“I gave that to an agent,” Coon said impatiently. “I haven’t seen the agent yet today and I don’t know if he sent me an email on it.”
“You’ll let me know, though, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ve got to go. Keep me posted.”
Joe punched off. When he looked up he could see Latta watching him in his rearview mirror.
Anna Bartholomew met them in the courtyard of the Whispering Pines with a platter of hot cinnamon rolls. She said she’d just baked them.
“We just ate breakfast,” Latta said to her with a grin while Joe led Daisy back to cabin number eight. “But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take one or two along for later.”
“They’re best when they’re warm,” Anna said with a chirpy voice. “But I can get some paper towels and wrap them up for the two of you. You men must get hungry out there, driving around the countryside.”
Joe rejoined Latta with his coat and the leather briefcase from his truck while the game warden waited for the cinnamon rolls.
“Walk-in area guidelines and paperwork,” Joe said, lifting the briefcase.
Latta nodded and said, “She makes the best damned cinnamon rolls in the state.”
“I like cinnamon rolls,” Joe said. He sounded simple even to himself. But what he was thinking was, How did she know we were coming back here?
Latta’s agency pickup was of a newer vintage than Joe’s, but the contents of the single cab were remarkably familiar — GPS mounted on the dashboard, radios underneath, evidence kit, reams of maps held together by rubber bands on the floor console, empty shell casings and spent sunflower seeds on the floor. An M14 peep-sight carbine was secured to a mount in the center of the cab and a combat shotgun was wedged muzzle-down between the bench seats.
“Feels strange being a passenger,” Joe said, climbing in and shutting the door.
“I bet,” Latta said, taking the road out of Medicine Wheel.
Latta seemed preoccupied, Joe thought. No small talk about the weather, where they were going, anything.
Something was on his mind and he was trying to figure out how to present it.
Joe finally said, “The photos are gone from my phone.”
Latta wouldn’t meet his eyes as he drove, but he said, “What do you mean?”
“They’ve been deleted. I think you know that.”
Latta said, “I might have pushed the wrong button when I was looking at them this morning. I told you I have trouble with those damn things.” Then: “Damn, that’s too bad.”
Joe said, “We both know it doesn’t matter. We could find feathers, blood, and other evidence in Critchfield’s truck and send it to the forensics lab in Laramie. That is, if we really wanted to nail him. But it’s your district and it’s your call.”
Latta started to respond, then caught himself. After a few miles, he let out a sigh. He said, “I might have pushed something that said ‘reformat this camera’ when I was scrolling through the pictures, I guess.”
“Gee, you think?” Joe said with sarcasm.
“Okay, okay,” Latta said. “Now is not a good time to cite Critchfield and Smith. It’s complicated, but it’s something that just isn’t worth it, Joe. You’ve got to trust me on this.”
“Are you building a case against him?”
After a pause, Latta said, “Something like that.”
They took the winding state highway through timbered hills to get to the access road that would lead them to the Sand Creek Ranch headquarters. In addition to spruce and ponderosa pine, Joe noted swaths of scrub oak in the valleys. As they passed, he saw deer and wild turkeys on the floor of the forest.
The truck approached a Y junction in the road and Latta bore left. Joe saw another historical marker whiz by. On a flat below a creek, he was surprised to see a huge red structure of sorts with turrets and a gabled roof. Two dozen four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked outside the main building. The southern wing looked empty except for two aging pickup trucks parked side by side.
“What the heck is that?” Joe asked. The building looked remarkably out of place. A sign read: THE BLACK FOREST INN.
“Used to be the home of the owner of the coal mine,” Latta said. “He built it to look like some kind of European château. Up until a few years ago, it was in bad shape. Some guy tried to turn it into a hotel, but he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. The only crowd he got there were the bikers on the way to Sturgis, and they beat it up even more.”
“It looks restored,” Joe said, noting its clean lines, new asphalt parking lot, and new roof.
“Pretty much,” Latta said. “About ninety percent of the rooms are refurbished, and they’re filled with hunters this time of year. It’s pretty convenient for them because that structure on the south end is that wild game — processing facility I told you about — the only one in the county. It gets busier than hell.”
“I saw a couple of trucks.”
“Locals,” Latta said. “When they’re butchering game, they employ five or six people from around here. It’s a damn fine processing outfit — one of the best I’ve ever seen. You know how some of those places are. But down there, you could eat off the floor. All the saws and equipment are stainless steel, and the cutters wear white coats and aprons. It’s high-quality enough I take my own deer and elk there to get it packaged. We could swing by there on the way back and pick up some German sausage, if you want. They make great sausage.”
“Who owns it?” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.
“Templeton. He saved the place,” Latta said.
“I wish I’d known about it,” Joe said. “I could have stayed there instead of the Whispering Pines.”
“The bar gets pretty rowdy,” Latta said with a grin. “Especially now, during hunting season. So you’re better off where you’re at.”
Joe nodded. He said, “Since we’re going to see him, what can you tell me about Wolfgang Templeton?”
“What do you want to know?”
“You seem to like him. Everybody I’ve met seems to like him. That’s not always the case with big landowners who move in and buy everything up.”
Latta agreed and said, “If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what this county would be like.”
As they drove, Latta said Templeton had been a generous and selfless philanthropist since his arrival years before.
“You name it,” Latta said. “When our six-man high school football team needed new uniforms, Mr. Templeton paid for them. When the county museum needed a new roof, Mr. Templeton paid for the materials and sent his men to fix it. When the medical clinic was just about to close because the mines shut down and hardly anyone had medical insurance anymore, Mr. Templeton was able to recruit a doctor from Pakistan — Dr. Rahija — and made a big donation to upgrade the place. He just helps people, Joe,” Latta said, as if that explained it all.
“He’s the biggest employer in the county by far,” Latta continued. “He employs out-of-work loggers and miners as guides, outfitters, cowboys on his ranches, cooks, even those meat processors back there. Three-quarters of this county owe their walking-around money to Mr. Templeton.”
“Interesting,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I don’t know what we’d do without him. Government checks and EBT cards only go so far.”
“EBT?”
“‘Electronic Benefits Transfer.’ The Feds issue ’em now instead of food stamps. They’re kind of like debit cards. Food stamps gave the recipients a sense of shame, I guess.”
Joe looked over to see if Latta was being facetious, but he didn’t appear to be.