“Cream and sugar, if you please.”
“Oh—right.” Moon prepared the beverage, put the mug and mixings in front of his guest.
Wakefield added a dab of cream, two spoons of brown sugar, took a sip. “Mmmm. That just hits the spot.”
“You want some breakfast?”
The county agent looked around the kitchen. “You got anything already made?”
“A leftover beefsteak. Some biscuits I can warm up for you. And there’s gallons of jam and jelly.”
“Ahh—that’ll do just fine.”
After he had finished his second breakfast of the day, the county agent burped. “Charlie, you sure got it made in the shade. I wish I had me a place like this. Quiet. Peaceful. No neighbors for miles and miles.” He leaned back, tilting the wooden chair on its hind legs, watched the rancher wash the dishes. Well acquainted with the Indian’s quiet moods, Wakefield happily carried on with his monologue. “You know, Charlie—when I got out of high school, I didn’t want to go to veterinary school up at Fort Collins.”
The dishwasher put a platter and mug in the drying rack. “You didn’t, huh?”
The visitor shook his head. “Did it ’cause my daddy was a vet. And I didn’t really want to be a county agent, neither. But that’s what Uncle Simon did for a living over in Grand Junction, so I sorta drifted into this line of work. It was kind of a family tradition.”
Moon seated himself across the table from his guest. “What’d you really want to be?” The Ute bet himself ten to one the answer would be “cowboy.”
Wakefield scratched at his sunburned neck. “An actor.”
“That a fact?”
“You bet.” The county agent sighed. “But Pop wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I guess he was worried you’d leave the wide-open spaces behind—head straight for Hollywood.”
“Give me half a chance, I still would.” Wakefield squinted at a rectangular frame he constructed between his thumbs and fingers. “Big silver screen.” The county agent’s eyes glazed over. “Always saw myself as a tough Bogart kinda guy. G-man, maybe. Or gangster.” He raised his hand, aimed an imaginary pistol at a defenseless bread box.
The rancher stared thoughtfully at the slender, blue-eyed white man. “Yeah. I can just see you. Blond doll hanging on one arm, Tommy-gun cradled in the other. Nasty old cigarette dangling from your lip.”
The would-be actor perceived this romantic image, nodded his whole-hearted approval. “You got it.” He gave Moon a hopeful look. “I do a great Cagney impression. One of my favorite lines was in Blood on the Sun—it’s a great old 1946 flick. The Cag was Bob Sharkey.”
“Blood on the Sun was 1945,” Moon said. “Cagney played Nick Condon.”
Wakefield was goggle-eyed. “You sure of that?”
“Bob Sharkey was his role in 13 Rue Madeleine. That was in 1947.”
“Oh. Right.” I never know when Charlie’s kidding me. “Anyway, you wanta hear my Cagney?” In preparation, the county agent cleared his throat.
“I’d rather have red-hot coals stuffed under my eyelids.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No I’m not.”
“Oh.”
“What brings you out to the Columbine?”
Wakefield remembered, made a face. “The sort of thing that makes me hate to be a county agent.”
Moon mirrored the grimace. “I don’t like the sound of this.” Maybe I should’ve listened to his Cagney.
“Well, here’s the thing Charlie—there’s a medical test I got to run on a random sample of your herd.” I’ll try to put the best face on it, but it’ll be like primping up a warthog. “Won’t cost you a thin dime though; Department of Agriculture’s paying for the whole business.”
The rancher was greatly relieved to hear this. He beamed at the county agent. “I am greatly relieved to hear this.”
“Forrest Wakefield,” the owner of this name said, rolling the syllables over his tongue. “That’s a great actor’s name—don’t you think?”
“It’s not as good as Spencer Tracy. But I like it a little better than Engelbert Humperdinck.”
“Actually, Mr. Humperdinck wasn’t an actor, he was a—”
“I know what he was. What’s the medical test for?”
Wakefield blushed. I might as well just say it straight out and get it over with. “Uh—it’s for a prion-caused ailment technically known as Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. The layman’s term is mad cow dis—”
“I know what Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is.” Moon clasped his hands together as if he were about to offer up a prayer. “What’s happened, Forrest—a case been found in Colorado?”
“Oh, my goodness no.” The government employee shook his head hard enough to make his neck bones crack. “Most certainly not. To the best of my knowledge. My direct knowledge. Of course, I am not apprised of every single incident that—”
“Then why do you want to check out my stock?”
“The story is—uh—I mean I am informed by my superiors that the USDA needs some big ranches in the Rocky Mountain states to evaluate a brand-new, in-the-field blood test for C-J prions.” He tried to make it sound like good news: “And whadda you know—the Columbine got selected!”
“A dubious distinction.” Moon got up from his chair, leaned to stare at the public servant. “Give it to me straight—what’s the downside?”
“Oh, none at all.” Wakefield looked at his right hand, examined the manicure he’d paid ten dollars for in Denver. “Of course, with any of these new procedures there can always be some minor problems that pop up.”
“Define minor.”
“Well—take for instance…false positives.”
“Like where the test says one of my steers has mad cow disease even though it’s perfectly healthy?”
“Right.” He smiled at the rancher, like a teacher pleased with a bright pupil. “That’s a false positive all right.”
“What happens then?”
“Oh, the Stage-C rules kick in. We quarantine your operation till we can test every animal with the older methodology. Which is considerably slower, but known to be reliable.”
The rancher pointed at the wall. “Forrest, I got over two thousand head out there grazing on forty-one sections.”
“I’ll only need to test a random sample of about ten percent.” The county agent did a quick mental calculation. “After you get ’em penned, testing a coupla hundred will only take us about three or four days. Maybe five or six. Once we actually get started, that is. And I’d have to call in some help.” He pulled at an earlobe. “You know how hard it is to get qualified veterinary technicians these days?”
“No. And I don’t much care.”
“Look, it’s not all that likely that there’ll be any false-positive results from the new test.” He frowned at the rancher. “Last five years or so, you bought any stock out of Canada?”
Charlie Moon jammed the black John B. Stetson down to his ears, stomped out of the kitchen.
“Hey,” Wakefield called out, “where you going?”
“Away from here,” Moon rumbled.
9
What Happened on Copper Street
The two of men walking along the sidewalk were big in different ways. Charlie Moon was slender, more than a head taller than his companion. The Ute’s best friend was mostly broad shoulders and gorilla chest. But the size of a man is not measured in inches and feet. It is quantified by what is inside. Inside, these were sizable men.
The chief of police tipped his fawn-gray hat, returned an elderly lady’s smile. He spoke to the Ute. “Something has just occurred to me.”
“And you feel bound and determined to share it.”
Parris suppressed a slight shudder. “It’s sorta one of those Jungian things—like when the shrink is chatting with his lady patient, who just happens to mention this rare Egyptian beetle that’s never been seen ten miles from the Nile, and bam! There the bug is in downtown Vienna, crawling along
on the doc’s windowsill.”
He’s been reading again. “Let me guess—you joined the book-of-the year club?”
“Nah, nothin’ like that.” Parris blushed like a twelve-year-old. “I been dating this cute psychologist. And she’s really, really smart.”
Charlie Moon had a witty retort right on the tip of his tongue, but gave his friend the gift of silence.
“Oh, yeah—now I remember. That beetle, that’s what’s called a Jungian coincidence.”
“Synchronicity.”
Parris squinted at his friend. “What?”
“Mr. Synchronicity is a first cousin to Miss Coincidence, but he comes with an extra syllable—which makes him considerably more high-tone.” Inordinately pleased with himself, Moon kept right on going. “Your everyday run-of-the-mill coincidence—why, they’re so common that folks give ’em away as party favors. But your USDA-Prime synchronicity—that product goes for ten to twelve dollars a pound.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Parris strained to recollect his thoughts. “Where was I when you threw me off?”
“Sharing a coincidence?”
“Oh, right. It’s kinda creepy. Here we are—two coppers—walking the beat on Copper Street.” He paused in midstride, pointed at the sidewalk. “Charlie, I don’t believe it. Look at that—two brand-new pennies right there, faceup! Now what do you think of that—is that one of them grade-A synchro-coincidences or what?”
“Well, if you want my two cents, I think you need to get out more. But not with psychologists. Date yourself a flirty waitress or a rich widow woman who has a big house on Greenback Street. Besides, you are the only copper on this team.” The Ute raised his nose in the air. “Me—I am a highly respected tribal investigator.”
“I stand corrected.” Parris shot his buddy a narrow-eyed Sherlock look. “Being a highly trained detective, I have detected something remarkable in your remark. D’you want to know what?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good—then I am bound to tell you. Normally, you say something like [he mimicked the Ute’s deep voice]: ‘I, Charlie Moon, am a full-time rancher and part-time tribal investigator.’” Parris allowed his throat to relax to its normal state. “The fact that just now you did not mention the beefy portion of your chosen vocation leads me to believe that something is sour back at the Columbine.” An irksome smirk. “Am I right?”
Moon had already reported the rustling incident to the state police. Plus the Cattleman’s Association and the Brand Association. Potential buyers in ten states had been notified and provided with branding information and nose prints. There was nothing the local chief of police could do about it. Except rag me about not being able to keep my beeves from getting stole. “I would rather not talk about ranching today.”
Parris’s blue eyes twinkled merrily. “What is it—ol’ hairy-face Bushman giving you trouble again?”
The Indian grunted in a dismissive manner.
“If it’s not your foreman, it’s got to be your cows. I bet they’ve come down with incurable bovine constipation that’ll wipe you out and ruin your minor reputation.”
“There’s no such sickness as bovine con—”
“Then what is it—hoof-and-mouth disease?”
“No!” The rancher looked around to see who might have overheard this reckless remark. “And don’t even say that out loud.”
“Have you turned superstitious on me?” Parris snickered. “You think just saying something bad can make it happen?”
“Of course I don’t.” The thoroughly rational man glared at his friend. “But those superstitious things happen all the time, whether a fella believes in ’em or not.” Moon took a deep breath. “So let’s talk about something else. Something cheerful.”
“The deteriorating situation in Saudi Arabia? The riots in Pakistan? Baseball?”
“Any of those’ll do just fine.”
“There’s a rumor going around that there’s a hundred-year curse on the Cubs.”
“That’s nice.” Moon spotted a sign that made his mouth water. “How about a little pick-me-up snack?”
They entered Ye Olde Ice Cream Parlor, which was not yet a month olde. The Ute called for a triple dip of Strawberry Delight in a king-size sugar cone. Mindful of the slight bulge at his waistline, Scott Parris purchased a small cup of Soy Frostie.
As they walked past a JCPenney, the Ute licked at the ice cream. It was good. Very much good. He began to feel better. Very much better.
Parris used a pink plastic spoon to pick at the healthy protein concoction. This is twice as good as a hornet flying up your nose. “What’s really on your so-called mind, old chum?”
“Coupla days ago, while I was down at Aunt Daisy’s place—”
“What were you doing there?”
“Fixing a propane leak under the floor. While I was doing this, a Dr. Blinkoe tracked me down.”
“Propane leak, huh? Those can be dangerous.”
“Forget about the propane. Let’s talk about Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”
Granite Creek’s top cop frowned. “Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe? Hmmm.” He took a mincing bite of processed soybean dessert. “There must be ten thousand Blinkoes in the local phone book, but does Manfred Wilhelm ring a bell for me?”
“It ought to bust your eardrums wide open. Dr. Blinkoe is the citizen who believes somebody is out to do him serious bodily harm. Somebody else gets shot, Blinkoe figures the bullet was actually meant for him. He is what some people who are less charitable than me would consider paranoid. And you put this joker on my trail.”
“Oh, sure—that Blinkoe—the forked-beard orthodontist who was dining on the patio at Phillipe’s last week when the poor woman got shot.” Parris tossed the paper cup into a trash can that resembled a penguin with an open beak. He licked the spoon one last time, fed it also to the facsimile of the Antarctic fowl. “But it hurts me to hear the ‘you put that joker on my trail’ remark. I merely referred a potential client to my best buddy—in hopes that you might jump at the opportunity to make an honest dollar doing some useful work. Not to mention keeping your hand in the investigating business. I would not want you to get out of practice—lose your touch, so to speak. Such as it is. Or was.”
Moon took the last bite of the sugar cone, wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “What I’d like to know is—”
“Wait—don’t ask. I can read you like a comic book. In the interest of efficiency, let me tell you what it is you want to know.”
“Go right ahead.”
The chief of police raised a massive, hairy hand, counted off his little finger. “Number one, you want to know if we have a probable motive for the shooting. Answer is affirmative. The lady was a former prosecuting attorney from Cook County, Illinois. She was responsible for putting at least nine dozen bad guys behind the walls.” He counted off the next finger. “Number two, you are curious about whether we found a weapon. Another definite yes on that one. We are talking .22-caliber model M 6787 Hi-Standard target pistol. This fine piece of machinery was equipped with a first-class silencer—not something your average target shooter carries in his hip pocket. And he tossed it right after the shooting—Officer Alicia Martin fished it out of the stream. This shooter is a pro, and pros hit what they aim at. Your client was never in the least danger of getting popped.”
“What makes you think Dr. Blinkoe’s my client?”
Parris smirked. “When have you ever turned down a fee?”
“It wasn’t quite like you think. Dr. Blinkoe suckered me into a hand of poker.” Moon shook his head. “You won’t believe this—this slicker draws a royal flush and doesn’t even blush.”
The older cop scowled. “I never did like orthodontists. When I was a kid in Indiana, there was this Dr. What’s-his-name who kept sending me birthday cards. Christmas cards. Valentine cards. Even these horrible Halloween cards with jack-o’-lanterns that had big jagged teeth. There never was nothing wrong with my choppers.” He paused to smile
at his reflection in a drugstore window. “But it kinda gave me a dental inferiority complex. I didn’t smile till I was almost thirty years old.”
“That is a terrifically sad story,” Moon said. “But let’s get back to the business at hand. You were telling me all I wanted to know about the shooting. So far, you only counted off two fingers.”
“Oh, right.” Parris turned down another digit. “Three, you want to know have we determined the original owner of the pistol—”
“Nope. That was more like number eighteen. Three is: Do you have any idea who pulled the trigger?”
The chief of police clenched the counting hand into a fist the size of a cantaloupe, jammed it into his jacket pocket.
Moon grinned at his best friend. “Well?”
“You shouldn’t have interrupted me. Now I’ve lost my place. Which gets me confused about what I’ve already told you.” He aimed a squinty-eyed glare at the Ute. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be asking me so many questions. Technically, Mr. Tribal Investigator—in this burg you are a regular citizen. I shouldn’t be telling you diddly-squat about what’s what.”
The amiable Ute shrugged. “Okay.”
They approached a corner. The traffic light turned red.
Parris waved at the driver of a passing school bus. “So—are you going to do some poking around for Dr. Blinkoe?”
“You are the chief of police,” Moon said.
“Well—thank you for this timely piece of information. But despite rumors that I am approaching the ragged edge of senility, I remain acutely aware of what my occupation is. I also know the name of the current president of the United States and can still tie my shoes without assistance.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Moon patted the older man on the back. “Now see if you can focus on this concept—I have a license from the great sovereign state of Colorado. This piece of paper permits me to perform confidential investigations. If a private investigator takes on a client, he does not make a habit of revealing information about that client’s private business to a publicly funded constabulary. Including the chief of police.”
Parris snorted. “Nobody likes a smart-mouthed P.I.”
Shadow Man Page 7