An Obvious Fact (20 page)

I turned to Vic. “I guess when Stainbrook comes out we'll pretend that we're taking him into custody and walk him up to the HPD and talk.”

“I don't think it's Eddy the Viking, either.”

“What?”

“The second ATF agent.”

“You keep narrowing the field.” I shook my head. “Let me know when you get it down to one.”

• • •

Agent Stainbrook was impressed with the interior of the USS Pequod, even if Vic, sitting in the back with Dog, wasn't. “I think we should hang a shingle on this thing and let everybody know that we're establishing squatter rights in it and opening up an office.”

Stainbrook glanced around the interior of the behemoth. “What are they intending to do with this thing, anyway?”

“I don't honestly know—go fishing, I guess.” I turned in
the seat and looked at his profile. “So, what's the big deal about ASPs?”

“All right, first off, I want you to know that it is against agency policy to give you this information in any form, and I'm placing myself and my people in a precarious position by telling you any of this.”

I nodded, and then he looked back at Vic, who made the motion of locking her mouth and throwing away the key. I assumed Dog was exempt.

He took a deep breath and started in. “In 1986 the Congressional Office of Technology Assessment reported that a ninety-nine percent metal-less gun could feasibly be made of advanced synthetic polymers, with metal used just for springs, but that it was only a possibility.” He pulled out his own sidearm, which looked remarkably like Vic's only slightly larger. “This is a Gen4 Glock G22, and it's got ASP parts like the grip and trigger guard. Now, it's difficult to recognize one of these on an X-ray scanner when it's disassembled, but it can be done.” He handed it to me. “This weapon is eighty-three percent metal by weight.”

I held the lightweight .40. “So?”

“In '88 there was a company based in Scottsdale, Arizona, called Dust Devil Development that claimed it was going to have a prototype of a completely ASP weapon in less than a year. Well, a lot of agencies figured it was just hot air to get investors interested in the company, but Congress lost their minds over the fact that these weapons could be impossible to detect. They ordered an investigation, and suddenly Dust Devil Development ceased to exist. Shortly after that,
Congress passed laws that banned the production of any kind of fully ASP weapons.”

“Scottsdale, huh?”

He nodded. “You see, the difficulty had been in the parts of the mechanism that would wear out. Those had to be made with metal; there just wasn't any ASP that was able to stand up to that kind of punishment.”

“Till now?”

“You got it. Enter Bill Tichenor, a polymer technician out of Silicon Valley's Special Materials Division. Tichenor develops a ceramic material that's supposed to replace the metal exhaust valves in automobile engines, and this stuff is supposed to be as strong as steel. Well, this does not go unnoticed by the FBI, and they clamp down on the Special Materials Division and classify the formula for the stuff.”

Vic leaned forward. “If they were so spooked by this, then why didn't they shut down production completely?”

“They did that for the car exhaust valves, but when they went through Tichenor's files they found designs for all kinds of applications, especially worrisome being the concept drawings for a small automatic pistol.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Wait, it gets worse. The CIA, seeing an opportunity, tried to argue with Congress about the viability of continued development.”

Vic pulled herself up between us. “The CIA?”

“The agency's position was that the weapon would be used for antiterrorism purposes, and in situations where foreign powers had magnetometer security, they could still get weapons into hostage situations.”

Vic laughed. “And vice versa.”

“It all got shut down eventually, but here's an interesting tidbit: six weeks after the Department of Justice shuts Special Materials Division down for good in 1996, Bill Tichenor is found without a head or hands in a dumpster behind 4014 North Goldwater Avenue in Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“That's where Dust Devil Development was working on the plastic gun?”

“Precisely. There was communication between Tichenor and Dust Devil, a go-between.” He paused. “That turned out to be Delshay Torres.”

I thought about the conversation I'd had with Lola the first time we'd met: “Chief cook and bottle washer of the Crossbones Custom bike shop somewhere in the Phoenix area.”

Stainbrook nodded again. “Maryvale, yeah.”

“So, I'm assuming that Delshay got involved, and therefore Bodaway, because he was familiar with the fabrication of different materials and not likely to notify the Congress of his advancements?”

The ATF man leaned back in his seat. “Not likely then or now—suspicious hit and run in Nogales, just this side of the Mexican border, last year.”

“So, what are the chances they've actually developed a fully ASP weapon?”

He laughed, but it wasn't funny. “Since my man Post got his hands on that sample you found in his motel room? I'd say pretty good.”

“So that's what the cube was, a sample of metal-tensile-strength advanced synthetic polymer?”

He nodded. “We've already got people in Cheyenne with your DCI, and they've confirmed that that's what it is.”

Vic looked at the two of us. “So, how does a shitbird like Billy ThE Kiddo get involved in something like this?”

Stainbrook sighed. “Material fabrication at his shop.”

“We've been there.”

“Where?”

“The Chop Shop—Kiddo's place in Rapid City.” I was aware that he was staring at me. “It was after hours. Not that I'd know the difference, but it didn't look like they were up to anything that complicated, just the usual bodywork and paint.” I took a breath. “And there's something more I should let you in on. Kiddo's got an entire shrine in his back room that looks like the beginning of the Fourth Reich.”

He waved a hand at me. “I'm not surprised, and I don't give a shit. I don't want to appear callous, but when you've been doing this job as long as I have, you get used to seeing all kinds of bizarre stuff. I really don't care what their screwed-up belief system is; I just want to keep dangerous weapons out of their hands.”

“And make sure that they pay their taxes.”

“Yeah, that, too.” He thought about it. “Billy ThE doesn't strike me as being all that smart.”

“Well, he doesn't know the meaning of the word ‘fear,' but then he doesn't know the meaning of a lot of words.”

The ATF agent cocked his head and looked at both of us. “But he does know material fabrication.”

“Yep.”

Vic smiled. “Kind of a chopper savant?” She shrugged. “And muscle?”

He turned to look at her. “For who?”

She looked out the side window at the throngs of bikers down the street. “Good question.”

• • •

We parted company with Agent Stainbrook at the Hulett Police Department annex and were assured by DCI that Lola's Cadillac would be released and sitting outside by the time she and the Cheyenne Nation returned from their round-trip.

DCI's mobile lab unit was preparing to return to Cheyenne, and T. J. was helping pack up the equipment. “We don't have the ability up here to match the slugs, but I already shipped the one you gave us ahead, so as soon as I hear anything I'll let you know.”

“Sounds good.” I glanced around. “Speaking of, has anybody seen or heard of the whereabouts of the presumed shooter, Billy ThE Kiddo?”

“You'd have to ask the locals about that.”

I nodded, and we shook. “Thanks, T. J.”

She held my hand. “You look like hell. I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you to head home and go to bed?”

“You know, women are always trying to get me to go to bed.”

The chief of the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation's Lab Unit shook her head and glanced at Vic. “Take care of him, will you?”

She went out the door, and Vic stepped into my line of sight. “You know, if I wasn't in the picture, I've got a feeling you could have a pretty active social life.”

I turned her by the shoulder, and we started toward the
police department's office. “I don't think I'd have the energy for it.”

Pushing open the door of the HPD, we found Chief Nutter in a heated conversation with a couple of bikers. “Look, it's not our responsibility to make sure your bike is safe if it's parked in a questionable area.”

The leather-clad dudester howled, “It was parked on Main Street!”

Nutter shrugged. “What can I tell you? It's a tough town this week.” He showed the disgruntled bikers the door and turned to us as they made their way out. “What do you want?”

“In the interest of interdepartmental cooperation, I was wondering if there had been any sightings of Billy ThE?”

“Probably back beneath the rhinestone-encrusted rock he crawled out from under.”

“So, that would be a no.”

Nutter glanced around. “Hell, find Deputy Dog; he's making arrests at a banner rate around here. As of last night, I don't have any more room in my holding cells. What'd you do to him, anyway?”

“Oh, just gave him a little confidence.”

The phone rang, and the chief answered. “Hulett Police Department.” There was a pause, and then he continued, “Well, when was the last time you saw your boyfriend? Really, that hardly ever happens during rally week. . . .”

I waved good-bye, and we made a hasty retreat outside, Vic looking past me and then down Main. “I don't think Nutter is ATF, either.”

“Agreed.”

The streets were a little subdued, but it was still early as we made our way downtown, a half block away. Vic checked across the street for the possibility of a Kiddo sighting, and I kept an eye to the right, peering behind the tents that sold T-shirts, hats, jewelry, and biker paraphernalia. “How come you didn't ask Stainbrook who his number two was?”

“It didn't seem appropriate.”

“Not Billy ThE.”

“Probably not.” I shook my head. “Maybe rather than trying to figure out who's undercover, we should be focusing on the case?”

She smiled. “My, aren't we testy this morning.”

“I'm beginning to think that I can't operate without sleep as well as I used to.” There was some noise coming from the area behind one of the tents on Vic's side, and I could just make out the back of Dougherty's head.

Vic was already on the move, and I did my best to keep up.

I figured we were going to have to do another intervention, but we were mildly surprised to find Corbin with a forefinger bouncing off the chest of a tall, skinny biker. “And if you don't get your act together, you're going to have to call your accountant boss on Monday and explain to him why you're spending the workweek in the Crook County jail in Sundance, Wyoming.” The biker looked a little shell-shocked and started to say something, but Dougherty cut him off. “Not another word.” He pointed down the dirt alleyway. “Go.”

He gestured in the other direction at another man, and I had to cover a smile while the entire crowd drifted away, having been denied the drama. He was turning to go himself when he saw Vic and me standing there. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” I nodded toward the dissipating crowd. “Looks like you've got things under control.”

He rested a hand on his sidearm and nodded. “I think I'm starting to get the hang of this.”

Vic put her hands on her hips and couldn't help but smile along with me as we followed him back onto Main Street. He held a hand up and paused traffic as we crossed.

“Hey, troop, you haven't seen Kiddo around, have you?”

“No.” He slowed and glanced at me. “I'd imagine as much trouble as he's in, he's probably going to lie low until his court date. Why?”

“Just curious as to where he's hanging out and with whom.”

“Probably back in Rapid, don't you think?”

“Maybe.”

He stepped up his pace, yelling at a guy down the block who had just shoved another. “Hey, knock it off over there!” He turned to look at us as he sprinted away. “If you find out anything, let me know.”

Vic stepped up beside me, and we watched him separate the two individuals. I glanced at her from the corner of one eye. “What do you think?”

“I think you've created a monster.”

“Hmm . . .” There was a buzzing in my jacket that I'd slowly come to realize meant either Bodaway Torres or I was receiving a phone call. “I've been meaning to hand it over, but I keep forgetting that I have it.” With Vic looking at me questioningly, I pulled the cell phone out, studied the screen, and hit the button. “Hello, Punk.”

“You owe me.”

“I always owe you.”

“Yeah, but you owe me big-time now.”

“Did you find out who sprung Kiddo?”

She readjusted her phone. “You don't really owe me, Dad. I just went over to courts and mentioned your name and they made me a copy of the blanket bail receipt. If I'd known how much of an effect your name had, I'd have been throwing it around a lot sooner.”

“It's only effective in certain circles.”

“The other thing I've discovered is that helping you with cases is a great way of getting and holding your attention.”

“So, who fronted the bail for Billy ThE?”

“I bought a new couch at Sofa Mart in Fort Collins—it's called the Homerun Sofa. It's a recliner in red leather with white stitching, and they don't deliver.”

“Cady.”

“I need you and the Bear to go down and get it and bring it up the fire escape in the back. It's kind of tight around the corners, but I think you can make it.”