The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  “You’d lose both bets.”

  “Then how did you know—”

  “I’d dropped by Ganado’s place earlier. Soon as I parked my truck, I smelled his body.”

  “Without opening the garage door?”

  “We rural folk tend to have better noses than city people. Probably because the air out here’s so clean.”

  She yawned into the telephone.

  “Tell me, McTeague—do you have any hot suspects in the Ganado homicide?”

  “Do you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “No, I do not. But Stan and I are interviewing people who were acquainted with Mr. Ganado.”

  “Like the lawyer he worked for?”

  “Of course. And that Apache character she represents—” McTeague closed her eyes. “My mind is so foggy when I first wake up—what is his name?”

  “Felix Navarone. Would you like me to recite the date of his birth, his Social Security number, and the name of his favorite uncle?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “I refuse to encourage show-offs who think they know everything.”

  “Not everything, McTeague. There’s one thing I’ve never been able to fathom.”

  Anticipating a highly personal question, she smiled dreamily. “And what would that be?”

  “The square root of minus nine.”

  “Mr. Moon, I believe that number dwells in the realm of the imaginary.”

  “I believe you’re right, Miss McTeague.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I found out from Felix Navarone?”

  “Sure. What did he have to say about the Ganado shooting?”

  “So far, nothing at all. Primarily because I have not been able to find him.”

  “From what I hear, Felix has been staying with his brother Ned. Him and Felix have a place over by Pagosa Springs.”

  “I am well aware of this,” she said. “But Felix was not there when I went to call. And big brother Ned was not happy to see me. In fact, he threatened to break my head.”

  Moon’s tone went deathly flat. “He actually said that?”

  “I have omitted a few salty expletives. But yes, he did. And it seemed to me that he meant it. For a moment, I thought I might have to shoot him right between the eyes.”

  “Too bad you didn’t.”

  She stretched, yawned again. “Charlie, I really appreciate your assistance in locating Eduardo Ganado’s body—and Jacob Gourd Rattle’s vehicle. You have been an enormous help in the investigation. So much, in fact, that my partner has concluded that I am an investigative genius.”

  Moon chuckled. “You must be really embarrassed.”

  “I just stuck out my tongue at you. Now I am going to hang up.”

  “After you do that, get dressed. If you leave your nice little house on Buttonwood Lane in fifteen minutes, you can be at the Southern Ute Police Department just about the time Wallace Whitehorse shows up and pours his first cup of coffee.”

  She fell back on the pillow. “You are insane.”

  “I must be—I’ve decided to scratch your back again.”

  Instantly, her feet were on the floor. “Same condition as before?”

  “Right. Far as Stan Newman is concerned, you didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Okay.” She was hopping around, pulling on her slacks with one hand. “Hold on a minute.” The dancer bumped into a lamp, sent it tumbling to the floor.

  “What was that?”

  “I broke a lamp.”

  “You have got quite a temper.”

  “And don’t you forget it. Now talk to me.”

  “Just a few hours after the Cassidy Museum burglary, Kicks Dogs showed up at my aunt Daisy’s home, reported her husband missing. I put in a call to SUPD for some help in doing a preliminary search of Spirit Canyon. Jim Wolfe was just getting off the night shift, but he volunteered to respond to the call.”

  “I already know about that.”

  “Do you know Wolfe was wearing a raincoat over his uniform jacket? And that this raincoat had a zippered hood, fleece lining, and two big pockets?”

  “The latest in men’s fashion is not one of my strong points.” She clamped the telephone between cheek and shoulder, buckled her belt, brushed a hank of hair off her forehead. “But no. I did not know that.”

  “That raincoat wasn’t in Wolfe’s apartment, or in his car. And he was not wearing it whilst he slept under the stones. Which probably means it’s in his SUPD locker, with his other personal effects.”

  “This raincoat—it’s important?”

  “It might be. If you’d like to find some kind of connection between Officer Wolfe and Jacob Gourd Rattle.”

  She was buttoning a white silk blouse. “How do you figure that?”

  I can’t tell her about Oscar Sweetwater’s videotape. “Ah—let’s call it a hunch.”

  “Right.” Like your hunch about Gourd Rattle’s van being in Eddie Ganado’s garage. “So what do I do with the late James Wolfe’s raincoat?”

  “Check the pockets.”

  “What should I expect to find?”

  “Oh, the usual stuff. Stick of chewing gum. Coupla Tums. Paper clip. Rubber band. Little bits of this and that. And maybe—an ignition key.”

  “What’s so special about Officer Wolfe’s car key?”

  The tribal investigator told her that it was not. And also told her what.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  IN THE SIDE POCKET

  Special Agent Lila Mae Mcteague stepped smartly along the row of steel lockers, paused at number 14. A lined index card was Scotch-taped to the vented door. The neat script inked on the diminutive sign notified anyone who cared to know that this particular metal closet was assigned to one J. Wolfe.

  McTeague stepped aside as Officer Daniel Bignight approached, brandishing a yard-long bolt cutter. He set the instrument’s sturdy jaws on the hardened-steel shackle of a BullDog combination padlock.

  Chief of Police Wallace Whitehorse imagined that he could read the FBI agent’s thoughts, and considered it expeditious to respond to her unspoken question. “Our employees buy their own locks. According to regs, they’re supposed to provide the combination or a spare key to my office. But you know how it goes.”

  The fed did not know “how it goes,” nor did she care. McTeague had no interest in the cop-bureaucrat’s commentary—she desperately wanted to check the pockets of the dead man’s raincoat. But as one who was not supposed to have the least idea of what might be found among Officer Jim Wolfe’s personal effects, she managed to suppress her excitement.

  Whitehorse continued, “Some of ’em follow the rules, but some of ’em—like Wolfe—never quite get around to it. That’s why I don’t have the combination.”

  Danny Bignight grimaced as he muscled the handles on the bolt cutter. For a moment, it looked like either the impressive hardware or his biceps might not be up to the job. He set his jaw and grunted. There was a sharp crack as the shackle was cleaved.

  The FBI agent watched Bignight work the broken padlock off the hasp. “I’ll want photos before anything is touched.”

  Chief of Police Whitehorse nodded. What does Miss Fancy Pants think we are—a bunch of bumbling amateurs?

  Danny Bignight dropped the heavy bolt cutters on his foot, muttered an untranslatable expletive in the Tiwa language, hopped around.

  Oblivious to the unfortunate man’s pain, McTeague and Whitehorse made a visual inventory of the open locker.

  Hanging on a rusted metal rod were two wrinkled blue shirts, an SUPD uniform jacket, a black fleece-lined raincoat. In the bottom of the space, a Houston Oilers’ visored cap, a pair of well-shined black boots, a few paperback novels, three unopened packs of mentholated cigarettes, a Leatherman tool, a .32-caliber Browning automatic pistol in a canvas holster.

  “Must be Wolfe’s personal piece,” Whitehorse said. He shouldn’t have kept his private gun in his locker.

>   “Photograph and bag the firearm,” McTeague said to Bignight, who was rubbing his instep.

  Though he took his orders from Chief of Police Whitehorse, Daniel Bignight understood the unwritten rules that applied to working with the Bureau. He followed her instructions. After the pistol was properly disposed of, he took several photographs of the locker—including a close-up of the movie-star pinup on the inside of the door where Wolfe or a predecessor had taped a magazine photograph of a pretty lady who was long since dead. Perched on the tiled edge of a turquoise-blue swimming pool, she wore a modest yellow bathing suit and a seductive smile. The SUPD cop read the caption. “Lana Turner,” he muttered. Wonder who she is.

  Whitehorse scowled at the Pueblo Indian. “Let’s get on with it, Danny.”

  Special Agent McTeague waited with the best imitation of patience she could muster, leaving the removal of the contents to Bignight.

  The Leatherman tool.

  The books.

  The boots.

  The baseball cap.

  The cigarettes.

  And on and on and on.

  Finally, Wallace Whitehorse removed the items of clothing from the locker, placed them on a folding-leg card table that had been set up to display the meager effects of the recently deceased Officer Wolfe.

  McTeague managed to maintain a detached, professional air. Surely they won’t forget to—

  They did not.

  Bignight pulled on a pair of skin-tight rubber gloves, removed objects from the jacket pockets: a soiled handkerchief, a package of cherry Life Savers. He repeated the procedure on the raincoat. He placed each item on the card table, took appropriate photos.

  The FBI agent stared at the specimens. Not precisely what Moon had predicted, but not far off. A small Swiss army pocketknife with jet-black handles. A half-full pack of cigarettes. A book of matches from the Mountain Man Bar and Grille. Seventy-eight cents in coins. Three plastic toothpicks. A small bottle of over-the-counter eyedrops.

  And a worn brass key.

  Danny Bignight proceeded to insert the potential evidence into plastic bags.

  She tried to sound nonchalant. “What’s the key for?”

  Both policemen looked at her. Both shrugged.

  She put out her hand like a blind beggar reaching for a few pence.

  Bignight gave the fed the Ziploc bag.

  Lila Mae McTeague studied the contents. “Looks to me like an ignition key.”

  “Yeah,” Whitehorse said in a monotone. “An ignition key.” So what?

  “That’s what it looks like,” Bignight said. “But it’s not for one of the department’s units.” He squinted. “This key is old and worn.”

  The chief of police slipped on a pair of rimless spectacles, leaned to inspect the brass artifact. “Officer Wolfe drove a Subaru Forester. But that’s no Subaru key.”

  “I have a hunch,” McTeague said.

  The pair of Indians gawked at the enigmatic fed.

  She flashed a smile. “Let’s go out to the holding yard where you stored Mr. Gourd Rattle’s Dodge van. See if the key fits.”

  Hunch, my left hind leg. Wallace Whitehorse’s eyes narrowed. She’s got some inside information. And she ain’t gonna tell us zip.

  Daniel Bignight held a quite different opinion. This lady is as smart as she is good-looking.

  HIS COURSE set for the Gourd Rattle van, Special Agent Stanley Newman marched across the graveled holding yard with all the enthusiasm of a brand-new ROTC cadet. McTeague was there, flanked by the SUPD top cop and one of Wallace Whitehorse’s underlings. Newman gave Chief of Police Whitehorse a perfunctory nod, ignored Daniel Bignight altogether, shouldered up to his partner. “If you’d let me know where you were going this morning, I coulda met you here.”

  “It was just some routine stuff.” McTeague avoided his penetrating gaze. “I thought one of us should be present when the SUPD checked out Officer Wolfe’s locker.” She omitted to mention that she had suggested the action.

  Newman rubbed his fingers along the prickly bristle of an unshaven jowl. “You should’ve called me.” That was standard operating procedure. Your partner didn’t go gallivanting off without at least letting you know where and why. Not unless your partner knew something and was up to no good—like trying to grab all the credit for herself.

  “I got up at the crack of dawn,” McTeague said. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

  Her partner grimaced. “This really stinks.”

  “Look, Stan—I don’t intend to apologize for—”

  “I mean the van.” Newman sniffed. “Still smells like dead meat.” And you don’t fool me for a minute. “So what’ve you got, hotshot?”

  She smiled at the Pueblo Indian. “Officer Bignight will demonstrate.”

  Daniel Bignight put the key in the ignition, turned it. He grinned at Newman when the engine started. “And it’s no accident. We already run a check with the manufacturer. This is the key that come with the van when it was brand-new.”

  “Great,” the fed growled. “Any of you people gonna tell me where you found Mr. Gourd Rattle’s ignition key?”

  Wallace Whitehorse told him.

  Newman arched both bushy eyebrows. “No kidding—in Officer Wolfe’s coat pocket?”

  “Raincoat pocket,” Whitehorse said. He gave the white woman a suspicious look. “We were about to bag it, when Special Agent McTeague realized the key might be important.”

  “That’s right.” Danny Bignight hoped to endear himself to the handsome woman. “I was about to pack the key away with some other junk from Wolfe’s pockets, and she said, ‘What’s the key for?’”

  Stanley Newman rotated to face his partner, gave her a knowing look. “Is that a fact?”

  She tried to stare him down, felt a warm blush creeping up her neck, looked away. “It appeared to be an ignition key. But Chief Whitehorse was sure it wasn’t for a Subaru, which is what Officer Wolfe drove. So we decided to try it on Mr. Gourd Rattle’s van.”

  Thinking the pretty woman far too modest, Bignight chimed in, “That was Agent McTeague’s idea too. I never would’ve thought of it—that Jim Wolfe would have been carrying Jacob Gourd Rattle’s van key around in his pocket.” He shook his head in a go-figure expression.

  The chief of police blasted Daniel Bignight with his blackest stormcloud grimace, made a jerking nod. The boss departed, with a chastened Bignight trailing behind.

  Stanley Newman grinned at his partner. “I am really impressed. First you find the Gourd Rattle van, with Eddie Ganado’s shot-up body inside. And now—now you find the Gourd Rattle van key in the recently deceased Ossifer Wolfe’s coat pocket.”

  “I got lucky.” Lucky that Charlie Moon is helping me.

  “You are way too modest, McTeague. In fact, I am so happy with the job you’re doing that I’m going to buy you a serious breakfast.”

  She tried hard to look pleased.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  SUSPICION

  With the fastidious skill of a neurosurgeon, Special Agent Stanley Newman sliced his stack of lavishly buttered whole-wheat pancakes into perfect quarters. Satisfied with the result, he proceeded to subdivide these pointy portions into eighths. He poured on a generous helping of thick, maple-flavored syrup. The fed tasted the sweet result, pronounced it satisfactory. He shot an amused look at his partner. “How’s your eggs, McTeague?”

  She salted the subject of his inquiry. “I will know when I have tasted them.”

  Newman watched her lovely face. “Now we know Jim Wolfe was definitely connected to Jacob Gourd Rattle—why else would he have Gourd Rattle’s van key in his pocket?”

  Now she peppered the sunny-side-ups. “Raincoat pocket.”

  “It could be an important detail.” He saluted her with his fork. “Thank you for correcting me.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Newman used a paper napkin to wipe syrup off his chin. “Officer Wolfe had that ignition key because he’d drove Gourd Rattle’s van at least
once. I wouldn’t be surprised if Wolfe was behind the wheel on the night when Gourd Rattle left his wife in the canyon to freeze to death.”

  McTeague took a sip of hot tea. “Which is the same night the Cassidy Museum was burgled.”

  Wheels turned in Newman’s head. “Maybe Wolfe and Gourd Rattle did the heist.”

  “Which, with one of them being a Native American and the other an employee of a Native American tribe, puts the museum caper in Bureau jurisdiction.”

  “Caper?”

  “Sorry, Stan. I could not help myself—I have always wanted to use that word.”

  “I hope it is out of your system.” He speared a defenseless sausage link. “You know what bothers me?”

  “Of course. Why did Officer Wolfe still have Mr. Gourd Rattle’s van key in his raincoat pocket?”

  “Yeah. Why would he carry around this incriminating evidence—why not ditch it?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “because Wolfe had driven the van shortly before his demise.”

  “Sure,” Newman said. “Our rogue cop pops Eddie Ganado with his trusty six-shooter, loads the corpse into the van, stashes it in Ganado’s garage. Wolfe is out of our jurisdiction, but we need to get our hands on Jacob Gourd Rattle.”

  “I’d like to have another chat with Mr. Gourd Rattle’s wife about her .22-caliber pistol,” McTeague said. “See if she sticks to her story about her husband carrying it around. While I’m at it, I’ll ask her how many keys they had for the family van.”

  “Sounds like a good plan, Agent McTeague. May I come along when you interview this oddball who calls herself Kicks Dogs—that is, if you don’t mind having your partner’s company?”

  She wrinkled her nose at the sarcastic man. “Tag along if you wish.”

  The grease-loving gourmet impaled a second sausage on the tines of his fork. As he chewed, Newman gave the woman across the table a long, penetrating appraisal.

  McTeague poked a fork at an egg that stared back at her. She dispatched the egg, made a valiant effort to ignore the irritating man.

  He leaned forward, squinted at her.

  She shot him an annoyed look. “What?”