A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I know. I know. But he’s valuable to the company and—”

  “He kisses your ass.” Twinkie interrupted. “Sorry.”

  “It’s true. If anything was amiss with Pump Twenty-two, Oliver would have told me. I just wonder why he went down to Holcomb Ranch Lane.

  “The repairs there will hold until spring or longer. This whole thing with the blown-up pumps has all of us jumpy,” said Twinkie. “Too jumpy, I guess.” A long pause followed. “Maybe he figured out who was dropping pipe bombs.”

  “Maybe, but I think he would have told me that right away.”

  “Not unless he was sure. Oliver likes to have his ducks in a row.”

  “That’s true. But blowing up two pumps isn’t the same as murder, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  Another long pause followed.

  “Twinkie, did Oliver ever mention Bedell Flat to you, especially in connection to water rights?”

  “No. It’s a big wasteland, pretty much.” He reconsidered that statement. “Well, there is Bedell Spring tucked on the eastern side of the Dogskins.”

  “Too far away to be useful,” said George W. “But I just wondered if Oliver had ever expressed any interest in Bedell Flat.”

  “No.”

  “All right then. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. I’m going to call Bunny.”

  “Sure. If anything comes up, let me know. I mean, I can’t stand the guy but I don’t wish him any harm.”

  George W. ended the call and called Bunny, whose replies were close to Twinkie’s. Bunny was upset that Oliver hadn’t told any of them he went back to the pumps. He wondered if it had been Oliver’s car they’d made track casts of.

  Back in his office, George W. wanted quiet time to think. He didn’t want to burden his family on the holiday weekend. He studied the maps on the wall of new housing developments, none of which were in the Red Rock area. He had no answers, but he sure had some big questions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Oliver Hitchens’s mysterious disappearance made the front page of Monday’s Reno Gazette-Journal. The story ran in the right-hand column with a mention of SSRM’s recent troubles with sabotaged equipment.

  Jeep sat at the kitchen table reading the Gazette-Journal. When she was younger, the Gazette was the morning paper and the Journal was the evening paper, each with a distinct point of view. Most cities had at least two newspapers back then, and she never believed in watching the TV news. Reading an article took time. A three-minute report with pictures on television wasn’t the same. She feared anyone under forty had no patience to seek out the different sides of any particular issue.

  Mags walked in, surprised to see Jeep. “You’re up bright and early.”

  Baxter tagged behind his human.

  Jeep glanced up at the wall clock, a big round brass one with long black hands ending in arrow points. “Six. Okay, a half hour early. Couldn’t sleep. Start of a new year, the business year. I like Mondays. I know many don’t. Coffee’s ready.”

  “You make the best coffee.”

  “Thank you, dear. Starts with the water.” As Mags went to the coffee pot, Jeep told her the news. “A Silver State Resource Management person has gone missing. He was second in command of equipment maintenance and purchase. Very odd.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. If I were the treasurer of SSRM, I’d be poring over the books right now. Hell of a way to start the new year.”

  Baxter spoke loudly to Mags, “You aren’t going to drink that coffee without feeding me first, are you?”

  King had slept in the room with Jeep, and bragged, “Already had mine.”

  Looking down at Baxter’s handsome face, Mags sighed. “All right.”

  She opened a can of food, mixed it in with kibble, and placed it on the floor. When she sat down, her great-aunt pushed the paper toward her.

  After reading the article, she handed the paper back. “Oliver Hitchens would have had opportunities to steal, wouldn’t he?”

  “Padding purchase orders is tried and true.”

  “Ever have it happen to you?” Mags wondered.

  “In small ways. Someone would order hay and behind my back have made a deal with the supplier. I never let anyone write checks other than Dot and me. It’s relatively easy to steal from busy people because we don’t have the time to go over details. But when I get down to it, I leave no stone unturned.”

  “Or tern unstoned.”

  Jeep smiled. “Quite right. Once Enrique came back from college and took over the day-to-day management of the ranch, my life got a lot easier. Someone who works at a corporation where large pieces of equipment are bought—that could be a real gravy train. And it wouldn’t be that hard to hide your trail for a while, especially if one is doing business with places like China. For one thing, you can juggle currency rates.”

  “That’s a thought.” Mags took a deep, grateful sip. “What kind of coffee is this?”

  “Jamaican. I learned to make coffee when I was stationed in Sweetwater. Took my hard-earned pay and bought a coffee grinder. Hand grinders then, and I began to sample different kinds of beans. The girls loved it. Then when I was mustered out—” She looked up again from the paper. “One day we were flying and the next day we weren’t. It was badly done, I can tell you. Some of the girls were flown home but others had to take a bus. We were shabbily treated. That’s when I decided I was going to be my own goddamned boss.” She folded the paper and snapped it on the table, which made King bark.

  Baxter, mouth full of food, prudently did not open it.

  “There’ve been some books about the women pilots.”

  “Guess I should read them. I try not to look back too much. I was so angry and let down at the time. Mags, I don’t wish war upon you and I know I’ve belabored this, but I loved flying. I still love flying on those rare times when I get to do it. But being with others who loved it, who had a purpose, God, it was glorious.” She picked up the paper again, then put it back down. “What in the hell is going on at SSRM?”

  “Maybe when they find Oliver, we’ll find out.”

  “If he was stealing, they may cover it up. Banks routinely do that or the teller or officer commits suicide and nothing is said about why.”

  “Even now?”

  “Even now. But since this story has made the front page I expect a good reporter at the RGJ won’t let it slide.” She used initials for the Reno Gazette-Journal, which most folks did. “Mags, has anyone from SSRM ever approached you about selling water rights once I go to my reward?”

  “You mean, when I was in New York? Never. Why bother?”

  “Because the profits would be astronomical. You’re only a phone call or email away in New York and it’s no secret that you and Enrique will inherit.”

  “Friends know, but not necessarily SSRM,” Mags responded.

  “Reno is a small town in many ways. Word gets around. I think that’s why your sister’s porn movies sell so well at the local sex shop. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Maybe it was that gossip and the subsequent sales that finally got her out of debt.” Jeep laughed.

  “That’s one way to do it, though Catherine will likely be in debt again. She’s a spendaholic.” Mags grabbed the sports section. “Play-offs.”

  “Sometimes the conference title games are better than the Super Bowl. How are you doing on your Frederic Remington research? I’ve passed that drawing on the wall so many times I forgot it was of a Cossack—if I even knew in the first place. I tend to concentrate on the horse. Another one of Dot’s finds.”

  “I found out that Remington also loved Buffalo Bill’s shows. There’s a wealth of material to research. I have to dig deeper. It’s pretty exciting.”

  “Yes, it is.” Jeep looked at the paper and read some more. “Mmm, revenues are down from gambling. Too bad they don’t report prostitution revenues. I still want to know what that gal did for eight thousand dollars, the one who served your former governor.”r />
  “My fear is that I’ve done the same for free.”

  They laughed.

  A half hour later, Enrique popped his head in the door. “Any special orders today?”

  “No. Say, has anyone from Silver State Resource Management ever discussed the selling of water rights with you—you know, when I die?”

  He entered the kitchen and closed the door. “Oh, maybe three years ago, Craig Locke brought it up. I said I would do as you have always done.”

  “Did he come here to the ranch?”

  “No, I ran into him at Big R,” he said, mentioning a ranch supply store.

  She waved the paper at him. Taking it from her, Enrique read the article about Hitchens and handed it back. “Money is sticking to someone’s fingers.”

  “I think so, too,” Jeep agreed.

  The first thing Darryl Johnson did when he came to work that Monday was to ask the treasurer to go over every single purchase or repair of equipment signed off by Oliver Hitchens. This took until lunchtime because the treasurer downloaded five years’ worth of materials from the computer.

  Calling George W. into his office, Darryl handed him the stack. “Go over this. If you can do it today, I’d appreciate it. If it takes longer, tell me.”

  George W. knew what Darryl was looking for so he said, “I’ll call suppliers to confirm that all the billings are on the up and up.”

  “What makes you think they’ll be telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a start. I can’t imagine Oliver doing anything crooked.”

  “That’s what people always say in a situation like this.”

  “Right, but to just leave Karen”—he shook his head—“I’ll get right on it.”

  George W. called suppliers and, with Christina, went over each unit. They found nothing. At six in the evening, for everyone worked late that day, he was back in Darryl’s office.

  “Oliver’s squeaky clean.”

  Darryl sighed. “I’m glad to hear that and I’m not.” George W.’s quizzical look elicited the following from the president: “Now I fear the worst.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Look at this.” Pete set a topo map in front of Lonnie. The maps had a sort of plasticized coating so one could work with them outside and wipe them off none the worse for wear. Made them harder to tear, too.

  The two had stopped at a convenience store for a Coke. A low pressure system had snuck up on them, making them tired. Gray skies added to the feeling.

  Lonnie put his Coke in the cup holder.

  “What am I looking at? I see a bunch of little squares.”

  “Sam Peruzzi’s notes.” Pete pointed to the area. “This is Horseshoe Estates, the development that won its zoning. In blue are the parcels where SSRM or Wade Properties owns the water rights. The small red ones—ten of them in Sam’s notes—were bought up by individuals. I need to go down and check the transfers at the courthouse; some are small. Everything was purchased in the last year.”

  “By the same person?”

  “No. Ranculli, the fellow in Portland who bought one, called back to say he thought it was a good investment. Not much for divulging information, Ranculli.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “All you ever think about is sex.” Pete fired back.

  “And you don’t?”

  “I just don’t talk about it.” Pete awarded him a superior smile, then laughed. “Okay, let’s see if we are thinking the same thing. What is a guy in Portland doing buying water rights to a half acre in Washoe County? How did he know to buy there?”

  Lonnie nodded in agreement. “It’s not like it was advertised. Prices would have skyrocketed if people knew what they were up to.”

  “Yes and no. By law the county has to send every resident in the area a letter whenever a zoning appeal is made. This they did, but the zoning appeal came at the end of this year of purchase.”

  “Didn’t make the papers.”

  “A zoning appeal isn’t big news unless it’s a Walmart, something like that. The newspaper did carry a notice of the filing. Nevada newspapers make about ten thousand dollars each year because of the published notices. But it wasn’t treated as hard news until after the zoning meeting.”

  “Maybe after the Steamboat Hills idea got shot down, the paper figured Horseshoe Estates would be, too—so why waste space until after the fact?”

  “They sent a reporter to the meeting.” Pete again pointed with his forefinger to the squares. “Apart from Ranculli, the other purchasers were within Nevada. One from Las Vegas, a doctor; one from Carson City; one from Virginia City; the other six are from Washoe County.”

  “How did they know to buy there?”

  “To find that out, we are personally calling on the locals who bought. We’ll go up to Virginia City and Carson City eventually. Everything points to prior knowledge on the part of the purchasers.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re going to tell us.”

  “Come on, you’re a cop. By now you should know when people are lying.”

  Their first stop was south of town, at the Shear Delight beauty parlor. Housed in a pleasant, small strip mall, the outside was painted black, a sign affixed to the wall. Black with gold lettering edged in red, it spelled out the name with a large pair of scissors underneath.

  As they entered this hive of activity, the receptionist looked up and saw they were in uniform. In her mid-thirties, Tiffany Kinder had long lacquered nails and pink hair. She could have been seen from a satellite. She smiled. “You two need haircuts.”

  Lonnie, hat off, ran his hand over his sandy hair. “You think?”

  “I think.” She smiled again, twirling a long pencil with a tiny figurine of Elvis Presley on the end. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is there a Mattie Billingsley here?”

  “She owns the place. She’s on the floor. If you gentlemen wait right here, I’ll get her. Did she forget to renew her license plates? She’d forget her head if it weren’t attached to her body.” She said the last sentence in a whisper. “But she’s a good boss and a lot of fun.”

  Protected from street view by a beautiful frosted etched glass divider with a scene of wild horses galloping across the sagebrush, the clients could be heard laughing amid the noise of hand-held hair dryers.

  In a black smock with the Shear Delight logo embroidered on it, Mattie Billingsley swung around the divider. A slightly portly woman with flair, although not quite as much as the receptionist, the shop’s owner walked over.

  The men got to their feet as Pete made introductions.

  “What did I do now?” she asked. “I’m sure my business license is current. I think my driver’s license is, too.” Uncertainty crossed her attractive face.

  “Actually, Miss Billingsley we’d just like to ask you a few questions. You’re not under any suspicion. We’ve been investigating the two pumps of Silver State Resource Management that were blown up.”

  “Please sit down.” She sat with them.

  “SSRM has been targeted, but we don’t know who has done this or why. You bought property with water rights to a quarter of an acre where Wade Properties now plans to create a thousand-home subdivision.”

  She beamed. “Yes, I did. What luck.”

  “As you probably know, SSRM will supply the water.”

  “I read about that in the paper.”

  “Can you tell me why you selected that quarter acre?”

  “Sure. Good roads. Close to town. My husband and I thought we might build out there someday. Plus it was cheap.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “Online. Our realtor has a website where you can look at properties before you go in person. Saves a lot of dead-end visits. Saves time.”

  “Who is your realtor?”

  “Benjamin Realty. They’re very good. Jake and I had been looking for two years. The places we liked we couldn’t afford. The places we didn’t, we could—until we found this.” She beame
d again. “Given what Wade Properties has paid us, we might be able to afford one of their homes.” She paused. “Too ritzy, though. Affording it is one thing, maintaining it is another.”

  “So now you’re looking again?” He glanced over at Lonnie, busy scribbling away.

  “We are.”

  Pete stood up. “Mrs. Billingsley, thank you for your time.”

  “No problem.”

  Back in the squad car, the corner of Lonnie’s mouth turned up. “Can you imagine going to bed with a woman with Day-Glo pink hair? I mean what if that receptionist was Day-Glo everywhere?”

  Pete winced. “You’d need sunglasses.”

  The second stop was Teton Benson’s walk-up on Fourth Street in downtown Reno. Knocking on the residence’s door produced no result.

  “Got a work address?” Lonnie asked.

  “No. We’ll come back later.”

  “I’d look in the bar, but it’s too early.”

  “Never too early.” Lonnie laughed.

  The third call was at Larkin Surveyors. As it happened, Jonas Larkin was in the office, having just returned from a job. He glanced up from his computer, not happy to see who just walked in the door.

  “Is Mr. Jonas Larkin here?”

  “I am Jonas Larkin.” He rose from his desk and walked over to them.

  The small office had two desks side by side. No receptionist or secretary was in evidence. Larkin Surveyors appeared to be a two-man show.

  After introductions, Jonas did not ask them to sit.

  Sensing the man’s wariness, Pete got right to the point. “Mr. Larkin, you bought an acre of property where Horseshoe Estates will be developed. Why did you buy there?”

  “Wherever I survey, I look around. Wade Properties has their own team of surveyors. Last year I was on the other side of the road on a small job and I spotted their team. I found out what was available over there and bought an acre. Wade never surveys in vain. Actually, I own a fair amount of land. Sometimes I ask for payment in parcels of land.” He quickly added, “I keep expenses down, as you can see. Rent on fancy offices, secretaries, and all that are passed on to the client. I keep it lean and mean.”