Death on the Greasy Grass (27 page)

“I thought you hadn't talked with him.”

Wilson turned away. When he looked back, tears had formed in his eyes, but Manny couldn't tell if they were genuine sorrowful tears, or those conjured up by a politician. “Sam called me the day before he got burned up. He told me what the journal contained, how he thought it would ruin my chances for the Senate.”

“And advised you to bid on it at Harlan's auction?”

“Not exactly.” Wilson stood and paced in front of the counter. “Sam offered to steal the journal for me. For a price.”

“I'm thinking you declined?”

Wilson faced Manny. “I told Sam I wouldn't pay one cent for any stolen artifact. But I would bid on it, like anyone else.”

“I didn't see your name on the bid sheet.”

Wilson nodded to Chenoa. “That's 'cause we decided to pool our money. With the publicity the journal received worldwide—the only surviving written account of the battle, and the times after, by one of Custer's scouts—we knew it would bring six figures.”

Manny turned to Chenoa. “That so.”

Chenoa set her cup on a woven coaster and turned to the coffeepot.
Stalling.
“We planned to split the price if we won the bid and burn the damned thing.”

“You stand to lose as much as Wilson?”

She nodded. “If the contents get out that I got a
baashchiili
in my gene pool, Montana may still keep my contract, but the Apsa'alooke tribe will cut ties. I've still got my ranch, so it's not like I'd be out bumming on the street.”

Like Sam used to do
, Manny thought. “That's why you went into Harlan's shop looking for it?”

Chenoa nodded. “I heard Harlan had hidden it in his office. You caught me snooping around his shop like an amateur, but there was no sign of it, even though Itchy claimed to have it.”

“And you thought you'd find it . . .”

“Somewhere under all that trash,” she said. “But you interrupted me.”

“Which brings us back to Itchy's murder and who shot at us tonight.”

“We were together all night,” Chenoa said. “Ask Jamie.”

“Oh that's a credible witness to corroborate your tale,” Stumper said.

Chenoa glared at Stumper and the kitchen went silent until Wilson asked Manny, “When will this get out?”

“This?”

He wrapped his arm around Chenoa's waist. “Our affair.”

Manny swiveled in his stool and leaned closer to Wilson. “Not from me, and I doubt Stumper will want it getting out a Lakota was sparking the face of the Crow Nation. What you do is your business. But there's another thing that'll hurt you far worse than your affair.”

Wilson dropped his head. “Degas?”

“Degas. I want him, and you can give him to me.”

“What makes you think I know where he is?”

“Mr. Eagle Bull,” Stumper cut in. He grabbed his can of Copenhagen, but slipped it back into his pocket when he caught Chenoa glaring at him. “We know now you hired Degas right out of Folsom prison, and that he'd do most anything to protect you. Including making sure that journal never surfaces.”

Wilson stood abruptly and his stool rolled back and banged against the refrigerator. A magnet dropped onto the floor, and a copper decorative clock dropped onto the counter, but neither man made a move to pick it up. Wilson stood chest-to-nose looking down on Stumper. “I don't like your implication.”

Manny stepped between them and eased Stumper back onto his stool before he turned to Wilson. “Then maybe you like this implication: Degas switched ammo and got Harlan White Bird killed. He probably killed Sam—probably for information about the journal—and he'd be good for Itchy's death, just in case his threat of exposing you were true. And for icing on the cake, he shot Officer With Horn. Remember that loyalty you mentioned Degas had? And this piece of shit works for you.”

“You can't convict me of anything . . .”

“Don't need to,” Manny said. “All I need to do is leak this to the press and they'll convict you in their papers.
And I'm sure Sonja Myers will be more than happy to run an exposé in the next issue of the Rapid City Journal on senatorial candidate Wilson Eagle Bull.

Wilson's jaw muscles tightened and he stepped closer. “That how the FBI works—use threat and intimidation?”

“Is that how politicians work—threats and intimidation?”

“Leave him alone.” Chenoa stepped between Wilson and Manny. “He doesn't know where Degas is . . .”

Wilson pressed a finger to Chenoa's lips. “I may be able to help you find him.”

Chenoa took Wilson's head in her hands and looked up. “Why would you help find one of your ranch hands? And someone who knows horseflesh like he does?”

“Why?” Wilson forced a smiled that faded as quickly as it came on. “For the reasons Agent Tanno mentioned—Degas arranged for at least one man to be killed. And he shot Officer With Horn. I might be able to help.”

Manny sat back on the stool. “Go on.”

Wilson paced in front of the counter, rubbing his forehead. “Carson has called me four times since Harlan's death.”

“Where is he?”

“Can't say.”

“Can't or won't?”

“He wouldn't tell me where he was calling from.” Wilson slumped on the stool, while Chenoa stood behind him, looking over his shoulder and glaring at Manny. “He called wondering if he still had a job.”

“After we arrest him?”

“He said there was no proof that he switched ammunition that killed Harlan. Said he was in jail in Hardin at the time.”

Manny thought back to Degas's loyalty to his boss. Did the loyalty go both ways? Was Wilson protecting him? From what he had uncovered about Degas, Manny could easily put together a scenario where the man killed to protect his boss, killing anyone who might expose him with the journal.

And did Wilson or Chenoa know who killed Sam and Itchy? Manny rubbed a rising headache away. Something just out of the reaches of his reasoning eluded him.

“And he said he wasn't even on Crow Agency when Sam and Itchy were killed,” Wilson added. “Said he was on Pine Ridge. Said he couldn't get here in time to kill them.” Unless they had a ride, Manny thought. Like in the passenger seat of a Cessna.

“And you believe him?”

“Carson's never lied to me before,” Wilson said, but his voice lacked conviction. “He assured me he didn't have anything to do with Sam's or Itchy's death.”

“And Officer With Horn?” Manny felt his anger rising, and he breathed to control it. “Is Willie's dying declaration a lie?”

Wilson shook his head. He stood, looking down at the floor, and started pacing again. “There must have been some mistake. Maybe Carson thought Willie was sneaking around the ranch waiting to steal something. We've had some cattle thefts this last year.”

Manny remained quiet.

Wilson's shoulders drooped and he faced Manny. “His alibis don't hold water.”

Manny nodded.

“Okay, Agent Tanno, what can I do to help?”

Manny stood and walked a cramp out of his calf. “Here's the deal: The next time Degas calls, you tell him you need to meet him at your ranch, or here if he's still on Crow Agency. I'm not buying it that he's been in Pine Ridge all this time.”

“What will you do when you find him? I don't want Carson hurt . . .”

“We'll do our best to take him alive,” Manny answered. “Dead men don't interview well.”

Wilson's lips moved as he paced, talking to himself, until he stopped and faced Stumper and Manny. “I'll do it.”

“Wilson . . .”

“I have to.” He laid a hand on Chenoa's shoulder. “The sooner Agent Tanno and Stumper corral Carson, the sooner he can clear his name. I just know there's some mistake. I'll tell Carson I need to meet him.”

“And one other thing”—Manny swallowed hard, sweat forming on his forehead just thinking about it—“if Degas goes to your Pine Ridge ranch, you fly me there.”

Wilson looked to Chenoa for approval, her face unreadable. Wilson agreed. “He'll probably call soon, as I haven't heard from him for a couple days. He'll have heard about you and Stumper being shot at, and he'll wonder if he's a suspect in that, too. What do I tell him?”

“The truth—that you don't know anything about it.”

Wilson straightened. “I'll call you when he does.”

“And Wilson, I'll know if you're setting me up.”

Wilson shook his head. “I won't. I don't think Degas is your killer, and I want him to have a chance to prove it. But if your trap fails to catch him and he escapes, you've got to promise to protect me.”

Manny eyed Wilson's trembling lips, and he sat on the stool to ease his shaking knees. “Vietnam Marine vets usually don't frighten easily.”

“You don't know Carson.”

Manny turned to Chenoa. “I'm going to have to seize your boots. Jamie's and yours, too, Wilson.”

“What the hell for?” Chenoa asked.

Manny shrugged. “Compare them to those prints we found in that barn tonight.”

* * *

Manny put the boots in the back of Stumper's Tahoe and climbed in. Manny turned and looked out the back window as they drove out the long driveway. Wilson looked after them, backlit by the lights in the open door as he watched them disappear over the hill. “Wilson might set you up,” Stumper said, filling his lip with Copenhagen. “He might want to win the senatorial race so badly, he'll have Degas waiting to kill the chief investigator in the case.”

“I've thought of that.”

“And you're not scared?”

“I didn't say that. But as long as I'm scared, I won't make stupid mistakes.”

Stumper pulled onto the gravel BIA road Cubby had tried running Manny off earlier. “What are you going to do until Degas contacts Wilson?” Stumper asked.

Manny smiled. “I'm going to hang out with my friend and colleague Stumper LaPierre tomorrow. See what the evidence tech found in that Caddy, after which we'll take a trip to Billings to talk with the ME.”

“And wait around to fly to Pine Ridge?”

Manny's smile faded. “
Now
you do got me scared.”

C
HAPTER
36

They were close enough to Custer's Revenge that Manny could almost feel the lumpy mattress under his head; smell the stale cigarette odor permeating the walls; hear the drip-drip-drip of the running stool with a crack in the seat that pinched his butt at least once a day.

Until Stumper got a call on his cell. “Where'd you get the info on the shipment?” he said into the phone. He kicked on the overheads and siren and cut through the interstate median on his way back toward Crow Agency.

“What's going on?” Manny asked.

Stumper held up his hand. “Make sure Jerry doesn't share the interview room with anyone else.”

“What?”

Stumper closed his cell and floored the Tahoe, setting Manny back against the seat. “Some CI that's been working with DCI tipped our guys off that Jerry One Feather was heading to Billings with an ounce of crank. My guess it came from a cook in Denver. I'm going to interview Jerry while he's fresh.”

“Mind if I sit in?”

Stumper laughed. “Like you're going anywhere until I'm done with him? Not that I'm going to get anything out of him.”

“You don't sound too optimistic.”

“Jerry's a tough nut. Been around the horn. He's been a suspect in a jail homicide in Rawlins, and another in Sioux Falls, but never proved up on any of them. Spent time in Leavenworth, and a bunch of jails across this part of the country had the Jerry One Feather memorial jail cell in his honor. We used to joke that he was trying all the lockups in the country so he could write an article for a travel magazine, like those guys that go around the country sampling restaurants. Until he started dealing meth. Then the joking stopped.”

They pulled in to the justice building and Stumper grabbed his notebook as he led Manny past the dispatch center to the interview room. Jerry One Feather stood bent over a garbage can brushing ashes into the round file. “You guys got a real pigsty here, Stumper.”

Jerry towered over them, scarred fists clenching and unclenching, the picture of unchained anger begging for release. Manny recognized the swollen knuckles, the nose set at an off angle, one cheekbone that protruded more than the other when it didn't heal right. His joint body, bulging muscles developed by someone with little else to do besides work out eight hours a day, showed through his white T-shirt. Manny recognized Reuben in Jerry One Feather.

“Anytime I was in stir, I kept my house immaculate. Always.” He slapped the tabletop with his bandanna to clean the ashes off. “And you expect cooperation from me in
this
room?”

“Just sit, Jerry.”

Jerry dropped into a metal chair chained to the floor. He crossed his arms and chin-pointed to Manny leaning against the door. “Who's your chubby partner?”

“FBI Senior Special Agent Tanno.”

Jerry's eyes narrowed. “You federal bastards railroaded me six years ago. What you say to that, chubby?”

Manny reached his arm above his head as if pulling on a steam valve release, and did his best imitation of a train whistle.

Jerry started to stand, but Stumper put a hand on his shoulder and eased him back into the chair. Not that Jerry couldn't have stood if he wanted to. He continued staring at Manny until Stumper opened a file and laid out the field test. “An ounce is what you had in your hot little pocket when you were stopped.”

“So?”

“You've been dealing.”

“I don't deal . . .”

“Like those quarter-gram Baggies were going to some charity? You've been drugging long enough to know . . .”

“I said, I don't deal . . .”

“. . . when you've been cheated.”

Jerry's eyes narrowed. “How so?”

Stumper filled his lip with Copenhagen and offered Jerry a dip.

He shook his head. “Tobacco's bad for you.”

Stumper pocketed the can. “If you bought an ounce—like our information had—you were cheated out of four grams.”

Jerry's grin faded.

“Unless you smoked it yourself.”

Jerry stood. The table groaned under his weight as he leaned over, veins in his neck throbbing. “You know I don't use that shit.”

Manny came off the door. “But you don't mind ruining other people's lives with it.”

Jerry chin-pointed to Manny. “Tell your chubby friend to stay out of this, or he'll get more than he bargained for.”

Manny walked to the table and stood looking up at Jerry, inches from his face, smelling the odor of the steak and onions he had recently eaten. “You'll get more than you bargained for, too. This is a felony, and we hold the future of your ass in our hot little hands.”

Jerry laughed nervously and felt for the seat. His eyes remained locked with Manny's as he eased himself into his chair. “Okay, little man. We'll do it your way. For now.”

Stumper turned the chair around and sat across from Jerry. “Who you getting your shit from?”

“Stumper, you're dumber than I thought.”

“The dummy is the one with three strikes hanging over his head. Looking at life being some other guy's wife in the slammer.”

“How's that?”

“Three felonies. You made a home run on this one. This makes three, and you'll be tried as a habitual criminal. Mandatory life.”

Jerry came off his chair and it fell over as if playing dead. “What the hell you mean, three strikes? This would be only my second felony: the carjacking in Billings and that stop and rob in Sheridan. The others happened before that habitual law was passed.”

Stumper shuffled through the file and slid a court disposition across the table. “You seem to have forgotten about that bum check to the car dealer three years ago.”

Stumper turned to Manny as if Jerry wasn't in the room. “Dumb shit tried to leave the state with a car paid for with a no account check.” Stumper laughed. “Nothing in the universe travels faster than a bum check.”

“I spent misdemeanor time for that,” Jerry sputtered.

Stumper grinned. “No, that stay in the county turned into felony time. Only if you abided by the plea agreement would it be considered a misdemeanor. Which included the probation appointments you failed to make. As per the plea.”

Jerry wiped his forehead with his bandanna and paced the room. “I only missed one.”

“You only made one.” Stumper winked, enjoying Jerry's predicament. “And the conviction went back to grand theft. Felony. Sit down.”

Jerry righted the chair and slumped into it.

Manny sat in a chair next to Stumper and leaned his elbows on the table. “Stumper's right. Judges got no wiggle room on this. It's mandatory life.”

“Shit.”

“Sure you will, in an open toilet shared by some other schmuck. Maybe you'll work yourself up from prison laundry to book server,” Manny explained, slowly as if educating a Boy Scout troop. “Maybe even get your jailhouse lawyer license. Help other inmates file for appeal, maybe sentence reduction. Help everyone except you, 'cause no habitual ever gets out early.”

Jerry seemed to shrink in his chair. “What you guys need to know?”

“Jerry,” Stumper said, shaking his head. “Now who's dumb? You know I need your supplier's name here on Crow Agency.”

Jerry rubbed his stubble. “You know I can't snitch on my supplier.”

“Even though you were cheated out of those four grams?”

Jerry looked down at the floor, but said nothing. Stumper shut his notebook and stood, while Manny held the door for him.

“Wait,” Jerry said. “Can't we make a deal here?”

“Who do I look like, Monty Hall. What door you pick depends if you're the girlfriend or the wife when you go up the river.”

Jerry nodded to the door and Manny shut it. “I'll talk about dope, but I can't talk about my supplier.”

“What, like the meth fairy just drops it into your lap once a week?”

Jerry kept silent, and Stumper motioned to the door.

“Wait,” Jerry said. “You'll put in a word for me, right? That's only fair.”

“Life's not fair, Jerry.” Manny leaned over the table. “Life's like a shit sandwich—the more bread you have, the less shit you gotta eat. The more you give, the less you'll get.”

Stumper looked to Jerry. “What I recommend to the prosecutor depends on what you give up.”

“Fair enough.”

Stumper took out his notebook again. “How much crank comes onto the rez every week?”

“A quarter pound.”

Manny whistled and scooted closer to Jerry. “Every week?”

Jerry nodded.

“How's it coming in?”

“I don't know.”

Stumper started closing his notebook again when Jerry held up his hand.

“I honestly don't know. All I know is I take delivery of an ounce a week from . . .” Jerry kicked an imaginary rock on the floor with the toe of his boot.

“Jerry,” Stumper said, leaning over and looking at him. “Now's not the time to test our newfound friendship.”

“The guy I get my shit from is not the one who hauls it from Denver. Understood?” Jerry's foot started tapping the floor and he fidgeted in his seat. “This guy's just small potatoes, like me. After . . . the big guy picks it up in Denver, he hauls it to the rez and gives it to the guy I get it from. Understood?”

Stumper nodded.

“Okay,” Jerry muttered. “When my guy gets it, he gives me a call and we meet. Slips me an ounce. Sometimes an ounce and a half.”

“Who, Jerry?”

“Little Dave Night Tail.”

Stumper scooted his chair back. “You have got to be shitting me.”

Jerry held up his hand. “No shit. Little Dave's got a thing for the ladies. Likes buying them nice things. And he's got expensive tastes himself: clothes, jewelry, new trucks. Last year he bought a damned Shetland pony just to give to one of his girlfriend's boys living in downtown Billings.”

Stumper nudged Manny. “Oh that must have been a hit with the neighbors.”

“That information should be enough to keep me locked up in here, right?”

“What you mean?” Stumper closed his notebook. “You can make bond as soon as I talk with the magistrate.”

“I don't want to make bond, Stumper. I make bond, the guy bringing the load up from Denver will slit my throat.” His foot started tapping again, and he wrung his hands. “Just let me sit in jail and wait for trial. Think you can swing it?”

Stumper shrugged. “What are friends for?”

“Take Jerry over to Detention,” Stumper told Moccasin Top as he passed out of the interview room.

Stumper led Manny to his truck and hit the remote. “He was damned afraid of being cut loose,” Manny said.

Stumper started the cruiser and backed out of the lot. “I've never known Jerry to be afraid of anything. The main supplier must be one tough bastard to get him riled like that.”

“Degas?”

Stumper nodded. “As good a suspect as any.”

Stumper started onto I-90 and half turned in his seat. “Guess Della Night Tail wasn't just imagining Little Dave teepee-creepin', though I'd have rather found out Little Dave was getting stray on the side rather than dealing meth. Makes a lot of sense, all the times he was gone. I'll go back to the records and cross-reference those days Della reported him gone to shipments of meth coming onto the rez. Now all we got to do is round up Little Dave.”

Manny popped a PEZ and let the bittersweet candy dissolve under his tongue. “You said she reported him missing what, four days ago?”

Stumper nodded.

“And you haven't found him?”

“Not a sign.”

“Maybe he left for greener pastures. Maybe someone gave him an all-expenses-paid lift off the rez.”

Stumper looked sideways at Manny. “What you getting at?”

“Wilson,” Manny said. “If Little Dave was making deliveries for Degas, it wouldn't be such a stretch that Degas would want him whisked away before the law got to him first.”

“And maybe he was the one you saw climbing into the front of Wilson's plane right after takeoff.”

“Maybe.”