“Okay.”
“... there’s a guy standing outside the trailer, and a woman throwing what appears to be all his stuff at him. The deputy asked him what was going on, and he said that he doesn’t know, that she’s just crazy. The deputy showed him the fax of the receipt, and he said he’d never seen it before. Now, along with most of this guy’s worldly possessions that have come flying out the door was a checkbook, which the deputy picked up and casually compared with the handwriting on the receipt. Dead match. She showed it to the guy as they’re dodging the next salvo, and he admitted that he might just remember the girl. He described our victim and said she rolled up to his gate with a busted water pump and that he fixed it and sent her on her way.
“Sounds plausible.”
“Now, I’d told the deputy about the quarters and that the girl probably didn’t have much money, so she asked him how the Vietnamese woman paid for the repair...”
“She had sex with him.”
The Basquo stopped and looked at me. “How did you know?”
“She used the same morally casual bartering system with the Dunnigan brothers.”
He studied me for a second more. “Well, that certainly establishes a pattern.”
There was the sound of a motorcycle and a knock at the glass pane, and Santiago got up to get it. He opened the door, Phillip Maynard came in, and Saizarbitoria gestured toward the empty seat to my left. The bartender sat, and he looked like he needed it. He looked like he had been up all night.
“How are you, Phillip?”
He sniffed and readjusted in his seat. “I’m good, a little tired. . . . What is all this about?”
“Phillip, I made some phone calls back to Chicago and got some information relating to some incidents that involved you on Maxwell Street, where you’re originally from?”
He looked at the manila folder lying on the edge of the desk. “Uh huh.”
I nodded toward the envelope. “I don’t have to tell you what’s in this, but we both know how seriously some of the charges could be interpreted—two cases of unlawful entry, larceny, one domestic charge, and a restraining order that’s still being enforced.”
“Look, that was a bullshit deal and...”
I held up a hand. “Phillip, hold on a second.” I allowed my hand to rest on the file. “To be honest, I don’t care about any of this. It tells me that you’re no Eagle Scout, but as long as you keep your nose clean in my county, we’ll get along fine. But we do have a problem.” I let that one sit there for a moment. “I think you might’ve lied to me yesterday, or at least you didn’t tell me everything you know. Now, is that the case?”
He shifted in his chair. “Yeah.”
“So, why would you do that?”
He shrugged and sat there, silent for a while. “He paid me.” “Who did?”
“The guy.”
I could feel Saizarbitoria watching me as I questioned Maynard. “Tran Van Tuyen?”
“Yeah, him; the Oriental guy at the bar.”
“Asian, Vietnamese to be exact. What did he say?”
“He asked about the girl the day before yesterday, then came back in and gave me a hundred bucks to not mention his name.”
I glanced up at Sancho, who snagged his keys from the desk and quickly went out the door. “What kinds of questions did he ask?”
“Just if I’d seen this girl or heard anything about her. He had a photograph of her.”
“Did he call her by name?”
“Yeah, it was something like Packet.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Maynard thought and then shook his head. “Just that he knew the car was hers and that she’d run away and he was looking for her.”
“Nothing else?”
He shook his head again. “Nothing, and that’s the truth, Sheriff.”
I walked him out, stood there by my truck, and warned him that if he ever lied again that I’d find a place for him under the jail. He nodded and threw a leg over the Harley and rode off toward the rows of shanty housing at the south end of town.
I was still standing there when the Suburban came reeling around the corner; Saizarbitoria stood on the brakes and ground to a stop in front of me. He started to reach across and roll down the window, but I saved him the grief by opening the door. “Tuyen’s gone.”
I nodded. “What’d they say?”
“They said that he came into the office, paid his bill, hopped in the Land Rover, and took off.”
“How long?”
“About twenty minutes ago. I already called it in to the HPs.”
I thought about it. “You take 192 out to the Powder River, do the loop up toward Durant, and then circle back on 196. I’ll take 191 and 190 toward the mountains.”
He disappeared east, and I headed west.
I was about to make the turn at the underpass of I-25 when I saw the same two kids who had waved at me the day before and noticed that one was wearing a Shelby Cobra T-shirt. They were leaning on the same fence like regular eight-year-old town criers—well, one eight, the other maybe six. I had a thought and pulled onto the gravel. I pushed the button to roll my window down, but before I could say anything, the taller one with the glasses spoke. “Are you the sheriff?”
“Yep. I don’t suppose...”
He grinned and grabbed the younger boy by the shoulder. “I’m Ethan, this is my brother Devin.”
“Good to meet you. I don’t...”
The smaller one piped up. "Are you looking for bad guys?”
I nodded. “Yes. You didn’t happen to see a green Land Rover go by here about fifteen minutes ago, did you?”
They both nodded. "Yes, sir. DEFENDER 90...”
The older boy continued. “Coniston green with the convertible top, the ARB brush/grill guard, and front wing diamond plating.”
I sat there for a second looking at him, wondering what to say after that description, and then fell back on an old western favorite. “Which way did he go?” They both pointed toward I-25. “Did he get on the highway?”
The blond one answered. “No, he went under it.”
“Get on the highway on the other side?”
The one with darker hair responded this time. “Nope. Hey, can we have a ride?”
“Not right now, maybe later.” I saluted them and hit the lights and siren, but this time I left them on, thanking the powers that be for the American male’s preoccupation with all things vehicular. I thought of the Red Fork Ranch and called Saizarbitoria to tell him to turn around and take the 191 leg of the west side of the highway, and that I’d take 190.
The next call I made was to Ruby, who still sounded irritated, and that was without me singing. “What’s the matter?”
Static. “It’s another flood of these e-mails, and I’m getting tired of deleting them.”
I keyed the mic. “Any word from L.A. or Bee Bee?”
Static. "Nothing from L.A., but Bee Bee called and said that this Tuyen fellow inquired about the Red Fork Saturday, so if he was interested in the property, it was a sudden interest.”
“Well, I’m not sure how, but this guy is involved.”
Static. “Have you got him?”
“No, but I’m working on it.”
I hung the mic back on the dash and made the gradual ascent through the red wall country and broke onto the gravel road leading past the ghost town. I had just topped the hill when I noticed the flash of something reflective and slowed. I shut off the lights and siren, threw the truck into reverse, and backed down to where I could get a look into the canyon at Bailey’s ramshackle and only street. The Coniston green Land Rover sat parked along the boardwalk at the far end. I turned the big three-quarter-ton around and pulled off and into the ghost town.
In Bailey’s heyday, it had had a peak population of close to six hundred. The town had had a bank, hotel, hospital, post office, and something you rarely saw in high plains ghost towns: a large union hall, which stood at the top of the rise beside the road leading to the mine.