The little fellow, alongside his friend, trotted down the hard frozen slopes toward the house. “At first I did. More smells. But now I don’t at all. Mags hardly ever puts a leash on me. I can go where I want. The only cars, unless we’re in the truck, are the ones on the ranch. And the animals I see and meet are exciting. I wouldn’t go back for anything.” He paused. “And I like you. I never had a dog friend before.”
King surprised, replied, “I like you, too, you little sawed-off shotgun. We can talk. When Momma died, I was so lonesome. I love Jeep but it’s good to have a friend who understands.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sitting in George W.’s large office—the maps on the walls identifying aquifers as well as surface water—Twinkie and Bunny listened.
“All right, can you keep out of John Morris’s way?”
“Hell, yes. I don’t want to see him,” Bunny replied immediately.
Less emotional than Bunny, Twinkie commented shrewdly, “John Morris is our nominal boss.”
“True, but I had a long talk with him yesterday. Enough time has passed for him to realize our number two team is good but not as good as you. You probably know that Pump 14 blew out. Yes, it was fixed but in your absence it took much longer than it should have. He is your nominal boss, Twinkie, you’re right, and in my experience, people who are bosses expect a certain amount of deference. My advice is tip your hat, keep your mouth shut, and complete your assignment, even if you don’t like it. You’re in the truck, not here in the office, so you ought to be able to do that.”
Bunny folded his hands in his lap. “Thanks. You cleaned up my mess.”
George W. smiled. “Morris is not the easiest guy to get along with. He’s new on the job. Either he’ll settle in or he’ll ship out. SSRM has enough to deal with without difficult personalities in the home office.”
“Thank you.” Twinkie echoed Bunny’s gratitude.
Once back in the truck, out on the road, they drove out to Red Rock. A pipe had broken two miles south of Pump 19, a pump about halfway up the Petersons, placed there to capture an underground creek running down the east side of the range.
When the pipes had originally been put in, in 1967, they were good. The fact that they’d lasted this long bore testimony to that. SSRM was replacing older equipment in an organized way. The bad economy delayed this program. The burst pipe was in a section due for complete replacement.
Fortunately, it took the two of them only three hours to section out the damage, fit a new insert, and seal it. Just to be sure they drove up to Pump 19, removed the housing and checked it, too. It was fine.
Coming down the service road to Red Rock Road, Twinkie said, “Howie Norris is supposed to come home tonight. Jake Tanner told me.”
Jake Tanner ran a small ranch, also making a little money doing odd jobs as he had a Ditch Witch, a backhoe, and a sizable bulldozer, plus a couple of good tractors. He could also repair his own equipment. Jake’s distinguishing feature, apart from an Old Testament beard, was his intense interest in everybody else’s life. Gossip was manna from heaven for Jake.
“Speak of the devil.” Bunny laughed.
Jake, slowly driving his backhoe, had turned onto a ranch just below Pump 19.
The SSRM truck pulled in after him.
Seeing Twinkie and Bunny, Jake hopped off the backhoe after cutting the loud motor.
“How de do.”
“What are you up to?” Twinkie turned off the truck motor.
“Drain pipe.” Jake pointed to a brand-new drainpipe, its swirls making it look like a silver Dairy Queen. “Ronnie Hartnett ran over the end when he went off his one. I’m putting in a new one.”
“Ronnie doesn’t drink,” Twinkie noted.
“It’s the diabetes,” Jake said solemnly. “If his blood sugar goes he sometimes blacks out. Looks like that’s what happened. He’s all right.”
“I saw an ad in a magazine that said they now make contact lenses that tell a diabetic when their blood sugar is dropping. Isn’t that something?” Bunny marveled.
“ ’Tis. If you guys got a minute, let’s go to Howie’s.”
“Why?”
“Jeep told me where they found him. I thought maybe we could jimmy rig his fence line. With two to pull the wire tight, the third can tie it to the post. Pulling is a tough job.”
Squeezing into the cab of the work truck, the three drove the mile and a half to Howie’s, which backed up on the Harnetts’ ranch. Howie kept a pretty big spread. No one had the ten thousand acres that Jeep did but Howie, over a long life, had amassed two thousand acres. He was land poor and had little cash but that was okay with him. Jeep owned the water rights. She’d bought them when he first started ranching with only three hundred acres. Since he and Ronnie were childless and knowing that Jeep had children and grandchildren, Howie sold her the rights every time he acquired more land. Anything to keep the water out of SSRM’s hands once he passed away, for the new owner of his land could sell the water to whomever they wished and SSRM paid top dollar. Howie trusted that Jeep’s descendants would protect the valley’s water as he wished it to be protected.
Twinkie pulled into Howie’s drive. The three men hopped out on a cold, perfectly clear day.
“She said they found him over that little rise there.”
They walked over and it was easy to find the spot because dried blood still stained the small rocks and the light-colored soil.
The three kept walking toward the ripped fence line. Being workmen, they wore heavy gloves and their equipment belts. Even with three of them hard at it, the repair took a half hour. Splicing and reinforcing the damaged wire demanded patience.
Heading back, they paused when they reached the slight rise.
Twinkie, seeing the boulders, headed over. He noted a coyote den. The coyote wasn’t there. Bones, mostly chicken, were scattered in front of the opening. A few features bore testimony to the fact that it was a white chicken, probably a Leghorn.
Twinkie walked around the boulders. As usual, the coyote had been industrious, making more than one entrance and exit.
Bunny and Jake started back.
Twinkie caught up. “Coyote den. I can usually smell them.” He tapped his nose. “I should work for a company that makes perfumes. I could have made big bucks.”
Bunny laughed. “Yeah. Eau de Varmint.”
They walked back to the SSRM truck, chuckling over the vision of Twinkie sniffing test tubes of orange, lavender, and musk. Howie had parked his truck alongside the old corral so any visitors could park on one side of the circle or in front of the house.
When Twinkie opened the door to the truck, his boot tip hit a rock. He kicked at it, then looked down and picked up a section of ingot. It was black. He turned it over. He rubbed it in his hands. “I’ll be.”
Already in the truck, Bunny and Jake wondered what he’d found.
As he approached, Bunny opened the door and yelled out, “Twink, get in here and shut the door. It’s cold.”
Lifting himself up, for the company truck lacked running boards, Twinkie dropped the ingot piece into Jake’s hands. “Look at this.”
Bunny peered into Jake’s palm. “Gimme that. Your beard’s in the way.”
Bunny rubbed the small but heavy piece of metal on his overalls. A dull gleam began to appear. “Will you look at this?”
All three men intently studied the piece of ingot, which showed a small Sunrise stamp.
“Sunrise Mine. The big silver vein that played out. Weren’t there murders at Sunrise?” Jake asked.
“Back then everybody shot up everybody else. A form of population control.” Bunny rubbed the ingot piece some more. The mark got brighter.
“Remember in high school, maybe it was eleventh grade, we studied Nevada history?” Twinkie looked at the other two. “I studied Nevada history, don’t know what you two did. I kind of remember the story of that mine, a couple of murders followed the murders at a bank. The robbers were brothers. One was cau
ght, the other got away. The one that got caught hung himself in his jail cell.”
“It’s another one of those stories with the lost treasure, just like the lost army post, Fort Sage.” Jake stroked his long beard.
Bunny leaned back in the bench seat. “You’d think someone would have found it by now.”
“Maybe someone did.” Twinkie took the silver ingot piece back.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sitting in her high-tech office at Reno Sagebrush United Bank, Michelle Speransky crossed her legs and leaned forward in the desk chair. “He considered himself irresistible to women. It’s wonderful he could maintain that delusion.” She offered up an appealing, sparkling laugh.
Pete smiled, for her charm was infectious. “Was Robert Dalrymple competent at his job?”
“As competent as anyone could be at Truckee Amalgamated. Loans were being handed out so fast we couldn’t keep up with the paperwork.”
“You left?”
She nodded. “I saw the handwriting on the wall and found another job at a better-managed bank. Asa Chartris hired me here at Reno Sagebrush United to be the senior loan portfolio manager. The irony is that this bank then bought Truckee Amalgamated. I have the delicious pleasure of having one of my former bosses work under me.” She smiled broadly, revealing even, white teeth. “I know, it’s not ladylike to gloat.”
“But it’s human.” Pete could imagine the satisfaction. “Did you ever suspect that Dalrymple dabbled in drugs?”
“Robert was an overgrown frat boy. I expect he did everything. But he never showed any signs of dependence on drink or drugs.”
“You say he was immature. Did other employees feel that way?”
She leaned forward even more. “Because he was conceited as well as immature, he was incredibly easy to work with, if one was a woman. All you had to do was tell him he was brilliant. The egoist is the easiest man for a woman to manipulate. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
Michelle was attractive and in her early forties. Dressed in a long suede skirt, boots, and dark green cashmere turtleneck, she exuded good humor and confidence.
She had every reason to be confident. She’d called the mortgage collapse before it happened. Impressed with her acumen and forthrightness, Asa hired her. He, too, felt the house of cards called the banking system could collapse and he wanted someone on board who possessed a cool head, the ability to steer away from the herd. Because of officers like Asa, and people on the way up like Michelle, Reno Sagebrush United had not faltered in the recent crisis. They still had plenty of cash to lend but no one, not Asa nor Michelle, could have predicted the appalling foreclosure rate in Nevada. Yes, there was money to lend but to whom does one lend it?
Pete and Lonnie, too, recognized that Michelle was an astute observer of human behavior as well as a sharp businesswoman.
Pete asked, “Did you keep up with Robert Dalrymple after Truckee folded?”
“No. We weren’t friends. We weren’t enemies, but he’s not someone I would make an effort to stay in touch with.”
“We have a list of people from Truckee who were hired here at Reno Sagebrush. It’s not too long. We’ve spoken to each of them. Some of them thought that Robert was a regular, likable guy.”
She clasped her hands around her knee. “He was likable, really. But apart from his perhaps too obvious interest in women, he ran with the pack. When people spouted golden statistics and government officials painted rosy pictures, everyone in the pack was certain a crash could never happen. It was impossible. And when you have a company that’s publicly traded that needs to show increased earnings every quarter, it takes a brave man to say, ‘Hold on. Not so fast. Let’s look at what they’re not telling us.’ Robert was basically just another sheep. He looked good. He sounded good. He could quote all those positive numbers but he didn’t think for himself. No real head on his shoulders. Down he went.”
“Did he have enemies?”
She shrugged. “No more than anyone else in this business.”
Pete slipped in the vital question. “Do you think he was honest? Could he have diverted bank funds?”
She dropped back in the chair, uncrossed her legs. “I wouldn’t know. I never saw or heard of anything—you know, like under-the-table payments. He made a lot of loans to a lot of people and I doubt all those people were upright citizens. Was he a crook? I don’t know, but I do know he couldn’t get a job after Reno Sagebrush bought what was left of Truckee. That points to something, whether it’s a whiff of something unpleasant or incompetence.”
“Was he a big spender?”
“Yes. Expensive clothes, watch, car. Ski vacations to Banff. Well, let me backtrack. Maybe he wasn’t outrageously extravagant but he spent money to impress others, more than I would. So that’s a matter of personal judgment.”
“Were you surprised at how he died?”
Her brown eyes widened. “Yes. We all were. How did he wind up down there with his throat slit?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“I can’t pretend I miss him and I can’t even really pretend that I care too much, but it was a terrible end.”
“One last request. And we both appreciate all the time you’ve given us. Do you know or can you direct us to who might have a list of those employees from Truckee Amalgamated who did not get hired by another bank?”
“That’s a lot of people.” She took a breath. “I don’t have that information but the former director of personnel works here. He might know.”
After thanking Michelle, the two called on William Elgar. He had suffered a demotion since he was no longer the director of personnel for Reno Sagebrush, but at least he was working, which was a blessing.
William didn’t seem to mind the unplanned visit to his office by the police. “I can get you that information. Unless it’s a rush, I can have it by tomorrow. It’s in my computer at home. I used to take a lot of work home. Still do.”
All three men knew that William Elgar should not have bank information at home. No one said a word. If one is fired from a bank or brokerage house, one is escorted out of the office after clearing out personal items. The escorts are from the Sheriff’s Department or they are private security officers. Customer lists were particularly valued, even if the employee brought in the customer. The bank “owned” that customer and customer information was supposed to be secure. Anyone with brains took home information in increments so no one would notice. Often, the desire wasn’t to steal customers but to preserve one’s work, keep track of associations and discussions. Clearly, William had brains. He promised to email the information to Pete.
After leaving the bank, the two pulled into a nearby diner for a cup of coffee.
Sitting at the counter, Pete stared at the menu. He wasn’t hungry.
Of course Lonnie was always hungry. He ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries.
“If you’re ever shot, blood won’t flow,” Pete said. “Instead, pure grease will ooze out of your body.”
Lonnie looked at his partner. “Jealous?”
“I can’t eat that stuff anymore. I don’t know how you can stomach it. I can’t eat a lot of salt anymore, either.”
“That’s what happens when you’re in your thirties.”
“Maybe.” Pete sipped the good coffee, the reason they had stopped at this place. “We’ve questioned Dalrymple’s family, any associates we could track down. Not one person thought he was on drugs. And his mother and father swore they saw no physical signs of addiction.”
“Parents sometimes don’t.”
“True, but everyone sings the same tune and his lab reports came back clean, which means you owe me five dollars.”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t making money from the trade.” Lonnie fished in his pants pocket, retrieved some bills, peeled off a fiver, and smacked it on the counter.
“Or borrowing money from those in the trade. There’s ready cash, no taxes, no records. His bank account lo
oked like a river at low tide.” Pete, with a broad smile, picked up the money.
“Well, so does mine and you’ve got some of it.” Lonnie laughed as the huge burger and fries were put in front of him. “Thanks, Vern.” He smiled at the waitress.
Pete called Vern back. “Changed my mind. A bowl of today’s soup.”
“Chicken noodle with lots of chicken.” She smiled. “Good choice. Will warm you up on a cold day. I don’t think spring will ever come.”
“I know the feeling.” She left and Pete returned to the subject. “What I think we should look at is did Dalrymple make any loans on houses in Cracktown, houses now in foreclosure?”
“I bet he made loans on houses in foreclosure all over Washoe County.”
“I want to know,” Pete replied.
“Why would someone kill him over foreclosures? If that’s the case there will be a whole mess of dead bankers.”
Pete put the cup in the saucer with a little click. “I have a feeling about this.”
“I think the guy was just trying to keep ahead of his bills.”
“You’re right, but based on what we’ve learned this was a guy with a big ego. Dalrymple might not be the kind of guy who could face being seen as a failure, or even doing with less. He strikes me as the kind of guy at the faro table whose chips are down and he still dreams of a big haul so he bets them all.”
Pete paid for lunch with the five dollars he won from Lonnie, gave Vern a wink, and added a good tip. He walked out with his arm around Lonnie’s shoulder.
“Thanks.” Lonnie smiled, then touched Pete’s hand draped over his shoulder.
“Does this mean we’re having a bromance?”
“Asshole.” Pete dropped his arm, laughing as he did so.
That evening Jeep picked up Howie at the hospital. He teared up when he got into the truck and spotted an ecstatic Zippy, so very happy to see him.
Mags sat in the back with King and Baxter. Jeep’s new truck had the extended cab, not the double doors, but there was enough room in the back for the dogs and Mags, plus gear.
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