Leaning Land (14 page)

Wager cross-checked his suppositions against the carbon entries in the receipt booklet. Many but not all of the dates of payment received matched dates of the jobs listed in the log book. It looked as if some of the employers paid in cash or by check at the completion of a job, while others were billed and would pay at the end of the month. Sure enough, Rubin had not recorded any payments received after 16 March.

Thumbing through the spiral notebook back to January, Wager noted one other point: occasionally, an awkwardly penned five-pointed star followed a mileage entry. There was no obvious reason for the marks; they came at irregular intervals, though most were applied to short hauls, the mileage said, which took a day at most. Two or three followed ranch names, the rest came behind a last name: Turney, Hegendorf, Briscoe, Archibeque. Wager looked back through the daily log again; in all there were six entries that had the little star. He looked at the list of starred names he had jotted down and a thought struck him; paging through the receipt book, he verified what he thought he remembered: there were no carbon sheets bearing those six names. The star seemed to mean that those people had not paid. Credit? But there was no notation of what was owed, and Wager doubted that Rubin would be able to carry so much delayed income. Cash? Barter? Maybe that was it—whatever he was paid for those six jobs, Rubin had not listed it as income. Shaving a little off the reported income for tax purposes; possibly gave a cut rate for cash, possibly jobs for members of the Constitutional Posse who hated supporting the federal government with taxes. Yet Rubin had kept a record of the mileage so he could maintain an accurate service schedule on his vehicle. And that hinted to Wager that he tended to be careful about his business, even if putting some things in writing wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

He found Mallard in the tin building, working on the axle end of a jacked-up truck. “I’d like to keep these job and payment books, if I can.”

“Sure thing—maintenance log’s all I need.”

Wager set that on the oil-stained and cluttered planks of the long workbench. “I’ll leave it right here. Do you remember what time it was Del Ponte came in that last day?”

Mallard, squatting on a low stool beside the dismantled hub, tilted his head back to stare in thought at the fluorescent ceiling light. The movement made his large Adam’s apple protrude even further. “Late morning, I think—maybe ten or eleven. Wasn’t early. Most of the time he got here early when he had a run.” He explained, “I open at seven. Some of the truckers like to top off before they go. Unless they’re heading into Utah. Diesel’s a lot cheaper across the line—less state tax.”

“Did he speak with you? Say anything at all?”

Another stare upward while his fingers felt their way around a part half submerged in a bucket of muddy-looking solvent. “Didn’t come in the shop to talk like he usually did—I wouldn’t’ve known he was here if I hadn’t had to go out back.” More thought. “Just said good morning. He did seem kind of excited about something, but he didn’t say what. Now, when I saw him before, by a day or two, he said he might be in the market for a new truck soon. He talked like he was expecting to get some money soon, but a lot of times he talked like that. Always had a big new job promised or was going to make a killing. But he never did—just talk.”

“Can you remember exactly what he said that last time?”

“Let’s see … .” Even his fingers stopped moving as he thought. “He was kind of fidgeting around; kept looking toward the highway for whoever. Said something about he had a lot to do … . Wait—he did say something. Said, ‘Harvey, my allotment’s finally worth something.’“ The bony head bobbed with satisfaction. “That’s just what he said.”

“His allotment?”

“Yep. I don’t know what he meant but that’s what he said, all right.”

“Anything else? Anything about why it was worth something?”

Mallard shook his head. “Nope. That was all he said. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Like I told you, he always had some kind of big business deal going, or said he did.”

“Mention the name of whoever he was waiting for?”

“Nope. He was just excited, that’s all. Then I came back in here to work, and next time I went out, he was gone.”

T
HE DISPATCHER REACHED
Wager before he reached the Gypsum Motel. “Sheriff Spurlock wants you to phone him when you get a chance.”

“Does he need to see me?”

“No, he just said to give him a call when you can.”

“Will do.” And no, the dispatcher said to Gabe’s question, there were no messages for him.

Wager parked his car outside his room’s window so he could glance through the curtains if he heard anyone near it. It wasn’t much in the way of security, but it was all the motel had to offer. Spurlock was still at the office when Wager called.

“Just want to know what you’ve been up to, Officer Wager. You work for me, I expect daily reports.”

Wager managed to stifle the comment that came to his tongue; it had to do with who was and who wasn’t paying his salary. “I just got back from the reservation, Sheriff. Talking to Del Ponte’s brother.”

“Find out anything?”

“Nothing that definitely says Rubin was murdered. He was excited about some kind of deal about to happen. Did you run across anything on that?”

“Some kind of deal? What kind of deal?”

“His brother didn’t know.”

“I never heard anything about it. Does that make it look like a homicide?”

“Not yet. I understand Del Ponte’s widow’s your niece.”

“Yep. My youngest sister’s daughter. I sure hate to see something like this happen to anybody, but it’s especially hard when it happens to kin.”

“Did you and Del Ponte get along?”

“Get along? Mostly. Some things about him I didn’t care for much—talk the ears off a mule if the mule stood there long enough. But he took care of Sharon and the kids, and I didn’t see that much of him anyway. Couple times a year, when me and Gracie had them over for dinner or went over there.”

“Do you know if Del Ponte and his wife were having troubles?”

A silence. “You mean like marriage troubles?”

“Yes.”

“No. But I never asked about that. Never had call to. You find something there?”

“His wife seems to be friendly with Jesse Herrera—runs the Egnarville store. But I don’t know how friendly.”

Another silence. “Sharon was fool enough to run away and marry too young, but I don’t think she’s fool enough to do something like that. I sure don’t. I don’t know Herrera—he’s new to the county. One of those refugees from California.” He added, “But he’s married, I do know that. If it was something like that, his wife would learn about it damn fast, and as far as I know, she’s still around.”

“I’m just looking for possibilities, Sheriff.”

“You mean the possibility that Sharon and this Herrera might have killed Rubin?” Wager let his silence be agreement. “Well, it sounds like you’re scratching goddamn hard to find your possibilities. Like I say, Herrera’s got a wife. And I can’t see Sharon killing anybody.” But they both knew stories of husbands killing wives and wives killing husbands. “You got anything you can take into court, Wager?”

“No,” Wager admitted. “Do you know what kind of allotment Del Ponte might have had?”

“Allotment … ? He was quarter-breed. Might’ve had something that way.”

“I thought the quarter-bloods were bought out. Couldn’t live on the reservation anymore.”

“That’s the way it is now. Wasn’t that way before. But those damn Indians have things so screwed up out there, God only knows who’s getting what anymore.”

Wager turned over that possibility in his mind. “One thing I haven’t found yet is any connection with the other killings.”

“If you think Sharon did it, I’m not a bit surprised to hear that. You tell your theory to Durkin?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, unless you got some evidence, Wager, I’d just as soon you keep your suspicions to yourself. I understand you got to have those suspicions—it’s … well, it’s the way an officer has to think. But unless you got some damn good evidence, I’d just as soon you didn’t start mouthing Sharon’s name around. I’d just as soon you didn’t cause that girl any more hurt.”

“No need to say anything to Durkin.”

“Fine.”

Durkin answered on the second ring and, from the broken sound of his transmission, Wager figured the man was using a mobile telephone. He let Wager make his report without interruption, then asked his first question, “Did you find out if Del Ponte joined the Constitutional Posse?”

“Both his wife and his brother say he didn’t. She did know about his work as an informant. In fact, everybody seems to have known he was an informant.”

“Well, that’s what they say now. It got in the paper when the story on his death came out.”

“How? Who told the reporter?”

“I did. Figured I’d pressure the sons a bitches a little—make them worry about how much Del Ponte might have told me and who else might be an informant.”

It wasn’t the way Wager would have done it, but Durkin was getting paid more than he was. And every man had a right to make his own mistakes. “I haven’t found anything to rule out the Constitutional Posse, but nobody I talked to seems to think they’d kill anyone.”

“Sure. That’s why they practice weaponry and military maneuvers—because they don’t want to shoot anybody. All right,” Durkin’s voice said he was through, “continue working on the Constitutional Posse angle and keep me closely informed, Wager. Daily reports.”

“Wait a minute—I have a couple of questions for you. Did you ever run across anything about a deal coming down that Rubin was involved in?”

“No. The only thing we talked about was the Posse.”

“You didn’t hear that he was excited about something just before he died?”

“I haven’t been investigating him, Wager. Not my case. That’s why you’re here, remember?”

“Was there any deal the federal men might have been involved in?”

“Deal?”

“Either one of the victims. Were they doing business with somebody?”

“Not that I know of…Kershaw worked full time for the government. Holtzer probably had some jobs in the private sector, but I don’t know what. You might ask Henderson, if you really think it’s important.”

“How about some kind of illegal business?”

“What the hell, Wager, are you suggesting malfeasance?”

“It’s an angle. It has to be looked at.”

“That angle has nothing to look at. It doesn’t exist. You just keep on Del Ponte and the Posse. I’ll handle the deaths on the reservation. That clear?”

At least Liz was glad to hear his voice and to listen to what he had to say about the Del Ponte case. Possibly because she wasn’t expecting a daily report, and certainly because it gave her a chance in turn to blow off steam about the latest on her fellow councilman, Weldon McGraw: “I’m not certain what he and his cronies are up to, Gabe, but I think he’s getting some kind of under-the-table money for that new River Park project.”

“Why’s that?”

“Remember I told you he tried to pass a tax break for the Broncos and all?”

“Yeah.”

“I get the feeling that was a red herring—something he knew would get shot down. Something to make the other council members feel bad so they would be more inclined to pass his next proposal.” Liz had long ago told Wager that most council members kept very accurate scorecards on each other, and if they couldn’t support one of a fellow member’s bills, would try to make it up on something else. It was the way deals were cut in council chambers. “He and Ronald Pyne went out to lunch with some members of the state gambling commission. They’re obviously trying to buy their votes for something, and my guess is it’s the River Park project.”

Colorado already had a state lottery and three communities in the state where casino gambling was legal: the old mining towns of Central City, Blackhawk, and Cripple Creek. Denverites who wanted to gamble were offered cheap and convenient rides courtesy of those towns’ various casinos. So Wager couldn’t see that legalizing gambling in Denver, provided the voters supported it, would corrupt the municipal morality. Which is what he told Liz.

“That’s not the issue, Gabe! Currently, I don’t have an opinion about legalized gambling in Denver because I haven’t seen any studies of its impact on the city. What I do care about, however, and the point I’m trying to make, is that McGraw and Pyne are involved. And where those men go, the public trust suffers.’’

“Hey, Liz, get off your soapbox. The River Park’s going to be in the city limits, right? Nobody can put a casino in there without a public vote. A statewide vote, at that.”

“What about a gambling boat in the river? It’s a navigable waterway and that makes it a federal jurisdiction that supersedes local laws. What about that possibility, Gabe?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “I guess they could open a casino. But it would still be subject to state regulations. Has McGraw been having lunch with any federal officials?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What about the Coast Guard?”

“Of course not!”

“Well, when he does, then you can start worrying about a gambling boat—which, we both know, would have to be a damn small one to float in the South Platte.” He pictured it. “A row-boat, maybe. Could hold a four-hand poker table and an ice bucket.”

“It’s not funny, Gabe. He’s up to something,” she said stubbornly. “I know he is!”

But Wager did not intend to get into an argument, even a friendly one. For one thing, McGraw was, from Wager’s point of view, a pretty silly thing to argue over; for another, when it came to the topic of city politics, Liz usually won. He changed the subject. “I ran across Evelyn Litvak’s husband.”

“You met him?”

“No, just saw him drinking coffee with some buddies. I didn’t speak with him or anything.”

“I saw Evelyn yesterday. She looked awful. Apparently he’s been making threats of some kind if she tries to fight for custody.”

“Where’s the case being heard?”

“I think she said Montezuma County.”

That made sense; La Sal County didn’t have a court. A judge came up one day a week from Cortez to try local misdemeanor cases. “Litvak has a lot of friends out here.”