“How?”
“Let’s start by finding out if the three of them were killed with the same weapon. I’ll ask the head necropsy guy at the game and fish lab in Laramie to take a look at all three autopsies.”
“The game and fish guy? Why not state forensics?”
“Our guys are better,” Joe said. “We have a lot more game violations than the state has murders.”
“Oh.”
“Another thing—the poker chip we found by Frank Urman.”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t read anything about poker chips in the files on Tucker or Garrett. But those cases were investigated as accidents at the time, not murders. There are no listings of items found around the victims, the contents of pockets, or personal possessions gathered up or impounded. The possessions and clothing of the victims could have been returned to the families or they might be in a box at the county sheriff’s or coroner’s because no one’s dealt with them yet.”
Robey made a note. “I can ask my staff to follow up on the poker chips, or lack thereof,” he said, his cigar bobbing as he talked.
“The more we know about the Garrett and Tucker killings, the more we can help out Lothar the Master Tracker,” Joe said. “Those crime scenes are cold as ice, and he won’t have any interest in them. So we should try and learn as much as we can.”
Robey chuckled as he repeated,
WHEN AN aircraft emerged from the sky, the restless crowd in the airport murmured and began to knot together near the cordoned-off passenger ramp, and the dozen TSA employees grouped near the metal detector eyed them and raised their walkie-talkies to their mouths in alarm.
Pope approached Joe and Robey. He closed his phone for the first time that morning and fixed it in a phone holster on his belt.
“Finally, eh?” Pope said.
A collective groan came from the crowd as the spiky-haired airline agent announced that the approaching plane was a private jet, not United Express, but that United Express would be landing within five minutes.
“A private jet?” Pope asked, raising his eyebrows. “Saddlestring has private jets?”
“We have a lot of ’em,” Robey said. “The Eagle Mountain Club up on the hill has lots of wealthy folks.”
As he spoke, the jet touched down on the farthest runway, scattering the herd of antelope. Joe watched it brake and taxi to the far end of the tarmac to the private fixed base operator, FBO—which was larger and better appointed than the public airport—and turn with an ice skater’s dramatic flair and stop.
“Who is it?” Pope asked.
“His name is Earl Alden,” Joe said, observing as a black Suburban with smoked windows drove out onto the tarmac to greet the jet. A petite and attractive older woman got out of the Suburban and walked up to the unfolding airplane stairs to greet the lone passenger, a tall man with silver hair and a pencil-thin mustache.
“I’ve heard of him, who hasn’t?” Pope said. “Who’s the woman?”
Joe sighed. “Her official name is Missy Vankueren-Longbrake.”
“She’s a babe.”
“She’s my mother-in-law,” Joe said.
He looked at Robey and shook his head with disgust. “Why can’t people just get old and sweet anymore?” Joe said, thinking not only about Missy but about his own father, who was suffering from dementia brought on by years of alcoholism. His father was in a facility in Billings. The last time he’d gone to see his father he had to introduce himself as his son. His father had said, “Joe? Joe Schmoe? Go get me a flask, Joe Schmoe.”
THE UNITED EXPRESS flight landed five minutes later. Joe stood well back from the crowd, watching as the passengers descended the stairs and walked the short distance across the pavement to the airport. He heard a woman in the crowd gasp, “There he is!”
Klamath Moore wore an oversized white smock that accentuated his tanned and weathered face. His long blond hair blew around his face in the breeze, and he brushed it back and tucked it behind his ears as he gazed at the airport, knowing instinctively how important it was to make a powerful first impression, Joe thought.
Robey said to Joe, “Did we find out how Klamath Moore knew about the circumstances of Frank Urman’s death almost before we did?”
“Nope,” Joe said. “I’ve got a couple of other questions as well. One is if I’ve been underestimating my boss for the last few years. He seems to have picked up on the fact that these hunting accidents weren’t accidents mighty quick.”
“Self-preservation may be the answer to that one,” Robey said. “Guys like Pope can sniff out a threat to their jobs before anyone even knows there’s a threat.”
“Maybe so,” Joe said, not buying the answer.
When Moore stepped inside the terminal, the crowd cheered. Moore raised both of his arms in celebration, and boomed,
“Jesus,” Pope said, joining Joe and Robey, his expression sour as if he were sucking on something bitter.
Joe watched Moore shake hands and roughly hug his followers, pulling their bodies into his with a primitive force just shy of assault. But when he got to the dark-eyed woman and her baby, Moore visibly softened and took them into his arms. They left the airport together, Moore carrying the infant, holding hands.
