A Nose for Justice (4 page)

The other men standing nearby smiled.

Pete stretched out his gloved hand. “Mr. Hitchens. Glad you’re here.”

Looking at the fountain, Oliver gave the deputy a perfunctory handshake, then slipped and slid up to the pump.

“Bunny, don’t stand there like the useless asshole you are. Cut the water,” Oliver barked.

Dutifully, Bunny jumped down into the recessed area and wrenched the pump wheel, which was parallel to the ground. It, too, was painted light blue.

“Frozen.” Now soaked himself, he shouted above the gushing water.

Oliver motioned for Twinkie to lower himself down. Grunting with effort, the two men finally shut off the line.

Pete could clearly see a three-inch piece of one-inch-diameter pipe. Pipe bomb, he thought, saying nothing, but with his gaze he directed Bunny’s eyes to it. Pete looked away as Oliver fast approached the pump now that the water was turned off. Oliver hadn’t wanted to get wet. Bending over, Bunny shook as though to shed the water, but he scooped up the metal fragment and slipped it into his pocket. Twinkie, seeing this, engaged Oliver.

“Won’t take us too long to unscrew these plates if you’ve got a little propane torch, you know, a small one. Everything’s frozen, Mr. Hitchens. First job is to unfreeze them.”

“I’m not in the habit of carrying torches.” Oliver sniffed.

Twinkie knew that, and said with relish, “Then you and Bunny will have to hold the big tank steady on the rig while I melt the ice.”

Bunny smiled beatifically as unhappiness spread across Oliver’s features.

Pete, also savoring the moment, spoke. “A lot of people will thank you fellows. I’m one of them.”

Oliver’s lips twitched, a remnant of his grimace.

As Pete made his way back to the police vehicle, Bunny followed. He looked over his shoulder to see Oliver struggling to get back up on the flatbed. With a wink, Bunny slipped Pete the pipe.

Jake yelled in the background, “Twinkie, I’m parking my fat ass in your cab until you need me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Twinkie yelled back over the wind and the rumble of the bulldozer, which Jake wisely had not turned off.

The way back down proved more treacherous than the way up, but four-wheel-drive is worth the money. At the slope’s bottom, Pete headed south down Red Rock Road. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Pete dug in his pocket and pulled out the pipe piece. He put it on the dash with the two shreds of paper and the triangular scrap of red ripstop.

“And what did you see?” asked Pete.

Lonnie leaned forward, peering through the windshield into a whiteout. “The same old, same old. Oliver Hitchens can fart through his mouth. Twinkie and Bunny want to get the job done. Jake—you know, I don’t know exactly why Jake showed up. Reckon someone from Silver State called him because they figured they couldn’t get another piece of equipment up here fast enough to lift off the pump. Given subsequent water loss and the storm, they might not have made it up there. Pump’s not really that big. Jake can do it.”

“Look in the pipe. Is it rusted or corroded?”

Lonnie picked up the cold one-inch pipe and held it up toward the road in front of him like a spyglass. “Clean.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s amazing what damage a lead pipe bomb can do,” Lonnie noted.

Pete nodded in acknowledgment. “Three ninety-five will be a nightmare.”

On one side of the four-lane highway was Washoe County, Nevada. On the other side was California. The Peterson Mountains were the true geographic barrier with less than a mile to the California state line.

“Maybe the state will shut it down.”

“Not until an eighteen-wheeler rolls over.” Pete snorted.

“Right.” Lonnie shifted. “Did you expect this would happen to Silver State?”

“Sooner or later. If you remember your classes from school, the history of the West is the story of water.”

“I remember. That and the Comstock Lode. God, all my history professor ever talked about was the Comstock.” Lonnie flopped back into his seat.

“Here’s the thing, pardner. Someone blew up a pump. Someone cunning enough to pick a perfectly rotten day for cover. A great many people without water will be inconvenienced. Right now, Silver State’s phones are ringing, people are wanting information, some are irate, some will ask for a portion of their bill to be waived. If Twinkie and Bunny can fit up the new pump in this weather, with not much light, it might be five hours before they have water. Could have been a day or two if they hadn’t responded as fast as they did, so let’s give Silver State credit. So who benefits from this sabotage?”

“Whoever wants to scare people about water.”

“Yeah, and maybe even a few more folks will shake loose their water rights. A few ranchers outside of Las Vegas were paid seven point nine million dollars for their water rights. It’s happening here, too. Maybe the prices being paid aren’t as high, but Reno is greedy for water. Blowing up a pump, cutting off water, that sure underscores the issue.”

“Better someone blew up Oliver Hitchens.”

Pete laughed as he slowed for a nasty curve, a huge sheet of snow sliding down the east side of the Peterson Mountains as though aiming straight for him. “Someone thinks they will benefit from this.”

Just at that moment, passing them in the opposite direction was an SUV driven by Craig Locke, another Silver State employee, the man responsible for securing water rights. Pete saw the vehicle but couldn’t make out the driver since the snow required him to keep his eyes on the road.

“Maybe it’s a politician,” Lonnie said. “You know, someone who creates a big problem so he can solve it, then look like a hero.”

“You know, Squirt, I’m starting to think you’re growing up. That’s a possibility. Silver State is no doubt greasing some palms; that’s the great American way.”

“Or how about a nutcase who’s so pissed off at the fat cats he vandalizes corporate property to let off steam?”

“There’s been speculation that the drought, which finally seems to be ending after five long years, was a conspiracy to limit the water supply. I don’t know about that, but there is a logic to cutting off water for three hours a day during a shortage. Scare people while preaching about the shortage as environmental conservation.”

Lonnie hadn’t thought of that. “Oh.”

“One thing I promise you, Lonnie—well, two things—this is the beginning of a water war. And Jeep Reed is right: They’re bastards.”

“You forgot something.”

“What?”

“We’re right in the middle of it.”

T
hree weeks before Pump 19 blew, the newspaper carried a small squib announcing that Horseshoe Estates was finally approved by the Regional Planning Board.

It was to be an upscale development with a thousand homes. The developer, Wade Properties, Ltd., had undergone an arduous process involving lawyers, hydrographers, and surveyors, as well as expensive studies on traffic and the project’s wildlife impact. The planning board was duly impressed with the thoroughness of Wade Properties, Ltd.

The developer had learned from observing the Matera Ridge project, which failed to gain approval in 2009. When the county initially approved zoning for 632 homes in Steamboat Hills without requiring the developer to disclose his source of water, residents along Mount Rose Highway protested loudly and effectively. Approval was then withdrawn.

Wade Properties had demonstrated to the board’s satisfaction that there was sufficient water available for the homes in Horseshoe Estates. Silver State Resource Management, the firm selected to supply that water, produced compelling evidence. The president of SSRM, Darryl Johnson, provided proof they had acquired the necessary water rights, plus they could renew the water supply with new methods for capturing runoff from what little rain there was, as well as tapping into the snowcaps. This latter contingency plan was attacked as specious by two conservation groups, Washoe Water Rights and Friends of Sierra County, but SSRM still carried the day. Not only had its red-headed president given a presentation, so had Craig Locke, Director of Acquisitions. Also present at the board meeting were Oliver Hitchens and Elizabeth McCormick, although Oliver and Liz did not testify.

Bitterly disappointed at what they felt were skewed facts, the two conservation groups stormed out of the meeting. They’d lost this fight but vowed to lose no more. Their joint press release to the media was ignored by the local papers as were most of the zoning proceedings.

The only part of their statement that was printed: “If only there were more Jeep Reeds.” SSRM countered this with, “While we greatly respect Miss Reed’s business acumen and charitable activities, we think she is mistaken in her quest to control usage of water underneath Red Rock Valley.”

Since the late 1950s, Jeep had been buying up or optioning water rights in the Valley. Often she paid an annual rent with an option to buy. Her fear was that the aquifer underneath Red Rock Valley would be diverted to Reno and thereby harm cattlemen and ranchers, of which she was one.

Her statements over the years, always brief, focused on sustainable growth and preserving the precious resources of Washoe County.

She had not been asked to comment on the Horseshoe Estates zoning approval.

As it happened, there appeared to be little interest in Wade Properties’ victory because the news was dominated by the economic collapse of Nevada’s glamorous neighbor, California. Of all the stories in the news, this one certainly concerned Nevada residents the most. They knew they’d be dealing with the fallout.

In fact, Wade Properties’ zoning approval went unmentioned on all the local TV broadcasts.

T
he first weekend in December, a massive blizzard blanketed not just Nevada but much of the western half of the country. The eastern edge of this weather monster snowed on Denver as its western edge dumped on Reno. Airports shut down; roadways were deserted. Schools and churches, supermarkets and banks, all closed. Hospitals did what they could, but the best hope for anyone suffering a heart attack was prayer. Ambulances couldn’t negotiate roads any better than other vehicles. The storm was so severe that the plows just couldn’t keep up with the snowfall. The milelong drive up to Jeep’s house remained buried under two and a half feet of snow. Enrique left the back doors of the stable and sheds open so the horses and cattle could come and go as they pleased. At night he closed the horses in, for the temperatures dropped below zero out in the valley. The cattle, with heavier coats and more fat, could come and go at will.

Basques are tough people. Salaberry is a Basque name. Enrique Salaberry displayed the clean-cut features and the taut small body characteristic of the tough Basque people. Basques played jai alai, a game for lightning reflexes, better than any other people in the world. The Basques—small-statured men who were light on their feet and had incredible hand-eye coordination—dazzled in those few places like south Florida where jai alai was played. Take your eyes off the goatskin ball hurtling at you at 180 mph and you could die. A few players had.

Jeep assumed Enrique’s grandparents’ generation had fled Spain’s tyrannical dictator, Franco. Century after century, Basque hopes for independence were tabled or brutally crushed. The Spanish Civil War and its aftermath, much of it still buried in Spanish and Basque hearts today, pulverized any hopes of self-governance.

Enrique, however, cared little about his genetic heritage. This is hardly uncommon even among those who live in their genetic culture. His world was Jeep’s world. She and Dorothy “Dot” Jocham, her deceased partner, were the only parents he had known. Enrique was a Nevada cowboy through and through—with exceptional building and mechanical skills. The ferocious storm was testing them.

The path between his house and the stables was packed-down snow. He’d shoveled it twice already but the continued snowfall convinced him this was futile. So he fired up the 500hp ATV and ran back and forth over the path, packing it down. Then he did the same for a walkway between his house and the main house, another to the cattle sheds, and yet another to the first barn built on the ranch, the one undergoing reconstruction.