by Thomas King
“Two cards here at the office. One for the agents and one that Sterling keeps.”
“Who else has a card?”
“Probably Claire.”
“Takashi?”
“More than likely.”
Thumps glanced around the office. “I guess that means Sterling killed Takashi.”
Ora Mae wasn’t quick enough to catch all of the laugh before it jumped out of her mouth. “DreadfulWater, if you weren’t such a lazy horse, I might just take you for a ride.”
“Thought you were . . .” Thumps let the rest of the sentence die and drift off the edge of the desk.
“Go ahead,” she said. “You can say it.”
“What I meant was . . .”
“Don’t worry. Your dick won’t fall off.”
Thumps could feel Ora Mae herding him over a cliff. “I’m not afraid to say . . . lesbian.”
“Praise the Lord! Another sensitive man.”
“And I’m not lazy.”
“Honey,” said Ora Mae, leaning in, “you’re the laziest man I’ve ever known, white, black, yellow, or red. But I hope you find the son of a bitch who did this before Claire comes to harm.”
“Thought you said I was lazy.”
“Being lazy and being good at what you do are two different things.”
The half-hour drive to Shadow Ranch gave Thumps time to try to imagine Clarence bald and painted red, and to go over everything he knew so far.
Which wasn’t much.
Item number one: The dead man was Daniel Takashi, a computer programmer working for Genesis Data Systems, the company that was installing the computer and security system at Buffalo Mountain Resort.
Item number two: Stanley Merchant, a. k. a. Stick, the son of the band manager and leader of the protest against the resort complex, had gone missing at almost the same time as the murder.
Item number three: The only way into the condominiums was with a computer key card. Or a code.
Item number four: According to George Chan, someone had introduced a worm into the computer system. Try as he might, Thumps could think of only one person who might have the skill to construct a worm and a reason to do so—Claire’s son.
The body was particularly puzzling. It had been moved. That much was clear. But it hadn’t been moved in order to hide it. Takashi had been killed in the computer complex. Why would someone lug the body over to the condos and drop it off in a wingback chair? If you wanted to move the body somewhere else, why not drag it into the woods? Carrying a dead body from the computer complex to the condos meant crossing at least four hundred yards of open ground. Too much of a risk. Unless you were desperate.
No, something was wrong. Thumps couldn’t find it at the moment, but something was very wrong.
Shadow Ranch was a sprawling, upscale country club cleverly disguised as a western movie set. The Bunk House was a four-star hotel. The Watering Hole was a Las Vegas-style nightclub. The South Forty was a world-class eighteen-hole golf course. The property included a water slide/pool complex, tennis courts, riding stables, skeet-shooting range, and a modest, family theme park.
Buffalo Mountain Resort was impressive, but for size and range of activities, Shadow Ranch had it beat hands down. Except for the gambling. That was the difference, and if there was room enough in town for only one fast gun, Buffalo Mountain might just have the edge.
Shadow Ranch belonged to Vernon Rockland, and it was no secret that Rockland was unhappy about the new resort and the competition. Actually, furious was the better word. Even before construction on Buffalo Mountain began, Rockland had lobbied the powers that be long and hard, complaining that the “playing field” should be level.
The joke was that the “playing field,” as Rockland liked to call it, had never been level. The ability of the tribe to offer gambling had tipped the angle slightly in favour of the tribe, and, for the first time, people such as Vernon Rockland, who had always enjoyed business on a favourable slant, were irate to find themselves suddenly labouring across relatively flat ground.
Claire had tried to calm the waters by pointing out that Buffalo Mountain was set up for long-term residency, that most of its clientele would be older people who wanted a retirement property or families who were in the market for recreation opportunities. Shadow Ranch, she pointed out, catered to a more transient group, wealthy tourists who popped in to see the Rockies and what was left of the wilderness. In the end, there would be enough business for both resorts, she argued. It was a rationale that Thumps found both self-serving and reasonable.
Not that he believed it. And he was certain Rockland didn’t.
Thumps parked his car in front of the hotel and walked quickly into the lobby, where the resort’s air conditioning welcomed him with open arms. The girl at the front desk was very young and very attractive, very blond and very slim. In the age of international travel, where the staffs at major resorts were chosen for their racial and cultural diversity, Vernon Rockland was a dinosaur, a fossil from the old school of friendly colonialism, which continued to insist that things European and white be the standard against which everything else was measured.
“Hi.” The woman had a gold badge pinned to her blazer that said Kimberly, and a mouthful of perfect, white teeth. Thumps ran his tongue across his own teeth in an effort to give them a last-minute polish.
“Hi,” he said, trying to smile back without opening his mouth. “Where can I get information on your limousine service?”
“Right here,” said Kimberly, her teeth flashing in the soft light of the lobby.
Thumps fingered the brochure. “A friend of mine is staying here. A Mr. Daniel Takashi.”
Kimberly turned to the computer. “Yes, he is staying with us.”
“He said the driver he had was excellent. A Native man.”
“Native?” Kimberly’s smile faded a bit.
“Indian.”
“Oh, Indian.” The smile was back. Kimberly reached under the counter and pulled out a map. “The Ironstone River Reservation is just to the west of us. We have a tour that goes through the reservation and then over to Glacier National Park.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“It’s one of our most popular tours.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Thumps saw one of the resort’s limousines pull up to the front door.
“Could I leave a message for Mr. Takashi?”
“You can call his room and leave a message on his voice mail.”
“I’d rather write it down.”
“Certainly,” said Kimberly, and she handed him a pad of paper.
Thumps scribbled a message on the paper and handed it back. “I need to be sure he gets this.”
“Absolutely,” said Kimberly. She glanced at the computer and wrote a number on the back of Thumps’ note. “If you like, I’ll have someone take it to his room right away.”
Thumps smiled, looked at the brochure for a moment, and then tapped his forehead as if he had forgotten something. “On second thought,” he said, with all the charm he could muster, “forget the note. I think I’ll surprise him.”
“I’m sure he’d like that,” said Kimberly. “I always like surprises.”
“And I’ll probably sign up for that tour,” said Thumps. “It looks interesting.”
The limousine was already heading down the lane by the time he got outside. It was too hot to run, and he slowed to a walk, following the dark sedan as it wove its way around to the back of the complex.
The garages were behind the hotel. When Thumps walked out of the shadows and back into the sun, Floyd Small Elk, Cooley’s older brother, was washing one of the cars. Cooley was the bigger of the two, but Floyd was faster, stronger, and meaner. Thumps and Floyd had always been on good terms, but Thumps knew enough about the other man and his temper to know that that could change in a moment.
“Hey, Floyd.”
Floyd froze, the hose in his h
and.
“It’s me, Thumps.”
“Hey, Thumps,” said Floyd. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.”
“What the hell you doing here.”
“Won the lottery.”
Floyd began laughing softly and turned the hose on the car. The spray hit the soap suds and cut them in half.
“I need some information.”
“Information centre is back in town.”
“Actually it’s not for me. It’s for Claire.”
Floyd owed Claire big time, and if her name didn’t flush out the information he wanted, Thumps knew he might as well head home and have a nap.
“Claire, huh?”
“Right.”
Floyd put the sponge and the hose down and leaned against the side of the car. “What do you want to know?”
“Japanese guy named Takashi.”
“What about him?”
“You were his driver.”
“He complain about me?”
Thumps watched Floyd’s eyes. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Floyd folded his arms across his chest so Thumps could seethe muscles in his neck and shoulders. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Shit.” Floyd looked at the garages. “You playing cop for Claire?”
Thumps shook his head.
“’Cause you’re beginning to sound like one.”
“Old habits.”
“What happened?”
“Someone shot him.” Thumps waited to see whether Floyd was really hearing this for the first time. “At Buffalo Mountain.”
Floyd leaned against the car. “I owe Claire.”
“She’s a generous woman.”
“And I pay my debts.” Floyd uncrossed his arms. “Yeah, I was his regular driver. Take him out to the resort around nine, pick him up around five.”
“What about Saturday?”
“Just weekdays.”
“He drove up to the complex around ten on Saturday and left a little after noon.”
Floyd frowned. “Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not?”
“Every weekend, he rented a camper van and went sightseeing. Tourist stuff. He used to ask me where he should go.”
“Every weekend?”
“Yeah,” said Floyd. “You sure you’re not playing cop?”
“Not anymore.”
“And this is going to help Claire?”
“I hope so.” Thumps turned and looked west. Shadow Ranch wasn’t Buffalo Mountain Resort, but the view across the prairies all the way to the mountains was spectacular, and he could imagine himself sitting in a lawn chair by the side of the pool, eating his way from one meal to the next.
“A couple more showed up.”
Thumps tried to pretend he didn’t know what Floyd was talking about.
“Came in by helicopter.”
“Short guy, slightly bald?”
Floyd picked up the hose again and let the water play over the car. “You don’t do dumb cop worth shit. Blond guy and a woman. Good-looking. Corporate types. The kind that don’t worry about money, either.” He stopped the water for a second and looked at Thumps. “That it?”
Thumps shrugged. “You haven’t seen Stick, have you?”
“Be sure to let Claire know I helped you.”
As Thumps walked back down the hill, he tried to imagine what it would be like to be rich enough not to worry about money. Travel first class. Stay at the best resorts. Eat at the best restaurants. Own a car with air conditioning. It must be nice to be that rich. The rich certainly seemed to manage well enough.
Thumps stopped in the shade of the hotel. Kimberly had written “24” on the back of the note. Shadow Ranch had only two types of accommodations. Rooms and townhouses. Expensive and prohibitive. Comfortable and luxurious. Thumps didn’t know Takashi’s tastes, but he guessed that a top programmer in charge of a major project, staying in a strange town for more than a week would opt for luxury.
Twenty-four was a townhouse. Thumps quickly let himself in and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. It wasn’t the Cascade at Buffalo Mountain, but it was very nice. He especially liked the gas fireplace with its carved oak mantle. The only inexpensive touch had been the lock on the front door.
Thumps walked through the rooms. The cleaning people hadn’t been by yet. The bed was unmade and there were towels on the bathroom floor. Thumps checked the wastebaskets. Newspapers, a crushed cigarette pack, and a candy bar wrapper. There were clothes in the drawers—socks, underpants, and several T-shirts with sports logos on them—and a dark suit and a pair of dress shoes in the closet. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
On the desk was a laptop computer and a portable printer, along with several computer magazines. Thumps debated with himself for a moment and then turned the laptop on. He watched as it ran through its little dance of letters and numbers that made absolutely no sense. He was hoping the stupid machine would settle on a green screen loaded with icons, but instead he wound up with a black screen with a little rectangle that asked him to type in a password. Thumps didn’t like computers in the first place, and this kind of nonsense wasn’t going to help.
Okay, he had read somewhere that people pick passwords that mean something to them. Thumps tried “Takashi” in case the man had had a strong ego. Access denied. Next he tried “Geek” in case Takashi had had a sense of humour. Access denied.
This was fun. In quick succession, Thumps tried “Genesis,” “Data,” “Systems,” “Genesis Data Systems,” and “Buffalo” because he had run out of guesses. All access denied.
He left the computer to rot and checked under the bed and between the mattress and the box springs. It would be nice if Takashi had left a clue taped behind a picture hanging on the wall or tucked under the vanity in the bathroom. Thumps understood that he was probably looking for something that didn’t exist, but once he got started, he was loath to give the search up. More disturbing, he found that he was enjoying himself.
Nothing.
Thumps sat down at the computer and wiggled it. There was a slot at the front that he vaguely remembered was for floppy disks, although the disks that he had seen Stick playing with hadn’t looked particularly floppy. The slot was empty.
Thumps sighed and pressed the ESC button. Nothing. Then he pressed the F1 key. Nothing. He knew there was no point in getting angry with a machine, especially a computer, but part of him wanted to annoy the laptop as much as it was annoying him, and he toyed with the idea of pushing every button on the keypad until something happened.
Instead, he settled back in the chair and tried to breathe his frustration away. Which is when he saw two buttons at the front of the computer, next to the floppy slot. He pressed the first one and out popped what looked to be a battery.
“Wonderful.”
The second button was no more help than the first. As he pressed it, a little drawer slid open. For a moment, Thumps thought he had found something, but the drawer was empty.
He pushed the drawer shut and checked the room one more time. Enough was enough, he told himself as he closed the door behind him. He’d find Stick if he could. Claire and the sheriff could take it from there.
SEVEN
Beth Mooney’s office was a two-storey brick building that had once been the land titles office. Beth lived on the second floor and practised being a doctor on the first. She rented the basement out to the county as a morgue. Thumps had never been below the first floor, and he was more than happy to keep it that way.
He stepped into the foyer and pressed the button for the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Beth? It’s me.”
“Thumps?”
“Can I come up?”
“I’m down.”
“First floor?”
“No, in the basement.”
Thumps tried to remember whether he had any errands he
could run first. “You coming up soon?”
“If you want to see me, you’ll have to come down.”
Thumps began counting the tiles on the floor. When he got to thirty-four, he reluctantly pressed the intercom again.
“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t really mean it.
The stairway down to the basement was dark and musty. Actually, it was more than musty, but musty would do just fine. Thumps didn’t want to know what all the smells were or where they came from, and by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs, he was breathing through his mouth.
Beth was standing by the side of a steel table, dressed in a grey apron that had other colours on it as well. In her hand was a nasty-looking scalpel. Daniel Takashi lay on the table.
“What brings you to my kitchen?”
Thumps’ stomach turned over.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Hey, come here,” said Beth. “You’ll be interested in this.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Don’t be a baby. It’s a dead body, not a snake.”
Thumps wasn’t sure what a dead body and a snake had to do with each other, but all things considered, he was more inclined toward the snake.
“I’ve just finished up with the stomach. You want to see how it works?”
“No.”
“It won’t bite you.”
“The Navajo don’t like dead bodies.”
“You’re not Navajo.”
“I have Navajo sensibilities.”
“You’re Cherokee,” said Beth. “As I recall, the Cherokee like to create alphabets and take sovereignty cases to the Supreme Court.”
“It was a syllabary, not an alphabet.”
“Here,” said Beth, and she handed Thumps a metal clipboard. “If you’re going to stand around and take up space, you might as well help.”
The form on the clipboard was a worksheet for a death certificate. The place for a name was blank.
“Daniel Takashi,” said Thumps, almost to himself.
“Takashi? That his name?” Beth dropped her scalpel into a pan.
“He was a computer programmer.” Thumps took his handkerchief out of his pocket and pretended to wipe his nose.
Beth picked up an electrical appliance that resembled a miniature skill saw. “No kidding.” She pressed a button and the saw came to life.
