“What the heck are you up to?”
I liked Joe; he was old-school Wyoming and one of the few appointed individuals in the state who still exuded integrity. “I’m watching one of my musketeers eat his lunch on his lap and am thinking about how I’ve gotten to the age where skipping a few meals won’t hurt me.”
It was quiet on the line for a moment. “Since when did your jurisdiction encompass parts of Campbell County?”
I leaned back in my chair, careful to slip my foot under the edge of the desk so that I wouldn’t flip over backward; a safety measure I’d adopted after hard-won knowledge. “Aw, c’mon Joe. I’m just curious.”
“Well, I’ve got two investigators down here at DCI that are as mad as a couple of wet hens.” I looked at the faxed report Saizarbitoria had requested from the Division of Criminal Investigation. “They want to know why it is the celebrated Walt Longmire has taken such a sudden interest in this case.”
Vic watched me with more than a trace of amusement on her face. “Well, I’ve got her in my holding cell for the next two weeks and-”
“I’m going to have a word with Sandy Sandberg about that.”
“Now, Joe.”
There was a loud sigh from the state capital. “You and I both know that’s why the Powder River dry-gulcher sent that woman over to you.” The thought had occurred to me. “Haven’t you had enough to do lately?”
In the last twelve months, Joe had run interference for me with the Department of Justice, the Philadelphia Police Department, and the California attorney general’s office. It was my turn to sigh.
“Maybe you should stick a little closer to home in the next few weeks.”
I set the folder on my desk. “I was born in that Powder River country.”
“I know that, Walt.” It was silent on both ends of the line. “You know we have the highest regard for your abilities here in Cheyenne.”
“Have you met her?” It was quiet again. “Mary Barsad, have you met her?”
“No, I can’t say that…”
“I have, and I don’t think she did it.”
It was the longest silence of the conversation, and I sat there waiting. My two deputies stopped chewing and watched me as I argued with the highest sworn official in Wyoming law enforcement. “Walt, you need to be careful. I got another call from the Department of Justice, wanting to know in exactly what capacity you were involved with this case.”
“What?”
“I told them to go piss up a rope, but in state there are some folks who’re thinking about pouring some serious money into Kyle Straub’s coffers-television ads, radio, and the like. I know that it seems like neither of these things has anything to do with the price of cattle in Crook County, but if you’re going to stick your neck out for that woman, you better know what you’re risking.”
I looked at my two deputies, one of whom I was hoping to hand the reins off to in two years. “What the hell does the FBI have to do with all of this, other than that before he was dead they were spreading him over the country like a venereal disease.”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but there’s been talk about the federal marshal’s position that’s coming up.”
I laughed; the idea was ridiculous. “Joe, I’m not even sure I want to be sheriff of Absaroka County anymore.”
“All I’m saying is that if you’re going to do this, you better make sure you do it right.”
“Well, that’s pretty much how I approach all my investigations.” I looked at the floor. “Is this what you called to tell me?”
“Pretty much.”
I laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Well, I appreciate you looking out for my back, but you can tell anybody that’ll listen, including the Department of Justice, that my political ambitions begin and end here, in Absaroka County.”
“I’ll do that, but in the meantime you watch yourself. All right?”
“I will, Joe. Tell Mary I said hey.”
“You bet.”
I hung up, and my two deputies stared at me-Vic, of course, was the first to speak. “What the hell was that all about?”
I studied the phone and thought about the conversation I thought I’d just had. “I believe I just had a warning shot from the Department of Justice fired across my bow.” They both studied me, but I changed the subject. “Ambien and Lunesta?”
Sancho nudged his ball cap back. “What?”
“I’m assuming they’re sleeping pills?”
Vic glanced at Sancho and then at me, unwilling to let it go. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing-just a bunch of political foolishness.” I picked the file back up and began studying the notations in the margin. “What’s this stuff about the FDA?”
Saizarbitoria glanced at Vic, who continued to watch me, and then spoke. “Ambien was pulled by the FDA as unsafe, and then they suggested stronger warnings. They’re called sedative-hypnotics and they have a side effect known as ‘complex sleep-related behaviors.’ ”
“You hear about this stuff in Rawlins?” The Basquo had been a corrections officer in the state’s extreme risk unit.
“The Internet. When we got the report from DCI, I looked it up. Technically, it occurs during the slow-wave or deep stages of nonrapid eye movement sleep. The subject is usually incoherent though the eyes remain open, and there are cases where people dress, undress, cook, eat, and even drive cars-completely unaware.”
I sat forward. “Wait, you have a computer?” Sancho had taken the office next to Vic’s but kept his door shut most of the time, an act I felt was somewhat antisocial, considering I didn’t even have a doorknob. I looked at Vic. “He has a computer?”
She shrugged. “He knows how to use one.”
“I could learn.” I studied the file. “Do you need a prescription for this stuff?”
Sancho picked up his sandwich again. “Yes, but there were about twenty-seven million prescriptions written last year.”
I flipped the sheets but couldn’t see anything about any prescribed medications. “Where did Mary Barsad get hers?”
“There’s no mention of it in the report, but it was in her bloodstream.”
I looked up at the Basquo; it was important information, but the young man seemed uninterested. “You figured that out from the blood tests?”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“At any point, did you call down to Cheyenne and ask the investigators at DCI about this?”
“Yeah, they seemed pretty upset that they hadn’t caught it.”
I had gone back to the report. “I bet they did.”
5
October 21: six days earlier, afternoon.
It had meant a great deal that Eric Boss had driven down from Billings just to have this conversation.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, Walt, but you’d be doing me a big favor. We’re into this one to the tune of close to nine million dollars, and if there’s any funny business I just want to make sure we’re not the ones footing the bill.”
I sipped my coffee and slid it across the counter for Dorothy to refill. “What, exactly, is it you want me to do?”
The insurance man pushed the bone-white, cattleman-style hat back on his head, and I noticed the golden crucifix hat pin that glinted in competition with Boss’s grin. “Well, nothing illegal.” He shifted the smile to the chief cook and bottle washer. “How good’s the pie today, honey?”
She looked back at him more than just a little askance as she poured coffee. “Are you trying to get our sheriff in trouble?”
“Nope.” He picked up his mug and winked at her from over the edge. “Just got a tough job and need a tough guy for it.”
She placed the pot back on one of the burners and dumped the grounds from the other, readying it for a refill. “You get him hurt, and you’re gonna know what tough is.”
Boss ignored her and reached down to pull up a leather satchel that was engraved with the words COWBOYS FOR CHRIST across the hand-tooled leather. He retrieved a thick file from the bag and put the pile of papers on the counter between us. “You know me, Walt, I don’t mind paying on a righteous claim, but I need to know if this one’s on the level.”