He looked genuinely embarrassed. “Okay.”
Inside, I found Charles reading the newspaper with his feet up on the counter, the black and white monitors showing the holding cell, the duty room, and the parking lot where Nate was turning around and pulling away.
I yawned and placed my elbows on the high counter. “I’m thinking you need to put a few hours into some sensitivity training seminars.”
He was reading the Billings Gazette but looked up at me; predictably, he said nothing.
“Just for the record, I don’t think Artie’s the one who killed your brother, which means that the person that did do it is still out there and needs to be brought to justice. Have you got any ideas of who might’ve held a grudge against Clarence and his family?”
He folded the paper, placed it in his lap, and looked at me. “Everybody has enemies.”
“Including you?”
He cocked his head. “Including me; it goes with the job.”
“Anybody dislike you enough to go after your half-brother?”
He shrugged.
“How about Audrey and Adrian?” I stifled the yawn in my throat. “That’s a lot of dislike.”
He unfolded his paper and rustled it to straighten the pages.
“You know, generally you don’t have to look very far for people who do things like this; it’s usually friends, so-called, or family.”
He continued to study his paper.
“It seems to me that somebody is looking to wipe out your entire family, Charles. And you don’t seem to care.”
The tribal policeman’s voice rumbled over the Billings Gazette. “I care enough that if you leave here for another five minutes, I’ll go into that holding cell and do society a favor.”
I waited a moment and then continued on like a wrecking ball. “You a killer, Charles?”
After a moment he released one side of the paper, lowered his hand to hit the button under the counter so that the door behind me buzzed in a persistent manner. He sat there with that expressionless look on his face and watched me.
I straightened up, took the two steps to the door, and yanked the thing open, his stare following me into the hallway. “Good to know, since we’re looking for one.”
13
I was having this dream where the talking animals were at it again-even Dog was having a go at me. It was only when he asked me the second time if I wanted coffee that I started thinking that things seemed suspicious.
Flapping my eyelids open and shut cleared a little of the bleariness and allowed me to focus. Lolo Long had pulled up another folding chair from the Law Enforcement Center’s endless supply and was holding two cups from the White Buffalo convenience store, a manila folder under her arm again. “I understand we had an attempted jail break last night?”
I peeled the blanket back a little more. “As jail breaks go, it wasn’t much.” I sat up and looked out the small rectangular window at the sky, already worn to a lighter shade of blue. “It’s midmorning?”
“Say… you are a detective.”
I slumped back onto my blanket-pillow. “Shoot me?”
“There is a member of my dwindled staff who would be happy to comply with that request, but in consolation, I bring you coffee and photographs.”
I struggled up and thought my back was going to fragment like not-so-fine china. Groaning, I reached out and took the Styrofoam cup she proffered. Written on the side in a ridiculously perky font were the words FRESH BREWED. I undid the top and looked at the complex, frothy content with what looked like mouse droppings decorating the top. “What is this?”
She leaned forward, taking a look in mine, and then undid her own and traded cups with me. “Sorry. Mocha Chip Frappuccino.”
“You’re kidding.”
She sipped what she called coffee and raised one of those samurai-sword eyebrows. “I take my comforts where I can.” She handed me the envelope. “Here are the photos from Henry’s camera that you guys took. There’s not much there, but one thing jumped out at me.”
I pulled out the prints and looked at them one at a time, finally looking up at her. “She wasn’t facing forward when she went over.”
“No.” She sighed. “And as far as I know, nobody does a suicide holding their child and attempting a back flip.” She waited a few moments. “There’s nothing else that I can tell.”
“Me either.” I placed the photos back in the envelope, careful to close the metal tabs.
Long glanced at the still-snoring man in the holding cell. “You caught Artie.”
“Henry caught Artie.” I sipped my regular black coffee and watched as she made the same face she always did whenever I mentioned the Cheyenne Nation. “How come the cavalry hasn’t shown up?”
“The Feds?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t think they know-no access to the moccasin telegraph.”
I thought about it. “Let’s keep it that way for a while, shall we?”
After I’d given her the rundown on last night’s events, she stood and walked over to the bars. “Strange behavior for a guilty man.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I mean if he was guilty, why would he care what I thought?” I stretched the remnants of my back. “We played the recording for him.”
“What’d he say?”
“That he didn’t do it.”
She turned to look at me. “What do you think?”
“That he didn’t do it.”
She nodded her head in a defeated fashion. “Well, our only other suspect is dead.”
“Inconvenient, isn’t it?” I strained a little more coffee through my teeth. “Have you listened to the recording?”
“Your buddy, Cliff Cly, played it for me yesterday, but the sound isn’t so good.”
“You didn’t happen to hear a woman in the background, did you?”
She turned her full attention to me, placing her broad back against the bars of the holding cell. “No. I mean, we were listening to Clarence and Artie; I don’t think anybody paid much attention to anything else.”
“Did you hear music in the background?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, fortunately, I’ve got an expert in the field who says he can help us out.”
“Who?”
“The jail breaker.”
She looked dubious. “Nate?”
I gestured toward the snoring man. “He’s got a vested interest.”
“I can call my mother and have her bring in food and Artie-sit.” She nodded and continued chewing her coffee. “As you know, we’ve got a shower here; would you like to use it?”
I ruffled my hand through my hat hair, I’m sure causing it to stand up at all angles. “Is that a hint?”
She did her best to suppress the grin caused by my appearance but failed miserably. “Could be.”
I didn’t have any clean clothes to change into, but Chief Long was kind enough to loan me a shirt from Tribal Police supplies with a nifty little patch set like hers but with the name PRETTY WEASEL printed on the pocket. “Is this my undercover name?”
She drove south on the gravel road leading to the radio station, the tail end of the Yukon swinging around
