A Nose for Justice (9 page)

“Haven’t talked to you since I called you about that explosion,” Jeep said to Pete while pouring herself another mug of coffee. “What happened up there?”

“Someone blew up the pump.” Pete was enjoying Carlotta’s coffee. “Our department has a pretty good explosives expert, part time. I gave her the fragment and some paper bits Lonnie and I found and she was able to come back with answers.” Pete stirred his coffee after Carlotta refilled his cup. “It was a small pipe bomb. Small enough that you or I could have slid it into our coat pocket. Residue inside indicated that whoever did it had access to high-grade materials and knew what he was doing.”

“That’s hardly consoling.” Jeep sighed.

“Based on her conclusions—oh, I forgot to mention, he used some paper wadding.”

Lonnie chipped in. “A grocery list.”

“It wasn’t me!” Carlotta held up her hands in surrender.

“Carlotta, you’d throw a grenade instead.” Jeep laughed.

Pete continued. “But here’s the thing, again according to Mindy, our explosives expert: The perp didn’t want to cause a great deal of damage. Just enough.”

“Enough?”

“Either to divert our attention or as a warning. Then again, this could be a fruit loop.”

“Fruit loops with pipe bombs usually do things like ride buses to take out a lot of people, isn’t that right?” Mags joined in.

“More or less, ma’am. We’ve not had to deal with anything like that in Reno and I pray we never will; people whose sole purpose is to kill others they don’t even know. This is something else entirely and I don’t know why it happened. I could try and impress you ladies with solid-sounding theories, but I just flat-out don’t know what motivated our bomber.” Pete didn’t sound frustrated so much as puzzled.

“No one claimed responsibility,” Lonnie added.

“Why would someone do that?” Although Mags had spent periods of time throughout her life in Nevada and knew more about the state than
most, she wasn’t up-to-date on recent politics or problems, whereby a radical group would claim a bombing.

“For political gain,” Jeep answered. “If a movement, say environmental—labor in the old days—is extremely well organized, well led, there’s always an arm that is violent. The main group disavows this fringe element but actually directs its actions.”

“Why?” Mags wondered, and so did Pete and Lonnie.

“Violent or outrageous acts, whether from the left or the right, make any nonviolent position appear more reasonable. It’s another way to move the center off center, shall we say? Forty years ago the center of American politics would seem quite leftist now. The Republican Party’s conservative wing has managed to move the center rightward with great success. Of course, now they’re fighting among themselves, but that happens. Not just their problem. It’s an old strategy and a very effective one. You know, these days Nixon would be considered too liberal by his own party.”

Lonnie thought out loud, “Someone bombs Pump Nineteen. Eventually claims that this was done to protect water rights for all individuals or something like that. Everyone is shocked, right?” Jeep nodded, so he continued. “The politicians push harder to limit Silver State’s control of water.”

“Seems to me if that’s the drill, it’s better than one well-trained person acting alone.” Pete wiped his hands on a napkin.

“It is. There’s governance within the group, but one person alone does whatever they want. Even if they aren’t mentally unstable, one person without any feedback from others ultimately presents a greater danger. At least that’s how I see it.” Jeep tapped her forefinger on the table.

“Last thing we need, another self-righteous bastard.” Pete said low, then blinked. “Excuse me, ladies.”

Jeep smiled. “As I recall, I used that very same profanity to describe this creep.”

Walking the men to the back door, Jeep put her hand on Pete’s shoulder. “How’s Rebecca?”

“Good. She goes every six months for her checkup and she’s great. Thank you for asking.”

“Give her my love.”

“I will.”

As they drove away, Mags asked, “Who’s Rebecca?”

“His mother. Had a bout with colon cancer. I don’t remember this much cancer when I was young, but don’t worry: I’m not going to sing that tiresome tune about the good old days.”

Mags said, “No. I agree with you about cancer rates. It’s like an unacknowledged epidemic.”

King looked down at Baxter.
“He liked her.”

Baxter twitched his neatly trimmed moustache.
“She liked him, too.”

“They don’t know it, of course.”

“Can’t smell a damned thing. The odor is quite sweet. No wonder they make such a mess of it.”
Baxter plopped down on the kitchen floor.

“Kind of sad, isn’t it?”

“King, if Mags would have listened to me, or if she had any kind of nose, she’d know the last fellow she liked wasn’t worth an old Milk-Bone.”

“You like Milk-Bones?”

“Not as much as Greenies,”
Baxter promptly replied. Nothing was better than gnawing on those dog biscuits.

“Greenies really are the best, but expensive. Mom complains about the cost.”
King laid down next to Baxter, a sign of acceptance.

“Jeez, your mom has more money than God.”

“Doesn’t stop her from complaining.”
King laughed, put his big handsome head on his brown-tipped paws, and fell asleep.

J
eep and Mags sat in Jeep’s office, paneled in cypress. The cypress, at four hundred pounds a tie, had been used for railroad ties in the 1930s in Mississippi. When some were torn up, Jeep—who was beginning to see some return on her business—bought the lot of them and had them shipped to Reno. She took them to a sawmill to be cut into planks for her office. She’d always loved the soft platinum glow of cypress.

Unlike many offices, hers was shorn of plaques and displayed no degrees (she had none) or photographs of so-called important people. A large Frederic Remington painting hung over the fireplace. That was trophy enough. A small Frederic Remington sketch hung on the wall and one
was in the hall, too. The smaller ones were often overlooked. People not conversant in the arts did not recognize this important artist’s distinctive gift.

In her bedroom, photographs of Danny Marks; Dot; Jeep’s beloved sister, Sarah; Mags; Grandmother all reposed in silver frames on a table near her bed. A large picture of Glynnis Rogers; John, her husband; Mags and Catherine as grade-schoolers sat on her dresser, along with a photo of a wonderful old quarter horse she had purchased with the first profits she made from the mines. Framed photos of various deceased beloved dogs and cats filled a table, along with a picture of Thor, a now-deceased attack goose, who lived in the memory of everyone who’d had the occasion to be chased by him. The bird’s hissing alone scared the bejesus out of most people.

Her office was for business. A big sofa at a right angle to the fireplace gave Jeep a spot to read. She liked curling up with a book as the fire crackled, looking up from the pages to see the flames. She thought of books as kindling for the mind.

Jeep directed Mags to the chair behind the desk and computer. “Find the graduates of the Nicholas School from 1887.”

“Wouldn’t the revolutionaries have destroyed the records?”

“That’s your job. Find out. But I’m willing to bet you a new computer there are records somewhere. Those that lived, escaped, might have been able to take their yearbooks with them or what passed for yearbooks then. Graduates from this prestigious school were very proud.”

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.

A
t 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.”