Tortoise Soup (9 page)

“Don’t tell me. I’ll have to wait.”

Dee silently nodded as I took my seat back on the couch.

Another forty minutes came and went. I figured that by now there had been enough time to clear every critter off the place that might have been skulking around, dead or alive. But I was determined to stay put until I’d inspected the grounds.

I was just about to nod off when Brian Anderson rounded the corner and took hold of my hand.

“Agent Porter?”

I looked up into a pair of eyes as steely gray as a summer thunderstorm over the desert. A shaggy mane of silver hair framed the cheekbones I’d always wanted. A tight smile that was half grimace cut across his face, a perfect slash outlining picture-perfect teeth. If he didn’t work out in a gym, I was a health nut. The guy could easily have landed a television series just by showing up for the audition.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said in a harried voice. “I also want to apologize for John’s behavior. I’m afraid we sometimes forget about manners, being under such a tight deadline.”

His fingers were long and tapered, easily encasing mine, and his thumb rested gently at the pulse point along my wrist, which had begun to beat rapidly. I left my hand in his grip.

“What deadline is that?” I asked, trying to appear cool, calm, and collected.

Anderson’s grimace softened and I realized that he was checking me out as much as I was him. I pulled my hand away.

“What I meant is that we’re under constant pressure to produce. It tends to get to you after a while. Gets so bad around here that we even forget how to behave when there’s a pretty lady around.” He ran his fingers through his perfectly coiffed mane.

I wondered if that was John Wayne lingo for We’ve been busy stashing dead tortoises and birds away, but that’s nothing for you to worry your pretty head about, little lady.

Brian held a can of Diet Coke out toward me. “I brought this as a peace offering. If you still have the time, it would be my pleasure to escort you around, Agent Porter.”

Diet Coke. He knew how to get to a girl. I stood up next to Anderson’s tall, lean frame and made a silent vow to lay off the Doritos and beat my body into submission until it resembled Cindy Crawford’s.

We headed outside smack into heat as suffocating as plastic wrap. The light wind pummeled my face with minuscule grains of sand, causing me to squint as we walked around the grounds. I felt certain that Cindy Crawford would never subject her face to this.

Anderson took hold of my elbow as he steered me toward the main area of the mine. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you’re looking for, Agent Porter?”

“I was given some information that a number of birds have been found dead on the grounds and that your haul paks are running over desert tortoises,” I said, overly aware of the feel of his hand on my skin.

He appeared to be genuinely surprised. “Really? I can’t imagine that happening. At least, I haven’t been informed of any incidents. We’re receiving an award from the governor, you know.”

I didn’t say anything as we headed over to a tailings pond, where I examined the mesh netting that covered its surface, required by law in order to keep migratory birds away from the cyanide. It didn’t take me long to find a number of tears in the mesh.

“I’m afraid you’ve got a problem here,” I informed him.

Brian knelt down beside me. His arm brushed against my thigh, and my skin tingled at his touch.
It’s just the heat
, I told myself, but I carefully shifted my weight so that there was some space between us as we examined the netting together.

“What can I say?” he asked, a tone of frustration creeping into his voice. “This is embarrassing, but as hard as we try, it happens.”

He placed a hand on my arm and stood up, bringing me along with him. “I understand if you feel it’s necessary to fine the mine for this violation.”

The guy seemed sincere. That alone rattled me. My philosophy about men is that if they look better than you, they shouldn’t be trusted—and I was no easy touch. I moved back a step, hoping to break his force field of charisma.

“I’d like to check out the freezers,” I said, determined to keep my mind on business.

“Of course.”

We headed back toward the office, dodging giant haul paks along the way. If they weren’t about to stop for us, there was no way in hell they’d come to an abrupt halt for a tortoise. The shriek of their engines made me wonder how anyone lived day in and day out with the noise. Loaded with two hundred tons of dirt apiece, the trucks shook the ground as we walked by.

Brian held the door open for me as we walked into the main reception area, past Dee Salvano’s desk, and down a long hall to a room that contained a giant freezer.

“Let me do the honors,” Brian offered, pulling open the large metal door.

The freezer was bare, without a trace of a bird or a tortoise to be found. Not that I had really expected anything to be there after my long wait in reception.

Brian waved at the freezer’s empty shelves. “See? What did I tell you? Spic-and-span clean.”

I could almost sense his relief. “How often does someone from NDOW stop by?”

Brian thought for a moment, a wrinkle marring his smooth brow. “Let’s see. Not that often, really. What we do is call Director Harris whenever any wildlife is found dead on the grounds. But I can tell you, that doesn’t happen very often. And it’s never from cyanide poisoning.”

I looked at his chiseled features and knew he was lying. “Never? They always manage to keel over dead from natural causes?”

“What can I say? I just hope it’s not catching.” Brian led me out of the room and into his office.

“How about some coffee?” He walked over to a small coffee machine situated in front of a window that looked out at the mine. “It’s not very good, but I can guarantee you it doesn’t contain any cyanide.”

Just the thought of the long, dusty drive back to town was already making me groggy. “Great. I can use the caffeine.”

Brian handed me a cup and settled back in his chair, crossing his feet on top of his desk. His office was spotless. Stacks of paper were neatly organized in front of him. An In/Out box held little correspondence, unlike my own, which was overflowing with letters I had yet to look at. I glanced around for the obligatory photos of a wife and multiple offspring, but none was to be found. In fact, nothing of a personal nature was in sight. No knickknacks, no diplomas, no funny coffee mugs. It was an office that anyone could have stepped into and claimed as their own.

Brian sat with his hands folded over a stomach that was as flat as a washboard. He seemed to be carefully watching me.

“Why Nevada?” he asked out of the blue.

“Just for a change of pace,” I replied, trying to remain as noncommittal as his surroundings.

“This is a rough place for a woman alone.” He shook his head. “You never know what you might come up against.”

“And how is that different from any place else?”

Brian smiled enigmatically and shrugged. “I’m originally from Virginia and I find that people out here are different. They’re not big on the federal government or those who try to uphold its laws. If I were a female in your position, I’d be scared.”

I studied the man in front of me, but his face gave nothing away. “Are you trying to tell me something or just frighten me away?”

A flush crept over his face. “Sorry. I’m just one of those guys who gets protective when they’re attracted to a woman. As one easterner to another, I don’t know how you’re finding it, but this is a pretty lonely place for a single guy.”

Looking at him, I found that hard to believe. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the out-of-control curls on top of my head and the fact that what little makeup I had on had probably slid off in the heat. I wondered how Cindy would look after a morning of digging around in the dirt.

“Do you happen to know a prospector just down the way from here by the name of Annie McCarthy?”

Brian took a sip of his coffee and raised an arm behind his head. I noticed there were no sweat marks on his shirt, while I felt as if I’d been dunked in a barrel of water.

“Never heard of her. But small-time prospectors are a dime a dozen out here. In fact, they’re the ones that are really hurting the land.”

“Funny. I’ve heard the same exact thing about mines like the Golden Shaft.” I raised the cup of coffee to my lips, making sure my arms remained tightly glued to my sides. “The thing about Annie McCarthy is that she was murdered. Is there any reason you can think of why someone would kill a down-and-out prospector in these parts?”

Brian focused his gaze on me, holding it for a moment. “Not unless her claims were of value. And if they were, believe me, I would have known about them.”

He stood up and studied the landscape outside, giving me a good view of his butt. I wistfully wished my own looked that tight.

“I’m telling you, Nevada just isn’t safe for a woman alone. At one point or another, you’re bound to run into trouble,” he warned.

I didn’t bother to tell him that trouble is something I have a tendency to look for. Without thinking about it, my hand drifted to the SIG-Sauer tucked into the back of my pants. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Brian turned back and softly smiled. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled, showing the first sign of an alluring physical imperfection. “I hope so. I’d like to see more of you.”

He walked me out to my Blazer and opened the car door. “Come back anytime for a visit.”

His hand touched mine, causing my pulse to race. I planned to take him up on his offer. But the next time, I’d know better than to inform anyone first

I picked up Nevada’s version of Chinese food on my way home—chow mein laced with jalapeño peppers—and ate my dinner straight out of its cardboard box. I’m a firm believer in the philosophy of takeout. If you live by yourself, why bother to cook? Taking it a step further, why dirty a dish if you don’t have to? I shoved the uneaten portion inside my refrigerator, where it joined the ranks of unidentifiable food, some of which had already turned green with age.

As I shut the refrigerator door, the ground suddenly began to shake beneath me, making me swear that I’d never slam it again. Dishes in the open cabinet above my sink came to life, clattering precariously toward the edge. A pair of dirty glasses shattered to the floor. Then I remembered that Nevada is earthquake country.

“Great. I could have moved to California if I’d wanted to deal with this,” I muttered, trying to remember just what one was supposed to do in a quake. It was either stand in a doorway or get under a bed, but I was too scared to remember which.

The trembling of the ground subsided before my own shaking did. I stood perfectly still, afraid that if I moved, my flimsy bungalow would come crashing down around me. But the quake had ended as quickly as it had begun—just one more experience to chalk up among my welcome wagon of greetings from Las Vegas.

I listened, sure that I would hear police sirens, the clanging of fire engines, or loudspeakers ordering an immediate evacuation of the area. But only silence filled the air.

I picked up the few shards of broken glass, then left the kitchen. I had put off checking my answering machine when I first arrived home, afraid that there would be no call from Santou. With the excitement of the earthquake over and nothing else to do, I wandered into my bedroom, where my heart leaped at the sight of two red dots blinking on the machine. I figured my chances were fifty-fifty.

Pressing the Playback button, I heard the upbeat voice of Duff Gaines, a reporter with the
Las Vegas Sun
.

“Hey, Porter. I hear a couple hundred tortoises were swiped from the conservation center. How about giving me a scoop on the story?”

I wondered who had blabbed the news to Gaines. I also cursed myself for ever having allowed my home number to be listed, so that people like Gaines could track me down.

Then Santou’s voice wrapped itself around me, as sensual and smooth as a velvet glove, setting every nerve ending in my body on fire.

“Hi there,
chère
. Just checking in to see how that honky-tonk town is treating you. Things are hoppin’ here. So don’t bother to call back; I’m working late shifts these days. Take care of yourself, Rachel, and I’ll speak to you soon.”

The click ending the call was as unwelcome as a splash of ice water, bringing me back to reality. I was left feeling lonelier than usual. The overwhelming urge to call Santou back bubbled up, but I repressed it. It was a toss-up as to which was worse: wondering if I might catch him at home or knowing he was out and torturing myself with visions of who he was with. I chose to check in with the answering machine at work before consigning myself to another evening of TV.

One message had been left, delivered in an angry voice that bristled at me over the wire. “This is Harley Rehrer. If you want to know where your damn tortoises are, it’s a no-brainer. The goddamn scumbucket environmentalists have been dumping them on my ranch for years. In my book, that makes the critters illegal trespassers and gives me the right to shoot the damn things on sight.”

Rehrer had slammed down his receiver, abruptly ending the message. It seemed as if everyone in the county was managing to find out about the tortoise theft, which left me wondering just what the hell Bill Holmes over at the conservation center was up to.

Harley Rehrer is a
legend in these parts. More than just a rancher, Harley is best known as the head of the local county supremacy movement, quaintly titled the Foundation for a Healthy Economy and Environment. The Foundation is made up of an angry group of miners, ranchers, and developers all hell-bent on one thing: wresting control of public land out of the federal government’s hands—their motto being “Take your rules and shove it.” The fact that federal grazing areas were now closed for three months every spring on account of the desert tortoise had brought the cauldron of resentment to a boil. I knew that dealing with Harley would be like stepping into an enormous, steaming cow patty in which, if I wasn’t careful, I could sink.