Forests of the Night (13 page)

Frank Sheffield shut his phone and joined Special Agent Joe Roth at the walkway in front of the Cherokee police department. Local tribal cops in their navy blues were coming and going, shooting Roth and him surly looks.

Across the street was the Cherokee history museum, and on the other side of the road there was a shabby restaurant and a ticket office for the local outdoor pageant. Frank could see the silver flicker of moving water through the trees. The Oconaluftee River, he'd been told. Strange turf, all in all. Mountains, giant trees, cold dry air for June. Hardly any traffic except around the casino. And all those Indians drifting around—handsome people, but not a lot of cheerfulness in the air.

Roth was winding down his own phone call, the last few “okays” before signing off. Joe was a stocky man—five six, five seven—and built like a Little League hammer thrower. Thick neck, stubby arms. Sheffield and Roth might've been a comic tag team. Chop them high, chop them low.

Both agents were in jeans and different shades of blue button-downs. The Carolina uniform, he'd been told. Try to blend in. Though Sheffield could see that wasn't working worth a damn.

Roth finished his call and nodded to two more officers passing by. Got the same frosty response as they pushed open the front door and went inside.

“Friendly town.”

Roth shook his head helplessly.

“Local law enforcement hasn't taken a cotton to us city folks.”

“Taken a cotton?”

“I'm trying to adopt the native tongue.”

“Oh, I bet that goes over big.”

Roth clicked his phone, looking for messages, then slid it into his pocket.

“We've worn out our welcome. Last year looking for Panther, all the questions, poking around, city attitude. Bound to happen.”

“From the looks of it, if one of these guys knew where Panther was, you'd be the last person they'd tell.”

“I'm afraid you're right.”

“So we going in or what?”

“Quick warning, Frank. You knew the sheriff's an identical twin to Martin Tribue, your victim.”

“I heard that, yeah.”

“Just thought I should warn you. Walking in, seeing this guy after you been looking at photos of his mirror image on a slab, it might spook you.”

“You're a warm and caring person, Joe.”

“One other thing,” Roth said. “Sheriff's kind of an oddball. Got a serious case of the weirds, but he's competent enough. Runs a tight ship.”

“I take it he's not a Cherokee?”

“No.” Roth smiled. “Only white guy on the force.”

“Elected?”

“No, hired by the tribe. An employee. They got themselves a sovereign nation here. Write all their own laws, got their own employment practices. Affirmative action times ten. It's total Indian preference, written right into the statutes. Casino, fire department, anything operated by the tribe, got to let the Cherokee get first in line.”

“I got no problem with that. Time they had a break.”

“Sure, whatever.” Roth checked his watch. “The guy's waiting.”

“So let me guess how he got the job, being a white guy. It have anything to do with his old man being Otis Tribue?”

Roth nodded at a couple of cops coming up the stairs to the office. Same sullen hellos came back.

“Didn't hurt,” Roth said. “Last thirty years his father runs the show around here. Eleventh district, Republican congressman.”

“So much for Indian preference,” said Sheffield.

“Never hurts if Daddy breaks bread at the White House now and again.”

“Man, I could use one of those daddies,” Sheffield said.

The interior of the police department had all the charm of a fifties ranch, with brown shag in the offices and an avocado refrigerator in the lunchroom. Stone Age computers atop all the desks. Tacked up on one wall was a kid's finger painting, but that was about it for artwork.

The sheriff's office was a little better. A window that looked toward the river, a wide desk cluttered with papers. Some family photos. But still frugal, all in all a gloomy-ass place to work, in Sheffield's estimation.

Sheriff Farris Tribue was indeed an identical copy of his brother. Taller than Sheffield by a few inches, with the kind of body Frank associated with bronc riders. All gristle and tendon. Late forties. A long, bony Abe Lincoln face with a bulky jaw and dark, close-set eyes. His ears cupped out like small hands, and the bluish shadow of his beard was showing already at noon.

Two white standard poodles that had been lying on the linoleum behind the sheriff's desk rose, came to attention, and sauntered around the desk.

“Don't mind them,” Tribue said. “They're harmless.”

While the dogs took turns sniffing Sheffield's crotch, Sheriff Tribue held out a huge mitt, which swallowed Frank's hand as they shook. The sheriff held the grip a few seconds longer than necessary. Tugging Frank an inch or two off balance till his thighs were pressed awkwardly against the edge of the sheriff's desk. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. But Sheffield was still pissed off even before the guy opened his mouth.

“Special Agent Sheffield's up from the Miami field office.”

The sheriff nodded his greeting.

“My sincere regrets on the loss of your brother, Martin.”

The sheriff thanked Sheffield, his face blank. He waved the agents into the folding metal chairs across from his desk. Sheffield's was a size too small, making him feel suddenly like a third grader called before the principal. Which he supposed was the intention.

The two poodles stood side by side watching Frank, at eye level now.
They were weird-ass dogs, sizing him up like he might be on the dinner menu.

“I assume you want to know if I have any thoughts on why Jacob Panther might want to murder my brother.”

“Good place to start.”

“I have absolutely no idea. I've given it a great deal of reflection, but I can't fathom it.”

“Did they know each other? Before Panther went on the run, I mean.”

“It's a small town, Agent Sheffield. Everyone knows everyone.”

“But there was no history between them? Animosity?”

“They traveled in different social circles,” the sheriff said. “As far as I know, Martin and Panther had no contact whatsoever.”

Sheffield shifted in his puny chair and watched the guy. He wore the same dark-navy uniform as the other cops. Nice, crisp Windsor knot hugged tight to his throat. A little more gold sprinkled around than on the noncoms. Sidearm was a chunky SIG Sauer .357 in a polished leather holster. Sheffield wasn't sure why the guy irritated him so much. The undersized chair, that handshake game. But it was something more than that. Smugness radiating off his flesh like a bad smell.

As if following some silent command, the dogs turned away from Sheffield and returned to their spots on either side of the sheriff's desk.

Roth was quiet, letting Sheffield take the lead.

“Your brother, Martin, he ran a construction company? Tribue Engineering?”

“That's right.”

“Office buildings, that sort of thing?”

“Commercial, residential, parking lots. Whatever needed building, Martin could handle it. Housing developments, swimming pools, anything.”

“Successful business?”

“Like any company, there have been good times and bad.”

“Maybe Panther did carpenter work, day laborer, anything like that? He might have a run-in with the boss?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Barroom fights, girlfriends? Something out of left field that might tie them together?”

“If there was anything like that, I can't think what it is. Believe me, I've racked my brain. But no, I'm aware of absolutely no reason why Jacob Panther, or anyone else for that matter, might want to kill my brother. He was a gentle spirit. A kind and generous soul.”

“You and him, you shared a house?”

The sheriff stiffened for a moment, as if Frank was implying something deviant.

“Martin and I lived in the home where we were born. Where my father was born and his father before him. Is that relevant?”

“At this point, I don't know what's relevant. I'm just collecting data. You know how it is.”

The sheriff nodded, but there was a new rigidity in his manner. Sheffield had crossed some line. Getting personal. Something.

The dogs seemed to sense it, too. They lifted their heads, giving Frank the dead man's stare.

“So Martin was down in Miami setting up a fund-raiser, that right?”

“He was scouting locations for a future event. Motels, conference rooms, banquet halls. Looking for the right venue where some of my father's loyal supporters could gather.”

“Strange thing,” Sheffield said. “Going through his papers, we found he was booked on a flight coming back the next day. Hits Miami Monday midday, schedules his return for Tuesday. I'm wondering, can he accomplish all that in less than twenty-four hours? Banquet halls, motels, conference rooms. I mean, Miami's a big place.”

“I'm not sure I'm registering your point, sir. Is there some other agenda here I'm not aware of? I find your tone somewhat inappropriate.”

“I'm just trying to understand. Fact-checking, that's all.”

The sheriff picked up a ballpoint and drummed it on his ink blotter.

“I'm not certain of Martin's schedule. You'd have to query one of my father's aides about that. But Martin was a very competent businessman. I'm sure his travel plans were suitable to his task.”

Sheffield said, “He always travel with a handgun? Your brother?”

The sheriff cocked his head and looked at Frank with a cold smile.

“I believe he was concerned about Miami's reputation for crime and disorder. So it wouldn't surprise me if he would choose to carry a legally registered handgun for protection.”

“Like for the motel room?” Sheffield said. “Somebody tries to break in? That sort of thing. Or a mugging on the street.”

“You're free to conjecture, of course. But we'll never know for sure exactly what scenario Martin feared.”

“Had to ask,” Sheffield said. “You got a victim of a violent crime; he's got a Glock nine in his checked luggage. That's a red flag. Like there might've been something else going on. More than looking for banquet rooms.”

“A reasonable line of inquiry, of course,” the sheriff said. “Pardon me for being defensive. But he was my twin—a good, honest man. Naturally I bristle at the suggestion that he was engaged in suspicious activity of any kind.”

“Naturally,” Roth said.

“So you'd know what your brother was into? If it was something hinky.”

“Hinky?”

“Illegal, weird, kinky—anything along those lines.”

“He was a good man. A solid citizen. Nothing hinky about him.”

“Way I hear it,” Sheffield said, “Martin could get a little emotional. Like a serious go-getter. You were the quiet brother, he could get worked up. Short fuse, too much hot sauce.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Agent Roth and his people have been up here for a year. All that time, you pick up a few things. Is it true?”

Farris looked down at one of the poodles.

“I've heard that characterization before. It's not uncommon in identical twins. A brash one and a quieter one.”

“So then maybe it is possible, you two being so different, Martin might've been into something you didn't know about. Something that got him worked up and he didn't tell you, 'cause you're the quiet one, the one in law enforcement, you might not approve. Is that possible?”

He looked up from the poodle and gave Frank a hard stare.

“Absolutely not—we were very open with each other. He had legitimate
business in Miami. Carrying along a sidearm was not uncommon for him.”

Sheffield was quiet for a moment. Scrounging around in his head for anything else. The older he got, the harder it was to keep more than a handful of questions floating in his mind. It might be time to consider a notebook, jot a few things down, see how it felt.

“You done, Frank?”

“For now, yeah. Take it away.”

Roth drew the photos from his shirt pocket and lay them before the sheriff. Two black and whites, three colors. The ax that killed Diana Monroe propped up against a white background. Different angles, a couple of close-ups.

With a fingertip, the sheriff fanned the photos across his ink blotter and put on a pair of reading glasses.

“All right,” the sheriff then said, taking off the glasses. “So what is this? Am I supposed to hazard a conjecture?”

“A conjecture would be fine. It's kind of an unusual weapon.”

“Well, it looks Cherokee to me, if that's what you're asking. But I'm no expert. There are people across the street, over at the museum—they could tell you. That's what I'd suggest.”

“We'll do that next.”

“Some kind of glorified tomahawk,” said Farris. “That's what it appears to be.”

“Got no prints or other forensics tying the weapon to Panther,” Roth said, “but there's other linkage.”

“You're suggesting Panther killed Martin, then struck down someone else as well, employing this weapon?”

“Could be,” Frank said. “We're looking into it.”

“Well, naturally, this is your case, gentlemen,” said Tribue. “Forgive me if I'm going beyond my bounds, but I believe you're headed in the wrong direction.” He tapped the ballpoint against one of the photos. “This weapon doesn't match Panther's profile.”

“How you figure?”

“The blowgun, yes. Yesterday, when I received word of my brother's murder and your suspicions that Panther was involved, I immediately spoke to some of Panther's former cohorts. And yes, apparently he was
known to have used blowguns on several occasions while hunting for small game. According to those same friends, he also owns a deer rifle. But an ax? No, I'd have trouble putting that together with what we know of Panther. Such proximity between Panther and his target is not within the man's personality pattern. He hits from a distance, and runs. A coward.”