“Duchess,” Joe said, looking at her license place. “The Earl and the Duchess, got it.”
Missy waggled her fingers. “One might as well have fun with it, right?”
“Who’s next,” Joe asked, “the president of France?”
Missy actually laughed. Then she composed herself and leveled her ice-blue eyes at him. “That would be going the wrong direction, my dear. Earl could buy and sell the president of France.”
The divorce battle had been vicious. Missy had produced a prenuptial agreement signed by both parties that said in the event of a divorce the Longbrake Ranch would be divided evenly between them, even though the property had been owned by Longbrakes for three generations. Bud claimed he couldn’t remember signing the document, and besides, if he had, he thought it was something else. Bud now lived in a log cabin that was once used for winter cowboys six miles from the main house. He lived there with his friend Jack Daniel’s. Between the Earl and the Duchess, who had consolidated their holdings, they were now the largest landowners in northern Wyoming.
Joe shook his head. To Marybeth, he said, “I need to do some work inside.”
He turned and headed for the front door.
Behind him, he heard Missy say, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I’m really busy, Mom.”
“Of course you are. But I have these gifts for the girls. Wait until you see them—they’re beautiful. Hand-painted Indonesian batik boho skirts. You’ve never seen anything like them before. Lucy will look great in hers. She looks good in anything.”
He heard Marybeth sigh.
“Eight hundred dollars each,” Missy said, following Marybeth up the walk, “in case you were wondering.”
Said Marybeth, “I wasn’t.”
Once inside, Joe quickly darted for their home office so he wouldn’t have to see Missy when she came inside. He closed the door and reached for the road atlas.
He opened the book to the relief map of the U.S., tracing a route from Chicago to Madison on I-90, then continuing on the same interstate through Minnesota and across South Dakota to Keystone. It was a long drive, and there were hundreds of towns and cities en route. He wondered if there were other incidents besides the ones Marybeth had found.
From Rapid City he followed U.S. 18 south to Hot Springs, South Dakota, then south all the way to Cheyenne on U.S. 85. They could have stayed on 85 or jumped onto I-25 south through Denver to I-70 west, south on U.S. 24 past Vail, west on U.S. 82 to Aspen.
He sat back. A hell of a journey, he thought. But where were they headed next? What were they driving?
He hoped he would be present if April contacted Sheridan again so he could feed his daughter questions to ask. He made a list:
• Who is Robert?
• What is the name of Robert’s father?
• Are there any others with you?
• What kind of car are you in?
• What do you mean when you say people died? How? When? Why?
• Where are you now?
• What is your destination?
• How did you get away from that compound six years ago?
• Are you willing to meet with me?
Through the door, he heard Missy say, “. . . and you need to quit telling people in town we’re estranged. I hate that word. It makes it sound like
Then, and he could visualize her gesturing toward his closed door, “Him I wouldn’t mind being estranged from. But not you, Marybeth. You’re my daughter.”
He smiled grimly to himself. Sheridan had the right idea, he thought. He clicked on the radio to the local country station. Brad Paisley. He turned it up loud.
HIS FIRST CALL was to Duck Wallace, chief investigator for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department in Cheyenne. Wallace was good, and he was sometimes loaned out to other agencies, departments, the Division of Criminal Investigation, and local police departments because of his skill, knowledge, and rock-solid reputation. Duck was a Shoshone from the reservation, and so dark-skinned he was sometimes mistaken for black.
“Wallace,” he said, answering on the first ring. He sounded bored and bureaucratic.
“Duck, Joe Pickett.”
“Ah, Joe,” he said, the inflection indicating he was already interested in what Joe would have to say and a little cautious because Joe only called when a situation was critical.
“Duck, I’ve got a situation. Without getting into specifics, can a text message be traced?”
“You mean to a certain number? That’s easy. Look at the message, Joe.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I’m wondering is can a phone be traced to a physical location from a text message? Like a voice call can?”
Duck was silent for a long time. Joe knew it meant he was thinking, and he had no need to make conversation while he was thinking.
