by Jeff Carson
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”
“And who’s this?” Sheriff Shumway asked, bending down to scratch Jet’s head.
“That’s Jet,” Wolf said eying the rest of the room. There were two empty desks that were clearly used on a regular basis.
“I didn’t know you were bringing a K-9 unit,” Shumway said, and then he shrugged. “I guess he could come in handy.”
“He’s a retired dog from the Vail PD. Just a pet now. I’m taking care of him. I hope you don’t mind,” Wolf said.
The sheriff smiled again and he walked back to the doorway. “No, no problem. Come on back. Maybe Jet could stay out here, though. I’m allergic.”
“Stay here,” Wolf said to Jet, and he pointed by the front door.
Jet did as he was told.
Shumway waited patiently at the entryway to his office and slapped a hand on Wolf’s back as he passed. “Have a seat.”
Wolf sat in a squeaking metal chair covered with cracked, fake leather.
The wooden desk in front of Wolf was immaculately clean, smelling faintly of spray cleaner. A green glass pull-chain lamp was perched on one corner and two manila folders—one thick and one thin—sat conspicuously in the center.
“Have a good drive?” Shumway asked as he walked around his desk. His khaki Sheriff’s uniform was dusty and wrinkled, like it was on its fourth day of use between dry cleanings. With a grunt he collapsed into a pillowed leather chair and put his hands on the folders.
“Not bad,” Wolf said.
“You must have gotten an early start.”
“I did.”
“I have to say, we’ve all heard about the Cold Lake incident you had down there last year.” He shook his head and whistled. “What a whacky case that was. Can’t even make that stuff up.”
“It was interesting.”
He gave Wolf a smoky-eyed nod. “I was sorry to hear about your loss. We were all sorry.”
Wolf nodded. “Thank you.”
“I talked to Sheriff MacLean last night for awhile; he had nothing but praise for you. How’re you liking being Chief Detective?”
Wolf nodded. “It suits me.”
“Don’t miss the politics of the Sheriff’s office, eh?”
Wolf shook his head.
Shumway leaned his head back and laughed. When he was done he pulled back one of the folders and glanced inside, then shoved it in the top drawer of his desk.
The room fell silent and Shumway seemed lost in thought.
“You guys have something else going on too?” Wolf asked.
“What’s that? Oh, no. No, it’s just … a personal matter.” He slapped the thick folder that remained and opened it up. “So. Damn shame what we have going on. I heard about your personal connection to the victim. Goddamn shame, and we’re here to help you catch these sons of bitches. No matter what it takes.”
He gazed hard into Wolf’s eyes.
Wolf nodded. “Thank you.”
“Status is: There’s one way in and out of that dino-quarry we’ve got up there, and I sent two deputies to monitor it as soon as I talked to Sheriff MacLean last night.” He opened the folder and slapped a piece of paper down. “I got a warrant to search the dig camp for the murder weapon, the pistol used to shoot and kill Mr. Frost, and for the two pairs of shoes that left those tracks at the scene.”
Wolf nodded. “And they’re still there? The dig team?”
Shumway nodded. “Yep. The two deputies went into the park and confirmed last night, then they fell back and monitored to make sure they didn’t leave.” The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “I followed MacLean’s request to stand down on bringing them in.”
“Thanks. I’d like to be there for the pickup and initial questioning.”
“I understand.” Shumway spread the three photographs that were on top of the stack. “Here’s what we have on our students at the dig. They had to submit photographs along with a digging permit application with the county. We had them on file here.”
“A permit to dig … in the dinosaur quarry park? On BLM park land?”
“No. They’re on private property. Still have to file though. They’ve set up camp in the park. They straddle the line, with the dig right on the other side of a dry river bed in private property and their access to it through the BLM park.”
Wolf nodded. “I see.”
Shumway tapped the first photograph. “First guy here? Steven Kennedy. We picked him up for DUI last year in town. Stuck him here in our jail cell for two days until his wife bailed him out. How he’s still on the university-sponsored dig team after that? I have no idea.”
Shumway was pointing at a mug-shot of a man in his mid-twenties. He was a handsome kid but looked like he’d seen better days in the photo. Brown hair askew, his green eyes were red and drunk, his thin face covered with a two-day brown beard. He held up a black sign with his name, date, and booking number on it.
Shumway pointed at the next photo. “Felicia Kennedy, Steven’s wife.”
It was a full-body shot taken outdoors of a brown haired woman in her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a tank top and cargo shorts with a big hat that hid her face in shadow, but Wolf could still tell she was very beautiful. Thin and athletic, she was tanned deeply from being out in the sun. Her eyes were kind and her smile wide, flashing perfect teeth.
“She’s also in the graduate program at University of Utah. I’ve never met her. I wasn’t here when she bailed out her husband.”
Shumway tapped his index finger on the third photo. It was another full body shot of a woman. On the heavier side, she was dressed in a flannel shirt and cargo shorts, flashing bright white legs. Her hair was bleached blonde and spiked, and her face was pale and serious, with smallish eyes glaring into the camera.
“Molly Waters. Another paleontology graduate student at the University of Utah.”
Wolf picked a fourth photo out of the stack. It was a full-body photograph of Professor Green. All skin and bones, the man wore khaki pants cinched too high on his waist, a dusty button up shirt rolled to the elbows, and a satchel on his hip with the strap slung across his torso. He rounded out his outfit with a brown hat, which plunged his spectacled face in shadow.
“Then we have Indiana Jones,” Shumway said with a chuckle.
Wolf nodded. “You ever met Green?”
Shumway shrugged. “I’ve seen him around. Never really talked to him. He’s kind of … mousy. Runs around town with his head down, never talks to anyone. Doesn’t break any laws as far as we can tell, so we don’t butt heads with him. But of course, now he’s involved in some stuff, isn’t he?”
“Looks that way.”
“The way I see it? Looks pretty cut and dried.”
Wolf leaned back in his chair and gestured for him to continue.
“We’ve got the mentor-professor who corrupts the students into agreeing to sell these Allosaurus bones they find. Probably under the guise they’d be splitting the money four ways. A quarter-million to each of them. Mentor-professor helps students do all the work, all the while knowing he’s going to take the money and run on these poor saps. Professor plans to skip town to Argentina with the money. Students find out. Students follow professor and kill fossil dealer in the whole skirmish, and they kill the professor himself. Students take the money. Come back. Done.”
Wolf said nothing.
“You have another theory?”
Wolf shook his head. “I like your train of thought, but I just have some questions that don’t add up.”
“And what are those?”
“For one, why come back and just sit there waiting for the cops?”
Shumway shrugged.
“And where’s the rental truck? If Professor Green’s been killed, where’s his body?”
Shumway pointed. “You guys said the witness heard three shots fired, and only two slugs were found in the dealer.”
Wolf nodded. “Yeah. I know. But until we have a body, until we have a murder weapon, the s
hoes, the money … it’s all speculation.”
With that Shumway slapped the desk with both hands and pushed back in his chair. “Then let’s get to work.”
Wolf stood up. “What about this land? Who owns this land they’re digging on?”
“It’s a guy from Washington state.” Shumway hesitated for a second, and then walked past Wolf and out the office door.
“Who exactly?” Wolf asked as he caught up.
“Etzel, get the statement paperwork ready. We’ll be coming back with those three students I talked about.”
Etzel looked up. “You got it.”
Shumway looked at Wolf. “Guy named Errol. James Errol. Lives in Seattle. Owns a shit pot of land all over the west.”
“What does he do with it?”
“With that piece out there? Has six thousand acres and eleven oil wells working around the clock.” He looked at his watch. “Makes a ton of money, that’s what he does with it. You know where the Windfield Dinosaur Quarry visitor center is?”
“I’ve got it entered in my GPS. But I’d like to start with the UrMover truck rental place.”
“Right. It’s a few blocks over on the edge of town. I’d say we could ride together, but you’ve got Jet here, and plus if we want to bring these students back for questioning, it might be best to have two cars. One of us leading, the other taking up the rear.”
It was sound logic to Wolf, and he was a little relieved he was off the hook from a morning of small-talk.
They walked outside.
“Christ. Hot.” Shumway climbed in one of the trucks and slammed the door. Firing up the engine, he rolled the window down. “You can follow me.”
Wolf and Jet climbed in the SUV and followed Shumway out of the lot.
Chapter 12
“I just don’t see why he went by himself,” Rachette said.
Patterson felt another lurch in her stomach and saliva gushed into her mouth again. “He’s with the dog.”
Though she was used to starting work at 6:00 am five days a week, she felt ridiculously tired today. How many drinks had she had at that stupid shower last night? Two? She leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes.
“The dog with the lazy sphincter?” Rachette scoffed.
“It’s an ex-police dog.”
“He’s going to find two killers, and he has a dog that releases toxins from his ass as its secret weapon for backup?”
Patterson breathed deeply through her nose, willing her stomach to relax. “He’ll be—”
“Yeah, yeah. Working with the locals.” Rachette slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “I’m just saying.”
She cracked an eye and looked at him. “Bent out of shape much about being left on duty with me?”
Rachette said nothing as they continued through the back and forth turns.
Cave Creek was a winding section of highway 734 north of Rocky Points. Ironically, there was no Cave Creek—as in the name of a stretch of water—because it was the Chatauqua River that carved the canyon and the limestone caves over the millennia.
“How much longer?” Patterson asked, feeling another wave of nausea wash over her.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
She kept her eyes closed, but felt Rachette studying her from the driver’s seat.
“We’re almost out of the canyon. I don’t know, another mile? What? You never been up here?”
“Not with my eyes closed.”
“Then open them.”
“No.”
“Don’t feel well?” Rachette asked.
“Nice observation.”
“You’ve always been such a light weight. What? You have two drinks of white wine last night or something?”
She lifted her hand and raised her middle finger.
They rode in silence for another few minutes, and Patterson felt the car straighten out and knew they were on the flat land north of Cave Creek.
Rachette whistled. “There’s that fire.”
Patterson shielded her eyes with her hand against the blazing morning sun.
They were passing by brittle grassland. Looking as parched and unhealthy as the ground they scoured for food, five antelope stood with their backs to the wind inside the barbed wire. Beyond them a column of smoke rose at an oblique angle from the sagebrush-filled high plateau.
“That’s not that bad,” Rachette said. “They were making it out to be another land gobbler like the one down in Durango.”
She looked at him. “Land gobbler?”
“I just thought of that.”
“Clearly.”
Her phone vibrated and rang in her pocket and she pulled it out. “Hernandez,” she told Rachette. “Hello?”
“Hey sister,” Hernandez said.
Normally the pet name would have irked her, but she liked Hernandez and in the short five months they’d been working together on the squad she kind of did feel he was like a brother. One that, unlike her three real-life brothers, she got along with all the time.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“We’ve got nothing on the footage from Ashland, and nothing from the Cold Lake Junction gas station. Barker’s going through the Mackery Gas Station footage now, and that’s the last of what we got … just a second …” Hernandez put his hand over the phone. “Yeah … Barker says that means the truck must have gone north … like I was just going to tell you … the reason I called you.”
Patterson smiled. “All right. Wish us luck.”
“Bueno suerte.”
Patterson hung up. “They’ve got nothing on their footage. So it looks like it’s up to us.”
They rode in silence a beat.
“What do you think of Barker?”
“Could not hate a person more,” Rachette said without a millisecond hesitation. “He’s like hotel soap: he does the job, but not well, and … always leaves a crappy film on your skin.”
She looked at him. “You just thought of that?”
“So, can I ask you a personal question?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes again.
“Are you going to go through with this thing?”
“What thing?”
“Your marriage to Scott?”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. “What?”
Rachette raised his eyebrows, keeping his gaze on the road.
“What kind of question is that?”
“It just seems like you aren’t that excited about it.”
What the hell did Rachette know? Is that the impression she was giving off? The thought made her swallow.
“Sorry. I could be wrong. But I saw some serious hesitation in your eyes last night, when you volunteered to go with me instead of your bridal shower?”
She felt too crappy to respond and closed her eyes again.
“Oh. Wait, I see. Is that it?” Rachette asked.
Sometimes it was best to just ignore Rachette, so she did.
“You know, Charlotte and I are pretty solid right now. So if you’re thinking about me? You’re harboring some sort of deep, secret feelings for me? Well—”
“Pull over!” Patterson rolled down the window and stuck her face into the rush of chilled morning air. “Now!”
Rachette slammed on the brakes and pulled onto the shoulder.
She opened the door and leaned her head toward the ground. A car honked on the way by and the rush of air rocked the SUV, and that was enough to send her over the edge.
Heaving, she vomited on the side of the road.
“Whoa, you okay?”
She heaved again, and then again, and then she was done. Wiping her mouth and nose, she leaned back and slammed the door. “There. Much better.”
Rachette stared at her. “Christ. I was kidding.”
“Let’s go.”
“Yeah.” Rachette pulled back onto the highway. “You all right?”
“Must have been the food. They had some shrimp that tasted funny.”
Rachette got up to speed and made a show of adjusting the rear-view mirror. “Or it could always be …”
She looked at him.
He raised his eyebrows and nodded to her, like she was supposed to understand what he was saying.
“What?”
“Come on. Sick? It’s the morning? Don’t tell me you and Scott aren’t having sex yet.”
The thought slammed Patterson like they had just gone seventy miles per hour into a brick wall.
For the remainder of the drive they rode in silence.
“Here we are.” Rachette pulled into the gas station on the southern skirts of Brushing and parked under the awning next to a pump. “Check it,” he pointed up, “they have cameras.”
They got out.
Patterson stood and took a deep breath, sucking in gasoline fumes and the aroma of dry weeds. She shielded her eyes and faced the sun, and looked at the new wildfire that was still a ways to the north and east.
Upon closer inspection she could see the glint of the firefighters’ vehicles on the flat land. Beyond the smoke the land rose abruptly, where a rust-colored forest carpeted the side of a mountain.
“I hope it doesn’t reach that,” she said.
“No shit.”
Pregnant? The thought was enough to make her hurl again. She took the lead and marched through the automatic doors of the convenience store.
The air inside smelled like hotdogs and window cleaner. Speakers in the ceiling played a b-side classic rock song she’d never heard.
“Can I help you officers?” The clerk asked. He was a young man with a lot of hair on his head and face.
“Deputies,” Rachette said pointing at his Sheriff’s Department patch.
The clerk looked more confused than educated.
She slapped the warrant onto the counter. “We need to see your security footage.”
The clerk stared at the warrant for a second, then back at Patterson. “Yeah. Sure. Back here.”
The clerk opened the bulletproof glass door and led them both into the cramped space behind the counter and to a tiny office that smelled like all the others—like overflowing toilet and stale cigarette smoke. Her mouth watered.