He nodded and opened his own with the rest of the six-pack dangling from his fingers by the plastic loops. He sipped his beer as his crew went about their business, and the ME’s office loaded Clarence up. “Yeah, have I told you what a pain in the ass all that TV stuff is for me?” He thought about it. “Other than I’d like to nail Kyra Sedgwick…”
“Do you think it’s really a good idea to be drinking beer at a homicide investigation?”
He ignored me and sipped his some more. “Christ, somebody siphons gas out of somebody’s car and the assholes want you to dust the garden hose for prints.” Cly watched as they zipped the body bag. “Taxes, that’s the other one I get. My taxes pay your salary; you need to find out who stole my cat.” He laughed. “That’s how I lost my first assignment, cherry, too. Georgetown-D.C.” He shook his head. “How much crime goes on in Georgetown?” He thought about it. “Punishable crime, I mean. There was this spat of cat disappearances-I shit you not-and this senator’s wife wanted Justice to look into it, so they sent me over to this mansion to talk to this woman who lost Fluffy. I get over there and make the mistake of joking with her that it’s probably the Chinese restaurant down the street. Well, she believes me and starts asking questions like, ‘Surely they just catch alley cats or strays and not domestic cats from the neighborhood?’ So I laugh and tell her, ‘Oh no, it’s the domestic ones that they get because they’re fat and stupid.’” He shook his head. “Jump-cut to promising young field agent in Absalom, Wyoming.”
I smiled and set my unopened can on the floor beside me. “That would do it.” Glancing over my shoulder, I looked back at Henry, who had grown more and more silent since the Feds had arrived. The Cheyenne Nation was seated on the windowsill in the darkness by the east wall. “What do you think?”
His voice rumbled back. “I guess we can take Clarence off the list.”
Cly turned to look at him. “You think?”
There was a pause, and then Henry spoke again. “Reasoning says that whoever killed Audrey and attempted to kill Adrian must’ve killed Clarence.”
The agent lowered his can. “Unless it was revenge.”
“Possibly, but the only one who could’ve felt an emotion that strong is being zipped up in a bag right now. Someone killed the woman and attempted to kill the child, and then they killed the man.”
Cliff made a face. “What makes you so sure it’s the same person?”
Henry stood and walked over into the light of all the propane lanterns we’d lit; the place sounded like a snake pit. “Talk of killing is talk; killing is different.”
The agent pulled a can from the plastic and held it out to the Bear, but Henry ignored him.
I figured I’d better speak up. “What he’s saying is that there aren’t that many actual killers on the Rez.”
The agent continued to sip his beer. “You guys get anything out of the shoemaker?”
“Boot maker.”
“Whatever.”
I leveraged myself up and stood so as to make way for the med-ex team and the body. “He wasn’t there, but I had an interesting conversation with his wife, who said that Clarence hadn’t been there for about a year, but we discovered that he was evidently there last night.”
“So I need to go sweat her?”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“Tough?”
“Like a Flying J truck stop steak.”
We watched as they carefully turned the body and made their way down the stairs and into the darkness; but for the flashing blue lights in the parking lot that cast through the open doorway below, it was as if they were carrying Clarence into the grave.
I sighed. “. 38?”
Cly nodded. “Sure looks like to me.”
“Close. Somebody he knew.”
“Yeah.” The FBI man held the beer out to Henry again. “Sure you won’t have one?”
Anyone who knew Henry Standing Bear would’ve been able to spot the storm clouds on the horizon, but Cliff Cly’s experiences with him had been limited. Personally, I was just hoping I could stop the Cheyenne Nation from throwing the federal agent through the plateglass windows.
His voice was smooth, like the surface of the ocean with sharks underneath. “Agent, I am having a hard time believing that you are taking this investigation seriously.” He leaned in. “Somebody has almost wiped out an entire Native family.”
Cly’s eyes searched the face of my best friend and stayed there as a strong moment passed. “Do you want me to call in the black helicopters? Because I can.” He glanced at me. “I can make a phone call and have a hundred Ivy League graduates wandering around the Rez with their heads firmly planted up their asses, and the only thing they’re going to do is make it harder for the guys that are probably going to really break this case.” He extended a forefinger from the can and first punched the Bear in the chest with it, and then me. “Batman and Robin of the Badlands. You know everybody; you know everything-and besides, Sheriff, you’re the one who wanted me to hand the baton over to the Indian Princess. I’m just waiting to share the credit so I can move on to another and better assignment.”
He sipped the beer again, and I thought it was a remarkably gutsy performance in the face of impending Indian disaster.
Tapping the can with the same forefinger, he smiled. “And this? I just think better when I’ve had a beer-one beer.” He extended the four-pack to Henry again. “How about you?”
The Cheyenne Nation didn’t move but then abruptly snagged a can from the plastic loop, pulling it free and then tapping Cly on the chest with it in return. “I just want us to be clear.”
The agent smiled a matinee idol smile. “We are.” He spread his hands and glanced at me. “Okay, boys, so where’s the next body gonna drop?”
Henry and I looked at each other, neither of us with an answer.
“Did you listen to the CD?”
I shook my head. “We are technologically deprived here in the Wild West.”
He crushed his can and stuffed it in the pocket of his Windbreaker. “Let me know if you want me to dub it onto an eight-track, but in the meantime we’ll keep looking for Public Enema Number One.”
“Artie Small Song?”
He pointed a finger at me like a gun but held his fire.
“So who gets to be Batman?”
“You do; I have the legs for Robin.”
I glanced around in vain for a clock in Rezdawg’s dash as we drove on through the night. “I am worn out; what time is it?”
He glanced at his wrist as he eased the truck up Lonnie’s drive and swung the vehicle in a circle pointed back toward the road before going up the hill. “Almost three. I’ll drop you off here so that we don’t wake up the chief.”
“Why do you suppose Lonnie wants me to keep spending the night at his place?”
“He likes the company; I would imagine he gets lonely without his daughter.” I thought about my daughter as he pulled Cly’s can of beer from the seat next to him and handed it to me. “Here. As we both know, Lonnie only has the Beer of Temptation in the house.”
I slid out of the truck, closed the door as quietly as she would allow, and spoke through the open window. “Two beers; I can have a party.” He didn’t say anything, and we listened to the crickets chirping in the velvety night. “You all right?”
“Just tired.”
I nodded. “I thought that was going to be the second ass you were going to kick today.”
The Bear shifted the truck into first, probably anxious to get home to his own bed. “Do not forget that we have a lunch appointment in nine hours.”
“Right.” I started off toward the back porch. “Get some rest.”
He said nothing, and I watched as Rezdawg rumbled down the gravel drive, turned left onto 212, and slowly disappeared.
I was about halfway up the hill when I saw another vehicle coming from the same direction that we’d traveled on 212 and watched as the Yukon signaled and drove up to where I stood.
