Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery (2 page)

“How’s your daughter, how’s Izzy?”

There was a pause, and then she answered. “Connie’s fine.” I could feel the two of them staring at each other. “We haven’t had to use the room, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Do you know what it was he was working on?”

“They won’t tell me. What did they tell you?”

“They said he was carrying a full caseload, including a missing persons—”

“The stripper—that whore, doesn’t it figure that that’s the case they would focus on.”

The old sheriff adjusted himself on the sofa in order to sit forward. “Were there other things you know about?”

“Things that would make a lot of very important people in this town more than a little nervous. Yes.”

Lucian sighed. “Things like what?”

“I’m not sure I want to tell you about them if you’re not going to help me.” Another longer pause. “He was a good man, Lucian. He helped you when nobody else would, and now he’s dead; I think you owe him something more than a phone call.”

I could feel him nodding. “Not as young as I used to be, Phyllis.”

“I’m assuming that’s why you brought him.”

Even with my hat over my face, I could feel their eyes shift to me.

“It is.”

“He as good as they say?”

I waited and listened.

“When I hired him I told him two things: no man has any sense till age thirty-five and damn few afterwards . . .”

“Amen to that, and the other?”

“Never go after a man to arrest him unless you are certain you are legally right, but then arrest him or die.” I felt him shift and was sure he was looking straight at me now. “In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him quit, which is where most of ’em ain’t up to snuff—they give out. If he’s got any give in him, ain’t nobody found it yet.”

“He’s big.”

“That he is, but that ain’t the half of it.” He got up from the sofa, and I could hear him limp over to her. “Is that the room over there, the one where you kept Connie?” She didn’t say anything, so he continued. “I want to warn you that if you put Walter on this you’re going to find out what it’s all about, one way or the other.” Another pause, and I could imagine the face that was peering down at her, a visage to which I was accustomed. “You’re sure you want that? Because he’s like a gun; once you point him and pull the trigger, it’s too late to change your mind.”

—

“Oh jeez, if it isn’t dangerous and dangerouser.” Sandy Sandburg, the sheriff of Campbell County, pulled out a chair, sat at our table, and propped up a large manila folder on the windowsill beside him, careful to pick a spot where the condensation wouldn’t do any damage.

It was cold in the little Mexican restaurant in Gillette’s industrial section beside the interstate highway; late on a Sunday night the patrons were few and far between—as a matter of fact, we were the only ones around. A skinny waitress came from behind the counter and sat a cup of coffee in front of Sandy.
“¿Cómo estás?”

“Hola, guapa. ¿Qué tal?”

“Cansada.”

Sandburg reached out and gripped one of her thin arms and slid the sleeve of her sweater up to reveal a speckling of old scabs.
“¿Te mantienes limpia?”

She shrugged, pulled her arm away, and yanked a pad and pencil from her apron.
“Me bañe en la mañana.”

His eyes diverted to us as he let the girl go. “As you might expect, the burritos are pretty damn good.” He glanced back at the waitress and held up three fingers. “
Tres, por favor.
Beef with the green stuff.” He watched her go and then turned back to the two of us. “Gentlemen, there’s no mystery.”

Lucian cocked his hat back on his head, looking like Will Rogers ready to make a run on a casino. “Phyllis Holman, by God, seems to think otherwise.”

“The bereaved widow . . . Well, she would.”

I volunteered. “She doesn’t seem to like you.”

Lucian glanced at me, now sure I had been awake on the sofa.

“Yeah, I get that, too.” Sandy shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know what I did to her but offer her retired husband a job on the Cold Case Task Force.”

“Maybe that was it.” I eased back in my chair as far as I could without fear of breaking it. “How many on the Cold Case Task Force anyway?”

“One.” Sandy grinned with his matinee idol smile, the one that got other people in trouble, his teeth white against the tan he acquired at Coco View Resort in Honduras every Christmas. “Started it up just so Gerald would have something to do.” The smile faded. “Then this happens; I gotta tell you, of all the fellas I would’ve thought would go out this way, Gerry would’ve been the last.”

I sipped my already cold coffee. “Why?”

Sandy clicked his eyes to mine. “Ever meet him?”

“No.”

“He was so by-the-book that he might as well have published the damn thing.” He looked at Lucian. “Am I right, or am I right?”

“Gerald Holman never broke a rule by force of bending one, that’s for damn sure.” He glanced at the folder next to Sandy’s elbow. “That the report?”

“It is. We’ve got a DCI field office up here with two cashiers and a bag boy.” The colorful euphemisms the sheriff used were a result of the Division of Criminal Investigation’s headquarters in Cheyenne being an old grocery store. “But they drove the Death Mobile up here anyway and did a full autopsy.”

I sat my mug down with more of a
thunk
than I’d really wanted; they both looked at me.

Sandy reached over and opened the folder and read: “On December 13th, one Gerald Holman placed the barrel of his issued sidearm, a .357 revolver, in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It was established by agents of the Division of Criminal Investigation that the individual, locked in the room from the inside, had opportunity and the condition for the decedent to have self-inflicted his injury. Further investigation revealed that no one else had been in the room, verified by eyewitnesses, position of the decedent’s body in relation to the unlikely position the assailant would have to have assumed, blood spatter, and the gunpowder residue on the decedent’s hand. A gun-cleaning kit was found on the bed beside the decedent, but it was determined that the firing of the weapon was not accidental.”

“’Less he was licking the damn thing clean.”

I ignored Lucian’s remark. “Demonstrations of intent?”

Sandy continued reading. “He used a pillow to muffle the noise.”

I looked out the window at the reflection of three men attempting to understand why one of their own had done what he had done. “Personal effects?”

“Untouched.”

“Note?”

“Nope.” He studied me. “There’s nothing here, Walt.”

“Can I have the report?”

He folded it up and started to hand it to me but then stopped as my fingers touched it. “Promise to bring it back?”

I didn’t move. “Make copies if you want.”

He shoved it at me. “I trust you.”

I began looking at the photos and reading the summary report from the DCI investigators. “Who is Rankaj Patel?”

“Oh, the Pakistani guy that owns the Wrangler Motel where the incident took place, about a mile east of here . . .”

“Indian.”

Sandy studied me. “What?”

“Indian; the man’s Indian.”

I watched him think about it. “No, he ain’t Indian—”

Lucian interrupted. “Dot, not feather.”

“Huh?”

I continued leafing through the folder—the photos were, as usual, gruesome. “About a third of all motel owners in the U.S. are called Patel—it’s a surname that indicates that they’re members of a Gujarati Hindu subcaste.” I looked up at his confused face and figured I might as well educate him on the subject. “The Indian caste structure has four principal divisions and a myriad of subcastes, of which Patel is one; Vaishyas, or traders, were at one time employed to calculate the tithes that were owed to
medieval kings by farmers in Gujarat, an Indian province on the Arabian Sea.”

Sandy shook his head and looked at Lucian. “Was he like this when you hired him?”

He nodded. “Better than a bookmobile.”

I put the folder behind me, uninterested in looking at it any more before I ate. “What was he working on?”

“Lots of things—nothing earthshaking.”

“Can I see those files?”

“Richard Harvey says he’d be glad to meet with you tomorrow morning.”

I nodded. “That his replacement?”

Sandy smiled again, and I knew the real trouble had begun. “Of sorts.”

—

The Wrangler Motel sat on the eastern side of Gillette like it was run out of town. With a lone strip of eight ground-floor and nine second-floor units, it was anchored to the high plains by a decrepit café/bar, the Aces & Eights, on one end and an equally run-down office on the other.

I was standing in said office arguing with Rankaj Patel about a twenty-dollar pet fee for Dog; he was a tiny man and, as I’d suspected, of Indian descent. I looked down at the worn, stained carpet and collapsed chairs and up at the moth-stained art on the walls. “You’re kidding.”

He responded in a singsong lilt. “It is corporate policy, sir.”

“What corporation?”

He spread his hands in a gesture of largesse. “The Wrangler Motel Corporation, sir.”

“Of which you are the chairman of the board and CEO?” I
pulled out my wallet and adjusted my thinking to the fact that I was paying half as much for Dog as I was for Lucian and me. “I’ll also need the key to room twelve.”

He half turned with the key to room 5, the one he had selected for us, and froze. “I’m afraid that room is not available, sir.”

I pulled my new badge wallet from the back pocket of my jeans.

“There was an accident.”

“I know . . .” The stiffness of the leather caused the thing to fall from my fingers and land on the counter between us like a shot quail, ruining what I had hoped to be a dramatic effect. I reached down and spread it open so that he could see the six-point star. “I’m the guy who’s supposed to find out why there was an accident.”

He studied the badge, taking in the fact that the county was adjacent. “I told the investigators everything I know.”

“I’m sure you did, but if you think of anything else I’d appreciate it if you would tell me.”

He nodded. “How long will you be staying?”

I picked up the keys to both rooms. “As long as it takes.”

—

I ignored the signs, backed in, and parked in front of room 5. Dog jumped out and immediately began sniffing the surroundings as I opened the tailgate and handed Lucian his overnight bag and the key. “How well did you know Holman?”

“Not that well; we worked a few cases together.”

“Children?”

He nodded. “A daughter; she’s on the school board here.”

“Think she’d be worth talking to?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I never met her.”

“You’re a liar; I heard you ask Phyllis about her—and what’s the story on the room in the basement?”

He studied me. “Her name is Connie but Gerald used to call her Izzy for Isadora Duncan, the one that got killed in that Bugatti when her scarf got caught in the spokes of the wheels back in ’27?”

“Actually, it was an Amilcar, but her chauffeur’s name was Falchetto and she used to call him Bugatti.”

He shook his head at me. “Anyway, Connie was one of those ballet dancers, they say a really good one, but she got caught up in drugs trying to keep her weight down and . . . Anyway, Phyllis and Gerald kept her in that basement bedroom and got her clean. Model citizen, these days.”

I turned to watch my pet Kodiak snuffle the tires of a Jeep Cherokee. “Dog.” He sniffed a few more times just to show his independence and then joined the two of us at the door. “Lucian, you take him and get settled in.”

The old sheriff looked up at me. “Where the hell are you going?”

I stuffed the folder Sandy had given me under an arm. “Upstairs, to twelve.”

“Plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

“I still have the greatest of hope that I can salvage my trip to Philadelphia.”

He stared at me for a moment, said nothing, and then slipped the key in the loose lock. Followed by Dog, who never met an open door he didn’t consider an invitation, Lucian flipped on the light and shut the door behind them; I stood there listening to the eighteen-wheelers Jake-braking on the interstate.

As I turned to go, I saw the curtain in the window of number 6 slowly pull closed. I thought about knocking on the door but
instead walked over and looked at the only other vehicle parked in the lot, the one that Dog had irrigated, with Idaho plates, 6B 22119. Boise County, city of Boise; there was also a Boise State snorting bronc sticker in the rear window along with the black-and-white sticker of the
lauburu
, otherwise known as the Basque cross.

Even with the Basque population of my county, an odd vehicle to be parked in this lot.

“If you’re here to run me off, it’s not going to work.”

I turned and looked at the tall young woman with a thick mane of dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, backlit by the light from room 6. “Excuse me?”

She hugged herself, and I figured it was the cold but maybe just a habit. “I’m not intimidated by any of you.”

I glanced around to indicate to her that I was alone. “Okay.”

“I saw you . . . looking at my car.”

“It’s a nice car.”

“Well, it’s not going anywhere.”

I repeated myself. “Okay.” Feeling I should make some kind of effort at western hospitality, I stepped forward and raised a hand to shake hers. “Walt Longmire, I’m the sheriff of Absaroka County.”

She stared at my hand, her arms still wrapped around her chest, one set of fingers clutching the doorknob in an attempt to not let too much of the cold enter the room. “This is Campbell County.”

I pushed my hat back on my head with my now-free hand. “Yes, it is—and you are?”

She sighed and said her name mechanically. “Lorea Urrecha.”

“Basque?”

Her chin came out a little farther and her head turned, the
high brows and cheekbones highlighted in the small amount of illumination—classically beautiful but with character. “Yes.”

My attention was drawn to a Cadillac Escalade EXT that had entered the parking lot to travel down the rows of rooms, the vehicle slowing when it got in front of us. The windows were fogged, but from the dash lights I could see that it was a woman behind the wheel. She slowed almost to a stop but then looked more closely at my truck—the stars and the bars—and quickly pulled away.