He laughed. “Good luck with that.”
Alone and bereft, I hung up the phone and studied the surface of my desk, the front page of this week’s Durant Courant tempting me to open it up and read Charley Lee Stillwater’s obituary. “What’d you do, Charley Lee, rob a South American bank?”
Vic appeared in the doorway. “Hey, the transport guys are here, and there’s a lot of banging coming from down in the jail and every time I ask Sancho about it, he just laughs and says to ask you.”
“Tell him to go see if Gibson’s got his clothes back on yet.”
“He took his clothes off?”
“Yep, and then he oiled up like he was competing in a greased pig contest.”
“Oh, boy.”
Standing, I followed her into the main office where two fidgety men in uniforms and ball caps were standing in front of Ruby’s desk. The older one with the ubiquitous cop mustache stuck out a hand. “Rick Pritchard, Security Prisoner Services.” I took the sweaty hand, and he gestured to the other man. “Jim Brewer, second-in-command.”
“Nice to meet you. You have your paperwork?” Ruby handed it to me, and I studied the transport-for-hire forms. “Where are you guys coming from?”
The younger one answered, his voice a little strained. “We’re on a loop out of Oakland and went as far as Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“Yeah.”
“In a van?”
The older one nodded. “But we had stops in Minneapolis, Bismarck, and Rapid City on the way back.”
I flipped through the papers, holding them and looking into his bloodshot eyes. “That’s at least twenty hours of driving.”
“Solid. So, if you could just sign those papers, we’ll get your prisoner loaded and be on our way.”
“You’ve been driving for twenty hours and are planning on driving another seventeen once you get my prisoner loaded?”
The older one volunteered. “Hotel rooms are out of pocket, so we like to just keep moving.” He pointed at the papers I held. “If you don’t mind . . .”
“How many prisoners do you have on board?”
“Eight, not including yours.”
Handing the forms back to Ruby, I turned toward the two men. “I want to see them.”
Confused, they both looked at me. “The prisoners?”
“Yep.”
“Look, with all due respect, we don’t have time for all this, really.”
I faced him squarely and changed my tone. “You’re in my county, and without any disrespect, I’ve asked to see your prisoners. Are you refusing?” I stepped in a little, making a point of looking very closely at their dilated pupils and flushed faces. “Because if you are, the first thing I’m going to do is arrest you and get a blood sample to see what you’re on. I’m guessing some kind of amphetamine?”
They looked at each other, and the older one stammered. “We’ve just been drinking a lot of coffee, Sheriff.”
“Let me see your prisoners.”
They looked at each other again and then turned and started out as I followed, meeting Saizarbitoria on the landing as he came up from the jail. “He’s got his clothes back on and appears to have lost some of his fight.”
“Good, follow us.”
We continued out the door to where a large van with a utility box sat in the parking lot, the only windows in the cargo area, small and up high. Pritchard unlocked the back doors and swung them open to reveal a set of metal cage doors with ventilation holes drilled into them.
Leaning forward, I could see that a Plexiglas blockade divided the inside, with two women sitting on one row of plastic seats and four men on the other. There was trash on the floor and the smell was horrible.
“When is the last time these prisoners were out of this van?”
He stared at me.
“When was the last time these prisoners were fed or allowed to use a toilet?”
He gestured toward the woman who sat closest, her head hanging down and her leg irons attached to the floor. “We picked her up in Rapid City, so she’s only been in here for four hours.”
“But at least one of these prisoners has been in here for seventeen?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer for that.
“Sir?” I peered into the darkness and could make out a middle-aged man in a hoodie and sweatpants seated next-to-last away from me on the men’s side. “The man sittin’ next to me was supposed to be gettin’ some kind of medication for diabetes but he hasn’t and he’s passed out and soiled himself somethin’ awful.”
I stepped back. “Get them out.”
Pritchard looked at me in disbelief. “What?”
“Get them out of there right now. We’ll put them in our jail till they can be fed and cleaned up, and we’ll take the other one over to the hospital to be looked at—you have his medication?”
The younger one, Brewer, nodded. “Um, yeah.” He disappeared around the corner, and I motioned for Saizarbitoria to follow as I confronted Pritchard. “Heard of the Jeanna’s Act?”
“Nope.”
“You’re gonna; it set a lot of guidelines for what you can and can’t do with prisoners in private transport situations.”
Saizarbitoria, holding a Ziploc bag, arrived with the younger man in tow. He handed it to me. “This was on the dash.”
I felt the warm bag. “Insulin—you know you’re supposed to keep this stuff cold, like in a cooler?”
Brewer looked at me and blinked as I turned to Sancho. “Call the EMTs and get them over here with some fresh insulin and then get Vic and we’ll start loading these people into our cells.”
Pritchard made the mistake of laying a hand on my arm. “Look, you can’t . . .”
I looked at the hand and then at him. “You have a medical emergency on your hands, not to mention the fact that you are in so many violations that it’s going to take a legal pad to list all of them. Now, what’s going to happen, is that you’re going to help my staff unload your van and we’re going to see to that man who is unconscious. Then you’re going to go get a room in a motel and get some sleep while we feed and bathe your prisoners and get them a night’s sleep before you head out tomorrow morning, and that’s only if I decide to not charge the two of you with criminal negligence.”
He stared at me.
I glanced at the hand on my arm. Again.
5
“Did you really threaten to beat him to death with his own arm?”
“Not a threat, really.” Trying to keep my foot out of Lola, the Cheyenne Nation’s pristine, Baltic Blue, 1959 Thunderbird convertible, I eased into Ten Sleep Canyon. “Actually, more of a promise.”
Rolling her arm over her seat, she turned and looked at the Bear, shouting to be heard over the rushing wind. “What are you going to do about this?”
Henry, awakened from his nap, withdrew his hand from Dog’s back, and lifted his Red Pony Bar & Grill cap, rubbing his eyes and looking at her. “What?”
“That’s about a half-dozen people he’s threatened to beat the shit out of in the last four months.”
“Has he acted on any of them?”
“Not yet.”
He pulled his cap back over his eyes, his long hair twirling around it as if it had a life of its own. “Then there is nothing to worry about.”
She pushed back against the passenger side door, kicked off her flip-flops, and rested her feet in my lap. “I think you got some anxiety repressed anger here.”
Negotiating the switchback in a spot I considered to be the most breathtaking in Wyoming, I glanced at her. “Look who’s talking.”
“Mine’s not repressed—I give it free expression.” She turned her head, adjusting her sunglasses, and lodged her fingers into the raven hair. “I like to think of myself as something of an anger performance artist.”
The Bear snorted from the back seat. “So, what happened to the prisoners?”
“The diabetes patient was revived and stabilized but will remain here until the next transport. The others were given showers, fed dinner, had a night’s sleep, breakfast, and then sent on their way with strict instructions to the attending security officers that they stop in Salt Lake City and Reno with documents of transference to be signed by the sheriffs in both locations or I’d be filing charges with the company.”
“You really do not like those services, do you?”
“When they’re run correctly, they’re fine, but when they’re not, they’re a horror.”
Henry nodded, and I watched in the rearview mirror as he looked off toward the fish hatchery below. “Mind if I ask why we are coming this way to go to Cody?”
“There’s an individual in Ten Sleep who knows this Count von Lehman who is something of an expert on fine art and antiquities.”
Vic lowered her sunglasses. “Count von Whosit?”
“Count von Lehman. Barbara Schuster over at the Brinton told me about him, says he’s something of an expert on this type of thing, and that I should have him look at the canvas to see what he thinks. I don’t know him, but there’s a guy over here in Ten Sleep who does.”
Henry leaned forward as we left the canyon and twisted our way into the small town that was lodged at its base on the west slope of the Bighorn Mountains. Ten Sleep is known for a number of things, but mostly for its unusual name that was derived from the belief that it was ten days travel from a number of destinations—it is supposedly ten days travel from either Fort Laramie to the southeast, the Yellowstone to the west, Old Sioux Camp on the site of what is now Casper to the east, or from north to a spot on the Clarks Fork River that is now Bridger, Montana. Whichever you choose, they are all ten days travel or ten sleeps—hence one of the best western titles this side of Meeteetse, Ten Sleep.
A rock-climbing mecca, the town is a curious place: part cowboy, part art and craft, and all bohemian. With only one gas station, a couple of motels, and the rodeo grounds anchoring the west edge of the village, it was easy to miss if you blinked, which we did as I edged toward the red rock cliffs just outside the small town.
“We aren’t stopping?”
“Ahead just a little.”
Making a right at the sign that read TEN SLEEP BREWING COMPANY TAP ROOM, I smiled as Vic sat up and announced, “I just want to go on record that in my experience this is the best investigation in which we’ve ever been involved.”
Pulling up beside an oversize tour bus, I parked the Thunderbird and took the keys from the switch, tossing them to the owner in the cavernous back seat. “You coming in?”
“No, I spend enough time in a drinking establishment.” Pulling his cap back over his face, he mumbled, “I will dog sit,” and laid his arm on the beast to settle him from being overly interested in the chickens that appeared in the side yard.
Vic climbed out on the other side, and we made our way up the gravel path to the large building. “It looks like a barn.”
“I think that’s how it started out.”
“You sure somebody’s here?”
“The guy I’m looking for is always here.” Swinging the door open, I allowed her to go first and watched as she walked past the large vats of beer fermenting in the front room to continue toward the bar.
Moving into the room, I took a left and walked between the sparkling, stainless steel containers of the mill—mash tun, kettle fermenter filter, and finally the serving tank—to where a pair of legs were sticking out, accompanied by metallic sounds of tinking and banging. “That’s an awful lot of beer to try to shotgun.”
He laughed, recognizing my voice. “What are you doing on this side of the mountain?”
“Oh, on our way west and thought I’d stop by—I’m looking for somebody.”
More tinks emanated from under the giant container, but after a moment his head kicked sideways, and I could see the bright blue eyes under the grungy bill of a ball cap. “Uh oh.”
“No, nothing like that. Have you ever heard of a Count Philippe von Lehman?”
He laughed. “He’s part owner of the brewery, if you count his bar tab.”
“Know where he lives?”
“Sure, he used to live out 434 toward the Red Reflet Ranch, but I heard he moved to Story, over on your side of the mountain. He do something wrong?”
“No, I have a piece of art I need to have looked at, and I thought he might be able to save me a trip to Cody.”
“If you can catch him. From what I understand, people fly him in and out on their private jets over in Sheridan.”
“To do what?”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t say. Hey, give me two minutes, and I’ll be out from under here.”
“Meet you in the bar.”
“Sounds good.”
Vic was behind the counter, pulling a handle and filling a glass as I entered. “Starting early?”
“Sun’s over the yardarm somewhere.” She plucked another mug from the bar back. “What’s your pleasure?”
“A small speed goat.”
She looked through the handles, finally settling on one and expertly filled the tipped mug, not allowing the foam to inundate. “What’s a speed goat?”
“Wyoming slang for antelope.”
She shook her head. “Here, drink your beer.”
Leaning against the counter, we sipped as the general manager entered, wiping his hands on a rag. I gestured toward the young man. “Vic, meet Justin Smith.”
He finished wiping his hand and stuck it out to her. “Don’t worry, it’s just beer.”
My undersheriff lowered her mug and shook. “Really good beer.”
“Thanks, I made it from scratch.”
I nodded toward the bus out front. “Somebody sleep over?”
“Jalan Crossland and his band. The fire department had a tap-takeover fundraiser last night and things kind of got out of hand.”
Vic raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why does the fire department need a fundraiser?”
“It burned down.”
“Oh.”
Justin glanced at his wristwatch and then out at the silent bus. “They’ve got a gig over in Salt Lake tonight, so I guess I’ll go out there and bang on the side or they aren’t going to make it.”
“So, you know this Count von Lehman?”
He nodded. “He used to be a regular, and then when he moved over to Story, he had this big bash and asked me to run about a thousand gallons of beer over there.”
“Can we find the Count’s place pretty easy?”
“Yeah, it’s a castle. No kidding, he had the thing shipped over. It’s smaller than a real castle, but not by much.”
“He owns a castle but can’t pay his bar tab?”
“Oh, he rolls in here every couple of months, and I remind him, and he writes a check. He’s good for it, just forgetful.”
I took another sip of my beer. “So, he lives in Story now?”
“Big Horn and Bozeman before that, and Boston, Cambridge, Rheims, Zurich, and a bunch of other places too, but don’t ask him to find his car keys.”
“Think we can just go out to his place and knock on the door?”
“You can, but like I said, I’m not so sure he’s there. I do happen to know where he’ll be tonight though. Big fundraiser for the museum over in Cody, and he’s providing some art for the auction, so I’d imagine he’ll be there if you really want to track him down—I can call and get you tickets.” Justin glanced at his watch. “And I’ve got to go beat on a bus.”
* * *
—
After a brief pizza stop at the Burlington Place, we pulled into Cody in the afternoon, and I saw no reason to put off going over to the museum. Vic was asleep in the back
with Dog, and Henry had taken her place in the passenger seat as we eased through town, busy with tourists headed for Yellowstone National Park to the west.
“Business or pleasure?”
I shrugged. “Business, I guess. I didn’t happen to bring any fancy duds for a museum fundraiser, did you?”
“I always have fancy duds, as you call them, in the trunk for just such occasions.”
“Of course you do.” Wheeling in the parking lot beside the teepees, I drove along the lanes looking for a spot, finally finding some shade for the VIPs in the back. “Just leave them here.”
“God help anyone who bothers them.”
Concurring, I walked around the back, opened the cavernous trunk, and slipped out my files and the protected covering containing the canvas that was lying on top of the suitcases before handing the Cheyenne Nation his keys. “Let’s go.”
I went over to the security desk and asked for Mary Robinson while watching the holograph of William F. Cody talking to the tourists in the lobby. “If he were alive, what do you think he’d think about all this?”
The Bear smiled. “He was a showman—he would have loved it.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I may go over to the Plains Indian section and walk around while you are doing this, if you do not mind—see if I can spot any family artifacts.”
I nodded, and he disappeared as I walked toward the center of the lobby where a ’63, split-window Corvette sat, gleaming red and bulging horsepower, which was being raffled off for the Patrons’ Ball in September.
“You should buy some tickets; you’d look good in that thing.”
I turned to find the chief of staff of the McCracken Research Library, a tall, silver-haired, handsome woman who oozed competence. “I’m not so sure I could fit.”
She studied me and smiled. “You might be right, next year we’ll auction off a forklift. How have you been, Walt?”
“Good.” I gestured with the padded sleeve under my arm. “A little out of my depth with this stuff.”
“Follow me.”
Walking through the entrance and past a massive grizzly bear mount ravaging a life-size diorama, we took the stairs into the semi-bowels of the building and continued straight ahead toward the research library portion of the museum.
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