by Rod Collins
Changing the subject, because he wanted Karen’s opinion on something, he asked, “What do you think of Bea?”
Karen looked thoughtful before answering. “The thing I have to remember is that Beatrice Tusk is no Michelle. That doesn’t make her worse or better. She’s just different from Michelle. But I like her, and she seems to like us.”
“Good. I like her too. I miss Michele some days, but Beatrice will do just fine. Dad met her when he came down from La Pine for a visit. He summed it up when he said, ‘She’s a pistol.’
“So … what have I missed, Karen?”
“You remember Lonnie talking about writing a grant for the funding to hire a new deputy?”
“Did he do that?”
“Yes. And the judge signed it … since you weren’t here much.”
“Ah yes, guilt, the gift that keeps on giving,” he grumped. “And?”
“Well, we’re getting a one-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-dollar grant.”
“A onetime grant?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. So, what’s the catch? The feds always tie strings to these things.”
“One rationale Lonnie used was cleaning up old cases.”
“Good, said Bud. We’ve got one dating back nearly thirty-five years.” He suddenly grinned, looking happy for the first time in months. “I know just the gent for this.”
Karen broke in, “Dell BeBe. Then he won’t have time to pester you so much. Right?”
Bud studied Karen for a good five seconds before asking, “How do you know these things?”
“I heard you on the phone with Sonny Sixkiller. When you said you “wished he would just butt out,” I knew you meant your friend BB.”
Bud glared and stumped down the hall to his office. Just before the door slammed, Karen heard him utter a muted, “Women!”
“And Lonnie is working a wreck between Paisley and the hot springs,” Karen shouted down the hall. She shook her head. “Bud just isn’t focused. That’s got to change.”
BB’s cell phone rang twice before Bud heard him say, “What do you want, honky?”
“Want a job?”
“Working for you?”
“Sort of. The feds are giving us a one-time grant to clean up old cases and take care of some other business. I figure you won’t have so much time to mess with me if you have something useful to do for a change.”
“Anything interesting?”
Bud nodded into the phone and said, “How does a thirty-five-year-old cold case sound?”
“What kind of case?”
“Homicide. Oregon State Police took ownership of the investigation and never reported back. When I checked with the OSP, they had no record of the homicide. What we do have is a report from the Lake County deputy sheriff who was first on the scene.”
His tone serious for once, BB said, “You know, I could use a change in routine.” He paused, and then asked, “You gonna be at the cabin this evening? There’s somebody you should meet.”
Chapter 6
Dutch
BB ENTERED HIS TWO-STORY log home through the laundry room off the garage. To call it a ‘mud room’ was to besmirch BB’s nearly fanatic need for cleanliness and order. If he hadn’t worn a coat or jacket for six months, out it went. Sparse was a good choice of words for the décor. No bottles of detergent or bleach sat on the counter surrounding the laundry tub, no dust settled on the window sill. The foot rug was clean enough to use as a bath towel.
“OCD,” he muttered as he opened an inner door into an open-beam family room, complete with a wall-mounted sixty-inch flat screen TV. “Or just too damned much time on my hands.”
One wall played host to a floor-to-ceiling fireplace faced with gray river stones, each side flanked by built-in bookcases. A mahogany leather recliner and a matching leather couch fronted the hearth. Tall windows overlooked Dog Lake.
Above the mantle hung a 34x45-inch framed photo of Marine Sergeant Brian Dell BeBe, wearing a big grin and desert camo. He held a photo of his dad in one hand and a rifle in the other, an APC in the background.
BB had written Brian a letter of congratulations when he spotted the stripes on his son’s sleeves. “Hey, Sarge! Looks like you intend to make a career of this military business. I’m proud of you, but if you are going to career-out in the Marines, at least apply for OCS. Officers live a whole lot better than enlisted men.”
A copy of Teressa Foster’s “Settlers in Summer Lake Valley” lay unopened on a polished oak writing desk, home to a printer, PC, and telephone.
BB sighed, the silence suddenly oppressive, cold, lonely.
He shook the feeling off and snorted. “To work,” he said, and took the stairs two at a time up to the main floor.
***
Dutch Vanderlin, Portland FBI special agent in charge (SAC), was – in BB’s opinion – a throwback to an earlier time. For starters, he answered his own phone, and unless he was online with someone, he almost always answered on the first ring. “Vanderlin,” he growled.
“Dutch, this is BB. Do you know anything about some radical Muslims going after a local minister … a Reverend Thomas Jefferson Wildish?”
“Hold on.” BB heard Dutch say, “Smitty, you got anything about radical Muslims moving against a local minister?”
Whatever Smitty said was muffled by the sound of paper rustling.
“BB,” said Dutch, “I’m putting you on speaker. Okay?”
“Who’s with you, Dutch?”
“The leader of our joint terrorism task force, Joseph Smith – ‘Smitty’ here at the office.”
“Mister BeBe,” Smith asked, “how did you come across this?”
“A loyal snitch.”
Dutch broke in, “Are you talking about that little guy … what’s his name … Cletus?”
“You know, Dutch, he’s still pissed off about that last snatch-and-grab you pulled on him.”
“Yeah, but he’s alive.”
BB shook his head. “He might not be for long. I understand his source, the one who fed us the disc with all those nice pictures of arms in the basement of the mosque, is dead – victim of a hit-and-run … but it wasn’t an accident.”
Dutch looked across the desk at Smitty, who nodded. “Confirmed, but we don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. The investigation is ongoing.”
“And you suspect whom?”
Smitty shrugged his shoulders. Dutch shook his head, and then said, “You don’t have a need to know.”
Suddenly BB was angry – for the first time in months. “That’s just bullshit and you know it. I’m bringing you information, and you have the gall to tell me it’s none of my business.”
Smitty’s voice rose half an octave when he started to say, “Now listen, you ass…”
Dutch cut him off. “Truth time, BB. You have a history of using what I would term unconventional methods of investigation. If I tell you who the suspects are, I’m not sure I can trust you to leave them alone while we work the case.” Dutch stopped and then asked, “Where in the hell are you, anyway?”
“Home.”
“Home Portland or home Lakeview?”
“I don’t have a Portland home.”
“Don’t go blowing smoke up my ass. We know you still keep a high-rise apartment here in Portland.”
“Dutch, I know you are tracing this call as we speak, so you don’t even have to ask where I am. But, because we are old friends, I’m about twenty-five miles west of Lakeview.”
“And I’d guess you’re going to hide your friend, TJ Wildish, out there in the pucker brush?”
“Well … it’s been nice talking to you Dutch I guess you already know everything anyway.”
“Hold on. Hold on.” Smitty said. “How far are you from the Lake County Airport?”
“About the same twenty-five miles.”
“If I sent an agent down there, would you meet her there and pick her up?”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
&n
bsp; “Good looking?”
“Irrelevant,” Smitty snapped. “She’s one of the brightest agents on the task force.”
“Give me a name.”
Smitty said, “Special Agent Miranda Wright.”
BB snorted and said, “Miranda Rights? Are you kidding me?”
“That’s Wright – W-r-i-g-h-t. – no ‘s.’ And I’m not kidding you. We’ll have to call you back with the details, but I want her to interview your friend, Reverend Wildish. Maybe he can help us find out who leaked the information that got our informant killed. You know the drill: who talked to whom … work it backwards.”
“And I was getting bored,” BB said. “Dutch, I’d like someone to go get the reverend’s computer. I emailed him some photos of my new house … and the directions to find it.”
“Oops. Not good. Smitty, get somebody over there now.”
BB heard Smitty ask, “Which church?”
Dutch said, “I’ve got the address. It’s the Rock of Ages Church in Northeast, near Grant High School.”
“I’ll get Agent Wright headed your way. She’ll need to stay over. Let her use a spare bedroom, BB, or you can put her up in one of the motels in town. I’ll leave that up to you.”
After BB hung up, Smitty looked at his boss and asked, “How well do you know this guy?”
Dutch laughed and said, “Pretty well … he’s godfather to my children, and he was one hell of a detective for the Portland Police Bureau. Retired last fall. Now he’s the only black man living in Lake County, Oregon.”
Dutch paused, then added, “BB and I have had our differences. He’s a hard man to love, but we’re still good friends. That said, his best friend in the whole wide world is the sheriff of Lake County.”
“Bud Blair.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“We study his methods in dealing with drug cartels and terrorists … and in dealing with the press.”
“Learn anything?”
“Yeah, like how not to do it. Who in his right mind sets himself up as bait for a trap? And it seems like he always goes out of his way to tee off reporters.”
Dutch raised his eyebrows and stared at Smitty. “He gets results, though, doesn’t he?” It wasn’t a question. “I want you to find Cletus Falls and offer him protective custody. We can stash him at our safe house in West Hills. Make sure he understands we aren’t kidnapping him again.
“If he turns us down, I want around-the-clock surveillance on him anyway. And let him know he’s the bait, but we’ll protect him if anyone comes after him.”
Chapter 7
Newcomers
BUD WAS SLIGHTLY ashamed of himself for being so mean to Karen, but he wasn’t very good at apologies, so he settled for cleaning off his desk. He tried to concentrate on bulletins he’d ignored for several weeks, then went over two reports from the local interagency task force meetings – meetings he’d missed. Those dealt with child welfare issues: things like child abuse, domestic violence, runaway children, foster care, child support payments … or lack thereof.
He shook his head, put the stack of papers back in his inbox, and rocked back in his old wooden captain’s chair. He sat there staring at the big map of Lake County pinned to the cork board covering the wall. Red stick pins marking closed cases, green ones on-going cases.
He said, “Enough,” and turned back to his desk. “Yep,” he decided. He looked up the number of the local flower shop and ordered a dozen roses, to be delivered post haste to Karen Highsmith at the Lake County Sheriff’s Office.
“Have the card say something like ... no, I changed my mind. No card. She’ll know who it’s from.”
The pile of after-action reports from his officers was a week old, but he forgave himself for being tardy and started working through the stack.
Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Tusk had written a speeding ticket to an Idahoan who thought the open highways of southeastern Oregon were an invitation to play race car driver. She clocked him at ninety-five on her radar. She’d also taken a report of a missing thoroughbred stallion from a ranch owner, whose place sat between Highway 395 and Goose Lake, south of town. Bea sent a BOLO with a picture and a useful description of the horse to neighboring police jurisdictions.
Officer Lonnie Beltram was investigating the shooting of a steer in the Rabbit Hills, northwest of Plush. He was waiting on ballistics from the slug he and the rancher dug from the carcass. There was also a picture of tire tracks in a mud hole near the shooting. Lonnie was using pictures of the tracks to search for a tread match from tire manufacturers. Good solid police work, Bud thought, but not much chance of success.
Only one of the ongoing cases piqued his interest: a drive-by shooting in north Lake County, just a few miles west of the tiny town of Christmas Valley. There were no injuries.
In his report, Deputy Sheriff Roger Hildebrand included a photo of a dark blue bandana wrapped around a rusted rural mailbox wired to the side of a faded lodgepole pine fence post. A dirt lane led out through the sagebrush to an ancient single-wide trailer. The trailer, perched on cinder blocks, stood as companion to a faded, derelict VW bus parked next to what looked to be a slapped-together outhouse.
Bud pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and called Roger’s number.
“That you, Boss?”
“One and the same.”
“Good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you were MIA.”
“Are you going to start in on me, too? Karen already took care of the butt chewing. I called to see what you think about this drive-by shooting.”
“You know, Boss, the bandana makes me think it could be gang-related.”
Bud nodded. “It smacks of my days in Portland. You want a hand with this one?”
“No. But if you are finally through feeling sorry for yourself, you need to make the rounds. Go see the judge, talk to the Lake County News … contact your friends. Word is that a wealthy rancher from Montana bought the Z-BAR and is very interested in removing you from your job come the next election.
He plans to run his ranch foreman, an Iraq war veteran – decorated hero – for sheriff. Said you weren’t doing your job, you’re using antiquated methods and so on, and so on. Made a big splash at a Paisley town meeting night before last. He didn’t run you down exactly, just implied you were old-fashioned … like that was some kind of cussword. I think he plans to run this county as his own personal fiefdom.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Afraid not, Boss. I know you aren’t much of a politician, but you’d better learn how the game is played, or you’ll become last year’s news – despite all the good you’ve done. You know the old saying: ‘What have you done for me lately?’”
“I don’t know if I want this job anymore.”
Roger ignored that self-pitying remark and said, “You do know Nancy is back?”
