A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  Mags wiggled in the chair, pretty comfortable. “Your computer is getting gray hairs.”

  “Which is why I bet you a new one. Get whatever you want if I win.”

  “I thought if you won I’d have to buy one.”

  “You don’t have any money.”

  Mags lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. “For now.”

  “You might pick another line of work.”

  “Aunt Jeep, how was I to know the stock market would go down in flames?”

  “Arrogance, sweetie, arrogance. Your generation has only known fat years. All the signs were there for you and everyone else to see. The generation older than you—pretty spoiled itself—ignored them, too. If nothing else, learn not to follow the herd.”

  “God, Aunt Jeep, I feel like such a fool. I feel awful. I lost people millions.”

  “You did, but unlike others, you tried to use your own money to pick them back up. In business terms, that was stupid. In terms of the heart, I’m proud of you.”

  Tears unexpectedly rolled down the pretty woman’s smooth cheeks.

  Jeep crossed the room and put her arm around Mags. Bending down, she kissed her on the cheek. “There really are things more important than money. You’ve only known me with money, but I come from hunger.”

  “That’s what Momma always said.”

  “I know what money can do for you and I know what it can’t. If you lose your soul, no amount of cash can buy it back. You die with the Devil waiting with an outstretched hand. Now come on, dry the tears, go to work. It will all turn out right.” She paused. “It may seem cruel for me not to carry you financially, other than to feed and house you, but Mags, a weakling does the world no good. Yes, you will inherit this estate, you and Enrique. Much of it is tied up, which I will explain some day—the charities, the trusts—but you will be well-off. However, if you don’t fight your way back, you’ll be just another rich toad with no mother wit.”

  Mags raised her eyes to Jeep’s. “I know. I really do know.” She took a deep breath. “A question. When we found the ring you said you’d seen it two times. You never told us the second time.”

  “I didn’t, did I?” Jeep walked over to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel as the yellow and red flames curled upward. “When I was at Sweetwater, Texas, I delivered all types of aircraft to Alameda, California, and Great Falls, Montana. I made a lot of friends. Usually, we’d turn around and fly back to Texas. Sometimes we’d stay over in the barracks. In Montana, the planes were flown over to the Soviets, over Alaska. But a few times, the Soviet pilots came to Montana. Most were women pilots and they flew in combat. Their English was about as good as our Russian, but we all got along. One of those women wore this ring. I recognized it. She was surprised. It was her father’s, inscribed 1910. She wore it defiantly, too. I often wonder what happened to her, if she survived the war, if she survived the aftermath.”

  “Must have been wonderful here after the war.”

  “It’s a funny thing, it was wonderful during the war in so many ways. God, yes, I saw terrible things and lost friends, but I was young and we felt a great shared purpose. I can’t tell you how that felt and it’s sad to say but I don’t believe Americans will ever feel it again.”

  “Not even if we get attacked?”

  “We have been attacked!”

  Mags sat quietly. “You’re right. Pearl Harbor galvanized us, but the Pentagon and Twin Towers didn’t.”

  “I’m sure some intellectual somewhere will pluck out the many reasons why, but I’m pretty basic: attack my people, you’re the enemy and all of us band together. That kind of spirit is gone, Mags. That kind of pulling together is all gone.”

  “We seem to be awfully good at pulling apart.”

  Jeep let her hand drop from the mantel and looked up at the fabulous painting of cowboys trying to herd rampaging cattle. “The real sorrow is there are so few men left, real men.”

  Mags got up from the chair, went over to her beloved Aunt Jeep, and gave her a little punch on the arm. “But there are real women.”

  “Yes, there are.”

  “I remember what you used to say to me when I was little, when I was scared.” Mags lifted her eyebrows.

  “What was that?”

  “Tits to the wind.”

  Jeep dissolved in laughter. How funny to hear her battle cry from her great-niece.

  At the edge of Reno—past a low-lying flat area on the left full of snow devils twirling upward—Lonnie took a call so Pete could keep his hands on the wheel. All department communications were on a specific frequency.

  “Hey,” said Lonnie.

  “Hey back.” Sergeant Perez’s voice then said, “Got the lab report on the corpse at the Jolly Roger. There were no fingerprints on the gun. ’Cause of that and the silencer, we’re changing the status of this case to murder.”

  “Right.” Lonnie frowned. “Any information on who he was other than his name?”

  “Owned a muffler franchise in Susanville. It was making money. He belonged to a lot of environmental groups. Things like Ducks Unlimited, the National Wildlife Federation, stuff like that.”

  Lonnie relayed this to Pete.

  “The murder is our jurisdiction,” Pete said. “Can the Chief find someone in Susanville to interview his wife if he had one?” Lonnie repeated all this to Sergeant Perez.

  Susanville was in California. Two prisons were there—High Desert Station Prison and California Correctional Center—both operating way over capacity. The prisoners’ families often moved to Susanville so it was an irregular community, to put it nicely.

  “He’s on it.” Perez stopped a moment. “Your report says there were no weapons in the dead dude’s car, no ammunition, only a few unopened bills, the electric bill.”

  “Saab hatchback, tidy.” Pete inhaled. “We’ve got more work to do.”

  Perez signed off.

  “Suicide would have been so easy.” Lonnie sighed. “Oh, well. No fingerprints and no gloves on his hands. This guy pissed off someone.”

  They drove down into an old part of town, turning right by a sex shop—videos and the like.

  “Jeep’s great-niece is a looker.” Lonnie smiled, the sex shop provoking his thoughts on the opposite sex.

  “Uh-huh.” Pete, knowing Lonnie well, smiled.

  “Remember people saying that Jeep was in love with Dan Marks? Mom used to comment on it. She never married him. Then others said she was in love with Dot Jocham.” He waited, then said with conviction, “I don’t care if a woman’s gay.”

  “That’s big of you, Lonnie.”

  “I only care if she doesn’t sleep with me.”

  Pete laughed. “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “You never fail to remember.” Standing at the open front door, Jeep viewed the foiled pot of massive red poinsettias.

  On the porch, Craig Locke inclined his head in a slight gentlemanly bow. “A courageous and lovely woman should always be remembered.”

  “What a smoothie.” King chuckled from behind.

  “I smell cigar smoke.” Baxter wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Why do they do it?”

  “It’s their version of bones.”

  “Ah.” The little dog put his head on his front paws.

  “Craig, am I courageous because I keep outmaneuvering you in Red Rock Valley?” She smiled.

  “Well, there is that. I certainly admire that you never back down from a fight. And to think that you flew those B-17s. That took a lot of guts.”

  “Did take a lot of strength.” She opened the door wider. “Please, come in out of the cold. It’s your annual Wings Ranch visit.”

  “This is heavy. Where would you like it?”

  “Right there on the hall table. It will be the first thing people see when they visit. Now, come and have a drink. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, or maybe you’d like a stiff one this morning?”

  After placing the beautiful flowers on the table, he held up his hands. “I
f I had a drink you’d likely find me under this table. How about hot chocolate?”

  Carlotta served them in the living room, fragrant with the pine smell from the den, where a huge Christmas tree stood, yet to be decorated.

  “How’s the family?” Jeep asked, perching on an easy chair while Craig sat on the sofa.

  “Growing. One in college. One still in high school.” He sipped the chocolate, the top smothered with whipped cream. “You know my visit comes with SSRM’s annual request?”

  “I do.” Jeep smiled. “And I again politely decline to sell my rights.”

  Clasping his hands over his right knee, his right leg crossed over his left, Craig said, “The Colorado Supreme Court in 1979 passed the first anti-speculation doctrine. You know, eventually the Nevada Supreme Court will come down hard on that issue. Some then might accuse you of hoarding all your water rights.”

  Jeep, voice confident, fired back. “The Vidler Tunnel Water Company case, yes, I know it. First, this is Nevada. We aren’t going to follow Colorado, Utah, California, you name it. We’ll do things our own way. Second, I never seek to profit from my water rights. I own them to protect agriculture. That’s that.”

  “What about your heirs? You’ve hog-tied them. What if they need the money?”

  “Craig Locke, you know better than that.” She smiled slyly. “One, Enrique, Mags, and I are as one on this issue. Two, they will be rich, in plain words, and they will be responsible with their bounty.” She paused. “Now tell me, how long did it take you to come up with that angle?”

  He did have to chuckle. “A month of research before my Christmas visit. I came armed this season with a new tack and a big poinsettia.” He nodded to her. “But you’re always a step ahead.”

  “I try. I love Nevada. I especially love northern Nevada. What are the latest population guesses? Another one hundred million people in our country by 2034? Something like that. More environmental damage, more harm to wildlife, and what is frightening to me, more city dwellers who do not understand and feel superior to those of us who are ranchers. You know as well as I do, forests may be renewable, water is not. I’ve tried to protect Red Rock Valley and a few other places hither and yon. I don’t fault you, really. SSRM is prepared for and needs growth. I’m certain it will destroy us. I’m an old, old Nevada girl and I will do all I can to save and protect the ways of old Nevada.”

  He listened respectfully. “I know you will. We just see the future differently.”

  “Well, at least we’re both thinking about tomorrow. Plenty don’t.” She reiterated, “I won’t sell any land. I won’t sell or transfer water rights that I rent from other ranchers and I will fight the transfer of water rights from agricultural to municipal use if Reno begins to covet Red Rock Valley.”

  “Well, we got that out of the way.” He laughed. “You know, water really is a fascinating subject all over the world.”

  “That it is. I wonder about China and India, all those people, their controls don’t seem to be very stringent, the pollution.” She shook her head. “Unless they do something about it, it will be their undoing.”

  “That goes for us, too. We have our problems. But I like to go back and read the National Reclamation Act of 1902. That was a visionary statement.”

  “Yes, it was. We will never have a president who loved the West as much as Theodore Roosevelt. He brilliantly combined development, ecology, and common sense. Can you imagine where our nation would be without him?” Jeep dearly loved the Rough Rider.

  “Even Teddy couldn’t have foreseen the population explosion out here, though. At the turn of the last century, Reno had only fifteen thousand inhabitants—and even then water issues began to arise.”

  “It is amazing. You know, I have some of the papers and the visitors’ book of Ralph and Michael Ford from 1880 onward. I once read them all and I need to do so again. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten much of it. They dug drainage ditches and irrigated the land from Campbell Springs. They also dug two deep wells. Those two planned ahead, for which I’m certainly grateful. I’m still using what they did.”

  “Know that.”

  “I bet you do.” She smiled at him. “Then again, that’s part of your job.”

  “It is. I think the struggle over water is like everything else in Nevada’s history. When times are good, people forget. When they’re bad, then they remember because they’re looking for other ways to make money. Remember, Nevada lost half its population from 1880 to about 1990 when the mines began to play out.”

  “Now it’s California that’s playing out.” From her seat, Jeep reached down and petted King, now at her side.

  “California would be better off if they declared bankruptcy.”

  “You’ve got a point there. I just hope that mess doesn’t spread here. We have our problems, but we seem to be ahead of them. Well, we never exploded like they did nor did our state government make promises to the various unions like they did.”

  “Well, on our side, gambling’s down,” Craig mentioned. “And we lead the nation in foreclosures.”

  “If the economy keeps tanking, it will get worse. How sad to think of people just walking away from their homes.”

  “Think so? Most of that disaster is in Las Vegas.” He rubbed his knee. “But we have our share here.”

  “So then why on earth build Horseshoe Estates?”

  She caught Craig off guard, but he recovered. With Jeep, it was never wise to forget whom you were dealing with. “The abandoned properties in Reno will be trashed. Vagrants and the like will live in them.” He seemed to be evading the subject.

  “Even without electricity?”

  “A place to sleep is better than the streets.” He finished his hot chocolate. “The banks will have to write off those properties. We need new, good housing. Maybe not as much or as expensive as Wade Properties thinks, but I wonder if some of the California refugees will actually get out with their money. If so, they may well buy here. We have no state income tax and Nevada is extremely business friendly.”

  “For which I am extremely grateful.”

  They chatted a bit more, then he rose to leave. She walked him to the front door.

  “Thank you for your hospitality. It’s always bracing to talk to you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I think of us as the best of enemies.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Merry Christmas, Jeep.”

  “Merry Christmas, Craig.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Christmas rarely brought out the best in people, as the Reno police force well knew. The shopping mall parking lots overflowed, but this year folks kept their wallets more closed than open. Sales clerks were run ragged trying to please shoppers. Some gave up, but perhaps they never much cared in the first place. A fight broke out at—of all places—Macy’s men’s fragrance counter. The combatants, not male, assaulted each other with bulky purses.

  Back on the freeway after this incident, Lonnie flipped his notebook closed. “Purse used as an assault weapon.”

  “That should look good in the report.” Pete pulled into a parking lot near the multilevel downtown library.

  While outsiders derided Reno as a nadir of culture and learning, the library employees knew otherwise. This town was full of voracious readers. The bookstores sold books, fat times or lean. For other cultural diversions, Trinity Episcopal opened its doors Friday afternoon for free organ concerts. The pews were filled with enthusiastic music lovers.

  The casinos, however, were emptier than usual. This unfortunate addiction paid the state’s bills. As gambling revenues diminished, lawmakers grew anxious. Since government is zero profit, those in it have no idea how to make money. They sure know how to spend it, however.

  One always has to eat, though. Trying to get in the habit of eating better, Pete and Lonnie decided they’d shun fast food for the Christmas season. While Pete hit the gym regularly and kept in good shape, he knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors at the table. He didn’t eat a lo
t, but he ate poorly.

  Lonnie was still too young to care.

  After giving their orders, they relaxed. A huge TV played behind the bar. A soccer match between the Netherlands and Spain looked like a good one. In summer, the patrons of the Wild River Grille could eat outside as the Truckee River gurgled by. The interior, sleek, was pleasant in any season.

  “Replay.” Lonnie diverted his eyes from the screen. “Want to bet on it?”

  “Hell no.”

  “I’ll give you good odds.”

  “Since you obviously already know who won, no odds out of your mouth are good odds.”

  Usually the two couldn’t enjoy a good lunch, but they’d called in and were temporarily unavailable. If there was a fender bender on Fifth Street, someone else would take the call. Tomorrow, they’d return the favor for someone else. Every now and then a body needs a small break from routine, especially from the frayed nerves of the holiday season.

  After polishing off a salad with steak strips for Pete, a huge rib eye for Lonnie, they sipped coffee. Lonnie ordered New York cheesecake. Pete liked the look of it, but refused to put on weight over Christmas.

  “Haven’t had time to go over the report from Susanville together,” Pete mentioned.

  “I read it, though.”

  “Glad I didn’t have to question his widow before the holidays.” Pete, like most law enforcement people, hated bringing dreadful news to folks who—until the police knocked on their door—assumed life was normal.

  “Yeah, I’m glad to have missed that.” Lonnie carefully cut a piece of rich, chocolate-drizzled cheesecake with his fork. “I’m learning a lot from you.”

  Pete peered over his raised coffee cup. “I’m waiting.”

  “No, really. When we went to the motel, you saw something I didn’t. I looked at the corpse, questioned the manager while you questioned the maid. Forensics showed up and I got out of their way.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  “I made a crack about no noise because of the silencer. No guests would be disturbed. You didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t agree with me.”