In Plain Sight

9

THE NEXT WEEK, JOE WAS ON A MUDDY TWO-TRACK IN the breaklands doing a preliminary trend count on the mule-deer population when he got the distinct feeling he was being watched. It was a crisp, dry morning. A late-spring snowfall was melting into the inch-high grass as the morning warmed, and the moisture was being sucked into the parched earth. By late afternoon, he was afraid, the ground would be as bone-dry as it had been all year. It would take much more rain and snow to turn back the relentless slow death of the soil caused by the fifth straight year of drought.

He had been counting pregnant does all morning. Most of the fawns wouldn’t be born until June, but from what he could tell so far it would be another bad year for the deer population. A good year could be predicted if there were eighty fawns per one hundred does, or 80 percent. So far, the ratio had been 40 percent pregnant does. The drought—not hunting or development—was severely affecting the population. He would need to recommend fewer deer licenses for the area, which would not make him very popular among the local hunters.

Joe surveyed the horizon to see if he could spot who was watching him. He saw no one, and shrugged it off.

His cell phone rang.

“Guess who this is?” said Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI.

Portenson was originally from Brooklyn, and his accent, if anything, had become more pronounced the longer he was stationed in the Wyoming field office.

“Hello, Tony. Where are you?”

“I’m in your town.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joe said, knowing Portenson had been trying for three years to get a transfer out of the West to someplace more exciting, someplace where there were gangsters and organized crime, maybe even terrorists. Over the years, Portenson had bored Joe for hours with his complaints regarding the poor quality of crime he had to deal with out of his office in Cheyenne: cattle rustling, methamphetamine labs, murders of passion on the Wind River Indian Reservation.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Portenson asked.

“I’m out in the field counting deer.”

“Jesus, I wouldn’t want to interrupt that.”

Joe could hear Portenson turn to someone, probably his partner, partially cover his phone, and say, “The guy is counting deer. No shit. Counting deer.”

“I’m counting antelope too,” Joe said.

“They can wait. They aren’t going anywhere, I’m sure.”

“The pronghorn antelope is the second-fastest mammal on the face of the earth,” Joe said. “So that wouldn’t be correct.”

“I’m at that place with the corny name,” Portenson said. “The Burg-O-Pardner. Meet me in ten minutes.”

“It’ll take me twenty.”

“I’ll order breakfast in the meantime.”

TONY PORTENSON WAS sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant when Joe entered. He looked up from his plate of biscuits, gravy, and bacon and waved Joe back. Portenson was dark, intense, and had close-set eyes and a scar that hitched up his upper lip so that it looked as if he was always sneering. When he smiled, the effect was worse. Sitting across from him was an earnest, fresh-faced, wide-shouldered younger man with buzz-cut hair. His partner, Joe assumed.

“Have a seat, Joe,” Portenson said, standing and offering his hand. “This is Special Agent Gary Child.”

Rather than sit with Portenson or Child, Joe retrieved a chair from a nearby table and pulled it over.

Portenson wore standard FBI clothing—tie, jacket, and slacks, which made him stand out in Saddlestring as if he were wearing a space suit.

“This is the guy I was telling you about,” Portenson said to Child.

Child nodded and looked at Joe with a mix of admiration and disdain. The FBI had a low opinion of local law enforcement that was so ingrained it was institutionalized. Although Joe operated on the margin of the sheriff’s department and was rarely involved with the town cops, he was considered local and therefore less than proficient. Portenson had obviously briefed Child on both cases they’d been involved in before, probably between complaints about the wind and the snow he had to put up with during his long assignment in Wyoming, Joe thought.

“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.