Death on the Greasy Grass (10 page)

“Sam had money.”

Stumper laughed. “Just about enough to buy a twelve-pack.”

Manny glared at Stumper and he leaned back against the door. Manny turned back to Itchy. “Do you think Sam made a deal with the tall man to swap the ammo in the cavalry reenactor's rifle?”

Itchy abruptly stopped picking his arm and the color drained from his face as he leaned closer to Manny in a brief moment of lucidness. “I love Sam like a brother, Agent Tanno, but I'm telling you he was mad enough to take the journal and destroy it. Along with anyone else that might have read it. If he made some deal with the tall man, it wouldn't surprise me.”

C
HAPTER
11

Stumper filled his coffee cup and held the pot up. “Unlike Chief Deer Slayer, I like mine so it flows.”

“In that case, I'll have a cup.” Willie held up his Mighty Mouse cup and Stumper filled it. The Mouse's one eye filled up with the liquid, the other clouded with yesterday's coffee stain running down the side.

“Manny?”

“Coffee gives me blood sugar swings. Bad thing with diabetes.”

Stumper turned a chair around backward and hung his arms over the side. He nodded to Manny's double-breasted Western shirt and Wranglers bunched up over pointed-toe cowboy boots. “A definite improvement over those funky shorts and Hawaiian shirt.” He grinned.

Manny had dropped Willie off at an AA meeting in Hardin yesterday afternoon and gone shopping. “Last Stand Western Wear. Like you recommended.” He frowned as he nodded to his garb. “This isn't me.”

“That's what I told him,” Willie said. “I can pull that off, but it's just not the grumpy FBI agent getup. But know-everything Manny Tanno didn't pack regular clothes like I suggested.”

“It's as close to regular clothes that they had in my size. It's not me.”

“And passing yourself off as a Hawaiian tourist is?” Stumper asked.

“Let's say it's my disguise.”

Stumper looked Manny up and down. “I second that. No one would believe an FBI agent would wear a sequined Western shirt.” He nodded to Manny's boots. “And alligator boots? That part of your new disguise?” Stumper tilted his head back and laughed. “Who wears alligator cowboy boots?”

“It was the only thing in my size that Last Stand had.”

“Another reason to pack extra clothes,” Willie said. “When you got size twelve double EEs like Manny, you may have to settle for something like those.”

Stumper whistled. “Well, if we get any Bigfoot sightings here on the rez, we'll know who to question.”

Manny grabbed a Hardin Chamber of Commerce file folder depicting the county museum, complete with all nineteen outbuildings on twenty-two acres.
Maybe Willie will settle for a trip to the museum in lieu of Yellowstone.
Wonder if they have discount coupons in their brochure?
“Let's see what you got.”

Stumper opened the folder and grabbed a slip of paper. “Avis rental agreement.”

“Frankie?”

“Most likely.” Stumper set his cup down and started picking his teeth with the edge of the folder. “Billings PD is putting together a photo lineup for the clerk.”

Willie scooted his chair closer and looked over Manny's shoulder at the rental agreement. The man renting the pearl Cadillac had scrawled the name Carson Degas on the agreement two days before the Real Bird reenactment. “What's the chance the guy used his real name?” Willie asked.

“Good.” Stumper eyed him filling his lip with Copenhagen. He waited until Willie brushed the excess off on his jeans before reaching across the table and snatching it.

“What the hell, I adopt you?”

Stumper ignored him and filled his own lip before replacing the lid and sliding the can back to Willie. “A Carson Degas was arrested in Hardin just before their reenactment was to start on Sunday.” Stumper flipped pages in his notebook. “He claimed he was to be in the Hardin reenactment when he got arrested for fighting.”

“Hardin's got their own show?” Willie spit into the round file. “Hard to keep up with you Crow.”

Stumper nodded. “Hardin's reenactment can be viewed as friendly competition with the Real Bird's. A lot of people go to both. Hardin's starts at one thirty.”

Manny nodded, checking his watch for his next blood sugar check. “Twenty miles from here to the Hardin reenactment. That would have given Degas time to leave the Real Bird show and drive to Hardin in time to get arrested. Looks like we lucked out with Degas being in the pokey.”

Stumper shook his head as he walked to the coffeepot. “Big Horn County jail says Degas paid his hundred dollars on a guilty plea the next morning and was Gone Johnson.”

“Anyone get a chance to show their detention officers Degas's photo?”

“I've been a little busy with a new meth case,” Stumper said. “And dodging Della Night Tail bugging me about Little Dave not coming home.”

Manny gathered the folder and turned to Willie. “Then I guess we'll take Thelma's photo and have an all-expenses-paid trip to Hardin.”

Willie slammed Mighty Mouse on the table and stood. “Oh that's lovely. Rather than check out Medicine Wheel or Plenty Coup Park, we go to Hardin.”

Manny stood and hitched up his jeans that were a size too large. He grabbed the museum brochure. “Hey, they got a museum we can check out. I'll pay the admission.”

“It's free,” Stumper volunteered.

Manny smiled. “Even better.”

* * *

They parked in front of a Mercedes SUV in back of the Big Horn County Jail. When Sheriff's Captain Miles buzzed them through the security door, Manny mentioned the Mercedes. “Left over from that special police force you guys had here?”

Miles put his finger to his lips. “We don't talk about that.”

Manny understood. Black Mercedes SUVs bearing the Big Horn County Department logo had descended on Hardin three years ago. Rumors spread about the level of involvement between the American Police Force and their connection with the Two Rivers Correctional Facility, still empty waiting for phantom inmates to appear. Speculation about town was that Guantánamo was closing and terror prisoners were to be transferred to Two Rivers, bringing hundreds of jobs to the town. It never materialized, and the only one to make out, it appeared to Manny, was the sheriff's office, with a new Mercedes to drive.

Miles led them past two dispatchers, one sitting bored with his head in hands, while the other hunched over a teletype machine, poised to rip off paper when the machine stopped. Miles shut the door and motioned to chairs in front of his desk. “Dispatch said you guys want to know about Carson Degas.”

Willie grabbed the picture of the man calling himself Frankie and handed it to Miles. He turned to his computer and began punching keys to access jail records. Degas's booking photo popped up on the screen, and Manny grabbed his reading glasses from his pocket. Miles did a double take of Clara's glasses, and just grinned.

“Getting in touch with my feminine side.” Manny tapped the glasses as he leaned over the desk. He studied the picture of the man posing with a jail number in hand in front of his chest, slight smile tugging at the corners of a mouth more a thin slit than lips. Even on the computer screen, Degas's twinkling eyes shone through as if he were happy to be in jail. A brief, evil image fluttered across Manny's thoughts, then was gone as quickly as Degas was from Hardin.

Miles held the picture to the screen. “I'd say this is a match. The deputies have some stories to tell about this guy.” He leaned back in his chair and intertwined his fingers across his protruding belly. “They're actually glad not to have to arrest another meth head off the rez.” His face got red and he started to apologize, but Manny waved the comment away.

“I'll add Frankie to his alias file,” Miles sputtered and turned back to the keyboard.

Manny sat back down. “What can you tell us about Degas?”

Miles tapped the keyboard again. He leaned back and took off his own glasses. He began chewing on the bows frayed from gnawing on them. “Looks like he's from Pine Ridge.” Miles chuckled and Manny waited for an explanation. “He'd be easy to find on that reservation—not many White guys living there I'd wager.”

“He's White?” Willie stood and looked over Miles's shoulder at the picture.

Miles nodded. “Looks Indian. But he ain't. Man like that could pass himself off as most anything.” He turned to Willie. “Know him?”

Willie shook his head and turned to Manny. “Never heard of him back home.”

Miles tapped keys. “Deputies arrested him for starting a fight at the Scandinavian Meatball Dinner.”

“Local event?”

Miles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if he'd just left the dinner. “Very local. Great meatball dinner if you're ever up here for the city reenactment.”

“Maybe we'll check that out next year.”

Willie kicked him under the desk, but Manny ignored him. “Looks like he pled guilty the next morning and paid his fine.”

Miles turned back to the computer. “Hundred dollars plus court costs. Says here he had over six hundred cash on him. Guess he could afford it.”

“Maybe he was anticipating a higher fine.”

“What, like he thought he'd get arrested?”

Manny shrugged. “Can't say.”

“What did he do exactly?”

Miles craned his neck around to face Willie. “Do? He showed up at the meatball dinner and started a food fight with some local toughs. My deputies said they weren't as tough as they thought, 'cause this Degas had three ranch boys laid out and was working over the fourth when the cavalry arrived. Degas just stopped fighting and said ‘I surrender.' He gave up without so much as a twitch even when they slapped the cuffs on him.”

Manny put his glasses on again and studied the photo once more. “I'd expect him to sport a fat lip, maybe a broken nose if he fought four big ol' ranch boys.”

Miles shrugged. “I would, too. But the deputies were just glad he went without a fight as big as he is.”

“Don't look so big,” Willie said. He studied Degas's booking information. “Six two, one eighty-five. Little guy.”

Miles smiled. “He was big enough to take care of four of our locals.”

Manny leaned back and slipped Clara's glasses back into his pocket before Miles could comment on them. “Degas must have been pretty drunk.”

Miles donned his glasses again and turned back to the computer. “That's odd.”

“What?”

“We give everyone that comes into the jail a Breathalyzer.”

“And?”

“For someone picking a fight, he blew zeroes.”

* * *

“Don't mind if we stop for a beer?” Manny pointed to the VFW sign hanging outside the Four Aces Bar. “Getting a mite thirsty.”

“Thought you didn't drink?”

“Only when I get some dry Montana dust stuck in my throat. Don't you?”

Manny regretted the comment even before it left his mouth. Willie had been fighting for his sobriety, and the last thing he needed was to go into a bar. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Like me offering you a Chesterfield.”

“Camel.”

“Any cigarette. You'd smoke horse shit rolled in that hard TP at the motel if you got a chance. Course, I might start drinking again after Lieutenant Looks Twice gets through with me when I get home.”

Lumpy's voice had screamed in Manny's cell phone when he learned that Willie was involved in a Crow Agency investigation.

“Couldn't be helped,” Manny explained. “We were there when it happened. What did you expect me to do, put Willie on the Hound and send him back home luggage class?”

Lumpy had simmered down after that. “What do you need, Hotshot?”

Manny had given him Degas's description from the jail booking form. “Big Horn County's going to TTY you Degas's photo. We need someone to find and detain him until I get there to interview him.”

“Great.” Lumpy's voice rose again. “How are we supposed to find him with a General Delivery address?”

“Most people on Pine Ridge have a General Delivery address. How do you find other people you're looking for?”

A long pause. “We'll try.”

“And another thing,” Manny was quick to say before Lumpy hung up, “this guy made short work out of four big ranch hands, and didn't get a scratch. When your guys go to hunt him up, tell them to be especially careful.”

“We got it handled, Hotshot.” And Lumpy abruptly disconnected.

They drove past the Four Aces and turned toward Custer's Revenge. “Why do you think Degas gave his real name?” Willie asked.

“He's not worried,” Manny answered instantly. It had bothered him, too, that someone just involved in a homicide would give his real name. “He's not worried, even if someone would connect him to Tess's gun. Degas has the best alibi in the world—he was locked up at the time of the ammo swap. Or so he must think.”

Willie nodded. “He must have driven like hell to get to the Meatball Dinner after he swapped the ammo.”

“Then there's the matter of him claiming he was to be in the Hardin reenactment—that'd be easy enough to refute.”

Manny undid his seat belt as Willie pulled into the motel parking lot. “The Indians that participate in Hardin's show make a few bucks on the side. My guess is that no one actually has a list of the reenactors on the Indian side. Whoever shows up for the show gets a job for the day.”

Willie climbed out of the Olds and looked longingly at the Rodeway Inn across the street. “We could have stayed there.” He chin-pointed.