The next visitor was a well-dressed young man named Elliott Lewis, whose tidy business suit and necktie proclaimed him a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Nevertheless, he displayed his identification to Chee. His interest was in the wrongful death of Austin Maryboy, such felonious events on a federal reservation being under the jurisdiction of the Bureau. Chee told him what he knew, but not what he guessed. Lewis, in the best FBI tradition, told Chee absolutely nothing.
“This thing must have made some sort of splash in the papers,” Chee said. “Am I right about that?” Lewis was restoring his notebook and tape recorder to his briefcase. “Why you say that?”
“Because the FBI got here early.”
Lewis looked up from the housekeeping duties in his briefcase. He suppressed a grin and nodded. “It made the front page in the
“How long you been assigned out here?” Chee asked.
“This is week three,” Lewis said. “I’m fresh out of the academy but I’ve heard about our reputation for chasing the headlines. And you’ll notice I’ve already got the names of the pertinent papers memorized.” Which left Chee regretting the barb. What was Lewis but another young cop trying to get along? Maybe the Bureau would teach him its famous arrogance. But it hadn’t yet, and maybe with the old J. Edgar Hoover gang fading away, it was dropping the superman pose. Chee had worked with both kinds.
Lewis was also efficient. He asked the pertinent questions, which made it apparent that the theory of the crime appealing to the Bureau was a motive involving cattle theft—of which Maryboy was known to be a victim. Chee considered introducing mountain climbing into the conversation but decided against it. His head ached. Life was already too complicated. And how the devil could he explain it anyway? Lewis closed his notebook, switched off his tape recorder, and departed.
Chee turned his thoughts to the note Janet had signed. Remembering earlier notes, it sounded cool, considering the circumstances.
Or was that his imagination? And there she was now, standing in the doorway, smiling at him, looking beautiful.
“You want a visitor?” she said. “They gave the fed first priority. I had to wait.”
“Come in,” he said, “and sit and talk to me.”
She did. But en route to the chair, she bent over, found an unbandaged place, and kissed him thoroughly.
“Now I have two reasons to be mad at you,” she said.
He waited.
“You almost got yourself killed,” she said. “That’s the worst thing. Lieutenants are supposed to send their troops out to get shot at.
They’re not supposed to get shot themselves.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ve got to work on it.”
“And you insulted me,” she added. “Are you recovered enough to talk about that?” No more banter now. The smile was gone.
“Did I?” Chee said.
“Don’t you think so? You implied that I had tricked you. You pretty well said that I had used you to get information to pass along to John.”
Chee didn’t respond to that. “John,” he was thinking. Not “McDermott,” or “Mr. McDermott,” but “John.” He shrugged. “I apologize, then,” he said. “I think I misunderstood things. I had the impression the son of a bitch was your enemy.
Everything I know about the man is what you told me. About how he had used you, taken advantage of his position. You the student and the hired hand. Him the famous professor and the boss. That made him your enemy, and anyone who treats you like that is my enemy.”
She sat very still, hands folded in her lap, while he said all that. “Jim,” she began, and then stopped, her lower lip between her teeth.
“I guess it shocked me,” he said. “There I was, the naive romantic, thinking of myself as Sir Galahad saving the damsel from the dragon, and I find out the damsel is out partying with the dragon.” Janet Pete’s complexion had become slightly pink.
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“I agree with some of that,” she said. “The part about you being naive. But I think we’d better talk about this later. When you’re better. I shouldn’t have brought it up now. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I want you to hurry up and get well, and this isn’t good for you.”
“Okay,” Chee said. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”
She stopped at the door. “I hope one really good thing will come out of this,” she said. “I hope this being almost killed will cure you of being a policeman.”
“What do you mean?” Chee said, knowing full well what she meant.
“I mean you could stay in law enforcement without carrying that damned gun, and doing that sort of work. You could take your pick of half a dozen jobs in—”
“In Washington,” Chee said.
