Quietly, we made our way up the stairwell again and paused at the door, where Vic pulled her Glock.
She ignored the look I gave her. “Fuck you, I’m not getting bit by Michael Vick in there.”
Henry looked back at the two of us and then turned the knob, pushing the door open about four inches.
We listened, but there was no sound.
Carefully, he pushed it open a little farther and then stuck his head in, an act of bravery of which I was not so sure I was capable. He continued inside, and we followed.
The kitchen was as we’d left it, but the meatball was gone. “He ate it.”
We all entered, and I shut the door behind us.
“C’mon.” I could see a room in the front where an old table lamp without a shade, sitting on a cardboard box, had been left on. There was a plastic chair—one of those mass-produced ones that everyone bought from Kmart—beside the box, and a small flat-screen TV and DVD player, which were on the floor, along with a stack of homemade discs with dates written on them. Nothing else.
Vic opened a door to our right, Glock first, and closed it behind her. Henry and I looked at each other, but after a moment, there was a flush. Seconds later the door opened, and she shrugged. “Bathroom. Sorry, had to go.”
Henry peeled off to the only other room in the place—what I assumed was the bedroom—as Vic kneeled, picked up one of the discs, and inserted it into the player. “Let’s see what’s on . . .”
“Walter?”
I turned and walked over to the doorway where the Bear lingered.
The pit bull, thankfully still breathing, was lying next to the bed. I stooped beside what was a she and ran my hand over her side and her eyes flickered, but nothing more. Other than the dog, there was a broken-down mattress and bedspring, yellowed sheets, a thin blanket, and lumpy pillows.
I straightened up and noticed that there were ankle manacles lying with their ends open, secured to eyelet bolts in the floor at all four corners of the bed, along with another plastic chair pulled up to a card table with a Canon video camera sitting on a short tripod. “Oh, boy.”
The Bear took a few more steps in and kicked at a box on the floor.
“What’s that?”
He pulled back a flap and peered in. “You do not want to know.”
Vic appeared in the doorway with all of the DVDs in her hand, a strange cell phone, and a disgusted look on her face.
“Bad?”
“Worse than bad.” She shuffled through them. “The ones dated within the last week especially—they are all Roberta Payne. Willie was an amateur in comparison to Delgatos.” Her face came up. “Can we go kill them again, please?”
“We can petition Emil—I’m betting he’d be up for that. At the moment, however, they stay in the morgue.”
“Maybe so, but Delgatos is still getting texts.” The Bear and I joined her at the door. “Five minutes ago, somebody asked him if the job was done.”
“Text them back.” I watched as she pushed a button and waited. “‘Need to meet.’”
She typed in the message with her thumbs, and it buzzed in her hands immediately. She looked at it. “It’s mystery guest number one and he’s asking if she’s dead.”
“Tell him yes, need to talk.”
She typed it in. “Looks like the area code is 702.”
The Cheyenne Nation was the first to come up with it. “Las Vegas. Of course, that does not mean he is physically in Las Vegas.”
The phone buzzed again, and Vic read the message. “‘Is the sheriff dead?’” She looked at me. “Who the fuck in Las Vegas wants you dead besides the dead guy?”
“I don’t know.” I felt the stubble on my face. “Tell him yes.”
She typed it, we waited, and after a few seconds it buzzed. “‘You’re sure?’”
“I’m sure.”
She typed, and we waited. “He says you’re lying.” Almost immediately, it buzzed again, and Vic read, “‘Like your Indian friend, Deke never used contractions when messaging.’”
“Well, hell.”
The phone buzzed, and she read, “‘Sheriff?’” The phone buzzed again. “‘You are a very durable individual.’”
“We need to meet.”
Vic typed, and the response came back. “‘That would not be to my advantage.’”
“Are the other women safe?”
Vic read the response. “‘I’m not concerned with the women.’”
“This has to stop.”
Vic typed and then read. “‘Not necessarily. Ever heard of Asociación Punto Muerto?’”
We all looked at each other. “Nope.”
Vic looked up from the phone, a sickly smile on her face, and read the final text. “He says, ‘You will.’”
12
“We got you a computer and a girlfriend.”
Henry laid the pit bull next to Dougherty’s desk on the dog bed we had purchased. “What’s wrong with her?”
Vic put the computer, the cell phone, and the collection of discs on a stack of cardboard boxes. “She’s got a substance abuse problem.” She glanced around at the subterranean confines of the Campbell County Sheriff’s Department. “Where’s the Dick?”
Dougherty was still looking at the dog as he spoke. “He hasn’t gotten back from Evanston yet. The sheriff came down and told me that he expected him around noon.”
I nodded. “Good to know.”
He studied the bandage on my neck. “What happened to you?”
“Got too close to a buffalo.” I gestured toward Henry. “Him, too.”
“Remind me to never go to South Dakota with you guys.”
I moved a Gagliano’s pizza box and put it with about twenty others on top of a nearby shelf and sat in the chair opposite him. “You guys must be single-handedly keeping the pizza joints in Gillette in business.” I pointed at the computer and discs. “That stuff is from the dead guy . . .”
He adjusted a folder under his arm. “What dead guy?”
“The one who had Roberta Payne.”
“The woman from the Flying J? You found her?”
“We did.” I glanced at Henry and Vic, finally dropping my eyes to my lap. “She’s dead.”
His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to fall back into the chair even though he didn’t physically move. “My God.”
“I’m afraid so. Deke ‘Big Daddy’ Delgatos killed her.”
“Who is Deke ‘Big Daddy’ Delgatos?”
Henry grunted. “One of the dead guys. It is complicated.”
“Nothing on Linda Schaffer?”
“Not yet.” I took a deep breath and explained, telling him about Deadwood, Custer State Park, and most of what had taken place at the State Game Lodge. “Evidently he was a hired killer, among other things.” I leaned forward. “First, I need you to find out who with the Las Vegas number the last text on that cell phone came from, then crack the computer open and get as much information out of it as you can.”
Dougherty nodded. “Will do.”
I gestured toward the file under his arm. “Got anything for us, troop?”
He sat forward and petted the dog, even going so far as to put his face down near to hers. He straightened her ear, and she sighed—match made in heaven. “Almost nothing.”
Vic leaned against the chain-link divider that kept the Campbell County files from making a break for it. “Almost?”
He sat back and handed the file to her. “I found the last reports that Gerald Holman didn’t file.”
I interrupted. “Where did you find those?”
He tapped a handle on one of the drawers in the desk. “Locked up in here.”
My undersheriff opened the folder. “Holman did another series of interviews in Arrosa; so what’s the big deal?”
The patrolman returned to petting the dog. “Look at the date.”
She glanced at the report. “Yeah, so?”
“It’s the day he killed himself.”
Her eyes returned to the file. “Oh . . .”