Shadow Man (8 page)

“Define
minor.
”

“Well—take for instance…false positives.”

“Like where the test says one of my steers has mad cow disease even though it’s perfectly healthy?”

“Right.” He smiled at the rancher, like a teacher pleased with a bright pupil. “That’s a false positive all right.”

“What happens then?”

“Oh, the Stage-C rules kick in. We quarantine your operation till we can test every animal with the older methodology. Which is considerably slower, but known to be reliable.”

The rancher pointed at the wall. “Forrest, I got over two thousand head out there grazing on forty-one sections.”

“I’ll only need to test a random sample of about ten percent.” The county agent did a quick mental calculation. “After you get ’em penned, testing a coupla hundred will only take us about three or four days. Maybe five or six. Once we actually get started, that is. And I’d have to call in some help.” He pulled at an earlobe. “You know how hard it is to get qualified veterinary technicians these days?”

“No. And I don’t much care.”

“Look, it’s not all that likely that there’ll be any false-positive results from the new test.” He frowned at the rancher. “Last five years or so, you bought any stock out of Canada?”

Charlie Moon jammed the black John B. Stetson down to his ears, stomped out of the kitchen.

“Hey,” Wakefield called out, “where you going?”

“Away from here,” Moon rumbled.

The two of men walking along the sidewalk were big in different ways. Charlie Moon was slender, more than a head taller than his companion. The Ute’s best friend was mostly broad shoulders and gorilla chest. But the size of a man is not measured in inches and feet. It is quantified by what is inside. Inside, these were sizable men.

The chief of police tipped his fawn-gray hat, returned an elderly lady’s smile. He spoke to the Ute. “Something has just occurred to me.”

“And you feel bound and determined to share it.”

Parris suppressed a slight shudder. “It’s sorta one of those Jungian things—like when the shrink is chatting with his lady patient, who just happens to mention this rare Egyptian beetle that’s never been seen ten miles from the Nile, and bam! There the bug is in downtown Vienna, crawling along on the doc’s windowsill.”

He’s been reading again.
“Let me guess—you joined the book-of-the year club?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that.” Parris blushed like a twelve-year-old. “I been dating this cute psychologist. And she’s really, really smart.”

Charlie Moon had a witty retort right on the tip of his tongue, but gave his friend the gift of silence.

“Oh, yeah—now I remember. That beetle, that’s what’s called a Jungian
coincidence.
”

“Synchronicity.”

Parris squinted at his friend. “What?”

“Mr. Synchronicity is a first cousin to Miss Coincidence, but he comes with an extra syllable—which makes him considerably more high-tone.” Inordinately pleased with himself, Moon kept right on going. “Your everyday run-of-the-mill coincidence—why, they’re so common that folks give ’em away as party favors. But your USDA-Prime synchronicity—that product goes for ten to twelve dollars a pound.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Parris strained to recollect his thoughts. “Where was I when you threw me off?”

“Sharing a coincidence?”

“Oh, right. It’s kinda creepy. Here we are—two coppers—walking the beat on Copper Street.” He paused in midstride, pointed at the sidewalk. “Charlie, I don’t
believe
it. Look at that—two brand-new pennies right there, faceup! Now what do you think of that—is that one of them grade-A synchro-coincidences or what?”

“Well, if you want my two cents, I think you need to get out more. But not with psychologists. Date yourself a flirty waitress or a rich widow woman who has a big house on Greenback Street. Besides, you are the only copper on this team.” The Ute raised his nose in the air. “Me—I am a highly respected tribal investigator.”

“I stand corrected.” Parris shot his buddy a narrow-eyed Sherlock look. “Being a highly trained detective, I have detected something remarkable in your remark. D’you want to know what?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good—then I am bound to tell you. Normally, you say something like [he mimicked the Ute’s deep voice]: ‘I, Charlie Moon, am a full-time rancher and part-time tribal investigator.’” Parris allowed his throat to relax to its normal state. “The fact that just now you did not mention the beefy portion of your chosen vocation leads me to believe that something is sour back at the Columbine.” An irksome smirk. “Am I right?”

Moon had already reported the rustling incident to the state police. Plus the Cattleman’s Association and the Brand Association. Potential buyers in ten states had been notified and provided with branding information and nose prints. There was nothing the local chief of police could do about it.
Except rag me about not being able to keep my beeves from getting stole.
“I would rather not talk about ranching today.”

Parris’s blue eyes twinkled merrily. “What is it—ol’ hairy-face Bushman giving you trouble again?”

The Indian grunted in a dismissive manner.

“If it’s not your foreman, it’s got to be your cows. I bet they’ve come down with incurable bovine constipation that’ll wipe you out and ruin your minor reputation.”

“There’s no such sickness as bovine con—”

“Then what is it—hoof-and-mouth disease?”

“No!” The rancher looked around to see who might have overheard this reckless remark. “And don’t even
say
that out loud.”

“Have you turned superstitious on me?” Parris snickered. “You think just
saying
something bad can make it happen?”

“Of course I don’t.” The thoroughly rational man glared at his friend. “But those superstitious things happen all the time, whether a fella believes in ’em or not.” Moon took a deep breath. “So let’s talk about something else. Something cheerful.”

“The deteriorating situation in Saudi Arabia? The riots in Pakistan? Baseball?”

“Any of those’ll do just fine.”

“There’s a rumor going around that there’s a hundred-year curse on the Cubs.”

“That’s nice.” Moon spotted a sign that made his mouth water. “How about a little pick-me-up snack?”

They entered Ye Olde Ice Cream Parlor, which was not yet a month olde. The Ute called for a triple dip of Strawberry Delight in a king-size sugar cone. Mindful of the slight bulge at his waistline, Scott Parris purchased a small cup of Soy Frostie.

As they walked past a JCPenney, the Ute licked at the ice cream. It was good. Very much good. He began to feel better. Very much better.

Parris used a pink plastic spoon to pick at the healthy protein concoction.
This is twice as good as a hornet flying up your nose.
“What’s really on your so-called mind, old chum?”

“Coupla days ago, while I was down at Aunt Daisy’s place—”

“What were you doing there?”

“Fixing a propane leak under the floor. While I was doing this, a Dr. Blinkoe tracked me down.”

“Propane leak, huh? Those can be dangerous.”

“Forget about the propane. Let’s talk about Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”

Granite Creek’s top cop frowned. “Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe? Hmmm.” He took a mincing bite of processed soybean dessert. “There must be ten thousand Blinkoes in the local phone book, but does
Manfred Wilhelm
ring a bell for me?”

“It ought to bust your eardrums wide open. Dr. Blinkoe is the citizen who believes somebody is out to do him serious bodily harm. Somebody else gets shot, Blinkoe figures the bullet was actually meant for him. He is what some people who are less charitable than me would consider paranoid. And you put this joker on my trail.”

“Oh, sure—
that
Blinkoe—the forked-beard orthodontist who was dining on the patio at Phillipe’s last week when the poor woman got shot.” Parris tossed the paper cup into a trash can that resembled a penguin with an open beak. He licked the spoon one last time, fed it also to the facsimile of the Antarctic fowl. “But it hurts me to hear the ‘you put that joker on my trail’ remark. I merely referred a potential client to my best buddy—in hopes that you might jump at the opportunity to make an honest dollar doing some useful work. Not to mention keeping your hand in the investigating business. I would not want you to get out of practice—lose your touch, so to speak. Such as it is. Or was.”

Moon took the last bite of the sugar cone, wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “What I’d like to know is—”

“Wait—don’t ask. I can read you like a comic book. In the interest of efficiency, let me tell you what it is you want to know.”

“Go right ahead.”

The chief of police raised a massive, hairy hand, counted off his little finger. “Number one, you want to know if we have a probable motive for the shooting. Answer is affirmative. The lady was a former prosecuting attorney from Cook County, Illinois. She was responsible for putting at least nine dozen bad guys behind the walls.” He counted off the next finger. “Number two, you are curious about whether we found a weapon. Another definite yes on that one. We are talking .22-caliber model M 6787 Hi-Standard target pistol. This fine piece of machinery was equipped with a first-class silencer—not something your average target shooter carries in his hip pocket. And he tossed it right after the shooting—Officer Alicia Martin fished it out of the stream. This shooter is a pro, and pros hit what they aim at. Your client was never in the least danger of getting popped.”

“What makes you think Dr. Blinkoe’s my client?”

Parris smirked. “When have you ever turned down a fee?”

“It wasn’t quite like you think. Dr. Blinkoe suckered me into a hand of poker.” Moon shook his head. “You won’t believe this—this slicker draws a royal flush and doesn’t even blush.”

The older cop scowled. “I never did like orthodontists. When I was a kid in Indiana, there was this Dr. What’s-his-name who kept sending me birthday cards. Christmas cards. Valentine cards. Even these horrible Halloween cards with jack-o’-lanterns that had big jagged teeth. There never was nothing wrong with my choppers.” He paused to smile at his reflection in a drugstore window. “But it kinda gave me a dental inferiority complex. I didn’t smile till I was almost thirty years old.”

“That is a terrifically sad story,” Moon said. “But let’s get back to the business at hand. You were telling me all I wanted to know about the shooting. So far, you only counted off two fingers.”

“Oh, right.” Parris turned down another digit. “Three, you want to know have we determined the original owner of the pistol—”

“Nope. That was more like number eighteen. Three is: Do you have any idea who pulled the trigger?”

The chief of police clenched the counting hand into a fist the size of a cantaloupe, jammed it into his jacket pocket.

Moon grinned at his best friend. “Well?”

“You shouldn’t have interrupted me. Now I’ve lost my place. Which gets me confused about what I’ve already told you.” He aimed a squinty-eyed glare at the Ute. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be asking me so many questions. Technically, Mr. Tribal Investigator—in this burg you are a regular citizen. I shouldn’t be telling you diddly-squat about what’s what.”

The amiable Ute shrugged. “Okay.”

They approached a corner. The traffic light turned red.

Parris waved at the driver of a passing school bus. “So—are you going to do some poking around for Dr. Blinkoe?”

“You are the chief of police,” Moon said.

“Well—thank you for this timely piece of information. But despite rumors that I am approaching the ragged edge of senility, I remain acutely aware of what my occupation is. I also know the name of the current president of the United States and can still tie my shoes without assistance.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Moon patted the older man on the back. “Now see if you can focus on this concept—I have a license from the great sovereign state of Colorado. This piece of paper permits me to perform confidential investigations. If a private investigator takes on a client, he does not make a habit of revealing information about that client’s private business to a publicly funded constabulary. Including the chief of police.”

Parris snorted. “Nobody likes a smart-mouthed P.I.”

Moon laughed. “But everybody loves a middle-aged cop who can still tie his shoes.”

“Danged right.” Parris grinned at a slender, dark-eyed girl in a pink satin dress.

Hardly noticing the chief of police, the young lady smiled shyly at the tall Ute, who flashed a bright one right back at her.

Parris was stung by this.
Why do the oldies grin at me and the young ones ogle Charlie?
He sucked in his gut, rubbed at his scalp.
I got to go on a serious diet…maybe get a hair implant.

“So,” Moon said to his friend, “do you have a suspect?”

Parris shrugged under his new blazer. “We might.” He glanced at the canny Ute. “So are you going to do some poking around for Dr. Blinkoe?”

“I might.”

The chief of police was determined to get the upper hand. “You ought to ask your FBI sweetie pie about the shooting at Phillipe’s.”

At the mention of the pretty lady’s name, Moon could not help but grin. “Do you refer to Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague?”

“How many feds are you holding hands with?”

Moon ignored this. “The Bureau jumping on the case because of the potential out-of-state connection?”

“Sure. And forget the ‘potential’.”

“Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

“Agent McTeague, who normally works out of Durango, has set up a part-time office right here in Granite Creek. She did this just two days after the shooting at Phillipe’s.”

Moon stopped dead still. “She’s working here in town. Are you serious?”

“Serious as a bad case of hoof-and-mouth.”

The stockman grimaced at the sickly reference. “Where’s her office?”

Parris gave him the address. The blue eyes twinkled. “I’ll bet you even money the hit was connected with the murdered prosecutor’s history in Illinois.”

“How much money we talking about?”

Don’t want to scare him off.
“Ten bucks?”

I’ve already been cheated by one slicker this week.
“You probably already know who the shooter is.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. You lay down your ten-spot, you take your chances.” He gave the Ute a sideways glance.
Charlie can’t resist a wager.
“So—you on for the bet or not?”

“I’ll cover your ten.” Moon tried to put the picture together. A killing in a small Rocky Mountain town wouldn’t get the attention it would in her hometown. Scott Parris didn’t have the resources for more than a run-of-the-mill investigation. Six weeks later, it would be old news. A cold case. But shoot the Cook County prosecutor down in the Chicago Loop and there’d be a hundred cops assigned to the investigation—and they wouldn’t let up until they had the killer by the neck. Not if it took sixty years. “You figure somebody with a grudge found out the prosecutor was headed for a Colorado vacation, sent a Chicago shooter out here to do the job while the lady was a long way from home?”

“Possibly.” Parris hesitated. “But these modern times ain’t like the old days, when the Family would put some Cicero thug on a flight from O’Hare to Denver, where he’d rent a car, drive down to Granite Creek, check in to a hotel, then look for an opportunity to blow the brains out of another tourist from the Windy City. These days, they outsource the task to someone who already knows the territory.”