“Never mind,” Joe said. “Marybeth got it all. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’ve got maybe a minute,” Coon said, lowering his voice. Joe imagined the agent-in-charge excusing himself from a room full of men in suits and stepping out into the hallway.
“That’s enough time,” Joe said. “I’m going to call you back on your office landline number in twenty minutes.”
“But I won’t be at my desk.”
“Just as well,” Joe said. “I don’t need you to be there. I assume the incoming call will be recorded on your server, right?”
Coon hesitated, then: “Yes. But that’s not supposed to be public knowledge.”
“Come on,” Joe said. “Everybody knows you Feds record everything. Anyway, just make sure you get a copy of the call and get it transcribed in case you need to send it over to the governor’s office. You might need to refer to it later when you need to build a case.”
“Joe, what have you learned? It sounds explosive.”
Joe smiled to himself at that. He said, “Nothing has exploded yet, but I might be lighting the match.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s time to jump-start things.”
“Uh-oh . . .” Coon cautioned.
“You’ve got to get back to your meeting,” Joe said. “I’ll explain later. I’ll give you a call on your cell.”
“Remember our deal—”
“Thanks again for the timely intel. You guys have been really helpful so far,” Joe said, and terminated the call.
• • •
HE LET DAISY OUT to allow her to blow off some steam and relieve herself in the copse of trees behind the unit. While she loped around and through the tree trunks, he inspected the back of cabin number eight where the power and phone lines entered the exterior walls and compared the wiring with other cabins in the row. He tried to do it without looking obvious, in case Anna had found another place in her office to spy on him.
While he ran his dog he heard the sound of a vehicle enter the parking lot. He stayed back in the trees but peered around cabin number eight to see a Chevy Silverado with Michigan plates pulling a trailer with two ATVs strapped on behind it. The bed of the pickup was filled with hunting and camping gear, and two large bearded men in camo climbed out, stretched, and went inside the office. Obviously hunters checking in, Joe thought. So there would be some company besides Anna at the motel after all.
After a few more minutes of tossing a plastic dummy for Daisy to retrieve, he thought it was time to go in. He was surprised to see the Michigan truck swinging around in the lot and heading back out. He wondered if the hunters didn’t like the motel or the rate—or if they’d been turned away—and why.
• • •
INSIDE, he again sat at the makeshift desk and scribbled notes to himself in his spiral. After he’d gone over his script a third time, he punched Coon’s office phone number into his cell.
As Coon had warned, it went straight to voicemail.
Joe said, “Is this the Division of Criminal Investigation? Yes, well this is Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. I need to talk to Director Don White. Sure, I’ll wait.”
Joe sat up straight in the hard-backed chair and counted to ten, then: “Don? This is Joe Pickett. As you know, I’m up in Medicine Wheel County, and I’ve spent a couple of days poking around like you asked.”
He paused as if being asked a question, and said, “Yeah. I wanted to alert you that I’ll be sending along a report soon that you’ll probably want to hand-walk over to the attorney general’s office. It’s as dirty up here as you said it might be and maybe even worse. That grand jury idea you had might be the ticket for something this big and this wide-ranging. The whole county seems to be rotten to the core.”
He checked his notes and did another count before proceeding.
“Right,” he said. “Anyway, I’m no lawyer or prosecutor, but by tomorrow afternoon I think I’ll have enough hard evidence of a criminal conspiracy for you to get some subpoenas and indictments going. I’m meeting with a confidential informant later this afternoon, so I can get the statement on tape, and another CI tomorrow morning who is on the inside. Both have given me enough to go on, but I need to do this formally for the report. Are we okay proceeding without me putting their actual names into the document?”
Joe looked over at Daisy, who was sitting on her haunches, watching the phantom conversation take place with great interest. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and in response her tail swept back and forth across the floor.
“Okay, good,” he said, turning back to his notebook. “They don’t want their names out there for fear of reprisals. And up here, that’s something that I wouldn’t put past them. Everybody up here seems to be in communication.
“So as long as I have your word the CIs will be protected for now, I can assure them they can talk. But from what I’m getting so far, at the very least you’ll have a RICO case to start that will probably include a bunch of other charges once you force them to testify in front of the grand jury.
“Okay, you said you wanted some names so you could get the paperwork started. I’ll spell them when we’re done. Ready?”
Joe gave it half a minute. “The first is William ‘Bill’ Critchfield. He’s a local thug with a long rap sheet that ended five years ago.
“Eugene ‘Gene’ Smith is an associate of Critchfield’s. Same deal with him. Both of them, I believe, are employed by Sand Creek Ranch to keep the locals quiet and pacified. They do it through intimidation. In addition to my two CIs, I think we’ll find plenty of people around here who will testify to what Critchfield and Smith have been up to the last five years. Once you’ve got them in custody where they can’t hurt or threaten anyone, I’m guessing we’ll have some more folks come forward.
“Okay, next there’s County Sheriff R. C. Mead. He seems to know everything that’s going on around here, except he shows a blind eye when it comes to Critchfield and Smith. I’d suggest getting a subpoena going so you can look at his bank records. I wouldn’t be surprised to find some payments coming in other than his salary. He’s a slick old coot and he knows how the game is played, so he’ll be slippery. But I think he’ll wise up if he’s actually facing jail time. No former sheriff wants to wind up in Rawlins with inmates they may have put there.
“Judge Ethan Bartholomew is next. Oh, you already know how to spell his name? Good. The judge is in cahoots with Mead. They work together to make sure connected guys like Critchfield and Smith are allowed to operate without any interference from other law enforcement who might not be in on the take. Yes, a judge. That’s how deep it goes. Check his bank records also, as well as his court docket. It will be interesting to find out what cases weren’t brought before him, or were brought and dismissed outright.
“Sheriff Mead may turn on Bartholomew, or the other way around, in exchange for some kind of deal. But that’s up to you.”
Joe took a sip of water—too much talking—before continuing.
“Two more,” he said, rolling his eyes to himself but cognizant of the importance to continue to play it straight. He only had one take, and it had to be credible. “James ‘Jim’ Latta. He’s the local game warden, it pains me to say. I don’t know about payments, but there is definitely some quid pro quo going on that may raise to the level of bribery.
“There’s another guy,” Joe said, letting his voice rise with speculation, “a guest of the Sand Creek Ranch. He’s a southern gentleman who comes across as snooty and out of place. I don’t know what his role is, but he’s obviously close to the big guy. He fishes with a cane rod, and you know how expensive those things are. He goes by the name Whip, which might be short for something. I don’t have his full name yet, but I’ll have it by tonight or tomorrow. It’s just my gut saying this, but I think once we look into him we might find some surprising things. Yo
u should run that aka through your databases and see if he turns up. Can’t be that many guys named Whip.
“Yeah, that’s a lot,” Joe said. “And it’s possible I might add to that list or need to revise it. I think we both know how high it might go.
“In fact,” Joe said, “I met the man himself today. You couldn’t meet a nicer guy. But I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that when the indictments start coming down on their heads, one or more of these guys will crack when you start squeezing them individually. They’ll deal and point the finger higher up.
“So that’s it for now,” Joe said.
Then, after a beat: “Thank you, Don. I appreciate that. Just keep an eye on your email inbox, and happy reading.”
Joe discontinued the call. He realized he was covered with a thin film of sweat, even though the room was cool. He closed his eyes and replayed his words, hoping he hadn’t tripped himself up, but realized—and feared—there wasn’t much he could do if he had.
• • •
AFTER CHANGING OUT OF his uniform into a worn snap-button cowboy shirt and black fleece vest, he threw all of his clothes and possessions into the duffel bag on the bed. He left his shaving kit in the bathroom, though, so it would look like he was staying the night. All he’d have to do was snatch it and toss it into the duffel if he had to make a quick exit. While he glanced around to make sure he’d gotten everything, he found it hard not to look up at the ceiling.
Joe called Daisy and went outside to his pickup and let her bound into the cab. As he left the Whispering Pines for the afternoon, he noted Anna watching him from the office window.
Sundance, Wyoming
An hour and a half later in Sundance, after parking his very identifiable green Ford pickup underground in an unused outdoor bay two blocks away behind a closed auto repair shop, Joe strolled through a row of used three- and four-wheel ATVs at a ranch implement store on the outskirts of town. The business seemed to sell just about anything as long as it had an engine and was used—tractors, backhoes, utility vehicles, riding lawn mowers, and haying equipment. The gravel lot was stained with oil and the air smelled of hydraulic fluid.
In a small office a woman with a bouffant watched him carefully while she talked on the telephone, her cigarette bouncing up and down while she spoke. He waved hello to her and gestured to the row of ATVs, and she responded with an I’ll-be-there-in-a-minute-so-please-don’t-leave dance of her free hand. He nodded that he understood.
A sign above her office read: NO RETURNS, NO EXCHANGES, ALL SALES FINAL.
Joe’s phone vibrated in his pocket—a text message—and he pulled it out and checked the screen. It was from Chuck Coon’s private cell phone: Heard your message. What the f*ck was that?
Joe smiled and texted back: Stand by for call.
He was pocketing the phone when the woman in the small office emerged, shaking her head.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I seen you out here, but I couldn’t get that banker off the phone. See, I’m trying to get a revolving credit line to keep this place alive, and the crap they keep asking me is ridiculous. It’s like they want my firstborn son, but I told them he was twenty-eight. They blame the Feds, but I blame them. It would just be easier to close up shop and go on welfare like the rest of ’em around here.”
She was short and solid, and the egg-shaped helmet of hair reminded Joe of something the English guards would wear outside Buckingham Palace. She wore a bright floral-pattern blouse, too-tight jeans, and scuffed red cowboy boots.
“I’m Kelli Ann Fahey,” she said, sweeping her open palm over the row of ATVs. “I own this place, and I can see you’re a hunter. I’ll bet you’re interested in something that will get you into the woods and help you drag that deer or elk out.”
“Something like that,” Joe said.
“This is a good time of year to buy one of these,” she said. “Hunters come here from all over the country and you’d be surprised how many of ’em want to dump their equipment instead of towing it back home to Ohio or wherever. So we have plenty of inventory.”
“I see that.”
“Anything you particularly have your eye on?”
Joe nodded toward a newer model green Polaris Sportsman. The body and frame were dinged, but it had four new knobby tires and was set up with saddlebags on the rear rack and a heavy-duty rifle scabbard across the front deck.
“Wow,” she said, stepping back as if to steady herself. “You just walked right up and picked out the best deal on the entire lot.
“No kidding,” she said. “This was just turned in by a local rancher. Hardly any miles, and enough horsepower to get you where you want to go and drag anything out. The rancher used that saddle thing for his irrigation shovel, but I bet it would be perfect for your hunting rifle.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Joe said.
She reeled off the fuel capacity, wheel-base measurements, and four-stroke engine specifications. Then she mounted the ATV, started the engine, and cranked back on the accelerator on the handgrip. The engine whined until it was earsplitting and the air filled with acrid blue smoke. Then she shut it off.
“And,” she said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the handlebars and hushing her voice to him as if sharing a secret, “I could let it go for five grand as long as you promise not to tell anybody that you practically stole it from me. If you tell the locals, they’ll bum-rush this place and want deals of their own.”
Joe liked Kelli Ann Fahey. She was a good saleswoman.
“I need to check first,” he said, raising his phone.
She smiled knowingly. “Tell your wife she can ride it to go to the store, or to the mailbox, or whatever. Tell her she’ll feel twenty years younger when she’s zooming this baby around the block.”
“I’ll be right back,” Joe said, walking to the edge of the lot.
“I’ll be in my office,” she said with a wink, and climbed off. “Let’s hope some other hunter doesn’t walk up and steal this out from under you while you’re negotiating with the home front.”
• • •
CHUCK COON was incredulous when Joe reached him. He said, “I listened to your message three times and I still can’t decide if you’re serious or delusional.”
Joe said, “I’m not sure, either.”
“Explain.”
“Okay,” Joe said, turning slightly to make sure Fahey was in her office and not two steps away, handing him a title to sign. “A couple of things. As you know, I decided to stay at the Whispering Pines because that’s where the DCI agent stayed. I am literally the only guest there. But it’s hunting season up here. As you know—or maybe you don’t—Wedell is one of those little towns that only has traffic during the fall. A lot of hunters aren’t that particular where they stay, so it seemed strange to me I was there by myself. This morning, I saw some hunters get turned away. There are a bunch of hunters at a place called the Black Forest Inn. That’s probably where the guys who got turned away ended up.
“The owner herself told me Wolfgang Templeton is her biggest referrer of business. Apparently, he likes to send people there who come here to do business with him in one form or another. She thinks he’s wonderful. Everybody does.”
“Can you trust her?” Coon asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said. Then: “I doubt it.”
“Anyway . . .”
“The motel has seven cabins left, and the owner told me that after the fire Templeton sent his maintenance crew to make sure the wiring was okay in the remaining units. That got me to thinking.”
“Always dangerous,” Coon said sarcastically.
Joe ignored him. “Last night I talked to Marybeth on my cell phone inside my cabin. I mentioned the same names to her that I sent to you: Critchfield and Smith. Then this morning, Jim Latta got spooked when he saw those two coming down the road we were on
and made me get out of his truck before they saw me.”
Coon said, “Couldn’t that have to do with the fact that you braced them last night? That you left your card on their window?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but I think there’s more to it than that,” Joe said. “I think Latta wanted to avoid a confrontation with them that would have been more than them just complaining. Chuck, I think the motel cabins are wired for sound and maybe video. I think they’re bugged. Somebody heard me talk to Marybeth and mention their names and let those two know about it.”
Coon paused. “So you think Templeton was listening? Is listening?”
“I have no idea who is on the other end,” Joe said. “But a few hours after I talked to Marybeth and went to bed, a vehicle showed up at the motel. I didn’t see it, but I heard it. I think someone was checking me out, making sure my pickup was still there and I was in my room.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Coon said sourly.
“I know that.”
“In fact, it sounds paranoid. No offense, of course.”
“All I know is what’s in my gut. Everybody I run into around this county seems to know something, and they all seem connected in unexplainable ways. I think they briefed Jim Latta bright and early this morning, which is why he was late to breakfast. I think the sheriff and the judge were at the restaurant to keep tabs on me and overhear what I said to Latta. And I think Latta took me out to the Sand Creek Ranch as much for Templeton to size me up as for me to meet Templeton.”
Coon sighed a long sigh. “So a big conspiracy is what you’re thinking. I don’t know. Nothing you told me is actionable.”
“Nope.”
“So what is it you’re up to, Joe? Remember our deal. Your job is to poke around and gather information. It sounds like you’ve let the place get to you.”