Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery (13 page)

We turned in tandem and could see a tall woman wrapped in what looked to be an afghan who was standing on the extended porch of the Victorian.

“I’ll get him, ma’am, but do you mind if we have a word with you?”

She stood there for a few seconds more, stooped to pick something up, and dusted the snow away by slapping whatever it was on her leg; then she eyed my truck with the stars and bars, about-faced, and went back in her house.

Vic looked at Dog, still irrigating the fence. “I’ll give you a biscuit if you go shit on her lawn.”

He came when I called him, and I popped open the door, allowing him ingress into his home away from home, and led the way toward the mansion with Vic trailing behind. “How ’bout I shit on her lawn?”

Stepping up onto the porch, I glanced back at her as I removed my hat and slapped the accumulated snow off. “I don’t suppose you’d like to wait in the truck with Dog?”

“And not play with the radio? No thanks. I don’t want to miss any of the fun, and anyway, I do get cold.”

I reached up, knocked the heavy knocker, and noticed that the grand old lady of Eighth Avenue West was in need of a coat of paint, along with a puttying and sanding. After a moment, I could hear someone moving inside the house, then the sound of the chain being put on the door, then it opening about four inches. “Hello, Mrs. Payne, I’m Sheriff Walt Longmire and this is my undersheriff, Victoria Moretti . . .”

She wedged her face into the opening to get a better look at me through the thick lenses of her bifocals, and I figured her vintage to be somewhere in her eighties, a little old to have a daughter Roberta’s age. “I don’t know where she is.”

I waited a moment before responding. “That would be your daughter?”

There was a noise from back in the house, and she glanced in that direction. “She’s dead.”

I gestured toward the papers in Vic’s hands, as if they had something to do with what we were talking about. “I understand you’re petitioning the courts for a declaration of death in absentia, so we were wondering if you’d come across some information as of late that might’ve led you to believe that she was deceased?”

“No.” She looked past me, trying to read the words on my truck as the noise from within grew louder. “What county did you say you were with?”

“I didn’t, ma’am, but we’re with the Absaroka County department.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“There have been some other women who’ve gone missing, and we’re thinking there might be a connection between them and your daughter.”

The noise had reached a pitch to where I could now tell that it was a teakettle. “My daughter is dead.”

“So you were saying, but if you’d allow us inside—”

“I don’t have to allow you people in my home.”

I listened to the screeching and figured I had an opening, so to speak. “No, you don’t, but I was hoping we could ask you a few more questions, and it’s kind of cold out here.” I looked past her. “Is that a teakettle on?”

She paused for a moment and then, in a disgusted manner, disconnected the chain and pulled the door open, allowing us in. It was a large entryway with a sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. It had been a beautiful house in its day, but peeling paint, worn carpets, and distressed furniture indicated that the place had gone to financial seed.

Looking down just a little at Sadie Payne, still with the afghan wrapped around her shoulders, I got more of an idea of just how tall she was. “Beautiful home.” I paused as I noticed the condensation from my breath was almost the same inside the house as it had been outside. “You can get that kettle, if you’d like.”

She nodded her silver head and then started down a short hallway. “You people stay there, and I’ll be right back.” She exited through a heavy, swinging door with a window in it.

Vic took a step and pushed one of the partially open doors that led to the parlor a little further. “It’s fucking freezing in here.”

“Welcome to Miss Havisham’s.” I glanced up the steps but couldn’t see anything. “I don’t think she’s got any heat on.”

Vic glanced back at me and then rolled her head to indicate that I should have a look through the doorway where she stood.

With a quick take to the kitchen, I stepped back and peered over my undersheriff’s head into an empty room. There were a few sheets lying on the floor, but other than that, there was nothing. We heard some noise and both stepped toward the chair and sideboard, the only pieces of furniture in the entryway. The noises continued, but she didn’t reappear.

My attention was drawn to the mail that was lying on the table—it was a little wet and obviously what she had picked up from the porch. One piece was opened, and I noticed that it was from First Interstate Bank notifying Roberta Payne of her withdrawals from a trust account and dating back to the beginning of last month.

At that moment, Sadie reentered from the kitchen with a mug of tea, but I turned and leaned against the sideboard so that she wouldn’t notice my snooping. “Mrs. Payne, you say you haven’t had any contact with your daughter since her disappearance?”

She sipped her tea from a coffee mug, the tag from the bag fluttering in the drafty house. “No, none whatsoever.”

Wishing that I’d had time to look at the statement a little more closely, I quickly made up a story. “Well, I was talking to Chip King over at First Interstate, and he said there had been some activity in Roberta’s trust account as of late.”

She dropped the mug, and we all watched it bounce off the floor with a loud
thunk
,
the contents spilling on the hardwood floor, teabag and all.

I stooped and picked up the pottery, which somehow had not broken, and scooped the teabag as well. “Here you go.”

Sadie Payne stared at me for a few seconds and then snatched the cup from my hand. “I want you people out of my house.”

“Okay, but I’m going to be back pretty quick with a representative of the Campbell County Sheriff’s Office and—”

Her voice became shrill. “Out! I want you people out of my house.”

“And somebody from over at First Interstate Bank.” She held the mug as if she might throw it at me, but I’d had things thrown at me before and wasn’t that intimidated. “Maybe if you tell me what’s going on with your daughter . . .”

Her head dropped, and she placed a hand on the table for support. “I’ve asked you people to leave my house, and if you don’t leave I’m going to call the Sheriff’s Department of
this
county and have you removed.”

“All right.”

She stared at me. “I mean it, mister.”

“Sheriff, Sheriff Walt Longmire.” I waited a moment before adding. “That’s fine—I’d just as soon get some more people over here to get to the bottom of this.”

She took a deep breath and sat the mug down, pulling the afghan around her a little closer. She gripped the blanket in a distracted manner, her fingers poking into the holes of the thing as she pulled it tighter.

Vic had given a name to the technique that we both used when questioning suspicious persons; I called it waiting, whereas she called it
running the Zamboni
, a term she’d brought from Broad Street, Philadelphia, where her beloved Flyers played—ask your question and then let the machine polish the ice.

“It’s me.”

Her voice had been so small I had to ask. “Excuse me?”

“I’m the one that’s been making the withdrawals.”

I glanced at Vic and then back to her. “You.”

“Yes, me. I thought that if I kept the amounts under two hundred dollars that no one would notice.”

I thought about the statement that showed that most of the withdrawals were well above two hundred dollars and let my eyes scan the decrepit house. “The money is Roberta’s?”

She kept her head down. “A trust that her father left for her, but I’ve been using it to live on.”

“For how long?”

“For a month now. There isn’t any other money than what’s in that trust.”

“And that’s why you’ve been trying to obtain a certificate of death in absentia for the last few weeks?”

She nodded and took off her glasses, wiping what I assumed were tears. “Yes.”

I could feel Vic’s eyes on me. “Mrs. Payne, it’s clear that you’ve gone through a lot of difficulties lately, and we’re not really here to add to your burdens but we need answers. We’re just interested in your daughter, her disappearance, and the connection it might have with these other women.” I pulled out one of my cards and placed it beside the stacked mail and then shoved my hands in my pockets. “We’ll leave your home now, but if you do think of anything that might help us in the investigation, I’d appreciate it if you would give us a call.”

Vic stepped in front of me and picked up the card, writing her cell number on the back and then handing it to the old woman. “Mrs. Payne, call this number and you’ll get a faster response.”

We walked out of the house and down the steps as my undersheriff punched my arm. “Okay, that’s two visits that make me want to cut my wrists . . . Is Campbell County always this uplifting?”

“You should’ve seen what it was like before you got here.”

“I improved your spirits?”

“Yep.”

“I have that effect on people.” She pulled out her phone and looked at it. “Uh oh . . .”

I pulled up, and we looked at each other from across the hood of my truck. “What?”

“Missed call.”

“Patrolman Dougherty?”

“No, your daughter.”

I froze, both figuratively and literally. “Cady?”

She thumbed the device. “Wait, there’s a text.” She read it and looked at me. “You’re in trouble.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Bad bad, or just bad?”

She began reading from her phone.

“Dad, where the hell are you?! I’ve been calling the office! The doctors are talking about inducing and wanted to know if I had a magic number as a birth date for the baby, but I told them I was waiting till my father got here! The doctor I want for the delivery is only available one day this weekend and I want to make sure you’re here! Would you please call me right now? Signed, your very pregnant daughter!”

Vic looked up at me.

I climbed in my side as she opened the door on the other. “That’s not so bad.”

Closing the passenger-side door behind her, she continued reading.
“PS:
Now
, or I’m going to
kill
you!”
She glanced at me. “The
now
and the
kill
are underlined.”

I nodded.

“PPS: I
mean
it!”
She lowered the phone and studied me.
“PPPS: I
really
mean it!”
She smiled. “Speaking from a personal standpoint, whenever a woman uses more than a half dozen exclamation points, four underlines, and three postscripts—you are in deep fucking shit.”

“Gimme the phone.”

She dialed the number and handed the device to me.

I put the thing to my ear and held it there as I fired up the truck and hit the wipers, barely able to move enough of the snow to clear the windshield. “Did I see an Office Depot back near the Douglas Highway in our travels?”

“Why, you want to go buy a chair to hit Sadie Payne with?” She thrust her chin toward the house we’d just left. “Little hard on the old broad, weren’t you?”

I listened to the phone ring as I pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of my coat and studied it. “It was quite a performance.”

“You’re not buying it?”

The phone continued to ring. “Not particularly.”

She studied me for a moment and then shrugged. “So why do we need an Office Depot?”

The phone rang some more. “So I can make a copy of this bank statement that says most of these ATM withdrawals in the last month were made at the Buffalo Gold Rush Casino in Deadwood, South Dakota. Some very large withdrawals . . .”

I turned to look at her just as somebody, a very angry somebody in Philadelphia, answered the phone in a tone of molten righteousness and wounded indignity.

“Hello?!!”

I could almost hear the exclamation points as I put on my best nonchalant voice. “Hi punk—you looking for me?”

“So, bad bad.”

I nodded. “Pretty bad, yep.”

“Have you called her since the one-legged bandit waylaid you?”

“Once, twice with just now.”

Vic cradled her face in her hands. “Oh, Walt.”

“I kept thinking I’d get out of here.” I looked past Dog, now sitting between us. “Which is why I have to get this wrapped up by the end of the week when the two of us are going to have to get to Philadelphia.”

She raised her head, brushing a wide swoop of black hair from her face, and looked at me. “Do you have a ticket?”

“An airline ticket?”

She glanced at the clock on my dash and tapped it. “If you take the bus, you’re going to have to leave now.”

I nodded and took a right on 85 onto the snowpack that was Main Street and then headed down the hill into Deadwood. “She says I have one for noon.”

Vic shook her head and looked out the window at the snow that was continuously falling along with some freezing fog.
“We’ll need to get me one.” She looked up at the curtains of flakes falling gold in the illumination of the streetlights. “That is, if anybody’s flying.”

Deadwood, South Dakota, is a tourist town and, like most tourist towns, doesn’t look its best off-season, but the architecture has been preserved here, and when snow covers the globed streetlights, I can almost see Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane, and Seth Bullock sauntering down the avenues of my imagination. “You’ve never been here?”

“No, but I saw the TV series.”

“There was a TV series set in Deadwood?”

“Yeah. I liked it—they said ‘fuck’ a lot.”

It had been a hard-fought battle getting here, and a South Dakota highway patrolman had pulled me over near Spearfish only long enough to tell me I was nuts. I crept up Deadwood’s snow-covered brick streets and pulled my truck in front of the Franklin Hotel as a valet came out to meet us; he looked at the stars and bars. “You’re in the wrong state.”

Vic and Dog were already at the door of the hotel when I handed him the keys. “I think of myself as having a wide-reaching jurisdiction.”

Inside, I caught up with the dynamic duo at the registration desk where Vic was arguing with the young woman on duty, wearing a name tag that read
Brittany
, as to whether Dog would be allowed to lodge with us.

“He’s house-trained.” Vic glanced back at me. “Which is more than I can say for this one.”

I put my billfold and my new badge wallet on the wooden surface of the antique counter and had to admit that my badge looked a lot better in the hand-tooled leather holder that Bussell the Elder had made for me, and I liked the fact that it wasn’t
flopping around on the Turkish carpet like a dying trout. I thought about the big Colt Walker in the center console but then remembered that I’d locked it and flipped it back so as not to draw attention. “Brittany, I’m Walt Longmire, and I’m working a case and need a room—for the three of us.”

Vic smiled and pulled out her own wallet, multi-badging the young woman. “With a tub, please, and don’t make me get Dog’s badge out, too.”

Brittany blinked once and then took two keys from a drawer and handed them to us as I gave her a credit card. She stood on tiptoe, looking at the beast. “He doesn’t bark, does he?”

“Not unless I sing, and I promise not to sing.” I reached down to ruffle Dog’s ears, letting him know I was abandoning him to Vic. “I’m going to head over to the Buffalo Gold Rush and spot the ATM—can I have one of the photos of Roberta Payne?”

She fished into the folder under her arm and brought out the most recent picture—the one from her employee-of-the-month plaque at the Flying J. “I’m going up and taking a bath. I’d be willing to take a shower if you’d join me, but I know you won’t, so I’m going to sink into nice, warm bubbles and await your return.”

“I won’t be long.”

She pulled at Dog’s ear. “C’mon, Rin Tin Tin, let’s see what we can find in the minibar.”

I watched her lay a hand on the brass railing and flounce up the stairs with Dog in tow and wondered what the heck I was doing staking out ATMs at close to midnight in a blizzard.

Turning and tugging my hat down, I flipped up the collar of my sheepskin coat—the valet opened the door and watched me walk out into the fogged-over blizzard. Fortunately, the casino was only across the street about a block up, but I still had a quarter inch of snow on my shoulders and hat by the time I got there.

I shook off in the entryway and looked at the hello-officer red
Corvette that somebody could win if he or she wrestled the one-armed bandits to the ground. Continuing into the din of electronic gambling, I made my way toward the cage that read
HOUSE
and asked the man sitting on a stool where the nearest cash machines might be.

“Whole bank of ’em behind this wall and around the corner. I can run a debit card from here though, if you need money.”

I shook my head. “That’s okay.”

Walking as he’d directed me, I studied the half-dozen cash machines, then spotted a blackjack table within eyesight and decided to set up camp as long as the eighty-seven dollars and forty-three cents in my pockets held out.

Having returned Roberta’s original bank statement onto the threshold between the storm and regular doors of the Payne home in hopes that Sadie would think she’d dropped it, I pulled the copy and noted the days of the week and the times of the withdrawals. There were a number of transactions in Gillette, but they were within the amounts that Sadie had mentioned, whereas the withdrawals that had been made here in Deadwood were much more substantial and growing more so. I pulled out my pocket watch. The days of the activity were random, but the times were not—all of them pretty much this time of night and within twenty minutes of each other.

Making a quick trip back to the cashier, I watched my real money transform itself into colorful plastic chips, and I strolled across the thick carpet back toward the vantage point I’d assigned myself at the blackjack table.

There was a chubby croupier with a beard, a bowtie, sleeve guards, a brocade vest, and a name tag that read
Willie
dealing cards to an east-of-the-Missouri-River farmer type, a
brassy-looking blonde, and a broad-backed Indian. There were two guys sitting over at the bar, but other than that the place was deserted.

Covertly slipping my holstered sidearm off my belt, I stuffed it into the sleeve of my coat and draped the sheepskin over the back of a stool next to the Indian, took off my hat, tapping it against my leg just to make sure that I didn’t drip onto the elaborate red felt, and took a seat. “Mind if I join you?”

Willie smiled a baby-face smile, probably wishing that we would all go home so that he could follow suit, and announced, “New player.”

I piled my chips in separate stacks and nodded toward the farmer and the blonde, who, I assumed, was his wife, and turned to look at the big Indian, who had the most chips; he in turn looked at the dealer and nodded toward me. “I do not like his looks; he seems like the kind of man who cheats at cards.”

I anted up. “Willie, has this Indian been drinking?”

The chubby man looked a little worried. “Um . . . No, sir.”

“Well, let’s get him started—give him a red wine, he looks like a red wine kind of guy.”

Willie raised his hand, motioning toward a middle-aged woman—her name tag said
Star
. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” She was dressed in a kind of French maid outfit and uncomfortable spike heels and didn’t look any happier than Willie at our reluctance to leave the table.

The big Indian spoke to her first. “Cabernet Sauvignon,
s’il vous plaît
.”

She glanced at me, and I stared back at her. “Um, beer.”

“What kind?”

I took a moment to respond, then straightened my chips and took a calculated guess. “You got Rainier, Star?”

“No.”

I smiled. “Iced tea then.”

The croupier announced the game and began dealing cards. “Blackjack, ladies and gentlemen—five-dollar minimum bet.” He tossed the farmer’s wife a king, the farmer a seven, me a three, a nine for the Indian, and finally a nine for himself, adding to his 25-to-2-percent advantage. “Lady has a king.”

She grinned, her dentures shining. “Hit me.”

He threw her a seven, and she sat pat. The next was an eight for the farmer. He brushed his fingers on the felt and was obliged with another eight, which carried him over the hill.

I stabbed the three, and the dealer laid a jack on it. I tapped again and was rewarded with a six. I looked at his ace, and decided what the hay. I tapped, and he sent me along with the farmer with a seven. “Ah, well . . .”

The dealer pitched an eight to the big Indian, who stared at his cards and then pointed at the dealer with his lips. The croupier paused for a moment and then flipped him another that skimmed along on a carpet of stale air—a deuce.

He looked up at the dealer with a smile as thin as a paper cut.

Willie gave himself a seven. The next card was a ten, and he followed the farmer and me down the road.

I watched as he deposited the chips in front of the Indian’s pile; the farmer and his wife rose, and the older man laid a hand on my shoulder. “You high rollers are too much for us, we’re headed for bed.”

I smiled back at him. “Good night. Be careful out there.”

“Oh, we’re just down the street in a hotel—we’re walking.”

“Still, be careful. You could cut sheep out of the air with a pair of shears.”

“We will.”

I watched the older couple pull on their coats as the waitress arrived with our drinks, and I gave her a chip as a tip. “Keep us topped off, would you?”

“Sure.”

The dealer was getting anxious as he looked at the Indian and then at me. “Another hand, gentlemen?”

I nodded and turned to Henry Standing Bear as we both anted up. “What the hell are you doing in Deadwood?”

The Cheyenne Nation nodded his head at Willie. “I am feeling lucky.” As the croupier dealt cards to the three of us, the Bear smiled at me. “And besides, both Vic and Cady left me messages this afternoon. They worry about you.”

—

We played a few more hands, and he explained. “Since I was already in Pine Ridge . . .” He gestured around him. “I decided to stop by.”

Willie interrupted, ready to unload a few more cards. “Five for the cowboy, king for the Ind— Native American, and a three for the house.”

Henry sipped his wine. “Why, if you do not mind my asking, are you here?”

I tapped the five and got another one. “Looking for a missing woman.” I tapped again and landed an eight. “Hold.” I pulled the photograph from my coat pocket and unfolded it on the table between us. “Roberta Payne—ring any bells?”

He studied it and then nodded his head toward the other room. “I would say she bears an uncanny resemblance to the woman with the man at the ATM machine over there.” The Bear pursed his lips at the dealer again and got a three. He lip-pointed once more and got an eight, smiled the razor smile, and passed
his hand over the cards as a blessing. I turned to see a tall, bald man, muscular in build, holding on to said woman’s arm as she made a withdrawal.

I flipped my cards over. “That would be she.”

Willie threw himself a jack and then a six. He looked at Henry, who paid him no attention, and then turned over a ten. He sighed and scooped up the cards, once again depositing the Bear’s winnings in front of him. “You’re lucky tonight.”

The Cheyenne Nation stacked his chips. “Yes, I am.”

Willie stepped back and dusted his hands together. “Would either of you gentlemen mind if I ran to the bathroom? It’s right over there, and it’s been a long shift.”

We said nothing, just watched him go. Henry, speaking under his breath, turned back to me. “You do realize that he is going to warn this Roberta Payne and friend?”

I stood and reached for my coat, careful to reattach my holstered weapon, as he joined me in putting on his black leather duster. “I’m counting on it.” We watched as Willie slipped behind the cashier booth through a door beside the cash machines. With one quick look back at us, he spoke through the cage to the couple at the ATM, opened another door, and allowed them inside.

We hustled across the floor, only to find that the heavy security door was fashioned with a large metal keyboard. I leaned back and motioned toward the man in the cashier booth. “Hey, would you mind—”

There was a thunderous crash, and I looked back and saw that the Cheyenne Nation had decided not to wait for approval and had let himself in with a size-twelve Caterpillar chukka boot; he extended his hand. “After you?”

We two-at-a-timed it down the steps and were immediately confronted with a hall. “You go that way, and I’ll go this—first one to find something, sing out.”

He nodded and disappeared to the left—I moved quickly to the right, finding another door, which read
WOMEN’S
DRESSING ROOM
. I turned the knob, but it was locked. I was about to do a Bear when a young woman in one of the waitress outfits opened it and then stepped back, her hand to her chest. “Oh, my God.”

“Excuse me.”

I started to go around her, but she held up her arm. “This is the women’s dressing room.”

“I know, and I’m looking for a woman. Roberta Payne?”

“Never heard of her.” The arm stayed on the door. “And you can’t come in here.”

I pulled out my badge wallet. “Yep, I can.” I pushed past her, and across the room, I could see another door hanging open and moving. I threw what my father had called my field voice over my shoulder. “Henry!”

Hoisting myself up the steps, I threw the door open into the snow-covered alley behind the casino which, with the proximity of the surrounding buildings and the thickness of the fog, felt claustrophobic. I cranked my hat down tight and looked at the ground, where three sets of tracks went to the left toward the middle of town.

I felt the breath of someone next to me. “They are together.”

“Yep.” I stepped back and let the expert take over the tracking duties, watching as his left shoulder humped up and his right hand hovered over the ground like it always did when he was bird-dogging, and he loped off down the alley. I tried to keep up but was at a disadvantage running with the leather soles of my
cowboy boots in comparison with the Vibram ones of his boots—at least that’s what I told myself.