Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery (5 page)

I turned and looked at him. “Well, let’s see it.”

He glanced around the room, his one-eyed gaze on Vic, and then peeled the patch back, leaving it on his forehead. “It’s a fourteen millimeter . . .”

We all leaned in and looked at the artificial orb, Double Tough staring straight ahead and as nonchalant as you can be with three people peering into your fake eye.

“It looks great.”

He seemed doubtful. “Really?”

“Yep; if I didn’t know any better I’d say it was real.” I glanced at Sancho for a little backup. “Right?”

“Yeah, it looks great.”

“It’s the wrong color.”

We all looked at Vic. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped in closer and stared at Double Tough. “What color did you order?”

“I didn’t order it, they did . . . It’s hazel-blue.”

She studied him some more. “Your real eye is more green.” She straightened and looked at Saizarbitoria, me, and finally back to DT. “Take it back and have them order up another one.”

Double Tough cleared his throat. “Oh, I think it’s close enough—”

“Go back and have them order up one that matches.” She glanced at us again. “I can’t believe you assholes were going to let him wander around here looking like a fucked-up husky because you two were afraid of hurting his delicate feelings—shame on the both of you.”

As she stalked out, we all stood there in the uncomfortable silence, and then I leaned in and studied the eye again. “Maybe a little greener, but it looks good, troop.”

Sancho nodded. “Really good. A little greener, maybe . . . I mean, you might as well get it right—the insurance is paying for it.”

 • • • 

The tribal delegation was waiting for me in my office, sitting in my guest chairs and reading from the plaques and studying the photos on my walls. Brandon thumped a finger on one. “What are all these sheriffs doing in front of this train?”

I turned the corner and sat at my desk across from Cheyenne chief Lonnie Little Bird and Tribal Police chief Lolo Long as Vic lingered near the doorway. “The old sheriff, Lucian—that was the last run of the Western Star back in ’72.”

Lolo was the first to ask, “The Western Star?”

“The Wyoming Sheriff’s Association had this yearly junket that they used to do, a train by the name of the Western Star that ran from Cheyenne to Evanston and back—twenty-four drunk sheriffs shooting sporting clays off a flatbed.”

Chief Long pulled a handful of blue-black hair back from her face, revealing the sickle-shaped scar at her temple and the dark, dark eyes. Out of uniform, she was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a weathered leather jacket—all of which seemed to fit in remarkable ways. “Sounds like fun.”

She wanted to continue the interrogation, but I cut her off and gestured around the room. “The few plaques are his, but he didn’t want them, and I never got around to taking them down.”

“What do you have time for these days?”

I smiled at my reservation comrade in arms. “The job, Chief Long, the job.” I took my hat off and set it on my desk, crown down, and introduced Vic to the group.

“We’ve met.”

Lolo’s head lifted, and she spoke. “Undersheriff.”

Vic’s voice carried just a little edge to it. “Chief.”

I addressed the rest of the war party. “Chief Little Bird.”

Lonnie laughed. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Mm, hmm. Yes, it is so.”

I glanced at Brandon, who was still standing, and then back at Lonnie. “Is this a formal call?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Danny Lone Elk?”

He nodded and leaned back in his wheelchair. “Just so you are aware, we did not do this.”

“Do what?”

“Call the FBI.”

“Since Wounded Knee II, when the Department of Justice shows up I rarely think that it’s the tribe that has called them.”

Lolo played with the woven horsehair zipper slide on her jacket. “Danny had made commitments with the tribe that upon his death his ranch was to be signed over to the Cheyenne Conservancy, and that is our only concern at this time. I am not sure if the fossil in question is part of that land or an antiquity that is dealt with differently. Danny mentioned that a home for the dinosaur might be made on the reservation in Lame Deer at the Chief Dull Knife College or that there might be a sale of a limited number of replicas of the skeleton or the donation of some of the bones to the tribal headquarters, but that above all, the proceeds from such a sale should go exclusively to his children and grandson.”

“What’s your involvement?”

She leaned forward and smiled a dazzling smile that made my toes tingle. “I’m the director of the Cheyenne Conservancy.”

“So you were in a sort of partnership with Danny.”

“Yes.”

“Has anybody talked to Dave Baumann about this?”

“I don’t know.”

I glanced up at Vic, who rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s going to start getting complicated now that the feds are involved.”

Lolo studied me. “Did you call them?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Vic smiled. “Skip.”

“What do you mean you can’t pick us up in Billings?”

Glancing around the reception area at my assembled staff as we took on our greatest challenge at the end-of-the-day coffee klatch, I sighed through the telephone line in an attempt to get out of trouble with the Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time. “There’s a big mess going on among the Cheyenne, the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, and the federal government, and I’m betting I won’t be able to get free tomorrow. The acting deputy U.S. attorney is going to be here, and then I’ll know more.”

“
Acting
deputy U.S. attorney—what the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know; I guess it means he
acts
like a deputy attorney or something.” I hugged the phone in for a little privacy. “Can’t you fly into Sheridan?”

“I’m traveling with a five-month-old, and they don’t have a leather helmet and goggles to fit her.” There was a pause. “Have you ever traveled with a five-month-old?”

The second time I’d been asked that today—I tried to remember if I ever had. “I think your mother did; I was just ground support.”

“Did you get the Pack ’n Play and the car seat?”

I lied. “Yep.”

“You’re lying.”

Uncanny. “As fast as Dog can trot.”

“If you can’t borrow them, then get them over in Sheridan when you come to pick us up.”

“So, you are flying into Sheridan. Why don’t you rent a car?” The phone went dead in my hand as I handed it back to my dispatcher and my guideline for all things domestic. “What’s a Pack ’n Play?”

Ruby looked at Saizarbitoria, who seemed to have an innate ability to describe child-rearing accoutrements in terms I could understand. “Portable solitary confinement.”

“Ahh . . .” I smiled, pressing the joke. “And the car seat?”

“It’s a seat. That goes in your car,” the Basquo grunted. “I’ve got all that stuff.”

Ruby hung up the phone. “Walt, you can borrow them, but I’m thinking you should buy; this is not the only time they’re going to be here—that is, if you don’t keep royally messing things up.”

I glanced at Lucian, who sometimes showed up at these unofficial end-of-the-day meets, and then the rest of my staff. “Everybody seems to think that, huh?”

They all nodded, but Lucian was the first to speak. “You’re not off to a good start, troop.”

Vic laughed. “Like you’re a knowledgeable source.”

I cupped my chin in my palm and postulated as I looked at the previous sheriff of Absaroka County. “I’m trying to remember what five-month-olds are like; what they can do.”

Lucian mumbled. “They shit a lot.”

Vic bumped him with her shoulder. “When was the last time you even held a baby—the Eisenhower administration?”

Ruby agreed. “You’re going to need diapers.”

“Is there a service in town?”

“They don’t do that anymore; they’re disposable.” She glanced at Saizarbitoria again. “But I’m betting Sancho is our go-to guy on all of this.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Like I said, we’ve got all that stuff and you’re welcome to it, but you might be better off to buy all new. Anthony’s over a year old and escapes from everything like a miniature Houdini, but we still use some of it.” He smiled. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Grandpa.” He thought about it. “At five months they can sit up, scoot, roll, and maybe crawl a little.”

“Can they talk?”

“Babble, mostly—kind of like a bad drunk.”

Ruby smiled. “As I recall, Cady talked early.”

“Yep, and she’s never stopped.”

Double Tough ventured an opinion. “You’re going to need a high chair.”

We all turned to look at him.

He adjusted his eye patch, having put it back on. “What? I got nephews and nieces.”

I pushed off Ruby’s counter and stretched, glancing up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and wondering why all these people were still here, other than to antagonize me. “This grandfather stuff is complicated.”

Ruby laughed. “You haven’t seen the half of it.”

I turned back to Saizarbitoria. “So, I don’t suppose I could impose on you to help me buy all these things?”

He nodded. “And put it together?”

“What?”

“You have to assemble the stuff, and I’m thinking it would be best if you had everything done.”

I nodded some more, getting used to taking orders again. “At my place?”

Vic stared at me. “Where were you thinking they were going to stay?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but wouldn’t it be easier if they were in town?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“You’ve got a brand-new house.”

“Nice try.”

“And if they need anything, they wouldn’t have to drive twenty miles . . .”

“Absolutely not.”

I turned back to Saizarbitoria. “If you and Maria will help me out with this, I’ll give you the rest of the day off.”

He made a face. “The day is over—how ’bout tomorrow?”

He had me over a barrel, and he knew it. I pulled out all the cash I had in my wallet and handed it to him. “Will that cover it?”

He nodded, stuffing the bills in his shirt pocket. “If not, I’ll get the rest from petty cash.”

“Deal. Leave the receipts, so I can reimburse.” I turned to Lucian, suddenly remembering the flask in my coat pocket, the one that I’d taken from the recently deceased. “Hey, old man, I need your opinion on something.” I pulled it out and handed it to him.

His eyes brightened at the prospect. “Now you’re talkin’ about my kind of baby.” He unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents. “Bottled-in-bond.”

He started to take a sip, but I caught his arm. “Hold up. I took that off of Danny Lone Elk, and it hasn’t been tested.” Before I could react further, he changed hands and took a strong, two bubble pull. “Lucian . . .”

“Damn, that’s good.” He licked his lips. “Straight rye whiskey, a four-year-old, if I’m not mistaken—a little metallic, but that could just be from being in the flask too long.”

“You’re not concerned that it might be poisoned?”

“Troop, I’ve been poisoning myself with this stuff for nigh on seventy years and I’m sure in the end it will get me, but it’s been an elongated and cheerful terminus.”

“Brand?”

“E. H. Taylor.” He took another nip, just to be sure. “Hundred proof, I should think.”

“Nothing wrong with it?”

“Not that I can tell, but I better have another just to be on the safe side.”

“Let’s save some for the Department of Criminal Investigation, shall we?” I turned to talk to Double Tough and noticed a group of men standing at the top of the stairs: two highway patrolmen named Bob Delude and Robert Hall, aka the Bobs, and a suited man who looked like a bad smell. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Sheriff Walter Longmire?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m Deputy United States Attorney Skip Trost.”

I noticed he left off the “acting”
portion of his title. “Good to meet you.”

“Are we interrupting anything?”

“Oh, no. Just the circling of the wagons here at the end of the day.”

He stepped forward. “I was wondering if I could have a private word with you, Sheriff?” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned and dismissed the two patrolmen. “Thank you, gentlemen; I believe I’m Sheriff Longmire’s responsibility now.”

Robert rolled his eyes and Bob shook his head as they turned, noticeably glad to be rid of him, and trooped down the stairs and out the door. I knew the Bobs pretty well from dealing with them over the years and would have to talk to them later to get the dope on the ADA.

I gestured toward the hall and my office, the day obviously not over.

 • • • 

“You know why I’m here.”

Easing myself back in my chair, I took off my hat and set it on my desk, thinking the thing spent more time there than on my head. “I believe so.”

“This is a serious crime against the American people.”

I tapped the brim of my hat and watched it spin on the overturned crown. “The American people, huh?”

He folded his overcoat in his lap and regarded me with a set of very pale blue eyes, the kind that sled dogs have—the kinds of dogs that if not fed enough eat each other. “We have an opportunity here to make a statement to these private collectors that the relics and fossils on public lands are not for private sale.”

“I wasn’t aware that the High Plains Dinosaur Museum was going to sell Jen.”

He watched me, probably trying to get a read on my position in all of this, and that gave me the opportunity to study him in turn. He was fit, and I was guessing he was no stranger to the gymnasiums in Cheyenne. “The point is, Mr. Trost, that we don’t know if the fossil is on public land, and besides, if they maintain ownership, then they can do whatever they like with Jen. It’s a free market, as near as I can tell.”

The shoe stopped bobbing, and he grinned. “They told me you were sharp.”

“Who did?”

He dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. “Everybody at Twenty-Fourth and Capitol.”

“So, I guess you’re looking to establish a partnership with the Northern Cheyenne, the Cheyenne Conservancy, and the Lone Elk family.”

“His family is active?”

I gave him my warning voice. “Very.”

For the first time, he broke eye contact with me and stared at his coat. “Hmm . . .”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why is it that the federal government suddenly has a deep-seated yearning to go after the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“They are stealing government property.”

I expulsed a breath of air that substituted for a laugh. “Private collectors and paleontologists have been doing it all over the American West for more than a century.”

“All the more reason it should be stopped.”

“What’s the hurry? I mean the thing isn’t even out of the ground.”

“The head is.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He grinned some more. “You didn’t know that.”

“No. I’m not really privy to everything the museum does, nor should I be.”

“I just received a text . . .” He pulled out his cell phone and showed it to me—maybe he thought I’d never seen one. “. . . that the head is on the premises of the HPDM and has been crated for shipping.”

“To where?”

“At this time, parts unknown.” He studied me. “So your buddy Dave Baumann doesn’t tell you everything.”

I wondered what Dave was up to, thought about it, and then leaned back in my chair. “I wouldn’t call him my buddy, but he’s from my county and that does make him mine to defend.”

“Defend.”

“A long time ago, the previous sheriff handed his star over to me.” I thumbed my badge for him to take notice—maybe he’d never seen one before. “And along with this three-inch piece of metal came the responsibility of looking out for my people, all 2,483 of them.”

He cocked his head and barked a short laugh. “So, it’s going to be the United States of America versus Absaroka County?”

I sighed deeply and brushed the cuff of my shirt over my badge, wiping off my fingerprints. “Not necessarily. You treat the people of this county with the respect they deserve and I’m yours to command,
Acting
Deputy Attorney.”

He let that one settle in for a bit and then stood. “I’m afraid you are mine to command no matter what or how I do it,
Sheriff
.” He looked down at me, enjoying the advantage. “I think we should be going to the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, but first off I’m going to need personal protection.”

This time I went ahead and laughed. “From what?”

He made the next statement as if it were manifest obvious. “Whoever of the 2,483 citizens of the county must’ve murdered Danny Lone Elk.”

I leaned back in my chair and tried not to display the expression I reserved for people who attempted to tell me how to do my job. “At this time, I have no credible information leading me to believe that Danny’s death is anything more than accidental.”

He carefully unfolded his trench coat. “You’re living in a dream world; that collection of bones that was found on his land is worth way more than the eight million dollars paid for similar finds, and that kind of money tends to get people thinking bad thoughts—even your people.” He continued to study me and then changed tack. “You have a very high profile here in the state.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a profile, high or low.”

“Well, I’m pleased to tell you that you do and that kind of thing can be instrumental in getting things like this done.” He waited a moment and then leaned on my desk. “And since I’ve dismissed my cadre of highway patrolmen, I still need a detachment for use as bodyguards.”

I picked up my hat, carefully straightened it on my head, and got up. Looking down at him, I enjoyed the advantage and smiled. “I’ve got just the person.”

 • • • 

“And what if I don’t want to follow fucking Skip around?”

“I thought about having Double Tough keep an eye on him.”

“That’s not funny.” She leaned against the counter of the gift shop inside the High Plains Dinosaur Museum. “How ’bout if I just
act
like I’m guarding the
acting
deputy attorney?”

“Fine by me.” I watched McGroder and his staff examine and document all the parts of Jen’s massive head, roughly the size of a sofa, on an assortment of clipboards and forms under the close observation of Trost. Her namesake stood by with her ever-present video camera, recording the FBI men and the acting deputy attorney. “
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
”

“Excuse me?”

I gestured toward Jen and the camera. “‘Who watches the watchmen?’ From the Roman poet Juvenal, usually associated with the philosophies of Plato and political corruption.” I gestured toward Trost. “He seems to think there might be an attempt of violence upon his person.”

Vic folded her arms, the portrait of disgruntled. “Well, he’s right about that.”

“I figured you’d be the best at letting me know what his intentions are.”

She watched the ministrations of the Department of Justice. “You don’t think they’re going to try and pick that thing up, do you?” She looked at the shelves of plastic
T. rex
es and then back to me. “So, as I remember, according to Mrs. Tony, my sixth grade science teacher, these things had a brain the size of a walnut.”