In Plain Sight jp-6

by C. J. Box

  Joe shook his head at Portenson’s attitude. “I bet that cowboy’s widow and kids would like you to find out who did it.”

  “Aw fuck, Joe,” Portenson said. “You’re ruining the mood.”

  “Have you talked to the sheriff?”

  Portenson snorted while he signed the charge slip. “We sent him the file but I’m delaying actually talking to him as long as I can.”

  “He’s changed yet again,” Joe said.

  “I heard he’s a cowpoke now,” Portenson said, curling his lip in disdain.

  “Something like that,” Joe said.

  “How could he get worse?”

  “I can’t explain it,” Joe said, pushing back. “Good to see you, Tony.”

  “Good to see you, Joe. And don’t forget to give me a shout if Mr. Romanowski shows up.”

  Joe nodded again, shook Child’s hand, and got a cup of coffee to go on the way out.

  10

  JOE AND MARYBETH DID THE DISHES AFTER DINNER while Sheridan and Lucy watched television in the family room. Joe had made chili and the kitchen smelled of tomato sauce, garlic, spices, and ground beef.

  “It was too salty, wasn’t it?” he asked, scrubbing the cast-iron pot he liked to use for chili, since it was huge.

  “A little,” she said. “Did you rinse the beans? Sometimes they pack them in so much salt that if you don’t wash them thoroughly . . .”

  “Ah,” he said, “that was the problem.”

  “It was good, though,” she said. “I do wish you could learn to make a smaller pot, maybe.”

  Since he didn’t know how to make a pot of chili for less than a dozen people, and every time he tried to make less it was a disaster, Marybeth had filled two Tupperware containers of it for the freezer. Actually, Joe didn’t really want to learn how to make less chili at a time, since he liked having leftovers available, especially these days, when he was never sure when Marybeth would be home from her office or if dinner would be planned. But he didn’t want to tell her that. And, like most men, he wanted her to think he was largely incompetent in the kitchen.

  “What do you think of Sheridan going to the Scarlett’s for a sleepover?” Marybeth asked. Sheridan had brought it up during dinner.

  Joe scrubbed harder. “Julie seems like a nice girl,” he said. “It’s the rest of her family who’re nuts.”

  “I know what you mean. I got calls today from both Arlen and Hank. Each wants me to meet with him and see what I can do to streamline their business operations.”

  “Both of them, eh?”

  “Both of them.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Since Opal’s disappearance, sides had been forming in Saddlestring and the county. People were either pro-Arlen and anti-Hank, or vice versa. Both brothers kept close track of who was with them, and who was against them. Arlen preferred the Saddlestring Burg-O-Pardner for his mid-morning coffee, where he could chat with the town fathers. Hank never set foot in the place. Likewise, Hank liked his shot and a beer at the Stockman, often accompanied by several of his ranch hands. Arlen never darkened the door of that bar.

  The town was just big enough that there were two of most things—two feed stores, grocery stores, banks, hardware stores, auto-parts stores, lumber stores—so the brothers could choose. In the instance that there was only one business, such as the movie theater and medical clinic, one or the other brother claimed it outright and the other traveled north to the next larger city—Billings, Montana.

  Since the Scarletts spent a lot of money in town, the choice between pro-Arlen or pro-Hank was an important business decision, and one not made on a whim. Marybeth had told Joe about it, how her clients agonized over which brother to court. It was just as important, she said, that when a brother was chosen, not a single kind word be spoken about the other. That was considered disloyalty, and reason to pull their business. The loyalty to one brother or the other extended to their ranch hands as well, and merchants had to keep track of who worked for whom.

  Now, with calls from both brothers on the same day, Marybeth would have to make the same decision so many of her clients had made.

  THERE WERE RUMORS of war on the Thunderhead Ranch. The stories filtered through the community every day. The word was that Hank and Arlen had each hired more men than they needed for normal ranch operations. No one doubted the new men could serve as soldiers in an all-out range battle for ownership and dominance of the family ranch. Locks were put on gates, and harsh words exchanged over the fences. Sugar was poured into the gas tanks of ranch vehicles. Irrigation valves were turned off, or turned on when they shouldn’t be, or the water was diverted from one side of the ranch to the other.

  Robey told Joe that Arlen’s new foreman claimed that someone from Hank’s side had taken a shot at him, the bullet entering his open driver’s-side window, barely missing his nose, and exiting the open passenger’s-side window. Since there was no proof that a shot had been fired other than the foreman’s account and only soiled Wranglers to confirm he’d been scared, McLanahan filed away the complaint.

  Then two of Hank’s men charged they’d been run off the highway by a pickup clearly belonging to Arlen Scarlett. But no pickup matching the description could be found.

  An editorial in the Saddlestring Roundup ran a long list of bulleted items that had reportedly occurred between the two brothers on the ranch. The editorial ended with the sentence, “Will it be necessary to call in the Wyoming National Guard to prevent a full-fledged bloodletting?”

  “SO, WHO YOU gonna choose?” Joe asked.

  Marybeth frowned and shook her head. “I wish I didn’t have to choose either.”

  “That’s an option, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. They’d both see it for what it was—a snub. Arlen and Hank insist on a choice.”

  Left unsaid was the fact that whichever choice she made would generate a good deal of revenue for her business, and therefore benefit the family. Marybeth was routing as much as she could into college funds for Sheridan and Lucy, and having either Hank or Arlen on her client list would boost her earnings. Since Joe’s salary was frozen at $32,000 by the state, there was little he could do to contribute to the college funds, which made him feel guilty and ashamed.

  “My mother and Arlen both serve on the library board,” Marybeth said. “They’re pretty good friends. I think Arlen expects me to go with him, and I know my mother does.” She sighed. “I’ll probably go with Arlen.”

  Joe cringed. Last fall, Marybeth’s mother, the former Missy Vankueren, had married Bud Longbrake, one of the most prominent ranchers in the valley. It was her fourth marriage, and she had traded up each time. Missy had taken to her new role—that of landed matriarch—with an enthusiasm and panache that Joe found both truly impressive and frightening. She seemed to be on every board and volunteer effort, the cochair of every fund-raiser. She was even involved, somehow, in the new addition to the Twelve Sleep County Museum, which was to be called the Scarlett Wing. Missy had never liked Joe much, and the feeling was mutual, although a kind of grudging respect had formed on both sides. She thought her daughter could have done better for herself. Joe tended to agree with that, but didn’t necessarily want to hear it said. Again.

  “Arlen is pretty persuasive, and we could certainly use the business. But I really don’t want to get involved with either one of them. It’s a classic no-win situation,” she said, folding her washrag over the edge of the sink.

  “Speaking of which,” Joe said, “I got two messages from headquarters today. I meant to tell you about them before dinner.”

  She looked at him and arched her eyebrows.

  “The first one was from Randy Pope. He wants me to re-submit all of my expense logs for the past four years. Four years! He says I still hold the record for the most wrecked vehicles in the department.” In Joe’s career, he had totaled three pickups and a snowmobile.

  “Yes,” she said, prompting him for the second.

  “And an anonymous tipster
called the 800-POACHER line claiming that he knew of a guy who had dozens of game-animal mounts in his home that were taken illegally in Wyoming and all over the world. The RP—that’s ‘reporting party’ to you civilians—said the violator is prominent, a real criminal. The RP said this guy has done enough bad things to justify confiscating all of his property and equipment and fining him out the wazoo.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “The alleged poacher is Hank Scarlett,” Joe said. “The anonymous caller knows enough about game and fish regulations to cite wanton-destruction statutes. He also said many of the animal mounts at Hank’s hunting lodge are clearly illegal.”

  “Anonymous caller?” Marybeth said, smiling. “Or Arlen?”

  “I’d guess one and the same,” Joe said.

  “And there was an e-mail sitting in my in-box from Randy Pope referencing the tip on Hank. It says, Wait for my authorization before proceeding on this.” The message infuriated Joe. Never in his career had a supervisor injected himself so deeply into his day-to-day job, much less the director of the department. In six years of working under Trey Crump, Trey had never once told Joe to hold up on doing his job. And just what in the hell was Randy Pope waiting for before providing authorization? Or was it, as Joe suspected, simply a maneuver to once again remind Joe Pickett who was running the show, like the request for back expense logs?

  She stepped up to Joe and put her hands on the tops of his shoulders. “We’re going to be tangled up with these people whether we want to be or not, aren’t we?” She meant the Scarletts.

  “Yup,” Joe said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  “And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?”

  He hesitated for a moment. That one came out of left field, but she knew him so well.

  “I do want to find out what happened to Opal,” he said. “There’s something not right about it.”

  “There’s something not right about the whole Scarlett clan,” she said. “They’ve got a hold on this valley that scares me. It doesn’t matter if you’re with Arlen or Hank, the fact is everyone feels obligated to be with one or the other. There’s no middle ground, no compromise.”

  As she spoke, Sheridan came into the kitchen.

  “You guys decide about Friday night?”

  Joe and Marybeth looked at each other.

  “What we’ve decided,” Marybeth said, “is that this valley is much too small.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Sheridan asked, looking from her mother to her father, obviously embarrassed to see them holding one another next to the sink.

  The night suddenly split wide open as Maxine awoke from her customary sleeping place in the doorway of Joe’s office and barked furiously at the front door, the fur on her neck and back bristled up like a feral hog’s. Joe, Marybeth, and Sheridan all turned to the door, and Lucy scrambled from the couch to join them.

  “Maxine!” Joe commanded. “Maxine, stop it!”

  But the dog kept barking, her barks echoing sharply through the house. She clearly thought somebody was outside.

  “What is it?” Marybeth asked Lucy. “Was there a knock?”

  “I thought I heard something hit the door,” Lucy said, looking away from the television. “It sounded like a little rock hit it.”

  Joe slipped away and strode across the living room. It wouldn’t be that unusual to have a night visitor; people often showed up late to report an incident or turn themselves in. But that usually happened in the fall, during hunting season, not in the spring.

  He clicked on the porch light and opened the door. No one. He stepped outside on the porch, Maxine on his heels. The only thing he could see, in the distance, was a pair of red taillights growing smaller on Bighorn Road traveling east, toward the mountains, away from town.

  “What was it, honey?” Marybeth asked.

  Joe shook his head. “Nobody here now, but it looks like someone was.”

  “Dad,” Lucy said, coming outside with her sister, “there’s something on the door.”

  “Oh My God,” Sheridan gasped, her hands covering her mouth. She recognized it.

  So did Joe, and he was taken aback.

  A small dead animal had been pinned to the front door by an old steak knife with a weathered grip. The creature was long and slim, ferretlike, with a black stripe down its back. It was a Miller’s weasel, a species once thought extinct. It was the animal that had led to Sheridan being terrorized years before, and Marybeth being shot.

  And somebody who knew about both had stuck one to his front door.

  11

  THE NEXT MORNING JOE WENT FOR A RUN, FED THE horses, retrieved the newspaper, walked the girls out to the school bus (via the back door, so they wouldn’t have to see the Miller’s weasel on the front), and paced back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, waiting for eight A.M., when he called headquarters in Cheyenne and asked for Randy Pope. He was angry.

  “The director is in a meeting,” Pope’s receptionist said, her tone clipped. Joe didn’t think he liked Pope’s receptionist; there was something off-putting and chilly about her.

  “Can you please get him out of it?”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  It is for me, Joe thought. So he said, “Yes,” knowing Pope wouldn’t agree.

  Joe listened to Glen Campbell sing about the Wichita lineman while he held. The music was another addition since Pope had taken over, but the choice of songs belied not only another era, but another planet.

  Pope came on. “Make it quick, Joe.”

  “Someone killed a Miller’s weasel and stuck it to my front door last night,” Joe said. “I tried the emergency number there in Cheyenne last night and they told me you were not to be disturbed.”

  “That’s right, Joe,” Pope said, an edge in his voice. “I was at a dinner at the governor’s mansion. It was a get-to-know-you dinner, and I informed dispatch I was not to be interrupted.”

  Joe sighed. “Randy, if you’re going to be my supervisor and require me to get authorization from you for every move I make, you need to be available. Either that, or loosen up the reins and let me do my job.”

  Marybeth passed by the doorway to his office holding the newspaper. She cocked an eyebrow, cautioning him.

  “That would be Director Pope,” Pope said, his voice flat. “Tell me again what happened and what you want to do?” Joe could discern he was measuring his words carefully. Joe vowed to try to do the same. Every time he talked with Pope he ran the risk of saying something that could get him reprimanded or suspended.

  “There is a dead Miller’s weasel stuck to my front door with a knife . . .”

  “That house is Game and Fish property,” Pope interjected. “It doesn’t belong to you personally.”

  Joe stopped pacing and shut his eyes. This is what Pope did, his method—he’d say something so blatant and obvious that it killed the purpose of the conversation in the first place.

  “I know who the house belongs to,” Joe said wearily. “And since you own it, how about a new furnace? How about that? How about putting some insulation in the walls and sealing up all of the cracks where the wind blows through?”

  Marybeth was hovering in the hall, listening and not trying to hide it. He could tell she was amused, but also concerned.

  “Joe . . .”

  “Right, you don’t want to talk about that,” Joe said to Pope. “So how about we talk about the animal on the front of my, um . . . our door. The Miller’s weasel is an endangered species, as you know. But it’s more than that. This is personal.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  Again, Joe closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should count to ten, or resign immediately. Or drive to Cheyenne and shoot Pope in the heart, which would be the best alternative—or at least the most satisfying.

  “I need your authorization to investigate it,” Joe said quietly, trying to keep anger out of his voice. “You said in your memo
that you want to be informed prior to me opening any new investigations, so I’m informing you. I want to ride to where the last colony of Miller’s weasels are, and see if I can find any evidence of who was up there to kill one. Then I might need some help from our investigators to trace the knife. I can start interviewing people around here today to see if anyone saw the vehicle or knows who did it.”

  The line was silent for a moment. Joe could picture Pope sitting back in his chair, maybe putting his feet up on his desk.

  “Joe?” Pope said.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a big difference between asking for authorization and telling me what you’re going to do,” Pope said. “This is a good example of the kind of problem I have with you and some of the other game wardens. You act as if you’re the Lone Ranger in your district, that you and you alone decide what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it. No other law-enforcement officer has that luxury, Joe. Everyone else has to get authorization to proceed. Can you imagine a sheriff’s deputy showing up at work in the morning and saying, ‘Gee, I feel like going out on the interstate highway today and catching speeders and playing highway patrolman instead of staying in the county and following up on all of these annoying complaints.’ Can you imagine that, Joe? It’s time you realized this isn’t how things are done in the real world, where we have to justify our existence to the legislature and the public. Why is it you think you’re special?”

  “It’s my problem,” Joe said, opening the front door and staring at the animal pinned to it, the little body now starting to stiffen. “Like I said, it’s personal. Whoever did this didn’t just happen to find a Miller’s weasel. He went looking for it, and left it here as a message. I haven’t disturbed it since last night in case there are fingerprints or other evidence.”

  Pope said, “Do you plan to chase the culprit down and shoot him like you did that outfitter in Jackson? Like you’re some kind of cowboy or gunfighter? That’s not how we do things anymore, Joe. This is a new agency, and a new era.”