“So,” Portenson said as they all sat back down. “What is the fastest mammal?”
“The cheetah,” Joe said.
“Does that mean a cheetah can chase down a pronghorn antelope?”
“Conceivably,” Joe said, “if they lived on the same continent. But they don’t.”
“Hmmpf.”
“What brings you up here, Tony?” Joe asked, assuming it would be either about the Scarletts or . . .
“Have you seen your buddy Nate Romanowski lately?” Portenson asked, getting right to it.
Joe felt a tingle on the back of his neck. “No.”
“You’re telling me he just vanished from the face of the earth?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I hadn’t seen him. And before you ask, no, I also haven’t heard from him.”
Portenson exchanged glances with Child.
Child said, “Let me set the scene. Two men are murdered. Although the condition of their bodies is deteriorated almost beyond recognition, the theory of our medical examiner is that they were each killed by a single gunshot wound to the head from an extremely large-caliber handgun. The bodies were obviously moved from where they were killed. Meanwhile, your friend Nate Romanowski was known to pack a .454 Casull revolver and was at odds with at least one of the murdered men. And according to you, he just vanished?”
Joe stifled a smile. “I have a tough time envisioning Tony here as the good cop in the good cop/bad cop scenario,” he said. “This is more like bad cop/worse cop. Is this a new FBI strategy, or what?”
Child didn’t waver. “We could bring you back for questioning.”
“Go ahead,” Joe said. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where Nate is, and I haven’t been in contact with him.”
Portenson wiped gravy from his lips with a paper napkin and studied Joe closely.
“What?” Portenson said.
“I can’t believe you came all the way here to ask me about Nate,” Joe said. “It seems like a waste of your time.”
“Look,” Child said, leaning toward Joe, his eyes sharp, “we don’t need to explain to you why we do anything. We’re asking the questions here, not you.”
“Then I’ve got deer to count,” Joe said, and started to push his chair back.
“Okay, okay,” Portenson said, holding his hand out palm-up to Child. “Sit back down, Joe. That’s not why we’re here.”
Joe sat.
“Actually, I just figured since we were up here I’d yank your chain a little. See if you had any new information on Mr. Romanowski.”
“I told you I don’t.”
“I believe you,” Portenson said, sighing. “Although I am going to get that guy.”
Joe nodded that he understood, although he didn’t think Portenson would succeed.
Child sat back in the booth. By the look he gave Portenson, it was clear he didn’t like the way his boss had changed tracks.
“Are you up here on the Scarlett case?” Joe asked.
Portenson looked back blankly. Joe outlined Opal’s disappearance, and the battle between the brothers.
“That’s sick,” Portenson said, “but that’s not why we’re here.”
“We’re here on a fucking wild-goose chase,” Child said sullenly.
“Get used to it,” Portenson said to him like a weary father. Then he signaled the waitress for his check.
“Double murder down in Mississippi,” Portenson said. “Some hunting guide killed his clients, stole the couple’s car, and took off. The car was found in Rawlins last month in the parking lot of the state pen, meaning it crossed state lines, which is where we come in. A couple of days later we got a report that an old truck was stolen from the same place.”
The waitress brought the check and Portenson gave her a U.S. government credit card and asked her to charge three packs of Marlboros to it as well.
“My tax dollars at work,” Joe said.
Portenson ignored him and continued. “After the old truck was stolen, it was seen south of Casper in the middle of fucking nowhere. Same day, somebody shot a cowboy off his horse in the vicinity. Left a wife and two kids. We don’t know whether there’s a connection or not. But since the guy was headed north, we thought we’d ask around. Does any of this ring any bells? The stolen truck is a light yellow ’ninety-four Ford with rust spots on the doors. Wyoming plates.”
Joe shook his head. There was something familiar about the description but he couldn’t place it. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Ex-con named John Kelly,” Child said from memory. “John Wayne Kelly.”
“I’ve not heard of him,” Joe said.
Portenson leveled his gaze at Joe. “My brethren are breaking up al-Qaeda cells and saving humanity. Me? I’m trying to figure out who shot a lonely cowpoke off his horsey. Does anyone but me see the disparity in that?”
Child snorted a laugh.
Joe shook his head at Portenson’s attitude. “I bet that cowboy’s widow and kids would like you to find out who did it.”
“Aw fuck, Joe,” Portenson said. “You’re ruining the mood.”
“Have you talked to the sheriff?”
Portenson snorted while he signed the charge slip. “We sent him the file but I’m delaying actually talking to him as long as I can.”
“He’s changed yet again,” Joe said.
“I heard he’s a cowpoke now,” Portenson said, curling his lip in disdain.
“Something like that,” Joe said.
“How could he get worse?”
“I can’t explain it,” Joe said, pushing back. “Good to see you, Tony.”
“Good to see you, Joe. And don’t forget to give me a shout if Mr. Romanowski shows up.”
Joe nodded again, shook Child’s hand, and got a cup of coffee to go on the way out.
10
JOE AND MARYBETH DID THE DISHES AFTER DINNER while Sheridan and Lucy watched television in the family room. Joe had made chili and the kitchen smelled of tomato sauce, garlic, spices, and ground beef.
“It was too salty, wasn’t it?” he asked, scrubbing the cast-iron pot he liked to use for chili, since it was huge.
“A little,” she said. “Did you rinse the beans? Sometimes they pack them in so much salt that if you don’t wash them thoroughly . . .”
“Ah,” he said, “that was the problem.”
“It was good, though,” she said. “I do wish you could learn to make a smaller pot, maybe.”
Since he didn’t know how to make a pot of chili for less than a dozen people, and every time he tried to make less it was a disaster, Marybeth had filled two Tupperware containers of it for the freezer. Actually, Joe didn’t really want to learn how to make less chili at a time, since he liked having leftovers available, especially these days, when he was never sure when Marybeth would be home from her office or if dinner would be planned. But he didn’t want to tell her that. And, like most men, he wanted her to think he was largely incompetent in the kitchen.
“What do you think of Sheridan going to the Scarlett’s for a sleepover?” Marybeth asked. Sheridan had brought it up during dinner.
Joe scrubbed harder. “Julie seems like a nice girl,” he said. “It’s the rest of her family who’re nuts.”
“I know what you mean. I got calls today from both Arlen and Hank. Each wants me to meet with him and see what I can do to streamline their business operations.”
“Both of them, eh?”
“Both of them.”
“Uh-oh.”
Since Opal’s disappearance, sides had been forming in Saddlestring and the county. People were either pro-Arlen and anti-Hank, or vice versa. Both brothers kept close track of who was with them, and who was against them. Arlen preferred the Saddlestring Burg-O-Pardner for his mid-morning coffee, where he could chat with the town fathers. Hank never set foot in the place. Likewise, Hank liked his shot and a beer at the Stockman, often accompanied by several of his ranch hands. Arlen never darkened the door of that bar.