How did I let myself get sucked into this? Charlie Moon stared at the willful woman. “I’ll have to know everything about the burglary.”
“Of course.” She blew a puff of smoke at her nephew. “Bertie, call the state police, talk to Officer What’s His Name—see that Mr. Moon is provided with a copy of the official report. And show him the scene of the crime, answer all his questions.” She fell back in the chair. “Now please, you two—leave me alone.” She sighed wistfully, allowed the blue-tinted lids to slip over her eyes. “I must get my beauty sleep.”
Bertie grinned mischievously at the Indian.
Her eyes still closed, his aunt smiled cruelly. “I know what you are dying to say, Bertie. Go ahead—take the cheap shot. I’ll squash you like the nasty little bug you are.”
Thus chastened, the little man beetled away.
The Ute followed in his wake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE MUSEUM
Charlie Moon and Bertram Eustace Cassidy walked across a lawn that rolled gently, like small waves heaving upon the tide of night. Before the previous dawn, there had been a sweet, soaking rain. Beneath their feet, the spongy mat of grass would hold a record of their passing until a spray of sunlight washed it away. Above them, tiny water pearls and other priceless gems glistened on spruce needles and aspen stems.
Bertie approached a peak-roofed structure that was almost concealed behind a picket line of lodgepole pines. The red brick walls were matted with leafy vines that clung desperately with thousands of tentacled fingers. He looked up at the Ute. “This is where we house the old, moldy family treasures—known more widely among antiquarians and other eccentrics as the Cassidy collection.” The small man allowed himself an odd half-smile, hinting that he knew a hilarious family joke that could not be shared with an outsider.
Charlie Moon wondered how difficult it had been for the burglar to get inside.
Anticipating the question, Bertie’s tone was apologetic. “Aside from an outdated lock on the door and simple latches on the windows, I am afraid we didn’t have a security system worthy of the name. The thief had no trouble at all gaining entry.” He pointed. “The rascal simply broke through the glass window in the door, reached inside, unbolted the latch.”
The shattered glazing had been replaced, though there were still a few tiny shards of glass scattered about that had been missed in the cleanup. The Ute noted that there was no indication that any type of alarm system had been installed. The same burglar could return tonight, break in the same way.
Bertie inserted a shiny brass key in the new lock mechanism, twisted until he heard an oiled bolt respond with a satisfying thunk. He opened the door, indicated with a sideways nod that his guest should go in before him.
Charlie Moon entered a dimly lit room that smelled of oiled woods, candle wax, and dust of ages long forgotten.
The last male of the wealthy branch of the Cassidy clan pressed an old-fashioned push-button switch. On the acoustic-paneled ceiling, a double row of fluorescent lights sizzled and popped before blooming to life.
A wee black mouse went lickety-splitting across the unpainted concrete floor, found refuge in a corner, under the bristles of a broom.
Now inside his habitual lair, Moon’s host assumed the confident air of a professional guide who knows everything about his subject. “The building was constructed in 1939, just as the war was heating up in Europe. When I am in one of my whimsical moods,” Bertie said this almost to himself, “I refer to this old crypt as the Cassidy Mausoleum. This makes Auntie Jane quite furious.” He snickered.
The tribal investigator waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.
Bertie blinked at the flickering fluorescents. “We are in the display room, where I occasionally bring out a few items for viewing by selected groups. Years ago, when the family allowed drop-in visitors three days every week, we entertained everyone from mom-and-pop tourists to distinguished university scholars. These days, the collection is shown only by special appointment. Auntie Jane does not care to have curious erudites poking and prowling about the family treasures. She prefers to cater to senior citizens, church groups, Boy and Girl Scouts, and schoolchildren who have an interest in the Cassidy curiosities.” He noted that the Indian policeman’s gaze had been pulled to the steel door on the far wall. “That is the entrance to the secure storage space, where the most valuable items in the collection are generally kept locked away. It is a veritable vault. The walls are steel-reinforced poured concrete, there is no outside door, and the windows—which are primarily for ventilation—are just fourteen inches square and protected with two-inch-diameter steel bars. The burglar would have required dynamite or a cutting torch to gain entry to the inner sanctum.”
“Interesting place,” Moon said.
“Yes. Interesting.” Bertram Eustace Cassidy sucked too much dust into his nostrils, paused to sneeze. He wiped his nose with a spotless silk handkerchief. “To be perfectly candid, the place does not deserve to be called a museum any more than I deserve my title as curator. This is merely a storage shed for a collection of old stuff. Some of it mere bric-a-brac, some quite hideous, some even quite valuable—but there is no theme to the collection, and I am little more than a caretaker.”
The tribal investigator was only half listening. “Looks like the fella with the sack found what he wanted here.” In the center of the room, a glass display case had been smashed, and was empty. No attempt had been made to tidy up.
“Indeed.” Bertie indulged in a melancholy sigh. “Nine days out of ten, there would have been nothing in the display room but relatively common stuff. Sadly, I had been preparing for a visit from the Salida High School History Club. These precocious youths were to be bused in for my presentation—only three days after the burglary.” Bertie shook his bald head. “If it were not for that unfortunate coincidence, the sneak thief would have gained access to very little that was worth hauling away.”
Moon tried to remember what he had read in the newspaper. “The break-in, didn’t it happen on the second day of May?” The same day Kicks Dogs had shown up at Daisy’s home, reported her husband missing.
Bertie nodded. “At almost precisely two AM Auntie Jane was awakened by the sound of breaking glass. I also heard the sound, but thought I had imagined it.” He turned to stare at the door. “I should have thought a professional burglar would have used a glass cutter—it would have made virtually no sound at all.”
“Yeah. Sounds like an amateur. You or your aunt see anything?”
“Sadly, no. But she immediately called the police, then came to my bedroom yelling her head off. I went outside with a flashlight and a baseball bat, but by then the thief had fled.”
Lucky for you. Moon surveyed the items left behind by the thief. There were unpainted pine shelves lined with jars and bottles containing biological specimens—slugs, snails, snakes, amphibians, and more than a few unidentifiable, monstrous things. An unbroken display case was filled with fossils of mollusks, mammoths, and mastodons. Another contained an assortment of obsidian and flint projectile points, beaded moccasins, Mesa Verde pottery. On the walls were reproductions of ancient maps of strange, mythical lands where dragons breathed fire, fathomless seas where scaled serpents appeared suddenly from the depths to crunch sailing ships in monstrous toothed jaws. More strange by far were a dozen frames of iridescent butterflies, giant moths, glistening blue-black crickets, mummified tree frogs, beetles both great and small—some with pincers raised high. All quite lovely, made perfect in death.
Charlie Moon rapped a knuckle on the broken display case. “What exactly did the bad guy take?”
“I will, of course, provide you with the detailed list we provided to the police,” Bertie said. “But the scoundrel made off with the bulk of the Cassidy rare-coin collection, which included everything from Spanish pieces of eight to early American cents, many of them quite rare.”
This matched the newspaper accounts. “What’re the coins worth?”
Bertie shrugged. “It is impossible to be precise, but on today’s market the collection would certainly bring three million dollars. Perhaps twice that much.”
“That’s a sizable pile of money.”
“Indeed. Then there was Auntie Jane’s three or four dozen antique cameos, probably worth no more than seventy or eighty thousand dollars—but of considerable sentimental value.”
The cash-stretched Ute glanced at Bertie’s face to see if he was joking. There was not the least sign of humor.
“The cameos were not all that remarkable.” He blinked at the Indian. “But I thought the young ladies in the History Club would enjoy seeing them.”
Moon was thinking about the rare coins. “And everybody loves money.”
“Oh my, yes.” The curator of the Cassidy collection chortled. “Even innocent children drool over disks of silver and gold. And copper, for that matter.”
“Bertie, it strikes me that you’re in an awfully good mood for a man who’s lost a good chunk of his inheritance.”
Bertie struck a Puckish pose, snapped his stubby fingers. “I care not a tra-la-la for this world’s rubies and crowns and rings—what I want is angel’s wings.”
The Ute, who had taken several literature courses at Fort Lewis College, cocked his head. “Who said that?”
“I did, of course.” Bertie giggled. “What do you think”—he pointed at the ceiling—“there’s a poetic pixie prancing in the loft?”
Moon grinned. Not in the loft. “How much trouble will the thief have when he tries to sell the stuff?”
As he considered this question, Bertie scratched at his hairless scalp. “It will not be easy. The list of coins has been posted on the Internet. Alarms would certainly go off among reputable numismatists if some lowlife attempted to sell even one silver three-cent piece on the legitimate market.”
“But there are collectors who are more than willing to buy stolen goods.”
Bertie nodded. “Sad but true. And in principle, every piece that was stolen could be sold on the gray market. But unless the thief took on the job specifically for such a client, he would have to be very patient, and enormously cautious. The most sensible option would be to sell the goods back to Auntie Jane. But even that approach has its obvious hazards. The thief would require a reliable go-between, an honest broker who could be trusted by buyer and seller alike. Which is why the thieving rascal contacted Ralph Briggs—a dealer who happens to be a trusted family friend.” He studied the Indian’s dark profile, wondered what sort of man this was. “Would you like the grand tour of the inner sanctum?”
In truth, Charlie Moon would not. But he did not know how to say no to his happy little host.
The curator of the Cassidy collection twirled a combination lock six times, opened the steel door, switched on another bank of fluorescent lights, led the tribal investigator along the aisles inside the massive vault. Aside from row upon row of shelves lined with meticulously labeled cardboard and wooden boxes, there was little to see other than a few magnificent Chinese spittoons, a silver-inlaid French crossbow, a Remington bronze of an Arapaho buffalo hunt, a small display of Mayan jade artifacts. The men’s footsteps raised swirls of dust. When the tour was finished, Moon was happy to hear the heavy door close behind him. He was even happier to be outside, where the air was fresh and sweet, where crickets and frogs were chirping, and moths fluttered about electric floodlights.
They headed across the wet grass toward Moon’s pickup, Bertie skipping two steps to the tall man’s single stride. “Tell me the honest truth, Charlie—do you think you can help us recover the stolen items?”
The Ute ducked to pass under a mulberry branch. “I doubt it.”
“Then you’re merely in this for the money you can squeeze out of Auntie Jane?”
“Sure.”
“Bully for you.”
Moon stopped at Betty Lou, picked an elm leaf off the windshield wiper.
Bertie kicked the toe of his fuzzy slipper against the massive tire. “This is quite a remarkable truck.” He heaved a long, wistful sigh. “If Auntie Jane was to see me driving a huge, vulgar vehicle like this around the neighborhood, the poor old thing would throw a hissing fit.” Rubbing his fingers along the fender, he addressed the owner of the marvelous F-350: “I should not tell you this, which is the very reason I am determined to—but another law-enforcement professional is already working on the recovery of the Cassidy coins and cameos. And I’d bet a Morgan silver dollar to a Roosevelt copper dime that it is someone you know.” He watched the Ute’s face, expecting a reaction. “Does that worry you?”
“Not a smidgen,” Moon said. “Competition is the American Way.”
“Oh, fudge—I was hoping you would attempt to wheedle the details out of me.”
He grinned at the odd little man. “If it’ll make you feel better, consider yourself wheedled.”
“Oh my, you are so intimidating—why, I feel compelled to tell you everything!” Bertie lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “Your competition is a police officer who showed up several hours after the burglary—but just minutes after the gaggle of police who were investigating the break-in had departed.”
Mr. Moon stared at Mr. Cassidy.
Bertie clapped his hands. “Aha—I thought that might get your attention.” He continued in a conspiratorial tone, “This policeman—who said he’d been working all night at his appointed duties—claimed that he had a pretty good idea about who is responsible for the recent burglaries in our neighborhood. He said he couldn’t work on it officially because the crime was committed outside his jurisdiction. But the cheeky fellow hinted that he might be enticed to help us get the stolen goods back if a suitable financial remuneration was forthcoming. This suggestion inspired Auntie Jane to offer the twenty-thousand-dollar reward for the return of the loot. She told him to contact us when he had something solid. So far, we have not heard from the fellow.”
Moon considered the possibilities. “If your home isn’t in his jurisdiction, it couldn’t have been a state police officer. Must’ve been one of the fellas from Durango.”
“Negatory.” The pale face grinned. “This John Law was one of yours.”
“A Ute?”
“I would not want to go so far as to say that he was a Ute.” The tattler was highly pleased with himself. “But the constable in question did have a Southern Ute PD patch stitched onto the arm of his jacket.”
Moon muttered to himself, “One of our officers…on the night shift.” Surely not.
“You are an uncommonly sly fellow, Mr. Moon—do you think you can get the copper’s name out of me?”
“Probably not.” The Indian shook his head in a regretful manner. “The tribe has some new rules against staking folks out on anthills or sticking their heads in a basket of snakes.”
Bertie feigned great disappointment. “Oh dear me, and I so wanted to pass on that one last tidbit of juicy gossip.” He pondered for a moment. “If I shall not be forced to tell you the gendarme’s name outright, would you object to a subtle hint?”
Moon wondered whether the peculiar man had fabricated the story for the sake of entertainment.
“Very well, I shall take your stony silence as a yes. Now here goes—think of a wild animal that howls at the moon. We’re talking canine, but you can eliminate the fox, jackal, and dingo. This is the same big bad howler that et Little Red Riding Hood’s aunt.”
“Granny.”
“Oh dear me, you are right—it was Red’s granny that got et, not her auntie.” Bertie giggled. “That must have been a Freudian slip.”
A MILE down the road, Moon dialed Chief of Police Whitehorse’s unpublished home number, waited through a recorded message.
“Wallace, this is Charlie Moon. We need to talk about Jim Wolfe. I’ll be in your office at eight AM sharp.”
OFFICER JAMES Wolfe was unable to eat, much less to sleep. The desperate man paced across his small parlor, his thoughts racing in maddening circles li
ke a crazed dog attempting to bite its tail. Felix Navarone has to be dead—I shot that Apache up enough to kill him half a dozen times. So why isn’t he under that pile of rocks where I put him? Finally worn out from going nowhere, he paused, leaned on the papered wall. This is a bad dream, that’s all. I need to do something to wake myself up.
This was the SUPD officer’s most hopeful thought in several days.
I could leave Colorado, go someplace where nobody knows my name—get a brand-new start. Yeah—maybe I should just walk away with what I’ve got in my pockets—leave everything behind. His mouth curled into a childish grin. That’d sure make Charlie Moon and the rest of those Ute cops wonder what in the world happened to ol’ Jim Wolfe.
This notion sounded better and better.
I could head down to Mexico. Sonora, maybe.
The question of travel was a sticky one. A man could get on a bus without attracting much attention. Or thumb a ride with a lonesome trucker. A better notion came to mind. I could call my kid brother over in Alamosa. If I asked him, Dave would come and get me tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
AN INTERNAL MATTER
Charlie Moon apologized to the SUPD chief of police for calling the meeting on such short notice. “But I didn’t feel like I had much choice—Officer Wolfe has been doing some peculiar things.”
Wallace Whitehorse eased himself into the creaking chair behind his desk. The Northern Cheyenne had never been particularly fond of the white cop who was the subject of this meeting. But Jim Wolfe was his white cop, and Charlie Moon had no official authority whatever in the Southern Ute Police Department. But what the tribal investigator did have was the ear of tribal chairman Oscar Sweetwater. And that carried plenty of weight with the politically conscious chief of police. He slapped his big hand on a stack of files and duty logs. “I got all of Wolfe’s paperwork here.”
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