“Oh yes, now I remember. Since making the one-million-dollar offer, the Denver law firm which represents my interests has been inundated with calls from a veritable horde of pests, lunatics, practical jokers, and outright hoaxters—and I must evaluate every one of these inquiries. I have lost my appetite, my ability to sleep, and my good humor.” Her brow furrowed into a hateful frown. “You have let me down, Charles. I am sad to discover the ugly truth—which is that you are ineffectual.”
“I can understand why you’re upset, but—”
“Hush! I have come to the inescapable conclusion that your reputation for getting results is mere puffery. Therefore, you are no longer in my employ.”
“I’m fired?”
“You are indeed. Sacked. Laid off. Made redundant. And retroactively to the very hour of that unfortunate day when you talked me into offering the thief—or thieves—a fortune for the return of my property, which I shall undoubtedly never lay eyes on again.” She paused to take a sip of her strong drink. “And furthermore, I insist that you return the portion of your fees charged to my account since that date.” She bared her gums, as if preparing to hiss through the gap in her capped teeth. “Otherwise you shall hear from my army of attorneys.”
“But you’ve never paid me a thin dime.”
“Do not bother me with piddling details, young man.” She pointed at some imagined spot in the distance. “Now hit the road—and don’t come back!”
A raw wind moaned the bluest kind of blues, blew rain horizontally across the porch.
“Miss Cassidy, if I could come inside for a minute, I’m sure I could—”
“Don’t plead with me—it is highly unbecoming.” Leaning to look around the tall man, Jane saw the pickup for the first time. She made a horrid face. “Where did you get such a hideously ugly vehicle?”
Moon glanced over his shoulder. “That’s my new—”
“Dear me, I hope none of our neighbors sees that monstrosity parked on my drive. You must remove it immediately.”
Sidewinder, big mouth gaping, tongue lolling over rows of teeth, stared out the truck window at the woman.
“And that horrible, filthy animal!” She started to cackle, sloshing expensive whiskey out of the glass. “I have never seen such an exquisitely homely creature.”
The Ute, wet to the skin, looked down his nose at the drunken woman. “Excuse me—what did you say about my dog?”
“Are you deaf as well as dumb?” Jane Cassidy put a wrinkled pink palm beside her mouth, shrieked, “Your beastly companion is homely. Ugly. Hideous. Repulsive. Vile.” She laughed in his face. “If you wish to hear more, I will instruct Bertie to fetch a thesaurus.”
A bitter smile twisted his lips. “No need to go to all that trouble.”
She backed into the spacious parlor, slammed the door.
The tribal investigator tipped his sodden hat. “Sorry I bothered you.”
Jane Cassidy went to a mullioned window to peer through a slit in the heavy drapes. She watched the big pickup move down the long driveway, disappear. The wealthy woman turned to glare at her nephew, spilling what was left of the whiskey on his shoes. “How dare that cheeky fellow—I did not give him permission to leave.”
“Yes, Auntie.” Bertie barely suppressed a smirk. “The man’s behavior is simply indefensible.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE CALL
It was a few minutes after 10:00 PM Charlie Moon was still awake when the telephone at his bedside made the usual warble. He scooped it up. “Lila Mae?”
“So you have caller ID,” she said. A heartbeat. “No. That couldn’t be it—I have an unpublished number.”
“Don’t matter, lady. I got your number.”
“No, really—how did you know it was me?”
He grinned at the darkness. “None of my other women call me this late.”
“I imagine that’s because they don’t lie awake at night thinking about—” What am I saying! “What I mean is—”
“I was thinking about you too, McTeague.”
“Were you—really?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Charlie, do you miss me?”
“Only when you’re not with me.”
For a dazzling moment, she was sixteen again. “When will I see you?”
“I’ll crank up the pickup, be at your place in forty-six minutes.”
“Don’t be silly.” Not that I’d mind.
“Okay. I’ll drive the speed limit. Make it an hour.”
The teenager faded away. “Charlie, I called on official business.”
He put his bare feet on the cold floor. “I hope this isn’t bad news.”
“I just had a call from Stan. The Bureau has some new information on the .22-caliber revolver—the one used in the Ralph Briggs shooting.”
The tribal investigator waited.
The FBI agent dropped the hammer: “The weapon has been traced.”
Sure. To a woman. From that day in Scott Parris’s office, Charlie Moon had recognized the revolver as a LadySmith. He stared into the darkness. Please, God. “Anybody I know?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“Who?”
“Sorry, Charlie—I can’t break the rules. No name until the potential suspect is either cleared or under arrest. I merely wanted to advise you that we are making progress in the Ralph Briggs shooting.”
No response from the Ute.
“Look—I’ll talk to my partner. Maybe Stan will let me stretch the rules.”
The telephone felt cold in his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
“It would not be a personal favor—merely a professional courtesy. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
A long silence, then: “Is your back still itching, McTeague?”
“What have you got?”
“A riddle.”
“I hate riddles.”
“You’ll like this one. A man owns a very nifty car. Why doesn’t he keep it parked in his garage?”
She thought about it. “The garage is full of junk?”
“Wrong answer.”
“There’s another car in the garage?”
“Bingo, McTeague. You win the teddy bear.”
“I already have a teddy bear.” I sleep with it. “But if you have any information relevant to a Bureau investigation, you’d better tell me right now or I’ll—”
“Break my arm?”
“We’re talking compound fracture.”
“Ouch.”
“This fellow with the garage—who is he?”
“Sorry, McTeague. I can’t break the rules.”
“I hate and despise you.”
“I know. Want to meet me somewhere for breakfast?”
Her voice softened. “Sorry. I have a seven-thirty appointment with my partner.” She waited for a response that did not come. “Some of us have to work hard for a living.”
“Better you than me, Lila Mae.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ENCOUNTER IN IGNACIO
The tribal investigator had pulled the Columbine Expedition into a gas station across the highway from the Sky Ute Casino. He was filling the tank when the stringy-haired blond woman saw him, came running across two lanes of traffic. As if he might not notice her approach, she waved and shouted, “Charlie—Charlie Moon!”
He tipped his black Stetson, smiled.
Kicks Dogs leaned on the gas pump, caught her breath. “Oh, I am so glad to see you.”
He thought he knew, but asked, “What’s the problem?”
Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife shook her head. “Oh God—my whole life is a problem. You would never guess who’s been harassing me.”
Moon watched a gray Ford sedan pass by. “FBI?”
Her eyes went round and large. “How did you know?”
“Years of experience.”
Kicks Dogs pointed at his silver belt buckle. “They spent half the day at my house, practically accusing me of being mixed up in some kind of break-i
n. And shooting some man up in Granite Creek.”
“Ralph Briggs.”
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
“The FBI don’t make a habit of questioning people for no reason at all.”
The woman chewed on her lip. “The .22 pistol that was used to shoot that Mr. Briggs—it turns out it belonged to me.” She looked away. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Well, it’s like this.” Her pale blue eyes implored him to believe. “I had the pistol when I met Jake. But he liked it a lot, and used to carry it around in his coat pocket. Sometimes he would keep it in the van.”
“That night Jacob left you in the canyon—did he have the .22 with him then?”
“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I ain’t seen it in months. And that’s the honest truth.”
“I can see how this is a problem.” He tried not to sound too hard. “But why are you telling me?”
Her answer was frank, and totally disarming. “Because you are so nice and kind.”
He did not know what to say.
“You are a man who really cares about people—I can always tell.” Kicks rubbed a frayed coat sleeve across her nose. “And I think maybe you could help me.”
I know I shouldn’t ask. “How could I help you?”
“I believe the FBI is going to arrest me.” Fear pulled at the pallid face. “Maybe you could talk to them, tell them I didn’t have nothing to do with shooting that Briggs fella.”
“I hate to admit this, but I don’t have the least influence with the feds.”
Kicks made a face, glared at the gas pump as if she might punch it right in the snout. “What I need is a good lawyer.”
“That would be the right place to start.”
She turned her head to look off in the distance. “If I had some money, I’d move miles and miles away from here.”
“Where to?”
“Back home.” The confused woman pointed west. “North Carolina.” She looked as if she were about to cry. “But I don’t have a job, or hardly any savings left. I got a fourth-grade education. Where is a person like me going to get more than a few dollars?”
THE GRAY Ford sedan did a U-turn, pulled into the broad parking lot at the Sky Ute Casino. The driver used a palm-size Japanese camera, adjusted the zoom lens, shot six digital images of the tribal investigator and the blond woman—who appeared to be listening very attentively to what the Ute had to say. From time to time, the suspect nodded. Finally, Kicks Dogs Gourd Rattle hugged the tall man, hurried away as if she was late for an important appointment. So which one do I follow?
MOON PULLED away from the gas station. As he had expected, the gray Ford was not far behind. He parked at the curb in front of Wiseman’s Hardware. The FBI sedan pulled up beside him, the passenger-side window was lowered. He nodded at the occupant.
Special Agent McTeague gave him an unreadable look. “Want to go for a ride?”
“One way?”
“Depends on how you behave.”
“Your wheels or mine?”
“Get in,” she said.
He did. “Don’t get the wrong idea, McTeague. I’m not usually such an easy pickup.”
She was not amused. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
“I cannot pass a hardware store. And once I’m inside, I’m liable to browse around for hours purchasing copper pipes and roofing paint and tin snips—”
“Can it.”
“Oh—do you refer to my accidental clandestine meeting with Mrs. Gourd Rattle?”
“Talk to me.”
“I thought we were going for a ride.”
“That was what’s commonly known as a figure of speech. Not to be taken literally.”
“I literally wanted to go for a ride.” Moon shook his head. “I am very disappointed.”
“Look, cowboy—I haven’t got all day.”
“Neither have I. So start driving, Special Agent McTeague.”
She gave him a suspicious glance. “Where to?”
“I’ll tell you on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“This is between you and me.”
She arched a pretty eyebrow. “You wish to act as an unnamed informant?”
“‘Confidential source’ sounds a lot better.”
“You expect me to keep my partner in the dark?”
“Like a baby mushroom.”
She shrugged. “I suppose it would be all right.”
“You’ll never regret it, McTeague.”
“I doubt that. But tell me where we’re going.”
He told her.
AN HOUR later, she glanced at her passenger. “This pathetic excuse for a road is perfectly hideous and we’re a dozen miles from no place—what are we doing here?”
“Don’t get any ideas.” He gave her a bashful grin.
She blushed. “Shut up and talk.”
“You sound a lot like my aunt Daisy.”
“I would like to meet the lady.”
But would she like to meet you. That is the question.
“How much farther—”
“About thirty yards, on your left.”
She braked the Ford to a crawl, squinted at the rusty mailbox. “Who is E. Ganado?”
Moon shifted his long frame in the small car. “An accident-prone Navajo who rents this splendid estate from our highly esteemed tribal chairman.”
“Why should I pretend to be interested?”
“Because Eddie Ganado was hired by the attorney who represents Felix Navarone.”
“That weirdo Apache who got treed near Capote Lake?” She turned the car into the weed-choked lane.
“That’s the guy.”
McTeague parked by the yellow Pontiac. Ganado’s classic automobile was coated with rain-spotted dust and an assortment of sticky seeds and windblown leaves. She set the parking brake. “Okay, Confidential Source. What is this all about?”
“This is about the answer to the riddle.”
She arched a pretty eyebrow. “The one about the man who has a snazzy car that he doesn’t park in his garage?”
“Right.”
She looked around the property. “Okay. The Pontiac is sitting out in the weather. Whose car is in the garage?”
“I’d like to tell you, ma’am—but my momma didn’t raise me up to be an obnoxious show-off.”
“Go ahead,” she urged. “Just this once.”
“All right.” He assumed a pensive look. “But if I’m wrong, I will be extremely embarrassed.”
For the first time that day, the pretty woman smiled. “Then for me, this is a win-win proposition.”
“What we will find in the garage is the Dodge van that belongs to the missing Mr. Gourd Rattle.”
Without another word, the federal agent got out of the car.
He followed her.
“The garage door is padlocked.” She frowned at the tribal investigator. “And I do not have a search warrant.”
“Check the other side,” Moon suggested. “See if there’s another entrance.”
McTeague walked around the garage, found no second door. When she returned, the Ute had the lock and hasp in his hand.
“Dang thing was loose.” Moon grinned. “Poor installation, I guess. If I had not caught it, it would’ve fell on the ground.”
The FBI agent rolled her big, beautiful eyes. “You are impossible.”
“You are hard to please. But before we leave, I guess you’ll want to check inside the garage.” He took hold of the handle in the center of the garage door, lifted it shoulder-high.
McTeague stared at the rear end of the Dodge van. “Charlie—please tell me that you did not find the van somewhere, drive it here yourself.”
“You are an unusually suspicious woman—even for a federal cop.”
She sniffed. “Do you smell what I smell?”
He nodded. “I think you’d better open the van door.”
She shot him a look. “Why me?”
/> “You’re in charge, McTeague. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
With a handkerchief in her hand, the FBI agent turned the chrome-plated handle, opened the van’s rear door. “Oh God.”
A swarm of blackflies ascended from the corpse, buzzed around, settled down again.
The Ute, who had been taught to abhor dead bodies, did not approach.
She fought off a threat of nausea. “Is this…was this Mr. Gourd Rattle?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mr. Ganado?”
The Ute tried not to breathe. “That’d be my guess.”
“He appears to have been shot.” Special Agent McTeague pressed the handkerchief against her nose, turned to the Ute, spoke through the linen square. “Charlie—do you have any idea who did this?”
“Ideas are a dime a dozen.” Moon looked up at the sky. “But if I come up with anything worth mentioning, you’ll be the first to know.”
LILA MAE McTeague was dreaming about Frank Sinatra. Ol’ Blue Eyes gave her a wink. Opened his mouth to sing. What came out was—brrrriiiiing!
The sleeper jumped, flailed about wildly in the darkness of her bedroom, managed to find the telephone. “Oh…uh…McTeague here.” She was not entirely certain where here was.
“Good morning.”
“Ch-Charlie?”
The deep voice boomed in her ear: “You sound half asleep—you still in bed?”
She turned over, squinted at the red numbers on the digital clock, groaned. “Do you know how early it is?”
“It is not early, Special Agent McTeague. It is almost five in the AM. Time to hit the floor, get your duds on, strap on that ugly 9-millimeter automatic pistol, go and do something useful for the citizens of the good old US of A.”
“Good idea.” She yawned. “I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“That can wait. Was the corpse in the van Eddie Ganado?”
“It was.” She frowned at the invisible man. “And you knew exactly what we’d find before you took me out there, so don’t say you didn’t.” McTeague pulled the quilt up to her chin. “I bet you’d already found the van and his corpse. And I bet you put that padlock on the garage door.”
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