”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Why you ask that?”

  “Well, it’s where the game originally came from . . .”

  He smiled. “The Gupta Empire in th
e northwest in the sixth century; no one knows this . . .” He folded his arms in an attempt to look stately. “I am champion of the South-Western Administrative Province.”

  “Do you have a board around here?”

  “No.”

  I nodded, figuring I was in for another trip to the Kmart. “I’ll get you one.”

  “You wish to play?”

  “No, not me . . . But if I get you a board, would you set it up and leave it there on the bar?” He looked at me strangely as I handed him my ice pack and exited the Aces & Eights.

  —

  It was really getting cold out, but I knocked on the door of room 6 and waited. There was some noise inside, and she shuffled toward the door before finally speaking through the cheap wood. “Who is it?”

  “Walt Longmire, the sheriff who just got his ass kicked?” The door opened just a little, the chain still holding it secure, sort of. I held out the posters and slid them through the opening. “I thought you might want these.”

  She took them and then placed her face closer to the opening—I could see that she’d been crying. “They took my stapler.”

  “Yep, well . . . You have to have a concealed/carry permit for those things here in Wyoming.”

  She smiled. “I nailed him, didn’t I?”

  “Stapled him, to be exact. Don’t feel so bad about it. I did something like that in Vietnam once.” I waited a moment. “I’ve got to go back to Kmart tomorrow to pick up a chess set with which to distract my old boss, and I can pick you up another one. Smaller caliber, perhaps?”

  She laughed again and tossed the posters behind her.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Well, I just wanted to drop those off and make sure you were all right.”

  “Thanks.” I started to turn but heard her unhook the chain, and she opened the door a bit more. She was wearing a pair of blue nylon shorts and a Boise State T-shirt with the snorting pony on the front. In deference to the cold, she hugged herself to cover the protruding aspects of her anatomy and placed one foot over the other. “I mean it, thanks. Look, I’m kind of vulnerable right now and I need a good word.”