“Dammit, you knew all along about that outbreak of hoof-and-mouth in Argentina.” The broker snorted. “What kinda game are you playin’ with me, Charlie—you tryin’ to make a fool of ol’ Roy?”
“I’d never do that.” Looks like I’m the fool. The rancher stared through a north window, where a chill late-spring breeze was briskly sweeping away last October’s dead cottonwood leaves. “I’m right in the middle of something, Roy—I’ll call you back in an hour or two and talk to you about selling maybe half of my herd.” He pushed the button while the broker was protesting and turned to see Samuel Reed’s slight figure framed in the arched doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.
“Sell within three days,” Reed said. “By next week beef prices will begin a gradual decline.”
“I’m much obliged.” And Moon was. The Columbine not only was saved but would turn a healthy profit for the first time in several years. Feeling light and carefree as a feather on the wind, the rancher ushered Reed back into the kitchen. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”
He did.
Whatever Reed left out, the chief of police filled in.
When the dust had settled, Charlie Moon and Samuel Reed shook hands on the deal.
And some fine deal it was. The tribal investigator would be paid a flat fee that would have made a paler face blush rose-petal pink. The cash was paid up front and right on the spot, which (no barrelhead being readily available) was on the kitchen table. The Ute was also given a key to the guest house over the Reeds’ detached garage. And if Parris and Moon could keep Sam Reed alive until the day after Mrs. Reed’s birthday, the tribal investigator would walk away with the pot from a ten-to-one wager that would be the second-largest of his career as a bet-on-anything gambler.
Charlie Moon’s biggest win some years back? There are a half-dozen rumors, a couple of them almost plausible—but the gambler has kept mum about that one. Anyway, that was way back when and this is right now and, starting tomorrow, Moon will be camping out on Sam Reed’s ten acres, where (Scott Parris is convinced) the wealthy investor is supposed to meet his untimely end.
The bottom line was that Charlie Moon was determined to keep his benefactor alive, and when a flinty-faced Ute makes up his mind to do a job of work, rolls up his sleeves, spits on his hands, and gets right at it—the chore flat-out gets done.
Most of the time.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
June 2
An Annoying Distraction
Nineteen out of twenty stakeouts were about as interesting as watching grass wither during a long dry spell, but a lawman never knew when number twenty would pop its ugly head up and make his life excessively interesting. With this possibility in mind, Charlie Moon prepared himself for whatever he might encounter during his visit to Samuel Reed’s suburban estate. Before leaving the Columbine headquarters, he strapped on his Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, dropped a small flashlight into his jacket pocket, checked the battery in his mobile phone, and, as an afterthought—slipped a couple of Almond Joy chocolate bars into his pocket to keep the flashlight company. Finally, the Catholic crossed himself and whispered a prayer for protection and guidance. Thus fortified, he stepped outside to greet a new day, cranked up his trusty Ford Motor Company SUV, and rolled away.
As he headed to the public highway, Moon proceeded slowly. Not only because the spine-jarring road needed grading; driving along at barely above a snail’s pace gives a man time to think, which opportunity he used to mull over various matters. At the top of his list was the stakeout. Whether it turned out to be as dull as dirt or as wild as an 1875 Saturday night in Tombstone or Dodge City, he had to be ready to deal with whatever might come up. Such as: What do I do if Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend comes gunning for Sam Reed and there’s no chance to disarm him and make an arrest—do I shoot this so-called Chico Perez character dead or just wing him? Killing a man, even to save another one, was an unpleasant task. On the other hand, injured felons coupled with shyster lawyers could create a world of trouble for a lawman. I’ll shoot him dead.
Charlie Moon also entertained some happier thoughts. With Sam Reed’s tip on cattle prices panning out, things are looking up. And how he’d like to have a wife. During the last few years, the rancher had made a go at matrimony a couple of times but for one reason or another things hadn’t worked out. More recently, Miss Patsy Poynter had been haunting Mr. Moon’s daydreams and night dreams too. It’s not like she don’t like me. Indeed, they were good friends. But therein (he believed) lay the problem. Patsy probably sees me as a big brother. Having suffered bitter disappointments in prior involvements with the tender gender, the county’s most eligible bachelor was wary about sticking his neck out for another potential axing.
The prospective groom would have been stupefied to know how many fine, in-their-prime women figured he was just about the best thing since sliced bread. Or that Miss Poynter had set her sights on the tall, lean Ute since the time she had first laid eyes on him. The clueless Moon thought that Patsy brought him home-baked bread and cookies because she was a kindly young lady who knew he appreciated such delicacies. It’s a good thing the stockman understood a lot more about cattle, quarter horses, cowboys, cougars, and such than women.
As Moon approached the intersection where the Columbine lane terminated at the paved highway, his thoughts about how a loving wife would take some of the rough edges off his life were displaced by a more immediate issue. Operating expenses.
The front gate was wide open and Pete Bushman’s pickup was parked on the highway side, behind a panel truck with GRANITE CREEK ENGINEERING, LTD. painted on the door. Bushman was watching the GCE technician remove a gray steel panel from the gate-control box, where a two-wire line from the foreman’s residence was used to open the gate when someone called to request admission. The several miles of copper wire had been installed by the previous owner (now deceased), who had been almost as wealthy as Samuel Reed. What now? Moon pulled up beside his foreman and the young man in crisp, new blue coveralls. Lowering the window, he repeated the two-word query to his foreman: “What now?”
“Same old same old.” Bushman chewed on a tobacco-stained strand of his bushy beard. “The damned—the dad-burned thing has stopped workin’ again.” At his wife’s insistence, the crusty old man was trying to clean up his language. “Yesterday, I had to drive all the way out here to let the UPS truck in. After that, I just left the damned—the danged thing open.”
Moon eyed the fellow with the digital multimeter. “What is it—a bad connection?”
“Don’t know for sure. An intermittent, most likely.” The technician assumed an upbeat tone. “But don’t you worry, Mr. Moon. Before I leave, I’ll have it working fine as frog’s hair.”
“Before you leave, I’ll be five hundred dollars poorer.” The rancher glared at the offending gate-control box. “And it won’t be a month before the thing’ll fail again.”
Unaware of the thin ice he was standing on, the Granite Creek Engineering, Ltd., employee figured that this was prime time to make a sales pitch. “If you don’t mind me saying so, what you need is a modern, up-to-date, remote-control gate opener.” He turned his plump face to present a comical gap-toothed smile to his potential customer. “Nobody uses these hardwired controllers anymore. And I’m not talking about those RF devices you folks use to open and close this gate when you’re within a hundred feet or so—that part of the system is working just fine.” Having planned to make this pitch to the foreman, the technician just happened to have a four-color brochure in his coveralls hip pocket. “This is what you need.”
Moon shook his head. “I’m not interested in sinking any more money into—”
“I got one of our System 400 remote-control units in the truck, and it ain’t all that expensive if you sign up for our three-year payment plan. What you get for your money is the ability to telephone a command to operate your gate. Hey, you could be in China and phone in an instruction to open your gate or shut it. And you ca
n take my word for it, Mr. Moon—the job won’t be considered finished until I make your brand-new telephone-controlled installation one-hundred-percent reliable.”
“This job is finished right now.” The boss gave his foreman a flinty look that cut right to the bone. “Pay this young man for the time he’s spent here and send him on his way.”
The technician was goggle-eyed with despair. “But I’ll have this thing fixed in five minutes flat and—”
The Ute glared at his crusty old foreman. “You heard me, Pete.”
Pete Bushman knew when not to talk back. “Yessir.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Moon shifted his gaze to the sandblasted windshield. “How many laid-off hands are still hanging around the bunkhouse?”
“All but a half dozen or so.” Bushman prepared himself for the worst. “What d’you want me to tell ’em?” No more free beans and coffee?
Charlie Moon grinned. “Tell ’em that with beef prices on the rise, I’m only selling off about half the herd—and at a nice profit. Put ’em all back on the payroll.” The rancher drove away, throwing up a cloud of dust before the rubber tires hit the paved highway.
Relief flowed over Pete Bushman like a waterfall. I knew all along that things’d turn out all right! The foreman also knew who the real boss of this outfit was, and when to take the bull by the horns. As soon as Charlie Moon’s automobile was out of sight, Bushman grinned through his tobacco-stained whiskers at the dejected technician. “You go right ahead and fix that [coarse expletive deleted] gate.”
Going to Town
About a mile and a minute before he rolled into Granite Creek, Charlie Moon placed a phone call to Scott Parris. “So how’s our friend doing?”
“Sam Reed just had a haircut at Fast Eddie’s,” the chief of police said. “He’s still in our favorite barbershop, getting a straight-razor shave.”
Moon grinned. “I hope Eddie doesn’t let that blade slip.”
“You and me both. We’ve got a lot riding on ol’ Sam seeing the sun come up over the mountains on Saturday morning.”
The Ute’s concerns were focused on Friday. “What’re Reed’s plans for his wife’s birthday?”
“A midday feast in the Silver Mountain main dining room—where they’ll waltz to the romantic sounds of Denver’s Bavarian String Quartet, hired for the occasion by the man who makes money so fast he can’t count it with both hands. After that, Sam’ll apologize for having to work late that night—but he’ll tell his wife that come hell or high water, he’ll get home at eleven P.M. on the dot. Damn!”
“What?”
“Fast Eddie just nicked Reed on the gullet.”
“Our lives hang by a silver thread, pard—we’re here today, gone tomorrow, forgotten next week.” As a black Corvette convertible zipped pass his Expedition at ninety miles an hour, the Indian philosopher caught a glimpse of the driver. The pale woman’s long red hair was blowing in the wind like flames on a white tallow candle. “What’s Mrs. Reed up to today?”
“Sam wrote her schedule down for me. Lemme see…Shopping for m’lady’s summer hat. Midmorning coffee at the Sugar Bowl. Shopping at Mimi’s Antique Glassware. M’lady’s weekly manicure. Shopping for this and that. Oh, and get this: ‘Luncheon at Phillipe’s Streamside Restaurant’—la-de-dah!”
Moon was making mental notes. “What’re her plans for this afternoon?”
“Big surprise. Mrs. Reed will be shopping for silver candelabras.”
“The variety will be good for her.”
“Then she’ll be having supper at the country club and after that she’ll be playing cards with some of her snooty lady friends. Sam figures she won’t be home until at least nine P.M., more likely ten.”
“That’ll give me plenty of time to get settled in before the lady shows.” But there was another player. “What’s the latest on the boyfriend?”
“The guy who calls himself Chico Perez don’t work at the country-club golf course anymore. Also, there’s no vehicle parked at his place and nobody answers when I knock on his door. His nearest neighbors haven’t laid eyes on him for at least two or three days. Not only that, his rent’s overdue.” Parris’s smile brightened his voice. “Looks like the lowlife’s skipped town.”
Good news was always welcome. “Have there been any telephone conversations between Perez and Mrs. Reed?”
“Nary a one. Gotta go, Charlie. Sam’s out of the chair and paying for his haircut and shave.” Parris brayed a mulish laugh. “Our well-heeled friend must be pretty ticked off about getting his Adam’s apple sliced—he just flipped Eddie a two-bit tip!”
This reminded Charlie Moon of the token fee Lyle Thoms had promised him for assassinating Posey Shorthorse. “Every quarter dollar counts. G’bye Scott.” As he pocketed his mobile phone, the tribal investigator reminded himself that he’d made Thoms a promise, and that…soon as this business with Sam Reed is behind me, I’ll see if I can track down that renegade Chickasaw. A hopeful thought occurred to him. If Shorthorse ever was in Granite Creek, maybe he’s left town too.
The prospect was not entirely implausible. From time to time, those things that plague us do go away of their own accord.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Stakeout Commences
After a number of stops in sections of Granite Creek that he was more familiar with, Charlie Moon arrived in Samuel and Irene Reeds’ upscale neighborhood at about two hours before sundown. The tribal investigator made several passes of the residence at 1200 Shadowlane Avenue. When there was no traffic to see him enter the Reeds’ driveway, he made a quick turn. Using the remote-control device on the key ring provided by Sam Reed, he opened the door on the guest house garage, pulled his Expedition inside, and immediately lowered the segmented steel plates behind him.
After waiting for his pupils to dilate in the darkness in the windowless space, Moon climbed a steel stairway, where he used a shiny brass key to unlock the door to the guest quarters that served as the scientist-entrepreneur’s at-home office.
The first thing that caught his eye was a magnificent pool table positioned at the precise center of the parlor. Moon rubbed his fingers over the green felt. I’d sure like to have one of these at the Columbine. A softly cushioned leather couch long enough for Moon to sleep on dominated the windowless wall. An immaculate cherry desk facing the west wall was apparently where Reed conducted his lucrative business affairs. Moon continued his inspection until he was familiar with every detail in the room, including the thick woolen curtains that he would keep tightly closed so that light wouldn’t leak out and alert someone to the fact that he was staked out in the guest house. Someone such as Mrs. Irene Reed—or her boyfriend. Moon didn’t think there was much chance that Chico Perez would show up. I expect that rascal’s in another state by now.
The kitchenette tucked away in a corner of the room did not escape the hungry man’s attention. The refrigerator was stocked with a variety of delicacies, including a three-pound plastic tub of Hoke’s Famous Barbecue (chopped beef brisket), a quart of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream, a half-gallon of cold-brewed coffee, mustard potato salad, coleslaw, thin-sliced deli ham and beef—and that was just for starters. But a snack would have to wait.
The tribal investigator entered the cozy bedroom. Unlike the spacious parlor, it was permeated with that crisp “new” scent of a space that has not been lived in. The sleeping quarters was furnished with a maple bedstead, a matching dresser and chest of drawers, a single leather armchair, and, most tantalizing of all to the rancher—a well-stocked bookcase. Dozens of volumes waited invitingly behind spotless glass doors. Charlie Moon yielded to the temptation and the avid reader was pleased with what he found there. Unless someone made an early move on Sam Reed, he had a lot of hours to while away in this place.
Charlie Moon approached a window that he knew would provide a view of the rear of the Reeds’ residence. He parted the heavy woolen curtains a finger’s width and eyed the back door, which Mrs. Reed had reported
as the site of a break-in attempt. He reserved judgment about whether the lady had made an honest mistake—or (as Parris believed) was setting up an excuse to shoot her husband for a prowler. Moon needed an effective observation post, and this window would serve as the primary lookout. With that in mind, the bedroom lights would not be turned on for the three-day duration of the stakeout. To ensure that no error was made, Moon unscrewed every light bulb in the room from its socket and concealed them under the bed.
Checking out the full bath off the bedroom, the cash-poor rancher marveled at the hand-painted tiles that covered the floor, walls, and every square inch of the bathtub and shower stall. Moon recognized the work of the Angel Fire artist who had produced the tiles and knew what the talented lady charged for her work. I could buy me a new F-350 pickup for what this job cost Sam Reed. He also noticed that the wealthy man’s fixtures were Moen’s finest—and gold plated. The upper 1 percent lives pretty high on the hog.
Satisfied with the guest house, he descended the stairway and exited the garage by a rear oak door that opened into a covering cluster of dwarf pines and juniper. The Ute ascended a thickly wooded ridge onto BLM land behind the Reeds’ ten acres. It took him about half an hour to locate an elevated spot that provided a suitable view. With patience and concentration his ancestors would have approved of, Charlie Moon studied every feature of the landscape until a three-dimensional map was engraved on his brain.
He waited.
A sweetly soft concert of twilight and moonshine was beginning to fill the evening with a pearly gray prelude tonight when—at the nearby call of a robin-size saw-whet owl—the tribal investigator got one of those inexplicable hunches. Without knowing how he knew, Charlie Moon was certain that Mrs. Reed was on her way home. And she’s not a mile away. The diminutive owl hooted again and he saw a pair of headlights top another ridge about five hundred yards to the north. Not quite a minute later, he watched Irene Reed’s Cadillac turn off Shadowlane and heard the big machine crunch its way along the graveled driveway. As the sleek automobile circled the guest house, it glowed pink in the silvery moonlight. The blushing Caddie slowed as the driver remotely opened the door on the garage attached to the residence and pulled inside. Moments after the door lowered behind the luxury automobile, lights began to go on inside the large brick dwelling.
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