Leaning Land (27 page)

“I wasn’t on that detail,” said Henry Many Coats. He had his older brother’s stocky build, but his features were sharper, making him look younger than his twenty-two years. He sat deep in the leather armchair and held a Pepsi can on his lap in laced fingers, as if challenging Wager to pull him out. “So I tell you what I told that FBI man, I don’t know what C-4 Sergeant Nichols used or didn’t use.”

“You’ve talked to Agent Durkin?”

“That’s why we’re here. He called my brother, Ramey, and said he wanted to see us this morning, so we come here.” Slowly, Henry raised his can and drank, black eyes never moving from Wager’s face. “Maybe you ought to ask him, that FBI man. He talked real tough—I bet he’s got all the answers by now.”

Wager nodded. “He probably does, and I probably will. Did you talk to Nichols about things the tribal council’s planning?”

“What for? Tribal business is our business. Not a white man’s. Any white man’s.”

“But he knew the council was planning on putting up a gambling casino?” If Ray could make guesses, so could Wager.

“The council’s been talking about that a long time. It’s even been in the newspapers.”

“Did Nichols ever talk to you about the Flying W ranch?”

“No.”

“What about any of his friends?”

“Whose?”

“Nichols. Did any of Nichols’s friends talk to you about the Flying W. Say, Stan Litvak?”

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

Was that answer too quick? Wager tried to read the young man’s expression, his posture, any indication of wariness. But he could see only dislike. “Did anyone ever ask you anything about the casino? Where or when it might be built?”

A quiver of uneasiness, now, which told Wager more than the youth’s words. “Not that I remember. I don’t know. We talk sometimes. Can’t do much else when you got a midnight-to-four duty watch.”

“Was Nichols interested to learn that Ramey had bought Walter Lawrence’s land?”

The defiance returned. “Why don’t you ask Sergeant Nichols about that? Or that FBI man with all the answers.”

Wager turned to Louis Cloud. He, too, had a young-looking face, but his was round, the full cheeks smoothing out his prominent cheekbones. “Were you on the demolition team?”

“No.” Like their elder relatives, this Cloud apparently followed this Many Coats’s lead.

“Did Nichols or Litvak ever ask you about the tribe’s plans for the casino?”

“Don’t remember.” His eyes wandered back to the large-screen television set. The room was crowded with padded chairs and game tables, lamps and standing ashtrays. But the young men were the only ones enjoying its dim coolness.

“Did you ever hear either one of them mention Rubin Del Ponte’s name?”

“No.”

“What about Ronald Pyne?”

“No.”

“Did either of you go to Litvak’s wedding?”

That question puzzled both of them and their answers sounded less defensive. “No.”

Wager wagged his head at Ray, who smiled widely and said, “Thank you both, gentlemen. You’ve been a big help.”

Outside, in the heat, Ray said, “They don’t want to say anything to cops. Can’t win them all.” A snort. “But we probably got as much as Durkin did.”

“Would they lie in court?”

“If it came to that, I don’t think so—not if it involved white man’s business. They’d want none of that.” He lifted his hat to let the wind cool his hair. “Why?”

Wager shook his head. “Just looking down the road.”

He was still looking down the road when he stopped off at B.J. Haydn’s ranch to pick up a copy of the well-site coordinates. They were described in relation to distance and angle from surveyed benchmarks rather than by longitude or latitude, and Wager would need a USGS topo map of the area to locate the sites. Sheriff Spurlock might be able to help him with that, and on the way up State 181 from Egnarville, Wager tried his radio. The dispatcher told Wager that the sheriff was out of the office but that she could relay a message. He told her what he needed.

“We’ve got maps of that area, Officer Wager. You want to swing by here, I can have one for you.”

He glanced at his watch and pressed on the gas pedal. “See you in about an hour.”

Spurlock was back in his office by the time Wager arrived. “What you need a map of the Flying W for?”

Spreading the topographical map across the small folding table in the alcove he had been assigned, Wager told Spurlock about the drilling, what the drilling might mean, and Rubin. “They drilled along here—just inside the eastern boundary of the ranch.”

“Just off Narraguinnep Wash—I see. And this here’s Rubin’s land, and Walter Lawrence’s is here?”

“Generally. And here’s where they found Holtzer.”

Spurlock didn’t say anything, just made a grunting noise. Wager traced farther down the jagged pattern of contour lines that marked the face of Goat Mesa. This map did not name the points, but close between two sharp clusters of brown elevation lines was a blue squiggle that came out of a notch in the face of Goat Mesa and fed into Narraguinnep Wash. It was labeled “Spring,” but had no other name—apparently the mapmakers hadn’t talked to the Utes who lived there. It was the only permanent spring in the area and was surrounded by a splotch of green ink to indicate trees. It had to be Knife Springs. “Was Lawrence’s land. Ramey Many Coats bought it, and this is Luther’s land, now.”

Spurlock grunted again and looked at the paper Wager had received from Haydn. Then he went back to his office and reappeared with a small plastic protractor, the kind schoolchildren were required to have. He searched the map for a benchmark corresponding to the elevation that identified it in Haydn’s notes. Measuring the back angle from the black X on the map, he marked off the distance by means of the map’s scale. “They drilled in a line just off the BLM land and the reservation—starting up here above Lawrence’s property and then down past Rubin’s, and turning back, here, toward the ranch house.” He looked at Wager. “These along here were dry, but the rest looks like they found water. Most likely all the same water table, which means a hell of a lot of litigation over water rights. Could drag out for years.”

“The Utes can claim the subterranean water?”

“Given the crazy water laws in this state, anybody on neighboring land could probably claim it. But the Indians would have a real good case, being upstream—especially if they could show that using the underground water would affect their natural springs.”

“Like Knife Springs.”

“Yep. Can’t dam water or take water that makes a man’s well or spring run dry.” He added, “Not without a good lawyer, anyway.”

“Unless the landowners sell the rights.”

“Yeah. Unless.” The sheriff wiped both thick hands down the front of his swelling shirtfront. “Three deaths linked up with maybe some kind of motive—you done good work, Wager. I mean that. I don’t know where it’s got us or how it ties into anything else, but there sure as hell seems to be something here.”

As Ray had said, motive was there. But whose motive? Right now, it looked like Luther Del Ponte and Ramey Many Coats profited from two of the killings. But who profited from Holtzer’s? And from Kershaw’s?

“Did you find out anything about Litvak’s new wife?”

Spurlock looked up from the map. “Not much. She comes from over on the eastern slope. Colorado Springs, I think. Not many people here know her.”

“How did Litvak meet her?”

“I been told it was up at the Lazy J outfit. They run a fancy dude ranch and fishing camp—Litvak was doing some wrangling for them and met her a couple of summers ago.” A wag of his head. “That’s about all anybody around here knows. Everybody says they seem real happy together.” He rubbed his eyes. “That man Durkin’s started talking to people about that C-4. Howie told me he got a call this morning from Durkin. Asking all sorts of questions and not sounding like he believed any of the answers. Even threatened to bring Howie before a federal grand jury! I hope that man don’t stir up people any worse than they are. All we need’s a federal agent hauling people off for questioning, threatening them, making them feel like Washington’s a bigger enemy, even, than before. God only knows what’ll happen if he gets folks riled enough.”

“He’s supposed to keep a low profile. That’s one of the reasons I was sent out here.”

“Yeah, well, the man’s got power. And he likes to use it. I wish to God the FBI would test people for common sense before they go handing out badges.” Spurlock had an idea. “Why don’t you remind him why you’re out here? Make him back off until you finish up your job? I’m not just whistling Dixie about the way folks around here feel, Wager. Durkin starts throwing his weight around, somebody’s going to shove back, and then people are likely to get hurt.”

The sheriff was right. Dislike of federal agents simmered among a lot of people in the county, heated by stories and rumors of government abuse of power elsewhere. It wasn’t impossible that, given the Constitutional Posse telling each other scare stories—and in turn scaring Durkin—a Waco or Ruby Ridge assault could erupt in La Sal County. “Have you talked to him?”

“You think he’d hear anything I said?”

Wager nodded agreement “There’s no guarantee he’ll listen to me, either. But I’ll try. Do you know if he’s talked to Nichols yet?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Maybe he’s saving him for last—but you can bet your month’s paycheck that some of the people he’s talked to have already let Bradley know about it.”

“Officer Wager—you got a long-distance telephone call.” The woman who looked like a golf ball on a tee leaned into the small room. Spurlock told Wager to take it on the extension in his office.

“Gabe! This is about the third place I’ve tried—I left messages at your motel and at the tribal police number, so don’t pay any attention to them.” Liz’s voice sounded both excited and worried. “That woman you asked me about? Stanley Litvak’s new wife? She’s the ex of Woody Riemer! Don’t you know who he is?”

“No.”

“One of Exxon’s big executives. He had an affair two or three years ago with Mai Sorensen. She was that newscaster on Channel Five in Colorado Springs. Remember?”

“No. But you’re telling me his wife sued for divorce and got a good settlement out of it?”

“She had Marvin Eben for her lawyer.”

That was a name Wager did recognize—three times over: the firm of Eben, Eben, and Eben, whose motto was, “You get Eben, we’ll get even.” Not many of the people Wager dealt with could afford their fees, but he’d heard of their reputation for big wins. “She was happy with her settlement?”

“Her lawyer said at the time that it was ‘satisfactory.’ And she’s refused all interviews since then, so I guess she was paid enough to keep her mouth shut.” Liz’s next comment showed why she was worried and why she’d tried so hard to locate Wager. “With that much money, they’ll be able to provide very well for Evelyn’s daughter, Gabe. The court will have to consider that.”

“It may not be Litvak’s to spend—if the woman’s smart, she’ll have a prenuptial agreement.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps she put most of it in a trust for herself and any children she may have in case her marriage to Litvak doesn’t work out. That’s the kind of thing her lawyers would think of. But I’ll bet Litvak had her money in mind when he told Evelyn he was going to be rich! Do you have anything on him yet? The hearing’s only three days from now.”

Durkin had done his part—if unknowingly. “Tell her that a close associate of Litvak is under investigation by the FBI about the theft of explosives from a National Guard unit.” He stretched it a bit. “And that Litvak may be an accomplice.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

Litvak probably wouldn’t think so. “The guy might not be guilty, Liz—he’s not the primary suspect.” That as much to caution her as for Spurlock’s worried frown. “Here’s the local FBI agent’s name—and write this down: Douglas D. Durkin. And here’s his phone number in case Evelyn’s lawyer wants to talk to him.” Wager spelled the name and read the number from his notebook. “He’s the one investigating the theft. It’s not much, but it might be enough for the judge to grant a continuance until the FBI investigation’s over.”

“Wonderful!” Then, “But what about your investigation? What will this do to that?”

“It’ll give me a little more time. Did you find out anything about the investors in the Flying W?”

“Oh, I almost forgot—yes. I told McGraw I was very interested in investing, but I wanted to know who else was in on it besides him. He was pretty coy about it—apparently he’s one of several smaller investors and didn’t want to come off like just another frog in the pond. But they’re hungry to raise a lot of money as soon as possible, so he mentioned some of the big names. Hang on, I’ve got the list right here.” The line hissed. “All right, here’s what Weldon gave me: George M. Turner, Richard Maxfield, Lester Windecker, Jack Daily, Robert Cameron. Turner’s a big wheel in United Airlines and Maxfield is one of the DIA land speculators who made a fortune from the new airport and apparently wants to make another one—they both play golf with Pyne, and Weldon wanted me to know who his buddies are. I don’t know any of the others. Do you want me to ask around?”

“See if Bradley Nichols is one of the smaller fish.” He spelled the name.

“I’ll try—I know Turner from the Stapleton Airport committee. He’s a pretty decent guy.”

“Try hard, Liz. It might be important. And be sure to give Evelyn the word on her ex and the FBI today.”

Spurlock spoke even before Wager had set the telephone on its cradle. “Why’d you bring Stan’s name into Durkin’s investigation, Wager?”

“Durkin is already looking at anybody Nichols has ever talked to. You know that. And if he has some outside lawyers interested in what he’s doing—for whatever reason—he might think twice about how he does it. At the very least, they’ll be taking up some of his time.”

The sheriff, though he nodded, wasn’t convinced.

I
T WAS EARLY
afternoon when Wager’s tires stirred up dust from the gravel in front of his motel. Since breakfast, he had been doing a lot of driving and not much eating, so he felt stiff and hungry as he walked to his room before heading for the restaurant. The message light on the telephone beside the bed blinked a bright red, and he pushed the number for the office. Verdie answered after about three rings. “One message is just a telephone number, no name, but she called two times: once this morning and then about an hour ago.” She read it off and Wager recognized it as Liz’s office. “The other’s from a Mr. Henderson. Here’s his number.”