Stone Butterfly (26 page)

While chewing and smoking his cigar down to a stubby butt, Raymond Oates suffered a series of ulcer-provoking thoughts. This intense mental activity was accompanied by piggish little grunts and brow-furrowing frowns. After looking at the issue from this way and that, he concluded that the late-night telephone call to Marilee Attatochee was almost certainly made by Sarah Frank, and with that as a working hypothesis there could be no dillydallying around—the situation called for immediate and drastic action.
What I need is a couple of knuckle-draggers.
But for this particular piece of work, not just any run-of-the-mill knuckle-draggers would do. He ignited the tip of a fresh cigar, began to mull over a list of potential candidates, eventually narrowed it down to two. Number One was highly motivated. Number Two would strangle his sister for a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes. This was not a mere figure of speech; when Two was twelve years old the beady-eyed little brute actually
had
strangled his sister. Her dual offense was (a) she had discovered Brother's secret cache of cigarettes and (b) she had told Grandma about the hiding place. Sis had not died from the strangling, but following the assault she had (as they used to say in those days) “never been quite right.”

The attorney picked up his private line, punched in a call to Knuckle-Dragger Number One, got an answer on the second ring. “It's me—Ray Oates. Can you talk? Okay. Look, I came across a piece of information on that runaway Indian girl. Might turn out to be a hot lead, or nothing but fairy smoke and stump-water. But I want you and another fella to go check it out.” He responded to the expected query with an impish grin. “Yeah, that's who I have in mind.” Hurrying to ward off the expected objection, Oates added: “We'll discuss the details tomorrow night—usual time and place.” Which translated: 11:00
P.M
. sharp at the Oates residence. The house lights would be off.

The small-town wheeler-dealer thumbed the
END
button, placed another call, conducted a similar conversation with Knuckle-Dragger Number Two. Similar, but with a sinister little twist. The man who had strangled his sister would have some extra work to do. Whether they found the Papago kid or not, Knuckle-Dragger Number Two would make sure Knuckle-Dragger Number One never came home again. Which would leave Oates with the surviving knuckle-dragger to deal with. But that was another problem, for another day. The thing was to always stay a few steps ahead of the game.

Quite pleased with himself, Raymond Oates sucked thoughtfully on his cigar, puffed a fluffy smoke ring. The coldhearted son-of-a-rustler had developed his own highly personalized brand. Of philosophy, that is. Which could be summed up more or less as follows:
If a man's got bushels of disposable income and has the right contacts, 99 percent of his problems can be solved with a couple of phone calls.

Socrates, he was not.

Charlie Moon was cruising down copper street when he saw his best friend, who happened to be Granite Creek PD's chief of police. The Southern Ute tribal investigator deftly slipped his freshly washed Expedition into a cramped parking place. There were more spacious slots available, but he was a cattle rancher and beef prices had recently taken a dip and the meter on this post was showing forty-five minutes, which was worth six bits.

Moon cut the ignition, watched the broad-shouldered Scott Parris ambling along the opposite sidewalk like a clumsy young halfback.
I wonder if he played football in high school.
As the thought was passing through his mind, he watched Parris tip his cowboy hat at a pretty redhead who flashed him a semiseductive smile. Moon laughed as the chief of police turned to watch her pass, bumped headlong into a heavyset man in a bulky black raincoat who had been tagging along behind the hapless cop. The other party in the collision was even bigger and wider than Parris—he might have been a professional wrestler. Moon shook his head as his friend apologized to the oversized citizen, who appeared to take no offense at the minor mishap. As the big man went on his way, Parris craned his neck to watch the shapely redhead depart.

After a rusty old Dodge pickup had rattled past, Charlie Moon crossed the street, waved at his friend. “Hey, where you headed?”

Scott Parris turned to regard the rail-thin, seven-foot-tall Ute. “The Sugar Bowl. In case you've already forgot, that's where we're supposed to meet for lunch.”

“The Sugar Bowl—you sure?”

“Sure I'm sure.” Parris cast a doubtful gaze on the Indian. “Where'd you think we was gonna have our midday meal?”

Moon was looking up the street, also at the redhead. “At Dukey's A-1 Texas Barbecue.”

“Dukey's isn't a serious barbecue joint—just the bus station's lunch counter.” Parris snorted. “And the place is a dump. It's a wonder the health department hasn't shut 'em down.”

“Okay.” Disappointment fairly dripped off the Ute's face. “But I sure had my heart set on a big, greasy, chopped-brisket sandwich. With a side of potato salad and a bowl of Dukey's smokehouse beans and—”

“Oh, all right.” Parris fell in step beside his best buddy. “But don't go blaming me when you wake up dead from eatin' tainted grub.”

“Okay.” Moon slapped his friend on the back. “You can dance on my grave.”

“That'll be just for starters.” Parris told the Ute what else he would do on his grave, but this will be treated as an irrelevant detail.

Moon selected a booth by the fly-specked window, under the neon script that boasted Bud Lite with every electric flicker.

Parris squinted to see into the dark recesses of Dukey's A-1 establishment. “From what I hear, he eats leftovers right off the plates.” He grinned at Moon. “If we're lucky, maybe Dukey has died from food poisoning.”

It was not to be. The proprietor showed up, a cigarette dangling limply from his lips, a green order pad in his hand. “Hey, guys—I ain't seen either a you in a month a Sundays. I figgered maybe you both converted to veggie-tarianism.” He followed this with a throaty “Har-har.”

Sensing that his friend was reluctant to converse with Dukey, Moon ordered his sandwich and sides. “And a king-size Pepsi. With just enough ice to cool a sickly grasshopper's fevered brow.”

“You got it, Big Chief.” Dukey turned the full strength of his personality on the chief of police. “How about you, Dick Tracy?”

Scott Parris looked out the window, wondered where the pretty redhead had gone.
Probably to meet a nice young man at a decent restaurant. Or maybe she's dining alone. If I knew where she was, I could just saunter in and maybe bump into her again…Well, it wasn't exactly
her
I bumped into, but in a manner of speaking
…

“Hey—I ain't got all day!”

Parris blinked at the man behind the grease-stained apron. It was also stained with other things, but the details didn't bear thinking about. “Cup of coffee. Decaf.”

As he scribbled on the pad, Dukey muttered: “Java—unleaded.” He scowled at the hesitant customer. “What d'you want to eat?”

“Nothing.”

“What—you on a diet or somethin'?”

“Look, the only reason I'm willing to risk drinking your coffee is that it's been boiled enough to kill off all the—”

“My friend is not feeling up to any spicy food, Dukey.” Moon smiled at the homely face. “Just bring him the coffee.”

After a brief eye-to-eye standoff with the beefy cop, the owner of the third-rate eatery stomped away toward a smoky kitchen, where he did the cooking and rinsed soiled dishes in filthy water.

Attempting to dislodge a dried-up smudge of barbecue sauce, Parris scratched his thumbnail on the table. “Charlie, if you drove for ninety-nine miles in any direction, I doubt you'd find a worse hole-in-the-wall than this.”

The Ute flashed a childlike smile that would have disarmed a more reasonable man. “You've never tried Dukey's brisket.”

Parris rolled his eyes. “I have also never drank plumber's lye—or tasted a fresh cow pie. And just look at this place.” To demonstrate the ocular procedure, he turned his head this way and that, gazed into the shadows. “I bet there's no customers here but us. Except for out-of-towners who come in on the bus, nobody would have little enough sense to eat in this—”

“Which is why the service is so prompt.” Moon heard the squeaky door open, the coupled bell clang the arrival of a probable diner. It was the largish man Parris had bumped into on the street. Mr. Raincoat. “See,” the Ute said, “there's another hungry gourmet who, after inspecting several local eateries, has wisely chosen Dukey's A-1 Texas Barbecue.”

“Please, let's not say any more about Dukey's slop—let's talk about something less depressing.” He gave his friend a knowing half-grin. “Like why you wanted to see me today. As if I didn't already know.”

There was a pause in the conversation as Dukey arrived with coffee and a tall glass of Pepsi-Cola with a single ice cube floating thereupon.

When the proprietor was out of earshot, Moon took a sip of the fizzy beverage. “Okay. So why do I want to see you?”

“It'll have something to do with that killing in Tonapah Flats, and that Indian girl who's disappeared. Remember how we worked that case years ago, when her mother was murdered?” Parris made a painful grimace. “Dang, what's the kid's name?” He blushed and sighed at the same time. “Just yesterday, I saw it in an FBI report, but my brain is turning to cheese, Charlie. I mean, one minute I've got some information between my ears and then it just slips away—” He stopped dead still. “Wait a minute. Sarah. Sarah Frank—that's it.”

“Did you read the FBI report?”

“I kinda scanned it. I was expecting you'd bring me up to date on the details—”

Dukey abruptly showed up with Charlie Moon's brisket sandwich plate, plopped it down with a bang, gave the other, reluctant diner a poisonous look, seemed not to notice when an inch-long length of ash fell from his cigarette into Parris's coffee.

As the owner of the establishment hurried away to offer service to the huge man who had recently arrived, Moon reached across the table to restrain his friend from getting up. “He didn't mean to do that.”

Noting that Moon made the statement with little conviction, Parris replied through clenched teeth. “Yes, he did. And I ought to go break his head—”

“But you won't.”

“I won't?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“Tell me why, Charlie.”

“Because you're a seasoned pro and a heavyweight to boot. Dukey's a dime-a-dozen back-alley brawler who'd tip the scales at maybe a hundred and sixty in his birthday suit.” Moon put on a reproachful look. “It wouldn't be a fair match.”

“Fair don't come into it. That lowlife hash slinger deliberately dropped cigarette ash into my coffee.”

“Let me take care of it.”

“What'll you do?”

“For starters, I'll get you a brand-new cup of coffee.”

“I don't want any of Pukey-Dukey's stinkin' coffee, Charlie. I want to kick his butt right up between his shoulder blades.”

“Okay. Whatever pleases you. But before you displace his pelvis, can we talk shop?”

Parris cooled a couple of degrees. “About that bad business in Utah?”

“Uh-huh.” Moon took a bite of the sizable sandwich.

“Okay. Give me the executive summary.”

The chopped brisket was delicious, but he dared not mention this to his still-overheated friend. “Tonapah Flats, Utah. Old man by the name of Ben Silver was supposed to be at a local clinic, seeing his doctor. The appointment gets canceled when Doc is called away to deal with a big pileup out on the interstate. Silver's taxi driver—who just happens to be Sarah Frank's Papago cousin—hauls Mr. Silver back home. When Silver shows up early, he figures out someone's been burgling his house, calls 911, gets the sheriff on the line. Before he can say anything useful, somebody yanks the phone cord out of the wall, bangs him on the head.”

“Somebody
who
—Sarah Frank?” Parris watched Moon nod. “What's the evidence?”

The Ute managed to talk and eat at the same time. “A couple of minutes after the 911 call is interrupted, Sheriff Ned Popper shows up, discovers Sarah standing over the body—holding a baseball bat. She flings the Louisville Slugger at the sheriff, makes a run for it. Sheriff ducks but not fast enough. This Utah lawman ends up with a big lump on his noggin; Popper's lucky
he's
not dead. Soon as he gets to his feet, he goes inside and finds Mr. Silver on the floor, barely alive, bleeding from his head. Sheriff asks the victim what happened. With his dying breath, Silver implicates Sarah.” At this point, Moon had a hard time swallowing. “And the blood on the bat was Silver's.”

“Well, that's about as conclusive as it gets.” Scott Parris had a mental picture of the tiny little girl who had lost both her parents. “How old is she now?”

“Fourteen.”

The chief of police stared at the ashes dissolving in his coffee. Shook his head at the horror of it all. “Just fourteen. And she's already killed a man.”

Having lost his appetite, Moon set the mouth-watering sandwich aside. “But we don't know for sure
why
she killed him. Might be self-defense.”

“Yeah.” Parris nodded hopefully. “Maybe when the old man saw her rummaging through his personal belongings, he got angry. Tried to grab her. And she fought back.” He looked up. “She's just a dumb kid. Might get off with a couple of years in a juvenile facility.”

“If she goes to trial.”

“You don't think she'll be picked up?”

“I don't know what to think. One of the Utah sheriff's deputies—a nice young fellow by the name of Tate Packard—showed up on the east end of the reservation last week.”

Parris remembered those days when a younger Sarah had spent months with Daisy Perika. “Near your aunt's place?”

“Near enough. During a big thunderstorm, Packard drove his car off the road and into the Piedra.”

“I read a bulletin on that. Didn't connect it with the killing in Utah.” He scratched again at the scab of dried barbecue sauce. “Was the deputy's body recovered?”

“Not the last I heard.” Moon eyed the half-eaten sandwich. “Piedra's running fast and muddy this spring. Packard's remains may eventually float to the top of Navajo Lake. Or maybe not. Some of 'em, we never find.” He tapped a plastic fork on the plastic plate. “BIA police have looked long and hard for Sarah on the Papago reservation, which is a fair-sized chunk of southern Arizona. They don't think she's there, and I'm not inclined to disagree with them.” He looked up at his friend. “But for some reason I don't know—it's pretty clear that Deputy Packard believed she was on the Southern Ute reservation.”

“What about ol' Ned Popper?”

The Ute didn't hide his surprise. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” Parris said. “We used to hunt antelope, down by Raton.”

“Popper claims he don't have any notion why his deputy was in Colorado, much less on the res.” Moon pitched the plastic fork aside, locked eyes with his best friend. “This Popper—you trust him?”

“I don't know him all that well.” Parris shrugged. “From what I hear, he's a sure-enough tough customer. There was some talk that he was mixed up a bit in local politics.”

Moon frowned. “What does that mean?”

Another shrug. “Oh, I don't know for sure.” Parris blushed. “He probably did a few favors for some influential folks. And they did some for him.” The former Chicago cop spread his hands. “Sometimes, that's the only way to get things done.”

The tribal investigator decided to let that pass.

The Granite Creek chief of police changed the subject: “This action is a long way from my jurisdiction, Charlie. What can I do to help?”

“Probably not much. I'm going to be doing some snooping around on the reservation. Ask some people some questions.”
Especially my aunt Daisy.
“But just on the off chance that Sarah shows up here—”

“You figure she might make her way to Granite Creek, ask for directions to the Columbine?”

“It's a long shot. But if I don't pick up something on the res, it may be the only shot I've got.”

“I'll circulate the FBI photos to all of my officers, put the word out to the bus station.” Parris smiled at his friend. “If Miss Frank shows up in my town, I'll have her in custody before you can count to one.”

“Thanks, pard.”

“Let's get out of this dump.”

“Okay.” Charlie Moon watched a uniformed driver approach a Greyhound. “Soon as I take care of some business.”