“You know, I’ve seen men ruined by drink, drugs, and Dodge pickup trucks, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen one ruined by soft-core porn.” He nudged his mug a little farther over and leaned his elbows on the table. “You’d think he’d never seen a set of tits before.”
“Amazing what they can do with special effects these days.” I looked down the three-foot barrel. “Trajectory?”
“Like a rainbow, and it hits like a twelve-pound sledgehammer at fourteen hundred feet per second.”
“Sounds slow and painful.”
The noise he made was not kind. “Like my marriage.”
I looked across the range and unbuttoned the top button of my uniform coat. The sun was getting higher, and the warmth felt good on my back. “You think this is what did it, huh?”
“Reasonably sure.”
“We need to broaden our search grid.”
“By a wide margin.” He pushed the mug even farther away; maybe he didn’t drink coffee. “If you want, I’ll go up there and do a walk around. Might be less intrusive than Search and Rescue.”
I wondered why he was being so helpful. “You curious about this case?”
“A little.”
“I’d have to send somebody with you.”
He laughed. “Does this mean I’ve made the list?”
“Don’t feel so honored, everybody with two ears and a trigger finger has made it so far.”
“Maybe I can help you to shorten it.” He looked out at the doomed pumpkin. “Well…”
“Well, what?”
He nudged the butt of the rifle toward me with his fingertips. “I’ve shot it before. Your turn.”
By the time I got back to the paved county road we were in a full-blown Chinook, and the temperature had risen above sixty-five degrees. I regretted not taking off my jacket before I’d gotten in the Bullet and flipped the heater over to vent. The Esper place was out near the junkyard south of town, so I hopped on the interstate and blew by Durant. I was about a mile past the exit when I remembered that I had told Ruby to send Jim. I figured I’d just keep going and radioed in to tell Ruby to tell Ferg I’d just take care of it myself.
“I left a message at his place and on his cell. It’s before noon, so he’s probably out fishing.” Static. “When are you going to get a mobile phone?”
“Then we wouldn’t be able to say cool things like ‘roger that.’ ”
More static. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” Static. “You better get back here and let the Ferg go round up the Espers, Vic says she’s got news from DCI.”
I was already looking for a turnaround and spotted one at the top of the next rise. “Nothing she wants to tell me over the radio?”
Silence for a moment. “She says she’d tell you over a mobile phone.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I whipped through the official vehicle crossover, checked my speed, and automatically looked around for the HPs; they love to give tickets to sheriffs.
I parked the Bullet and reached over onto the passenger seat to get the small satchel Omar had given me. Vic was seated across from Ruby in one of our plastic civilian chairs with her feet propped up on Ruby’s desk. Her legs were barely long enough to make the reach. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was Vic.
Big smile. “How you doin’, faddass?”
“I’m sorrowed to see the time spent in the echoing halls of criminal investigation have done nothing to curb your native vulgarity.”
They looked at each other, and Vic raised her eyebrow. “He are a college graduate.”
I slapped her small feet and continued on to my office. She followed after me and watched as I eased into my chair. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve been running.” I was watching, but her expression didn’t change.
“Bullshit.”
“Honest.” I didn’t have to tell her how far.
“How far?” I smiled at her. “I mean from the Bullet into the office doesn’t really count.”
“Sure it does.”
“Or up to the drive-through to get more beer.”
“It’s a cumulative effect, right?” She tossed another registered packet onto my desk; this one was from the Store. “And this is?”
“You’re king of the big words this morning, you tell me.” She turned and swaggered out of the office. “I’m getting another cup of coffee. Should I get you one, or do you want to run out here and get your own?”
I was reading the cover letter when she put my coffee in front of me. She sat in the chair opposite and now propped her feet up on my desk. I looked at the Browning tactical boots laced up past her ankles. I followed them up to her big, tarnished gold eyes, one of which winked at me over the Philadelphia Police mug. “Glad to have me back, aren’tcha?”
I grunted and turned the letter around for her to see. “We have a state ornithologist?”
She sipped her coffee. “Makes you proud, huh?”
“Haliaeetus leucocephalus?”
“Sounds dirty, doesn’t it?
I shook my head. “Boy, are you in a mood.”
“I actually got some sleep; you ought to try it sometime.” She continued to look at me over the lip of her mug.
“Are you going to help me out with this gobbledygook, or do I really have to read this?”
“Haliaeetus leucocephalus, the national bird of los estados unidos.”
I read a little farther. “ Meleagris gallopavo?”
The gold rolled to the ceiling. “Think Thanksgiving.”
“Turkey?”
“The feather they found on scene with Cody Pritchard.”
“So, they’re saying that it wasn’t an eagle feather, that it was a wild turkey?” I let that sit awhile. “I wasn’t aware that eagles or turkeys were suspect; I thought we had all agreed that the gunshot wound might have had something to do with the cause of death.”
She uncrossed her legs, put her feet on the floor, and sat her cup on the edge of my desk. “Wait, it gets better.”
“If you bring Cock Robin into this, I’m going to send you back to Cheyenne.”
“It was a turkey disguised as an eagle.” She reached across the desk and reopened the extended envelope, plucking out the feather, and handing it to me in its cellophane wrapper. “It’s a fake.”
I turned on my desk lamp and examined it under the light. It looked real enough to me.
“They sell ’em all over the place, even got ’em down at the pawn shop with all the shells and beads and shit.” I thought about the eagle feathers hanging from Omar’s rifle sheath. “They use them for crafts and such. You can fit your thumbnail into the spline of a turkey feather, but not a bird of prey like an eagle.”
Sure enough, my thumbnail fit in the spline ridge. “What was Cody Pritchard doing with fake eagle feathers?” She sat back in her chair. “You don’t think…?”
“I do.”
I looked at the feather again; it was about a foot long and the quill was about a quarter inch thick. It was dark about three-quarters of the way up, then solid white where it had been bleached. “A calling card.”
“Knowing Cody’s predilection for all things Native American, I would say that’s a safe bet.”
I continued to look at the faux feather. “Damn, I don’t like the direction this is taking.”
Her eyes dropped; she didn’t like it either. “I confiscated some samples from the pawn shop and FedExed them down to Cheyenne to check the dye lots, but they said not to hold our breath. They said the majority of Native Americans just dip them in Clorox themselves.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. “I could get some more samples from over in Sheridan. Bucking Buffalo Supply Company over on Main Street carries them, too. I don’t know about Gillette.”
I held up the feather and looked at it. “Working on the supposition that this is a calling card, who should we say is calling?”
