Nightzone (18 page)

“In light of what happened in the past couple of days, Lynn came down to express her company's interest in person,” Miles said. “I have one of their packets over in the truck. And you know, regardless of what I was saying the other day, it sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

That was fast,
I thought. “More power to you.”

“I wondered if I could get you to take a look at it.” He managed to sound as if I'd already agreed to do such things for him. I decided not to argue, not to play hard to get. A more sincere entrepreneur than Miles Waddell there never was, but I had the feeling he was going to have to work hard to avoid being skinned. Someone as attractive, smooth, and sweet-talking as Lynn Browning could pull the wool over his eyes with a few elevated heartbeats. More importantly, I was curious.

“I'm not familiar with United Security Resources,” I said to Mrs. Browning. “How about a company capsule in fifty words or less.”

She smiled, but it was a practiced delivery. She slipped the earpiece of her sunglasses into her pocket, and her gaze was direct and unflinching—almost as if she knew exactly what impact those eyes had on men, and wanted their full effect turned loose on me.

“We employ two hundred and forty security specialists around the world, almost always in small teams. We work entirely with private enterprise. No embassies, no politics, no celebrity security. One of our newest contracts is with a small container shipper, placing two employees on each of their seven container ships. We have people with a contractor on the ice roads up in the north country. We have two people helping with a massive university study in Peru at Machu Picchu. There is a team at a major health facility that's being built by one of the big computer companies in Zimbabwe.”

She paused, maybe to see if I'd been counting words. I hadn't, and looked expectant.

“Our primary interest is providing security for very special needs. We do not do box store parking lots at Christmas, or provide ride-along armed services for bank couriers. As I said, we do not stand guard for celebrities or politicians.”

“You pick and choose.”

“Yes, sir. We do.”

“You flew into Posadas today?”

She nodded. “The new airport paving job and runway extensions are impressive, by the way.”

I picked up an abandoned zip top lid that had faded to a nice soft silver. Trash or artifact—it was only a matter of perspective. “And what challenges does Mr. Waddell face that your firm is eager to help with?”

“He and I discussed some of the commonly held impressions the public might have about private security firms,” Lynn said. “First of all, we are not a gang of thugs. We don't stand in the corner dressed in black, glowering at folks while every once in a while talking into a little wrist radio. We learn the entire operation, and then we phase into it in the most seamless and effective way possible.” She clasped her hands together. “We like to be proactive, not reactive.” She smiled. “We
can
react, if the need arises. We prefer to make confrontation unnecessary. We do that by making sure that
our
employees have a sincere interest in the project to which they're assigned, and understand its unique challenges.”

“That presupposes a hell of an educated, trained staff,” I said.

“Two things are absolute for our hires,” she said. “One, a four-year college degree in something useful.” She smiled. “One of our newest hires has a bachelor's in music from Ithaca College in New York. Second, we require successful completion of a reputable, nationally ranked law enforcement academy. We pay for that if it isn't already on the resumé. Our folks need a clear understanding of what their boundaries are.”

“Lots of cops don't have that,” I scoffed. “Military experience?”

“That's usually a plus, but not always, and not required.”

Mrs. Browning seemed entirely comfortable with being interviewed in this remote spot, and in no hurry to be elsewhere. She clearly understood why Miles had hiked her up the side of the mesa to talk with me. And I was impressed that she wasn't glued to her cell phone.

“Do you feel you have a fundamental understanding of what Miles is undertaking here? I mean, the
scope
of it?”

“I showed Lynn the blueprints,” Miles offered quickly. I looked at him in surprise.

“You say you have a proposal from her firm in the truck?”

“It's not so much a proposal as it is an introduction to our company,” Mrs. Browning said. “We can't make a formal proposal, a bid, until we know the details.”

“Ah,” I said. “Of course.” I selected just the right limestone chair and relaxed back. “So you've seen the blueprints. All the projects?”

“A great deal, anyway. The train, the tram up the mesa face, the restaurant, the California project, the various sized telescopes and dishes linked to the big-screen theater…most ambitious.”

“Yes.”

“I would expect many interesting challenges posed by all of that.”

“Yes again,” I said. “And most of all, that it doesn't become a case of good money just tossed away.”

“Certainly that, especially during the construction and development stage. I was impressed with the California project.”

“The big brute.”

She squatted, balancing on the balls of her feet. “We look at the little things, too. Like the logistics of no outside lights after sunset.” She made a face of consternation at that, and added, “Wow.”

“We have those little solar-charged path lights…they'll be like the aisle delineators in a movie theater,” Miles said proudly. Mrs. Browning smiled at him.

“And like I said, that's a small thing. But there will be hundreds, maybe thousands of
small things,
and we will have to pay attention to them all—and how they interface with the public.” She took a breath. “That's why we advocate an open-ended contract, sir. We're not here to duplicate what the sheriff's department does, or the State Police. We'll be looking to prove our worth to Mr. Waddell every step of the way. And if we don't…well, then, he tells us to take a hike.”

“What's your take on our recent events?” I pointed off toward the electric company's construction site.

“You know,” she said, “I've read the newspaper accounts that have just started to come out, especially out-of-state. Some of it is troubling. Some of it is just thoughtless people making grandstand statements. About as important as some guy standing on the street corner with a sign protesting big SUVs. All I can say for sure is that there is
potential
for trouble there. And I mean beyond the damage to the power line. You know,” and she looked down at the ground, frowning, “one of the recent issues we've been following with increasing interest is this secession idiocy.”

“You're kidding?” I had written off the whole group as just a bunch of spout.

“No. A lot of it is nothing more than what my husband calls red-necked bellyaching about big government.” Something must have vibrated in her pocket, because she drew out a little gadget, glanced at the screen, and put it away. “But it's also an opportunity to make a lot of money. There's a lot of money to be made pandering to people's fears. Like selling boatloads of generators before every hurricane. The quick buck crowd.” She grinned, but her mouth was hard when she added, “One step up from the folks who peddle canned, dehydrated water.”

“You see a lot of that?”

“No, not a lot. But enough that it troubles industrial investors thinking to move ops to the Southwest. They want a good workforce, good utilities and infrastructure, maybe some state or local tax breaks. They
don't
want some doofus sawing down their power poles.” She rose to her feet, gracefully, without the popping of a single joint. “I'm not saying that's what you have here, either. But all the grandstanding articles we've read shout the same anti-government sentiments, one way or another. It's rare that somebody takes overt action like this.” She turned and watched the county road.

“I don't know if paranoia is passed through drinking water or what,” she said, “but there it is. And even without
any
of that, Mr. Waddell is going to face some security issues with his development. Part of it is because millions and millions of dollars are involved, and when you spill that much honey, it draws lots of flies. Part of it is genuine paranoia about new development in their backyards. Part of it is just because the world is full of nuts. What we've learned over the years is not to underestimate.”

The county road was sending up regular plumes of red dust, one truck after another, and as the flow continued, Miles Waddell glanced at his watch. In the distance, I saw a vehicle or two heading up the mesa boulevard. The rancher was going to discover the true joys of trying to be in several places at once.

My own phone chirped, and I ignored it. What did attract my attention was a tan-clothed figure trudging across the prairie toward us. I hadn't noticed her when she joined the parking lot down below, and what Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman wanted with us was anyone's guess, but I soon found out. Lynn Browning followed my gaze and cracked a huge smile.

“Company,” she said. “I wanted to talk with her today, but I didn't expect she'd find us out here.” Browning didn't just stand there and wait. Instead, she set off down the slope at a brisk almost-trot.

“What do you think?” Waddell asked.

“About?”

“Mrs. Browning.”

“I'd like to meet
Mister
Browning.”

“He usually flies the chopper, but couldn't make it today.” Waddell said. “So she flew herself, and I met her at the airport. Mighty impressive, Bill.”

“If she's got a helicopter, why not just land out here?”

Waddell shrugged. “I suppose she has her reasons. Maybe it's more discreet this way.” He laughed. “Maybe she doesn't want to get their fancy bird all dusty.”

Down below, the two figures merged with first a vigorous handshake and then a hug. “I'll be damned,” I said. “Life is full of surprises.”

Chapter Nineteen

As they almost sauntered up the hill, I could see that Lynn Browning was doing most of the talking—no surprise in that. The undersheriff absorbed like the best ocean sponge. And Mrs. Browning was giving her plenty to absorb. On the county road, a flat-bed tractor-trailer hauling three large spools of something raised a mammoth, billowing cloud. The truck slowed for the power line repair site, then motored on toward the mesa access road. It was going to take months for the air to settle out all the crap raised by the construction.

“Tell you what.” Miles glared at his watch as if it were lying to him. “I need to be down there. Look, if there's anything else you need from me…” He turned and regarded Mrs. Browning and Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman as they approached. “You'll let me know what you think?”

“Sure enough. That part is easy.”

His meeting on the trail with the two women was only the briefest of pauses. I saw Miles motioning toward me, and then ducking his head apologetically as he made his exit. I might have resented the hand-off, were the folks in question not Estelle Reyes-Guzman and her friend. They were going to be hard folks to refuse.

As the pair made their way up to my vantage point, I had the thought that now would be a perfect time to go on vacation, far, far away. Waddell's world was growing into a beast that could suck me in, multiple investigations were swirling around me, and not least of all, my godson was soon giving a formal concert that promised surprises. My world would have to stop spinning to miss that performance, but all the rest?

I put on a cheerful, welcoming face and extended a hand to Estelle. Her grip was strong and warm, and she drew me into a powerful hug and held it long enough that I wondered if I was under arrest.

“Hey there,” I managed.

“Carlos was badgering me to remind you about tonight.” She finally drew back, but didn't let go of my hand. She had always been more attentive than I deserved, but doubly so after the Baum shooting.

“Wouldn't miss it.” I glowered and grumbled, “And we've heard that before.”

“I've asked Lynn to join us.”

“Absolutely.”

“I wanted to talk with Estelle about two things,” Browning said. “That's actually what prompted the trip at this particular time, although I wanted to see the
NightZone
site before we formulated a final proposal for Mr. Waddell. The weather is supposed to be perfect tomorrow, and we'd like to shoot a series of aerial photos of the mesa…the road approach and several other physical features that might impact what we do.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Look, you two have a lot to talk about. But before I hit the road, I have to ask how you two come to know each other.”

“Nothing more complicated than roommates in college,” Mrs. Browning replied. “And our paths manage to cross now and then—not often enough.”

I laughed. “I had a roommate once…can't even remember his name.”

“We've stayed in touch over the years. You know, until today I've never had the opportunity to visit Posadas. Everything just fell into place. And that brings me to number two.”

She smiled at my puzzled expression. “Number one was the aerial photos. I wanted the S.O. to know whose helicopter was snooping over private property. You know how rumors go. And now, I'm wondering if
you
,” and she touched my left shoulder, “can break away and join us? I could use a tour guide, and Mr. Waddell won't come. He says that he gets airsick, but suggests that you might be persuaded. He claims you know every rock in Posadas County.”

“I've turned over a few,” I said. “I'll check my busy schedule, but I'd be happy to.”
And that's how all this suck-in works,
I thought ruefully. The inability to use the simple word
no.

“Eight o'clock?”

“Sure. Assuming the district attorney doesn't have other ideas.”

She nodded gratefully. “The other thing I wanted was to develop a feel for how the local agencies are viewing this project.” She looked hard at Estelle. “Especially the S.O.”

“I'm not so sure that the sheriff has given Mr. Waddell's project much thought,” Estelle said carefully. “Everything is still so tentative. As the construction really starts rolling, if this project is to be anywhere near the scope planned, we'll have to develop carefully thought-out strategies.”

“We can help with that,” Lynn Browning said eagerly. “Let's find some time this afternoon to talk about it.” She made a gesture that included me, and I held up both hands.

“I'll see you for dinner. This afternoon, I really need to get a few things done.”

Mrs. Browning nodded graciously. “I hope you find your pack rat.” She sounded as if she meant it.

Estelle drew a business card out of her blouse pocket, and jotted on the back. “This is the vehicle registered to George Baum.” She passed the card to me. “It's troublesome that he's managed to stay below the radar. His soon to-be-ex-wife said that George and his father were close, but she thinks that maybe taking the child was Mr. Baum's idea, not George's.”

“And maybe they'll win the family of the year award.” I shrugged. “We'll keep our eyes open. That's about all we can do.” Knowing what car George Baum drove might be a help, but half the cars on the road were silver, and a fair percentage of them were late model mid-sized sedans. I wasn't about to waste my time surveying parking lots or camping in my rearview mirror trying to spy just the right Camry.

I earned another hug and a handshake, and the two women left me to my pack rat hunt. The mound of rock-strewn prairie I was exploring produced a .270 rifle shell casing, new enough to be from a hunt within the past couple of years. I'm glad the shooter had been concentrating on his prey and not searching crannies. It was amazing to me how an artifact, especially one as spectacular as the old Colt, could remain undiscovered for so long.

The possible camping site yielded nothing other than an empty can or two. For a long time, I stood on the apex of the highest rock pile. Cat Mesa would have stood in Bennett's path, forcing him to cross to the east or west of it. Without a path of artifacts to mark his way, it was a fifty/fifty guess. I needed an eyewitness. Bennett had sired a daughter who married the man who killed him. If the homicidal young man and his wife had produced children before he was hanged for his father-in-law's murder, the Posadas County court house had no records of it.

I took a deep breath and stretched my back, turning in place. My phone did its irritating little noiseless dance in my pocket, as if knowing that I had paused in my endeavor and might deign to answer the damn thing. I fumbled it out and turned so the sun wouldn't blank the screen. Sheriff Robert L. Torrez never called to chat, to pass the time of day, or to try out a new
app,
whatever those are.

“Gastner.” Nothing happened, and I turned the gadget over. “Gastner.”

“Where are you?”

“Well good afternoon to you, too,” I said. “I'm standing out here on Bennett's Fort, thinking great thoughts and enjoying summer in the middle of winter.”

We enjoyed silence while the sheriff digested that. “Did you get that letter sent off to Colt?”

“Yes. We'll know to whom the gun was shipped in a month or so.”

“Huh,” Torrez grunted, having exhausted his apparent interest in that topic. I could hear quiet radio traffic in the background.

“Did you do any good down in Cruces?” I asked.

“Just got back. Found out a name, anyway.”

Pry, pry. “That's a start. Whose?”

“Ever heard of Elliot Daniel?” That the sheriff hadn't recognized the name was the reason behind the call. I might not remember what I had had for breakfast—or
if
I'd even eaten it—I often could dredge up a name from the distant past, and once I had the name, all the family connections fell into place.

I thought for a moment and came up blank.

“The girlfriend met him a time or two,” the sheriff added.

“Boyd's girlfriend?”

“Julie Warner, and the first thing she told me was that he's a wild-haired asshole.”

“Nothing illegal about that.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not sure she means it. This Daniel guy is Brandon Smith's nephew.”

“You're kidding.” I don't think Bob Torrez had ever told a joke in his life.

“He used to live up in Portillo, Smith says. According to him, Daniel has been trying to go to school some.”

“Trying?”

“Military took him, then he managed to wreck an eye. Not service related. He's been tryin' to get on with a couple of security firms.”

“Huh. Now isn't
that
interesting.”

“Anyways, we got Smith locked up on charges of conspiracy and harboring a fugitive. Their DA down there is more of a wuss than ours is, and he'll probably cut Smith a deal so that he walks. But not before we find out all we need to know about his nephew.” The sheriff abruptly fell silent.

“They're not going to cut any deals when the murder of a cop is involved.”

“Make you a bet?”

I wasn't about to go there. Conspiracy was one of those slippery charges that frequently got nowhere in court.

“Any ideas where Daniel is headed?”

“Only that he's on his own bike now. MVD says it's a 2010 Kawasaki 1100, black and gold. The girl—this Julie Warner—told us that she'd seen him on it from time to time, when he visited Curt Boyd. And we found Smith's Harley parked in one of the general lots at the university. Switcheroo.”

“Did his uncle want it back?” I jested and Torrez scoffed. “Clever guy, this Daniel,” I added. “He gets rid of the Nissan, then the Harley. If you have a name, you have everything else about him, Bobby. Good work.”

“Yup.”

“A current address?”

“An apartment in Cruces. The PD has it under surveillance.”

“Then it's just a matter of time.” I knew that Robert Torrez hadn't called me just to chat. And I was sure he felt no great compunction to keep me abreast of developments. “What do you need me to do for you?”

“What's United Security doin' in Posadas?” He didn't volunteer how he knew that they were in town, although a parked helicopter with a bold logo printed on the side took away all the guess work. If he had talked with his undersheriff, he knew damn well what the security firm was doing in his county.

“It's USR's boss lady herself,” I said. “A gal by the name of Lynn Browning. She's talking with Miles Waddell, shooting him a proposal to provide security. Tomorrow she wants to photograph Waddell's mesa from the air. She invited me along.”

“Interesting that she shows up.” Torrez's voice wasn't much more than a whisper. “Doesn't seem like her kind of gig.”

“You know her?”

“Yup. We've met.” He didn't explain where or when. Instead he said, “Estelle's going to be asking her what she knows about Elliot Daniel.”

“Browning would know him?”

“I'd guess so. He wanted to work for USR.”

“How do we know that?”

“That's what one of Boyd's roommates said. Daniel said he read about 'em on the Internet, and got all hot to trot. He came over one night lookin' to ask Boyd for help with the job application. The roommate remembered because Daniel was askin' how much stuff he could just make up. The two of 'em talked about how good that would be…for Daniel to be workin' for USR and have inside information about just what was goin' on up there.”

The sheriff gave me time to mull that over. I could see the web glimmering, tendrils touching here and there. What better way for a prospective employee to impress a potential boss than to encourage a new contract…bring in the promise of a large payoff with the application. A little eco-terrorism should have gone a long way toward spooking Miles Waddell into seeking security services. That was but one possibility. They all made me nervous.

“I'll be at Estelle's for dinner here in a little bit. Browning is going to be there as well. And tomorrow, we're flying a survey of the mesa.”

“Okay. Watch yourself.” The phone clicked off.