“Naturally. Not only on the grounds that the will is out of date. She’s trying to have Charlie declared incompetent.”
“Oh boy,” said Sally. “This latest breakdown plays right into Bea’s hands.”
“It does, of course,” Haggerty said. “But Bea’s waya head of the game. She’s already filed a brief loaded with evidence of Charlie’s lifelong mental instability, including records of seven different instances of inpatient psychiatric treatment between the ages of nine and eighteen, some lasting for months.”
“So there are records? From the Shelter Clinic, I presume?”
“Billy did tell you a lot,” Haggerty said. “Yes. A church-affiliated facility, very posh, mostly catering to rich born-agains backsliding into the bad habits from their previous profane lives. Big drug and alcohol rehab clientele. A much smaller program catering to children and adolescents whose parents want their kids to have a dose of spiritual medicine along with the Thorazine.”
“Very posh?” Sally asked.
“I’ve heard the place referred to as the Crazy Christian Country Club,” said Haggerty.
“Doesn’t sound like the kind of place Billy described,” Sally pointed out.
“They’ve got detox rooms that aren’t quite so cushy,” Haggerty explained. “And then again, it may be that Charlie Preston spent most of her zoo time someplace else, and got trotted over to the Country Club only when the social workers and state investigators came around. The rest of the time, well, out of sight, out of most everybody’s mind. In fact, it’s beginning to look like the Shelter Clinic did a fair business in so-called off-campus institutionalization of children and adolescents who’d become, shall we say, embarrassments to their parents?”
Warehousing mentally disturbed children? Sally looked at him, intent. “How do you know this?” she asked.
“It turns out,” said Haggerty, “that the last time Charlotte Preston was a patient at the clinic, the insurance company contested the claim for her medical bills. By that time, it seems, several insurers had begun to suspect that the clinic was billing, and billing big-time, for services never rendered, from luxury suites and hydrotherapy to outrageous gouging prices for designer drugs. One of the companies suing the clinic was—”
“Mammoth Mutual.” Sally finished his sentence. “And they called in their favorite fraud specialist, Bradley Preston. What a shock for him to find out that while he’d been busy climbing the pyramid and getting his name in the paper, his daughter had been a victim of the very kind of scam he’d made his bones exposing. But Bea must have known, right? I mean, maybe she was even in on the deal.”
“A very distinct possibility,” said Haggerty. “In which case, the confrontation between the Prestons could have gotten ugly. Especially considering their traditional family values and all.”
“But she couldn’t have killed him,” said Sally. “She was at the demonstration. I saw her with my own eyes.” Then it dawned on her. “Unless, of course, it happened earlier that morning. And the protest at the abortion doctor’s office was a very convenient alibi for her.”
“Or perhaps even a particularly dramatic bit of misdirection, to keep the cops occupied,” said Haggerty. “Consider the car bombing.”
She was considering that when another thought intruded, infuriating her anew. “You said Billy saw the sheriff’s truck parked in front of my house that morning, on his way to your office? And you woke him up shortly before that? Let me put this another way. How much time did you spend with him? I’ve got this appalling idea that you’re in a position to give him an alibi for the morning of the murder.”
“I think,” said Haggerty, “my five minutes are about up.”
“I cannot fucking believe you,” Sally exclaimed. “You’re so goddamn determined to keep people from suspecting the truth about you and him that you’d let your own son rot in jail, when you could spring him with a freaking phone call!” She flipped open her cell phone now, speed-dialed Dickie Langham’s cell, got voice mail. “This is Sally. I’ve just been talking to Dave Haggerty at his office. Can you come down here now?” she told the machine, and rung off.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I’m going to call Scotty Atkins. And you and I are going to sit here until the sheriff or Detective Atkins shows up. And then you’re going straight down there to the jail and get that kid the hell out of there.”
“Before you damn me to hell again,” said Haggerty, “just think about one thing. I’ve learned, over the years of representing quite a few clients who’ve been guests of the county, that Sheriff Langham runs a tight, tidy, professional little jail. I realize that it seems pretty hard of me to leave Billy there for now.”
“Pretty hard!” Sally said.
“But ask yourself this. Somebody came into your house and shot at you. Bea Preston’s stashed Charlie God only knows where, but if it’s a place she’s kept her before, she might think Charlie had told Billy about it. I may be a candidate for world’s shittiest father, but it’s occurred to me that right about now, Billy might be a whole lot safer in Sheriff Langham’s jail than running around Laramie.”
Chapter 23
Sin City
She had to hand it to Dave Haggerty. While she told Dickie and Scotty everything she’d learned that day, from Billy Reno’s revelations to the lawyer’s admissions, Haggerty kept his cool. Even in the face of Dickie Langham’s exasperation and Scotty Atkins’s icy disdain, he remained genial, relaxed. In fact, by the look of him, you’d think Haggerty was in control of the situation. Even as Scotty was explaining that he was inclined to pursue criminal charges against him, in the matter of the computer hacking and harassing pictures, not to mention withholding evidence pertinent to a murder case, most particularly including the alibi for Billy Reno, Dave Haggerty nodded, half smiled, took a few notes on a yellow pad but otherwise sat peacefully behind his big cherry desk, hands loosely folded in his lap.
And when Scotty finished, Haggerty pointedly ignored him and addressed Dickie, who stood leaning against the wall, more stone-faced than Sally had ever seen him, “I hope you gentlemen will reconsider taking action against me. After all, I did connect the dots for you when it came to the insurance fraud. You’re this far away”—he put his forefinger and thumb a millimeter apart—“from figuring out exactly where Bea Preston fits into all this, if she does. And when you get Bea, you’ll get the girl. Let’s be honest with each other.”
“Hah!” Sally couldn’t help saying. All three men gave her the same dyspeptic look.
“I can be of some further use to you,” Haggerty continued, “if you’ll permit me to do my work and not hassle me with frivolous criminal charges.”
Sally took a page out of Haggerty’s book and looked at Dickie. “Do you guys have any idea where she might have taken Charlie?”
Dickie pulled a bandana out of his back pocket, took off his cowboy hat, wiped his forehead, stuffed the bandana back in the pocket, put the hat back on. “She’s not at the Shelter Clinic. They are, by the way, under a court order to shut down pending the outcome of a criminal investigation. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of the insurance companies. In the meantime, we’ve had the Fort Collins police search their facilities, including what they refer to as their ‘off-campus’ sites.”
Sally closed her eyes. “I keep imagining self-storage units,” she said, “with kids sitting by themselves in the dark and cold.”
“You’ve got a good imagination,” Scotty Atkins said. “The kids who were there have been taken to a real hospital. Charlotte Preston wasn’t among them.”
The good news and the bad. “So where do you look now?” Sally asked. “Where’s Bea?”
“She called us this afternoon, to say that she didn’t want us to worry about Charlotte. She insists that what the girl needs is quiet and seclusion, a chance to grieve for her father and seek health and spiritual guidance.”
“You guys are buying that line of crapola?” Sally asked, amazed.
“We�
��re being cautious. The last time anybody reported seeing Charlotte was when Mrs. Preston took the girl out of Ivinson. We’ve been watching the Preston house. Nobody’s been there. There’s a little consolation in the fact that Charlie probably isn’t walking under her own power. From the moment Mrs. Preston took the girl out of the hospital, we’ve had people watching the regional airports for a girl in a wheelchair,” said Scotty, “probably accompanied by an attractive woman. So far she hasn’t turned up.”
“Great. At least she isn’t on a plane to Paraguay,” said Sally.
“Yeah. At least,” said Dickie. “I want that girl, Sally, but we have to treat Mrs. Preston with some caution. At this point, we don’t have anything specific to implicate her in the fraud.” He turned to Haggerty. “It’s time to stop fucking with us, Dave. If there’s anything else you can possibly do or say that would help, I reckon you’d better do or say it, before we head down to the jail to release a suspect we no longer have any reason to hold. And I should warn you. By the time you get down there, we’ll have called the Boomerang, to let them know what’s up. You might be thinking about what you want to say to the media. And once you’ve thought about it, you might consider flying it by Scotty or me.”
Haggerty nodded, then looked down at his desk, visibly disturbed for the first time. He drew figure eights on his desk blotter with his index finger.
“Charlie might not even be with Bea,” said Sally, feeling sick with the realization. “Bea might have stashed her with one of her people. Maybe the guy who beat Charlie up the last time, for example. Maybe the fucking asshole who shot up my house. From what Billy told me, I’d think that Alvin the Chipmunk is involved.”
Haggerty cleared his throat. “Um, as a matter of fact, I’ve had a guyon the Chipmunk, ever since he fingered Billyand Charlie for the murder. He wasn’t exactly laying low. I could show you pictures of him all over town”—and now he opened his center desk drawer, extracted something, and laid it on the blotter pad—“including this one, taken at the Wrangler Bar and Grill that has, would you believe it, Professor Alder here in the background, sitting at a table with her friend Delice Langham and her boyfriend, tight there.”
Scotty gave him a sour half smile. “You’re a resourceful guy, Haggerty. Make sure we get electronic copies of everything,” he said.
Dickie walked over to Sally, pulled her up out of the chair, put his arm around her shoulder, and looked down into her face. “Look, Mustang. I know you’re upset. I can’t tell you how I felt when I heard about the kids in that place. They’re out of there now. We’re doing absolutely everything we can to find Charlotte Preston, and we haven’t forgotten about her stepmother. We will get to the bottom of this, I promise you. I’m grateful for your help. In fact, you done good. But there’s nothing more you can do. You look like shit. Go home and take a nap or something. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”
She did need to go home. She needed to talk to Hawk. Put it more honestly. She needed him in just about every way. God knows, she owed him. Explanations. Attention. Maybe just affection.
It was the magic hour of the day. Off to the west of town, sunlight gilded the Snowy Range, lit up the waves of prairie. As Sally drove through town, toward home, the setting sun touched everything with a warm glow. Such beauty in such a hard world.
She found him sitting out on the back steps, drinking a Budweiser and gazing at the distant mountains. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d seen him just that way. Hawk knew how to stop and watch at sunset.
She sat down beside him, put her arms around him, put her head on his shoulder. He stiffened, then sighed, put the beer down on, and put an arm around her. Then the other arm. They sat like that as the sun melted down, sliding behind the mountains. They watched the sky, pink and blue, red and gold, graying to dusk.
“I love you,” said Sally.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” he said. “And you know I love you. That’s exactly what makes it so damn hard. I admire you for what you’ve been trying to do for that kid. I try to help in the ways I can. But there comes a point where the price gets too high, Sally. I’m not saying you’re wrong for getting involved, for caring. But I get to where I feel as if I can’t ever care enough, do enough, protect you enough, goddamn it. I feel like you need more than I can give. And in the meantime, I start feeling like you’re shutting me out, like you don’t want to be bothered with me or how I’m feeling. I don’t know what to do.”
“I think I’m the one who has to do something. Or maybe do nothing. I’ve been obsessed with this Preston thing, but it’s clear I’m not doing a damn thing to help. I need to back off and leave it to Dickie and Scotty. And more than anything, I need to pay attention to us, to you. Nothing matters to me more than you. You are the most important thing in my life. Everything else can go to hell.”
He looked at her, brown eyes huge and intense. “Are you sure?”
She stroked his hair, tears coming into her eyes. “God, there’s so much meanness in this world. I can’t believe it.”
“Tell me about it, if you want,” he said, rubbing her back. She poured out everything she’d seen and heard as dusk gave way to dark, and stars winked on. He listened, until she had nothing more to say. “That’s it. I’m exhausted. I’d like to go plop in the bathtub, but the thought of it gives me the shakes,” she said.
“Come on,” he said, rising, helping her to her feet. “Back rub time.”
She found a little smile for him. He smiled back. Her smile spread. “That’s fine,” she said, “if you’ll let me drive.”
Arms still around each other, they went inside. They passed the bathroom on the way to the bedroom.
“You fixed the door!” Sally exclaimed.
“Needed fixing,” he answered.
She slid a hand lower down, really liking the way his soft old jeans covered his fine ass. “You need fixing.”
“I bet you’ll fix me good,” he said.
She pulled his head down for a kiss as an answer.
In the bedroom, she lit a candle, wanting only soft light.
“I think,” said Hawk, “that this would be a good time for us to remove our clothing. If you’re going to give me a massage, I would prefer that you use your entire body, please.”
Hawk was a fan of almond oil. Sally was a devotee of the way he responded to being rubbed, very slowly, deeply, and thoroughly, with the stuff. She started with his shoulders and back, working her thumbs along the creases between his shoulder blades, sliding her fingers along his backbone, working the tight muscles all up and down his neck. Eventually she got around to the backs of his legs, working her way all the way down to give careful attention to his feet, making him giggle once at a ticklish spot, more often making him sigh, even once producing a satisfied groan.
And as she began to work her way back up his legs, he flipped over, leaving her straddling him from above. In the process of working on his back, her own front had become somewhat slippery with massage oil, due to a certain amount of sliding along him to get at sensitive places. He took the oil off the bedside table, poured it in one hand, rubbed his hands together, and reached up.
“Hey,” said Sally. “If this were a professional massage, you’d be way out of bounds doing that.”
He kept on doing it. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
“Mm. No. I believe this is an amateur massage.”
“I’ll show you who’s an amateur,” he said, sliding his slick hands around and over her until he had her exactly where he wanted her, and exactly where she wanted to be.
Somewhat later, showered, dressed, and holding hands, they walked into the Yippie I O café. It was Saturday night, not the best time to try getting into the best restaurant in town without a reservation. But then again, it was after eight, and Laramie wasn’t Barcelona. The tables were full, but they found seats at the bar. The regular bartender had called in sick, so Burt Langham was tending bar, gorgeously
decked out in his usual crisp Wranglers, a body-hugging suede cowboy shirt in a shade of turquoise that exactly matched his eyes, and a belt with a PRCA champion belt buckle.
“I didn’t know you rodeoed,” Hawk said.
“I didn’t,” said Burt. “Had a friend who did. Don’t ask,” he added before they could. “I’m a married man now.”
Now she remembered. Burt and John Boy’s wedding reception was less than a week away. He and John Boy were doubtless hip-deep in last-minute crises of the type that Sally could barely imagine. Things like what to do if they couldn’t find organic arugula or wild salmon. She imagined John Boy’s reaction to the thought of serving farm-raised salmon to anyone he didn’t hate, and smiled. But then again, obsessing about what you ate, and what it ate, was a pretty good way to avoid thinking about people who, for no good reason, hated you. People whose hostility raised potentially larger issues, such as whether there would be a mob of self-righteous bigots banging on the front door of the Yippie I O the night of the reception, threatening to break in and wreck the joint in the name of—what else?—family values.
“A couple new items on the menu,” Burt told them. “John Boy’s on a retro kick. He’s got this spinach salad with a warm bacon dressing that has a little touch of curry in it. A little something he picked up back when he was waiting tables in the eighties. Very decadent. How about a cosmo to go with that?”
“I never drink clear booze,” Sally told him.
“Cosmos are pink,” Burt said, but they ordered the spinach salad and capellini con gamberetti and a bottle of a New Zealand sauvignon blanc.
As Burt went over to the cooler to fetch the wine, Sally began to explain to Hawk her plan for becoming a normal person who had a regular job and a nice, satisfying relationship with a boyfriend, in a quiet Wyoming town. Suddenly, she heard Burt say to a woman three seats down the bar, “I hear they’ve signed a contract with some firm that did the newest casino on the Las Vegas strip! Can you imagine? I mean, a theme tabernacle?”
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