“I think you may be in the wrong building,” Smith said.
“Nope.”
Orin Smith was in his mid-sixties and didn’t have an aura that hinted at charisma or confidence, Joe thought. Smith was short and soft with a blade-like nose and wounded eyes that never remained in one place very long. His skin was thin and pale as if made of parchment. Ancient acne scars dimpled his cheeks and fleshy neck. He wore an orange one-piece jail jumpsuit, and boat shoes with the laces removed. Only two things set Smith apart from any other inmate, Joe observed. Smith’s hair was long and swept back and expensively cut into layers designed to hide abnormally large ears, and his teeth were capped and perfect and reminded Joe of two strings of pearls.
“My questions have nothing to do with the charges you’re in here for,” Joe said. “I’m a lot more interested in your former life. Back when you owned a company called Rope the Wind.”
The mention of the name created a reaction in Orin Smith that resembled a mild electric shock, although he quickly recovered.
“I owned a lot of companies,” Smith said, finally.
“Let’s start with that,” Joe said, drawing his small spiral notebook out of his breast pocket. “What I can do, if you cooperate with me and answer my questions, is to put in a good word to the federal district judge. And, frankly, I can ask the governor to do the same. I’m not trying to incriminate you in any way.”
“The governor?” Smith asked. “You know him?” There was doubt showing by the way he cocked his head slightly to the side, canine-style.
“I work for him from time to time,” Joe said. “If you know him, you know there isn’t a person in this state who can guarantee what he’ll do or say, including me. But if you tell me the truth and help me out, I’ll tell him just that.”
“Interesting,” Smith said. “Will you put that in writing and send it to my lawyer?”
“No,” Joe said. “My word is my word. Take it or leave it.”
“I should call my lawyer,” Smith said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you without him in the room.”
“Suit yourself,” Joe said, sitting back. “I’ll wait until he gets here. But keep in mind I’ve got time constraints and I don’t live here in Cheyenne. I can’t guarantee the offer will still stand if you and your lawyer take your time making a decision to talk to me or not. I may not be able to come back here when you decide, and I may not want to come.” Thinking:
“I drove all night to get here,” Joe said.
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
Smith assessed Joe in silence, looking at him in a detached and quiet way that reminded Joe of a poker player trying to guess if his opponent was bluffing.
“I’ll have to get back to you on this,” Smith said as he stood up. The man walked across the room and rapped on the one-way mirror.
“We’re done here for now,” he said.
Joe cursed to himself as a U.S. Marshall opened the door to let Smith out.
“He’s wily,” Coon said, as they walked down the hallway toward the elevator. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he strung you along for a while and ended up saying nothing.”
“I wasn’t kidding about the time constraints,” Joe said. “I can maybe stay tonight, but not longer than that.”
“What’re you going to do while you cool your heels?”
Joe shrugged.
“If he hasn’t gotten back to you by tonight, you want to come over for dinner? I’ll grill you a steak or a burger or something. You bring beer.”
“Make it a steak,” Joe said. “I know how much more money you Feds make than lowly state employees.”
Coon snorted at that. At the door of the security entrance, Coon keyed the pad and the door whooshed open. “I’ll give you a call if he decides to talk to you,” he said. “Keep your cell phone on.”
Joe nodded glumly.
His phone lit up while he was buying a fancy new wristwatch for Marybeth at a Western-wear store downtown. She’d accidentally dropped her last one in a water trough while grooming her horses. She liked Brighton watches. He stepped away from the counter and plucked his phone out of his breast pocket and saw it was coming not from Coon but from Marybeth.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
He cradled the phone between his shoulder and neck while he dug his wallet out of his back pocket to hand the clerk a Visa card.
“Not well,” he said. “I’m stymied in Cheyenne, waiting to talk to Orin Smith.”
“Sorry,” she said. “So where are you now?”
“In a store.”
“A sporting goods store?”
“No.”
“Joe, you don’t go to stores.”
“And I never will again, either,” he said. “I need land, lots of land under starry skies above.”
She chuckled, which was a good sound, but it ended abruptly. She said, “When my mother is cleared of this stupid murder charge, I think I want to kill her.”
