Dead Soul (6 page)

“Where did this happen?”

“Right where you’d expect it—over at the foot of the Notch.”

Moon went to a window, looked westward toward the half-mile-wide, saddle-shaped crevasse in the Miserys. Dead Mule Notch was the big cat’s range. If he wasn’t able to bring down the occasional whitetail, Two-Toes must be getting slow. That could make him a potential man-killer. “Pete, maybe we should pull all of our cattle over to the lowlands—out of that cougar’s range.”

The foreman glared at the boss. “Well if you ask me, and even if you won’t, I don’t think we oughta let this overgrown house cat run us offa two prime sections of the Columbine grazing. I say we get us some trained dogs that can track the sneaky rascal down. We get him treed, we shoot ’im, we skin ’im. Nail his sorry hide to the barn wall.”

Moon shook his head. “Forget the dogs.”

“What do you want to do then?”

“I’ll think on it.”

Sure. And while you’re thinkin’ on it, we’ll lose half the herd.
Bushman stomped away.

Chapter Eight

Terminal Building

CHARLIE MOON NOTED THE SIGN ERECTED BY A GRAND JUNCTION
construction company, nosed the F-150 onto the lane linking the main highway with the site of the yet-unfinished Patch Davidson Airport. A crisply uniformed employee of a private security firm waved him down, stared through reflecting sunglasses at the tribal investigator’s ID. After a comically ludicrous attempt to intimidate the Ute, the officious Robocop waved him on without a word.

The old county airport, six miles to the north, had a runway intended primarily for private pilots who buckled small, single-engine propeller aircraft to their butts. The new facility, named after Granite Creek’s favorite U.S. senator, boasted runways that would accommodate a Boeing 737 with five hundred yards to spare. He crossed the freshly blacktopped parking lot, slowed to a stop between a county fire truck and a matched pair of black and white GCPD squad cars. The red and blue lights were not flashing, presumably because there was no problem with traffic or gawking onlookers.

Moon got out of his pickup, stared at what was left of the new terminal building.

Inside a rectangle of yellow tape were two acres of blackened ruins. It was apparent that there had been a terrific explosion and a scorching fire. But not in that order. Aside from four walls of reinforced cinder block, little remained of the structure. Sections of Propanel roofing were strewn well past the taped border and into the edge of a forest of pines and cedars. A long row of seven-foot-square plate glass panes had been reduced to crystalline shards that were scattered over the parking lot. Where the glazing had been mounted, metal frames bulged outward from the force of the blast. Jagged remnants of the glass around the rim of the frames gave the eerie appearance of shark teeth lining enormous, open jaws. The inside of the terminal building shell was crusted with black soot. Metal-frame furniture and wooden partitions had been reduced to twisted skeletons and heaps of gray ash. A dozen helmeted firemen were picking their way about the ruins, spraying flame retardant on stubborn pockets of embers.

The tribal investigator headed toward a cluster of men stationed just outside the perimeter of yellow tape.

Scott Parris, who had been listening to a report from one of his officers, turned to see his friend approaching. “Mornin’, Charlie.”

“Good morning yourself.” The tribal investigator exchanged perfunctory greetings with Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. Both men were somewhat wary of the Ute.

Knox scratched at the artificial leg under his trousers. “Damn thing itches worse’n the real one.”

In the superior tone of one who is well informed on such matters, Piggy Slocum offered this advice: “That’s because you’re always scratching at it.”

The pair of policemen walked away, arguing about wooden legs, phantom limbs, and what made them itch.

The chief of police shook his head at the departing duo. “Charlie, you ever want to be a real cop again, you let me know. I’ll put you to work right on the spot.”

“That’ll be the day.” Moon nodded at the smoking ruins. “What’ve we got here?”

“Big explosion late last night. Or to be more accurate—this morning, at about two-thirty. Rattled windows up to four miles away. And according to reliable reports, several cows went dry and a black cat gave birth to six adorable little kittens and a Dalmatian puppy.” Parris was watching the helmeted firemen. “Fire department is trying to make sure there’s no chance of a new flame-up.”

“Accidental?”

“Fire chief’s best guess is that some dumb-ass kids started a small fire in the terminal building. There was lots of construction material stored here, most of it flammable. Plywood, paint thinner, gasoline for the contractor’s electrical generators, acetylene for welding, and a tank of propane for a portable heater. The fire must’ve gotten out of control—at which time the kids scram. Eventually, the flames ignited what was left of the gas in the acetylene and propane tanks. This makes a serious boom.”

“Anybody see kids out here?”

“Nobody saw nothin’.” The chief of police screwed his face into a painful frown. “It could have been a professional arsonist.”

Moon found a peppermint in his pocket, peeled off the plastic cover. “Prime contractor must have plenty of insurance.”

Parris nodded at the inference. “I’ll be checking into that today.” A builder in financial trouble might well drop a match in some tinder. “I’ll know a lot more after the state arson investigators wrap up their investigation.” He glanced at his watch without noting the time. “But they’re not even here yet.”

“Were there guards on site last night?”

Parris rubbed his eyes. “One old geezer with a hearing aid. Used to be a cop over in Pueblo before he retired on a disability. That’s his office.” The Granite Creek chief of police pointed toward a camping trailer almost two hundred yard away. It was set up near a huge, roofless hangar. “Guard swears he was wide awake.” Parris mimicked the old man’s quavery voice. “‘An’ I didn’t see nothin’ unusual, didn’t hear nothin’—not till all hell tore loose and the ’splosion knocked me on my ass.’” The good-natured man chuckled. “One of my officers was within four miles when the big boom blew the terminal building apart. When he got here about five minutes later, the guard was still trying to pull his boots on.”

Moon took a look at the battered trailer. “So he was sleeping on the job.”

“You know how it is. Damn hard to find good help.”

The rancher thought about his motley collection of cowboys. “Tell me about it.”

The friends walked back toward Moon’s truck.

“So, Charlie—what’s on your mind?”

“I’m doing a favor for the tribal chairman.”

“No, don’t even give me a hint. Let me see if the old ESP is working.” Scott Parris pressed fingers against his temples. His mouth wrinkled into a wry imitation of a grin. “The Billy Smoke killing.”

“You’re always one step ahead of me, pardner.”

“I got wind that Oscar Sweetwater wasn’t satisfied with our findings.” The chief of police sighed. “When we don’t make an arrest, nobody likes it. Including me. But the FBI and the state police agree with my department on this one. It’s a no-brainer, Charlie. You know the basic facts. Billy’s wallet was missing. He was murdered during the process of an opportunistic robbery. And the senator had the bad luck to show up before the guy scrams. So he gets mugged and robbed. Lucky for Colorado we didn’t lose Patch Davidson.”

“You a big fan of the senator?”

“Not particularly. But he’s got tons of seniority, and that helps the state.” Parris looked back toward the charred terminal building. “It was Patch Davidson that got us the federal money for this new airport. Which makes just about everybody happy, and that will get him another two or three thousand votes come next election.”

“Anybody not happy about the new airport?”

Parris shrugged. “Any new construction on this scale is bound to piss somebody off. There’s been some complaints from a couple of environmental groups. But they haven’t been able to make any headway in court.”

A possible arson at the new airport was interesting, but Moon reminded himself that nosing around in Scott Parris’s business was not going to help him get his job done. He directed the conversation back to the tribal chairman’s concern. “Billy Smoke’s stolen wallet—was it holding any plastic?”

“We determined that Mr. Smoke had been issued a Visa and Conoco. Both had been used by the victim within a few hours prior to his murder. So the cards must’ve been in his wallet when the perp bashed his skull in.”

“And so far, nobody’s used either card for a purchase.”

“You got it. But that ain’t so surprising. Few hours after he does the dirty deed, the bad guy finds out he’s assaulted a United States senator. That makes the killing of Billy Smoke more than just your average run-of-the-mill homicide. The criminal knows that half the cops in the country will be on the lookout, waiting for him to make a dumb move. So you know what he does with Mr. Smoke’s credit cards.”

Moon nodded. “Drops ’em into the nearest sewer.”

“You bet.”

“If I remember right, you’ve got the murder weapon.”

“Your memory’s working just fine.” Parris jammed his hands into his pockets. “Fourteen-inch piece of rebar. Found blood on it—Billy Smoke’s and Patch Davidson’s.”

“But no prints.”

“Life is full of bitter disappointments.” Parris looked sideways at his friend. “So where do you go from here?”

“I’ll go do some rooting around.” Enough to satisfy Oscar Sweetwater. “I’ll see a few people. Ask some questions. Then I’ll call the chairman.”

Parris was recalling former cases they had worked together. This canny Ute had a way of stumbling over things. “Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Moon kicked at something among the glass shards. It looked like a flattened piece of metal. Soft metal.

“If you should pick up anything important—you’ll let me know.”

“Sure I will, pardner. But don’t hold your breath.” Moon squatted to have a closer look at the object. It was a flattened piece of lead. He looked up at the chief of police. “What do you make of this?”

Scott Parris picked up the chunk of metal with plastic-tipped forceps. He gave it a professional once-over. “I sure hope this wasn’t a bullet, because it’d have to be at least half an inch in diameter. Hell, that’s all I need—some gun nut shooting a fifty-caliber machine gun in my jurisdiction.” He found a plastic evidence bag in his jacket pocket.

“Could be a slug from one of those old black-powder buffalo guns. Maybe some Daniel Boone?type shot a hole through the terminal window, punctured the propane tank.”

“Well thank you. Some guy in a coonskin hat shooting out windows. That makes me feel lots better.” Parris bagged and tagged the lumpy artifact, dropped it into his pocket.

Moon leaned on his pickup. “I’d like to get this Billy Smoke business behind me. I’ve got a lot of work to do at the ranch.”

Parris grinned. “Like what?”

The stockman’s expression was solemn. “For one thing, we got a big cougar threatening the stock. He might even be a danger to my cowboys.”

“A cougar. Boy, I’d change places with you in one second flat.” The white man grinned at his best friend. “So when’re we gonna go fishing?”

“Soon as I get this work for the tribal chairman finished.”

“You do seem to be awfully focused on that.”

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“You’d sure appreciate any help.”

“Glad you took the hint.”

“Whatever you want—all you got to do is ask.” Parris looked up at the taller man. “For starters, would you like to read the official report on the investigation into Mr. Smoke’s death?”

“Cover to cover, pardner.”

“It’ll be dull as daytime TV.”

“That’s good—if I’ve suffered some, it’ll help my conscience when I cash the tribe’s check.” He had an afterthought. “The postmortem, it turn up anything unusual on Billy’s remains?”

“Unusual—like what?”

“Tiny transmitters hidden under his skin by aliens. A twenty-dollar gold piece in his stomach.” Moon hesitated. “Or drugs.”

Parris shook his head. “Not unless you count the legal kind. Mr. Smoke was just a smidgen under the blood-alcohol limit.”

“Tell me the rest.”

“Word has it, the man was drunk fifty percent of the time and not quite sober the other half.”

“Sounds like Billy had no business driving a motor vehicle.”

The chief of police almost shuddered. “Gives me the cold chills to think about a drunk chauffeuring our senior senator around in that big Lincoln.”

Moon frowned. “I just remembered something I was supposed to tell you about.”

“So tell me.”

“Aunt Daisy met this young woman at a discount store in Durango. She was just a kid—probably needed to talk to a social worker.”

“So what was her problem?”

“My aunt thought she was scared of somebody.”

“Who was she?”

“Didn’t mention her name.”

“When did this happen?”

“A few months ago.” Moon grinned. “Like I said, it sorta slipped my mind.”

The chief of police stared at the Ute. “Last night on a TV talk show, there was this Harvard psychologist. She said as we get old, the memory’s the second thing to go.” He feigned an expression of intense concentration. “But damned if I can remember what the
first
thing is…”

“The
reason
I forgot might be important. Just a few hours after my aunt had her chat with this gal, something happened that distracted my attention.”

“And what was that?”

“Billy Smoke was murdered. Senator Davidson got his legs busted up.”

Parris raised an eyebrow. “You think there might be a connection?”

The tribal investigator shrugged.

“Any notion where this Jane Doe hangs her hat?”

“Aunt Daisy said the gal mentioned Arroyo Hondo.” The old mining settlement was in GCPD jurisdiction. Which made it Scott Parris’s official business.

The busy chief of police shook his head. “Nobody stays at Hondo on a permanent basis. And it’s been quite some time since your aunt talked to this young lady.”

“I know it’s a long shot.” Moon looked toward the western highlands. “But what if she’s out there in the wilderness, hiding from some bad-ass.” His eyes twinkled. “Poor thing could be living in a cave. Wearing filthy, flea-infested rags. Eating roots and grubs.”

Parris grimaced at the image. “I guess I could send a couple of officers up to have a look.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“What does she look like?”

“Aunt Daisy said she was white. Early twenties. Slender. Freckle-faced.”

Parris snorted. “Well that sure narrows it down.”

“And she’s a redhead.”

The chief of police, who had been jotting notes in his pad, paused to stare at his best friend.

“What?”

“You’ve just described a young woman we got a call about last winter. Brewster—but what’s her first name.” Parris closed his eyes, scratched at thinning hair. “Oh yeah.
Wilma
Brewster.”

The tribal investigator searched his own memory. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”