Shadow Man (32 page)

Two GCPD officers on the graveyard shift were first to respond to the call. They stood guard at the tomb.

Informed that there would soon be a sizable influx of police, Pokey Joe realized the cops would be followed by a flock of journalists and dozens of curious locals. Already counting the potential profits, the canny businesswoman was making the necessary preparations to cash in. Two huge urns of coffee were perking while she was working. The industrious cook was laying up a supply of fried-egg sandwiches, pork link sausages, and honey-dipped waffles.
Make it and they will come.

Parris and Moon were out by the gas pumps, watching for the first shimmering hint of dawn. Feeling much better after an egg sandwich and a pint cup of 90-proof java, the chief of police cleared his throat. “Charlie, I’m going to ask you some simple questions. I’m hoping for some simple answers.”

Moon watched the steam rise off his Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I’ll do the best I can, pardner.”

“Okay, here goes—why did the Blinkoe family attorney show up tonight?”

Moon closed his eyes, looked backward. Yesterday seemed so far away. “About fifteen hours ago, Mr. Trottman had a visitor.”

“Who?”

The Ute thought he might as well tell him.
By noon, Forrest Wakefield will be bragging to anyone who’ll listen.
“It was a friend of mine. But I want you to know right up front that Wakefield didn’t break any law or—”

“Charlie, just tell me what’n hell your county agent was doing in Trottman’s office.”

“First, I’ll have to give you some background. Even though Dr. Wakefield is a highly skilled practitioner of veterinary medicine, and has a steady job with excellent benefits—the man has never been completely happy in his work. He’s always felt called to another, higher vocation.”

Parris recalled his own youthful aspirations. “Like what—taxidermy?”

“Even better than that. Wakefield has a yen to be a professional actor.”

The chief of police was beginning to get a glimmer of the plot. “You sent this county agent–wannabe actor to a clever attorney’s office to commit a sordid act of make-believe?” Parris shook his head. “You must’ve been desperate to try something like that.”

“Wakefield might’ve fallen on his face, but he didn’t.” Moon took considerable pride in what the amateur thespian had accomplished. “But before he performed for Trottman, we paid a visit to Mr. DeSoto—”

“Wait a minute—what’s this ‘we’ business?” Parris pitched his empty cup into a trash can. “Am I to understand that you was in on the act?”

Moon nodded. “To make things look really high-class, Wakefield figured he needed a chauffeur. I drove him out to Garcia’s Crossing in a rented Mercedes. Wakefield tried to bribe DeSoto into telling us what he knew about Pansy Blinkoe. But after a couple of days, we concluded he either didn’t know a thing or wasn’t going to tell us. So late one night, Someone went back to his place and convinced him to return our down payment. That same Someone searched his house and found the white powder in his cellar.”

Parris groaned. “Charlie, please don’t tell me nothing your favorite chief of police shouldn’t know.”

“Suits me, pardner. I also drove Wakefield to see Dr. Blinkoe’s family attorney. Our fine actor—who is on a roll by now—convinced Trottman he was employed by an international drug cartel.”

“Well, what can I say—the vet obviously has a gift.”

“He certainly does. But he also had some help.”

“For example?”

“A bag of Krugerrands and a suitcase full of greenbacks. Enough to buy a brand-new Porsche and then some.”

“Pardon me for sounding doubtful, but where would a moderately compensated government employee get that kind of dough?”

“From a citizen who has lots of the stuff.”
Several laundry bags full.

Parris aimed a suspicious look at his sly friend. “Charlie, are you in touch with Manfred Blinkoe?”

“I can’t say one way or the other. The man either is or was my client.”

“You’re starting to talk like a lawyer.”

“I hope you meant that as a compliment.”

“Hope whatever you want. But let’s get back to this second farce you staged. Your county agent—with a suitcase full of money to help him make his case—convinces Spencer Trottman that he is representing an international criminal organization.”

Moon nodded. “He also convinced Trottman that Dr. Blinkoe had provided his wife with some information that was worth bushels and bushels of cash—which the big-time bad guys were determined to get their hands on.”

“Okay, Chucky. You’ve got my attention. What was that
something
?”

“Several strings of numbers.”

“I am cranky and short of sleep. Please keep this simple.”

“These sets of numbers were for various foreign bank accounts where Manfred Blinkoe had
allegedly
hidden the cartel’s cash. I’m talking about the stuff that was taken from the hijacked DC-3.”

The chief of police stared at his Indian friend. “And how did our county agent
allegedly
come to know about these accounts?”

The tribal investigator tried not to look smug. “I told him.”

“And how did
you
come to know about these foreign bank accounts?”

“Oh, I didn’t need to know about ’em—I made the whole thing up.”

“It was a fabrication—a pack of lies?”

“I prefer to think of my fable as a useful piece of fiction—a necessary element of Wakefield’s script.” Moon was thoroughly enjoying himself. “See, it was a kind of carrot-and-stick deal. If the family attorney could get the information from Mrs. Blinkoe within twenty-four hours, things would turn out very nice for him. If he couldn’t come up with the numbers, Trottman’s chances for a long and happy life wouldn’t be worth a politician’s promise.”

“And Blinkoe’s attorney believed this wild tale?”

“He must have. He showed up where he’d left the woman’s body.”

Parris turned his glare on a defenseless gas pump. “I still don’t get it. If the lawyer was searching for a list of numbers, why didn’t he look in her purse?”

“Trottman already knew Blinkoe had made his bride a dental plate. And he was led to believe that Blinkoe had etched the numbers on the denture.”

Parris looked down the road, saw a pair headlights coming up fast. Right above them, emergency lights were blinking.
That’ll be the state cops.
“So Trottman comes back to the place where he’s stashed the corpse, tries to remove Mrs. Blinkoe’s artificial teeth, gets his hand caught in her mouth…or something.”
Something I’d rather not think about.
He rubbed at bloodshot eyes, remembered Daisy Perika’s “vision.” “Charlie, what exactly did your aunt know that brought her out here—to this
particular
piece of nowhere—to look for Mrs. Blinkoe?”

Moon shrugged. “Only God knows.”

For the moment, there was no more to be said.

But across the highway, at the cemetery, there was something to be read.

GCPD Officer Alicia Martin aimed her five-cell flashlight at a mossy spot above the mausoleum entrance. On a surface just below a slitlike vent, the beam illuminated a simple memorial, which, once upon a faraway time, had been chiseled into the limestone.

ALONZO MARTINEZ 1851–1912

PRUDENCE MARTINEZ 1864–1939

By the time the sun had topped the eastern range, five Granite Creek PD black-and-white units were on site, along with two low-slung Chevrolets from the state-police detachment and a pair of ambulances that would serve as body wagons—all with emergency lights flashing. The cemetery crime scene had been taped off, thoroughly photographed with film and digital cameras. Physical evidence had been bagged and tagged. Until further notice, three two-officer teams constituted of a Granite Creek PD uniform and a state Smokey would guard St. Cuthbert’s cemetery in eight-hour shifts.

Jurisdictional issues had been settled. Almost.

There was the matter of the FBI’s intense interest in what the chief of police referred to as “this weird Blinkoe business.” The way Scott Parris and Charlie Moon had it figured was this: Within minutes of arriving at her Granite Creek office, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague would hear about the big commotion at Garcia’s Crossing. Moon expected her to show up before 10:00
A.M
. Parris thought it would take the fed a tad longer than that. The inevitable wager was made.

The lawmen were standing in front of Pokey Joe’s General Store when she drove up at six minutes past ten, skidded to a stop on the loose gravel.

Moon gave his buddy a dollar.

The good friends waited for the storm to begin.

McTeague got out of her car, looked from one man to the other, chose the ranking officer. She marched up to Parris like she was ready to punch him out. “What’s going on here?”

The chief of police gave her an account of recent events, including almost everything Charlie Moon had told him. He provided a brief summary of the “drug cartel” sting Moon’s county agent had pulled off in Trottman’s office, but thought it best not to mention the DeSoto business.
If he wants to, Charlie can tell her about that.

The FBI agent did not give the Ute a second glance. “When you discovered the bodies in the mortuary, why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

Parris reminded her, somewhat curtly, that Garcia’s Crossing was in his jurisdiction. He was not obligated to inform the FBI. Before she exploded, he told the lady that he would be grateful for all the help he could get from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It was like being slapped in the face, then kissed to make it better. Staggered, all McTeague could think of to say was: “Has any of the evidence been examined?”

Parris glanced toward the cemetery. “Doc Simpson will deal with the human remains. But I’d be pleased if the Bureau would submit the late Mrs. Blinkoe’s purse and its contents to its forensic experts. And you’re welcome to whatever you find in Trottman’s pockets.”

McTeague stared at the shrewd lawman, wondering what his game was. “I’d like to have a look at the crime scene.”

Parris gave her a little salute. “Follow the blinking lights.”

McTeague shot a quick look at Charlie Moon, stalked off across the highway.

Parris checked his watch. “Two bits says she’ll be back in less than twenty minutes.”

“You’re on.”

She was back just short of sixteen, with Pansy’s red purse and some other odds and ends.

Moon flipped a shiny Tennessee quarter to Parris.

Without a word to the gamblers, she placed the plastic evidence bag in the trunk of her government-issue Ford sedan.

The tribal investigator leaned on the sleek automobile, smiled upon his favorite fed. “Good morning.”

She returned the look, but not the smile.

“Uh—when you check out the lady’s purse, you might find an expensive compact. I hope you’ll have a close look at it.”

“Why do you hope?”

“The compact was a present from Dr. Blinkoe to his wife.”

“That hardly responds to my question.”

“I’ve had a long, sleepless night.” Moon covered a yawn. “It’s the best I can do.”

“Your best, is it?” She turned away to greet an exuberant Dr. Simpson, who was crossing the highway, chattering cheerfully with an assistant about the “imminent onset of rigor mortis.”

The tribal investigator gamely accepted this abrupt dismissal.

“What a woman,” Parris muttered.

Charlie Moon nodded.
Yes indeed.

Lunch was her quiet time. Special Agent McTeague was about to take a bite from a toasted tuna-salad sandwich, when she heard the hissing sound.

“Hssst.”

It came from the booth behind her. She closed her eyes.
Please, God, don’t let it be who I think it is.

It was too late for this particular prayer. The thing had already been decided.

Louder this time, and longer.
“Hssssssst!”

McTeague put a hand to her ear. “Hark! What is this I hear—a punctured tire going flat?”

“No.” But he did sound somewhat deflated. “It’s only me.”

“Right. Mr. S.”

“It’s not mister, just plain—”

“I know. How’ve you been, Just Plain Scarf?”

“Not so loud with my code name—somebody might hear you.”

“Sorry. I suppose my tradecraft could use some sprucing up.”

“You can say that again.”

“Very well. I suppose my—”

“I wish you wouldn’t treat me like some kinda loony.”

“I’m sorry.” She smiled at her sandwich. “Truly I am.”

“You should be. A man has his pride, you know.”

The lady was well aware of this serious shortcoming among the hairy-legged gender. “Pride goeth before the fall,” she said. “And hear this—if you intend to make a habit of stalking a federal agent, you are heading for a
hard
fall. You sneak up behind me just one more time, I’ll fling you on the ground, cuff you, read you your wrongs, then beat you black and blue. And that’s just the
good
part.”

“You don’t need to get testy.” A sullen pause. “You didn’t leave the twenty bucks under the flower pot.”

“I considered it, but came to the conclusion that such generosity on my part would only encourage you. I do hope you are not slightly offended.”

“No, I guess not.” A sniff. “That food sure smells good.”

She sighed.
Even dimwits need sustenance.
“Are you hungry?”

“Let’s just say I could use a few dollars for groceries.”

“How many dollars—twenty?”

“That’d do nicely. And I’m ready to earn it.”

“I’m listening.” She helped herself to a cheese-flavored potato chip.

“You want to hear somethin’ about that Mr. Blinky?”

“Like where he is?”

“That’s what I mean, all right.”

“Sure.” She sipped a tall glass of iced tea.

“Then listen up, ’cause here’s the honest truth—Blinky’s holed up out west of town. At a cattle ranch.”

She choked on the tea, coughed.

There was a “heh-heh,” then: “I thought that’d get your attention.”

McTeague coughed again. “Which ranch west of town?”

“The spread that Ute Indian pays taxes on. Well, Mr. Moon actually owns two ranches. But the Big Hat’s where Blinky’s at.”

She fumbled in her purse, found the microcassette recorder. “Do you know this for a fact?”

“Dang tootin’ I do!”

McTeague pressed the Record button. “Describe Dr. Blinkoe.”

He recited a description that matched what had been in the newspapers.

“Have you actually seen him?”

“I dang sure have.”

“When?”

“Plenty of times, including just this morning—why, I was closer to that forked-beard tooth yanker than I am to you.”

It’s a stupid question, but I have to ask.
“As far as you know, is Mr. Moon aware that Dr. Blinkoe is on his property?”

“Know it? Why of course he knows it—that sneaky Indian’s been hiding Blinky on the Big Hat.” A few heartbeats. “Now where’s my twenty dollars?”

McTeague folded a bill, held it over her shoulder—where it was instantly snatched away. The FBI agent hated to pursue this, but she could not look the other way. Not even for Charlie Moon. “Scarf, would you like to have twenty more?”

“Maybe. But before I say yes, I’ll have to know exactly what for.”

“Have I ever seen you before? At the ranch, I mean.”

“Uh…maybe. I mean yeah. You’ve seen me all right.”

“Tell me your name.”

A quick intake of breath. “Look, miss—if that Indian finds out I’ve been carrying tales about him, he’d skin me alive, grind me up like so much man-burger, feed me to the cattle.”

She smiled. “Bovines do not eat human flesh.”

A rude snort. “That’s what
you
think—they’ll eat anything that’s got calories—even other cows, if the meat’s mixed in with their regular feed. Those beeves are nothin’ but big-eyed, lip-smacking cannibals.”

“You needn’t worry about being fed to the Herefords. The Bureau will protect your identity.” While Scarf tried to make up his mind, she heard the thumpity-thump of his fingers on the table.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “If I told you who I was, there’s always the chance Moon might find out. I’d have to leave the state. On toppa the extra twenty, I’d need some serious travel money.”

“That can be taken care of. It’s your call.”

A ten-second eternity.

“Uh—first, let me see that extra twenty bucks.”

A second bill was passed from booth to booth.

“Okay, FBI lady. A dollar’s a dollar and a deal’s a deal.”

The federal agent held her breath.

“Out at the Big Hat, they call me Cap.”

“Yes, of course, I remember you very—” McTeague heard the heavy sound of boot heels as the Big Hat cook headed for the delicatessen’s rear exit.

Tilda the hun

Charlie Moon had dropped by Scott Parris’s office to read a faxed report. According to the document, Nebraska state-police detectives had discovered an illegal beef-butchering operation on a bankrupt chicken farm just outside of Omaha. The Ute rancher pored over page after page, but it turned out the hides and heads had been disposed of. This being so, there were no brands or nose prints to be had. Disappointed, Moon was about to head back to the ranch and a colicky horse and a grouchy aunt. Parris reminded the busy man that he’d been in town for only fifteen minutes, assured him that a coffee break would be just the thing. And while we’re sipping java and chomping down on delectable sugar-encrusted pastries, why not enjoy a hand of straight poker? He didn’t have to twist Moon’s arm all that hard.

Parris checked his hand, asked for three cards. Moon dealt them, gave himself two. They were concentrating on coffee and doughnuts and probabilities when the handsome woman opened the door, marched across the hardwood floor, arched an eyebrow at the older man. “So—this is how you spend your time at the taxpayers’ expense.”

“Who asked you?” Parris gave the FBI agent a stony-faced look. “And besides, I’m on my lunch hour.”

She rolled her eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

“He’s telling the honest truth,” Moon said. “If I was forced to, I’d be happy to testify under oath in a court of law that Scott hasn’t done a lick of work since he started his lunch hour at ten-twenty this morning.”

Parris shot a flake of the flinty gaze at the Indian. “I know you don’t mean well, partner—but please don’t try to help me.”

“Whatever you say.” Moon grinned at the pretty lady. “You want some coffee, or a doughnut?”

“Thank you, no.”

The Ute gentleman got up, pulled out a chair. “You want us to deal you in?”

“Unlike a certain chief of police I could mention, I am on duty.” She settled herself in the seat. “Besides, I’d hate to take all your hard cash, not to mention IOUs.”

Both men stared at the woman. Parris asked the question. “You play poker?”

McTeague laughed. “Does Barry Bonds play baseball? Does Bill Gates make money? Does—”

“Does she know when to put a sock in it?” Parris checked his cards.
Nuts.
“Aside from a persistent desire to persecute and pester me, what brings you here?”

“The invitation, of course.”

“I never invited you,” Parris grumped. “You just barged in like Aunt Audrey at suppertime, or Tilda the Hun crashing through the gates of—”

“That’s Atilla.”

“Tilda was his older sister,” Parris snapped. “Tilda the Hun also had a habit of showing up where she wasn’t invited.”

“Very well—enjoy your silly historical fantasies. But I was referring to
Charlie’s
gracious invitation.” She cranked the big eyes up to full size, turned them on the Ute.

Moon’s heart skipped a few beats. “Uh—you figure
I
invited you here?”

“I was on the way back to my office, saw your car parked out front, cleverly deduced that you were visiting Chief What’s-his-name, thought I’d drop in and say: ‘Yes, I don’t mind if I do.’”

Lost in her eyes, Moon heard himself say: “Don’t mind if you do
what
?”

“Last time I had a meal at the Big Hat, you told me I could come back whenever I ‘had a hankering to.’” She almost smiled. “I have a hankering.”

“I’d like to oblige you.” Moon’s expression had switched from balmy to scattered clouds. “But there’s a small problem.”

She presented a passable poker face. “Problem?”

“My cook hasn’t been doing any cooking for the past week or so.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“You and all the hungry cowboys on the Big Hat—and don’t forget those Columbine chow hounds that’ll fight a starving pit bull for a meaty soup bone.” The manager of the two-ranch spread shook his head. “My employees will use any excuse to come sniffing around this gifted pot-and-pan-banger’s kitchen. But lately, Cap’s been feeling somewhat poorly.”

Her poker face had hardened into a brittle mask. “I hope he recovers soon from whatever’s ailing him.”

“Oh, I’m sure Cap’ll be feeling better by and by. In the meantime, I’ll treat you to a Wonder Woman–size dinner at the Mountain Man Bar and Grille—”

“No.”

“What?”

“You made me a promise, and I’m calling it in.” She tapped a crimson fingernail on his chest. “I will take my breakfast at the Big Hat. Tomorrow morning.”

He frowned at the determined woman. “But with my hundred-horsepower hash slinger only hittin’ on about two cylinders, there’s no way I can lay out a meal that’d suit a lady of your refined tastes and delicate sensibilities and huge appetite, so why don’t we just ooze on over to the Mountain Man this evening and—”

“Just this once, we shall limp along without your chef’s expert services.” She picked a piece of lint off Moon’s sleeve. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a pretty fair hand with a skillet.”

He lowered his gaze, put on a bashful “aw shucks, ma’am” expression. If he had been outside and near a source of small stones, Moon would have kicked at a pebble. “My cooking ain’t nothing to brag about.”

“Charlie, your boyish modesty is one of your most endearing qualities. But my mind is made up. I will see you at the Big Hat tomorrow, nine
A.M
. sharp.” She flashed a dazzling smile. “I like my bacon extra-crispy, my eggs scrambled, my biscuits red-hot.” She got up, glanced over Parris’s shoulder at his cards. “Pair of deuces and some trash. Oh well, make the best of it.” Little heels went
clickety-click.
Big door went
bang.

Besides having his hand exposed and his professional character demeaned, Scott Parris hated being left out of things. Had since he was three hours old. He laid his cards aside. “Charlie, I don’t want to commit some kind of fawx pass, but—”

“Fox
what
?”

“Say it however you want, the point is—” The middle-aged man paused, stared blankly at a paneled wall.

Moon set his cards aside. “So what’s the point?”

Parris scratched at his thinning hair. “I disremember.” Mentally backing up one step at a time, he retraced his verbal tracks. “Oh yeah. I don’t want to make no social blunder, so tell me straight out—am I or am I not invited to this greasy, gut-busting breakfast at the Big Hat?”

“You’re always more than welcome at my table, pardner.” Moon clapped him on the back. “And I expect this’ll be a meal you don’t want to miss.”

Parris blinked at the door the fed had slammed behind her. “You think Special Agent McTeague is gonna grill you in your own kitchen?”

“Till I sizzle.” The Ute grinned at his best friend. “Remember how she likes her bacon?”