“This is not exactly by the book,” Coon said. “I’d never approve an agent in the field doing what you did.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“And thank God for that.” Despite Coon’s words, his voice had softened. Joe could almost visualize Coon’s mind spinning, taking in the implications of what he’d been told so far. Coon asked, “If your speculation is correct, how long do you think it will take to prove it true?”
“Fast,” Joe said. “I purposely left it hanging out there on that message to you that I should have what I need by tomorrow. So if they hear it, they’ll know they won’t have much time. They’ll either have to act or scatter.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Coon said. “What if the situation explodes?”
“Then I can get out of Dodge,” Joe said. “I don’t want to spend a single hour longer up here than I have to.”
He reminded Coon about his daughter at college, how he may have to react in an instant.
“I forgot about that,” Coon said. “Sorry. That name you asked us about. We’ve had a lot on our plate…”
“The Middle Eastern terrorists,” Joe said. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
“We can’t call them that,” Coon barked.
“Gotcha.”
Coon said, “So do you really have a couple of informants, or was that your paranoia at work along with everything else?”
“I have no CIs,” Joe said. “I wish I did. There’s got to be somebody around here who doesn’t think Wolfgang Templeton hung the moon.”
“Another question,” Coon said. “What’s this about this southern gentleman you talk about? Where does he fit in?”
“Who knows?” Joe said. “But I couldn’t leave him out. He might be a guy you’ll want to talk to. There was something about him that gave me the willies, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to run into him like that. Both Latta and Templeton seemed worried about it.”
“And what about your pal Romanowski?”
Joe shook his head. “I’ve got zero leads on him.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Good, I guess,” Coon said. “Is there anything you’re holding back?”
Joe didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I need your authorization to buy a used Polaris Sportsman. My Game and Fish budget is shot and I’m not authorized to purchase any more vehicles. I know you guys have slush funds for things like this. It’s a steal at five thousand dollars, at least according to the saleswoman. A drop in the bucket for a big-time Fed like you.”
“A what?” Coon asked.
“It’s an ATV,” Joe said. “An all-terrain vehicle.”
“Aren’t they dangerous?”
In the tiny office, Joe handed over his credit card to Fahey, who ran it through her machine. He hoped the FBI could reimburse him by the end of the month so the family finances wouldn’t go into the red, and he made a note to himself to warn Marybeth about the upcoming charge. Joe was grateful the governor had arranged for a bump in salary, but he knew the increase wouldn’t cover the cost.
“So where are you hunting around here?” she asked, although Joe got the impression she was just making conversation while she waited for the authorization.
“I have permission on the Sand Creek Ranch,” he said.
She looked up sharply. “Really?”
Joe nodded, hoping he hadn’t taken the conversation in a direction he couldn’t back out of.
She said, “It’s a huge place. The owner moved here five or six years ago and just started buying up everything. Other ranches, old buildings, you name it. Most of the people around here either work for Mr. Templeton or owe him.”
“That’s what I hear,” Joe said, hoping she would go on.
She said, “I was scared to death for a while, because there was a rumor he was going to put in a farm-and-ranch store that sold implements. Obviously, that would compete with me and drive me out of business. This isn’t exactly a booming economy around here.”
“But he hasn’t,” Joe said.
“Not yet, anyway,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t put it past him, though. He doesn’t look real kindly on independent people around here, and believe me, I’m an independent woman. I’m a single mom who raised two boys on my own and never took a dime of welfare.”
“So he doesn’t like you?” Joe asked.
She barked a laugh. “I’d guess he doesn’t even know I’m alive. But a couple of his flunkies do, and they might suggest to him that a nice new dealership would go real well in Sundance.”
Joe thought: Critchfield and Smith.
He asked, “What’s he like?”
“Mr. Templeton?”
“Yes.”
“He does a lot for the community,” she said without enthusiasm. “Very little happens around here that he doesn’t sponsor or fund in some way. So why do you ask? Do you know him? Are you on his payroll?”
The question surprised Joe. “No and no.”
“Just checking. If you’re not, you’re one of the few. You and me have that in common, I guess.”
“So he’s got his fingers into everything?” Joe said.
“Everything.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asked. “It’s got to be a good thing to have a local philanthropist.”
She stared back, puzzled.
“A guy who pays for and sponsors things,” he explained.
“Yeah,” she said. “But honestly, sometimes I wonder. I guess I’m just a suspicious person, but I wonder if he does all these nice things for the county because he has a good heart and plenty of money or if he does them so he can be in control. I think I’m about the only one asking that question anymore. There used to be others that agreed with me, but he’s picked them off one by one and now they’re all on his side. That’s what money can do, I guess.”
The credit card machine came to life with an approval, and a length of paper rolled out of it like a tongue. She ripped it free and handed it over to Joe for his signature.
As he signed, he asked, “What does he do to make all this money when he flies off in his plane?”
Instead of answering, she laughed unconvincingly and shrugged. She was done talking.
A few moments later, Joe drove the ATV down a weedy alley to where he’d hidden his pickup. Using a pair of collapsible ramps he’d purchased from the hardware store earlier, he drove the four-wheeler up into the bed, lashed it down tight with straps to a couple of eyebolts on the interior walls, and shut the gate.
He wondered if he’d found his CI.
On the way out of town, he stopped at a convenience store to top off the gas tank on his truck and to fill the ATV. He wanted to make sure there was enough fuel in his new purchase to get him to the headquarters of the Sand Creek Ranch and back.
18
Between classes, Sheridan Pickett rode the elevator alone to the fourth floor of White Hall. She stood in the corner of the car, clutching her textbooks—Introduction to Criminal Justice and Chemistry 1020—to her chest. She liked her criminal justice class as much as she hated chem. Criminal justice, she thought, was in her wiring.
Before the doors opened on four, she took a deep breath and put on her game face, which was a smile. Being the resident assistant meant she could no longer be anonymous, the way she had been her first two years of college. Now she knew all the students on her floor — and a few of the busybody RAs — kept an eye on her. Her residents followed her lead in regard to behavior, and she made sure she was never observed bending the rules.