The mountain mans badge, p.19
The Mountain Man's Badge, page 19
Minus the fake sideburns, of course.
He strode to the table, all business, and sat opposite County Commissioner Elliott McBride Jackson, facing the room. Not the safest seat in the house, but at least he could see anyone coming at him. Empty tables surrounded them. He felt safe removing his own rarely-used cowboy hat.
“Did you watch the news last night?” Jackson asked him. The Commissioner took a sip of coffee and winced. “Damn, that’s awful.”
Ray signaled the short, Brillo-haired matron behind the bar, and she set to pouring him a cup. “Yes, I watched. Remind me to send Bruce Bailey a good bottle of Scotch whiskey for Christmas this year.”
“Was that your doing?” Jackson tried another sip of coffee and pushed it away.
“It was my understanding,” Ferguson said with a smirk, “that the good deputy did it on his own volition, pursuing truth, beauty, and justice.”
“In other words, yes.”
“In other words, ask your secretary,” Ferguson said. Damn him, playing innocent. “She might have some pillow talk to share with you. Officially, I’ve got nothing.”
“I would never pry into the private lives of my staff,” Jackson said with a glint in his eye. “So, let’s get down to business. How’s the case?”
Ferguson eyed him with caution. He didn’t trust politicians as a rule, and this one in particular. As much as he’d fumed in public about the leaks in the case coming from Carter’s shop, he harbored at least as much suspicion about Jackson, if not more. But, too late now. He’d cast his lot with the Chairman, and Jackson could help his own political career far more than the idiot hayseed sporting the sheriff’s badge at the moment.
“It’s going well,” he said. “We have a few loose ends to tie up, but the fact that he tried to flee helps with the optics. I expect he’ll beg for a deal, long before we go to trial.”
“And will you give him one?”
Ferguson shrugged, decided to play it coy. “We’ll consider anything that serves the public interest.”
“The only thing that would serve the public interest is if that man hangs by his neck in the public courtyard!” Jackson slammed the table with his fist, and coffee spilled out of his cup onto the table.
The wiry frame of the waitress reappeared out of nowhere, finally delivering Ray’s coffee. “Sorry for the delay—had to wait for a fresh pot. I’ll get a rag to wipe that up.” She vanished, giving Ray only enough time to read the name stitched into her blouse. Dot, the owner.
Ferguson sipped his coffee, grimaced at its harsh acidity, then stirred several thimbles of half-and-half and three doses of sugar into it. “Tell me,” he said, “why are you so gung-ho to see your cousin go down for this murder? Not that I doubt that he did it,” he added. “Not for a moment.”
“Isn’t his guilt enough? I tell you, if that man walks on this charge, after all of the crap he’s done and gotten away with over the years, it’ll be a grievous injustice. No, more than that. A travesty. A scandal!” Jackson glared at Ferguson. “Don’t let that happen, Raymond. You hear me? Don’t. Let. It. Happen.” He stabbed the table with his index finger with each word, as if to drive each one into the Formica.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Ferguson smiled. “I have my own reasons to want to win this one.”
“Like getting elected Attorney General of Oregon next year?” Jackson smiled for the first time since Raymond arrived. “Yes, a case like this could do wonderful things for a law-and-order candidate in this state.” He started to lean forward and lay his arms on the table to make another point, but just in time he noticed the spilled coffee.
“Let me get that spill wiped up for you,” Dot said from behind Raymond. She hummed tunelessly, pushing the brown liquid into her palm with the rag, leaving a wet river of grease behind. “There we go. Can I get you fellas any breakfast?”
“Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast,” Jackson said.
“Same,” said Ray, although he’d already eaten. Anything to get rid of the eavesdropping hag.
She moved over to another table, where a lone man had taken a seat, his face buried in a newspaper. Jackson cleared his throat. “What of our other, uh, priority? Anything new to report?”
Raymond lowered his voice and leaned toward Jackson. “With the TV news from last night, that ought to keep Carter’s attention off of our business. He’ll be fighting these leaks all the way to November. By then, we’ll have McBride’s conviction well in hand. I’m confident the voters will see fit at that time to return a law enforcement professional to head up the sheriff’s office. The polls I’ve seen already trend in that direction.”
Jackson frowned. “I don’t like leaving this matter in the hands of the public. Trust me, I know how fickle they can be. We need insurance.”
Ferguson sighed. “Outside of beating him at the ballot box, there’s little that I can do. Unless I catch him red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar—and, like it or not, Carter’s too careful, and too honest, to get himself mixed up in any of that.”
“What about him beating up that young deputy?” Jackson asked. “Couldn’t you charge him with assault?”
“That woman deputy actually roughed him up,” Ferguson said. “And we can’t start busting every cop who gets a little physical with perps. Think of where that would lead.” He shook his head. Courts and politicians already had placed too many silly restrictions on law enforcement without adding the chilling effect of an assault charge.
“There must be something we can do to Carter,” Jackson said with an impatient growl. The man had no sense of humor. “He was accused of a cover-up. Can’t you press charges on that?”
Ferguson shook his head. These pols could be so thick-headed sometimes. “That’s a civil offense, if anything. You know as well as I do, those charges won’t go anywhere in court. No, the only solutions are political. Which, I believe, is your area of expertise.”
“I don’t want to wait until November. Think of the damage he could do to this town!”
A rustling of paper distracted Ferguson for a moment. He glanced around. The closest person, the man with the newspaper behind him, seemed absorbed in his sports page. He faced Jackson again. “That’s not the only political solution. He was appointed by the County Board, after all. You could remove him.”
“I checked the charter. We’d have to impeach him, and my colleagues on the Board don’t have the courage to do that. Hell, most of them like the guy, for whatever reason.” Jackson scowled and picked up his coffee, thought better of it, and set it down. “We’d need to have something on him. Something big. Something he can’t weasel his way out of.”
“Like?”
Jackson narrowed his eyes. “A felony, for example.”
Ferguson rolled his eyes. “Carter’s not likely to go out and rob a bank.”
“I’m not talking about that.” Jackson lowered his voice to a whisper. “The man has a temper, I’m told.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And he’s separated from his wife.”
An uneasy stirring boiled in Ferguson’s gut. “So?”
“So, estranged couples have been known to argue. And cheat.” Jackson smiled, a cruel smile. “And men of his type have been known to let their emotions run away with them.”
“You want him to beat up his wife? Your own damned niece?” Ferguson could hardly keep his voice down.
“No!” Jackson scanned the room again. “I’m saying, we might find someone willing to do a little acting, so to speak. A woman, say, whose occupation might lend itself to, uh, extra-curricular activities...?” He smiled again.
Recognition finally dawned. “You mean, perhaps, one of Mr. Downey’s employees at the nightclub?”
Jackson nodded.
Ferguson considered the idea. “Not bad,” he said. “This could help with our other objective as well. I’ve heard that the establishment has fallen into harder times since Mr. Downey’s demise. Staff leaving, business being down. This could help drive the dagger into the heart of those awful places.”
“And we’d be rid of them for good. And I mean, for the good—of the county, that is.”
Ferguson grinned. “It’s ingenious. If we can find someone.”
Jackson shrugged. “You realize, of course, that some of the most frequent visitors to Mr. Downey’s establishments work on your task force...so I’ve heard.”
Raymond bristled. “That’s absurd.”
Jackson shook his head. “I have it on good authority. At any rate, they’ve been involved with enough arrests there over the years to have the whole staff on speed-dial. I say we use that resource, and quick. We should strike while the iron is hot and Carter’s attentions are drawn elsewhere.”
Ferguson relaxed. While Jackson more often than not infuriated him with unsubstantiated claims and pointless public posturing, Raymond had to admit that the deputies on his task force frequented the strip clubs—and probably had developed both personal and professional relationships there. Why not use them to his advantage?
Before he could respond, Dot appeared with plates in hand and set them in front of the men. “More coffee?” She picked up a pot she’d somehow stashed on the next table.
“Nothing more, thanks,” Jackson said with the sweet smile of a campaigner.
Raymond waited until she’d moved away, then nodded at Jackson. “I’ll look into this,” he said. “It’s a good plan.”
Jackson nodded and took a bit of his breakfast, then dropped his fork. “These are the worst eggs I’ve ever had,” he said.
Raymond shook his head. Spoiled brat of a politician. Nothing was ever good enough.
PHIL REARDON HID BEHIND his newspaper, waiting for the two men to leave the diner. They’d groused about the coffee, the food, the service, the grease—everything except the diner’s most important flaw: its complete and utter lack of privacy.
He’d heard every word of their conversation, and it disturbed him.
It also surprised him. Jackson, though well-known as a liar and scoundrel, had always struck him as being more careful than this. Speaking in public about a plot to unseat one of his political enemies seemed reckless, even wearing that awful disguise. He’d survived in local politics by bullying most opponents and cutting deals with the rest, usually at taxpayer expense, but he also held a job few others even wanted. Phil, like most people, remained willing to let him do it if it meant they didn’t have to.
The Assistant District Attorney’s complicity shocked him more. Ferguson had a reputation for intelligence, hard work, adhering to Christian values, and a passionate zeal for enforcing the law. But if he’d heard this right—and he had no doubts about it—Ferguson was conspiring to break the law. Commit perjury, even, or at least convince someone else to do so.
He understood, even if he didn’t agree, why they’d want to go after the strip clubs. As a father, he’d always despised the clubs and harbored secret fears of finding his daughters’ friends (never his daughters!) on stage someday. That alone kept him out of the clubs, despite the loneliness he’d suffered since his divorce. But their zeal for going after Lehigh Carter he didn’t understand. Lehigh went rogue at times, but he was honest to a fault. The independent streak they loathed was what most people liked about him. He couldn’t be corrupted like Buck Summers—or, for that matter, Jackson.
“More coffee?” Dot refilled his cup without waiting for an answer. Phil lowered his sports page and noticed that the two conspirators had left. “Thanks, Dot. Busy morning, huh?”
“About the usual. Some new faces, though.” She turned her head toward the now-empty table in the corner. “Normally I’d welcome a new customer, but...”
“Lousy tippers?”
Dot made a sour face, then nodded. “Two bucks on a twenty-five dollar tab. How’s a gal supposed to earn a living?”
Phil shook his head. “Can’t say I’m surprised. They’re not the nicest of guys.”
Dot cocked her head and rearranged the sugar bowl, creamers, and salt and pepper shakers on the table. “How d’you mean?”
“I shouldn’t say anything. It’s none of my business.” He went back to reading the newspaper.
Dot swatted at him with her towel. “Those are public officials. Everything they say is our business. Come on, what’d they talk about?”
Phil grimaced. He’d always been taught to keep his mouth shut, his nose clean, and his powder dry. He hated wading in to someone else’s business uninvited. But Dot kind of had a point about them being public employees, and Lehigh, a good guy, needed help against these goons.
“They seem to have it in for Sheriff Carter,” he said. “Talking about trying to get him out of office. Before the election, I mean.”
“Why?” Dot cleared the plates from their empty table onto a tray and paused by Phil’s side. “What’d he ever do to them?”
“I dunno. I guess they think he’s not up to the job, or something.”
She scoffed. “Compared to what we used to have, he’s a genius. But anyway, what can they do to him? He doesn’t answer to them, does he?”
“No, but...” He looked around and lowered his voice. “They’re talking about setting him up to take a fall on something he didn’t do. Get some stripper or something to say he beat her up. It’s all part of a plan to shut down the clubs. Sick, huh?”
“That’s terrible!” Dot set the tray down on the next table over and sat down across from Phil. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”
Phil nodded. “Pretty sure. I could hear them pretty good.”
“You have to tell the sheriff,” she said. “Warn him, before they—”
“No, no,” Phil said. “I couldn’t do that.”
“You have to, Phil. You can’t let them get away with that!”
“Dot, I have my own problems, okay? My wife won’t let me near my kids, she’s draining me of all my money—I got too much on my plate already.” He pulled out his wallet and dropped some bills on the table, including a generous tip. Hopefully enough to keep her from squawking too much about all this. “Look, just forget I said anything, okay?”
She shook her head. “This is serious business. You’ve got to do something.”
“Do something, like what? Get cross-wise with the rich and powerful? Yeah, right.” He stood and slid out of his chair. “That’s how people around here get killed. Just ask Jared Barkley and Ev Downey. I don’t want to be next. My kids need their daddy, even if their mother doesn’t think so.” He turned away from her and headed to the exit.
She caught up to him at the door, her face tense. “You sure about what you heard?”
He paused a moment, thought about it, and nodded.
“Well,” she said, “I ain’t got no little ones to worry about, and my husband would just as soon I go to jail as come home at night. So if you won’t do nothing about this, I will.”
Sweat broke out on Phil’s brow. “What are you gonna do?”
She lifted her chin, straightened her posture. “I’m gonna tell the sheriff the truth. What you do about it is up to you.” With that, she spun on her heel and strode into the kitchen.
Phil stared after her, cursing himself for opening his big, fat mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Julia wobbled into Lehigh’s office wearing two-inch heels and smelling of fingernail polish, or possibly polish remover, a clue that she’d had a pretty slow afternoon, as had Lehigh. She paused just inside the door, clutching an oversized yellow envelope. “The report from that independent lab you asked for came in just now,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see it right away.”
“Hold on a sec.” Lehigh looked up from his monthly crime report, a brief document dominated by bar fights and domestic squabbles, both numbering in the single digits despite the intense August heat. He waved Julia onward, hitting Save on the spreadsheet, a step he’d missed too many times, to his frustration. How many late nights had that mistake cost him? He took the report from her. “Thanks, Julia. You’re the best.” She remained standing in front of his desk, her eyes pinned to the floor. He cleared his throat. “Is there something else?”
She brushed her hand through her long brown hair, which looked a little brighter and fuller than usual, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other on her uncharacteristically high heels. He feared at one point she might tip over, but she righted herself. “Sheriff, I wondered if it might be okay...well, it’s our anniversary, and my husband wanted to take me out to dinner, but we could only get reservations at five, so—”
“Of course, of course. Enjoy yourselves. Where’s dinner at, anyhow?”
“Wilkinson’s, up in Wyee Falls. It’s an hour’s drive, so he was hoping to pick me up at four.”
“With my blessing. Enjoy.” He waited for her to wobble back out of the office, then opened his web browser on his phone. A few taps on the screen later, he had the number he needed.
“Wilkinson’s, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to buy a bottle of wine for a friend dining with you tonight.” The entire transaction took only a few minutes. Then he tore open the sealed envelope and found the section he needed.
The results startled him, even though it confirmed the suspicion he’d had that caused him to pursue the independent lab’s opinion in the first place. He sat back in his chair, contemplating the report’s implications.
The lab’s analysis showed that, without a doubt, George McBride’s 30-30 rifle could not have fired the bullet that killed Everett Downey.
He retrieved the county’s ballistics report from his file and scanned the report’s conclusions. That report declared a perfect match between the fatal bullet and the test bullets fired for the analysis. He scanned back into the detail of the report and examined the photographs of the bullets used.
Something didn’t add up.
He returned to the independent lab’s report. Checked the detailed analysis, and the photographs. Checked the other photographs.
They didn’t match.
He needed more information. An expert. Luckily, he had one he trusted nearby. He picked up the phone again.
