“I don’t see how it could be anything else.” In her voice, he heard the same reluctance and sense of defeat that was moving inside him. “I’ve been turning it over and over,” she went on. “I think Colin must have told Angela he and the warriors were planning a dare run at the parade. Angela told Skip, and Skip saw his chance. He got in contact with Colin. It wouldn’t have been hard. Angela probably arranged a meeting. He knew Colin thought of himself as Crazy Horse. He appealed to Colin’s sense of reliving the past, getting justice once again for the tribes, defeating the Seventh Cavalry.”
She stood up and started pacing out a little circle. “Garrett didn’t help matters by going on stage at the theater and bragging about Custer’s massacres, like the Washita. It awoke so many memories, so many of the old stories. Children run down and shot. Women put into brothels for the army. Warriors killed trying to protect their families. All those memories still here, just below the surface.”
Father John had to look away. He tried to take in the whole scenario from her point of view. The old sorrows, the historical events pushed away, but never completely forgotten. Logical. Except he didn’t believe it was true. He knew Colin Morningside. He had talked with him in the guesthouse. He had seen the fear in the man that he would be arrested and charged with crimes he hadn’t committed.
“Nobody knows who actually killed Custer,” Father John said.
“Crazy Horse led the warriors that swarmed up Last Stand Hill where Custer died,” Vicky said, her tone quiet, matter-of-fact, as if she were relating a story she had known all her life. “Colin could have been tempted, not only by the money, but by doing what Crazy Horse had done.”
Father John stood up and walked a few paces, trying to organize his thoughts. He turned back. Vicky looked small and determined, holding her breath against whatever else he might say. “Colin may have looked up to Crazy Horse. Maybe he wanted to be like him, a leader others could depend upon. Crazy Horse was defending his village when Custer was killed. There was no village for Colin to defend. What Colin had wanted to do was make a statement, remind people that Indians had defeated the U.S. Army. He organized the dare run, but that’s all there was to it. A dare run.”
Vicky dropped back onto the bench, and he sat down beside her. “Colin isn’t guilty, Vicky. I know him. I’ve talked with him. There has to be some other explanation.”
“What if he needed the money?”
Father John was aware of the contrapuntal sounds of their breathing. She was stubborn. Fierce when she had made up her mind. They were alike, he was thinking. Is that why he couldn’t accept that Colin might be guilty? Because of his own stubbornness? “Let’s say Skip Burrows planned his own disappearance.” He tried to find the logical path. “It doesn’t mean he paid Colin to kill Garrett.”
“He had to get rid of the man, John. He didn’t have much time.” She shifted toward him. “Colin was the perfect man for the job. Funny thing about Colin and Angela: She had left Colin for Skip, but she hadn’t completely broken away. She would get lonely for the rez and call Colin. She went to the rez to see him. Skip worked with a Realtor in Riverton, Deborah Boynton, his ex-girlfriend. She helped him locate apartment buildings and houses to invest in a couple of years ago. I suspect that’s when Skip started the Granite Group. He and Boynton might have broken up, but they stayed in touch. Couples like that tell things to one another. Colin must have told Angela about the dare run. Angela told Skip. That could have given Skip the idea for a way to stop Garrett. Permanently.”
“So Skip took Angela to Jackson for the weekend to make sure he wouldn’t be connected to Garrett’s murder.” Logic had a force of its own, Father John was thinking. A series of facts that rushed to an inevitable conclusion. It didn’t mean it was true.
Vicky went on: “He wanted to assure his investors in Jackson that everything was going well, the investments were secure. He didn’t want them running to the police when he disappeared. Angela said he met with clients while they were in Jackson. He staged his disappearance so Angela would find the office trashed when she came in Monday morning.”
Father John stood up again and walked a couple of yards down the sidewalk. He turned back. “Skip must have staged the disappearance Sunday night after he and Angela returned from Jackson.”
A little smile played at the corners of Vicky’s mouth, as if she believed she had won him over. “Madden would have put out an alert Monday morning to every police and sheriff’s department in Wyoming, as well as to the state patrol. Skip wouldn’t have gotten very far. I agree, he left sometime Sunday night. He was in Colorado by the time Angela found him missing. His car is probably parked in a lot at the Denver airport. He’s in Mexico.”
Still . . . logic didn’t square with the facts, Father John was thinking. “At some point Skip realized he hadn’t taken all the records. There was Angela’s flash drive.”
“He must have called Colin. Offered him more money to go to the office, search it, and get the flash drive.”
“But that was Monday night,” Father John said. Here it was, the break in the sequence of facts. “It wasn’t Colin Angela confronted in the office. Angela had gone to the rez to see him Monday afternoon. Lou told me Colin was upset by her visit. He didn’t think they could ever put their relationship back on track. He said Colin didn’t leave the house Monday evening. He was home all night and most of Tuesday. He didn’t leave until Lou suggested he go to Pine Ridge and lay low until Garrett’s killer was found.”
He waited a moment, reading the expression on Vicky’s face, the way the facts rearranged themselves behind her eyes. “Colin loved Angela,” he said finally. “He would never have hurt her.”
“I wish that were true. I wish I hadn’t picked up too many newspapers and read about some woman murdered by the man who loved her.” Vicky slid her eyes from his, then looked back. “Think about it, John. Angela knew about the investments. She prepared the reports. She had the evidence against Skip.”
“It was Skip,” Father John said, and he could see in the way Vicky lifted her hand and rubbed at her forehead that she was coming to the same conclusion. The force of logic. “He didn’t leave the area right away. It was Skip searching the office when Angela confronted him.”
“He wore a dark ski mask.” Vicky’s voice was quiet. She stood up and began carving out another small, thoughtful circle. Around the sidewalk, across the edge of the grass. “He could have taken the flash drive,” she said. “Angela would have given it to him. Skip was her ticket off the rez. Across the border forever.” She stopped on the lawn, the wind moving the branches behind her. “Even if he wore the ski mask when he came to her house, she could have recognized him and . . .” Vicky left the rest of the words unspoken in the empty space between them, and he knew that, had she gone on, she would have started weeping.
She turned away, and he went over and placed an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.
After a moment, she nodded and looked up at him. “I spoke with one of Skip’s investors. He’s convinced Skip invested his money in oil and gas investments that will continue to pay large interest rates despite Skip’s disappearance. The other investors probably believe the same. Skip was a persuasive man. Everybody’s best friend. People trusted him. Angela trusted him.” Her voice faltered a little. “When the quarterly checks stop arriving, the investors will get worried and go to the police. Skip will be settled in Mexico by then.”
“But he’s not there now. He’s probably hiding out someplace in the area. He could be anyplace with a garage to hide his car.” Father John led Vicky back to the bench. “We’d better call Madden.”
She pulled away. “And tell him we have a great theory that proves Colin didn’t murder either Garrett or Angela when he’s already marking the case closed. He has the perpetrator and his accomplice. Colin, who might be dying on the operating table.” Another falter. She looked away. “Mike Lon
gshot locked up at the Fremont County Detention Center. Madden will charge them with Skip’s abduction. He’ll claim Angela told Colin about the money Skip had in his briefcase. He’ll find phone records that show the calls Angela made to Colin. He’ll say Angela and Colin planned the abduction and theft of the money together. They got into a disagreement. Angela started to panic. Madden had interviewed her twice. Colin couldn’t trust her not to break down and confess. He went to her apartment and . . .” She stopped and hid her face in her hands a moment. After several seconds, she looked up. “I may know where Skip’s hiding,” she said. “It’s a long shot, but if I can spot the car and get a photo, we’ll have the evidence to take to Madden.”
“I’ll drive.” He was already guiding her toward the parking lot.
33
VICKY LAID OUT her theory as they drove out of the parking lot: Deborah Boynton, the Realtor that Skip might not have completely broken up with, had made herself scarce. Left town, except for coming into the office to check messages once or twice. Hadn’t returned Vicky’s messages. She had been handling the sale of the ranch near Dubois that Garrett planned to buy, until he couldn’t get his money from Skip. “The owners live in Virginia,” she said. Then she added: “It’s just a hunch.” Starting to second-guess herself, he knew.
“It’s all we’ve got,” he said. In the back of his mind was the white-sheeted figure of Colin Morningside on the gurney wheeling toward the steel doors. And Mike Longshot, scared out of his wits in a jail cell, waiting for the worst of it to come.
They took Highway 26, skirting through the northwestern part of Riverton and out across the wide, windy spaces that wrapped around occasional ranch houses and barns popping out of the brown earth. There were long periods where Vicky didn’t say anything, and neither did he. It was impolite to interrupt someone else’s thoughts and demand they turn their thoughts to you. He had turned the volume low on the CD player that sat between them.
Finally, Vicky said: “Skip and Deborah could both have left already. They would have taken her car. None of the police are looking for it.”
“Then Skip’s car is in the garage or barn. If we can get photos, Madden will have to consider the possibility that Colin and Mike are innocent.”
They turned north. Rising ahead on the right were the red-rock formations that rose out of the plains and glowed in the afternoon sun. Everything in this land was a surprise, even the woman seated next to him. Holding back her hair in the wind, staring out the windshield.
He squinted against the brightness, looking for the milepost that marked the turnoff into the mountains. He had been to ranches in the area. Off dirt roads that threaded around the mountainsides and overlooked clear-blue lakes: Ring Lake, Torrey Lake. A beautiful, sequestered area ten miles from Dubois, miles and miles from everywhere else. The milepost flashed ahead. He slowed down, waited for an oncoming truck to pass, and turned onto a two-track that switched back and forth until it started up the mountain. A narrow and rutted road with only a couple of feet of shoulder ran along the mountainside on the right. On the left, a drop-off into a grassy valley crossed by a thin stream. The drop-off got steeper as they climbed.
Vicky pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag. She held the sheet against the dashboard and set a finger in the middle of a paragraph. “‘To reach the Stockton Ranch, stay on the mountain road for twelve miles,’” she said. “‘Turn left, cross a wooden bridge. A small brown framed building will be on the left. Continue on the dirt road that climbs past a small lake into the meadow where the ranch house, barns, and outbuildings are located. Ranch house has 2,450 square feet . . .’” She set the paper on her lap. “We should be getting close.”
Father John spotted the bridge as he came around a wide curve. He slowed again and moved as far to the right as he could to allow an oncoming pickup to pass. A rancher with a cowboy hat and a thick hand that waved in their direction. Father John swung left through the cloud of dust clinging to the hood and the windshield and drove toward the bridge. He had to turn on the wipers to clear a space to see through. He could see the small brown framed building. “How far to the ranch house?”
Vicky leaned over the sheet of paper. “Half a mile.”
“They’ll hear us if they’re here.” Father John pulled off the road and slid to a stop behind the building. “Wait here. I’ll hike up and see if I can spot the car.”
Before he had gotten out, Vicky was out on her side. She didn’t say anything, and he knew that no matter what he said, she was coming with him. They started up the dirt road, staying close to the right edge. It was quiet, nothing but the sound of the wind. Puffs of dust rose around their footsteps. The air smelled of dust and sage.
Beyond the rounded hill ahead, Father John spotted a peaked, green roof. “We’ll go as far as the bend,” he said. “We should be able to see the house and cars from there.” An uneasiness had started over him, like brambles pricking at his skin. There was no telling what they could be walking into. They could come face-to-face with a killer. Even if Skip were gone, Deborah Boynton could be here, and she had been protecting him. What would she do to keep him safe?
Vicky had left her bag in the pickup, but she clutched a cell phone in one hand. She walked fast, and he stretched his legs to keep up. “We’ll have to be careful.” He wondered if she had heard him, she was so lost in her own thoughts.
“What a scam Skip had going,” she said after a moment. “People clamoring to get into his private club, to be his special friend. It took a minimum of five hundred thousand to invest. He told a bartender in Lander to put his ten thousand in a bank. He wasn’t rich enough for the club.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “People with a lot of money, greedy for more. Eager to join an exclusive club so they could tell themselves they were the elite, better than everybody else.”
“They’ll lose their investments.”
“The money’s already gone,” Vicky said. “Skip used new investments to pay on the old. I suspect he helped himself to what was left. A new house in Mexico. Condo in Jackson. Expensive car. No doubt there’s more in hidden bank accounts. Investors will be lucky to get pennies back on the dollar. You know what’s funny?” She took a deep breath. “Everybody loved him.”
They were approaching the bend. Scam artist, murderer. Skip Burrows would be a dangerous man to surprise, if he was at the ranch. Father John took Vicky’s arm. “Let’s slow down.”
She pushed ahead, pulling away from him, and he hurried to pass her before they came around the bend. He heard the faint, rhythmic thuds of metal against earth before he saw the woman. Tall, reddish hair, in blue jeans and yellow tee shirt, tapping a shovel against the dirt piled around a fence post. Behind her was a stretch of field that wrapped around a log house with a wide front porch and a couple of chairs and a rocker that moved in the wind. Beyond the house was a wood-planked barn. The double doors were closed. There was no sign of Skip Burrows’s silver BMW.
She looked up. She was pretty in a fierce, uncompromising way. Perspiration glistened on her forehead. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Deborah Boynton? I’m Vicky Holden.” Vicky had stepped out ahead again and was walking toward the woman, hand outstretched, as if they had met at the shopping mall.
The woman jammed the point of the shovel into the dirt. She made no effort to take Vicky’s hand. “The Indian lawyer and the priest from the mission. I’ve seen your photos in the newspaper. Crusaders for law and justice.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve left several messages on your phone and with your broker.”
“I never responded. Didn’t that tell you anything? I’m not looking for new clients, and I’m certainly not giving interviews. I suggest you turn around and hike out of here.”
“I believe you can help us.”
“I don’t see how.”
“My client is the widow of Edward Garrett. She wants to locate t
he money he had invested in the Granite Group.”
Deborah Boynton shook her head and leaned on the shovel handle, as if to steady herself. Father John kept his eyes on her. The woman was as tense and coiled as a rattlesnake. He had counseled people like that. Backs against the wall. Ready to strike. She was shaking her head. “Why would that concern me?”
“You represented Garrett. He intended to purchase this ranch. He couldn’t get his money from the Granite Group, so the deal fell through. You must have been very disappointed.”
“It is none of your business. Buyers come and go in real estate. Things don’t always work out. There’ll be another buyer. The place is an excellent investment. I’ve been spending time here tidying up a little. The living area is freshly painted.” She had slipped into a robotic patter she had probably given hundreds of times. Her hand looked welded to the shovel handle. “Notice the new barn doors. I’ve made sure the furnace and water heater are in tip-top condition.” She gave a quick glance toward the dirt road that ran past the barn and up the mountainside into a stand of stunted pines and sagebrush. “Unless you would like to make an offer, you had better leave.”
“You also represented Skip Burrows, the man behind the Granite Group. He purchased residential property some time ago.”
“You’ve done a lot of snooping. My broker told me you kept coming around. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?”
Vicky took a moment before she said, “Skip Burrows.”
Deborah shifted her gaze between them, deciding. Father John could almost see the thoughts colliding behind her eyes. “Skip is a lawyer and a legitimate businessman. He was abducted from his office. I wouldn’t know where he is.”
“You’ve been hiding him here.” Vicky bore in, Father John thought. A lawyer questioning a reluctant witness in court. “Burrows has money that belongs to my client and other investors that he has bilked.”
Killing Custer Page 24