“Anyone else?”
Coon frowned. “Should there be?”
“The nine-one-one call mentioned bodies outside. Is there a girl in there?”
“No.”
“Can I look?”
“I said . . .”
“Stay the hell out,” Portenson interrupted, appearing behind Coon. He was red-faced. “Why are you always around, anyway?”
Joe sighed in frustration. “Can you at least describe the scene to me? What’s your best guess what happened in there?”
Portenson rolled his eyes and shouldered past Coon toward the helicopter, making it clear he didn’t have time to waste with Joe. Over his shoulder, he said, “I want Stenko. I want his head on a platter.”
When Portenson was out of earshot, Coon said, “He is not a happy man.”
“He never has been. What’s going on?”
Coon said. “Tony is in big trouble because of that incident earlier today. Our bosses don’t like that kind of thing anymore because it attracts the wrong kind of attention in the press and in Washington. We’re supposed to be counterterrorism these days except for the occasional slam-dunk mob arrest. And when we screw up like we did this morning, the shit rolls downhill.”
Joe nodded.
“I think you know that all Agent Portenson really wants is to get out of Wyoming. What happened earlier doesn’t help. Neither one of us is out of the woods yet. Hell, I don’t mind whatever happens. I like it here and so does my family. But Tony . . .”
“. . . wants out,” Joe said. “I know. He wants to run with the big dogs.”
Coon nodded. “The only way he can make amends is to nail Stenko.”
Joe gave it a beat. “So what’s it look like inside?”
Coon finally got his right glove pulled off with a sharp snap. “As I said, two victims. One under the broken kitchen window. Male, thirties, dressed in tennis togs, if you can believe that. His ID said he was Nathanial Talich from Chicago. He was the youngest of the three brothers and considered to be the craziest . . .”
“The psycho,” Joe said, repeating the term from the call.
Coon nodded. “Multiple gunshot wounds. I could see one right below his eye, but my guess is he took at least a few more in the belly the way he was curled up.”
“The other guy?”
“The sheriff said he’s the owner of the ranch. A guy named Leo Dyekman. Also of Chicago,” he said, raising a single eyebrow. “We think he’s a known associate of Stenko. His money man, we think. Portenson is in communication with Washington now to confirm that.”
“Can you tell what happened?”
Coon shrugged. “It looks like a gunfight. They were both armed and I’m guessing they shot each other.”
Joe shook his head. “I doubt that. Can Dyekman talk?”
Coon narrowed his eye, not pleased by the Joe’s casual disregard of their theory. “Why? What do
“I’ll show you in a minute. Can Dyekman talk?”
“I’d be surprised if Dyekman ever talks, judging by the amount of blood he lost. I don’t think his wound was fatal—it looks like he got hit on the side of the neck—but he might have bled out after he made the call. There is a
Joe hoped none of it was April’s.
Coon said, “That’s the problem with living out here in the middle of nowhere. The EMTs can’t get to you in time.”
“So why do you think the two guys shot each other up?” Joe asked.
“Because that’s what it looks like, Joe. But that’s why we called in forensics. They might be able to figure out what the hell happened in there.”
“So why did Dyekman refer to more bodies?”
Coon shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Was there any other blood anywhere?”
“I told you, Joe, there’s blood all over the place. It looks like a slaughterhouse.”
“So why is the kitchen window broken?”
Coon gave Joe a big-eyed exasperated expression. “I don’t know, Joe,” he said with annoyance. “That’s why we called in our team.”
“I can’t wait for your team,” Joe said. “Look, there’s brass on the side of the house outside the kitchen window. I tried not to disturb it much. But what it looks like is that somebody stood outside and started blasting.”
