Bad Company (18 page)

Sally was defensive on Dickie’s behalf. “Don’t dump on my buddy Dickie. He’s been to hell and back and still has more than most people’s share of wits. Not to mention a sense of humor and a giant heart.”

“Relax. I’m one of the boss’s biggest fans,” said Scotty. “He’s remarkable. It’s not everybody who could sell drugs to half the people in town, take it on the lam, live some secret life for years and come back and get elected sheriff, and then turn out to be both honest and competent.”

“Yeah. A lot of people would assume that he won that election because he had the goods on all those voters who’d scored dope from him. Law enforcement pros like you don’t expect much from the politicians you work for, do you?” Sally challenged.

“Why should we?” Scotty countered. And then, at last, “Sheriff Langham’s a good guy.”

“Got that right,” said Sally.

“But, admit it. He’s pretty close to this case,” Scotty said.

“Sure. He feels for Mary. And after all, he’d do anything to solve it for her. How many wives would take back some cokehead who’d been on the run for twelve years and then showed up one day hollering, ‘Hi honey, I’m home’? You’d have to be either nuts or desperate or some kind of saint. Or maybe just loyal—if there’s one thing about those Langhams, they’re practically zealots when it comes to family.”

Scotty looked at her again, and for a change said nothing. They’d gotten off the highway, onto the dirt road that would take them past Vedauwoo Glen and on to their destination. Gripping her thighs with hands that had begun to shake, Sally knew the literal meaning of the word “dreadful.”

“You didn’t come this way on Monday,” Scotty said, beginning the process of taking her through that miserable experience all over again.

She took a breath. “That’s right. We parked up by Abe Lincoln and then walked along the back side of the climbing rocks, following Middle Crow Creek. We did some meanders, here and there, across meadows.” She felt her temper rising. “Hawk and I were just out for an afternoon stroll, Scotty. I mean, we weren’t looking for the shortest route to Monette Bandy’s body, now were we?”

“Settle down, there, princess,” Scotty told her, his own patience visibly stretching. “Just tell me all about it, as carefully as you can.”

And so she did, as they bumped over earth and rocks, churning up red dust, in that majestic beautiful place. She had no idea whether what she was saying to him now told him anything new, or beamed light into any dark corner. It all sounded to her like something she’d rehearsed and rehashed until she was seeing it in her dreams. Scotty Atkins drove on, past hikers and climbers and picnicking families, all those strangers blissfully unaware of the fact that willful, cerebral Sally Alder, telling her story along that road, wanted nothing so much as to start screaming, and not stop.

By the time they got to the Devil’s Playground, the talking and the struggle against panic had pretty much emptied her out. Scotty pulled the 4runner over and parked at the bottom of the hill she’d watched him walk up, only those few days before. He got out of the truck, but Sally didn’t move. He walked around, opened up her door, took her by the hand, and said, “Let’s go.”

She let him lead her up the hill, conscious of his warm, dry hand holding hers, of the thirsty, uneven ground, red dirt, and pink pebbles she could feel through the thick Vibram soles of her boots. The words popped into her head—the devil is in the details—and she giggled like an idiot at the notion.

But for the life of her, as they came on the ring of blackened stones, where so many Wyoming party animals had built their fires and drunk their beers and sucked at their smokes, she couldn’t make her brain do more than flit around the scene, and leap, like a flea, from one bit of trivia to the next. Oh look, she thought, this is good: The police have cleaned up all the litter. Now that’s what I like in my public servants. But oh, see how all those heavy cop shoes have stomped all over this place. Not a blade of grass longer than an eyelash. It would be next summer, at least, before those ants she’d seen toting that piece of straw would have anything to practice their collective carrying instincts on.

Sally was a flea brain and Scotty was relentless. Dragging her along by the hand, he strode past the fire ring and on toward the outcrop. A sudden, too-vivid mental image of the jumble of rocks, that arm sticking out with the rope around the wrist, made Sally stagger and pull Scotty back. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t do it, Scotty.

Please don’t make me. I keep seeing her arm and that rope.”

Scotty let go of Sally’s hand, grabbed both her arms above the elbow, shook her. “Get a grip, Sally. I want you to see it. When Dickie and I watched the autopsy, we saw rope abrasions on both her wrists. But she hadn’t been dragged. She let somebody tie her up. And then whoever she was with led her over there, had intercourse with her, shot her, and tried to hide the body. We’re saying it looked like rape, but maybe it was just some rough game that got a little out of hand. We’ve just gotten the results of the blood tests, and it looks like they had some beers and smoked a little weed. One thing led to another, but somebody lost control. And then, when he’d killed her, he couldn’t get her down in that crack with her hands bound like that. So he cut the rope, and he just left it dangling off the one hand while he pushed her body down.”

“Please,” she pleaded, heart pumping, breath coming hard. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Think about it, Sally. Why would he go to all that trouble and leave her hand sticking out?”

Hmph. The question brought her up short, cut through the horror, made her . . . reason. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, removed Scotty’s hands from her arms and looked him in the eye. “I can imagine two explanations. One, the crack turned out to be too small for her body, but by the time he’d gotten her wedged in there, it was too hard to get her out. It took you guys a long time pulling her body up— she was stuck pretty tight.”

Scotty stood silent and motionless, still looking at her. “The other explanation is that he heard somebody coming as he was pushing her down, and he ran off. Maybe he heard Hawk and me. Christ, maybe he saw us.” She was nearly too numb to be unnerved by that possibility.

“And maybe he knew you. Maybe that’s why he turned his attention from Monette to you. Of course, this is all wild speculation, isn’t it, Sally? In my business we try not to jump to conclusions.” Scotty was forcing the issue, retreating, then forcing it a little further.

“Knew me?” she whispered. “How could he know me?”

“Lots of people do, ma’am,” said Scotty, sounding like a man who wore a Stetson instead of a shirt with a little pony guy on it. “But there is one piece of evidence I’d like to share with you. It’s something the sheriff is having trouble considering, because, as I said, he could be just a mite too close to this case. As you know, that rope around Monette Bandy’s wrists was a calf roper’s piggin’ string.”

“I know,” said Sally, a sick foreboding feeling welling up inside.

“And as I believe the sheriff mentioned, only two such ropes were purchased here in town recently, both by local cowboys.”

“Yes. He did mention that.”

“What I don’t believe he told you,” Scotty persisted, “was that one of those cowboys was Jerry Jeff Walker Davis. Your friend Delice’s boy.”

Chapter 16
Sentiment, Logic, and Damned Lies

“Did you hear me?” he said. “Jerry Jeff Davis. The sheriff’s nephew. Your friend’s son.”

The cool pale eyes held her. She had to fight to look away.

Two things about Scotty Atkins pissed Sally off. First, that he was such a coldhearted bastard. Second, that he was such a fascinating coldhearted bastard. The man was perfectly willing to believe that a kid not even fifteen, who mowed lawns and took in stray kittens and whose mother loved him, could have done what had been done to Monette. And by now the detective had Sally doubting the people she cared about most. Scotty made Sally feel like a mouse facing a snake, cornered, mesmerized.

Jerry Jeff was big and strong, and you never could tell about teenagers these (or any other) days, but he was still in some ways a little boy. You didn’t need any better evidence of that fact than the lame explanation JJ had come up with when the detective had asked him about buying a new piggin’ string.

“He told me, ‘Oh, yeah. I was out at the fairgrounds last week, checking out the stock, and I left my gear on the tailgate of somebody’s pickup. When I came back, my piggin’ string was gone.’ ” Scotty shook his head in disgust. “Jerry Jeff couldn’t remember exactly whose pickup it was, or precisely when he’d left his stuff. He was even fuzzy about what day it was. Dickie was willing to cut the boy some slack—way too much, if you ask me. He said, sometimes, kids were sketchy like that, and told me to back off. If you ask me, the sheriff just couldn’t bring himself to question his sister’s son about a story that sounded like the calf roper’s version of ‘the dog ate my homework.’ ”

Sally glared at Scotty. “This interview is over, Detective,” she said, turning and taking off down the hill. “I’ve got a band practice tonight, and things to do before then. I need to get back.”

“Look, Sally,” Scotty said, striding up beside her. “I’m sorry this has to be unpleasant. Do you really think that browbeating traumatized people is my favorite part of this job?” He started to reach out to touch her, but then put his hands in his pockets.

Best he keep those hands to himself. “I don’t think you enjoy hammering away at the bereaved, no. And though I hesitate, at this point, to be nice to you, I will say that I admire your dedication. You believe in justice. You’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. But you know, Scotty, you could use a little lesson in finesse. You might want to think about who you’re hurting when you push to the limit.”

The air around him seemed to crackle as his patience snapped. “I won’t take that crap. Murder hurts everybody it touches. And even if the attacks on you have nothing to do with Monette, you’re a crime victim yourself. Sometimes justice is cruel. If you can’t handle the idea that my inquiries are liable to turn up dirt on people you know, or even on you, for that matter, you might think about moving to another state.”

“Thanks for the advice. Don’t worry about me getting scared off by gossip. I’ve had plenty of experience with that.” She wished she had a dollar for every rumor about her. Hell, wished she had five dollars just for the ones that had been true.

“It’s not just the gossip. Face it, Sally, this case is about more than words. Dickie and Mary and all the rest of the Langhams, and you yourself, want to think that some crazed transient predator killed Monette Bandy. That remains one possibility. We’ve spent more time than we probably should have grilling guys out at the fair-grounds and down in the bars. Nothing I’ve turned up so far points to a stranger, and experience tells me to look closer to home. Most crimes are committed by somebody the victim knows.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “And up until this morning, my money would have been on Monette’s father. But after he tackled me in Washington Park—”

“Tackled you.” Scotty made it a declarative statement, not a question. “In Washington Park?”

“I don’t think that was his plan. He grabbed me by the arm and tried to pull me into his truck, and I kind of slugged him, and the next thing I knew, we were down on the ground.”

“Right,” said Scotty. “This happen to you a lot?”

“Hardly,” she answered.

“You’re taking it in stride. Weren’t you afraid?”

“Of course! I was terrified! That’s why I wasn’t about to let him drag me to his truck. Forget about it. Bone’s a drunk and a shithead, but I’ve changed my mind about him. I don’t think he killed her. We sat on a bench in the park and talked. He thinks Monette was blackmailing somebody, a cowboy maybe, and it sounded like he wanted a piece of whatever action she thought she had.”

“Tell me what happened this morning, and what he said to you, and what you told him. No fooling around, Sally. Every little bit. Beginning to end. Every gesture, including the tackle. The exact words.”

She told him, right down to Monette saying she’d “roped a good one” and planned to ride it down and get out of town. And the sad part, about how Monette had always thought she’d find a cowboy and ride away.

Scotty grimaced. “I’d better get back and pay a call on Bone. I need to hear what he’s got to say, today. Before I visit with Jerry Jeff again.”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t think JJ is capable of murder. He’s a kid, Scotty.”

“And you’re his mother’s best friend. Kids aren’t always innocent. Leave criminal investigation to the pros, Sally. They know how to separate sentiment and logic.”

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “I would never dream of accusing you of possessing sentiment.” He winced. “But in this instance, there’s also a serious flaw in your logic. Whoever killed Monette had to get her up here somehow. She could have driven herself, of course—I assume she had a car?”

“She did,” Scotty said. “An old beater Pontiac. According to several of her neighbors, it’s been parked out in front of her apartment building for the past couple of weeks, with a dead battery. She’s been walking to work or getting rides.”

“Fine. However she got up here, whoever killed her had to drive out of here, back down the hill or on down the road or wherever. Jerry Jeff isn’t driving yet. It’s not just that he’s too young for a license—he and his mother have a running battle over how soon she’ll take him out and start teaching him. He never stops pushing, and she never stops stalling.” Delice wasn’t eager to get into the passenger’s seat of her Explorer with JJ at the wheel, and lately she’d even started hinting to Sally about giving him a lesson or two.

“At the risk of pointing out the obvious,” said Scotty, “there might have been a third party along. Or maybe he’s covering for somebody. How much do you know about Jerry Jeff’s friends?”

Sally pursed her lips. “How much does any adult know about a teenager’s friends? Have you talked to Delice?”

He shook his head. “The sheriff said he’d handle that.”

“As he should. But I assume you’ve at least gotten some names from JJ, or whoever, and you’re checking them out. Kids at the high school. Rodeo pals.”

“Yeah. We’re running them down. And tomorrow we’ll be getting the medical examiner’s report on the autopsy, along with the physical evidence. I’m going to ask Jerry Jeff to come down to the courthouse and have a look at that piggin’ string.”

“And while he’s doing that, you watch his reaction, and then use whatever you decide will work to push him into telling you everything you’re so sure he knows. Tell me, Scotty, do you always treat people like biology class dissection projects? You make me feel like a pithed frog or a cow’s eye.”

“One more time you force me to apologize,” Atkins said softly. “I’m hoping that when this is all over, we can be friends.”

Reluctantly she looked up at him. For reasons that he hadn’t divulged and she couldn’t even guess at, Scotty Atkins preferred to show the world a blank face. But this time, for an instant, he failed, and she was drawn to a flickering glimpse of something raw and shredded, somewhere deep beneath the green ice in his eyes.

Sally was not a woman who hid emotion well, but experience had taught her how to tamp it down some, and use those frontal lobes, when the feelings she harbored were so riotously conflicting that exhibiting them might bring the boys with the straitjacket. “Yeah. Well. Let’s get this over with, and then we’ll see about friends.”

Plenty left to think about, but nothing more to say. By the time Detective Atkins dropped her off back at the house, she was really wondering. What was this thing she had for pain lately? Except in her very darkest days (when the Vietnam war had poisoned everything she’d once held holy, when tequila and rootlessness had weighed her down), she considered herself a happy person. She was, usually, attracted to the light.

To the light. Like a moth. Flitting from flame to flame. God, she’d had a rough week. And it was only Thursday.

It would have been nice if Hawk had been there when she got back. She could have used a little welcome home. But she knew he was planning to stay up in the mountains until it got dark, tramping around the land swap parcel, getting to know the property and its surroundings. He knew how to read land the way Sally read words on paper, alert to subtle signs, faint shades of meaning, traces of past presence. He’d be taking his time.

The light on the answering machine was going batshit. She listened to the messages.

“Sally, it’s Maude. I don’t believe for a minute that the break-in at your place was ‘no big thing.’ You’re up to something. Call me.”

And she thought she’d been so clever. She should have known she couldn’t fool Maude. Now Sally would have to figure out how much, if anything, to tell her. At this point she couldn’t avoid having Maude in her face, but Sally knew it might not be a bad thing to have Maude watching her back.

“Hey Mustang. Bone Bandy informs me that you and he had a little tête-à-tête this morning in Washington Park. I’d be real interested in hearing your thoughts. There’s a good band at the Torch tonight, and I thought I’d swing by at some point. If you can’t make that, how about breakfast at the Wrangler tomorrow?”

Dickie Langham, laid back and thinking, like Winnie the Pooh, about breakfast. As usual. But it sounded like he was a step ahead of Scotty on at least one front. Whatever the detective might think, the sheriff, in his own way, was very much on the job. The next message confirmed it.

Barroom noise—conversational hum, clinking glasses, Willie Nelson on the jukebox. And the distinctive jingle of silver bracelets. “Hey Sal, my brother was just in here acting casual and asking nosy-ass questions about Jerry Jeff. What do you know about all this? What really happened at your house Tuesday night? Goddamn it, I want some answers. It’s already a madhouse in here, but call me at the Wrangler as soon as you can.” A hard hang-up.

Delice was pissed. Sally couldn’t blame her.

And now the third Langham sibling, weighing in. “Hey Mustang, Dwayne here. I’ve got some business to take care of, so we’re going to have to do a short practice tonight. Eight instead of seven at my place.” The band would survive, and the Saturday night gig would be fine. It wasn’t as if they were working up a lot of new material. If a song had been written after 1985, the Millionaires didn’t play it.

The last message was for Hawk. “This is Molly Wood, calling for Josiah Green. I just want to thank you for offering to take a look at that property in the Laramies. I’m eager to hear what you think. I’ll be at home this afternoon and evening, and will hope to hear from you soon. Thanks again.”

“Eager,” eh? From what little she’d seen of Molly Wood, Sally didn’t think that the woman would use the word loosely. If Molly was eager, somebody might be putting on the real estate blitz. Was that the business Dwayne had mentioned? Or were Molly’s kids pushing? That weekend deal-breaker deadline was closing in. For Molly’s sake, Sally hoped Hawk was finding a mountain paradise, more than up to his exacting aesthetic and scientific standards.

But she doubted that would be the case. As any decent researcher knew, one look at something was only the prelude to a lot more digging. Even if the property that Dwayne and Nattie’s investors wanted to trade for Molly’s Centennial ranch was the prettiest bit of high woodland on the planet, Hawk wouldn’t be close to knowing everything he’d want to learn about the place.

She looked at the clock. Since they were pushing practice back, she had time for a bath, the chance to relax for the first time in what had turned out to be another seemingly endless day. Lots of hot water, lots of bubbles, maybe a nice glass of Chardonnay, a spot of dinner. Sounded real good. But instead of heading for the tub, she went over to the desk and switched on the computer. She didn’t feel like soaking just yet. She felt like surfing.

She did, after all, owe Edna McCaffrey a tin of pâté.

The modem went through its paces, dinging, beeping, screeching like a monkey, and there she was on the information superhighway, speeding along in an alternative universe.

First, out of habit, she checked her email. She’d sent word to Edna about the problems with the house and the arrival of Sheldon Stover, but as yet, no reply. Edna was probably in some village literally on top of the world, looking at breathtaking mountains, talking to kids with no shoes and L.A. Lakers T-shirts. Sooner or later, however, she’d check in.

And then Sally hopped onto the web. No matter what she’d just been doing, it was always like this, cruising the Net—a strange sense of timelessness settled over her as she set out on her journey in the land of lies, damn lies, astounding discoveries, and excess of everything.

She started out searching on the keyword “pâté de foie gras” and turned up a couple hundred vegetarian and animal rights websites that detailed the horrific force-feeding of ducks and geese, along with several listings for “the last dinner on the
Titanic.
” So much for her own appetite, but then she’d never been that big a fan of organ meats anyhow. Next she tried “gourmet food,” and this time the results were more appetizing. Somewhere in the first dozen screens among the hundred thousand sites the search engine fetched up, she found the entry for alicesrestaurant.com.

Slowly the home page revealed itself. The designers were obviously going for the same effect you could find in those organic/fancy supermarkets that were popping up around the country faster than homegrown alfalfa sprouts: spacious but folksy, healthy but luxurious. Purslane and lambsquarters weren’t weeds, they were
salad
! Olive oil was
good
for you! Ice cream was even better if the cows who gave the milk had scenic surroundings and stayed off the needle.