I rested against the wall and tipped my hat back. “It wasn’t slick, it was heartfelt.” Wondering if Lolo Long was a lost cause as a student, I turned my head and looked down the hall. “There is a common humanity in all of us, and if you need something from somebody, you’d better understand that-it makes the job easier. Clarence might be guilty and we need to be aware because we are in the suspicion business, but he’s also a man who just lost someone who was very close to him.”
I pushed off and circled behind the reception desk to a coffeepot and a tray of mismatched mugs. She watched me.
“I’m separated, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
She fought with herself for a moment and then pointed to the. 45 at my back. “Not to change the subject, but do you mind if I ask why you wear that antique, anyway?”
I poured myself a cup. “It’s what I got used to in the service.” I thought about it. “It’s a failing to have a favorite, but there it is. Being overly familiar with a weapon is as much a fault as not knowing it at all.” I rapidly listed the 1911’s shortcomings. “Heavy, hard to aim, slow rate of fire-there’s a cult of weapons which blinds you to their weaknesses, but it’s what I’m used to.” I sipped my coffee and gestured toward her large-frame Smith in return. “Unless things have changed a great deal, I’m thinking that’s not what they had you carrying in Iraq.”
“No, they gave me a 9mm and I hated it.”
“And you like that. 44?”
“Yes.”
I sipped some more of my coffee. “I’ll ask you again when you have back problems here in about ten years.” I tried not to sound like Lucian. “It makes you stand funny; you’re compensating for the weight of that thing.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m a woman.”
I shook my head, gesturing at my six-and-a-half-foot frame. “You don’t see me carrying one, do you?”
She patted the revolver. “I like the weight.”
“No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t have to use a two-handed stance every time you pull it. I can guarantee that there will be times in your law-enforcement career when you will have more things to do with that other hand than aim.” I sighed. “You’re not up against body-armor-equipped assailants.”
She countered with a little heat in her voice. “Drugs, adrenaline-those are all factors.”
“Maybe, but nowhere near as large a factor as just plain missing, which is what you’re going to do with Dirty Harry there.” I gestured toward the pot with my empty mug, but she shook her head in a full snit, so I only recaffeinated myself. “I’m going to give you a little piece of information that most people don’t know; 50 percent of police shot in the country on an annual basis shoot themselves. I’m not talking about suicide, but about officers who accidentally fire into their off-hand while drawing or into the strong-side leg while reholstering. Another 30 percent are shot by other cops, and 10 percent after that get shot by people who take their weapons away from them.” I lifted the mug to my lips. “And that’s the uniformed, trained portion-don’t get me started on the common populace.”
I was coming on strong and figured she’d had about enough, but she only stood there with a hand on her revolver like I might try and take it away. After a while she crossed her arms and changed the subject again. “I heard you talking about an important piece of information we’re in possession of that the FBI doesn’t know about?”
I continued sipping my coffee. “While Clarence was in custody last night, somebody tried to kill me.”
She stepped in close with a little more urgency in her voice. “What?”
“You don’t know anybody who drives a maroon ’7 °Chevy half-ton with Cherry Bomb mufflers, do you?”
“What happened?”
“Somebody tried to run me over on 212 as I did the walk of shame to Lonnie’s last night.”
She thought about it. “Maybe it was just some pissed-off Indian who saw a cowboy walking along the side of the road.”
“There seemed to be a lot more intention in the act.”
“You get a plate?”
“No, there wasn’t one. Besides, I was trying to get away before being turned into a hood ornament.” She looked up at me, and I repeated. “Maroon ’7 °Chevy half-ton, Cherry Bomb mufflers.”
I watched as she retreated to the parking lot, her Yukon, and the two-way radio, in that order, and then thought about all the people who were probably angry with me right now. There was a phone at the nurse’s station, and I figured Chief Long’s mother wouldn’t mind if I made a few phone calls.
I punched in the number for my office and waited.
“Absaroka County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Well, as it happens, this is the Absaroka County sheriff.”
She fumbled with the receiver, the fancy one with the little neck cradle she used for extenuating circumstances; I probably led the league in extenuating circumstances. “Boy, mister, are you in trouble.”
I sighed and whispered my daughter’s name so that she might not hear me close to two thousand miles away. “Cady?”
“Oh, yes, and I wouldn’t want to be you about now.” There was a rustling of papers, and she spoke to someone else about getting Saizarbitoria, the Basque percentage of my staff, to do a little paper serving. “I don’t have time for you, but your undersheriff is on the other line; would you like me to patch her through?”
“Sure.”
The next voice was full of Philadelphia-ese-where “good luck with that” translated as “go fuck yourself.”
“Have you been abducted by the Indians?”
I smiled at Victoria Moretti’s tone. “Kind of. I’m in the process of giving sheriff lessons.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story; there’s been some drama up here on the Rez.”
“There’s always drama with you; you’re like a traveling troupe.” She sighed. “So, are we in the first, second, or third act?”
I thought about it. “Hard to tell; Henry and I saw a woman fall off a cliff up here, and we’re in the process of finding out who might’ve done it.”
“Isaac Newton?”
“She was carrying a child-boy, about six months.” There was no flippant repartee for that. “The boy is in the hospital and appears to be all right, but I’ve got a new chief of tribal police up here who is getting crowded by the bureau.”
You could almost hear her teeth grind.
“How’s Omaha?”
“It’s still in Nebraska.”
Ruby must have finished dispatching and got on the line again. “You know you’ve got an entire list of people who are trying to get hold of you, Walter?”
“I figured.”
“Lana Baroja called about the cake design, Rosalie Little Thunder from Rapid City called about the dress, the management for Jalan Crossland called and wants to know if there will be electricity at the site of the reception…”
I made a sound in the back of my throat. “I don’t know the answers to any of those questions.”
“Who does?”
“How about Cady?”
Vic chuckled. “I gotta go.”
There was a click as Ruby continued. “Cady’s called eight times in the last two days. Would you like me to call her for you and patch you in?”
I was quick to respond to that. “No.”
“I thought not.” She was trying to hold her temper. “Walter, we have a growing situation on our hands and you’re not helping.”
“What about Henry-have you talked to him? I thought he was the wedding planner.”
Her voice became even more forceful. “He is organizing the tribal portion of the wedding; the rest is up to you. Speaking of, how is the tribal portion of the preparations going?”
