I shook my head and reached up to scratch my eye; he slapped my hand again. “I wasn’t going to touch my ear, damn it.” I rested my head against the pinched fingers that now held the bridge of my nose in an attempt to snatch the pain from my head. I bumped my eye patch and immediately regretted it. “Have we got an APB out on Lesky’s car?”
“Yes.”
“No signs of a Mack truck with a house trailer connected to it, I suppose?”
“No.”
I released my nose. “Where’s the staff?”
“All back at the office; we did not think there was any reason to continue the stakeout.”
I thought about Leo. I sat there like a typewriter with the carriage jammed. “Something’s not adding up.” I waited a while longer but, predictably, it was hovering, my usual itch just out of reach. “If you were going to kill somebody, would you walk there?” I looked down at my clean clothes, a gift from the hospital laundry, and turned my head so that my good eye was toward him. “Something else that’s been bothering me…” I scratched that little itch in the back of my mind and started making connections. “Why didn’t Leo kill Lana at the bakery?”
He took a deep breath of his own, and I marveled at how easily it went in and came out. “Any chance you might have chased him off?”
I summoned up the images from that morning. “There were tracks but no vehicle.”
“Taking into consideration Leo’s laissez-faire attitude toward transport, do you think it possible that he was still there?”
I thought about the one set of Lana’s prints going into the bakery and none coming out. “He must have been.”
The door opened, and Andy Hall was the first through it, just the man I wanted to see, even if it was only with one eye. Behind Dr. Hall were Isaac and Bill McDermott, who had decided to stick around in case we turned up some more bodies. It was three against two, but I had the Indian and that always evened things out.
Dr. Andy was the opthamologist from Sheridan and was a kind-hearted soul with an intelligent and quiet demeanor. He reached out with long-fingered hands, raising the eye patch and tilting my head back. It was funny how doctors handled people like luggage. “How do you feel?”
“Great.”
He looked at me doubtfully. “Nonpenetrating fracture of the left orbital with lacerations to the retina.” He half turned to the attending gaggle, and they all nodded in agreement. “I sutured the damage to the epicanthic fold; any cosmetic alterations can be done after the eye has stabilized.” He released my head and looked at me. “How’s your vision?”
“Before or after the eye patch?”
He looked back to Isaac for some assistance. The old doctor stepped forward with his hands clasped together. “The cold water was enough to slow your metabolic rate, but just so you do not underestimate the seriousness of the situation, you drowned last night.”
I glanced over at the coroner. “If it was all that serious, I’d be talking to him.”
McDermott was quick. “You wouldn’t be talking at all.”
Isaac started in again. “Pulmonary edema carries a progressive bacterial infection which we are preventively treating with antibiotics, but your shortness of breath, poor color, and general weakness…”
“Walking pneumonia.” I smiled at them, and it hurt. He hadn’t stayed in his hospital, so why should I? I snapped the little plastic wristband off and handed it to Isaac, who already had his hand out. I stood and picked up my hat. “All right, we’ve discussed the pneumonia; let’s do some walking.” I put my hat on; it felt funny, and I’m sure it looked worse. “I’ll take the drugs if you want me to.” He handed me a small plastic bottle. I steered Isaac out of the room and moved down the hall a little ways. “Is there a ring of master keys to the hospital that is kept in the basement?”
He thought. “A custodian might have left a set there, because it is easier for him to get to them, but he shouldn’t have. It is a breach of security.”
“Could you check that for me?”
“Yes, I believe I can do that.”
I put my hand on his shoulder and looked back to the Bear. “Are those keys still on the floor beside that desk?”
“Vic took them for fingerprinting.”
I looked back to Isaac. “I’ll return those to you when we’re through.”
Bill McDermott stopped us as we passed him. “I’ll need written permission to release the body of Mrs. Baroja to the next of kin. They’ve requested her about four times now.”
“I don’t suppose anybody’s asked about Anna Walks Over Ice?”
He glanced at Henry. “Actually, somebody has.”
I looked back to the Cheyenne Nation with my good eye and tried my half smile. “Of course they have.”
It was a short drive over to the bakery from the hospital; I almost hit three other cars on the way. “Maybe I should drive?”
“This eye patch thing takes a little getting used to.” It had warmed up, but there were still extended icebergs lining the roadsides and median. It had been a humid snow, and the coated trees looked as if they had been vacuum sealed for next year’s use. I looked out at Main Street, at the three-quarter inch, exterior plywood cutouts of bells, wreaths, reindeer, and the like. Twelve years running, and I was sure they were the most unattractive decorations in Wyoming; exterior ply holds ugly a long time. I remembered Ruby’s promise to take care of my Christmas shopping. I would have to check.
I parked in front, cut the motor, and unlocked my Remington long-barreled 870 from the dash. “I wonder if she has a hide-a-key.”
“What’s the fun of that?” We crossed the sidewalk, stepped in front of the door, and looked at the jamb surrounding the entrance to Baroja’s Baked Goods. Henry pressed himself against the facing and placed both hands around the knob, carefully but forcefully shifting the lock mechanism to the right and away from the catch. The door kicked forward as the bolt slid past the jamb with a mechanical clunk.
The shop smelled just as good as it had earlier in the week. “I assume you’ve already been here, as a customer, I mean.”
“Numerous times.”
“Figures.” I walked down the hardwood floor and listened to the hum of the big, white ceramic coolers. He went behind the counter and began filling the espresso machine. “What are you doing?”
“Making espresso.”
I was sure there were entire folders of contact prints, photographs, pathology reports, DNA procedures, serology, and trace evidence on my desk about Lana’s supposed attempted murder, but sometimes it’s important to see the scene, to see the blood. I crouched down. There was the origin target on the floor, but the wave castoff and cast-off bloodstains were what I was looking for, the follow-through and the drawback of the weapon that had struck Lana Baroja. They were there, along the nearest table, on the floor and the baseboard of the back wall. He had stood beside the doorway and hit her as she came up from the basement.
“Walt?” I turned back because his voice had changed. “Someone has cut a loaf of bread on the butcher block, has taken some provolone and buffalo mozzarella from one of the coolers, and has chased the meal with a couple of jugs of Wheatland microbrew.” He looked up. “Lately.”
I was glad I had taken the 12-gauge from my truck.
There were three doors on the landing: one to the bathroom, one that went to the basement, and one that continued upstairs. The steps to the second floor were warped and swayed in the middle. Tongue-and-groove boards paneled the stairwell, and a tiny grime-covered window provided the only illumination on the second landing where the stairs turned and went the other way.
I jacked a shell into the shotgun, flipped off the safety, and started the second flight. I didn’t figure I was going to surprise anybody, so I decided to introduce myself. Henry called from the front, “Ha-ho?”
“Broadcasting.”
It was quiet for a moment. “Careful, I do not want to have to drink two espressos.”