An Obvious Fact (3 page)

“Yeah? Well, I'm interested in what Officer Dougherty and his department are doing about finding the guy who tried to kill our buddy.”

“It's an ongoing investigation, and I'm sure you'll understand that Officer Dougherty cannot make statements that might undermine the department's work.” My turn to put everything I had into it. “Anyway, we're not sure there was an attempt on anybody's life. It could've been a simple traffic accident.”

He didn't wince but did glance at our hands, which were intertwined in a death match. “I wanna see a report.”

“Mr. Post, I'm sure that, as the spokesperson for the Tre Tre Nomads, you've got a lot of responsibility, but in the eyes of the town, the county, and the Wyoming state government, you have no official standing. Any information Officer Dougherty has would be for family members only.”

“We are family.”

“Blood?”

“More than you want to know, bud.”

I did my best to look unimpressed. “I'm sure, but until you can show Officer Dougherty here some ID that corroborates that fact, there really isn't anything we can tell you, either as an individual . . .” I glanced around for effect, “or as a group.”

His face was turning red, but I didn't see any reason to tap the leader of the pack on the nose just yet, so I let off and was surprised when he did the same. He let his hand drop, but I noticed he flexed it to get the blood flowing. “We'll be waiting.” I started to turn to the left, but the ring of men didn't make way, and it was about then that he called out again, this time to Henry, “Hey, Chief, I didn't get your name.”

I turned to see he'd thrown out a hand and that it rested on the chest of the Cheyenne Nation, and all I could think was, Oh, boy, here we go.

The Bear's head turned like a tree swaying, and I tensed, knowing that what was about to happen was going to be scorched-earth massive.

“That's Henry Standing Bear, Heads Man of the Dog Soldier Society, Bear Clan.”

I stood there for a second trying to identify where the statement had come from, and then, glancing to my left, I saw
Eddy the Viking, the guy who had spoken with Henry in front of Capt'n Ron's.

It was one of those weird little moments where nobody knew what to do, so we all just stood there like some contemporary Western tableau.

Eddy raised his red cup and saluted the Bear. “I get that right?”

The Cheyenne Nation smiled. “Yes, you did.”

I turned and walked between the two nearest bikers and continued on, with Dougherty and Henry following me like a funeral procession. After a few steps, I couldn't help but turn my head and ask, “Is the Viking one of the Tre Tre Nomads?”

Dougherty, happy to be out of the ring of fire, smiled an uneasy grin. “No, that's Crazy Eddy, one of the original Jackpine Gypsies; he lives over in Lead, been a fixture here at the rally for years, or so they tell me.” Corbin glanced back at Henry, who was bringing up the rear of our little war party. “You know him?”

The Bear nodded. “It has been a short relationship.”

There was a break in the crowd ahead of us that had allowed a real head turner to saunter up the sidewalk directly toward me. Lots of women perfect the sway at some point in their lives, but few get the rumble that this one had in spades. She was probably in her fifties, her dark hair with a sharp strand of silver in the middle swept back from her forehead. Very tall, and dressed in a simple black tank top and jeans, she split the crowd like an icebreaker, and both men and women watched her approach. Her sandals slapped the hot concrete on the sidewalk, as if teaching it a lesson.

I stepped to the side, but she countered, moved in front of me, and looked at me with frighteningly green eyes set in sun-kissed skin, her mouth wide and beautifully shaped, opened as if savoring the moment.

Corbin ran into my back, and Henry was turning to see what it was that might've stopped me dead. You would've had to measure the widening of his eyes with a micrometer, but it was there. He smiled broadly, and the woman did a hair flip that I would've given a 9.5, stepped in front of Henry, and then slapped the Bear's face with a tooth-shattering report.

The effect on the crowd was impressive, everyone freezing in place.

She stood there looking at him for a moment, then curtseyed in a quick dip of those magnificent hips and turned and walked away without a word.

Strangely, it was Dougherty who called out after her. “Lola?”

She kept walking, flailing a hand over a freckled shoulder in absolute dismissal.

I turned to Dougherty. “Lola?”

He cocked his head, watching her go. “Lola.”

I turned back to the Cheyenne Nation. “
The
Lola?”

The side of his face still burned a burnished red as he rubbed it and watched her go with the slightest of head shakes and a knowing smile. “
The
Lola.”

“Lola Wojciechowski?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. I never knew her last name.”

I unloaded the trunk, shut the lid, and looked at the Thunderbird. “You named your car after her.”

“It was only her first name; besides, it was not a verbal relationship.”

The Bear unlocked the door to the cabin we had reserved and turned to me, his expression a little surprised. “It was a long time ago.”

“Evidently it wasn't that long ago for her.” Entering the doorway, I paused and looked at him. “Henry, you named your car after her, and you love that car.” I brushed past him with our suitcases as Dog immediately jumped onto the nearest bed.

Setting a cooler by the door, the Bear stood, stretched, and then walked over to place two of the three volumes of the
Annotated Holmes
on the nightstand. “She did seem upset.”

“A little.”

He glanced back through the open door with the first book in his hand. “What is our plan?”

“Maybe go back out and examine the accident site. Why?”

“I thought I would take the bikes over to Jamey Gilkey's shop in Sturgis and let him get Rosalie ready for the Jackpine Gypsies Hill Climb tomorrow.”

I slipped off my clip holster and .45, placed it on the nightstand beside the books, and sat on the bed next to Dog. “Don't you think you're getting a little old for that stuff?”

“I have done the Climb every year since 1974, when I won.”

“All the more reason to stop.”

“Lightning could strike twice. It has been a new century, and my luck could change.”

“You go ahead then, and I'll stay here. You okay without your phone? I was wondering if you could loan it to me so I can call Cady.” I held my hand out.

He handed the device to me. “Did she find a place to live?”

“She got a little carriage house a couple of blocks from the capitol building—Joe and Mary Meyer found it for her.”

“It is good to have an in with the state attorney general.”

I looked at the phone in my hands. “Yep.”

“Emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.”

“Why don't you and Sherlock Holmes get the hell out of here?”

He shut the door, and I listened as he started up the Thunderbird and pulled away. Dialing the number and holding it to my ear, the phone rang a few times and then switched over to her message. “Hi, I'm not here—you know the drill.”

“Hey, Henry.”

“You're doing something.”

“You've been kidnapped, right? There's no other way you'd be calling on a cell phone.” She snorted. “Painting.”

“What color?”

“Pistachio, with dark brown trim.”

“Sounds interesting.”

She huffed. “Don't start.”

We had differing ideas about home décor, with my leaning toward off-white everything while she had more provocative tastes. “How's it coming?”

I could imagine her standing on the hardwood floor of the little carriage house, studying the green wall and wielding the roller like a weapon. “I'm not sure.”

“Well, Punk, you can always repaint.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Lola helping?”

“No, thank God. She's asleep in her Pack 'n Play, under the watchful eye of her Nonnie Moretti.”

Thankful that Vic's mother, Lena, was taking up the slack, I lay back on the bed and petted Dog. “How's things down at the attorney general's office?”

“Pretty general. Everybody here knows you from afar.” Her voice relaxed a little, the tension fading so long as we weren't discussing paint. “They all think you're some kind of big deal.”

“Have you been setting them straight?”

“A little—I told them about how you sometimes sleep with your mouth open.”

Enjoying her voice, I closed my eyes. “That should do the trick.”

“And that you never put the cap back on the toothpaste.”

“I'm never going to be able to hold my head up again.”
There was silence for a while, so I figured it was okay to ask about the investigation into my son-in-law's death. “Any word from Philadelphia?”

“Still nothing.”

“I haven't heard anything from Vic.”

“From what Lena tells me, I think she's helping, on a purely unofficial basis, of course.”

“Of course.” I crossed my boots. “How are the rest of the Morettis?”

“Still stunned. An entire family of police officers for three generations, and Michael is the first to ever be killed in the line of duty.” There was another pause, longer this time, and her voice lowered. “Lena is taking it hard. Michael was the baby, you know?”

“Yep, he was.” There wasn't anything more to say, so I didn't. That's the thing about comforting—it's almost more important to know when not to talk.

“I'm lonely, Dad.”

“I know you are.” I breathed a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”

“I mean, thank God I've got Lena or I sometimes think I'd go nuts.”

There was a knock, and Dog barked, leaping off the bed and standing by the door. I figured it must've been the Bear, having forgotten something, because I couldn't think of anybody else who would know where we were.

I tucked the phone between my shoulder and chin and rolled off the bed. “Hold on, there's somebody here.” Lodging my leg between Dog and the door, I opened it to find Lola Wojciechowski pointing a .38 Special, replete with a pink grip, at my face. “Howdy.”

She poked the thing at me like it was a stick. “I've got a gun.”

Dog barked again, and I thought she was going to drop the weapon. I nudged him back with my leg. “I can see that.”

“Dad?” Cady's voice sounded in my ear.

I cocked my head and held the phone. “Hey, I've got to go—”

“Did I just hear somebody say something about a gun?”

“Yep.”

“Call me back.”

Her concern was touching. “Right.” I pulled the thing from my ear, hit the button to end the call, and opened the door the rest of the way to allow her entrance. “C'mon in.” Her arm wavered, and she pointed the weapon in the general direction of Dog as I turned back to her. “And don't shoot Dog; it just pisses him off.”

She looked uncertain as to what to do with that information but came the rest of the way in as the beast sniffed at her leather-bound crotch. “Hey, you wanna call him off?”

“You want to put the gun away?”

“No.”

“Looks like we're at a standoff.” I sat back on the bed and gestured toward the chair by the door. “Have a seat.”

She swung her purse around behind her. “Where's Bear?”

“Gone.” I didn't feel any reason to give out more—I'm like that in armed conversations.

She moved over and sat, pushing Dog's head away with her free hand. “This is not going the way I planned.”

“That's the problem with the gun thing—usually it doesn't.”

She crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her elbow on her thigh and keeping the barrel of the .38 on me. “You don't seem too concerned.”

I plumped up some pillows and leaned back on the bed, patting it for Dog to join me, which he did; then he sat there, looking at her and panting. I could imagine she got that response all the time. I gestured toward the .45 on the nightstand that she hadn't noticed. “I get a lot of guns pointed at me in my line of work.”

She redoubled her aiming effort. “And what do you do?”

Carefully unsnapping the pocket on my shirt, I pulled out my badge wallet and flipped it open for her to see. “Absaroka County sheriff.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yep.” I waited a moment more and then stuffed the hardware back in my shirt. “Now that we're getting to know each other a little better, do you want to put the gun away?”

She thought about it. “No.”

I eased back on the bed, took off my hat, and placed it over my face. “Well, I'm taking a nap.”

“What?”

I spoke into the crown of the palm leaf. “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't gotten a lot of sleep lately.”

“Well, you're not going to get it now.”

I tipped my hat up and looked at her. “Look, if you've got something to say, say it or get out of here. Henry's not going to show up any time soon, and I don't have the time to play twenty questions with you.” I pulled my hat back down and sat there under it wondering what was going to happen next
when I heard a snuffle. I propped my hat up again and could see she was crying. “Oh, please don't do that.”

She smeared the tears away with the heel of her hand and looked at me. “I can't help it; I'm upset.”

I turned toward her. “Look, Lola . . .”

She re-aimed the .38. “How do you know my name?”

I sighed. “You wouldn't believe how familiar I am with your name—evidently, my granddaughter is named after you.”

“Huh?”

“You don't know Henry named his car for you?”

“No.”

“Well, he did, and then my daughter for some godforsaken reason named my granddaughter after the car, so we've got vehicles, children, and heaven knows what else running around with your name on them.”

She sniffed. “He named the T-bird after me?”

I tried not to let my eyes roll back in my head on that one. “Yep, he's sentimental that way.”

“Where is he?”

I pointed at the gun, and she pulled a small purse around, unsnapping it and dumping the revolver inside before closing the bag back up and hanging it on her chair. “There. Now, where is he?”

“Gone to Sturgis.”

She started to stand. “Great.”

I held out a hand to stop her. “Look, why don't you tell me what's going on? I'm not crazy about you and that .38 leaving here in pursuit of my best friend.”

She settled and studied me. “How long have you known Henry?”

“My whole life.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Ever since a water fountain altercation in grade school.”

She didn't look as if she believed it to be the truth. “You've known him longer than I have?”

“I guess, but he hasn't named any vehicles Walt.”

I watched her weigh her options. “I need some help.”

“With what?”

“My son's been hurt.”

I had a sinking feeling. “How?”

“He was in a motorcycle accident. Why are you making that face?”

Resting said face in my hands, I asked, “Is your son Bodaway Torres?”

She fumbled with the purse, and I held out my hand to stay her. “Please don't get the gun out again; Corbin Dougherty called me and said that there had been an accident involving a young man and that he thought there might be more to it than just a routine traffic incident.”

“They tried to kill him.”

“Who did?”

She looked at her hands and then started to get up again. “I need to talk to Henry.”

“No, you need to talk to me. Corbin, a traffic analyst from the Division of Criminal Investigation by the name of Mike Novo, and I are going to be heading up the inquiry as to what happened to your son, but we could use your help.”

She studied me. “I don't even know you.”

“I'm a nice guy.” She didn't seem convinced, so I added, “I grow on people.”

She bobbed a sandal. “Like a fungus?”

I ignored the remark. “So, how did you and Henry meet?”

She studied me some more and turned to get her bag. “I should go.”

I smiled. “Where?”

“To see my son.”

I surprised her and stood. “How 'bout Dog and I go with you?”

• • •

Fortunately, Lola Wojciechowski drove a dilapidated, slightly dented, faded gold '66 Cadillac DeVille, so there was plenty of room for all of us. I shouted across the expanse as Lola careened through the sloping hills of the Devils Tower landscape, the monument peeking down at us every now and again. “I noticed the Arizona plates. You live down there?”

She shouted back after checking the rearview mirror and the reflection of Dog, dead center. “For quite some time now. My ex has a custom bike shop in Maryvale—Crossbones Custom.”

“That would be Mr. Torres?”

She leaned over and, pushing a button in the dash and gesturing toward the yawning glove compartment, handed me the pocketbook containing the .38. “Yeah, Delshay.”

I placed the purse in there and carefully closed the compartment. “Motorcycles, I'm assuming?”

“No, Huffy and Schwinn. . . . Of course, motorcycles.”

I smiled and looked through the windshield. “Ever heard of a motorcycle club by the name of the Tre Tre Nomads?”

She glanced at me. “No.”

I watched the scenery some more as she put her foot into the Caddy, sending us down a straightaway toward Moorcroft at a good ninety miles an hour, passing motorcycles as we went. “You know, I know the HPs that prowl this part of Wyoming during the rallies, and they don't have much of a sense of humor this time of year.”

She kept her foot in it a bit longer but then let off.

I placed an arm on the doorsill and adjusted the side mirror so that I could watch behind us. “And point of interest: when law enforcement asks you a question, we generally already know the answer.”

She simmered a bit and then pushed a big wave of the black and silver hair from her face. “What do you want to know?”

“Is Bodaway a member of the Tre Tre Nomads?”

“I guess.”

I adjusted my sunglasses and stared at her.

“Yes. Yes, he's a member.”

“So what are the chances that his accident is gang related?”

“Everybody who knows him loves him.”

“That doesn't answer my question. Does he have any known enemies?”

She gestured as another group of maybe thirty motorcycles passed us, headed for Hulett. “He's in a motorcycle gang—everybody is his enemy, including you.” Driving the big car with one hand, she threaded her fingers through her hair. “You people . . .” I waited for the rest. “People don't understand these clubs; they think you join them to break heads, take drugs, and generally fuck up society—but the reason you join is because society fucks with you. Do you know what it's
like out there on the streets? I'm not talking about Cornhole, Wyoming; I'm talking about a real city with people in it.”