“Men don’t talk. They grunt at each other or they grunt at me. But they don’t talk. I spend all my time out here on this place surrounded by men. I keep them in line, but they don’t talk.”
So that’s why she stayed, Liv concluded. Maybe she could keep Brenda talking. Maybe she could convince her to come down into the cellar. Maybe she could get Brenda to lower the ladder . . .
“What about Cora Lee?” Liv asked.
“She talks, but she’s dumber than a box of hair.”
Liv faked a mild laugh.
“Did I tell you she walked away again? I know she did it just waiting for Bull to come get her. But this time I told him to let her go. She isn’t worth the trouble. Not two times in one day. She’ll probably end up with her ex-husband down in Oklahoma, and he’ll probably put a bullet in her head. At least then there’ll be something in there.
“I keep hopin’ one of these boys brings a girl home I can talk to,” Brenda continued. “You know, someone who can talk about something other than the Kardashians. Instead, I got Cora Lee.”
Liv said, “I’m sorry I caused you trouble,” even though she wasn’t.
“You’re trouble with a capital T. Bull never has had any sense, but luckily he lets me steer him around, just like his dad. But did you notice how Dallas took one look at you and sized up the situation and moved on? That’s because he’s the only one who can think ahead more than one step at a time.”
Liv ignored the insult. The insult gave her strength. If she could get Brenda to come down into the cellar, she thought she might have enough incentive to pull that stone out of the wall.
Liv asked, “What are you going to do with me? You can’t keep me down here forever.”
“No, I guess we both know that.”
“So why are you doing this to me?”
“I don’t look at it that way,” Brenda said. “It isn’t aimed at you. I always cover my bases. Somebody around here has to. I figured if things really went screwy, we might need something to negotiate with, you know?”
The realization hit Liv hard. “You mean you’re keeping me alive in case you need a hostage?”
“Yep. Although that doesn’t look like it’ll be necessary.”
Which could mean only one thing.
Brenda didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally: “I came up with a solution. I told Eldon, and he can get it done tomorrow or the next day.”
“Get what done?”
“Hey, it was nice talking with you,” Brenda said before she closed the doors. “It’s kind of nice talking with somebody who has a brain in her head.”
Then: “Honey, don’t cry. Don’t take none of this personal.”
22
Kelsea, this gentleman has been waiting for you since we opened up the doors at nine,” the receptionist said the next morning.
Joe stood up, removed his hat, and thrust his hand out toward Kelsea Raymer, the chief forensics analyst of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Forensics Center, which was located in the National Wildlife Property Repository on the grounds of the old Rocky Mountain Arsenal facility near Denver. Raymer was a tall, trim, and comely brunette in her mid-thirties, with a wide, open face and curious blue eyes. She shook Joe’s hand and looked to the receptionist for an explanation.
“He says he’s a game warden from Wyoming,” the receptionist said with a shrug.
“We don’t get many actual visitors here,” Raymer said as she looked him over. “I’m surprised you found it.”
“Me too,” Joe said. It had taken him nearly thirty minutes of driving around to find Building Six within a compound of similar nondescript three-story brick structures that housed federal agencies and outposts.
She sized him up: studying his red uniform shirt, pronghorn sleeve patch, the badge that read GAME WARDEN 21, and the brass rectangular J. PICKETT nameplate over his breast pocket.
“What brings you to Denver?” she asked.
“I’m working on a case. I was hoping I could take a few minutes of your time.”
“Put your hat back on and follow me,” she said with a sly grin.
He followed.
When he looked over his shoulder at the receptionist, he could tell that she was puzzled by the warm reception as well.
—
“MY FATHER was a game warden in Montana,” Raymer said as she gestured toward an empty visitor’s chair in her office. There was no window, and the fluorescent lighting was harsh. The walls on each side of the room were lined with books and manuals. He noted a credenza filled with framed photos of her husband, her four towheaded children—two boys and two girls—and the entire family on a white-water rafting trip.
“I grew up moving around the state,” she said. “I was born in Choteau, went to grade school in Hamilton, middle school in Ekalaka, and high school in Missoula and Great Falls. We followed my dad from place to place. I don’t think he ever made more than twenty-four thousand dollars in a year, but I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. Have you moved your kids around like that—provided you have some?”
“I do,” Joe said. “Three girls. My wife and I bounced around Wyoming until I got the Saddlestring District up in the Bighorns. I was stationed in Jackson and Baggs for a short time, but that’s a long story.”
“The Bighorns are nice country,” Raymer said. “They remind me of Montana. And what Colorado used to be,” she added with a gentle smile. He liked her.
“I’m surprised you just showed up,” she said.
He nodded.
“And what can I do for you?”
Joe explained finding the dead sage grouse—she cringed—and the gathering of the evidence. He left out the name Revis Wentworth but told her he had a suspicion the evidence had been tampered with or not sent at all.
She shook her head, puzzled.
“I know,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to believe. But I was hoping I could take a look at the package, provided it was received at all. I didn’t call ahead and make an appointment because I didn’t want to tip anyone off.”
“You want to take it out of our chain of custody?” she asked.
“That’s not necessary. I just want to see if it’s here and what’s inside. I don’t want to take it back.”
She closed one eye and said, “This is an odd request. No one has ever asked me to do this sort of thing before. We can’t just open up sealed evidence to the general public, even if you are law enforcement. I’m sure there are rules about this.”
“There probably are,” Joe said. “But I was kind of hoping we could stay out of the rule book on this. I know if you ask somebody in Washington, their first response will be ‘Don’t do anything until we get a ruling on it.’ That could take months. I don’t have months.”
She laughed. “You have some experience dealing with government agencies.”
“I’m in one myself,” he said.
She drummed her fingers on her desk for a minute and looked toward her bookcase, as if seeking an answer.
“I’m surprised you’ve gone to all this trouble,” she said.
He sighed. “It’s a high priority for my director and the governor. We’re talking sage grouse, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. Then: “I don’t get involved with the politics of all this. But I do know there is some concern if this bird gets listed as an endangered species.”
“I try not to get involved, either, but I can’t help it. And when it comes to sage grouse, there’s a lot of concern,” Joe said.
Finally, she said, “I guess it won’t hurt anything to see if we even received it.”
“How could it?” Joe said eagerly.
She booted up her computer. While they waited for the ancient desktop PC to become functional, she said, “I used to ride around with my dad sometimes. It was interesting to see him interact with all kinds of people.”