Dead Soul (12 page)

Moon thought about it for a moment. “Sounds like a problem.”
But not my problem
.

The senator’s face twisted into a painful grimace. “I am not talking about leaks to the press about the latest scandal in the Oval Office—or which member of the president’s cabinet did not get invited to the British ambassador’s annual tea-and-crumpets bash in the limey lilac garden because last year at the same party he got sick and vomited on a precious stone lion.” As if someone might be hiding in the rose bushes, he lowered his voice. “Charlie—it is being asserted that this sensitive information has been revealed to representatives of a foreign power.”

Moon realized that his initial forebodings had been right on the mark.
I should’ve stayed at home
.

“This is an extremely serious issue.” Senator Davidson wagged the dead cigar like a baton. “Potentially, everyone on my staff is suspect. Which, quite naturally, is a reflection on my unblemished personal integrity.”

The Ute put on his best poker face.

Patch Davidson chewed on the cold cigar. “It is simply too bizarre, but I cannot rule out the possibility that discussions inside my home are being monitored.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the rose garden. “That is why we are having this conversation in my rose garden. And why I need your help.”

Uh-oh
. “I’ll give you some free advice that’s worth twice the price. Contact the FBI. Tell them about your concerns.”

“I have already done that.”

The tribal investigator was both pleased and surprised. “Good move. You can leave the rest to them.”

“My office in Washington is a fairly straightforward matter. I will provide written permission for entry, and a key. After working hours, the FBI technicians will show up with their equipment, do whatever it is they do, then depart well before dawn. No one on my staff—not even my D.C. chief of security—will be the wiser. But there is no straightforward way to have a half dozen federal cops checking out the BoxCar headquarters without raising an eyebrow here and there. My primary concern is that someone in my employ will realize that the FBI is checking the house for espionage gadgetry—and draw the obvious conclusion.”

Moon nodded. “And next week, the story’s in the
Washington Post
.”

“Charlie, my staff is as competent and professional as that of any senator on the Hill. Which is to say that they simply cannot resist the temptation to gossip. And if word gets out that I have a security problem at my western headquarters—well, its hard to exaggerate the potential impact. The immediate effect would be that I would have to cancel several extremely urgent meetings. And beyond the inconvenience and embarrassment, there would certainly be political ramifications. The very hint of a security scandal—right here under my nose—could cost me five or six percentage points in the next election. And that could easily get me bounced out of the Senate.”

Moon thought it time to raise the obvious question. “Why are you telling me about this?”

Davidson moved the GroundHog forward slowly, bumping it gently against Moon’s leg. “Because you can help me.”

“I don’t see how.”
And don’t want to know
.

“For this damned bug check to work—both on a technical and a political level—nobody outside the FBI can know the counterespionage technicians are in my house. Aside from myself, of course, and the president. And the thing must be done quite soon—within the next few days. I must be in Washington for the next couple of weeks. And I damn well am not going to allow the FBI to snoop all over my house unsupervised. Gad, for all I know, those lawyers-tuned-gunslingers may plant bugs of their own!”

Moon smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t—you don’t have to worry because these federal gumshoes will not be snooping around inside
your
home. Peering under the rugs with big magnifying glasses. Vacuuming dust out of your closet. Copying your computer disks.”

“Senator, I’ve worked with agents at the Bureau for years. Ninety-nine percent of ’em are straight-arrow cops. They go by the rules.”

Davidson put on a pleading look. “Charlie, I absolutely must have someone here to keep an eye on them—someone whose discretion is beyond question. And,” he added slyly, “you are my closest neighbor. All I am requesting is some neighborly assistance. Metaphorically speaking, I find myself stuck in another ditch. I need you to crank up that big tractor you boasted about. Pull me out.”

This was a persistent old man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. “This ain’t exactly a ditch we’re talking about.”

“All I ask at the moment is your consent to act as my official liaison to the FBI. It is just barely possible, of course, that more would be required of you than merely spending a few hours with the feds while they search my home for hidden electronic devices. I would also want you to interact with them on any related matters that may come up.”

“You mean like if they actually find a flea-sized microphone in a plastic olive?”

“Exactly.” The expert angler smiled, prepared to set his hook. “The less detail I know of such issues, the better for me. It is a matter of plausible deniability—should some media shark question me about foreign bugs in my home, I must be able to shrug the notion off as so much nonsense. Nor would I want anyone on my staff to be privy to such titillating information. Charlie, you are the man I need.”

Moon watched bulbous clouds grow thick and dark over the Misery Range—a crop of hideous black mushrooms. Here and there, they sprouted roots of electric fire.

Sensing that his fish was not quite enticed to bite, Senator Davidson dipped the barbed hook into honey. “While I would naturally consider this service on your part as a personal favor, there are certain advantages to you.”

“I’d like to hear one or two of them.”

The senator counted on his fingers. “Firstly, you get paid. Secondly—”

“Whoa! Secondly can wait its turn. I want to hear more about
firstly
.”

The senator sniffed at a wilted rose blossom. “Whatever that skin-flint Oscar Sweetwater is paying you, I will gladly double.”

Moon tried hard not to look overjoyed. “Tribe also pays my expenses.”

“Certainly I would cover your expenses. That goes without saying.”

“Say it anyway.”

“Miss James will see that you are issued a credit card on the BoxCar account. Platinum, I should think.” He attempted a stern look. “All expenditures would have to be justified, of course.”

“That goes without saying. Now we can get to secondly.”

“Secondly, my instructions to the Bureau will stipulate that in any issue related to physical security at the BoxCar, or to my personal security—which of course includes the assault upon and maiming of myself, and the brutal murder of your fellow tribesman—that Mr. Charles Moon shall be considered my personal representative. Any request said Mr. Moon shall make in regard to these issues will hereafter be treated by the FBI as coming directly from myself.”

The tribal investigator shook his head. “They’d never agree to that.”

The senator smirked. “Sir, you obviously have not the least idea of the influence of my office.”

“Maybe not. But I’ve got a pretty good idea what Mr. Hoover’s feds will say to your proposal.”

“You seem very sure of yourself. But perhaps it is all pretense.”

The Ute removed a greenback from his wallet, stuck it on a rosebush thorn. “Here’s five bucks that says they’ll laugh in your face.”

Davidson blinked. “You are proposing a wager?”

“What’s the matter—rich fella like you can’t afford to lose a few bucks?”

“Alas, I have no cash on my person.”

“I’ll trust you for it. So go ahead, give the FBI your best shot.”

The senator closed one eye. Pointed the cold cigar under the looped finger of his left hand—aimed toward an imaginary cue ball. Snapped his head back. “There, did you see that?”

Moon shook his head. “You must’ve slipped one by me.”

“Aha—the hand is indeed quicker than the eye. The nine ball is in the corner pocket. Has been, in fact, since last evening.”

“I didn’t think that shot was on the table.”

“You were mistaken. The most high and mighty director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has already agreed to my conditions. Mr. Charles Moon is accepted as my liaison to the FBI. For the official record, the purpose of this arrangement is to aid in Mr. Moon’s investigation into the reprehensible murder of his esteemed tribal member and the ruthless maiming of one of this nation’s most respected and beloved—not to mention modest—members of the United States Senate.”

“The director didn’t even put up a fuss?”

“Actually, he did do some moaning and groaning. But not about you. Before your name came up, I suggested that my personal attorney—a man highly detested by the Bureau—would act in my stead. My plucky lawyer is practically a charter member of the ACLU. Worse still, he has effectively represented at least three despicable persons who allegedly shot at and wounded FBI special agents. Not a one of these probable felons has yet seen the inside of a federal penitentiary. When I uttered my attorney’s name, the director—normally a rather placid fellow—screamed shocking obscenities into the telephone. One pithy reference had to do with myself ice-skating in hell on the Fourth of July. In light of my specific injuries, I considered this reference bordering on insensitive. But truth be told, I did not actually want my attorney to act as my liaison. The point was to make Mr. Hoover’s most recent successor happy to hear any other name—like ‘Charles Moon.’ As might be expected, the director does not know you personally. But it turns out that your contacts in the Durango office—while not entirely enthusiastic about your previous alleged poaching in their exclusive game park—do give you high marks for integrity. And discretion. And so the director has agreed. You are the man.” Davidson snatched the fiver off the rose bush, stuffed it into his pocket.

Charlie Moon realized that he had underestimated the politician.
Not a smart thing to do
. “Well, I’ll say it straight out—I sure wouldn’t a thought you coulda done it.”

Senator Patch Davidson gave the unlighted cigar a yearning look, imagined a fragrant corkscrew of gray smoke curling from a red-hot tip. “Faint praise, indeed. And somewhat lacking in verbal harmony. Nevertheless, sweet music to my ears.”

“So it’s a done deal.”

“Except for the paperwork. You will require a limited-access security clearance. My able staff has already prepared the necessary forms for your signature, and the FBI director assures me that your application will be put on the fast track.”

The tribal investigator cocked his head. Looked at the thing from all angles. It was like an old, tired horse. Moderately ugly. Swaybacked as an upside-down rainbow. Ribs sticking out. Probably blind in one eye. But if a man sat easy in the saddle—didn’t put a spur to it—why, he might be able to ride the nag all the way to the bank. And so he gave the senator’s scheme his blessing. “This arrangement could work pretty good for both of us.”

“You have spoken rightly, sir. The uphill path of your investigation into the brutal murder of Mr. Smoke has been appreciably leveled. And in the instance of my unwanted collaboration with those hip-shooting lawyers from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the consequent risk of an embarrassing exposure is minimized.” He grinned like a small boy. “You and me, Charlie Moon—we are the A-team. And we are playing a win-win game.” He looked toward the massive sandstone house. “I do believe that concludes our business.”

“There is one other thing. You used to have a Mrs. Brewster working for you. In the kitchen.”

Avoiding Moon’s penetrating gaze, the politician examined five perfectly manicured nails on his right hand. “Yes. Jane is an extraordinary cook.”

“You miss her?”

“Indeed I do.” He rubbed at an inflamed cuticle. “I assume there is a reason for your interest in my former domestic help.”

Moon thought about it. “There’s a reason.” Maybe not a good one. “Mrs. Brewster has a daughter. Wilma was an engineering student at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic.”

Davidson cocked an aristocratic eyebrow. “Was?”

The Ute watched the wily politician’s face. “Miss Brewster has not been in contact with her mother—or in her own apartment—since last December. Just a few days before Billy Smoke was murdered in the back lot of the Blue Light Cafe.”

“I had not heard about Jane’s daughter being missing.” Davidson raised a hand to shield his eyes from a sudden spray of sunlight. “Is there any evidence of foul play?”

“Nope. But the young woman left town without telling her mother why.”

“Well, I am sorry for Jane. But surely her daughter’s absence has nothing to do with Billy’s death. It must be a coincidence.”

“You’re probably right. But I don’t much like coincidences.” The Ute squatted by the crippled man’s battery-powered scooter. “Why isn’t Mrs. Brewster still working for you?”

“I do not like being cross-examined about my help.”

Moon waited, knowing the white man would not be able to bear the silence.

“Oh, very well. I was in the hospital, then in a rehab center for several weeks. During that time, Jane simply wasn’t needed here at the BoxCar. When I got back…well, I got into the habit of ordering food from the caterer. Also, I have a need for quiet. Jane was always banging pots and pans about. And singing loudly. Jarringly off-key, I might add.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t understand why you’re quizzing me about my former cook.” The politician shot the tribal investigator a curious sideways glance. “You onto something?”

Charlie Moon dodged the question. “If Mrs. Brewster was filling out an application for a job, and it called for a recommendation from her previous employer—should she write your name in the blank spot?”

Patch Davidson hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.” He played with the GroundHog joy stick. “All this talk about food has whetted my appetite.” He licked his lips. “You will, of course, join me for a meal.”

“Thanks for the offer. I have to be going.” Moon thought he saw an expression of relief in the rich man’s face.