“I hate it when something like this happens in my county.” The young sheriff shook his head. “A smash and grab.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Jack, it’ll turn up.” I nudged his shoulder. “Hey, how come you weren’t at this shindig?”
“Too many old girlfriends at this thing, and I don’t need that kind of drama in my life.” He nodded and started off toward the stairs as we followed. “How long are you folks in town?”
“We head out tomorrow.” I glanced back at Henry. “Heading home by way of where?”
“Billings.” The Bear nodded. “Montana Girls Basketball Three-on-Three state championship.”
Jack studied the two of us and then dropped his head. “Interesting.”
We shook. “Let me know if anything pops up.”
“Will do.”
We watched him hurry off and entered the museum at large, where the hologram of Buffalo Bill continued to speak to the empty hall. Vic stopped and stared at the apparition. “Maybe he did it.”
“Bill Cody?” The Bear gave it some thought and then shook his head.
Vic looked at him. “What?”
“A couple of weeks after the Battle of the Greasy Grass or the Little Bighorn, as the white populace called it . . .” Henry cocked his head as the hologram attempted to interrupt. “Cody rejoined the Fifth Cavalry still wearing his red fireman’s shirt and velvet pants with jingle bells attached, which was ridiculed as being a preposterous outfit for a scout whose number one resource, by the way, was stealth. Anyway, Cody encountered a group of seven Cheyenne warriors, at which point he shot a young tribesman, Hey-o-wei, in the leg. Both men fired at each other, and the young warrior was killed. Cody then walked over, scalped his opponent, and proclaimed, “The first scalp for Custer.”
“What, he was a buddy of Custer’s?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” The Cheyenne Nation sighed. “Anyway, Cody sent the scalp home, where his wife opened the package expecting a gift and fainted dead away.”
“Yuck.”
“He immediately returned to the stages of the east where he reenacted the battle. As the run continued, the duel became more fantastic. Cody would end the show by holding the bloody relic aloft to the admiring throngs.”
“I bet Philadelphia audiences loved that—you should see a Flyers game sometime.” She yawned. “So, what happened to the scalp?”
“It is here at the museum, somewhere.”
Henry glanced up at the hologram, which for once wasn’t talking. “All is fair in love and show business.”
* * *
—
Dog had not eaten the room but had made a sloppy mess when drinking from the toilet, which Vic reported on from behind the closed door. “Your dog had a water fight of epic scale in here.”
“Sorry. I’m going to take him for a walk.” I found the leash in my duffel, snapped the link onto his collar, and led him out, making sure I had the key to the room in my pocket. I walked us down the steps, turned the corner at the bar, and was surprised to see Count von Lehman entertaining a half-dozen revelers who obviously weren’t quite ready to give up the night.
Circling around the stairway, I exited the hotel from the side entrance and walked to my right, noticing the missing newsstand and magazine shop that used to be there.
“Need some air?” Katrina Dejean, the blonde from the auction, lowered her head and peered out the passenger window of a silver Mercedes sedan gleaming in the partial moonlight of the velvety night. “Or just walking your grizzly bear?”
Stopping, I turned, and Dog ambled over and stuck his head in her window. Pulling his head back out, I apologized. “Sorry, I left him in the room while we were at the auction, and I think he got lonely.”
She smiled. “Want a lift?”
“No, thank you. We’ll just circle the block and then go back. I saw the count was entertaining in the bar.”
“Yes, but I’ve heard all those stories before. How did it go with your painting?”
“It was stolen.”
She stared at me and slipped the car into park. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. While we were at the auction someone forcibly took it from the conservation area in the basement.”
“Forcibly?”
“The conservator was hurt.”
“Badly?”
“No, I think just her pride.”
“But someone has your painting.”
“Well, it’s not really mine . . .”
“You should talk to Philippe about this.”
“Why?”
“Hmm, how can I put it . . . especially to an officer of the law.” She opened the door and got out, came around, and, leaning on her car, continued the conversation. “People who have questionable works sometimes see the count—he, um, has a somewhat malleable ethic concerning the ownership of art.”
“He’s a fence.”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “He has a habit of going from A to D by accidentally discovering C while forgetting B altogether.”
“All right, now I have to ask—how did you two meet?”
“Nonconformist, unofficial art.”
“Is that a major?”
“In Russia, yes.” She folded her arms, covering the skin that was exposed by her dress to the cool of night. “Terms that were applied to certain artists in the period from Stalin to glasnost when, if their works were deemed as being dissident, they were likely to be shipped off to mental asylums or gulags.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“These artists constituted small, very insular groups who specialized in more modern styles that the government did not approve of, so they had to sell their wares on the black market. Unfortunately, there was little money being paid until Philippe arrived on the scene in the sixties.” She shook her head. “He had all the charm of an unmade bed, but he could make his way around Kiev, Odessa, Moscow, and Saint Petersburg with hardly any trouble at all. By the time I met him he had a catalog of more than one thousand pieces of art.”
“How did he get the stuff out of Russia?”
“Any way he could, stuffing them in the linings of his suitcases, down the legs of his trousers, and in the liners of his hats. Have you been to his home in Story?”
“No.”
“It’s amazing and horrifying all the same. I mean if the art had been left in the Soviet Union, it would have most certainly been destroyed.”
“So he sells it?”
“A little at a time, and surprisingly back to Russians—oligarchs who are attempting to retrieve pieces from their national past.”
“And these people come to him with other works of art.”
“Yes, he knows the buyers.” She turned and moved back toward the driver’s side of her car and opened the door. “Let’s go to the hotel, and we’ll talk with him.”
“All right. Dog and I will meet you in the bar.”
* * *
—
Katrina met me at the entrance where we’d exited, her car parked at the curb. “C’mon.”
I followed as Dog took in the surroundings: a little more upper class but a lot less comfortable when compared with our usual haunts back at the Red Pony. Count von Lehman was still there, and the numbers of the faithful had diminished only a little, leaving him, Conrad Westin, four other couples, and a very large man, who pocketed his cell phone and stood as we arrived. “I help you?”
Katrina motioned for the big guy to sit, but he ignored her and stepped between the count and us. Spotting the bulge in his suit jacket, I stopped, and Dog immediately growled.
“Serge, don’t be tiresome.” Katrina stepped around him and sat next to the count.
He was massive, certainly clocking in at over three hundred pounds, a power lifter kind of gone to seed, and his accent was thick although his voice was surpr
isingly high and fluttered through a very Rasputin-like beard. “Serge Boshirov?”
Staring at me, his small eyes looking a little unsettled. “I know you?”
“Depends.” I smiled. “Are you armed?”
He smiled back. “Depends.”
I think both Dog and I cocked our heads at that. “This is an establishment licensed to serve alcohol, and firearms aren’t permitted.”
He flexed his shoulders and chest, and I guessed his age to be somewhere around forty, forty-five. “Permitted and allowed are two different things, my friend.”
“We’ll see after I call over to the bartender, and he alerts my buddies over at the Park County Sheriff’s Department.”
He spread his hands. “We have barely met, and you already call for the backup?”
Katrina barked at the count. “Philippe, call off your eunuch.”
After a moment, Lehman smiled. “Serge, sit down, or I’ll put you on a leash like he does his dog.”
I shook my head. “No, either the gun goes or he does.”
The bodyguard didn’t move.
“Serge, go.”
He turned to look at the count but then did as he said and began to move toward us. But when Dog curled his lip, revealing some daggerlike ivories accompanied by a rumble that increased in his chest, Serge diverted to the other side, giving us the hard eye the entire way.
Frankly, I was relieved, because if he’d tripped and fallen on us he probably would’ve killed us. I sat, and Dog buried his head in Katrina’s lap.
Conrad ran a hand through his blond locks. “I see he’s friendly.”
“Overly.” I glanced around. “Actually, he’s probably not supposed to be in here either, so Serge could’ve called it a draw.” I stuck a hand out to the nearest couple, who looked a little uncomfortable. “Walt Longmire.”
They relaxed a bit, the bald man indicating his companion. “Nadia, my girlfriend. I’m Klavdii Krovopuskov . . . nice to meet you.”
I extended a hand to another couple. “Nice to meet you.”
The tallish man, who was embellished with an extravagant mustache, nodded. “Patrick Monahan, and this is my wife, Monica.”
I looked at the rest of the people—two blondes, a smaller man with thick glasses, and another man who looked as if he were ready to nod off at any instant. Giving a general wave, I smiled. “Hello, everyone.”
The bald man leaned forward, cocking his head slightly and smiling, his Van Dyke to the side. “Philippe tells us you are a sheriff?”
I nodded. “Absaroka County, here in Wyoming.”
“So, you are a real cowboy?”
Conrad laughed. “Define real.”
Ignoring Westin, the bald man laughed, and he had perfect teeth. “You have the hat and gun, so you must be a real cowboy.”
“Not necessarily, there isn’t a cowboy I know who wouldn’t take a rope over a gun any day.”
“You can make a living with a rope?”
“Sure, you can hang people.” Conrad settled into his chair with a smug look.
I also ignored Westin and continued. “A rope and a horse, yep.”
“But surely, you can make a living with a gun also.”
His friend leaned in and touched his arm. “Kiki . . .”
He shrugged. “Eh, we drop the guns for now . . . Which is more important, the rope or the horse?”
“Well, you’re talking to a rancher’s son, so I’d say the horse—you can work with a horse, and you can travel with one, and besides, they’re good company.”
Conrad once again studied me. “And you can eat them.”
I made a face, just to let him know my feelings on the subject. “There have been instances, but most cowboys I know would rather eat their boots than their horse.”
Kiki nodded. “Have you ever heard of the Tuva Cup, Sheriff? Tuva is a small province in Russia, Buddhist by nature, Turkic by language . . .”
“More Mongolian then?”
“Exactly, but they have a national race every five years, and it is spectacular.” His companion, Nadia, touched his arm again, and he turned to look at her in annoyance. “What?”
“The plane, it leaves in an hour.”
“It is my plane, it leaves when I say it leaves.” Turning back to me, he continued. “In this fabulous race, they travel over a hundred miles a day . . .” She touched his arm once more, and he lowered his head, speaking quietly yet distinctively. “Do not touch me again.”
She very carefully pulled her hand away.
He raised his head and sighed, looking around the table. “I am afraid that we must leave.” He stood and extended his hand to me. “It was wonderful meeting you, Sheriff.” He turned and clasped the count’s hand in both of his. “Philippe, it has been glorious, and do remember what I said about that business we discussed.”
“My pleasure, Kiki.”
He turned to Conrad as the young man made to follow him. “You will assist the count in looking out for my interests?”
“Of course.” He looked disappointed but then nodded and sat again.
The remainder of the group stood and followed him out the door onto the main street, but Krovopuskov paused before letting it close and studied me for a moment before disappearing.
“An interesting man.”
The count turned to look at me and then laughed. “You could say that.”
I motioned to the bartender who’d been studiously ignoring us, probably in hopes that we’d get out of there. As he approached, he looked down at Dog but said nothing. “Can I help you, sir?”
I gestured toward Katrina.
“Vodka tonic.”
I looked at Westin, but he shook his head.
“And you, sir?”
“Got any Rainier?”
“Yes, sir.” He didn’t look very happy about it but headed back for the bar as I turned to the dwindling party and Dog sat.
“Someone stole your painting?”
“Boy, word travels fast in the art world.”
He leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair, which did nothing to straighten it, actually making it look even more like a small gray bonfire on top of his head. “The local constabulary was present, so I made some inquiries.”
Katrina took her drink as the bartender returned. “I told him you might be able to assist him.”
“Because I know all the art thieves?”
I sipped my beer. “Something like that.”
Conrad smiled and nodded toward Philippe. “How do you know he didn’t steal it?”
I shrugged, turning to look at the count. “He doesn’t seem like the type—he might take advantage, but I don’t think he’d take private property.”
The count turned to Katrina. “You’ve been telling stories out of school.” He sighed. “I am something of an opportunist, yes.” He shrugged and reached out for his glass. “It was stolen from the conservation room in the museum?”
“It was, and the conservationist was hit over the head to do it.”
He seemed genuinely concerned. “Is she all right?”
I studied him. “Yes.”
“Hmm . . . Then it is either someone intimate with the museum or someone who is desperate.”
“I’m leaning toward desperation.”
“Why?”
“As the local sheriff said, it just has a kind of smash-and-grab feel to it.”
“Well then, perhaps I will hear from them.” He set his wine back down. “Now, why would anybody be so desperate as to hurt someone over such a trivial thing?”
“As a Cassilly Adams study, what would you place as its value?”
“So, its validity was confirmed?”
“It was.”
He thought about it. “Oh, perhaps a few thousand.” He
looked at Dog and then me. “Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”
“No, but there is a million dollars tucked away in a dead man’s shoebox.”
He sat forward. “Oh my, this is getting interesting.”
“Now, as stated, I doubt the study itself is worth a million dollars—so where did the money come from?”
He lifted his glass of wine again and glanced at Katrina. “This individual had other resources?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Conrad’s voice was flat. “This individual, was he killed?”
“I’m still waiting to find out about that.”
Count von Lehman sat back in his chair. “So, your investigation has more to do with the million dollars than it does the stolen study?”
“Overall, but I don’t particularly care for people hitting people over the head and stealing things in my state.”
Conrad chortled and drummed his fingers on the table in indication that he was ready to leave. “Understandable, but who would do such a thing?”
The bartender approached in a lingering fashion, perhaps in hopes that we’d take the hint. “Would anybody like anything else? If not, I’ll be closing the bar.”
The count waved him away. “That’s fine, my good man.” He felt around in his pockets and then glanced at Katrina. “I seem to have left my wallet in my other pants, would you mind . . . ?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I have twelve dollars in my purse.”
“I’ll get this.”
He smiled at me. “Thank you so much, Sheriff. I’ll pay you back.”
“No problem.”
He inclined his head toward Katrina again. “Do you mind giving me a ride back to the hotel, dear?”
Before she responded to the count, she glanced at Conrad. “My hotel?”
“I’m embarrassed to say, but I really don’t have anywhere else to stay.”
Rolling her eyes, she stood and petted Dog and handed me a business card. “Here’s my contact information—do you have one?”
I sighed. “I think I do in a drawer at my office, somewhere.”
“Well, if we hear anything, I’m sure we’ll be able to track you down.”
“I’m sure.” Shaking hands with the count, I watched them exit out the front onto Sheridan Avenue and walk toward the corner.
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