There was a honk from a horn behind me, and I glanced back to find a blue Volvo in my rearview—when I looked ahead, the train was long gone.
I pulled across the road into the parking lot of the Sixteen Tons with the Volvo staying close and was surprised to find a Campbell County Sheriff’s undercover car sitting near the door.
Parking the Bullet, I watched as Connie Holman got out of the Volvo and jumped in the passenger side of my truck. “Sheriff.”
“Ms. Holman.”
“What are you doing?”
I glanced around. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“I asked you to stop this investigation.”
I cleared my throat and turned in the seat, the belt scraping my neck, the charge of pain making me wince. “Well, it’s gotten a little more complicated.”
She clutched her hands together, and I don’t think it was the cold that caused her to do it. “You’ve got to stop this; you’re destroying my family.”
“In what way?”
She stared at me, her mouth opening to speak, but then she shut it and climbed out of my truck, slamming the door behind her and climbing back in her car and driving away.
I cranked my hat down, started to zip up my faux Carhartt coat, but then stopped and draped it over my sling. I’m not quite sure why, maybe it was in light of the recent activities, but I thought about the big Colt Walker I had put back in the center console, hefted it from the holster, and slid it conveniently into the sling.
I sat there for a moment, looking at the brief shelter of the pay phone and the receiver hanging against the side of the steel building. There really wasn’t anything tangible to tell me who it was that might’ve been involved, but I had some hunches—the kinds of things you couldn’t really define but could most certainly feel.
I was about to get out of the truck when I felt something vibrating in my pocket along with some blaring rap tune that Vic had told me the name of along with the artist, but nothing I had committed to memory. I fished it out and answered it as quickly as I could, thankful I was alone. “Hello?”
“Sheriff, it’s me, Corbin?”
“Hey, troop.”
“I’m still working on the computer, but while I was doing it I did some research on that group you mentioned, Asociación Punto Muerto?”
“Yep?”
“Well, the information I got is sketchy, but it translates pretty much word for word and stands for the Dead Center Association; it’s kind of an unofficial union for assassins and was started in South American prisons as a way for drug consortiums to get their contracts fulfilled, even if the hit man assigned to the job was killed or imprisoned. Once they assign a hitter for a job, there’s a pecking order of associates that are responsible for fulfilling the hit if that individual should fail.”
I sighed, thinking about the series of texts I’d received from the unknown person. “Oh, brother.”
“It allows these hit men to charge more for their services, because the contracts are guaranteed.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “Do you think this guy that you killed was one of them? Because if he was, that means there’s probably somebody else coming for you, Sheriff.”
I was tired, and this news didn’t exactly pick me up. “Who knows? A lot of these types of associations from the prison systems tend to break down once the guys get back out into the real world. Anyway, it’s not something that’s going to keep me up nights.”
“One of the signifying factors is a skull tattoo with roses in its eye sockets on a member’s body, so you might want to get the authorities over in South Dakota to look for that on the decedent.” I could hear him nodding on the other end of the phone. “I just thought it was something you should know.” He paused. “And there’s something else. When I was comparing the files between Holman and Harvey, there seem to be some discrepancies.”
“Like what?”
“There’s a Connie Holman—”
“The investigator’s daughter?”
“Yeah, well, she’s mentioned in one of the interviews, but Harvey appears to have omitted it.”
I thought about that for a long time. “Thanks, troop.” And then changed the subject. “How’s your dog?”
His tone brightened. “She’s better but tried to eat one of the corrections officers who came down here looking for payroll files.”
“She’s a little protective of her turf.” I cracked open the door. “Call me if anything else pops up.” I punched a button on the phone screen and looked at the image of my undersheriff in a bikini on a beach in what I assumed was Belize; I figured she’d left the selfie just for me.
I slid out of the truck and walked over to the phone, scooping up the handset and putting it to my ear where the operator advised me that if I’d like to make a call, I should hang up and try again. “The story of my life.” I started to hang the thing up, but despite the cold or maybe because of it, there was a lingering scent in the plastic.
I headed for the door.
When I opened it I could sense a tension in the dim, smoky air and could see Lucian and Richard Harvey, of all people, seated at a table near the center of the room. I stood at the door, after having closed it behind me, and noticed the postman and the bartender having lunch—the gang being all here.
I cleared the cold from my voice and spoke. “Lucian?”
He turned his head a little but didn’t take his eyes off the inspector. “Good thing you’re here—I’m about to shoot this New Mexican.”
My shoulders lost a little of the tension that had accumulated there. “Inspector?”
He stood. “I am truly pleased that you are here and that I don’t have to babysit this cantankerous son of a bitch anymore.”
“Who asked you to?” Lucian pointedly looked at me. “I got tired of playing chess with Haji and Sandy Sandburg sent this asshole over to give me a ride and we ended up here.”
I pulled out a chair and sat, taking off my hat and motioning to the bartender for a cup of coffee, the wear and tear of the last couple of days finally settling on me.
Lucian stared at my sling, and I wondered if he noticed the Colt Walker snuggled away in there. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Got shot by a fellow over in South Dakota.”
“You shoot him back?”
“I did.”
“You do a better job of it?”
The bartender, Pilano, arrived with my coffee, and I thought about sticking my face in it but settled for a sip. “Yep.”
The old sheriff glanced at Harvey, just to let him know that some real Wyoming lawmen were on the case. “Have to do with Gerald Holman?”
“Maybe.” I cut to the chase. “We discovered one of the missing women in Deadwood, but she was with this hit man, Deke Delgatos.”
“Hit man?”
I nodded.
“Was?”
“He’s dead, she’s dead—he shot her and I, in turn, shot him.”
“Lotta shootin’ goin’ on.”
“Yep.”
He studied my arm, my neck, and the lump at the side of my head. “You look like hell.”
I sipped some more coffee. “I feel worse.”
“What happened?”
“Buffalo and a few other assorted adventures.”
Lucian raised an eyebrow, but Harvey interrupted the interrogation. “You think this Delgatos had something to do with why Gerald Holman killed himself?”
“Possibly. It appears he had control of the Payne woman.”
Inspector Harvey’s mouth hung open under his prodigious mustache. “How did you find that out?”
“Tracked the bank records in Roberta’s name that had money being withdrawn from an ATM in Deadwood. Went over there and discovered a ménage à trois and a cell phone.”
“What was the connection?”
I sipped my coffee. “You ever heard of the Dead Center Association?”
He stared at me, in a way I thought a little strange. “No.”
I finished my coffee and noticed the bartender was quick to come over with the pot but that the postman stayed near the bar. “Me neither, but I’ll tell you something I do know.” I threw a thumb toward the door. “The only other recently dialed number on this killer’s cell is the pay phone outside.” I watched the bartender’s hand shake as he refilled my mug, and then I raised my eyes to Lucian. “Hey old man, I was wondering if you could do me a favor and drop me off at the airport tonight around eleven?”