Parker sat in the left chair and Ansel took the right. Billy hustled around his desk and sat in his executive chair before beaming his Cheshire grin again as he pulled open a lower lefthand drawer and removed a manila envelope. “I think we covered the general details about the skull so I’ll show you all the legal documentation.”
“We discussed everything but the price,” Parker interjected. “What do you want for it?”
Billy chuckled. “Well, I’d prefer you look at the papers before we discuss the bottom line. It gives you a better appreciation about what you’re getting for your money, Mr. Georges. After all, it’s not the cost, it’s the pride of owning an irreplaceable piece of antediluvial history, isn’t it? Something to savor every time you look at it and to cherish for a lifetime. It’s also going to become a considerable financial asset over the passing years, so what you’re paying today will be only interest on the capital of tomorrow.”
Ansel wanted to gag. “Where is it? Are we going to see it?”
Billy opened the envelope and pulled out the materials. “It’s much too large and fragile to retain in the store, but it’s being housed nearby. I have some pictures here so you can see it’s condition as you’ll receive it. If you’re interested in purchasing it, I’ll make arrangements for you to view it. It’s been professionally excavated and prepared by people who are experts in this field. The rock surfaces have been carefully cleaned, strengthened with glues, and shellacked with top quality materials and products. All of this requires a lot of time, patience, and skill. These factors must be figured into the price.” He passed four large color photos to Parker
He grabbed them and flipped through them quickly. “This is the real deal, right? I don’t want a fake or a replica. I’m looking for an old dinosaur head for my new house,” Parker demanded. “I want those jerk off managers in my office to piss in their pants the next time they come to my house for a corporate bash.”
Billy laughed. “Actually, this skull is one-hundred sixty million years old. And it’s damn real. All one-hundred-fifty pounds of it.”
“It looks good to me.” Parker passed the photos to Ansel. “What do you think, Angela?”
The color pictures Ansel surveyed showed the excavated skull from four views: both side shots and a top and bottom shot. They were taken in a very dark space with a bright flash. However, the skull appeared to be adequately cleaned and prepped. The two last teeth in the lower lateral jaw were missing, and there was a hole behind the ear hole, along with two teeth gouges on the cheek.
Amazingly, there was no other damage she could attribute to rough handling while being ripped from the ground by poachers, cleaned by amateurs, or hauled around the country for illegal sale. The only characteristic that bothered her was the startling bright yellow color of the skull. The fossil had been a more normal looking golden-brown in Dixie’s Vernal dig site photos.
Fossils reflected the colors of the minerals and sediments that had replaced the original bone with new materials during the slow and delicate process of fossilization. Jurassic Morrison Formation fossil deposits were usually brown or gray with intermixtures of black, red, blue, gold, and maybe peach colors. The yellow tint wasn’t a lighting defect or the result of using improper solvents during cleaning. It looked like a geological anomaly, almost as if organic phosphates deposited by ground waters had moved through the rock beds where the Allosaurus remains had been fossilized.
Ansel scowled. “It’s broken, Peter. There’s a hole on top, marks on the side, and missing teeth.”
Billy swivelled his head toward her. “There are no perfect fossils, but these flaws are all indications of its authenticity. This once living creature was brought down in it’s prime by fierce competition from other predators. You not only have a validation of that fact, you also have an amazing story to go with the skull.” He looked at Parker. “Your work associates will marvel at it, Mr. Georges.”
“I don’t care,” Ansel quipped. “It’s too big. And that color. Yellow doesn’t even go with the powder blue decor of the living room.” She grimaced as Parker’s sloe eyes widened.
Billy jumped in like a pig in mud. “Well, I don’t know about you, Mr. Georges, but I’d change the room colors rather than let this wonderful specimen slip through my fingers. Fossils are precious objects of joy, transcending time and space. No offense, of course, Mrs. Georges, but the Jurassic era didn’t come on a color swatch. Actually that delightful buttery hue is somewhat of a geological rarity.” His smile was wide enough to gobble up Montana.
“He’s right. Who cares?” Parker retorted. “Is that your only objection?” His double meaning was obvious. He wanted a definite sign that he should proceed with the buy.
Ansel sighed and tossed the photos on the desk. “Yes. Get it. Forget I said anything.”
Parker leaned forward. “Let me see the rest of your papers.”
Ansel kept quiet just watching the show. The rest of the convincing-the-mark stage was done solely for Peter Georges’ benefit and went very quickly. Billy produced a wealth of paperwork verifying the origins of the skull as having come from a ranch in Bonanza, Utah. There were legal papers of sale and transfer of ownership between a rancher named Henry Davis and William De Shequette of Accent on Antiquities.
The provenance of the Allosaurus skull was impeccable on the surface. There were permits and licenses. Contracts and sale receipts. Parker’s false grin got wider and wider, while Billy’s back-hinged, serpentine jawbone reached exponential proportions. Then he got to the discussion of price.
“And you’re going to get this beauty for just a hundred-fifty thousand. Now that’s a deal, considering a whole Allosaurus skeleton can go for as high as two million. So are you sold yet?”
Ansel sensed she should get to work again. She glared at Billy. “A thousand dollars per pound? That’s too much.”
The toothsome orifice on Billy’s face shrunk. “On the surface, I suppose I looks that way. However, as I mentioned before, Henry Davis paid to have the skull excavated out-of-pocket. Between the costs for equipment, travel fees, shipment, and paid labor, Mr. Davis has had an overhead of forty-thousand dollars. He needs to turn a profit, and I need to make a commission. I assure you that the sale price is fair market value under the circumstances.”
Ansel looked at Parker. “Honestly Peter, we could get an original 1900s vintage Remington bronze for that price.”
Parker shot her a fierce glance. “I don’t want a sculpture. I want a dinosaur.” His tone was that of a petulant little boy who wasn’t going to get the department store toy he wanted.
She shook her head. “It’s still ridiculous.”
Parker ignored her and faced Billy. “I want it. What’s the next step?”
Billy De Shequette didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll need a small deposit today. Say twenty-five thousand. It guarantees we’ll hold the skull until you see it and make your final decision. Standard practice in the antiquities market. It’s refundable. Will you pay by cash, check or charge?”
“Check.” Parker pulled his checkbook out and signed on the spot.
Ansel hunkered in her chair and pretended to sulk while the men concluded their deal. Inside she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d done her part. Now she could fly home and draw.
Billy gave Parker a receipt for the deposit and explained how he’d contact them within the next few days about setting up a meeting for viewing the fossil skull. It was all quite cloak and dagger: a special phone call to their home with specific instructions on how to identify themselves as the buyers to the mysterious rancher, Henry Davis. At least, she wouldn’t be there. Finally Parker stood up, clasp envelope in hand, and shook Billy’s palm. Ansel rose and stiffly nodded her farewell.
Billy opened the door for them. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll call as soon as I speak to Mr. Davis. Here’s my personal card for both of you should you need to contact me. Have a great day, folks.”
Claude led them to the front door, flipped
the CLOSED sign over, and stepped aside as they left. They were both firmly ensconced inside the baking Lexus before either of them spoke.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Ansel said.
Parker started the car, turned on the air, and shifted the vehicle into reverse. “You did great. You really got me with that bit about the yellow head not matching the paint scheme.”
“Thank you. I was impressed with your tantrum. ‘I want a dinosaur.’ That was classic.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m not married to you. Angela Georges would drive me to violence.”
Ansel pulled off her wedding band and dropped it into a cup holder on the dash. “In that case, I’m divorcing you here and now.”
Parker grinned. “I guess marriage ain’t what it used to be.”
Ansel took a chance. “Nope. So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Married.”
“No. The Bureau keeps me busy. I’m not in one place very long.”
“Where’s your home town?” She was on a roll.
Parker’s smile evaporated. “Don’t have a home town. Just the Crow Agency. I’m from the rez. You’re half Blackfoot, right?”
Ansel could see that the reservation was a touchy subject, and she wondered why. “Yeah. I suppose Outerbridge discussed my file in detail with everyone. Nice.”
Suddenly the two-way, portable radio stashed on the floor beneath Parker’s seat crackled to life. “Unit One to Unit Two. Over.”
Parker listened, then said, “Speak of the devil.” He pulled out the black, Motorola VHF radio and pressed the call button with one hand as he drove. “Unit One. 10-24. Over.”
Outerbridge’s voice filled the car. “What’s your 10-20? Over.”
Parker turned a corner and peered at the street signs. “10-8. Corner of South 24th Street and King. Over.”
“Unit One, 10-25. Zero, zero, Midland. Over.”
Parker glanced at Ansel. “Unit One. 10-4.”
She noticed his odd expression and watched as he placed the radio on the console between them. “What was that all about?”
“We’re going to meet him at the Rimrock Motel on Midland.”
“Why? I thought we’d head back to the airport.”
Parker avoided her gaze. “I guess not.”
Ansel smelled a rat. A big, fat, half-decomposed one. “Listen, I want to know what’s going on. I signed on for a couple hours, remember? I fulfilled my part of the bargain.”
“Hey, we’ll both have to see what the boss says. Besides, would being with me a little longer be such a bad thing?”
He turned and flashed her a beatific smile full of secret meaning, and his eyes were absolutely sparkling with mischievous intent. Ansel waded into those sexy, glistening brown pools with her bikini on. God, he looked knee-weakening adorable. When guilty thoughts about Dorbandt splashed cold water in her face, she simply dove away from them.
She was attracted to Reid, but he was hopeless. Chasing him would be an emotionally exhausting and unappreciated endeavor akin to stalking a person trying to dodge your every move. Life was too short. She wasn’t a spring calf anymore.
Her expression softened. “No, I guess I could live with that.”
“Good,” Parker replied, staring ahead at the road. “Oh, give me Billy’s card.”
Damn, she’d hoped he would forget it. “Card?”
“Nice try. His business card. In your purse. Hand it over.”
She opened the handbag, fished around inside, and pulled it out. She’d never even had a chance to memorize it. Parker snapped it from her hand before she could get a glance.
“Thanks, Ansel.” He quickly shoved it into a shirt pocket.
“That wasn’t very sporting, Agent Standback.”
“Please, call me Parker. We’ve already been married and divorced. Just doing my job.”
Where had she heard that before? Ansel ruminated grimly. She settled back in her seat and speculated over what her new tortures would be at the hands of Agent Outerbridge.
Chapter 21
“Not westward, but eastward seek the coming of the light.”
Dakota
Reid slammed down his desk phone. “Damn it, Ansel. Where are you?”
Both Odie and another detective stared. Then Odie displayed an amused grin. He was still needling him about Chloe in his own companionable way. Danny Landstrom was another story.
“Female troubles, Reid?” the younger, blond-haired Landstrom jibed before nickering like a wheezing horse.
A tendril of acid curled up Reid’s throat. Everybody in the department was aware of his ill-advised friendship with Ansel Phoenix, the woman whom his immediate supervisor, Captain Ed McKenzie, hated with a passion. McKenzie was a racist and always bad-mouthed the whole Phoenix clan because of the Indian associations. Not to mention that Chase Phoenix had butted heads with McKenzie years before over a murder investigation. Chase had almost gotten McKenzie, then a rookie cop, thrown off the police force. Landstrom was McKenzie’s toady.
“Shut up, Danno,” Reid snapped. “Women aren’t your strong suit. The only thing you’ve ever kissed is McKenzie’s ass.”
“Ahhh, good one,” Odie guffawed, swiveling his massive, buzzed skull to stare at Landstrom with anticipation.
Landstrom’s face turned bright pink. “Bite me, Dorbandt. You’re lucky the Captain’s gone.” He turned away and pretended to be immersed in writing a case deposition report.
Odie shook his head. “A disappointing retort from Landstrom. Zero points for originality and only one point for contextual impression. Reid, I salute you. You are still the Royal Rejoinder.”
A tiny smile edged across Reid’s face even as he perused his monumental stacks of paperwork. A hundred loose veins on several current cases needed to be tied off before they bled out, and he didn’t have the time to do it. The Cullen Flynn case had taken precedence, and nobody had the tools to cauterize that spurting artery. How could you fix what you couldn’t find?
There was no sign of Cullen or his vehicle. The sheriff’s department, the Highway Patrol, and the Big Toe police department had turned up zip, zilch, nada respectfully. Odie and he had questioned everybody they could rustle up in Swoln, asking if they saw a green Jeep go through town. Nothing. It was as if Cullen had driven into the sunset and evaporated like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter. Was Cullen dead? His heart said no way. His head said yes.
Reid shifted paper mounds across his desk and picked up Cyrus Flynn’s jacket. Flipping through it over and over hadn’t led to any investigative inspirations. Cyrus’ illegal substance abuse had included marijuana and methamphetamine. His drug sales had been loosely tied to a larger drug operation out of Billings which had possibly been protected by an even bigger Helena influence. Nothing was ever proven one way or the other.
Cyrus was a small-time junkie-dealer who couldn’t apply his trade without getting caught. When he bombed at that, he sustained his existence by stealing private property and selling it on the sly. The slaughterhouse job was a career boondoggle for Cyrus. It was the first legitimate employment he’d ever held and he’d managed to keep it for almost a year.
Still something stank, and it wasn’t just the packing house, Reid considered. Cyrus had a gun and he knew it. He’d checked federal gun registrations and nothing came back under his name, but cons had there own set of procurement rules. The shotgun wadding had gone to the state crime lab in Missoula. He expected it might not tell him much.
Odie interrupted his thoughts, appearing in front of his desk like an up-thrust mountain range, folder in hand. “Reid, I got the info you wanted on Swoln Stockyards.”
Reid closed Cyrus’ file. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
“The stockyards are owned by a corporation called Allied Beef Exchange out of Helena. The packing house used to be privately owned, but sold out in 1987 because beef consumption in the U.S. dropped fourteen percent, and they were going bankrupt.”
Helena. A red fla
g slid up a synaptic pole in his brain. “Hokay, go on.”
“Cows going in as USDA choice sell for seven-hundred a head, about sixty-one cents a pound. The place processes up to seventeen-hundred cows a day with ninety two employees working one of two eight hour shifts. The current operations director is Frank Carigliano. I spoke with him directly. He confirmed that Flynn works there as the shackler Mondays through Fridays on the eleven-to-eight a.m. shift. Said Flynn was doing great. Never late for the job. Gets along well with everyone.” Odie passed him the file. “Flynn must work in a bubble suit because he’s the cleanest shackler in the history of the beef industry.”
Reid grabbed the faxed papers. There was a completed application for employment, DOC prison release authorization, parolee employment agreement, and an employee performance review signed by a Swoln Stockyards foreman named Jessup Frost. They were all in order. It didn’t mean anything.
“Carigliano’s covering for Flynn. The question is why? Run a computer check on him, Frost, and Allied Beef Exchange through NDIC and Interpol. See if there’s any drug connection.”
“Drugs? Where’d that come from?”
“Flynn’s file. He dealt with pot and meth, and there was mention of some heavy hitters supporting a drug channel out of Helena that went through Billings where he got his street supply. Maybe he’s found the perfect niche for himself. Like old times. He uses and cruises in a circle of fellow junkies that are part of a bigger picture.”
Odie’s face was grim. “You think Chief Flynn stumbled into that?”
Reid ran his hand across his face. The prickly stubble of five-o-clock shadow surprised him. Another day had flown by, and he didn’t feel like he’d accomplished anything. Cullen had been missing for four days. His trail was stone cold. Maybe this was the break they’d been waiting for, but a black hole formed in the pit of his empty stomach. He liked Cullen. Though he didn’t socialize with the man, he’d worked with him on various cases during the last few years. Straight board-feet law officers like Chief Flynn were hard to find.
Carnosaur Crimes Page 17