Carnosaur Crimes (14 page)

Odie's large, square teeth gleamed like Chicklets. “Sweet. And maybe the lab can tell us something about the wadding from the jailbird's car. Somebody shot a gun near it. The only problem is, it doesn't mean it has anything to do with the Chief's vanishing act.”

Reid nodded. “True, but I'll bet you a bucket of cluck from the Chicken Barn that this week was payday at the Big Toe police station.”

Suddenly a cell phone rang. “That mine or yours?” Odie asked as he sped down the gumbo road.

“Mine.” He pulled it out of his jacket. “Lieutenant Dorbandt.”

“Hi, Reid. It's Chloe.”

“Well, hello. This is a surprise,” Reid turned his head toward the passenger window.

Chloe giggled. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

“Very. How are you progressing on your reconstruction, Dr. Burke?”

“Oh, so formal. You're not alone, I gather.”

Reid looked at Odie, who grinned wolfishly at him. “No.”

“All right, I get the message. I've been working day and night since you left. Even begged off some of my college classes on other professors who owe me favors. I know how badly your department needs this completed. Besides, it's really for you,” she said meaningfully.

Now Odie was grinning at him. “And I appreciate your efforts.”

Chloe laughed again. “I've scanned the skull and finished placing the skin depth markers this morning. I going to convert those measurements into a computerized program this afternoon.

“Great.”

“As I mentioned before, this is a radical approach that sometimes gets negative press as not being as accurate, but I think that's just subjective resistance to change.”

“Do whatever you have to. The poaching case may tie in with something else I'm working on. It's imperative that we get some leads. Chloe, this is great news.”

“Chloe, huh?” Odie echoed.

Reid shot him a stern look, which partially dissolved when he saw the man's broad, clownish mug. “This couldn't come at a better time,” he told Chloe.

“Just trying to help. I'll call when the reconstruction is done.”

Her voice sounded anxious and excited about the idea of speaking to him again soon, and Reid smiled. “Thanks, Dr. Birch,” he said and clicked off. He glared at Odie. “Don't say a word. Not one,
New York Times
puzzle word.”

Chapter 18

“Man's law changes with his understanding of man. Only the laws of the spirit remain always the same.”

Crow

Ansel's remote rang beside the art table and she scooped it up. “Phoenix Studios,” she said, critically surveying the new pen and ink sketch of a Giganotosaurus she'd use as a template for the Argentine book drawing. “How may I help you?”

“Tell me what you'd get if you crossed a dinosaur with a herd of cows?”

She stiffened. “Daddy, you told me that joke when I was six years old. You get a dinosaur that isn't hungry any more.”

Chase laughed. “You're no fun, Sarcee.”

“Why are you calling?” Her simmering ire about Rusty Flynn was bubbling over.

“Just wanted to say that Noah Zollie will phone you. I talked to him this morning.”

Ansel didn't care about Zollie. “I didn't need your help. I'm perfectly capable of running my own affairs. Stop doing things behind my back. I don't like it.”

A heavy silence prevailed until Chase said, “I'm missing something. What's wrong?”

“Why didn't you tell me that Rusty was back in Lacrosse?”

Another long beat. “Shoot. I was going to. Who told you?”

“It doesn't matter. What matters is that you
didn't
,” Ansel declared. “How could you let me wander around town not knowing he'd been back for a year? A year! What if I'd run into him? What if he did something to me? How would you feel? You and Cullen Flynn. Neither of you bothered to tell me. How could you do this, Daddy?”

Chase sighed his distress. “I can see how much you're hurting, Sarcee. Your flashbacks are still strong, and...”

“Don't throw psychology at me,” she screamed. “And don't call me for a while. I've got to forgive you first.”

She disconnected, then sat clutching the device in one, white-knuckled fist. Tears of anger and frustration pooled in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Cut the waterworks, she thought. It had felt good and she was right. Rusty could be very dangerous. Her father had been patently wrong to keep her in the dark. As she glared down at the drawing, the remote rang again.

Reluctantly, Ansel grabbed it. “Phoenix Studios. May I help you?”

“Is this Miss Ansel Phoenix?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, this is Noah Zollie from Land Commerce Partners in Billings. Your father asked me to call you. I gather you need some legal advice.”

“Hello, Mr. Zollie. Yes, I have some questions regarding land trusts. Do you have time?”

“I have plenty of time for Chase's daughter. What is it you'd like to know?”

Ansel inhaled and stilled her inner turmoil as she explained to Zollie about Chester Dover's problems with his BLM contract, how the land became trust property, and why the Big Toe city council leased the museum grounds. Then she told him about the attempted fossil theft.

“I need to know how solid the BLM contract is, and if the council would have any legal leverage to keep the museum business and the fossil tracks intact. Is it possible to find out?”

“Sure. I'd see if the land records for the parcel are secure and valid up to the point the BLM re-possessed it and placed it in trust. I'd also research the current covenants, conditions and restrictions in the Big Toe contract that would prevent termination of the lease agreement.”

“Could you find out that information right away?”

“Certainly. We're experts on governmental land laws including land transfers, trusts, and exchanges with the Federal Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Forest Service, public agencies, and private clients. I can do the usual land patent, title, and BLM archival document searches for the property right away. It's all available under the Freedom of Information Act. Then I'll review the data and give you my opinion. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful. How much will this cost?”

“For you nothing, Miss Phoenix. Chase has paid me well over the years, plus the BLM state office is right here in Billings so all the research can be done very inexpensively.”

“Thank you. That's very generous of you, Mr. Zollie. How long will this research take?”

“All I need is the museum address, and we can begin collating the public documents today. I should get back to you within a week.”

Ansel felt much better. She gave him the information. “I'll wait to hear from you.”

His hearty chuckle warmed the line. “Call me Noah.”

“Only if you call me, Ansel.”

“Agreed. Talk to you very soon, Ansel.”

She turned off the remote and focused on her work. The new sketch was better, depicting the Giganotosaurus from a side view. The carnosaur chased a herd of Gaspirinisaura across a watery, coastal marshland. In the sky, a flock of small Pterosaurs flapped upward, startled by the life and death drama unfolding below them. The drawing was action-packed: a stalking predator, leaping prey, scattering observers, splashing water, and flying dirt.

Next she would redraw the sketch onto a larger sheet equal in size to that of the final artwork dimensions. Then she could transfer the entire image onto smooth illustration board which was the best surface for achieving precise detail with a plate-finish that looked like eggshell.

She winced as her thoughts drifted toward the Giganotosaurus cover she was supposed to design for Permelia, but the memorabilia she'd seen from Barnum Brown's 1908 fossil expedition brought a smile to her face. Permelia had a nice collection of bones her father, John Reading, had been allowed to keep from the quarries, mostly Ankylosaurus and Triceratops fragments.

There were also vintage photographs of the roving Montana camp sites along Big Dry Creek which showed the plow, scraper, and dynamite work required to wrest huge fossils from the sandstone bluffs during the early nineteen-hundreds.

Most interesting to her where the photos of the skull, jaws, and pelvis of an otherwise limbless Tyrannosaurus Rex being removed with primitive tree trunk braces and rope winches, then hauled away by continuous trips from a six-horse-team wagon. Barnum had originally discovered this specimen in 1906 and covered it until he could return and excavate much later.

She also viewed old pictures of Barnum wearing a snappy hat and a full length fur coat, which he was known to wear to quarries on occasion, plus other members of the digging crew such as Peter Kaisen and C.H. Lambert. All and all, Ansel decided, even spending a few hours with Belle Starr had been well worth the aggravation. It had given her great insight into Permelia's family history and would definitely flavor her creative inspiration for the better.

Still, dark thoughts about Rusty Flynn intruded again. Ansel shook her head. First an emotional breakdown in front of Dorbandt and then yelling at her father. The urge to grab a few beers to erode away the rough emotional edges occurred to her.
Don't go down that road. You have work to do.

A loud and low thrumming noise coming from outside the hangar drew her attention. There were no windows. She looked up and listened. The sound grew exponentially. It was a mechanical whine resonating with deep cyclic bursts of power.

Ansel rose and headed quickly out of the art room, through the front sculpture room, and opened the personnel door. The noise was deafening, and gusts of sweltering air and dust blew past the open doorway. One step outside and she could see the sleek, black helicopter landing on the grass several hundred feet from the east side of the hangar. The FBI chopper.

Her heart beat faster. Not because of Outerbridge's unexpected visit, but because Standback would be piloting. She was dressed in her painting clothes, an old tee-shirt beneath paint-stained, jean coveralls. She wore no makeup and her hair was hastily braided with Indian-style pigtails down to her waist. She looked like an overgrown child from a Rocky Mountain bootlegger's camp who'd been interrupted painting the outhouse.

That didn't stop her from walking toward the copter through a wall of swirling dirt as the chopper made a smooth touchdown and the rotor blades and turbines decelerated. The aft cabin opened first and Agent Outerbridge, carrying a large steel briefcase, stepped down. Dr. LaPierre followed carrying a duffel bag. Ansel saw Standback's helmeted head and sunglass-shrouded face through the front windscreen as he continued his post-flight operations. Walthers was missing.

Outerbridge wore his suit again. Dixie had dressed in casual jeans, short-sleeved shirt and black pumps. Outerbridge turned and spoke to Dixie, but Ansel couldn't hear what he said. Then he turned with that fox grin on his face. “Miss Phoenix.”

Dixie gave a little wave. “Hi, Ansel.”

Ansel crossed her arms. “This is a surprise.”

Outerbridge nodded. “It's time for that talk I promised you.”

“Quite an entrance. Doesn't the FBI have cell phones? I might not have been home.”

“We knew you were here.” He raised his briefcase. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Ansel glanced at Standback who exited the flight deck and rounded the helicopter nose. His tall, slender form looked good in stone-washed jeans, navy blue tee, and boots. “Hello,” he said as sunlight bounced off his pilot sunglasses.

“Hello, Agent Standback.” She gazed at Outerbridge. “Sure. Follow me.”

It was a solemn procession. Ansel led them to the rear trailer porch, contemplating that she'd had no time to notify Dorbandt that a meeting with the FBI was pending. A neat tactical maneuver by Outerbridge, she considered. It made her invulnerable to negative outside influence while considering whether to help them. Or maybe it was pure loose-lips paranoia on his behalf, making sure that few people knew what he was up to.

“Take a seat anywhere,” she directed as they entered the living room.

Outerbridge sat in the recliner beside the sofa and laid his briefcase on the coffee table. Dixie grunted as she fell into the sofa, settling into the cushions as if for a long stay. Standback whipped off his glasses, winked at her as he passed, and took a seat on the sofa beside Dixie. Ansel couldn't help grinning back before sitting in the rocker opposite them all.

“So tell me what this is all about, Agent Outerbridge.”

Outerbridge leaned over and popped the chromed briefcase latches. “This is about Operation Dragon, Miss Phoenix.” He pulled out a manila folder. “Basically my team has been set up as a paleo-task force designed to go undercover and apprehend the people involved in a major fossil poaching ring operating on public lands throughout Montana and Utah. The group we're after is specializing in the rare meat-eating dinosaurs which are in greatest demand by collectors or dealers, sell the fastest, and always go for top dollar. For example, we suspect that this gang recently sold a complete Tyrannosaurus skeleton for five million dollars to a private corporation. Along with other multi-agency operatives, we're infiltrating this network of marketeers, filming or recording their illegal transactions, and collating other evidence that can be used in court. We're going to close them down.”

He pulled out some glossies and handed them to her. “This is where the poaching ring started three years ago. Those are the larger complete or partial fossil remain sites which have already been plundered. The most recent was the Hell Creek site you saw the other night.”

Ansel looked at the eight graphic photos in her hands one by one. Like the ravaged Tyrannosaurus skeleton she'd viewed, what remained of these excavations was little more than bone kindling, savagely destroyed for sheer pleasure after prime portions had been carted off by bulldozer, loader, and truck.

She noted the legends typed beneath each: Albertosaurus, Allosaurus, Ceratosaurus, and Tyrannosaurus. The sites included prestigious U.S. properties like Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge, Dinosaur National Park, Badlands National Park, Fossil Butte National Monument, and public lands adjacent to them.

She felt sick to her stomach and handed the photos back. “These are all geographically isolated areas with large, naturally occurring bone beds. What makes you think your poaching group was involved with the Big Toe, Glendive, and Sidney incidents?”

“They aren't above quick smash and grabs,” Dixie piped up. “If he showed you reports on all the places they've hit in the field and out, and what they've taken, you'd need all night to read them. Right now the methods used in the Glendive and Sidney robberies are consistent with our poachers.”

“But not the museum?” Ansel pressed.

“No,” Outerbridge confessed, “but we haven't discounted it.”

“So what
do
you know about the museum heist?” Ansel peered hard at the agent.

Outerbridge re-filed the photos. “Not much,” he confessed. “We've traced the concrete saw via its vendor registration number to a rental store in Billings. They were robbed a week ago, and the only thing missing was the cutter. We traced the truck VIN to a man in Billings, too. Same story. The pickup was stolen from a fenced construction site the night before the museum incident. We lifted prints from both the saw and the truck, but got no results on national or international I.D. systems. Still don't know where the goggles came from. That's it.”

Ansel sighed. “And you have absolutely no idea who the Indian man was?”

Standback shook his head. “His limited personal effects didn't tell us anything and without a facial ID, it's a wash right now.”

She eyed Standback carefully. He looked as disgusted as she felt. Out of everyone in the room, she was prone to believe him. “All right, you're on the trail of this poaching gang. What do you need me for?”

Outerbridge took over again. “We've been monitoring Internet fossil groups out of Montana and Utah for months. That includes email posting boards, chat rooms, and online fossil sales of all types. A computer operative using a false identity has made friends with a person connected to a black-market dealer who belongs to our poaching ring. It's taken six months of building mutual trust and buying several small illegal fossil items from this person through the mail, but it's paid off. Our operative has put in a request for something bigger to buy. An Allosaurus skull of specific size and characteristics. One that we know was stolen along with other skeletons in Utah a month ago.”