The mountain mans badge, p.6
The Mountain Man's Badge, page 6
He turned off the highway onto the gravel drive leading to his property. Low-hanging branches brushed the roof of his pickup. He’d neglected to trim them back since the fire—he’d need to get on that so the larger construction vehicles could pass without breaking them, or damaging the vehicles. That is, if his job ever allowed him a day off to get the trimming done.
His mood lifted in expectation of beginning the construction of the new house. The old structure, a 1950s ranch, had suffered from age, despite his diligent upkeep. Old pipes, old wiring, old wood siding, and three layers of asphalt roofing couldn’t have withstood the damp Oregon weather much longer anyhow. The fire had disrupted his life and cost him plenty, but it also created an opportunity to start fresh and give his bride the joy of living in someplace new.
He had very little new in his life, materially speaking. He drove an old truck—always had. He seldom bought new clothes, and Stacy had given up on buying anything for him, since he never wore what she bought. He preferred calculators and manual typewriters over computers and soft, broken-in sofas and mattresses. His TV, lost in the fire, had knobs and buttons he actually had to touch to change channels or volume. Even his toaster was a hand-me-down.
Hell, even the new things in his life were old. Stacy, his new bride, was an old flame from twelve years before. Lucky, who he’d adopted a year ago, was four or five, middle-aged for a dog. His job felt old the second day he sat at the desk. Only Diamond, the border collie puppy, had yet to celebrate a birthday.
But soon he’d have something new: a house.
Or, he realized when his job site came into view, not.
He parked his truck at the end of the driveway. His empty driveway. No contractors to be found.
He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the contractor.
“Hey. You’ve reached Melvin of Crabb Tree Construction. I’m sorry I can’t take your—”
Lehigh pressed the “pound” key, resisting the urge to actually pound the phone. After the beep, he said, “Mr. Crabb, Lehigh Carter. I’m at the site, thought you’d be here waiting for me. Did plans change?” He left his number and hung up.
He got out of the truck, breathed in the crisp mountain air. He missed being able to do that every morning, living in Stacy’s suburban home. Her two-acre property, while large for an in-town location, still felt cramped and crowded by too-close neighbors. Before moving in with her, Lehigh had never lived closer than a half-mile to his nearest neighbor, an experience Maw had characterized as “city living.” Any place where he could hear the neighbor’s car backfire was too crowded for Lehigh.
He circumnavigated the charred remains of his house. Most of the walls, and all of the roof, had collapsed in the rainy months following the fire. It would take the contractor days, maybe weeks, to clear the rubble before they could rebuild. Already they ran the risk of not finishing the exterior shell before the rains came in fall. A delayed start would almost ensure it.
That damned cuff link just bugged him. He needed some resolution there. On a whim, he speed-dialed the McBrides. “Consuela?” he said upon recognizing her voice. “May I speak to George?”
“He is not in, Señor Lehigh. Is there a message?”
Perfect. Maybe he could find out without alerting the senator to his snooping. “Consuela, do you happen to know if George ever found that cuff link he lost the night of my fund-raiser?” Lehigh asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I will ask him this evening if you like.”
“No, no,” he said. “I, uh, was thinking maybe I’ll replace them for him, as a surprise for his next birthday.”
“He would like that!” Consuela said. “I will keep your secret.”
He called Melvin Crabb again, and again got voice mail. This time he didn’t leave a message. He needed to get to the office anyway—the County’s law enforcement business would not wait. He cursed his decision to take the damned job and returned to his truck. He found paper, jotted down a quick note for the contractor, and taped it to the once-intact section of dark brown siding on the front of his house. The bright white paper stuck out like a pimple on the cheek of the Lumber Queen. Hell, NASA could probably see it from space.
He drove to the sheriff’s office, breaking most of the speed limits the county paid him to enforce, still wrestling with guilt over not sharing the evidence of the cuff link and footprint he’d found. If it came out that he’d sat on his findings, his critics’ claims of him hiding evidence would look pretty believable.
He made it to his desk before nine-thirty. Deputy Ted Roscoe followed him from the reception area to his office up the hall.
“District Attorney’s office called,” Roscoe said. “Five, six times. They said it’s urgent.”
“Did they say that on the fifth call or the sixth?” Lehigh hung his hat on the rack in the corner and booted up his stupid computer.
“All of ’em. I reckon they expected you sooner.”
“Yeah, I reckon that too. Did they say what it’s about?”
“Something about a ballistical report.”
“Ballistics.” Lehigh sighed. “Did they send one over?”
“Uh, I’ll go check.” Roscoe hurried out. Before the door closed behind him, Lehigh’s desk phone rang. Two quick rings—an internal call. “This is Lee—uh, Sheriff Carter.”
“Sheriff, this is Julia at the front desk. The, uh, District Attorney’s office is on the line. He’s called several times—”
“Yeah, I know. Patch him through.” Something was eating The Reverend up this morning. Might as well find out what.
“Mr. Carter? Ray Ferguson.”
“You’ve been busy this morning, Raymond.”
“Did you get my messages? About the suspect? We need to make an arrest, ASAP. Now, I understand if you—”
“Slow down, Ray. Who’s the suspect? What’s the sudden interest in locking someone up? Do you know something I don’t?” Lehigh cringed at his unintended open invitation for a cheap shot, but Ferguson didn’t take the bait.
“Have you seen the ballistics report?” Ferguson said. “I’ve been in touch with Detective Maddox and he’s ready to go, but given the, ah, sensitive nature of this case, we didn’t want to proceed without you knowing.”
“Not yet.” Lehigh circled his desk, pulled open his office door, and craned his neck to give himself a wider view of the hallway. No sign of his deputy. He covered the phone. “Roscoe? You got that report for me?”
“I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version,” Ferguson said. “The report identified the weapon as a Winchester 30-30 rifle. Very unique set of identifying marks on this weapon. Probably an antique.”
“And?” Something gnawed at him. He should know why this was important, but he couldn’t bring it to mind.
“And there’s identifying records on file. We have an exact match. We must test it again to confirm, of course, but I have no doubt about who owns and possesses this weapon.” The Reverend cleared his throat. “We’ve got a warrant for a search of the owner’s home, but, well, we wondered if you wanted to be present. There’s a very strong likelihood it will lead to an arrest.”
“Of whom? Who owns a gun like that?”
Lehigh waved Roscoe in, who’d just reappeared in his open doorway. Roscoe handed him the report and Lehigh scanned it. He turned to the page containing a photo of a Winchester lever-action 30-30. He’d seen this type of weapon before. Recently, in fact.
On the wall of the den in the house of—
“Your father-in-law,” Ferguson said. “Senator George Lindsey McBride.”
Chapter Seven
Lehigh’s phone rang in the middle of a tough afternoon spent writing a summary report of open cases due to the County Commission the day before. He hated writing and struggled with it. No doubt the two facts were related, but report writing was an important part of the job—another aspect Jim Wadsworth had failed to mention when he recruited Lehigh for the post a few months before.
He hated interruptions almost as much as writing reports—almost. He slid the keyboard aside and picked up the receiver. “Carter here.”
“Sheriff, it’s Bruce Bailey. How are you doing today?”
Lehigh grimaced. A bad day was about to get worse. He suppressed a silent curse at Julia for letting the call through and put as much pep in his voice as he could muster. “Still on the right side of the black bars, so I guess I’m okay. You?”
Bailey guffawed. “Good one, Sheriff! Can I print that?”
Lehigh cringed. When reporters acted like sycophants, they needed information that they should not have. “Only on the funny pages. What can I do you out of, Bruce?”
“Do me out of—hilarious!” Bailey brayed again. “You know, Mr. Carter, if this law enforcement thing doesn’t work out for you, you could give comedy a try.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. So, did you call just to compliment my stand-up routine, or is there some higher purpose to this conversation?” Lehigh hit Save on his document and wondered why Julia hadn’t sent this call to voicemail. What a waste of time. A window popped up, asking for a filename, defaulting to “Document1.”
“I like that, Mr. Carter—you’re all business. Okay, let’s see. Got my notes ri-i-ight here.” Paper shuffling noises sounded in the background. “Yes, here we go. On the Downey murder—”
“Bruce, you know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
Bailey’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Come on, Sheriff. Just some basics. Do you have a suspect?”
“If we had a suspect, would I tell you? I might as well tell the suspect himself.”
“Oh, so you think it’s a man?” Scribbling noises and more shuffling of paper.
“Mr. Bailey, don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Aren’t they almost always men?” Bailey breathed into the phone. Lehigh had a sudden urge to clean his ear.
“I wish you’d all have thought of that when you dragged Stacy through the mud earlier this year on the Jared Barkley case.” A message popped up on his computer screen: he had a meeting in fifteen minutes.
“Proves my point,” Bailey said. “She wasn’t guilty after all. Now, speaking of the McBrides, I’ve been told her father is the subject of your investigation. Can you verify that?”
Lehigh swore under his breath and clicked Sleep on the meeting notification. “Who told you that?”
“I don’t divulge my sources. You know that.”
“What I know,” Lehigh said, “is that your sources are often unreliable.”
“Are they in this case?” Bailey asked.
“No comment.”
“I see. Well, Sheriff, were you aware that Mr. Downey and Senator McBride had business dealings in the past—”
“Everybody’s had business dealings with Downey. He owned half the town.”
“—And the two men met secretly shortly before the murder?”
“Again, where are you getting this information?” Lehigh’s blood pressure rose another notch. Nobody had told him about any secret meeting.
“And the coroner found elevated levels of alcohol in Mr. Downey’s blood, is that correct?”
“So? He owns like ten bars, doesn’t he?” Lehigh shook his head. Conspiracies under every rock with this yahoo.
“Speaking of which, can you confirm that Mr. Downey had applied for new liquor permits, allegedly for a string of new strip clubs he was planning?” Bailey asked.
“Where did you get—Look. Bruce. Again. I’m sorry. I can’t comment. Okay? I have to go.” The meeting notification reappeared on his screen.
“Just one more quest—”
Lehigh hung up and clicked his mouse on the notification window. Nothing happened. He clicked again. And again. The computer didn’t respond. He pounded a few keys—
The screen flashed. The notification window disappeared—along with his document. The report that he’d slaved over for hours. The one he hadn’t yet saved, much less backed up, and that had taken all day to write.
Gone.
His head dropped into his hands. His temples throbbed, and he massaged them, to no avail. A headache loomed at the front of his skull.
His computer beeped. Against his better wisdom, he glanced at the screen.
“Crime Report Meeting with County Commission: Overdue.”
He sagged into his chair, defeated.
LEHIGH ARRIVED TO WORK the next morning well before his habitual 7 a.m. start. His many years in the logging industry had ingrained in him the early-to-bed, early-to-rise habit—or, rather, reinforced the practice Pappy and Maw raised him on. He loved the quiet of the morning before the noise of civilization intruded and, as an added bonus, he loved sunrises.
Arriving before the day watch gave him quiet time in the office to tend to the hard tasks of the day, those that required intense concentration. Thinking time, as Pappy called it. At the moment, he had plenty to think about, most of it centered around rebuilding his burned-down house and solving the Ev Downey murder.
He’d called the missing building contractors on the drive in, taking advantage of their own tendency to start early, and elicited apologies for their no-show the day before and new unreliable promises to begin work right away. That left the even-less fun murder topic for the rest of the morning.
The smell of a fresh, dark roast lured him into the break room, and he poured himself a cup of coffee before heading into his office. While stirring in the cream and sugar, a voice in the hallway caught his attention. A voice, he realized, that didn’t belong.
The voice of Assistant District Attorney Raymond Ferguson.
“I’ve requested the information several times,” Ferguson said. “Detective Wadsworth knows I need the file. I don’t understand why it takes so long to get information these days. When Buck Summers was sheriff—”
“Sheriff Carter does things different,” came the sarcastic reply. A male voice, fading, as if moving away from the break room. “But if there’s any way I can help, you let me know.”
Lehigh’s ears perked up. The deputy, whose voice he could not identify, seemed to be promising to provide information outside of proper channels. Or was he? He sipped his coffee and took a step toward the break room doorway.
Ferguson’s voice came again, also fading away. “I like the way you think. The law is the law, and we’re all partners in enforcing the law, don’t you agree, Deputy? ‘Judge your neighbor fairly,’ saith the Lord.”
Something about the way he said it sounded suspicious. As if he meant something very different than the spoken words...and that he expected the deputy to understand. Speaking in code only they would understand—and not someone listening in from, say, the break room.
“I do agree,” the deputy responded. “I prefer when we do things the right way—professional and cooperative, you know? Like we used to.”
The voiced faded away. Lehigh stepped into the corridor and glanced in the direction of the voices, just in time to spot Ferguson exiting through the heavy double doors to the lobby. A tall, broad-shouldered deputy with a dark buzz-cut, screened by Ferguson’s own tall frame, slipped out of view a moment later. Lehigh took long, quick strides down the hall, but the door shut behind them long before he reached it. He pushed the door open with his free hand and glanced around the lobby.
Empty.
He crossed the lobby and exited the glass doors to the parking lot. A black sedan slithered past, driven by the assistant D.A. Ahead of it, a black and white Crown Victoria, its license plate and vehicle ID obscured by Ferguson’s car, exited the lot and sped away.
Lehigh returned inside. The reception desk remained unstaffed. Odd. He hadn’t noticed that when he first arrived. He pushed through the heavy double doors leading to the interior corridors and strolled down the hallway, checking offices and meeting rooms as he passed. All vacant. Nobody had shown up to work yet. Why? Even the graveyard shift should have a few uniforms on duty.
A door opened behind him. He turned to discover Jim Wadsworth exiting the men’s room, wiping wet hands on his slacks. “We’re out of paper towels again,” he said. “What does it take to get the facilities crew in here once in a while?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Stupid cold. Can’t seem to get rid of it.”
“Forget facilities. Shouldn’t someone be at the front desk?” Lehigh asked, louder than he intended.
“I saw Julia out there earlier,” Wadsworth said. “Roscoe should have been here a half-hour ago to take over. Where is that boy?”
“Probably out for a smoke.” Lehigh spun around to check the area, but saw no sign of Roscoe, nor of his administrative assistant, Julia.
“I took one day off to try to get better, and look what happens.” Wadsworth blew his nose again.
“I just saw somebody pulling out of the lot, after talking in here with The Reverend, of all people,” Lehigh said. “I didn’t see who it was, though.”
“What’s Ray Ferguson doing here at seven in the morning?” Wadsworth hitched up his slacks, sagging below his bulging belly. “Usually he’s at church at this hour.”
“I was hoping you’d know. He was pumping someone for information about a case.” Lehigh waved Wadsworth closer and continued in a quieter voice. “I don’t know which one, but I’m willing to bet it’s the Downey murder.”
“In that case, it could be anyone,” Wadsworth said. “Most of the department’s helping out on it. I can’t get any help on my own investigations, and nobody’s working traffic anymore. And people are noticing. Just yesterday, I saw four people going sixty in a forty-five, and—”
“Where’s the duty roster?” Lehigh said. “Usually it’s here on the bulletin board.” He pointed to a wall-mounted cork board on the wall beside them. The “Now On Duty” section remained empty.
