“They can wait. They aren’t going anywhere, I’m sure.”
“The pronghorn antelope is the second-fastest mammal on the face of the earth,” Joe said. “So that wouldn’t be correct.”
“I’m at that place with the corny name,” Portenson said. “The Burg-O-Pardner. Meet me in ten minutes.”
“It’ll take me twenty.”
“I’ll order breakfast in the meantime.”
TONY PORTENSON WAS sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant when Joe entered. He looked up from his plate of biscuits, gravy, and bacon and waved Joe back. Portenson was dark, intense, and had close-set eyes and a scar that hitched up his upper lip so that it looked as if he was always sneering. When he smiled, the effect was worse. Sitting across from him was an earnest, fresh-faced, wide-shouldered younger man with buzz-cut hair. His partner, Joe assumed.
“Have a seat, Joe,” Portenson said, standing and offering his hand. “This is Special Agent Gary Child.”
Rather than sit with Portenson or Child, Joe retrieved a chair from a nearby table and pulled it over.
Portenson wore standard FBI clothing—tie, jacket, and slacks, which made him stand out in Saddlestring as if he were wearing a space suit.
“This is the guy I was telling you about,” Portenson said to Child.
Child nodded and looked at Joe with a mix of admiration and disdain. The FBI had a low opinion of local law enforcement that was so ingrained it was institutionalized. Although Joe operated on the margin of the sheriff’s department and was rarely involved with the town cops, he was considered local and therefore less than proficient. Portenson had obviously briefed Child on both cases they’d been involved in before, probably between complaints about the wind and the snow he had to put up with during his long assignment in Wyoming, Joe thought.
“So,” Portenson said as they all sat back down. “What is the fastest mammal?”
“The cheetah,” Joe said.
“Does that mean a cheetah can chase down a pronghorn antelope?”
“Conceivably,” Joe said, “if they lived on the same continent. But they don’t.”
“What brings you up here, Tony?” Joe asked, assuming it would be either about the Scarletts or . . .
“Have you seen your buddy Nate Romanowski lately?” Portenson asked, getting right to it.
Joe felt a tingle on the back of his neck. “No.”
“You’re telling me he just vanished from the face of the earth?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I hadn’t seen him. And before you ask, no, I also haven’t heard from him.”
Portenson exchanged glances with Child.
Child said, “Let me set the scene. Two men are murdered. Although the condition of their bodies is deteriorated almost beyond recognition, the theory of our medical examiner is that they were each killed by a single gunshot wound to the head from an extremely large-caliber handgun. The bodies were obviously moved from where they were killed. Meanwhile, your friend Nate Romanowski was known to pack a .454 Casull revolver and was at odds with at least one of the murdered men. And according to you, he just vanished?”
Joe stifled a smile. “I have a tough time envisioning Tony here as the good cop in the good cop/bad cop scenario,” he said. “This is more like bad cop/worse cop. Is this a new FBI strategy, or what?”
Child didn’t waver. “We could bring you back for questioning.”
“Go ahead,” Joe said. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where Nate is, and I haven’t been in contact with him.”
Portenson wiped gravy from his lips with a paper napkin and studied Joe closely.
“What?” Portenson said.
“I can’t believe you came all the way here to ask me about Nate,” Joe said. “It seems like a waste of your time.”
“Look,” Child said, leaning toward Joe, his eyes sharp, “we don’t need to explain to you why we do anything. We’re asking the questions here, not you.”
“Then I’ve got deer to count,” Joe said, and started to push his chair back.
“Okay, okay,” Portenson said, holding his hand out palm-up to Child. “Sit back down, Joe. That’s not why we’re here.”
Joe sat.
“Actually, I just figured since we were up here I’d yank your chain a little. See if you had any new information on Mr. Romanowski.”
“I told you I don’t.”
“I believe you,” Portenson said, sighing. “Although I am going to get that guy.”
Joe nodded that he understood, although he didn’t think Portenson would succeed.
Child sat back in the booth. By the look he gave Portenson, it was clear he didn’t like the way his boss had changed tracks.
“Are you up here on the Scarlett case?” Joe asked.
