Carnosaur Crimes (20 page)

Ansel turned off the light and opened the heavy door as quietly as possible. Parker was snoring. A good sign. The front door opened with a low, nasty mechanical squeak. Damn. She halted in mid-movement, hand gripping the knob and praying for mercy. A wait of another minute gave her courage to try again. This time she swung the door open very quickly, went through the opening, and closed it behind her with a loud click of the electronic lock.

The hall was well lighted and completely empty. A flowery red and gold carpet stretched past an infinity of identical yellow doors. No roving FBI agents in sight. A fresh bed and some real shut-eye awaited her in room one-sixteen across the hall. Hopefully Dixie would be zonked out and never know she'd come in. Ansel turned on her heels and dug into her purse for the room card. Bliss was only a card swipe away.

As she scooted past Outerbridge's room, the elevator ahead of her chimed its arrival. Two cowboys, laughing loudly, clomped into the hall. Ansel looked up at them as they spoke to each other in the small confines of the hall foyer.

“Shit, this is the wrong floor,” said the smaller, blond-haired man wearing a white Specialist hat.

“Man, we've got to get back before daybreak,” whined the second man. “I don't have time for this crap.”

She couldn't take her gaze off the taller guy wearing faded jeans and powder blue, long-sleeved ranch shirt. The pale white face framed by bright red hair, thin moustache, and beard was impossible to miss as it turned to stare directly at her.

Ansel froze in place, feet bolted to the floor halfway to the safety of her room and eyes riveted to the malevolent green-eyed gaze of Rusty Flynn.

Chapter 24

“The dead add their strength and counsel to the living.”

Hopi

Reid stood in Chloe's studio carefully studying the color, computer-generated image of the Indian poacher. It was eerie having a mortal face to go with his implanted memory of the inhuman, emulated corpse he'd seen at the morgue.

The bust of a dark-skinned, young man with a thatch of short black hair parted along the right side, broad forehead, narrow jaw, and square chin filled out the face, but it was the personal features that held Reid captive. The Indian's dark oval eyes closely set beneath thick black eyebrows and above a broad nose and thin lips gazed back at him challengingly.
So now you see me. Give me back my name.

“Explain how you did this, Chloe. It's amazing.”

It was almost one-thirty in the morning. Chloe sat next to him on another stool positioned in front of a long table where the paperwork he'd take back to Mission City was neatly stacked. The skull was re-sealed in the packing box as well. She'd waited for his late arrival. He couldn't believe how pretty Chloe looked during the middle of the night in jeans and peasant shirt that clung low over bare shoulders. Her smile was radiant.

“Basically, a Cyberware color laser scanner captured the 3D images of the cleaned skull as it sat on a platform linked to a computer. While the platform rotated, a digital wireframe matrix was generated which simulated the dimensional contours of the skull. It's really simple computer tomography scanning, and it permits me to make more accurate measurements of potential tissue depths. I can virtually reconstruct a face from separately scanned skull pieces if I have to.”

“Like a CT scan the hospitals use.”

“Exactly. The only facial features I can't get from scanning skull contours are the nose, eyes, mouth, skin texture and color, so I add them with another program. That software is based on known tissue depth measurements collected on standardized charts associated with past cadaver facial studies compiled by age, sex, build or ethnic group.”

She shook her head. “Still, because I'm unable to digitize some of the personal features directly from the skull bones, it makes the most fundamental features a person possesses nothing but subjective guesswork on my behalf. That's where my artistic training kicks in the most.”

“You've done a damn good job.”

Chloe stared at the photo. “The digital, 3D reconstruction technique has its faults, but it's repeatable and fast, unlike my traditional clay reconstructions. Hopefully, if I'm off on the character details, the drawing will still stimulate a recognition response in somebody who knows this man.” She peered at Reid. “You're bushed. I have a spare bedroom. You could stay here tonight.”

Reid saw that her expression, though warm and inviting, held no promise that sleeping over entailed anything more than just a good night's rest. And that was all right. He wasn't plunging into anything. He'd just reconnected with Chloe under the most bizarre of circumstances and was drawn to her by old memories. Chloe had changed and so had he. He had to get to know the woman again and redefine their relationship past, present or future.

He placed the photo on the other papers, then picked them up along with the box. “I appreciate the offer, but I checked into a hotel before coming here. I owe you a meal, remember? If it can't be dinner, how about breakfast?”

“I'm teaching a class at the university tomorrow but breakfast is doable. When are you going back to Mission City?”

“Not until noon.”

“All right. Let's do it.”

Reid smiled. “I'll pick you up. What time?”

“How about seven-thirty?”

“Perfect. I guess I'd better go.”

“Sure.”

Reid went to the door and Chloe followed. Once there, he gazed back at her. “Get some sleep yourself. We have a lot of talking to do.”

Chloe smiled back.“I know.”

He stepped through the doorway, which was the last thing he really wanted to do. There time together had been all too brief. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

“See you in a few hours, Reid.”

This time he didn't get a kiss on the cheek before Chloe shut the studio door. He wasn't sure how to interpret that. Was Chloe secretly mad because he didn't stay? Was she playing coy? Was
he
reading something into nothing?

Irritated, he swiped a hand through his hair. He'd never been good at the dating games women played with a prospective suitor. His timing was always off. When women wanted action, he hesitated. When they wanted personal space, he blundered in and dominated. Subtle clues flummoxed him every time. He was guy used to spotting the straight-forward lies, deceptions, and inconsistencies of his fellow man, not to perceive the tangled ambiguities and abstruseness of his fellow woman.

That's why he always screwed up with Ansel, he reflected as he slid into the sedan and dropped the papers and box on the passenger seat. She was a bright, rough-edged lady with so many raw emotions, hang-ups, and stubborn willpower that she usually turned him off completely.

Yet there was something about Ansel that abraded away his irritation like the scrape of fine sandpaper against skin. You never bled, but the itch to take notice as she worked her way into your system was always there. A grim smile erupted. Indian hoodoo. And where the hell was she?

He pulled the cell out of his coat pocket and punched her home phone number as he backed down the driveway. The phone rang, then her answering machine droned in his ear. Disgusted, he turned off the device. He wasn't leaving another message, and it was too late to call the Arrowhead and chase her down through Chase and Pearl.

He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ansel must have bailed on her deal to keep in touch with him about Outerbridge. Maybe she was angry over the wiper incident. Why did she do this to him? He should be enjoying his time with Chloe not stewing over Ms. Anselette Phoenix.
Stay focused.

Reid glanced at the poacher's picture setting on the seat. Why did you go after fossil tracks at the museum alone, without your gang buddies? You were well prepared. No amateur chisels, picks or pry bars for you. Just a top of the line concrete saw and expensive night vision goggles. Clean, quiet, and efficient. You weren't a user either. No drugs or alcohol in your system.

Most important, you didn't pick the remotest place to strike or slink around in the dark avoiding the police. You were braver than that. You went right past the BLM field station with your old truck that could never outrun anyone. You were daring them to catch you, weren't you? Like the old days when Indians counted coups against their enemies by passing up the opportunity to kill and simply tapped their foe's body with a coup stick instead. This act demeaned your opponent and gave you power over them.

Enemy. The word bounced inside Reid's head like a ping-pong ball. Having an enemy was a personal thing, and he knew he'd just figured out the real motivation behind the Indian's plans. It wasn't about poaching fossils for financial profit. It was all about getting even, stealing something that meant a lot to somebody else.

Reid was almost at the Rimrock Motel, but he stared hard at the digital man. Speak to me. Who was your enemy? The BLM in general or somebody at the station? And he had another thought. Chester Dover. The fossils were found on his land. His land? Maybe not.

He knew nothing about the history of Dover's cattle ranch. He'd check out all angles from property history to possible relationships between Dover, field station employees, or any other BLM agency. Plus local tribes. Maybe the calm waters of the Red Water River ran deeper than anybody imagined. If the Indian wasn't connected to the fossil poaching ring, it was one less puzzle piece for him to fit into a larger picture.

He pulled into the motel parking lot so deep in thought that he inadvertently drove around the back side of the building. Stupid, he realized an instant later. He should have parked out front near his room. That was when he noticed the green Jeep parked beside the dumpster near the employee entrance to the kitchen.

“Son of a bitch.”

He slammed on the brakes, tires squealing as the unmarked car bucked to a halt and completely blocked the Jeep's reverse exit from against a wall parking slot. Reid turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and considered his options. He was out of his legal jurisdiction and it was the middle of the morning. Better to check this out quietly before rousting local cops for backup.

He wasn't wearing his holster and he grabbed it from under the front seat. It took a minute to adjust it over his right shoulder. Then he pulled his jacket from the back seat and slipped into it. A moment later, he was in the parking lot looking at the Jeep while one eye watched the building in case somebody came out and noticed him.

The entire rear of the vehicle was encrusted with black mud. The Montana license plate was practically unreadable but not from Lacrosse. It was local. Switching plates was common with stolen vehicles, but the mud intrigued him. It was the same type that Cyrus Flynn had all over his El Camino.

He quickly inspected the Jeep back to front. There was nothing that indicated the vehicle had belonged to Cullen Flynn. Any decals, bumper stickers or personal items belonging to a police chief were gone or he had the wrong Jeep.

The front seat was a mess of garbage including empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and fast food trash. The back seat had old newspapers and two beat-up fabric suitcases on it. Reid squinted at the headlines through the rear passenger window. A
Sky Sentinel
newspaper from Mission City was visible beneath a
Billings Gazette,
and he felt an adrenalin rush.

He left his sedan where it was and headed for the rear lobby entrance. Time to talk to the night clerk and find out what room the Jeep's driver was occupying.

Chapter 25

“What is past and cannot be prevented should not be grieved for.”

Pawnee

Rusty Flynn took a slow, staggering step toward Ansel. “What are you looking at?”

She blinked, comprehending that after dreading this moment for so long it would come down to a freak crossing of two lives in the most unlikely of places and under the most preposterous circumstances. There was a dark, cold humor in all this, as cold and dark as the murky depths of the ice pond into which he'd thrown her as a helpless child. Well, she wasn't helpless any more.

Flynn was only a few feet away, staring at her with a smug sneer of curiosity and amusement. “Maybe you want some satisfaction,” he suggested, his gaze raking over her outfit from top to bottom. “That why you're hanging out in the hall? You a hooker?”

A spark of anger flared inside Ansel, fanned by the outrageous ramblings of a nasty little boy wearing a man's skin. A bully, even now, but less powerful and intimidating. Her dangling hands knotted into fists as a seething hot anger raced through her veins

He was either drunk or stoned and his adult face, which might be handsome under better conditions, was drawn and pale, sickly. He was pathetic, really. Nothing but a swaggering brawler with a monkey on his back. Ansel took a step toward him, staring him down with two and a half decades of hate. She waited with anticipation, second by excruciating second, for him to acknowledge who she was and what he'd done to her.

She didn't expect an apology. Oh, no, never. All she wanted was his full, undivided attention so she could prove to him that she'd survived his almost fatal cruelty and not had her spirit crushed by his ignorant bigotry. She had been wounded, yes, but battles weren't fought without scars. Judging from his appearance, the ultimate war victory was definitely hers.

“Cyrus, leave her alone. We've got to check out.” The blond man behind Cyrus jabbed several times at the elevator button in frustration, trying to get the door to reopen.

Something in her face must have scared Rusty. He halted in mid-step, emerald eyes squinting with the effort of focusing more clearly on her. He finally pointed a slender, shaking finger at her. “Shit, I don't know who you are, bitch, but you stay away from me. I don't like your looks.” Rusty turned and stumbled away.

Ansel stared at his retreating back in total shock. He didn't even recognize her. How was that possible? She relived the day he almost killed her with every other thought, tear, and breath.

What sort of soulless monster was he? Any other thoughts she had were truncated when the elevator chime pinged, and the stainless steel doors opened.

Reid stepped into the hall. First he looked at the blond man, then his gaze speared through Cyrus Flynn. Next his stare flickered over Ansel, and his blue eyes widened into quarters. Ansel held his gaze for a second, and it smarted down to her soul as he relayed his disturbing inner message to her: disbelief, distrust, suspicion.

Flynn simply bolted toward Ansel, grabbing her by the arm so fast with his right hand that she didn't even see it coming. Sheer revulsion made her yank away from him, but he propelled his body behind her, threw his left arm around the front of her throat, and locked her into a vise-like choke-hold with his forearm.

Reid's eyes turned steely black. “Let her go Flynn.”

The blond man acted, too. He backpedaled from Reid, reached down to his right ankle, tore at his jean cuff, and pulled at a small gun hidden beneath its folds. Reid went for his own gun and managed to grab the weapon out of the holster. He aimed it at the blond man's chest just as a small caliber pistol was leveled back at his own head.

The blond man smiled. “Mexican standoff, buddy,” he warned Reid.

Reid held his fully extended arm as steady as an iron bar. His calm, cool expression broke into a small grin. “Not really. Give it up. I've got you surrounded.”

The man cocked his head sideways and sneered. “Hey, Cyrus. Who is this asshole?”

“A cop from Mission City,” Cyrus called back. “Put the gun down, Dorbandt, or I'll snap her neck.”

Ansel halted her struggles as she watched this dire turn of events. Cyrus was pressed tightly against her back, and his foul breath reeked of beer and vomit. She wanted to claw his eyes out, but this wasn't the time. She'd endure anything to keep Reid safe. They pressed up against the door to her room, and she prayed that Dixie wouldn't sleep through all the noise. Or maybe somebody would call hotel security.

“I told you not to leave Swoln, Cyrus. After I shoot your friend, I'm going to shoot you.”

Cyrus yanked his arm tighter, and Ansel choked as her windpipe closed. “You'll have to get the bullet past her first. Put the fucking gun down.” He started shuffling slowly down the hall, dragging Ansel with him. “Kill him,” he ordered his accomplice, “and let's get out of here.”

Cyrus' buddy obliged and cocked the trigger. Suddenly from around a far T-turn in the hall, Parker leaped out, feet straddled, his automatic supported in both hands, and fired. A loud blast reverberated a second after a bullet slammed into the blond man. His hoarse yelp faltered even as he hit the floor with a thump. The bullet had struck his shoulder.

Reid was dumbfounded, but safe. That was all Ansel needed to see. She instantly went rigid in Rusty's dragging grip and stomped on his right toes with the nice square heel of her boot and one-hundred and twenty pounds of grinding torque power.

Rusty screamed and released her with surprising speed, then abandoned any efforts to subdue her further. Without a word, he half-bolted and half-limped down the short hall toward an exit stairway while she steadied herself against the wall and rubbed her sore neck.

Parker rushed past Reid and the fallen man, gun in hand, and toward Ansel. He quickly looked her over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Ansel looked into his inquiring eyes. “Yes,” I'm fine.”

Reid took this in with a critical stare, then focused on Cyrus who was getting away. “Shit,” he exclaimed before kicking the blond man's tiny pistol far down the hall. “Keep an eye on him,” he yelled as he bolted first past Parker and then a myriad of sleepy people who were opening their doors and sticking their heads out.

“I've got to go,” Parker told Ansel. “Call an ambulance and then Outerbridge.”

She nodded as he disappeared down the hall. Her room door opened, and Dixie wandered out wearing a satiny black pajama outfit, eyes half-shut and hair askew. She looked to the right, eyes going wide at the sight of the older blond haired man prone on the floor. “What's happened?”

“He tried to shoot Detective Dorbandt. He and Parker went after a another man. Get an ambulance,” Ansel repeated as she walked slowly toward the man bleeding onto the carpet. “And Outerbridge.”

Dixie didn't move. “Dorbandt shot him?”

“No, Parker did. Hurry up, Dixie.”

“OK. I'm right on it.” She hurried into the bedroom.

Ansel bent down beside the man. He wasn't bleeding too badly, and his breathing was slow and even. It looked like a flesh wound more than anything else, but the man had been under the influence of either alcohol or drugs and being shot had totally zonked him out. That was good news. He needed to live so Reid could question him. Maybe he knew where Cullen Flynn was.

“Jesus,” what's happened?” asked a skinny, old man wearing boxer shorts and a white undershirt.

“This is a crime scene. Please stand back. Help is coming. The FBI are here.”

The man scooted back about five feet. “No kidding?”

“What's your name?”

“Jerry Atwater.”

“Listen, Mr. Atwater. I'm going to get a blanket so he doesn't go into shock. Can you keep people away from this end of the hall?”

“Sure.” He swivelled his head toward the growing onlookers and peered over the top of his glasses. “Back off. The cops are coming.” He looked at her and grinned. “That okay?”

Ansel stood up.“Great.”

She went straight into her room so fast that Dixie, who was sitting on the far bed with her back to the entrance, didn't even know she was there. Dixie was on the phone and Ansel couldn't help but hear her.

“Get up here, John. Parker just shot Jessie Frost.” Dixie waited a moment, then said, “I'll keep her busy.”

After Dixie hung up, Ansel made no effort to hide her presence as she whipped down the coverlet on her unused bed to reach the blanket beneath. Dixie twisted quickly around. “Shoot, you nearly made pee my pants, honey.”

Ansel clutched the fuzzy green blanket to her chest and glared at the woman. She was in no mood for games. “Who the hell is Jessie Frost?” When Dixie simply stared back, speechless, she said, “Go ahead, Dixie. Tell me what I should have known from the beginning.”

The paleontologist bit her lip and continued to look as guilty as sin, but said nothing.

“Fine. I'll find out all your dirty little FBI secrets anyway.” Ansel walked toward the door, then half-turned. “Oh, and don't you ever call me ‘Honey' again.”