by C. J. Box
Joe nodded that he understood.
Joe sat in his pickup outside the Federal Building and flipped through page after page of notes, rereading his shorthand and committing names, dates, and the players to memory. He shook his head and absently stared at his cell phone display. Marybeth had called twice but hadn’t left messages. Her single text read, “Is everything all right? Call when you’re able.”
She answered on the second ring. He could tell from the hush in her voice that she was working behind the desk at the library and couldn’t talk long.
“Joe—what’s going on?”
“It’s complicated,” he said. “I’m sorting it all out in my mind and it’ll take a while to get it straight. But I hope you’re sitting down.”
“I am. Just tell me one thing. Do you know who killed The Earl?”
“No,” Joe said. “But the list of people who wanted him dead just got real, real long. That’s if we can trust what this guy Orin Smith just told me.”
He filled her in and she listened without comment. When he was through, she said, “Earl was a real son-of-a-bitch, wasn’t he?”
“Seems like it. And if all this is true, everybody needs to rethink this whole trial.”
Marybeth said, “Do you think Dulcie will drop the charges?”
“I doubt it,” Joe said. “That would be too much to ask at this point. But she may want to ask for a delay in the trial so she can investigate this.”
“My mother . . .” Marybeth said with a sigh. “She’s going to be rewarded for her bad behavior. Again.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Joe said. “Nothing may work out like we think it will. For the time being, we need to let everyone know what Orin Smith claims. If you’ll call Marcus Hand and tell him what I found out, I’ll call Dulcie Schalk.”
Marybeth paused. “Why both sides?”
Joe said, “Because, don’t forget—I’m an officer of the law. I took an oath. I stretch it from time to time, but there’s no way we can’t inform both parties what we know.”
“Is it that?” Marybeth asked. “Or are you playing both sides against the middle?”
“Maybe a little of that, too,” Joe admitted.
“Are you on your way back home now?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Where are you going?”
“Believe it or not,” Joe said, “Orin Smith claimed he knew where I could find Bud Longbrake Sr.”
32
Laurie Talich pulled her Audi Q7 into the shaded lot of the dance studio in Oak Park, shifted into park so she could keep the motor running and the air on, raised her large sunglasses to the top of her hair, and turned in her seat to address her two girls. Melissa was twelve years old and Aimee ten. Both wore black leotards over pink tights and clutched their shoe bags. Melissa had dark hair and olive skin like her, and Aimee was fairer but had her father’s light cruel eyes, if not his temperament, thank God.
She said, “I’ll be back here in two hours. Don’t dawdle this time. I don’t know why it takes you two so long to change from your ballet shoes, but you need to hustle this time.”
Melissa said, “It’s Aimee.”
“Is not!”
“It’s Aimee,” Melissa said, nodding her heard.
“I don’t care whose fault it is. I don’t want to have to come in and get you this time. I’ll be right here.”
Aimee was in Contemporary Ballet I, and Melissa Contemporary Ballet II. Neither was very good yet, and neither had shown any passion for dance, although Laurie held out hope for Aimee.
“Can we go to McDonald’s for dinner?” Melissa asked.
“We’ll see,” Laurie said. It was always a hassle to drive home and start dinner after dance practice because the girls were starved and grouchy, so they usually went out. “It depends if you two hustle out here.”
Laurie valued the two hours she got to herself while her daughters were at dance. She usually drove to a coffee shop and knitted or read while keeping an eye on the clock.
“Tell her,” Melissa said, jabbing her little sister with a finger in the ribs.
“Ow! She’s hurting me!” Aimee cried out.
“I barely touched her,” Melissa said in defense.
“Girls!” Laurie said. “Go!”
The two unbuckled their seat belts as Melissa pushed the door open. Hot and humid air filled the Audi.
Laurie said, “Have a good practice, girls. Give me a kiss.”
Melissa did a drive-by kiss because she saw her friend Sarah getting out of her father’s car and she wanted to join her. Aimee kissed her mother good-bye, and said, “Melissa is the late one. She’s always talking.”
“Don’t tell on your sister,” Laurie said. “Now go. See you in two hours. And shut the door. You’re letting all the hot air in.”
She sat in the car to make sure both her girls went safely inside. It was a good neighborhood: leafy and prosperous. The children of the city’s elite families attended the same dance school, and it was hard to get in. She wished her girls were better dancers and would stand out, but . . .
She gasped when the passenger door opened suddenly and a tall and rangy man swung in beside her and slammed the door shut. She instinctively reached for her knitting bag, but the big man placed his hand over hers and said, “Don’t.”
Laurie was paralyzed with fear and she went for her door handle, but the man pressed the cold muzzle of a large handgun under her right arm. He said, “Don’t do that, either. Just drive.”
“My girls . . .”
“Are fine,” he said. His voice was deep and breathy and his eyes were slightly hooded. He was so calm it unnerved her. And he was familiar to her in a way she couldn’t place at first.
He said, “Drive. Take us to the park in front of the Navy Pier. It’ll take less than twenty minutes.”
“I know where it is.”
“Good. And don’t think about anything but driving safely and calmly, and about the fact that if you don’t, I’ll blow you away.”
He dug into her knitting bag and found the gun—a .38 Smith & Wesson Model 36 Lady Smith—while they drove past Columbus Park. He checked to see if it was loaded—it was—then snapped the cylinder home and slipped it into his waistband. He said, “You won’t be needing this.”
As she joined the flow of traffic on Dwight D. Eisenhower Expressway toward the lake and Navy Pier, he said, “Do you know who I am now?”
“Yes.” She chanced a glance at him while she drove. “I thought you were blond.”
“I was,” Nate said. “Before I came out to find you.”
“How did you . . . make it?”
“I wasn’t there when your monkeys fired the rocket.”
She could feel his eyes on her, picking up every flinch, every twitch. She knew she’d reacted to what he said.
“My woman was there. Her name was Alisha.”
“My husband’s name was Chase.”
He was silent for several minutes. It made her more frightened than when he talked. But she found some comfort in the fact that he wanted to go to the pier. On a warm evening like tonight, she thought, there would be plenty of people around. It would be public. Someone might see them. Or maybe she’d have the chance to escape.
They approached the pier. He directed her toward the most remote parking lot. It was practically empty because it was the farthest away. She was dismayed to find that there weren’t many people around.
“Here,” Nate said.
She pulled into a space. Lake Michigan dominated the view of the windshield. The pier reached out into it on their right, and small waves lapped against the pilings. The city was behind them. She could see how simple it would be for him to shoot her in the car, leave her body, and just walk away. Maybe there were cameras—they were everywhere these days—but even if he was seen by them, she would still be dead. She thought about Melissa and Aimee, and pictured their faces when they came out of the studio looking for their ride to McDonald’
s. She couldn’t stop from tearing up.
She said, “How did you find me? How did you know about dance practice?”
“Wasn’t hard. Google,” he said. “Your name is all over it. You’re listed as a patron of the dance studio, and the hours and classes are posted. And there were a couple of newsletters listing the students in each class. Melissa and Aimee, right? I figured you’d be dropping them off or picking them up.”
She stared at him. “But how did you know it was me?”
He said, “I killed your husband, but it wasn’t personal. I didn’t even know who he was at the time. He was just a man who turned on me, holding a weapon that a minute before he’d been aiming at an injured girl we were tracking. I had no doubt that he would have finished her off. I didn’t think twice about it at the time and I’d do it all over again in the same circumstances.”
She shook her head. “Chase wouldn’t . . .”
“Of course he would,” he said. “Don’t be dumb. You know what kind of man he was and you’re not a stupid woman. You married him, after all.”
She tried to find the right words to establish some kind of connection with him so he might let her go. But he was inscrutable and impossible to understand. Kind of like Chase. She said, “Did you find Johnny and Drennen?”
“Yes,” Nate said. “I can find anybody.” And by the way he said it, she knew they were dead.
“They didn’t tell me about your wife,” she said. “They never mentioned there was anyone else down there.”
“That’s what happens when you work with amateurs.”
“Professionals are hard to find.”
“In Chicago?”
“I wasn’t in Chicago. You weren’t in Chicago. You were in Podunk, Wyoming.”
“Careful there,” he said. For the first time, she thought she saw a slight smile, an opening.
Then he shut it. “So it was an eye for an eye,” he said.
“My father . . . my father said revenge is a cleanser. I needed . . .” She searched for words and he let her search. “I needed to show myself I wouldn’t just take it. I wouldn’t just let someone take my husband away like that and there would be no consequences. And if the law wouldn’t or couldn’t do it, someone had to.”
He nodded as if he agreed. The gun was in his lap but still pointed at her, almost casually. He said, “But you understand that if you play at this level, the concept of mercy doesn’t exist. You do understand that?”
Her mouth was suddenly so dry she couldn’t speak. She clamped her hands between her thighs so they wouldn’t tremble. She’d done well, she thought, up to now. But she was losing it.
“My girls . . .” she said, her voice a croak.
“You should have thought of them before you went west,” Nate said. “That would have been a good time to think of consequences if you failed.”
“I know,” she said, and dropped her head. Tears fell from her eyes onto the inside lenses of her sunglasses and pooled there.
“There are people out there who want me gone,” Nate said. “They’ve sent a couple of professionals out over the years, but I put them down. And I thought I was off the map so far they’d never find me. But you did. A nice mom from Chicago. If it weren’t for what happened to Alisha, I could almost admire that.”
She began to weep deep down from her chest. She couldn’t help it and wished she could stop.
He said, “You obviously met someone in Wyoming who told you how to find me. And he or she probably helped you get your hands on a rocket launcher. I can’t imagine you can buy them on the street here as easily as I can buy a gun in Chicago.”
She said, “Yes. I met someone.”
Nate said, “What was the name?”
She told Nate, but said she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t feeding her a line. After all, she’d told everyone her name was Patsy.
He described the man’s physical features, and she agreed it was him. But it was hard to hear him through the roaring in her ears.
Finally, Nate said, “Keep your mouth shut. You never met me. This is over. We both lost our lovers. But always keep in mind that I found you and that I can find you again. This time, think of those two girls of yours.”
And with that, he was gone.
When she was recovered enough, she got out and stumbled toward the front of the car, not sure her legs had the strength to keep her upright. She pitched forward and caught herself on the hood and the metal was so hot it burned her palms. Despite the heat and the humidity and the sun, she felt a chill race through her.
She raised her head, looking for him. She wasn’t sure which direction he’d gone. The grassy hill between her and the city had a few couples on it sitting on blankets, oblivious to what had just happened. Or nearly happened.
Then she turned toward the pier itself. It was crowded with tourists, but one tall man with dark hair was among them. He paused at the railing, and she saw two objects drop and splash into the lake. The guns.
She looked at her watch. An hour before she needed to pick up the girls. Enough time for a drink, or maybe two. She needed them like she’d never needed a drink before.
Nate leaned against the railing on the pier away from the crowds. He didn’t throw the weapons into the water, but let the weapons drop out of his hands so his movements wouldn’t be obvious to anyone.
The name she’d given him had shocked him at first, but the more he thought about it the more sense it made. The dots connected.
He checked his watch. He had time to return the rental and catch a red-eye back to Jackson Hole, to his Jeep, to his .500.
He wasn’t through, after all.
33
Driving north on I-25 approaching Chugwater, Joe scrolled down through the call records on his cell phone, looking for a number from several weeks before when Dulcie Schalk had called him from her cell to ask questions about a poaching case. He highlighted the number and pushed SEND. She picked up on the third ring.
“Joe?” she asked, her surprise obvious.
“Since it’s after hours I didn’t know whether to call the office, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” he said.
“We’re neck deep in work, Joe,” she said. “Getting ready for opening arguments next week. I really don’t have much time right now, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure,” he said, “but there’s some new information you need to know. I’d never call otherwise.”
“So this is about the Alden case.” It was a statement, not a question, and she sounded disappointed in him.
“Yup.”
There was a heavy sigh. “Joe, you know the situation. You’re personally involved in this whole thing, and it’s inappropriate to contact me after hours to lobby for your side.”
Joe eased his pickup over to the shoulder of the highway and parked. The few lights of Chugwater were in his rearview mirror. To the west, three heavy-bodied clouds sat suspended over the bluffs of the horizon, their rose-colored bellies lit by the setting sun. When he turned the key off in the ignition, the sweet smell of desert sage filled the cab. “I’m not calling to lobby,” he said evenly, “and I don’t have a side.”
The tone of his voice seemed to jar her. She said, “But I thought . . .”
“I need you to listen to me for five minutes. If you think I’m lobbying you after that, I’ll hang up and wait for you to lose the trial. Is that the way you want to go here?”
“No,” she said, with a slight hesitation. “Okay, I’ve got five minutes.”
He filled her in on his conversation with Bob Lee and what Marybeth had found online about Rope the Wind, which had led him to Orin Smith.
“He’s in federal custody,” Joe said. “I interviewed him at the Federal Building in Cheyenne.”
“Under whose authority?” she bristled.
“Under mine,” he said. “But for the record, both the governor and the federal agent in charge knew I was there and what I was doing. In fact, the FBI listened in to the interview.”
/> He could tell by her silence that she had no foreknowledge of Orin Smith or his connection to Rope the Wind, and therefore Smith’s previous efforts to get a wind energy company started in Twelve Sleep County among the landowners. He wasn’t surprised, since the sheriff’s investigation had taken them no further than Missy. He hoped she wouldn’t get defensive and territorial and shut him down before he heard him out. Joe knew Schalk didn’t like surprises, and he’d seen how she bristled when others offered speculation with nothing to back them up. And like every county attorney Joe had ever worked with, she hated it when investigators struck out on their own.
She said, “This man, Orin Smith, he’s in federal custody? And I assume this testimony might help him out at sentencing? Why should I think he’s a credible witness?”
“Good point,” Joe said. “You have no reason to believe anything he says right now. He’s up for eleven counts of fraud, after all. I’m not sure I believe everything he told me. But please jot down what I relate to you and check him out on your own and make your own decision. And keep in mind Sheriff McLanahan wants a big simple win over a rich woman nobody likes. He’s never wanted to look any further than her, and he’s never focused on anybody else. Dulcie, neither have you.”
“Continue,” she said. Her tone was ice cold.
Joe said, “The other night, I heard Earl Alden described as a skimmer. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant at the time or why it would matter. But now I have a better idea.
“Alden was connected politically and professionally,” Joe said. “And that seems to be the way it works these days. Success has nothing to do with ideas or inventions or hard work. It’s about who you know and which politician may pick you to succeed. The Earl was a skimmer with no personal ideology. He gave big money to folks in both parties and made sure they knew it. That way he was always covered no matter who won. For The Earl it was like investing in research and development: He was never sure who would pay off. If there was an opportunity, he was right there with his hand out. And when it came to this big push for wind energy development, The Earl was right there ready to rock with the new administration in Washington and all their green initiatives.”