Buffalo Bill's Defunct (9781564747112) (21 page)

“My mother said some tramp had been killed in a brawl and buried in the garage.”

Rob didn’t dignify Charlotte’s theory with a comment.

“This Redfern was an Indian?”

“Klalo,” Rob repeated. “A nephew of the principal chief. I think he was being groomed for a position of leadership in the tribal council.”

Tichnor seemed puzzled.

Rob looked at Linda. She was scribbling like crazy. Impatience pushed at him. He had played it cautious too long. “We have reason to believe that Edward Redfern was investigating an old theft. Ten years ago thieves made off with a number of Klalo artifacts from Lauder Point County Park. They included three major petroglyphs.”

“I remember reading about it in
The Oregonian.”

Rob rotated his left shoulder. “Redfern told friends he was following a lead. We found a fragment from one of the petroglyphs near where the body was buried. The inference is that the rock art was stowed in your great-grandfather’s bootleg cache at some point, and that Redfern came across it.”

Tichnor had taken out the handkerchief again. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

Rob rubbed his aching elbow. His knee throbbed in sympathy. “These stolen petroglyphs were not just art, though the law would classify them as stolen art. They were numinous objects.”

Tichnor stared at him.

“Objects of religious veneration. What looks like simple theft to the law is sacrilege to the Klalos.”

“But that’s terrible, terrible.” He was almost whispering.

“It’s not nice,” Rob agreed. “No nicer than desecrating a cathedral.”

“And you believe this young man accosted the thieves as they were moving the artifacts?”

“We think the thieves, or the collector who bought the artifacts from them, killed Redfern to prevent him from exposing their activities. The killing appears to have been spur-of-the-moment, though it will be classified as homicide if it was done in the course of a felony.”

“And we still have the death penalty.”

“We do.”

“I oppose the death penalty.”

Rob said, “You may be right, sir, but this murderer has to be stopped. Now. If you know anything, anything at all, that would clarify why your grandfather’s garage was used, please don’t hesitate to tell me.”

The telephone rang. Rob lifted the receiver. “Neill.”

“Vance Tichnor is here, Rob. Sort of impatient.”

“Thanks, Reese. Keep him cool.” He hung up, muttering imprecations under his breath. Great timing. “Well, Dr. Tichnor?”

But the oncologist had had a chance to master his feelings. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It’s a terrible thing. I haven’t the faintest idea why this young man’s body was buried in the garage. I hope with all my heart that you bring the killers to justice.”

That sounded like a farewell address. Rob knew when to fold a hand. He let Tichnor go.

When the door closed behind him, Linda said, “I wanted to ask him some more questions!”

Rob said, “Me, too.”

“He knows something.”

Rob smiled at her indignation. “We’ll have to have another round with him. Meanwhile, let’s take a look at his brother. Hey, how’s Mickey?”

“Mickey is good.” Her mouth quivered. “Rob, I have to say it. If I’d driven you here from the hospital, that madman wouldn’t have had a chance to shoot at you.”

“I disagree.” He held her gaze, unsmiling. “I think he was waiting outside the hospital. When you left without me, he waited a bit, then went hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“He drove along the direct route to the courthouse. When I strolled onto Birch Street he spotted me and accelerated. He was improvising.” Birch Street led straight to the courthouse. He added drily, “If things had gone the way he wanted them to in the first place, he would have been shooting from a stationary vehicle. We might both be dead.”

“Jesus Maria.”

“Exactly.” He picked up the phone. “Okay, Reese, you can send the great man in. Did the brothers punch each other out in passing?”

Reese chuckled.

As Rob hung up, he glanced at Linda. Her warm brown skin had taken on a gray tinge. “We both had a close call.”

“I guess so.” She sounded scared. Good.

Vance Tichnor stormed past Sergeant Howell, slammed himself into the chair his brother had vacated, and didn’t bother to shake hands. High dudgeon, Rob reflected. That was an expression he’d always wanted to use. He decided to save it for Meg.

“I’ve had it with you clowns,” Vance shouted.

Linda was inserting a fresh tape into the recorder. Rob intoned the usual details of time and place as Tichnor continued to rant.

“…and you kept me waiting forty-five fucking minutes while my mealy-mouthed brother sat in here and poured poison into your ears.”

Rob said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Tichnor.”

“What the hell happened to your face?”

“I ran into a door. Do you use a cell phone, sir?”

“What the fuck? Yes, of course. I’m a businessman.”

“Number?”

“I have two goddamn cell phones.”

“I’d like the numbers. I have the ones for your home and office.”

Mouth sulky, Tichnor complied. “I don’t understand why you’re wasting my time like this.”

Rob said, “I’m conducting a murder investigation, Mr. Tichnor. It’s not necessary for you to understand. All you have to do is cooperate. Or call your lawyer.”

Tichnor huffed.

“Tell me about your lodge at Tyee Lake.”

“I have a right to build on my own property. I’ve had title to the land since last spring.”

“This is a National Scenic Area. Did you clear your plans with the feds?”

“Tyee Lake is not within their jurisdiction!”

“Just asking,” Rob said mildly. “How about with the county?”

“Yes.” Tichnor’s eyes shifted.

“How far along is the construction?”

“It will be finished by the first of November.”

“Fast work. I suppose you’ll use your lodge to entertain clients.”

“That’s right. It’s a retreat, a business investment.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“What?” He gaped, clearly surprised by the change of subject.

“Car. Vehicle.”

“I have four ‘vehicles.’” Tichnor’s lip curled. “Not counting my wife’s BMW.”

Rob waited.

After a fulminating pause, Tichnor described a new Ford Wind-star, a 1964 E-type Jaguar, a Dodge Ram, and a restored 1959 Cadillac DeVille with a continental kit. All four were registered in Oregon. He knew the license numbers.

“Impressive.” Rob winced as a muscle in his shoulder went into spasm. He rotated the joint very gingerly.

“I have an image to maintain.”

“Where were you from seven Friday evening until seven yesterday morning?”

Tichnor blinked. “At home.”

“Address in Lake Oswego?”

“Yes.”

“ Corroboration?”

“What?”

“Can someone corroborate where you were?”

“My wife attended the opera. I don’t like all that caterwauling myself, so I stayed home and watched a DVD.”

“Servants? Children?”

“No kids. No live-in servants. What the fuck?”

“Murder, sir. Harold Brandstetter was shot some time Friday night or Saturday morning.” Rob wiggled his shoulder and the spasm eased.

“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I barely knew Brandstetter.”

“That’s not what your brother told me.” Rob flexed his sore knee. His shoulder twinged.

“Fuck Ethan.” Vance took a long, steadying breath, and said in tones of sweet reason, “I knew Hal when we were kids. That’s a longtime ago.”

“And haven’t seen him since?”

Tichnor gave him a pitying smile. “Of course I’ve seen him. We went fishing once in awhile. But Hal wasn’t exactly the kind of guy I’d take home to Mother.”

Interesting expression. “Farted a lot, did he? Used indelicate language? Drank his beer from the can?”

“He was a rough diamond.”

“Cut the shit, Tichnor. You just told me you got planning permission from the county for the casino you’re building up on Tyee Lake.”

“Casino!”

“I was alluding to the style of architecture. Are you telling me you didn’t mention the lodge? Hal was a fucking county commissioner.” Tichnor’s language was catching.

“Okay, so we talked it over.”

Rob waited. The stitches in his scalp were starting to itch and his cheek throbbed.

Tichnor’s face underwent a transformation that was interesting to watch. The high-blood pressure color faded. The scowl lines softened.

He gave a hearty salesman’s laugh. “Hell, you got me. Yeah, we talked it over. I must have seen Hal four or five times this spring and summer, just talking things over. And I went out for steel-head with him at the end of September. The thing is, my wife didn’t like Hal, so we didn’t socialize. We weren’t friends in that sense. How’s Tammy doing, the widow? I ought to send her some flowers.”

Rob didn’t comment. “What’re you driving today?”

“What
is
this?”

“What were you driving between eleven and twelve-thirty?”

“The Windstar.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“I have a cabinet of guns, most of them old. I bought some from Hal. He used to deal in secondhand guns. Three years ago, he found a Winchester rifle for me, a real antique, and a German Luger the year before. Last fall I bought a handgun, a .22 with a pearl-handled grip.”

“Are they registered?”

“I have a collector’s permit in Oregon.”

“Do you own a .357 magnum revolver, double action?” Brandstetter had been shot by a weapon of that caliber.

“What…no.” He bit off the negative, bristling.

“Would you object to taking a Gunpowder Residue Test?”

“Yes, by God, I would object. I didn’t kill Hal.”

“So you said.” It was interesting that Vance assumed the GRT was for the Brandstetter shooting, not the drive-by.

“Why don’t you take a look at the wife?” he went on, heated. “I understand they had marital difficulties. She’s unstable.”

Rob didn’t comment. “Do you know Dennis Wheeler?”

“Who?”

“Neighbor of Hal’s, young guy.”

“Oh, yeah. He has a set of keys for the house. I told you that.”

“Edward Redfern?”

“No.” No visible reaction.

“How about William Meek?”

“No, and there are ten thousand other county residents I don’t know either, so don’t run their names by me.” He was turning purple again.

“Where are your keys to your grandfather’s garage?”

“Shit, Neill. You asked me that last night. I don’t have keys to the garage. I never had keys to the garage.”

“Just thought I’d ask,” Rob said soothingly. “Linda, do you have questions for Mr. Tichnor?”

“Yes, sir. About county land-use regulations. How many bathrooms are there in that lodge you’re building up on Tyee Lake?”

“Six,” Tichnor snapped.

“Septic tank or sewer?”

“Septic. There’s no sewer line in that area.”

“What about access roads?”

“What about them?” He was almost shouting again. “I told you I talked with Brandstetter. That doesn’t mean there was anything off-color about my plans. They meet the county’s criteria a hundred percent. Hal just sped things up for me.”

“Will you reconsider the GRT, sir?”

Silence. Tichnor gave a reluctant nod. “Okay.”

“Thank you, sir,” Linda said. “The technician will administer the test as you leave. Do you drive a pickup?”

“No. Yes, sometimes. Dodge Ram.”

“What color?”

“Red.”

She took him through everything again. By the time she finished he was speaking through clenched teeth, but she didn’t trip him up. He was a nasty customer, but sharp.

At five Rob decided to let Vance Tichnor go. Linda ducked out to see to the Gunpowder Residue Test.

It was almost time for the departmental meeting Rob had scheduled and he wanted to take a painkiller before it started. He wondered whether he ought to assign Earl Minetti to sit through the press conference in case the sheriff needed help with facts. Not a bad idea. Earl would like a chance to shine on television.

O
H, it’s you.” Darcy smoothed her hair and glanced up and down the street. She was standing in her front doorway in answer to Meg’s knock. “I thought it was that reporter.” She wore fresh lipstick.

“Reporter?” Meg echoed.

“The guy from
The Oregonian.
He wants to interview us.” Darcy stepped back. “Come in out of the wind.”

Meg entered directly into a room that stretched the width of the Craftsman house with a lounge on the right and a dining area on the left. A pass-through with a handsome plaster arch led from the dining room into a bright kitchen. A narrower arch led back toward the bedrooms.

There was lots of dark wood in the main room, the floor was polished oak with braided rugs, and everything had been done up in decorator-magazine country, wrong for the architectural style. The house smelled as if the Sunday roast was well under way. A computer game with lots of zapping and clanging was just audible from a back room.

“I won’t stay,” Meg said. “I dropped by to ask for the keys to my house and garage. I believe Dennis has a set.”

Darcy looked relieved that Meg wasn’t expecting to be regaled with coffee. “Keys. I’ll ask him for them. Have a seat.” She disappeared through the hall arch.