Rant of Ravens (13 page)

“You said he came up from Denver? How long has he lived up here?”

“Twenty years? I’m guessing, but I’m sure I’m close. I know he was up here in eighty-four because I heard he’d volunteered to go undercover for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service during Operation Falcon. They turned him down because he was too well known among the locals.”

Rachel rifled the papers. “Did Esther tell you that, too?”

The question hung in the air between them. Finally Lark pulled her braid across her neck and studied the split ends. “No. Mike Johnson did.”

Rachel raised her head and looked at Lark. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“Yes.” She sighed like a woman resigned to an ugly truth. “When I first moved to Elk Park, I dated him for a while. We even talked about getting married. Then one day, in walks Cindy, and it was out with the old, in with the new. The next thing I knew, they’d tied the knot at the Justice of the Peace, and I was just someone he used to know.”

Rachel empathized. “Men can be such scum.”

“Sometimes.” Lark smiled. “Anyway, some of the trials that came out of Operation Falcon were still going or when Mike and I were dating. He told me his take on what happened, and bragged about ‘having the right connections.’ At the time I was young, naive, and in love. I assumed he meant that he dealt only with legitimate operators. Guess I was wrong.”

Rachel cleared her throat. She didn’t know what to say. The “right connections” could mean law enforcement. Maybe the sheriff decided to investigate on his own, and then chose to keep the money instead of turning Johnson in. If he was the “key player” Bursau had referred to, he’d have a good reason to kill the reporter, and a good reason to pin the rap on somebody else. Plus, he was there when she remembered the raven.

“What do you know about Charles and Forest?” she asked. “Does either of them have Middle East connections?”

“They both do.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Lark took another sip of her cola. “Charles’s are through birding. He’s the one who set up Miriam’s Middle Eastern birding tour.”

“Did he have them in the early eighties?”

“I don’t know about that, but I know Forest did.” Lark pushed herself up in her chair, wincing as her ankle moved across the footrest. “He grew up overseas. His father was assigned to the diplomatic corps in Egypt.”

How did Lark know these things? Bursau’s notes didn’t have any of this information.

“I know because his dad played golf with my father back in Washington, D.C. His family returned to the States when Forest started college at Northwestern.”

That’s where Uncle William went to school. “Who’s your dad?”

Lark paused. “Nathan Drummond.”

“The senator from Connecticut?”

Lark nodded curtly. “Anyway, Forest’s dad hunted, and he brought Forest out here on vacation. As soon as Forest graduated from college, he moved to Colorado and set up practice. Like most politicians, he’s a lawyer.”

Lark’s father was Nathan Drummond. That explained a lot of things. Why hadn’t Rachel remembered that?

“Are you listening, Rae?”

“I’m sorry. I was thinking about your dad. I’d forgotten that he went into politics.”

Lark’s face tightened.

Better leave it for later
. “So how soon after he moved here did Forest run for office?”

“He’d been here a year.”

With Lark’s answer, Forest Nettleman climbed to the top of Rachel’s unknown-third-party list of suspects. “It takes a lot of money to launch a politician.”

“But why would he risk a fledgling career?”

“To fund a fledgling campaign.”

Lark scrunched and unscrunched the edge of her blanket. “But he’s too much the environmentalist. And he’s been that way forever. I remember hearing my father talk about Forest’s dad having to bail him out of jail for some act of environmental sabotage while he was in school.”

“They call it ‘monkey wrenching.’ That’s something a pro-environment politician might want to keep quiet.” Rachel stood up and paced the edge of the Navajo rug. “Did you ever read a novel by Edward Abbey called
The Monkey Wrench Gang
? It was published in 1975, and was the first definitive book about ecodefense.”

“Maybe. What about it?”

“When I was in college, I did a paper on the movements it spawned. A lot of environmental groups organized after the book’s publication, specifically one called Earth First!”

“So?”

“So those groups became too mainstream for some members, and several splinter groups formed. For instance, the Earth Liberation Front, the group that claimed responsibility for the fires at Vail, is an offshoot of Earth First! Groups like ELF advocate destruction of property belonging to corporations they believe are hurting the environment. They’re covert factions without central organization. In other words, any individual can commit an act of ecoterrorism and claim the action was committed under the umbrella of ELF.”

“And your point is…?”

“Have you ever heard of PETE, People for the Ethical Treatment of the Earth?”

“Sure. They’re the group that sent death threats to the vice president for failure to take a tougher stance on environmental issues.”

“Right. PETE takes things a step further than ELF, advocating any means necessary to stop the spread of commercialism into the wilderness. In other words, the end always justifies the means.”

“I still don’t see how that ties in with William and Operation Falcon.”

“PETE, unlike ELF, isn’t comprised of young people. PETE’s comprised of the ecodefense front-runners, older sixties activists who feel the movement never went far enough. Many of them were members of Environmentalists for Earth.” Rachel paused. “Didn’t you say Forest went to Northwestern University, and that he’d been in trouble there for environmental sabotage?”

“Yeah, for something like that.”

“Then he and Uncle William attended the same college, and both were environmental activists.”

The women’s eyes met.

“So let me get this straight,” Lark said. “You’re suggesting Forest, as a member of Environmentalists for Earth, was the contact with the Arab, not Mike Johnson?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Then you’re also saying you believe William is guilty as charged.”

Rachel glanced at the disk on the coffee table. “I think it’s beginning to look that way.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lark said, holding her head in her hands. “Miriam’s going to go ballistic. But for the sake of discussion, let’s say he was. What’s to say he didn’t act alone?”

Rachel picked up the disk and waggled it in the air. “Bursau’s research indicates third-party involvement.”

“So why not Charles?” Lark asked. “I like that better.”

“Okay, that’s fine with me. He was an old friend of Uncle William’s, and from what he said, they’d known each other since they were boys. Do you know where he went to college?”

Lark shook her head. “No, but I don’t think he went to Northwestern.”

Rachel didn’t either. He wore a signet ring, but if she remembered correctly, the setting was square. Uncle William’s was large, round, and had a blue stone in the center.

Lark shifted uncomfortably. Rachel pushed aside the papers and checked the ice pack. It was full of water. “Let me get you some more.”

While she was plopping ice into the bag, Rachel considered Charles’s other possible connections. His views on Johnson’s proposed commercial development of the Twin Owls were more in keeping with PETE philosophies than Forest’s proposed bill, but she couldn’t imagine him dealing with Johnson in the sale of the falcons. It was obvious he hated the man as much as he adored Aunt Miriam.

Lark cringed when Rachel returned and resituated the ice pack on her ankle. Then Rachel fetched a glass of water and two pain pills. “Go back to sleep.”

“What are you planning to do with the disk?”

“After I copy it, I guess I’ll give it to Garcia.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not? It’s proof there was a third party involved in Operation Falcon. Someone with enough at stake to kill Bursau to keep things under wraps.”

“Yeah, and Garcia will think it’s Miriam.”

Rachel stared at Lark. She had been so busy trying to find a way to force Garcia to search for her aunt that she’d missed the obvious. Aunt Miriam’s connection to William, her scheduled trip to the Middle East, the missing birds, then her disappearance. The disk information only exacerbated things. “I hadn’t thought of that. You might be right.”

“Damn straight.”

“Except that she wouldn’t have known where to look for the disk.”

“Unless someone like Charles is feeding her information.”

Rachel pondered the idea. What were the options? She could come up with only one. “Then I’ll just have to do some investigating myself. I think the first thing I’ll do is pay Mike Johnson a visit.”

“You’re crazy, Rae. You can’t go up there alone. What if he’s the killer?”

“Well, I have to do something.” She glanced down at the small black disk with its silver square. “If he’s the killer, then he knows I have this, right? Which means, if he’s got Aunt Miriam, maybe he’ll trade.”

“Or you become one less problem to eliminate.”

Rachel chewed her lower lip. What she really needed was someone to drag out there with her. Lark was out of commission, and in spite of Lark’s testimonials, she hesitated to trust Eric or Harry. At least not until she’d had a chance to look into their backgrounds, and check out their possible connections to any of the others. Which left Gertie, Dorothy MacBean, Cecilia Meyer, or Andrew and Opal Henderson.

Or Kirk Udall! She’d almost forgotten about him. She didn’t trust him either.

Rachel slept fitfully, startling
at every little noise. Upon rising, the bags under her eyes attested to her lack of sleep. She guzzled a cup of coffee, showered, then telephoned Kirk Udall. He agreed to meet her at the diner on Main Street for breakfast. Better to make her proposition in person.

Traffic was light in downtown Elk Park—a miracle, considering the onslaught of summer tourists Rachel had expected. Main Street looked just as she remembered it—a ten-block stretch lined with brick sidewalks, wooden benches, and shops crammed full of Colorado memorabilia. According to Lark, several million people came from all over the world during the summer season to see the splendors of Rocky Mountain National Park, and eighty-five percent of them stopped in Elk Park to purchase souvenirs.

Rachel parked her car on the street in a spot marked for locals only. The sign, designed to discourage the tourist population from filling every parking spot on Main Street, had been there since Rachel was a teenager, and it reflected local attitude. The town’s veneer was one hundred percent cosmopolitan, but underneath, Elk Park was one hundred percent small town. Its residents, as clannish as Scotsmen, spurned the transitory population and distrusted newcomers, of which she was one despite her relationship to Miriam Tanager.

A cabin at the west end of Main Street housed the Elk Park Diner. The hundred-year-old building was constructed of ant-eaten logs and chipped mortar. She pushed open the door to the jingle of bells, and glanced around.

“Over here,” called Udall, half-rising from a booth in the smoking section. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said as Rachel scooted onto the vinyl seat across from him. “This was all they had left.”

“It’s fine.” Rachel reached for a menu and wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of cigarette smoke that clung to the plastic pages. “How long have you been here?”

She glanced at Udall, and realized he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. His tanned arms rested on the table-top as he leaned forward. His dark eyes scanned the other diners with hungry curiosity.

“Don’t you wonder what they do for excitement around here?” he asked.

“They watch the tourists.”

A middle-aged waitress in tight jeans approached, clutching a brown plastic carafe. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Rachel?”

“Coffee. Black.”

The waitress splashed mud-brown liquid into the cup in front of her and took their order. After she’d walked away, Udall fixed Rachel with a hopeful stare. “So, what did you want to see me about, Rachel Stanhope? Have you changed your mind about my offer?”

“I need your help.”

“What do I get out of the deal?”

“Always looking for the angle.”

His brown eyes studied her face. “You scratch my back…”

“I’ll scratch yours,” she finished. “I found one of Bursau’s disks yesterday.”

“You did! Where?”

“Shhhh.” She glanced around, pleased to see that none of the other diners seemed to be paying any attention to them. “No one except Lark knows.”

“What’s on the disk?”

“Interesting stuff.” She flashed him a grin. “Willing to bargain?”

He scratched his chin, then pointed at her. “Technically, that disk belongs to
Birds of a Feather
magazine.”

“True, and technically I should have turned it over to Sheriff Garcia. But I didn’t. So do you want to make a deal?”

“Fire away.”

“I need an escort for dinner tonight.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Dinner at one of the most elegant restaurants in Elk Park, and the disk at the end of the night.”

He leaned back against the booth, spreading his arms across the back like a bird in flight. “I’m listening.”

“I want to go to the Black Canyon Creek Ranch for dinner tonight.”

“Mike Johnson’s spread?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Right on. The Black Canyon Creek Ranch is known for its elegant atmosphere and delicious game meats, and its proprietor is a master falconer with international friends and a taste for fine wine and women.”

“Then you’ll go?”

“I’m your man. I wouldn’t miss it. What time should I pick you up?”

“Make it five-thirty so we’ll be in time for cocktails. Dinner at seven.”

“Sounds good.”

Rachel slipped two dollar bills from her purse and set them on the table. “Oh, and I think it’s dressy.”

“Then I guess I know how I’m spending the rest of my morning.”

The rest of the day went according to plan. With Udall set to make the dinner reservations at Black Canyon Creek Ranch, Rachel had gone back to Bird Haven. After Perky had plucked his daily ration of hair and flown back to his nest, Rachel logged on her computer.

She plugged in the disk, copied the files into a folder, and opened the compressed photograph files. The first two pictures showed William, Forest Nettleman, and a man in a white robe and headdress with two young falcons. The background showed trees, rocks, and ground. Nothing to give a hint as to location.

The most interesting photo, of dubious quality, was the third. It showed an unidentifiable someone opening a briefcase. There was something that seemed familiar, but it was hard to place. Light glinting off metal had burned the negative white in areas, especially around the hands and face, the wrist, and the briefcase handle. But there was no mistaking the contents of the case. They were clear. Bundles of money, and lots of them.

She copied the photo files to the new folder on her computer, then popped the disk out of the A-drive and stuffed it into her purse. She finished the morning by calling all of the EPOCH members to let them know that the Monday afternoon meeting would be canceled because of Lark’s injuries and Miriam’s disappearance.

Throughout the afternoon, she handled several client matters for Jack Jaffery, then did a web search for information relating to aspects of Miriam’s disappearance. She didn’t find any new information.

At five o’clock, Rachel logged off and dressed for dinner. About fifteen minutes-later the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Rachel, Kirk here.”

She glanced at her watch. “Where are you?”

“I got hung up, and I may have to bag out early. My boss called. There are problems with another story. Any chance you could meet me up there?”

Rachel hesitated. “Sure. What time?”

“Shoot for half an hour.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Rachel pulled onto Black Canyon Creek Ranch Road. The turnoff was just beyond the overhead sign marking the entrance to Bird Haven off of Raptor House Road, and the road cut across a small portion of the southeast corner of Miriam’s property. The previous owners had granted Mike Johnson an easement. Now, it seemed, he wanted more than just access to the main road; he wanted access across the property to Twin Owls.

The road rippled with washboard caused by heavy runoff, and the car lurched and bumped, locking the seat belt across her shoulder in jarring fits and starts. She accelerated through a narrow stretch where tall pines jutted skyward, blocking the sun, and slowed again when the drive opened into a bright clearing. A turkey vulture circled high overhead, and in the distance a large bull elk grazed on dry-land shrubs and brightly colored wildflowers.

The ranch house, a meandering two-story structure, sprawled across the upper reaches of the clearing. Udall, dressed in a coat and tie, waited on the wide porch. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“I can’t believe I beat you.”

She breathed a sigh. “After jouncing up that road, I’m surprised I made it at all.”

He gestured grandly toward the front door. “Well, the bar is this way, and dinner’s set for seven.”

The lounge was situated in a spacious room finished in white aspen wood. Liquor bottles lined the mirrored wall behind the bar, and a massive stone fireplace sported a stuffed mountain lion poised to spring off its mantel. They were the first guests to arrive. Udall steered her toward a corner table.

“I’ll have a vodka martini,” he told the waitress.

“That sounds good,” Rachel said. “Make mine with three olives, please.”

Another couple arrived while they waited for their drinks. The woman, a stately blond, was draped in a full-length sequined gown, spike heels, and fur wrap. The man, whose back was to Rachel, wore a tuxedo.

Rachel glanced down at her black shift and black flats. The combination usually sufficed for New York.

“Don’t worry. You look great.”

Rachel smiled, and fingered the strand of pearls at her neck. It had been a while since a man had complimented her appearance. She kind of enjoyed it. “Thanks again.”

“Ah, Sheikh Al-Fassi. How good to see you.”

Rachel’s heart pounded as the man speaking stepped from behind the bar and extended his hand. Of average height, average color, and average build, there was nothing remarkable or defining about him. What distinguished him was his deep, resonant voice.

The sheikh turned when the man addressed him, smoothed a jet black mustache, and assessed the man with cool detachment before nodding. “Mr. Johnson.”

Was the sheikh the man in the picture? Take away fifteen years and the mustache, and it was a distinct possibility.

“I trust everything’s been okay so far?” asked Johnson. Rachel tried picturing him with Lark. Her “back to basics” lifestyle didn’t mesh with his yuppie “me, me, me” demeanor.

“Everything’s been fine, thank you.” The sheikh gestured to the woman beside him. “Have you met my wife?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Johnson’s eyes raked the woman’s body. “How do you do, Mrs. Al-Fassi?”

The woman smiled. Her husband handed her a glass of red wine.

“So, what do you think? You must agree, we have a nice place here.” Johnson gestured expansively, his voice vibrating in the air like a sonic boom.

“The accommodations are quite satisfactory,” replied the sheikh. “Though, I admit, I’m more anxious to see the birds in use.”

“Then tomorrow’s your lucky day.” Johnson clapped the sheikh on the shoulder.

“Yes.” The sheikh brushed off his sleeve. “I’m looking forward to it.”

At that precise moment, a commotion erupted in the foyer as a large party entered, making their way toward the lounge. Rachel closed her eyes and strained to hear the conversation between Johnson and the sheikh.

Udall spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Did you invite them?”

“Who?” Rachel opened her eyes, and was shocked to see Eric and Harry entering the room with Gertie, Dorothy, and Cecilia in tow.

“Well, look who’s here,” chirped Gertie, sidling over to the table.

Udall flashed a smile.

“Don’t let her kid you, Rachel,” Dorothy said. “She knew you were here.”

Gertie dropped her voice. “Lark told us what you were up to.”

Rachel had sworn Lark to secrecy. “I guess you can’t trust anyone these days.”

“Some people just have better judgment than others,” Gertie murmured.

“Oh, look, Dorothy,” Cecilia said. “Doesn’t Mike Johnson look handsome tonight?”

“Stop it, Cecilia.” She looked pointedly at her sister. “Quit trying to fix me up. We came up here to help Rachel.”

“Lark’s afraid you’re going to get yourself into trouble,” explained Harry.

“Now how would a pretty young lady like this get herself into trouble up here?” asked Mike Johnson, approaching the table.

“We thought you might throw us out, Mike,” Eric said. “After all, we are adversaries of a sort.”

“Adversity makes for adventure, my good man. And planning makes for perfection.”

“Good to see you, Mike.” Eric shook his hand. The others followed suit. Harry introduced Kirk Udall, then Rachel as Miriam Tanager’s niece.

“I heard about your aunt’s disappearance, Ms. Stanhope. I’m very sorry.” Johnson wasted no time in finding a diversion. “It looks like they’re signaling to me from the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me? Enjoy your dinner.”

The EPOCH members pulled over another table, drew up chairs and ordered drinks. Eric plopped down beside Rachel and gestured in the direction of the bar. “Forest is here, too. He was surprised to see some friends of his seated over near the bar.”

Rachel spotted Forest at a table with the Al-Fassis. The fact they were old friends of his, and staying at Mike Johnson’s, seemed to be too much of a coincidence.

“Charles stayed behind with Lark,” Cecilia said. “He’s guarding her in case one of those thugs from the Lower Owl decides to pay her a visit while we’re all up here.”

“She told us what happened,” Harry said.

“Oh, my, it sounded perfectly awful.” Dorothy dropped her voice. “But maybe we shouldn’t talk about that here.”

“Why not? We need to talk about it sometime,” said Gertie, shrugging out of her coat and fluffing her bob. “Lark told us you found one of the disks and that it contained some information about my father. I want it.”

“Hey, wait just a minute there,” Udall protested. “That disk is
Birds of a Feather
magazine’s property.”

“Well, the two of them should have taken it straight to Victor,” Cecilia said.

Rachel sipped her martini.

Gertie crossed her arms. “I always call things as I see them, which is the only reason I’m here. Lark told us what was on that disk. I absolutely refuse to believe that my father was involved in anything shady. Someone’s trying to frame him, and I intend to find out who.”

Rachel dunked the olives in her martini glass, splashing vodka dots on the cocktail table. “And what about Aunt Miriam, Gertie? Do you believe she’s innocent?”

Gertie’s color heightened to match her rouge. “If they set up Daddy, they probably set up Miriam, too. You may be right about her being in some sort of danger.”

It was about time
.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Cecilia asked.

Dorothy slapped her sister’s arm. “That’s what we’re here to find out. Haven’t you been paying any attention?”

The women erupted in battle, picking and pecking at each other like a couple of old hens. Forest made a beeline for their table.

“Ladies!” His stern voice silenced their bickering. He cleared his throat, shooting a warning glance in their direction. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, His Highness Sheikh Al-Fassi, and his wife, Elaina. The sheikh and I attended high school together in Riyadh.”