Cold Wind

“Too much work,” Joe said. “Most criminals don’t want to work that hard.”

“Give my regards to your mother-in-law,” Rulon said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d hate to lose one of my biggest contributors on a first-degree murder charge. That kind of thing doesn’t look good. Thank the Lord I’m nearly term- limited out and I won’t have some jackass Republican using that one against me down the road . . . But I digress. From what I understand, it was going to be the biggest single private wind energy project in the State of Wyoming. One hundred turbines! But this murder has thrown it off track, maybe. And you think there is more to it than meets the eye?”

“Possibly.”

Rulon cocked his head. “I didn’t think you and your mother-in-law saw eye-to-eye on much. Why are you trying to save her?”

Joe said, “It isn’t about her, although it is. My wife . . .”

“Say no more,” Rulon guffawed. Then: “There isn’t much I can tell you about it. The state hasn’t been involved. It was done purely between the landowner, the power companies, and the Feds. There’s no state land involved, so we’ve been kept out of it.”

“I was afraid of that,” Joe said. “You see, the murder trial starts next Monday.”

Rulon sat back. “That’s a fast trial.”

“Judge Hewitt—”

“Hewitt,” Rulon said, cutting Joe off. “I did a few trials before him back when I was a county prosecutor. Once he made me sing. Actually sing a song. But that’s another story for another time. The guy is no-nonsense.”

Joe said, “He drew a Dall sheep permit in Alaska. He wants the trial over before the season ends.”

Rulon chortled.

“So I’ve got less than a week to figure out what’s going on, if anything,” Joe said sourly.

“This sounds like the whole wind energy rush,” Rulon said. “It’s out of control and moving so fast nobody can keep up with it. No one has stopped to look at what’s happened in other countries when they decided to artificially change their energy policy to feel-good crackpot schemes. Jobs have been lost and their economies tanked, and they’ve completely backed off. But not us, by God!”

Rulon practically leaped across the desk. He said, “Wind energy has created some strange bedfellows. The traditional fossil fuel guys hate it, and they’re partnering up with their traditional enemies, the greens. Some landowners love windmills, some hate them—it depends on who’s getting paid. The Feds are going over our heads because it’s new policy and they couldn’t care less if it makes economic sense or if the states are players. And there’s so much damned federal money involved . . . you just know things are going to get screwy.”

“Thank you for your time,” Joe said, standing. “I appreciate the background, but I know you’re busy.”

Rulon assessed Joe through heavy-lidded eyes. He said, “It’s good to see you, Joe. I still think you’re a man I can count on, despite everything.”

“Thank you.”

“You and me, we’re not through,” Rulon said. “I still have two years to go, and I may need to call on you again. I’ll work it out with the new director when he’s hired. Or she’s hired. Will you respond if I ask?”

Joe hesitated, and said, “Sure.”

“As long as it’s within your boundaries,” Rulon said sarcastically. “You ought to get a bumper sticker that says, ‘What Would Dudley Do-Right Do?’ Call it W-W-D-D-R-D. That has a ring to it.”

Joe nodded. “That’s the second time in two days I’ve been called that.”

“Maybe there’s something to it,” Rulon said. “But hell, that’s one reason I like you, Joe.”

Joe shrugged.

“But like I said, I need more yes-men in the future.”

“Sorry.”

“Have a good day, Joe,” Rulon said, “and my best to your lovely family.” He always signed off that way, Joe thought. As if they’d just had a conversation about the weather.

“Yours, too, sir.”

Rulon said, “Tell Coon to cooperate with you or he’ll be hearing from me. And he doesn’t like to hear from me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe said.

FBI Special Agent Chuck Coon said, “Yeah, we’ve got him. But why should I let you talk to Orin Smith?”

“I told you,” Joe said. “He may be able to shed some light on a case I’m working on. As far as I know, it’s unrelated to why you’ve got him here in the first place.”

They were sitting at a long empty conference table on the third floor of the Federal Center in Cheyenne. To get in, Joe had had to leave his weapons, phone, keys, and metal in a locker at the ground floor security entrance. He couldn’t help but contrast the difference between getting in to see Chuck Coon and his morning meeting with the governor.

“What happened to your face?” Coon asked.

“I tangled with a motivated slacker,” Joe said.

“I didn’t know there were such creatures.”

“Neither did I.”

“When was the last time you saw Nate Romanowski?”