“Come right in and help yourself. You’ve been so busy lately I haven’t seen much of you.”
While drinking coffee and munching on one of Ned’s decadent hot cinnamon rolls, Books spent the next few minutes bringing him up to speed on the latest developments in the case.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re finally making some headway. I know you’ve been feeling frustrated,” said Hunsaker.
“Trying to get anybody to talk has really held us up. I used to think following a drug trail from street pusher to the major supplier was hard, but this has been even more difficult.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Hunsaker. “Often, the diggers don’t know, nor do they care, who the middleman is so long as they get paid, and they never ever meet the end buyer.”
“You mean the actual collector?”
“Well, yeah, that too, but you’re missing a link in the chain.”
“I’m confused,” said Books.
“It works like this. Somebody like Brett Gentry pays his diggers, and then he sells the relic to a middleman, who in turns sells the item to a wealthy collector.”
“So who exactly would the middleman be?” asked Books.
“Could be anybody in the art business—it might be a gallery owner, a museum curator, or even somebody in an auction house. Hell, a five-hundred-dollar pot sold in Utah or Arizona might bring several hundred thousand dollars when it’s resold to, say, an international collector. All I’m telling you is that the diggers don’t know who the middleman is, and they certainly never find out who the actual collector is.”
“But Brett Gentry will know?”
“Gentry won’t know who the end buyer is, but he has to know who the middleman is—that’s how he makes his money and moves the product along.”
“Hell, Ned, the BLM ought to hire you as a consultant for this antiquities business.”
“They don’t need me when they got people like Randy Maldonado around. From what I hear, he’s the foremost authority on the subject.”
Books stood up to leave. He placed his coffee cup and plate in the kitchen sink on his way out the door. “Thanks, Ned. Talking to you is always an education.”
“Don’t worry about things around here. I’ll keep my eyes peeled and if I see anything funny, I’ll call it in.
As Books stepped out the back door, he heard Hunsaker shout, “Keep your head down out there, son, and watch your back.”
Sound wisdom, thought Books.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Monday Morning—Day 11
When Books arrived at the office he found a voice message from Alexis Runyon, reminding him that effective immediately, he was back on patrol duty and would have to be available to respond to calls for service. If that happened, Sutter and Maldonado would have to find someone else to prepare the search warrant for Red Rock Touring as well as Brett Gentry’s home.
Books checked with dispatch and found there were no pending calls requiring him in the field immediately. If his luck held for a while longer, he’d have time to get the warrant ready. He would then turn the investigation over to Sutter, Maldonado, and the FBI.
It didn’t take long for Books to finish preparing the warrant. Lately, he had been getting plenty of practice. He called Sutter and Maldonado, but neither man answered. They were probably in the Monument directing the continuing search for Jimmy Buck. Phone reception in the Grand Staircase was always tenuous. Books left each of them a message explaining that the search warrant for Red Rock Touring and the Gentry home should be ready by noon, assuming he could get Judge Wilkins to approve it.
Just before noon, as Books sat outside the office of District Court Judge Homer Wilkins, Randy Maldonado called.
“Any luck with the search?” asked Books
“Afraid not. I’m starting to think he’s slipped right through our fingers, but we’ll hang on for a while longer and hope our luck changes. We got your message. Have you got the warrant ready?”
“It’s written. I’m waiting for the judge to finish his morning court docket. His secretary told me he’d see me as soon as he gets out of court.”
“Let me know when you’ve got it. We have teams standing by to execute the warrant as soon as you give us the green light.”
“Will do.” He disconnected as Judge Wilkins entered his chambers.
“Come in and have a seat,” said Wilkins, as he removed his robe.
“Thanks for squeezing me in, judge. I know you’re very busy today.”
“You’re keeping me rather busy, Ranger Books. Now let me take a look at what you’ve got.” He reached across his desk for the paper work.
He studied it for several minutes. “Huh, quite the bunch of crackpots, I’d say.”
He administered the oath to Books and signed the warrant. “Here you go. You know the drill.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Where are you on the other warrants I signed?”
“I just gave the return of service and inventory to your secretary. We arrested Jason Buck earlier this morning at his home in Blanding. Bobby Case hasn’t been picked up yet.”
He found it interesting that Judge Wilkins didn’t show the slightest indication that he recognized the Case name. Many people in Kanab knew Bobby, but everybody knew his powerful father, Doug.
When Books left the courthouse, he called Maldonado to inform him that Judge Wilkins had approved the warrant. Sutter and Maldonado had returned to the sheriff’s office and were huddled with their FBI counterparts, planning the raid. On impulse, he changed course and drove past Red Rock Touring. While it was still early, Books thought it a little odd that the business was closed. The inside lights were off, and there were no vehicles behind the office where employees typically parked. No sign of the Gentry’s black Cadillac Escalade, either.
Curious, he drove west across Kanab Creek into a neighborhood close to where Becky Eddins resided. Brett and his wife, Emily, owned a large log home with a 360-degree wrap-around deck and a second-story loft that led outside through French doors to a second, smaller deck, with magnificent south-facing views. The attached garage included two normal-sized spaces plus a large third bay, big enough to hold an oversized recreation vehicle.
It looked like nobody was home. There were no vehicles parked outside, the living room drapes were closed, and there were no interior lights on as far as Books could tell.
The Gentrys appeared to be living high and well, mused Books.
On his drive to the sheriff’s office, Books noticed a nondescript four-door sedan, a Chevrolet probably, following several cars behind him. He was certain it was the same vehicle he’d noticed as he left Red Rock Touring. He thought he could make out the silhouette of at least two individuals in the car. It smelled of FBI.
It was possible, perhaps even likely, that they had been conducting stationary surveillance of Red Rock Touring, or it may have been that some bureaucrat decided to have him followed, hoping Jimmy Buck might surface. Rather than driving straight to the sheriff’s office, Books chose a more circuitous route. Every time Books turned, the sedan eventually followed, the driver doing her best to maintain a discreet distance in an attempt to avoid detection.
Because he was curious, but mostly for fun, Books accelerated the Sierra along Highway 89 until he came to the local Subway restaurant. He pulled into the parking lot and drove around behind the building and then into an alley which led to a cleaner’s next door. He hopped out and walked around the front of the cleaners and came up behind the sedan as it idled in the Subway lot, its occupants wondering how he’d managed to elude them. He approached on the passenger side and tapped lightly on the side window. The two occupants, one male and one female, glanced at each other and then the passenger powered the window down giving Books a sheepish smile.
“Good morning folks
. I’m J.D. Books, but I imagine you already know that. Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Robert Dupont and this is my partner, Special Agent Mia Barnett.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Books said. “I know you’re just following orders so I don’t have a problem if you continue following me, but I doubt it’s going to lead you to Jimmy Buck.”
“We doubt it too, and thanks for being so understanding,” replied Barnett.
“Not a problem. I’ll be in the sheriff’s office for a while and then in the field serving a warrant. If you get tired of sittin’ in your car, come on inside and we’ll get you something to drink.”
With that, Books was gone.
***
The plan called for two teams of officers to simultaneously raid the office of Red Rock Touring and the home of Brett Gentry. The FBI brass had requested that Beth Tanner and Books participate in the raids, since they knew more about the case than anyone else and because they would have an easier time recognizing artifacts stolen from the Rogers’ home.
All personnel assembled at 1500 hours in the sheriff’s department conference room and were quickly divided into two teams. An FBI supervisor Books didn’t recognize gave everybody their final instructions. On his way out the door, Sutter pulled him aside.
“Just wanted you to know that I’ll be the one going out to Bobby’s place. You don’t need to worry that the house is going to be raided by a SWAT team from the FBI. That’s not going happen.”
“Thanks, Charley. I appreciate that. When do you anticipate making the arrest?”
“Depends on when we get the warrant but probably sometime tomorrow morning”
When Books arrived at Red Rock Touring, he spotted Randy Maldonado’s BLM vehicle, a marked car from the Kanab Police Department, and an unmarked sedan, probably belonging to the FBI, parked in front of the office. A white Subaru Forester owned by Emily Gentry was parked out back. Members of the media had been corralled far enough away that they could take pictures, but not interfere with the search.
From the look of things, the search appeared to be focused more on business records than on artifacts. Office computers were being loaded into the back of an SUV as Books entered. A sullen Emily Gentry stood stoically off to one side scribbling notes on a legal pad, presumably about items being removed from the office. Books heard her complain to one of the suits that they should expect to hear from the family attorney before this was over—a lame threat that was probably heard by FBI agents every time they walked out of a business packing a computer or a box of records.
Maldonado spotted Books and motioned him outside.
“No sign of Mr. Gentry,” Maldonado said.
“How about at the house?”
“We checked. He’s not there either.”
“What does Mrs. Gentry say?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s being deliberately vague about his whereabouts. She did say that Brett has become so distraught about the false finger pointing and trying to implicate him and Red Rock Touring in the Rogers disappearance, that he’d mentioned possibly going away for a few days.”
“Sounds like a crock to me,” said Books.
“Ditto.”
“But I must say, there sure doesn’t appear to be any treasure trove of artifacts stashed here,” said Books.
“We really didn’t expect it. From what I’m hearing on the radio, they have found a sizable collection at the house. Whether we can prove any of it is stolen is a whole other question. Tanner is with them now trying to identify specific artifacts that may have come from the Rogers collection.”
Ned Hunsaker had been right, thought Books, when he described the antiquities trade as a murky business, some of it on the up-and-up and some of it not. Illegal traffickers like Brett Gentry frequently claimed that the origin of a particular artifact was from private land, not public or tribal, where removal was a violation of law.
“We don’t really need you here,” said Maldonado, “so if you’ve got other things to do, feel free to go.”
Books took that as a signal to leave.
When Books arrived home, he did the same drive-by he had done the night before. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He called Hunsaker and the old man told him that everything had been quiet all day. He parked the Sierra in front of the trailer next to his own truck. When he got out, he spotted his new pit bull friend who had visited the night before, watching him from one end of the trailer.
“Sit tight a minute fella, and I’ll see if I can find you something to eat.”
Books went into the kitchen and removed a can of mushroom soup from the pantry. He poured the contents into a bowl and nuked it. He added some bread and then carried the concoction outside along with a pan of water. He approached the dog, but it nervously backed away, afraid. He set it down and returned to the trailer. A few minutes later, he stuck his head outside. The food was gone and so was the dog.
With the dog taken care of, Books changed out of his uniform and settled down with a cold beer, listening to the music of Neil Young. This would be his first night home at a halfway decent hour in almost two weeks. He settled into the leather recliner enjoying the brew.
As a kid, he could hardly stand his parents’ choice in music, yet as an adult, his own eclectic taste included performers from his parent’s generation like Seals and Crofts, Gordon Lightfoot, the Eagles, Neil Young, and others. He’d been a longtime fan of country legends like Brooks and Dunn, Willie Nelson, Randy Travis, and the Dixie Chicks. Recently, he had even begun acquiring a taste for contemporary Caribbean and Latin instrumental sounds. That worried him a little. Maybe it was an age thing, he thought, like a case of early onset gomerhood.
Chapter Forty
Tuesday Morning—Day 12
The next morning, Books got up early, went into the kitchen and made coffee. He was working on his second cup when he decided to call his father at the university hospital. He knew if this day became as busy as recent ones, it might be his only opportunity to speak with him. After several unanswered rings, Books began to worry. He hung up and called back, asking that the call be directed to the nurse’s station. An aid answered and informed him that Bernie was already up and away from his room engaged in a daily exercise regimen. If he continued to improve, the aid said, the treatment plan called for his release sometime on Thursday.
It sounded like the old man was well on his way to recovery from the surgery. The question now was whether outpatient treatment would put the cancer in permanent remission.
Books prepared a breakfast of toast and a cheese omelet in sufficient quantity for himself and the stray. By the time he left for work, the dog hadn’t put in an appearance. He refilled the water bowl and left the eggs and toast outside.
When he arrived at his office, he found a message from Alexis Runyon asking him to stop by her office before he left.
Runyon had left a stack of boxes in his office, tourist brochures probably, intended for the new BLM Visitor’s Center in Escalante. Books had apparently been appointed FedEx driver for the day.
When he tapped on her door, Runyon was on the phone but motioned him to come in and have a seat. A minute later she was off the phone and reaching for a message buried in the clutter on her desk.
“You look tired, J.D. You ought to be home in bed.”
“No rest for the wicked, but it looks like the worst is over. I actually managed seven hours of sleep last night, so I’m feeling pretty good this morning. Any news on the search for Jimmy Buck?”
She shook her head. “Nothing I’m aware of. I spoke with the sheriff a few minutes ago. He sounded discouraged. He said they would continue the search today but call it off tonight unless they come up with something new.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Books. “Jimmy Buck has disappeared into the desert wilderness an
d may be gone for good.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Runyon expressed her concern about Bernie’s recent cancer surgery as well as Bobby’s legal difficulties.
“How is Maggie doing?”
“She’s holding on. Some days are better than others.”
“I’m sure. Is it okay if I give her a call?”
“Sure, I think she’d like that. Also, thanks for your concern about Bernie. The surgery went well, and he should be coming home in the next day or two.”
“Great news! Is somebody going to stay with him for a while?”
Books hadn’t thought about that. “Probably me for a few nights. Maggie has arranged home health nurses to see him every day for the first week at least.”
“Good.” She handed Books a note. “We’ve had two calls, one late yesterday afternoon and the other this morning—a complaint about illegal timber harvesting off the Hell’s Backbone Road north of Boulder. We need you to check it out, and while you’re at it, drop those boxes I left in your office at the visitor’s center.”
“Okay. Did the complainant give us any specifics about where along the road to look? It’s a pretty long stretch.”
“I think it’s on the note.”
Books reread the note. “Says it’s off an access road about halfway in. That helps a little but not much. I’ll see what I can do. Do we know who the complainant is?”
“Not unless it’s on the note. You can call dispatch, though. They probably have something.”
***
From his office, Books called Maggie and asked if he could stop by the house. Although he felt genuine concern for his brother-in-law, if he was honest with himself, what he mostly felt toward Bobby was anger. What he was far more concerned about was how well Maggie and his two nephews were holding up under all the stress.
“Sure. Come on out, J.D. The kids are out the door to school and I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”
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