Cold Dish (16 page)

I didn’t slam the door; it would have been undignified. It was still gorgeous outside, so I decided to walk over to the
Durant Courant
’s office, a block down and over. That would show them.

 

Omar and I had had a brief conversation on the more practical aspects of what I had still hoped wasn’t a murder case. Who could do it? What were the logistics of shooting an almost .50 caliber rifle more than five hundred yards? Omar had his own theories. “I can narrow it down to almost a dozen men who could make a shot like that on a consistent basis.”

“In county?”

“In county.” He stroked his goatee and pulled on the long hairs at the end. “Me, you, Roger Russell from down on Powder, Mike Rubin, Carroll Cooper, Dwight Johnston in Durant, Phil La Vante, Stanley Fogel, Artie Small Song out on the Rez, your pal Henry Standing Bear and . . .” He shrugged.

“Let’s go with the ‘and’ first?”

“A sleeper. Somebody who does this stuff, is very good at it, and who nobody knows about.”

“Let’s move on to you.”

He looked back at the pumpkin without smiling. “I’d either be a liar or a fool to tell you anything different. I’ve got the talent and the weapon, just no motive.”

“You mind if I check the ballistics on your rifle?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“Me.”

“Yep.”

“Roger Russell’s a shooter?”

“Yes, he is. You know that turkey shoot they have out Tipperary Road, near the Wallows?” I nodded. “He won that three years in a row.”

The last time I’d seen Roger Russell was at the Red Pony the evening of the shooting. I’d have to ask Henry if he was a regular. “Mike Rubin?”

“Best gunsmith in the state; he could do it.”

“Carroll Cooper?”

“Same as Roger, one of those reenactment crazies. Does a lot with the Little Big Horn people.”

“Dwight Johnston?”

“Drinks, but he used to be a damn good shot. He was on the NRA National Shooting Team back in the late seventies.”

“Phil La Vante is seventy-two years old.”

“That old Basquo can still shoot.”

“Stanley Fogel? The dentist?”

“He’s a shooter.”

“Artie Small Song?”

“I don’t know a lot about those guys out on the Rez, but him and Henry immediately come to mind. I like Artie, and I’ve used him to guide for me. He’s good, and the dollar dogs love Indians.”

I set my jaw. “Henry?”

“I knew that was one you didn’t want to hear, but he could most definitely do it. Jesus, Walt, the son of a bitch used to jump behind enemy lines in Laos, air extract NVA officers for interrogation. You ever stop to think how many he didn’t bring back?”

It had crossed my mind about the NVAs. “Out of this list, how many do you figure are capable of killing a man?”

He didn’t pause for a second. “Half.”

“Are we in that half?”

He looked at me. “One of us is.”

 

I turned the corner at the bridge, resisted the temptation of an early lunch at the Bee, and crossed the street down the hill to the little red brick building that had served the
Courant
since before the turn of the last century. The bell tinkled as I pushed open the antique beveled-glass door. “I wanna speak to the editor of this so-called newspaper!” He looked over his trifocals and smiled. I walked over to Ernie’s train set. The train was legendary around these parts in that it passed through an exact replica of our town, proceeded into the mountains, where it disappeared into a maze of tunnels only to reappear on the plains east, followed the flow of the Powder River, and returned to town. I leaned over Durant, past my office with me getting out of the Bullet, and looked at the mountainside to the little logging operation that had begun about a third of the way up. “That’s new.”

He got up and codgered his way over. “I’m not sure about it.”

I looked at the trucks, miniature sawmill, and diminutive little loggers. “Looks like a responsible operator, ‘long as he doesn’t overwork the tree line.”

“I suppose so . . .” He still didn’t sound sure, but his eyes met mine. “I’m sorry to bother you, Walter. I know how busy you must be these days.” He smiled. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Thanks, Ernie, but if it’s not going to take long . . . ?”

He made a gentle waving gesture with his hand. “Just a few statements.” He drifted over to his desk and came back with a small, spiral-ring notebook and a pencil that had probably been sharpened since yesterday morning. I had to smile at the importance of being Ernest. “Just a few general questions.” He pursed his lips and poised the pencil over the pad. “How is the investigation progressing?”

I flipped a switch and went into publicspeak: “We’re very satisfied with the cooperation we’ve received from the Division of Criminal Investigation in Cheyenne and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington.” Where the hell else would it be, Peoria? “We’ve been able to make significant progress on the case with the help of some of the top-flight ballistics labs in the country.”

“That’s wonderful. People will sleep better knowing the scope of response to this incident.”

I looked at him, just to make sure facetious sarcasm hadn’t entered the office when I wasn’t looking. “We’ve put a substantial amount of our force on this case and are making every attempt to bring this particular incident to a quick conclusion.” What else was I going to say? That there were only three and a half of us and that we were going to drag the case out as long as we could, just so we could have something to do? I dreaded the running monologue that accompanied these public statements and lived in fear that my mouth would someday open and I’d accidentally speak the truth. So far, it hadn’t happened; that worried me too. When I looked back up, Ernie had stopped talking. “I’m sorry, Ernie.”

“It’s perfectly all right. I can’t even imagine all the things that must be going on in your head right now.” I was at least glad of that. “Any breakthroughs in the case?”

“Nothing that I can relate, as the investigation is ongoing at the moment.”

“Certainly.”

“Anybody else said anything that might be of any use to me?”

He blinked; it’s possible I derailed him by asking him a question. I watched as he stared at the little train tracks. “There have been a number of unfortunate statements concerning the young man. It is still an accidental situation, isn’t it?”

I thought about it. “Yes. Nothing strong enough to lead me to believe otherwise, at this time.”

It was close enough to publicspeak to get me through. I half turned toward the door. “Anything else?”

“Oh, no.” Lost in thought, he tapped the notebook with the pink, oversized eraser pushed onto the end of his pencil. “Do you ever get the feeling that the world is tired, Walter?” I stood there, not quite sure of what to say next. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I sometimes forget myself and wax philosophic in the afternoons.”

I walked over to the door and pushed it open, pausing to lean against the frame. “I don’t know about the world, but I sure as hell get that way.” He smiled, I smiled, and I left. It was only eleven forty-five.

I climbed the hill and turned the corner on Main and became untired. The jaunty, little red Jeep sat at the curb just outside the Crazy Woman Bookstore. I went over and sat against the fender. It was a long walk back to the office, and I needed a rest. After about three minutes, she came out.

“Hey, you.” She was wearing a black cashmere sweater, a fancy western jacket all of fringe, vintage jeans, and a pair of high-heel boots. Her hair was loose and kind of rumpled. She looked great. “What, am I parked illegally?” She opened the door and tossed her paper bag of books onto the front seat. She did not come back around the door.

I continued to smile, but I was worried. “How’s your dog?” That at least got a partial smile.

“He scare you?”

“Yep.”

She smiled at a young couple walking up the street. “He has that effect on people.” She pulled her keys from her purse and then tossed it on the same seat as the books. Her eyes came up, steady. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?” I wanted to talk about anything. I wanted to run for my life. “Look . . .” I dreaded female statements that started with “look.” In my limited experience, there was nowhere to hide after they were made. “You’ve probably been pretty busy lately . . .”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

She flipped the butterscotch hair back and laid those frank, lupine eyes on me again. “I’ve been thinking that this is probably a really bad time for both of us to think of starting a relationship.”

I nodded and pushed off the fender and thought about sweeping her into my arms and giving her a big wet one right on Main Street. Fortunately, I always check my shots, just buried my fists deeper in my jacket pockets, and stood with my legs apart on the other side of the door so that I could absorb the impact. “I thought we already had this conversation.”

It was the wrong thing to say, I could tell that right away. Her eyes sharpened along with her voice. “Maybe we weren’t clear.” I looked around to see if anybody was around to watch the sheriff get gunned down at what I’m sure was approaching high noon. “Walt . . .”

“Before you say anything else, let me get this out, because I might not get a chance later, or I may not want to . . .” I drove ahead, looking for light. “That measly, little, pathetic attempt at the beginnings of a romance, I refuse to use that word relationship, are all I’ve had to go on for the last three years. It may not seem like much to you, but for me it was giant steps, and if you think that you’re going to take it away from me with a few curt words here on the sidewalk, then you’ve got another think coming.” In my limited experience, women dreaded male statements that ended with “then you’ve got another think coming.” It usually meant there was a lot more coming, but in this case there wasn’t. It had taken everything for me to get that out; so, I just stood there, watching the tired world fall apart around me.

I’m not sure what I had hoped to accomplish with this particular outburst. I was just being honest and, to my utter surprise, she placed her hand under my chin, leaned over the door on tiptoes, and kissed me on the mouth, slowly and gently. As our faces parted, and my eyes were once again able to open and focus, she whispered, “You should call me, very soon.” As the little red Jeep skimmed away, I felt the thought of a mobile phone growing on me.

On the way back to the office, I picked up three chicken dinners from the Bee and fended off Dorothy’s questions about what had just taken place on Main Street across from her restaurant. She reminded me that hers was a family establishment and that such overt demonstrations of lust might be better served in a more private setting, by getting a room.

 

Ruby took one Styrofoam container and one iced tea out of my hands. “You keep this up and I might vote for you myself.”

I continued on my way to the door of Vic’s office. She was sitting with her feet up on her own desk for a change; folders and clipboards with legal pads ran the distance from her hips to her ankles. She was writing on one of the tablets with the phone cradled between her chin and shoulder. I carefully placed her tea and lunch on the desk. She nodded thanks, and I sat down to open mine. It was when I realized I hadn’t gotten any napkins that Ruby appeared in the doorway and handed me a roll of paper towels from the kitchenette in back: fine dining at its best. The steam rolled out as I opened the container and prepared to eat Dorothy’s famous Brookville, Kansas, recipe chicken. It was a religious experience.

Vic nodded and grunted a few agreements before she hung up. “This is a really fun job you’ve got me doing here.” She looked at me again. “Do you have lipstick on your face?”

I wiped it off with a paper towel and picked up a thigh. “Don’t be silly, what’ve you got?”

She looked at me for a moment longer, then continued. “Guess where the majority of these replicas are made?”

I momentarily paused on the batter-covered thigh. “New Jersey.”

She began placing the folders, clipboards, and paraphernalia on the desk. She fanned the information she’d gathered across the surface and placed her chicken container on her lap, taking the lid off and sipping her iced tea. She never used a straw. “Italy. The damn things are made in northern Italy by some firm called Pedersoli.”

“Sounds dirty.” That got a look. I continued to eat.

She picked up a breast. “What?”

“Only thing I know about Italian war rifles is you can buy ’em cheap, never fired, only dropped once.” She cocked an eyebrow and bit into her own chicken. “Sorry, old World War II joke.” She stuck a hand out, and I tore off a paper towel. “It’s chess night with Lucian; got me thinking about it.” I nodded toward the desk. “What’ve you got, other than a nation of origin?”

She got that predatory look on her face, unimpeded by the way she was dismembering the poor chicken. “There are a few made in this country, the most famous being the Shiloh Sharps made up in Big Timber.”

“New Jersey?”

“Montana.” Her eyes flattened. “Are you going to behave so we can get through this in a reasonable amount of time?”

“What happened to your good mood?”

She wiped her fingers off on her pants and picked up one of the clipboards. “My boss gave me this shitty job to do.” She took another sip of her tea. “The Shiloh version is the top of the line, with a waiting list of about four years. The only one sold in our area as far back as registration goes is one to a Roger Russell, about two years ago.” I stopped chewing. “Bingo?”

“He’s on Omar’s short list, and he was in the bar the night you called.”

“Really? Who else is on the list?”

“I think me, but I’m not sure.”

She looked back at the clipboard. “Well, your name didn’t come up.”