Killing Custer

by Margaret Coel

  “Damned Indian tried to kill us.” The officer holstered the pistol and stood up. Father John could see his legs shaking, his hands trembling.

  “We’ll pick her up,” Madden said. “She’s not going far.” He turned to Father John, eyes narrowed in barely controlled rage. “You see what we’re dealing with.”

  “She’s distraught.”

  “Where are they?” The detective sounded as if he were at the end of his rope. No more conversation. No more theories. Only the stark nearness of death.

  “They left,” Father John said. “They didn’t say where they were going.”

  “But you know.” He straightened his shoulders. “Both of them were here.” Talking to himself now. “Darleen Longshot in the truck, crazy as her son. The whole lot of ’em crazy. Heading for the Sioux. Like we won’t be able to get them there. It’s a matter of time.”

  Madden gestured to the BIA Police who had accompanied him—a white man on the rez. Trying to arrest two Arapahos. It was dangerous.

  One by one, the officers lowered themselves into the cars. A radio screeched. “Come in. Come in. Do you have an officer down?”

  Madden yanked a mike off a hook and shouted. “No officer down. Stop a black pickup pulling a white horse trailer. Seventeen-Mile Road. Darleen Longshot driving. Approach with caution. Dangerous. Arrest her for attempted murder.”

  He replaced the mike and stared at Father John a moment. Then he started to pull the door shut, shouting, “Better have that leg looked at.”

  Father John watched the cars backing around, pulling out, roof lights dark. Driving out of the mission. It was then that he felt the sharp stabbing pain working its way through his left leg.

  28

  THE REAL-ESTATE office was quiet, window shades half-drawn against the sun, photos of houses fading to light bronze. Vicky had left the Ford at the curb and let herself through the glass door. The bell on a red rope was still jangling. On the left, an empty reception desk. No one around. She gave it a minute to allow the sound of the bell to register on someone in the back cubicles. Linda Lewin, the broker. Maybe even Deborah Boynton.

  Linda Lewin came through the door wearing an expression that ran like water from hopeful to resigned. “You just missed her,” she said.

  “Deborah? Where can I find her?”

  “As I said before, I don’t keep tracking devices on the Realtors.” A harmony of phones rang in the cubicles behind her.

  “You can probably help me . . .”

  “Oh yeah. A subpoena if I refuse. Well, maybe I’ll just let you get one.”

  Vicky was quiet. Something had changed. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Afraid of?” She pulled the door closed behind her and motioned to the plastic chairs lined up below a plate glass window. “Look,” she said, patting her short dark skirt over her thighs. “I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

  “Why would you have any trouble?”

  “I don’t know what Deborah’s up to. Next time she comes in, I intend to tell her I don’t want her here anymore. Soon’s a Realtor gets squirrelly . . .”

  “Squirrelly?”

  “Unreliable. Shows up when she wants. Voice mail full. Clients calling me, saying, ‘Where’s my Realtor?’ Last time that happened with one of the Realtors, we had the real-estate board crawling all over us, investigating the company. Understand what I’m saying? I don’t need that.”

  “You said she was just here.”

  “Blew in. Picked up a stack of mail and blew out.”

  “Look, Linda,” Vicky began, “I’m trying to find out what happened to a large sum of money that my client’s husband invested . . .”

  “You mean, in real estate?”

  “Possibly.” Vicky stopped. The Granite Group could be right here, a real-estate investment fund handled in this office by Deborah Boynton. There could have been some delay in transferring the money from one fund to another so that Garrett could purchase the ranch. “What do you know about the Granite Group?” she said.

  Linda Lewin seemed puzzled, at sea, blinking at the name. “Sounds familiar,” she said. “Some time ago . . .” She got to her feet, sidled past the desk, and sat down. Typing. The computer screen lighting up. “Here we go. Eight months ago, the company purchased an apartment building in Casper. Two months later, seven houses in Cheyenne.” She looked past the edge of the screen. “Deborah handled the transactions, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “Who owns the company? Where is it located?”

  The woman leaned back in the chair and clasped her hands on her waist. “Same questions I asked Deborah. A group of investors, she told me. I shouldn’t worry. Everything legitimate. The transactions went smoothly. No problems.”

  “The company still has the properties?”

  “If they’ve sold, they didn’t list with us. Hold on.” More typing, Linda hunching over the screen. “Here we go. County records in Casper show Granite Group as owner of the apartment building.” Another moment passed, studying the screen. “Same ownership on the houses.”

  “Any names?”

  Linda Lewin shook her head. Timing was everything, Vicky was thinking, and the timing wasn’t right. Garrett hadn’t transferred money to the Granite Group until four months ago. “What about the ranch near Dubois that Edward Garrett wanted to buy. Who owns it?”

  The computer keys snapped like marbles rolling across the floor. It took a few moments before the woman said, “Stockton Ranch, located off the highway ten miles south of Dubois. Still for sale. Owners Jocelyn and Ernest Stockton, Richmond, Virginia.”

  Vicky stood up. She felt as if she had been running down dark corridors into solid walls, with no way out. Deborah Boynton knew the principals behind the Granite Group, but the woman wasn’t here, and she wouldn’t be at home. In and out, picking up mail and messages. “Did you ask Deborah to call me?”

  “I gave her your card.” The broker lifted herself over the computer and came back around the desk. “Don’t expect a call. She was—how should I put it?—preoccupied.”

  Vicky left the woman standing in the reception area, stepped off the curb, and got into the Ford. She caught a view of the woman through the glass door. A silent, dark figure, as if she were staring at shredded papers, trying to piece them together.

  She turned the ignition and rolled down the windows. Little clouds of dust swirled around the parking lot, nipped at the tires of cars parked farther along the curb, blew across the open windows. Her nostrils felt dry and scratchy. She concentrated on the cell cupped in one hand, calling the office.

  A moment, then Annie’s voice saying she had been about to call. “I just got off the phone with the secretary of state’s office. You’re not going to believe it, but the Granite Group doesn’t exist. There is no company registered by that name.”

  Vicky stared straight ahead. The figure had disappeared from behind the glass door, leaving the real-estate office with a shut-down, end-of-the-day look. It surprised her that she wasn’t surprised. The Granite Group didn’t exist, except in the mind of whoever had set it up. Whoever had taken Edward Garrett’s money.

  She asked Annie to keep trying, sensing the pointlessness even as she issued the request. Legal documents filed with the county clerk that might reference the Granite Group. The Internet. Bulletin boards where investors might have posted something on the Granite Group. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. She backed into the lot and drove forward. Onto Federal, then south to Highway 789. Past the road to St. Francis Mission. Past the Wind River Casino and Hotel perched on the hill, and on until she had crossed the border and was slowing through Hudson, scrub brushes dancing in the wind outside.

  She followed the Popo Agie River around the curve and on into Lander. The town had settled into the heat and quiet of the afternoon. She turned into the asphalt lot along the side of the square, tan-brick
building, and slid into one of the slots behind the sign that said Bank Customers Only. Inside, cool air streamed across an open area with shiny floors that resembled Wyoming Central Bank down the street. Glass-enclosed cubicles on one side, and on the other, a row of tellers behind a long counter. It struck her that all banks had a similar feeling—solidity, dependability, trustworthiness.

  “How can I help you?” A young man with a scrubbed, eager look and short-cropped blond hair, who looked like the frat boy he had probably been not long ago, rose from a desk that faced the front door. He wore a light blue shirt with a dark blue tie that bisected the front of his shirt. A ballpoint pen was clipped in the pocket.

  “Vicky Holden,” Vicky said, handing a business card across the desk. “I’m here on behalf of a client. I’d like to speak with an officer.”

  The man frowned at the card a moment. “I’ll call Mr. Welton,” he said, backing away from the desk, still studying the card.

  Vicky watched the charade play out in the third cubicle along the wall. The young man standing, nodding, tilting his head toward the front door; an older man with broad shoulders sitting behind the desk, studying her business card, poised, tense. He rose, came around the desk, and led the young man across the lobby, footsteps making a soft scuffing noise on the carpet.

  “Ms. Holden,” he said. He wore a short-sleeved, light blue shirt and dark tie identical to the young man’s. “Clark Welton,” he extended his hand. His grip was firm and confident. “We’ve been expecting you. Follow me, please.”

  Vicky followed the man through the lobby, past the cubicles and a small table topped with a metal coffeepot and stacks of Styrofoam cups. He halted for a half second at the table. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. Then they were through a walnut door that fit so closely into the walnut wall at the rear of the bank, she hadn’t realized it was a door. They walked down a short hallway, and he ushered her into a conference room with a long, polished walnut table surrounded by chairs upholstered in dark blue tweed. A computer sat on a small table against the wall, and that is where he headed. Waving her to an upholstered chair close by, he sat down at the computer and swiveled toward her.

  “I understand you represent Edward Garrett’s widow. We were informed by Wyoming Central Bank that you are trying to trace a large sum of money Garrett paid into one of our accounts. You understand the privacy issues here, I trust. Certain matters must remain confidential.”

  Vicky pulled the file folder out of her bag and opened it on the table. “Belinda Clark has given me her power of attorney in this matter. We have also opened a probate action in district court. The money her husband transferred to the Granite Group was communal property. She is entitled to know if the money is still in the account.”

  He steered the chair around to the computer and started typing. From where she sat, the screen looked black, but Welton kept alternating between watching the keyboard and looking up at the screen. “Difficult to say.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “Ongoing deposits and withdrawals. Garrett’s check for five hundred thousand cleared, but there was activity after that. This was a very active account.”

  “Was?”

  Welton turned from the computer and eyed her steadily for a moment. “The Granite Group account was closed. The full balance, four hundred thousand dollars, withdrawn. This removes our bank from the matter. We have no responsibility—or, indeed, knowledge—of what became of Mr. Garrett’s money.”

  “When was the account closed?”

  The man did a half turn and tapped at the keyboard with one finger. He leaned in closer to the screen. “Recently. Last Friday at two thirty-nine p.m.”

  “Where was the money transferred?”

  “Transferred?” He swung back. “It was received in cash. One– hundred-dollar bills.”

  “By whom? I need to know the principals behind the Granite Group.”

  “And I’m afraid that is information that must remain confidential.” He put up a hand before Vicky could say anything. “Naturally we would honor a subpoena.”

  Vicky laid a fist on the table. “We both know who is behind the Granite Group,” she said. “His name is on that screen.”

  Welton jerked his head sideways, a panicky movement, as if she had read the black screen.

  “Skip Burrows.”

  “You did not hear that from me. I have not divulged his identity.”

  “You just did,” she said. “You’ll have the subpoena as fast as I can issue it.”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, THE ENGINE hummed and a hot breeze blew through the Ford. Vicky pressed the mobile against her ear and counted the rings—one, two, three—until Annie’s voice came on. “Everything okay?”

  “Listen, Annie,” Vicky said, ignoring the question. “We need a subpoena to force Bank of the West to provide information due Belinda Clark.”

  “Got it.”

  “Let me talk to Roger.”

  It was a moment before Roger Hurst picked up. “Sorry, Vicky. I was on the other line. What’s going on?”

  “I need some names. You know Skip Burrows . . .”

  “Knew him, yeah. Shook his hand a couple dozen times. We threw back a couple beers together. You know, another lawyer in town. We commiserated with each other.”

  “You joined the search after he disappeared.”

  “Along with about seventy others.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Excuse me?” Roger hesitated as if he were waiting for a clarification. “Not much,” he said.

  “Was he investing money for clients?”

  Roger took a long moment before he said, “Skip is a funny guy. Friendly, outgoing. Left the impression he’d bail you out of jail, if that’s what you needed. But”—another deliberative pause—“he kept a wall up. There was a way he had that let you know how far you could go, what questions you could ask.”

  “You never heard about any investments?”

  “He had what you might call a club. I got the impression a few people were closer to him than others. And they were all the same. I mean, with the wall up.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  “If I wanted to find out about Skip, I guess I’d start with Hank Colton at the Wind Bar. He owns the place.”

  29

  DANK LIGHT SHONE on the pine walls and tables inside the Wind Bar. The air was thick with odors of beer and hot grease. From the speakers fixed near the ceiling in opposite corners came the voice of Willie Nelson over a rumble of guitars. Except for the man leaning over a newspaper opened on the bar in back, the place was empty. Vicky threaded her way among the tables and barrel-shaped chairs. A silver stand with menus and salt and pepper shakers occupied the center of each table.

  The man turned over a newspaper page and looked up. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hank Colton?”

  “So they say.” Everybody’s idea of a western movie star, handsome and rugged in a blue-striped shirt and jeans. Brown hair cut short, jaw squared, and wrinkles sun-etched at the corners of eyes that looked sky blue even in the dim light.

  “Vicky Holden. I’m an attorney.”

  “I know you. Indian lawyer. Seen you around town with that other Indian lawyer. What brings you here?”

  “I understand you are a friend of Skip Burrows.”

  He spread his arms in an arc as if he might lift the whole world. “Includes about everybody in town. Skip was a good guy. Took time to get to know people. Always wanted to know how the wife and kids were getting along.”

  Vicky slid onto a stool. “Was a good guy? You believe he’s dead?”

  “How long has it been, three days since he got dragged out of his office? Police don’t have squat. Nobody’s asked for a ransom, and believe me, if there had been any ransom calls, I would’ve been the first to hear. Nothing goes o
n in this town that doesn’t come to this bar.” He thumped a fist on top of the newspaper that shifted and crackled. “The confessional. All kinds come in here, talk about everything. Man, if this bar could write a book, it would be a bestseller exposé of the whole area. What’s your piece of this?”

  “I represent the widow of Edward Garrett, the man who was killed out there.” She motioned with her head toward the front of the bar and Main Street beyond.

  “I was there. I seen it. Those Indians pulled a fast one. Surrounded old Custer once again and shot him down.”

  “The investigation is still going on,” Vicky said, making an effort to tamp down the hot shoots of anger rising inside her. It was so easy to blame the Indians, jump to conclusions. “The warriors sent a message. It didn’t mean one of them shot Garrett.”

  “Yeah, right.” Colton tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “You Indians stick together. You ask me, nobody else around here had any reason to kill Garrett. Nobody else was close enough to pull the trigger. How do you account for that?”

  “I don’t. It’s Detective Madden’s problem.” Vicky waited a moment for the point to sink in. “I’m here about Skip.”

  “What’s he got to do with the guy that got killed?”

  “I understand he made investments for clients. I believe he invested for Garrett, and his widow is trying to trace the funds.”

  Hank Colton settled back on his heels and regarded her a long moment, as if he had to readjust his initial opinion. “What makes you think Skip was investing?”

  “This isn’t the only place where you can pick up on what’s going on.” She tapped a knuckle against the shiny wood. “What can you tell me about the Granite Group?”

  Hank took his time folding the newspaper and pushing it aside. Then he pulled a cloth from beneath the bar and began running it over the space between them. “What Skip did, he did for his friends. He didn’t broadcast all the good he did. The way he helped people grow their money, put them in a better place. It was private, nobody’s business.”