Cassie Dewell 01 - Badlands

by C. J. Box

  Argueta nodded, then chinned over Escobar’s shoulder. “It’s too fucking cold in this place, man. Human beings aren’t made to live in this kind of cold.”

  “Get a better coat.”

  “You know what I mean, man. This is brutal.”

  “Stay here and don’t bring the toolbox in until I signal you,” Escobar said, looking over his shoulder at the man camp office window. The labriego was still there behind the desk, but he’d switched his attention to a computer monitor and he was no longer looking out the window. “Let me go check this place out and make sure it will work for us.”

  * * *

  ESCOBAR TUGGED on the front door handle but it was locked.

  “Forget your keycard?” said the electronic voice of the labriego through a speaker grill.

  “I don’t have one. I wanted to see about renting a couple of rooms. Me and my buddy out there heard you can rent rooms for the night at these man camps.”

  “Hold on—I’ll buzz you in.”

  The lock clicked and Escobar tugged the door open. It felt good to be inside out of the cold. The door eased shut behind him.

  The labriego looked up from behind his desk in the office. There was a counter and a Plexiglas slider separating them. The labriego bounded up and opened the slider and extended a meaty hand. He was young, Escobar thought. Maybe midtwenties. He wore a gold wedding band on his finger.

  “Welcome to the Missouri Breaks Lodge,” the labriego said. “First of all, we don’t use the term ‘man camp’. That’s for some of the other places out there, I guess you’d say. I’m Phil.”

  Escobar nodded at the name badge on the labriego’s shirt, as if to acknowledge his name.

  “Nice pickup you’ve got there, mister. I’ve been looking to trade up myself and those Tundras have caught my eye. You like it?”

  “Sure.”

  “And that’s the full-sized CrewMax, right? Five point seven liter V-eight engine? Fully loaded?”

  Escobar nodded.

  “Cold out there, isn’t it?” Phil said with a chuckle. “We aren’t even in the worst of it yet. We consider this downright balmy. Wait until January when it never gets above freezing all day long, and it’s twenty below at night.”

  “Nice place,” Escobar said. He still had not unwrapped his scarf or unzipped his heavy jacket.

  “You bet it is,” Phil the labriego said. “We’ve got the cleanest, brightest, and best-run lodge in Bakken County here. When people think of man camps they think all kinds of things. But I can give you a short tour and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “What’s it cost a night?”

  “One-sixty per unit,” Phil said. “But that includes everything. Breakfast from three to nine, lunch from eleven to one, dinner from three thirty to nine. Since we’ve got guys coming and going on shifts twenty-four seven, we’re always open and available. Entry by keycard only, as you saw.”

  He went on to describe the massive lounge area with televisions and computers, the industrial self-serve laundry, the full-service kitchen, and the on-site convenience store.

  As the labriego swiped his keycard through a reader on the second set of doors, he said over his shoulder, “We’ve got eight hundred men in this facility right now and there’s no better lodging anywhere in the county. No one can get in without an authorized card, and we have absolutely zero tolerance when it comes to alcohol, drugs, or weapons.”

  “That’s good,” Escobar said, a few steps behind the labriego, who gestured to big open rooms on their left and right.

  “These are the the gear rooms,” he said. Escobar saw hundreds of sets of dirty and muddy outdoor clothing hanging from pegs with big dirty boots lining the floor. “Every man entering the facility has to change into clean clothing here and put on a pair of plastic booties to go down the hallways.”

  The labriego paused and looked at Escobar expectantly. At first, Escobar didn’t understand.

  “Even you,” the labriego said with a smug grin.

  While Escobar slid orange-tinted plastic coverings over his lizard-skin cowboy boots, the labriego said, “You can take that big coat off, you know. It’s very comfortable inside. We keep the interior at a set seventy degrees in the winter and sixty-eight in the summer. Each unit has its own temperature controls inside.”

  Escobar grunted, but he didn’t remove the scarf or his coat.

  The labriego toured Escobar through the huge dining hall, and explained that the food was so good sometimes locals drove out just to eat it. He said the lodging company brought in chefs from all over the country to make special meals on special nights. Men with food allergies just had to fill out a form and get a doctor’s slip and they’d be fed special meals.

  The labriego showed Escobar a standard unit, which he called a Jack and Jill room: a small, spare room with a television, small desk, double bed, and closet. The Jack room had a side door that opened into a shared bathroom with a shower. The Jill room, which was identical in layout, was on the other side of the bathroom door.

  “Some of the guys hot bunk it,” the labriego said, “They occupy the same room but switch on different shifts. That means we can go up to four guys in a Jack and Jill.

  “Here’s our only open VIP room,” the labriego said, opening the door to a larger unit that included a personal bathroom, a larger bed, a microwave oven, and a refrigerator. “When the company execs come up from Texas or Oklahoma, they like to stay in these.”

  “Nice.” Escobar thought, This is like a fucking spaceship—entirely self-contained.

  “So,” the labriego said, “Do you want to fill out the paperwork? We take cash and company credit cards if they’re on our approved list, but sorry, no checks.”

  “I’ve got cash.”

  “Then follow me and we’ll get you checked in.”

  The labriego strode back down the hallway toward the office. He said, “I noticed your California plates. I guess the economy is pretty bad out there, huh? I heard something like twenty percent unemployment.”

  Escobar had no idea. He knew no one with a traditional job.

  “I’ve never been out to the Golden State,” the labriego said. “I can’t even imagine living someplace where they never have winter. I’m from Minnesota originally—a farm outside of Bemidji.”

  Escobar smiled at that. Labriego, all right.

  He continued, “My wife and kid are still there, but I’ll move them out by next spring. So this cold weather doesn’t bother me at all. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “So no kids?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The labriego laughed uncomfortably. He said, “Being from sunny California—all those bikinis and surfboards—you guys are in for a culture shock.”

  Escobar nodded.

  “So, what brings you two out here? Who are you working for, or are you looking?”

  “Looking,” Escobar said.

  “Well, this is a good place to make contacts. It’s pretty rare that an able-bodied guy who can pass a drug test doesn’t hook up with one of the big boys within a day or two. I assume you can pass a drug test?” he asked while cocking an eyebrow.

  “Of course.”

  The labriego was a chatterer, Escobar thought. He looked around the entryway and the office. It was as clean and stark as a hospital. A closed-circuit camera was mounted over a set of glass doors that led to a long hallway. Inside the office was a bank of closed-circuit television monitors with divided black-and-white images of the parking lot from four angles, empty hallways within the complex, a closed dining area where the only movement was a man with a mop, what looked like a game room, and several exterior views. A mass of cables snaked behind the monitors to an Apple server.

  Escobar said, “You got cameras everywhere?”

  “Yes, sir. We keep this place as secure as possible.”

  “So everything we did—everything you just showed me—was recorded?”

  “Absolutely. That way if a room get
s broken into or one of our guest’s property comes up missing we can go back and pinpoint the bad guy for the police. We’ve got top-of-the-line video technology,” Phil said. He swiveled in his chair and toggled a switch and a camera zoomed in on Escobar’s eyes. The image filled one of the monitors.

  “Amazing, huh?”

  Escobar looked at his own eyes looking back in the monitor. He narrowed them.

  “Isn’t that scarf getting hot?” Phil laughed.

  It was, but Escobar said, “No.”

  The labriego shrugged and said, “We see more and more of you California guys around here these days. There’s even a few on this floor. Hell, you might even know ’em.”

  Escobar thought, Idiota labriego. But he said, “Maybe.”

  “So there’s only one way in and one way out?” Escobar asked.

  “Yes, sir. That’s for security.”

  “Can I bring my tools inside?”

  “You can leave them in the storage area we saw. It’s completely secure and we’ve never had a theft.”

  “More cameras?”

  “Absolutely. Like I said, this lodge is the cream of the crop. Believe me, there are places where they let guys just come and go at all hours and bring in alcohol and prostitutes. The local cops are called there all the time. In fact, you probably saw that place out on the highway called the Home Away from Home. That’s as low-rent as it gets.”

  Escobar nodded as he followed the labriego through the doors into the lobby area.

  “I’ll get the forms if you want to call your buddy in. Is he from California, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name, anyway? We like to be on a first-name basis with our residents.”

  “Fidel.”

  The labriego snorted a laugh. “Like Castro? Man, I bet you got a lot of ribbing in school. The guys used to call me Phillips-head Screwdriver.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “You know how kids are.”

  “Do you want to see my Tundra?” Escobar asked.

  The labriego paused. He said, “I’m not supposed to leave the facility…” but he said it in a way that indicated he was willing to break the rules. “Okay. I want to see that outfit.”

  * * *

  ESCOBAR LED him out across the parking lot. He made it a point not to look at any of the cameras directly. The labriego followed, still chattering, something about playing ice hockey on a pond when he was younger, while he pulled on a thick company parka.

  As they neared the Tundra, Argueta saw them coming and looked at Escobar with a puzzled face through the back window.

  Subtly, Escobar lifted his right hand and adjusted the scarf around his neck. Argueta nodded in understanding.

  “It’s easy to find, isn’t it?” The labriego laughed. “It’s the only clean pickup in the whole damned place. Man, if I had an outfit like this I’d keep it looking good myself. I read where the base price is forty-two thousand, before loading it up. Is that right?”

  “It’s right,” Escobar said as Argueta opened the passenger door.

  “Premium audio, navigation—the whole nine yards?”

  “The whole nine yards,” Escobar said as he stepped back. Argueta came out of the truck and flipped a machete through the air.

  Escobar caught it by the handle in midflight and took two steps forward and swung it like a baseball bat and buried the blade so far into the labriego’s throat under his chin that it hit his neck bone at the back.

  * * *

  AFTER THEY’D thrown the body of the labriego into the back of the pickup along with the Apple server from the office and cruised out of the lot, Escobar said, “We’ll dump him and go back to the truck wash.”

  After a long silence, Argueta said, “Why did we do that?”

  “Too many cameras. And the labriego—he talked too much.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No.”

  “Where are we going to stay until we find the other guy?”

  Escobar gestured toward the flickering HOME AWAY FROM HOME CAMP sign across the highway from the truck plaza. He said, “There.”

  “Why there?”

  “The farmhand in back recommended it.”

  DAY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WAS uncomfortably warm inside the briefing room of the law enforcement center at 7:30 A.M. the next morning, Cassie thought. The room was packed with jostling sheriff’s department deputies as well as representatives from the Grimstad Police Department, the highway patrol, and the Northwest Drug Enforcement Task Force. The warmth of the room contrasted visibly with the cold outside the windows which dripped with condensation and puddled on the sills. Through the fogged glass, poker chip–sized snowflakes floated through the predawn to the icy street three floors below.

  Cassie stood uncomfortably in the back of the room behind the last row of chairs. It was obvious to her when she entered that the men inside had certain chairs they sat in every day within certain groups, and she didn’t want to encroach on anyone’s territory and be thought pushy on her first morning on the job. Several other men, two in sport coats and ties—no doubt the federal drug guys—stood in back as well, as if signaling they were participating in the briefing at arms length.

  The room smelled of freshly shaved and showered men and brought-in hot coffee going on day shift, and lingering cigarette smoke from the fabric of some of the uniforms ending their midnight shift. It was the one time in the day when everyone could be there. Deputies stole glances at her in the back and when they did she nodded in acknowledgment. She’d been in these situations before.

  At the front of the room was a podium occupied by Undersheriff Max Maxfield, whom Cassie identified from his name badge. Maxfield reviewed a three-ring binder before him. Sheriff Kirkbride was on his left leaning back in an office chair. He looked affable and slightly bemused. Kirkbride sipped on a mug of coffee and joked with his employees, chiding them for one thing or other. When she’d entered the room he smiled at her.

  To Maxfield’s right was a middle-aged woman at a small desk. She was tiny, pert, and had a severe black haircut. She wore a dark suit. She was the only other woman in the room, and she and Cassie nodded to each other with a kind of silent kinship. She was Judy Banister, Cassie guessed, Kirkbride’s office administrator. Cassie had communicated with Banister previously on employment details. Banister had at one point said, “It’ll be nice to have another female in the building.” Cassie, though, reserved judgment on that. She’d found that in too many situations, a lone woman could be the most territorial of all.

  Most of the forty-plus deputies in the room fit a certain type, Cassie noted. Generally, they were fresh-faced, eager-looking, and young. She recalled Kirkbride saying that when he first became sheriff the department had six deputies.

  What was unusual—for Cassie—was the impression of camaraderie she got from interactions of people in the room. Unlike full-staff briefings she’d experienced countless times back in Helena that were charged with resentment and ill feelings, this group seemed to be bubbling with a shared sense of purpose and high morale. She’d never been in the middle of a unit of well-trained soldiers or a close-knit football team, but she thought it must be something like what she was observing. And she knew that the atmosphere of an organization was set at the top, whether for good or ill. Sheriff Tubman in Montana ruled by fear, dirty politics, and innuendo and his people resented it. Kirkbride, in contrast, created an atmosphere of energy and professionalism.

  It was a good first impression.

  The exception were two older men sitting together in the back row who, she guessed, had been around for a while. They had that old cop I’ve-seen-everything weariness in their eyes. She wondered if they resented all the young, gung ho deputies in their midst.

  She’d been up most of the night too wired to sleep, and she’d read and reread the files and case reports Kirkbride had given her. There were three men she wanted to identify right away: C
am Tollefsen, who was the first on the scene of the rollover, Lance Foster who was second, and Ian Davis, the department’s only undercover operative. She guessed that one of the old guys in the back row was Tollefsen because the incident report was written in a terse, cover-your-ass style that was perfected only through years of law-enforcement experience and countless court appearances in front of aggressive defense attorneys. Davis was easy to pick out because he was the only young deputy with a scruffy beard, long hair, and street clothes. Lance Foster, though, could be anyone in the room.

  “Before we get started,” Kirkbride said, rising from his chair and pausing until he had everyone’s attention, “I want to introduce everybody to our new Chief Investigator Cassandra Dewell.”

  With that, every head in the room swiveled toward her. She tried to smile but she was afraid it came across as a grimace.

  “Investigator Dewell comes to us from the Lewis and Clark Sheriff’s Department in Helena, Montana,” Kirkbride said. “A few of you might have come across her name before if you read anything about the Lizard King case a while back. She’s the one who broke up the kidnapping and sexual abuse ring and she had a shoot-out with a corrupt Montana state trooper. We’re just happy as hell to have her on our team.”

  The Lizard Kind reference got the attention of several of the deputies, who immediately whispered to their colleagues around them. She knew she was blushing now, and she could feel her neck get hot. Especially when most of the men in the room applauded.

  She said, “I’m happy to be on your team, Sheriff, and I look forward to working with all of you.”

  She didn’t think she was expected to go on, and she didn’t.

  Kirkbride asked all the personnel in the room to briefly introduce themselves to her, even though, he said, “You probably all look alike to her right now—like the bunch of square-headed Midwestern boys you are,” which was true and also brought a laugh.