In Harm's Way Part 26

"Appreciate that, Sheriff."

Walt craned his neck to get a look through the windshield at the moon growing over the edge of the mountaintops. "Nothing prettier."

28.

"Drop me off near Grumpie's," Brandon said.

"Because?" Walt asked.

"I got a call while you were inside. From Bonehead."

The public knew "Bonehead" Miller as a colorful bartender at Ketchum's local hamburger haunt. The sheriff's office knew him as a two-time offender now working off the public service hours of his sentence acting as a criminal informant, a CI.

"Concerning?"

"Drop me off and I'll let you know."

If one of his daughters had spoken to him with that tone Walt would have chided her, and he considered doing so now because once that contempt for authority crept into a department, it was hard to weed out. But his relationship with Brandon demanded special handling, something everyone in the office had come to understand. How far he allowed Brandon to stray, and how hard Brandon pushed, would ultimately determine the deputy's longevity with the office, and quite possibly Walt's career, for he was beginning to sense that if a real challenge were to come at the ballot box it would come from within his own ranks. Who better than a young, experienced Marlboro Man like Tommy Brandon? He mused at the irony that someday Gail might end up the sheriff's wife for a second time, and wondered if she would be the one to push her lover to stage the challenge.

Brandon had street cred like few of Walt's other deputies. People warmed to him easily and he to them. He regularly turned arrests and even convictions into criminal informants for the office. Most of the rumors and hard information came through either Brandon or Eve Sanchez. As he watched Brandon swagger across Warm Springs Road and cut around to the back of the clapboard shack that was Grumpie's, he wondered if by being this information conduit, Brandon didn't possess too much power, wondering what, if anything, he might do about it.

Brandon sent a text message and waited by the putrid dumpster behind the burger joint, the garbage smoldering in the summer heat.

Bonehead Miller was aptly named for his protruding forehead and deep-set eyes. His dirty blond, shoulder-length hair was tucked up under a Cardinals baseball cap. He wore a soiled ap.r.o.n over a sleeveless undershirt, showing off some faded tattoos. He had one silver tooth-all the rest chipped-and a goatee and soul patch that looked like a wire brush for an outdoor grill.

There were no introductions. He handed Brandon a cheeseburger with catsup, pickles, pepperoncini, and Swiss wrapped in butcher paper, and Brandon ate as Bonehead talked.

"So I'm on the clock, right?"

"Mmm," Brandon answered, using his finger to catch a drip.

"You'll like this. I expect you to knock a couple hours off for this one."

Bonehead always expected more than he would receive.

"Of course," Brandon said through the food, lying. You'll get what I think it's worth, a.s.shole You'll get what I think it's worth, a.s.shole, he was thinking. Twice in for drugs was all-in for drugs as far as he was concerned. He had no room in his world for the Bonehead Millers.

"There's this guy been in here a couple times and I asked around with my buddies and he's pretty much making the rounds far as I can tell. Rat f.u.c.k of a guy. Makes me look like f.u.c.king Donald Trump. Smells bad. A woodsman. I heard you were looking for a woodsman, a meth cooker. I hear right?"

"Keep . . . talking," Brandon said with his mouth full, savoring the best burger in town. It was half gone.

"Looks like Tom Hanks in that one where he's washed onto that island."

"Cast Away," Brandon said.

"That's the one. Comes in here smelling like p.i.s.s and woodsmoke, orders a burger and beer, and lays down a hun. Wouldn't have thought nothing of it but Raven over at the Chute happens to mention some moron laying down a Franklin for a beer and we get to talking and it's gotta be the same a.s.shole."

"Franklin, as in Ben Franklin, as in a hun," Brandon said, just to get his facts straight.

"That's what I'm saying. Thing is, it was like the same day, dude. So this guy's laying down the Franklins just to be seen laying them down. Right? What a jerk."

"And this interests me because . . . ?"

"f.u.c.k if I know. It just don't make sense to me, and you're always telling me you want to hear about the s.h.i.t that don't make sense."

"True enough."

"You're looking for a cooker, right?"

"I didn't say anything." Brandon scrunched up the butcher paper and tossed it over his shoulder into the dumpster without looking. They were always looking for meth cookers. They were also looking for the guy who had tossed the Berkholders' place to look like a bear attack. One and the same? Or two different guys?

"You don't want it," the guy said, "what do I care? Maybe Jimmy Johns wants it."

Johns was a Ketchum deputy.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Bonehead. You'll get credit for this if it pays off."

"Pays off how?"

"Get the word out that I'd like to talk to this guy if he shows up somewhere. Can you do that?"

"I can do that."

"Do that, you'll get more credit. You got it?"

"I got it. Could be your meth cooker, right?"

"Could be."

"Worth five hours, right?"

"Could be."

"He's been around. I can get him for you."

"Do that." Brandon pulled out a five-dollar bill. "For the burger," he said.

"On the house."

"Can't accept it. You know that."

Bonehead accepted the cash. "Why you play it so squeaky clean? Other guys take the burger and and the beer." the beer."

"I'll knock ten off your time you get me this guy in the next twenty-four hours."

"Ten?" Bonehead's forehead lifted so fast his entire scalp shifted.

"Who the h.e.l.l's that important?" he said.

"Get to work," Brandon advised.

"You look like something the dog drug in," Brandon said, climbing back into the Jeep.

Resting his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel, Walt worked to control his voice; maintaining the face of calm in the midst of turmoil was critical to rank and authority within his office. "It took them all of fifteen minutes to reach Aanestead." The county prosecutor. "He's blocked the shoes, at least temporarily, until it's sorted out what my dog was doing in the house when I lacked a warrant."

"That was fast."

"He'll question you, Tommy."

"And I'll give him answers. I've known Doug a long time. Way before he won the prosecutor's job. He's okay. He gets it."

"You'll give him answers keeping in mind what we spoke about earlier."

"Keeping in mind that we have blood evidence on the shoes of a prime suspect."

"The truth is a piece of gla.s.s, Tommy. It's either whole, or cracked and broken. There's no in-between."

"There's windshield welding," Brandon said. "Where they suck that epoxy into rock dings and it's good as new."

Walt huffed.

"You think he'll let it through?" Brandon asked. "Let us keep the evidence?"

"Not without a fight. Wynn's going to put up a fight."

"Never known Doug to back away from a good fight."

Walt started the Jeep and drove off. The streets of Ketchum were quiet, the only action outside the few bars and restaurants that lined Main Street.

Brandon caught him up on Bonehead.

"You think it's good?" Walt asked.

"Felt like it."

"You've got some catsup." Walt indicated his own cheek and Brandon wiped his face clean.

"Could be the mountain man who did the Berkholders' place."

"That's not what you're thinking," Walt said.

"You testing me? Okay, could be the contents of Gale's wallet. We know the guy lived large and probably carried a wad. Could be our meth cooker. Could be all the same guy."

"That's what I'm talking about."

"It's not whoever's using the ATM card," Brandon said. "ATMs don't dispense hundreds."

"Now you're thinking."

"So it's two different guys."

"And we can a.s.sume whoever got the wallet, whoever either found the body or did him in the first place is the one with the card."

"So maybe our meth cooker breaks into houses for his jollies, or for food, runs into money after he makes his sale, and starts spending it around. Doesn't necessarily put him with Gale."

"Whatever his routine, he's important to us. He's a big piece of this. And according to Bonehead he's down here in town."

"Staying in town? Coming and going? He's got some money and he's living it up?"

"Or he's coming down at night to sell his goods and spend his winnings. I'll get Gilly some night vision gear and ask him to watch the trails," Walt said. He owes me that He owes me that, he was thinking. Walt had given him a second chance, not reporting the forest ranger's drinking on the job.

"I told Bonehead I'd knock ten hours off his PS if we caught the guy."

"What'd he say?"

"Acted like it was Christmas."

"You've got to watch offers like that. They can backfire. Now he knows the guy's important to us. May try to take cash to keep quiet."

Brandon stewed on the reprimand, finding something to look at out the side window.

"Listen," Walt said. "It's good stuff."

"You're going to always hold this against me, aren't you, Sheriff?"

He wasn't talking about Bonehead.

Walt drove for five more minutes, crossing the bridge over the Big Wood just south of Golden Eagle, a mile south of the turnoff to Fiona's place, where he'd had to fight to keep from looking as they drove past.

"It is what it is," Walt said.

"And what is it?"

"Over," Walt said. "It's over."