A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Wise,” Pete replied simply. “Has Wade Properties offered to buy your acre?”

  “They have.” He smirked. “I’m holding out. I’m going to walk away with a lot of money on this one.”

  “Do you ever run into Silver State Resource Management people in your work?”

  “Sometimes. They have in-house surveyors, too, hydrographers. It’s a big company. I pay attention to all of it.”

  “Do you know anyone in the company, apart from the surveyors?”

  “Not really.”

  Back in the car, a mile down the road, Lonnie said, “He’s hiding something.”

  “I know.”

  A half hour later they were in a condominium building with a doorman who smiled as though two police officers were the very people he wanted to see.

  “Does Anthony Diamond live here?”

  “He does, sir.”

  “Can you buzz him for me?” Pete meant for the doorman to call up to announce his presence.

  “Mr. Diamond is in California. He works in Sacramento.”

  “Lives here to avoid California taxes, does he?” Pete asked. Many Californians kept addresses in the high-rise condominiums, claiming that as their primary residence. It saved thousands upon thousands of dollars.

  “I wouldn’t know that, sir.” The doorman replied smoothly.

  “When he returns, give him my card, will you? He may be able to help us concerning an investigation.”

  The doorman took the card in his gloved hand and Pete slipped him a five dollar bill folded under it. Dealing with doormen was a necessity in this town. Before doing so, Pete always attached a fiver to his card with a paper clip. He slipped this in his pants pocket before questioning any doorman.

  Doormen can be crucial points of information.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The fifth call was to High Rollers Casino. The chef there had bought two acres. Chefs at the big casinos are highly paid, their work being crucial to the success of the enterprise. Most casinos rented space for special occasions, meetings. None of this involved gambling, but at most such functions, the people feeling well-off—which a full stomach produces, plus being a bit lubricated—invariably find their way to the casino tables after the function.

  Pete and Lonnie waited fifteen minutes for the chef. The casino manager was visibly upset at having to pull him away from supervising the kitchen, but did so, allowing them use of a meeting room near his office.

  Egon Utrecht swished in, his large hat on his head, his whites impeccable. Imperious, not gay but very swishy, he looked down at the two officers from six foot four inches. Wide, too; he clearly enjoyed his own cooking.

  “I am in complete compliance with every city and county health ordinance,” he bellowed.

  “We’re not here about that, Mr. Utrecht.”

  This somewhat mollified him. “Well, why are you here?”

  “This won’t take long. We know how busy you are.” Pete smiled. “You’re Reno’s most famous celebrity chef.”

  Visibly pleased, Egon pulled a chair away from the table and sat. Given his bulk he had to sit sideways, so Pete did the same while Lonnie dutifully used the table to write, a small pleasure for him.

  Pete ran through his preamble about Horseshoe Estates.

  “I did buy two acres. I buy land all over this county and Churchill County, too. I am what you might call a land speculator.”

  “Sure beats the stock market.”

  Egon pursed his lips. “People get what they ask for. I have never put money in the market and I never will.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people wished they had made your choices. Can you tell me why you bought land there?”

  “I liked what I saw.”

  “Which is?”

  “Far enough away from Reno to be private, but close enough that even in rush hour traffic you should be able to get to your office in a half hour.”

  “Did you know this area was to be developed?”

  “I figured it would be sooner or later.”

  Back in the car, the two checked out the address for the sixth purchaser in Washoe County. Neither said anything about the chef.

  Kylie Prentiss, a young nurse at a small neighborhood clinic, was uncomfortable and kept it almost to monosyllables. She had no explanation for why she’d purchased a quarter of an acre. She kept repeating that she thought it was a good idea. She’d been saving for something.

  Back in the car, Pete said, “I need another Coke. I can barely hold my head up. There must be another storm coming in. See if you can get a weather report.”

  Lonnie flipped out his cellphone, which had every feature known to man. He punched in the website. “Light snow starting at seven tonight. Ends in the morning, then clear skies, forty degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Let’s head over to Benjamin Realty. As for Kylie Prentiss, she’s either a highly nervous person or another one hiding something.”

  “I vote for the second choice.”

  Benjamin Realty was located in another strip mall. Attractive, the interior of the place invited clients to relax and look at offerings on the large screen before hitting the road and driving to them. It served a middle-class market, one concerned with good schools and low crime, people wanting a neighborhood that provided community.

  Warmly greeted by the receptionist, they asked if the realtor who sold Mattie Billingsley her property was in.

  Hearing this from her desk, a well-groomed middle-aged woman stood. “I did. Isn’t that the best story you’ve heard all day?” She launched right into the client’s good fortune as she approached the men.

  Pete introduced himself and Lonnie. He told her about the pumps and so forth.

  “Isn’t that the damnedest thing? Why would someone want to blow up pumps?” Babs Gallagher shrugged.

  “Ma’am, did you know that Wade Properties was going to develop out there?”

  “I’m good, but not that good.” She smiled. “Sometimes you can figure out what they’re up to; you know, you see people show up sometimes too many times for it to be random, but that wasn’t the case this time. However, I am thrilled at the way this has turned out. Mattie and Jake are the sweetest people in Reno. If anyone ever deserved to hit the jackpot, it’s them.”

  As they drove away, Pete said, “I think Mattie and Babs are the only people who have told us the whole story.”

  “Seems like it.” Lonnie watched another strip mall pass by. “I noticed you didn’t mention Sam Peruzzi to anyone.”

  “I will if I go back again. No point in scaring people.”

  “How about Oliver Hitchens?”

  “No point in mentioning him, either. I’ll check in with Finny to see if they’ve found anything.” Fergus Fincastle was the officer in charge of that case.

  Pete checked the time on the dash clock. “Almost quittin’ time. I want to talk to the people in Carson City and Virginia City in person but, you know, I’ve been thinking about the budget crunch. I’ll phone them. If it seems promising, then we can justify burning Washoe County gas to go.”

  “Right. Isn’t your date tomorrow night?”

  “Is. You’re not invited.”

  “She’s hot.”

  “That’s why you’re not invited.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mags liked physical labor. It proved an antidote to her former life. Each morning she rose, ate breakfast, then went outside to do whatever chores presented themselves. A pair of extra hands on a ranch is always useful. Baxter tagged along. She was amazed at how quickly the little guy learned the boundaries of the ranch. He already knew every ground squirrel within a mile of the house and barns.

  His head in the hole, his tail wagging, he’d dig with fury. King would watch while offering no comment; he had herding blood. Didn’t mean the larger dog couldn’t chase varmints, but digging them out wasn’t his forte.

  Throwing hay, picking stalls, and checking on the laying of the pipe in the old barn took three to four hours eac
h morning. After, Mags would troop back into the house famished, since breakfast was light.

  Carlotta cooked her an early lunch. Jeep would join her, then both would disappear to other chores while Carlotta planned supper. Carlotta loved pleasing people at the table. Given her skills, this was easy.

  January 6, Wednesday—Epiphany—found Jeep and Mags in the old barn observing the last of the pipe being laid. The eight-inch drain covers stood straight up on the waste pipes, also eight inches wide. The liquids would eventually, thanks to the grade, go outside the barn to a 3,000-gallon buried holding tank. Jeep loved construction of any sort. Her return from the barn found her buoyant.

  The chill had gotten to them. Once inside they drank hot chocolate.

  “I have good news,” Mags said to her great-aunt.

  “I’m always ready for good news.”

  “Buffalo Bill had Cossacks in his show.”

  Jeep straightened up, her hands warmed now by the mug of hot chocolate. “Really?”

  “He called his show ‘Congress of the Rough Riders of the World’ and employed Mexicans, Filipinos, Indians, Cossacks, German cavalry officers, and English cavalry officers. He had chiefs, braves, squaws, and one papoose named Willie White Bird. He paid Arabs, Cubans, and Hawaiians, as well as cowboys. They would set up quarters in the winter. They were like a small army.”

  “Imagine his payroll.”

  “Had to be huge, but so were the profits. Buffalo Bill’s European tours took years. I don’t know when he first went abroad, I’m still working on that, but he did a European tour in 1891. What struck me about that was he had brought with him survivors of the Charge of the Light Brigade. Can you imagine?”

  “Must have been very emotional.”

  “He was in Europe again from 1903 to 1906. In each country he’d stage a cross-country race. If they were in Germany, a Prussian uhlan would win—that’s one of their cavalry types. If they were in England, a foxhunter would win. When they were here, a cowboy won. And Frederic Remington sketched all of this. You know, Aunt Jeep, it must have been one of the most fascinating shows in history, just like some of the events in the Roman Coliseum throughout history. It’s almost unimaginable: the planning, then the execution. Funny what survives.”

  “A good time best remembered.” Jeep smiled. “So, Cossacks?”

  “Bill’s Cossacks were led by Prince Ivan Macheradze. I suppose the personnel changed over the years, but I found a program printed in a book, Buffalo Bill and the Wild West by Henry Blackman Sell and Victor Weybright.”

  “I’m glad I bought you that new computer, though I’m also amazed at how much you remember. ’Course you always had a good memory, even when a little thing.”

  “I have the names of the Cossacks. I’ll go get them for you.” Mags returned with a computer printout of the page from the book. “Here.”

  Nine names were highlighted with a yellow marker.

  Mags continued. “I also found the name of four women riders as Cossacks. They rode as women in Cossack attire. They must have been fabulous. Of course, over time some went back to Georgia, others stayed in America. Pretty fascinating. Now what I have to do is find out about each of these people.”

  “Like the one who didn’t go home?” Aunt Jeep said. “That doesn’t mean that would be our fellow.” She looked at the ring. “But then again, maybe. This is exciting.”

  That evening, at dinner, Mags told Pete her news. He didn’t tell her what his day had been like. Tracking down more people who had bought land in what was to become Horseshoe Estates wasn’t as fascinating to him, anyway, as her story.

  However, Mags, after her explosion of excitement, asked, “How was your day?”

  “I interviewed one person today, a fellow from California: facelift, Patek Philippe watch, expensive shoes. You get the picture.”

  “He lives here?”

  “A lot of Californians do. Reno is their main address so they escape state taxes over there.”

  “Ah. Makes sense.”

  “You’d be amazed at how few people actually live full-time in those expensive high-rises downtown. And right now, few are buying the new ones.”

  “I guess that’s everywhere. So what about Mr. Facelift?”

  “Evasive.”

  “Think he committed a crime?”

  “I doubt it, but he might lead me to someone who did.”

  “Your work sounds either exciting or tedious, one or the other.”

  He smiled. “You’re right. Okay, now for the really important question.” He leaned forward to look right into her eyes. “You like baseball, right? Who is your favorite team?”

  “The Dodgers.”

  He groaned.

  “Who’s yours?”

  “Giants. They aren’t doing much, but just wait.”

  “I used to live in L.A., so the Dodgers makes sense, but the Giants?”

  “Closest major league team to Reno. But we’ve got our own team now. It’s minor league, but fun. The Aces. I go to every game I can. I play in the summer leagues in the park, too.”

  They chattered on over dinner, never running out of things to discuss.

  Pete dropped her off at Jeep’s, walked her to the door.

  Mags kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  He drove back home, thinking how much he liked her. It’s one thing to lust after a woman, it’s another to find her desirable and also truly like her.

  He was looking forward to their next date.

  Before that could happen, though, all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  By mid-morning on Thursday, the mercury had climbed to 40°F which, given the last few weeks, felt warm. Ranchers checked their cattle, people drove to the office, all feeling relief from winter’s bite.

  Having tagged along for the chores, King and Baxter became distracted by a coyote moving southward.

  “Let’s chase him,” King said gleefully.

  Baxter happily complied and the two rushed after the gray animal who stayed far enough ahead of them to keep them interested. Coyotes rarely work harder than is necessary and this fellow knew he could smoke those two domesticated twits any time he wished.

  He ran more or less parallel to Dry Valley Road where a creek bed also ran more or less parallel. The gently sloped banks were four to six feet high, steep in places. In a few spots the drop was precipitous, sheer on every cutback into the soil with an overhang. Once at the bottom, the creek bed was wide, water trickled along—always a welcome sight to have running water. Brush dotted the edges. Come spring, the shrubs would green up. In spots, a small ledge offered protection for varmits.

  After a mile of running, Baxter, not in as good shape as King, began to trot.

  The coyote dropped over the bank, ran through the creek, then poof, disappeared.

  Piles of rocks dotted the landscape higher up, fewer marked the other side of the creek. The rock piles seemed to increase with the height almost as if they’d been laid there by giant hands. No doubt the coyote had a den in an outcropping. King loved to chase things, but he wasn’t going to confront a coyote in his den, assuming he could even find it. A clever coyote would mark various dens to throw off an enemy. Usually more than one coyote lived in each den. Better not to find oneself outnumbered.

  King stopped as Baxter caught up. “Time to go back.”

  Baxter lifted his head, sniffed deeply. “Something’s in the creek bed.”

  King followed, flared his nostrils. He’d been so intent on his coyote, he hadn’t paid too much attention to competing scents. To him, this one smelled sweet, alluring.

  The dogs dipped over the bank and moved southward along the creek bed, stopping at a small overhang on the west side. Dry Valley Road was thirty yards away.

  King splashed across the water to the overhang. Baxter did also, getting his tummy wet.

  Transfixed, the two animals stared at the human corpse stashed there. One wouldn’t see it from the road. C
oyotes had eaten some of the best parts—including the nose and lips—but since it froze at night what wasn’t chewed was well enough preserved. If the mercury rose more, the heady fragrance would announce a jackpot of carrion to the local critters. By then, even the humans would get a whiff.

  “He’s not far from dinner.” King stayed focused on his coyote.

  “We never see anything like this in New York.” Baxter was excited. “Do people just stick their dead anywhere here in Nevada?”

  “Not unless there’s a problem. They bury everything mostly so no one can get to them.” King sniffed the corpse. “Let’s see if we can pull an arm off and take it home.”

  “Do you think they will want it?” Baxter didn’t think humans liked this sort of thing.

  “Probably not, but what a prize!” King grabbed what was left of the hand and pulled.

  Baxter did his best to help. Being short, he had to stand on his hind legs, so he couldn’t pull as hard as King. Finally, two fingers dislodged, but the wrist bones stubbornly would not yield.

  Disappointed, King looked at the mangled fingers. “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

  ———

  On the phone in her office, Jeep heard Carlotta’s screams. Running to the kitchen, Jeep, like her daughter-in-law, was horrified to see two discolored human fingers on the floor. King proudly stood over them, wagging his tail frantically.

  Baxter, also thrilled, stood on the other side of the treasure.

  King reached down to pick them up again.

  “No,” Jeep said firmly. “Carlotta, put a pan over these, will you?”

  With distaste, Carlotta did just that.

  The dogs guarded the pan as Jeep called the sheriff’s office. Then she called Enrique. Mags, with Enrique at the time, hurried home with him.

  Once in the house, Enrique carefully picked up the overturned pot, his lips curled up. King made an attempt to grab the fingers.

  “No,” Jeep again commanded.

  “They’re mine!” King protested.