Stone Cold (20 page)

“He brought it up.”

“He was just talking. Trying to be nice. And you screw it all up.”

“Maybe I don't want him to get his hooks into me the way he's got them into you and everybody else around here,” Joe said.

Before Latta could respond, Joe said, “Tell me what's going on around here. You like to talk, so talk. Tell me what it is they have on you, and why there's a group of people in this district that are above the law. Tell me what they've asked you about me, and what you told them.”

“I can't,” Latta said with heat.

“Then we're done. Take me back to my truck.”

“You're goddamned right we're done,” Latta said. “I can't protect you anymore. You just do whatever the hell you want in my district.”

“I don't want or need protection,” Joe said. “What kind of place is this that you even talk that way? Why is it that everyone here knows me and knows my business?”

“I already told you,” Latta said, doing a jerky three-point turn on the gravel road so he could aim his pickup back the way they came. “It's a different world here. It's obvious you don't belong.”

Joe said, “For once, I agree with you.”

They rode along in silence for a few minutes, each consumed with his own angry thoughts. Joe put off calling Marybeth until he could be clear of Latta. He didn't want the game warden knowing anything about anything.

When they reached the state highway, Latta said, “If I were you, I'd pack up your dog and your stuff and head home tonight. Forget about helping me with the walk-in area. I can handle that on my own.”

“Still protecting me?” Joe asked. “From who? From what?”

“Hell,” Latta said, “I'm protecting myself, too. I've got Emily to think about.”

His tone had softened into uneasiness and anguish, Joe thought. He felt sorry for him.

“We're done,” Joe said, “but that doesn't mean I'm leaving right away. But whatever I do, it won't involve you.”

“It better not,” Latta said, inhaling a long and trembling breath.

•   •   •

W
HEN THEY
APPROACHED
Medicine Wheel, Latta said, “You aren't going to write up a report on all this, are you?”

Joe didn't respond.

“Tell me this will be between us. Just a misunderstanding between a couple of fellow game wardens. I don't know our new director at all, and I don't want her getting the wrong impression.”

Joe said, “I'm not planning to send in a report to her.” It wasn't a lie.

“Don't,” Latta said. “Because it's one thing if we're through and I'm off to the side. It's another thing if you make me your enemy, too.”

Joe looked over at Latta. There was a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. And there was nothing worse than that.

•   •   •

L
ATTA DROPPED
OFF
J
OE
without a word of good-bye in the parking area of the Whispering Pines Motel and roared away. Joe's pickup was the sole vehicle in the lot, and he assumed he was still the only guest. As soon as Latta's rear bumper strobed away through the trees on the side of the road and vanished, Joe called Marybeth.

“What did you find out about Erik Young?” he asked.

“He doesn't have any priors I could find, although I can't access juvie records. But I think I located his mother.”

The clouds had scudded off to South Dakota and the noon sun was straight overhead, warming the asphalt. Joe leaned against the grille of his truck.

Marybeth told Joe in detail about her experience that morning. She said, “If someone cold-called me and asked, ‘Are you Sheridan Pickett's mother?' or ‘Are you Lucy Pickett's mother?' the first thought that would probably come into my mind is
car wreck
. Or some kind of horrible accident.”

“Really?” Joe asked.

“Really. That's how a mother's mind works.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But if a stranger called out of the blue and asked, ‘Are you April Keeley's mother?' well, a bunch of other scenarios would immediately come to mind. I'd probably picture her in a jail cell or in the back of a squad car or something. I hate to admit this, but it's true.”

Joe nodded, knowing that he wouldn't come to any of those conclusions without hearing more.

Marybeth said, “So for Mrs. Young to blurt out, ‘I knew this call would come someday. My God, what has he done?' scares me, Joe. This woman knows Erik is capable of something awful. Trust me—a mother just knows. It convinces me Sheridan is on to something.”

Joe took a deep breath. He said, “What did she say next?”

“Nothing,” Marybeth said with a sigh. “She hung up the phone.”

“Did you call back?”

“No. I thought if I called right back I'd spook her. She obviously didn't want to talk to me or hear anything I had to say about her son. Just think: What if I was the police chief in Laramie or the head of university security calling? Mrs. Young didn't even want to hear who I was or why I was calling before she blurted out what she said.”

Joe asked, “Do you think you could call her again later tonight and get her to talk? You know, mother to mother?”

“That's my plan,” she said. “She may see the area code again and not answer, but who knows? Maybe she will have talked to her son by then. But all I can do is try. Meanwhile, I'll keep digging. Young's path from California to Laramie might include some other stops where he might have made a mark. Plus, I haven't dug into social
media yet. He's got to have a Facebook page, and he might have a blog or sites where he posts.”

“Keep me updated,” Joe said. “I'll keep my phone close.”

“Oh,” Marybeth said, “you asked me about two other names . . .”

She went on to detail the extensive rap sheets of Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith.

“Nothing at all in the last five years?” Joe asked.

“Not that I can find.”

“That's odd,” he said. “I didn't get the impression they'd reformed.”

“I thought that, too,” she said.

Joe paused, thinking it through. Then he said: “You know that wealthy rancher I told you about? He moved into this county five years ago.”

There was a pause. Marybeth said, “What's the connection?”

“I can't say for sure, but I don't think those two became model citizens all of a sudden. But obviously no one arrested them. You'd think they would have had run-ins with the town cops or the sheriff, or Jim Latta.”

He said, “I think maybe those two either work for the rancher or have something on him. But I'd guess the former.”

“Then steer clear of them, Joe,” Marybeth cautioned.

He nodded, but of course she couldn't see it.

“Joe?”

“I got it.”

“Joe, how are things going?”

He said, “They're heating up. It's probably good I won't be here much longer.”

As he said it, he glanced up at the motel office to see Anna quickly back away from the window, where she'd been watching him.

“Good work,” he said. “You've produced more results than the FBI at this point. But that shouldn't surprise me.”

“Just get done and hurry home,” she said. “I'm worried what I might learn from Mrs. Young, and you may need to get to Laramie in a hurry.”

Medicine Wheel, Wyoming

Joe finished his conversation with Marybeth and dug in his back Wrangler pocket for the key to cabin number eight.

As he reached for the knob, he paused as a thought came to him about what Anna B. had said. Daisy must have heard him outside, because she was snuffling up against the inside of the door, dying to say hello. But he didn't slide the key into the lock.

Instead, he backed away and speed-dialed Chuck Coon's private cell phone.

Coon picked up in two rings.

“Great job getting me that intel on those three names I gave you,” Joe said, as a greeting.

“Look,” Coon said with quiet irritation, “I'm in the middle of something. We all are. The state highway patrol stopped a van last night on I-80 going east filled with nine illegals who came over the border.
That in itself isn't a big deal, but only four of them are from Mexico or South America. Three are from Yemen, and two are from Chechnya. As you can imagine, we've got all hands on deck trying to figure out what's what. I'm sorry I had to pull my agent off your inquiries, but—”

“Never mind,” Joe said. “Marybeth got it all. But that's not why I'm calling.”

“I've got maybe a minute,” Coon said, lowering his voice. Joe imagined the agent-in-charge excusing himself from a room full of men in suits and stepping out into the hallway.

“That's enough time,” Joe said. “I'm going to call you back on your office landline number in twenty minutes.”

“But I won't be at my desk.”

“Just as well,” Joe said. “I don't need you to be there. I assume the incoming call will be recorded on your server, right?”

Coon hesitated, then: “Yes. But that's not supposed to be public knowledge.”

“Come on,” Joe said. “Everybody knows you Feds record everything. Anyway, just make sure you get a copy of the call and get it transcribed in case you need to send it over to the governor's office. You might need to refer to it later when you need to build a case.”

“Joe, what have you learned? It sounds explosive.”

Joe smiled to himself at that. He said, “Nothing has exploded yet, but I might be lighting the match.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's time to jump-start things.”

“Uh-oh . . .” Coon cautioned.

“You've got to get back to your meeting,” Joe said. “I'll explain later. I'll give you a call on your cell.”

“Remember our deal—”

“Thanks again for the timely intel. You guys have been really helpful so far,” Joe said, and terminated the call.

•   •   •

H
E LET
D
AISY OUT
to allow her to blow off some steam and relieve herself in the copse of trees behind the unit. While she loped around and through the tree trunks, he inspected the back of cabin number eight where the power and phone lines entered the exterior walls and compared the wiring with other cabins in the row. He tried to do it without looking obvious, in case Anna had found another place in her office to spy on him.

While he ran his dog he heard the sound of a vehicle enter the parking lot. He stayed back in the trees but peered around cabin number eight to see a Chevy Silverado with Michigan plates pulling a trailer with two ATVs strapped on behind it. The bed of the pickup was filled with hunting and camping gear, and two large bearded men in camo climbed out, stretched, and went inside the office. Obviously hunters checking in, Joe thought. So there would be some company besides Anna at the motel after all.

After a few more minutes of tossing a plastic dummy for Daisy to retrieve, he thought it was time to go in. He was surprised to see the Michigan truck swinging around in the lot and heading back out. He wondered if the hunters didn't like the motel or the rate—or if they'd been turned away—and why.

•   •   •

I
NSIDE,
he again sat at the makeshift desk and scribbled notes to himself in his spiral. After he'd gone over his script a third time, he punched Coon's office phone number into his cell.

As Coon had warned, it went straight to voicemail.

Joe said, “Is this the Division of Criminal Investigation? Yes, well this is Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. I need to talk to Director Don White. Sure, I'll wait.”

Joe sat up straight in the hard-backed chair and counted to ten, then: “Don? This is Joe Pickett. As you know, I'm up in Medicine Wheel County, and I've spent a couple of days poking around like you asked.”

He paused as if being asked a question, and said, “Yeah. I wanted to alert you that I'll be sending along a report soon that you'll probably want to hand-walk over to the attorney general's office. It's as dirty up here as you said it might be and maybe even worse. That grand jury idea you had might be the ticket for something this big and this wide-ranging. The whole county seems to be rotten to the core.”

He checked his notes and did another count before proceeding.

“Right,” he said. “Anyway, I'm no lawyer or prosecutor, but by tomorrow afternoon I think I'll have enough hard evidence of a criminal conspiracy for you to get some subpoenas and indictments going. I'm meeting with a confidential informant later this afternoon, so I can get the statement on tape, and another CI tomorrow morning who is on the inside. Both have given me enough to go on, but I need to do this formally for the report. Are we okay proceeding without me putting their actual names into the document?”

Joe looked over at Daisy, who was sitting on her haunches, watching the phantom conversation take place with great interest. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and in response her tail swept back and forth across the floor.

“Okay, good,” he said, turning back to his notebook. “They don't want their names out there for fear of reprisals. And up here, that's
something that I wouldn't put past them. Everybody up here seems to be in communication.

“So as long as I have your word the CIs will be protected for now, I can assure them they can talk. But from what I'm getting so far, at the very least you'll have a RICO case to start that will probably include a bunch of other charges once you force them to testify in front of the grand jury.

“Okay, you said you wanted some names so you could get the paperwork started. I'll spell them when we're done. Ready?”

Joe gave it half a minute. “The first is William ‘Bill' Critchfield. He's a local thug with a long rap sheet that ended five years ago.

“Eugene ‘Gene' Smith is an associate of Critchfield's. Same deal with him. Both of them, I believe, are employed by Sand Creek Ranch to keep the locals quiet and pacified. They do it through intimidation. In addition to my two CIs, I think we'll find plenty of people around here who will testify to what Critchfield and Smith have been up to the last five years. Once you've got them in custody where they can't hurt or threaten anyone, I'm guessing we'll have some more folks come forward.

“Okay, next there's County Sheriff R. C. Mead. He seems to know everything that's going on around here, except he shows a blind eye when it comes to Critchfield and Smith. I'd suggest getting a subpoena going so you can look at his bank records. I wouldn't be surprised to find some payments coming in other than his salary. He's a slick old coot and he knows how the game is played, so he'll be slippery. But I think he'll wise up if he's actually facing jail time. No former sheriff wants to wind up in Rawlins with inmates they may have put there.

“Judge Ethan Bartholomew is next. Oh, you already know how to
spell his name? Good. The judge is in cahoots with Mead. They work together to make sure connected guys like Critchfield and Smith are allowed to operate without any interference from other law enforcement who might not be in on the take. Yes, a judge. That's how deep it goes. Check his bank records also, as well as his court docket. It will be interesting to find out what cases
weren't
brought before him, or were brought and dismissed outright.

“Sheriff Mead may turn on Bartholomew, or the other way around, in exchange for some kind of deal. But that's up to you.”

Joe took a sip of water—too much talking—before continuing.

“Two more,” he said, rolling his eyes to himself but cognizant of the importance to continue to play it straight. He only had one take, and it had to be credible. “James ‘Jim' Latta. He's the local game warden, it pains me to say. I don't know about payments, but there is definitely some quid pro quo going on that may raise to the level of bribery.

“There's another guy,” Joe said, letting his voice rise with speculation, “a guest of the Sand Creek Ranch. He's a southern gentleman who comes across as snooty and out of place. I don't know what his role is, but he's obviously close to the big guy. He fishes with a cane rod, and you know how expensive those things are. He goes by the name Whip, which might be short for something. I don't have his full name yet, but I'll have it by tonight or tomorrow. It's just my gut saying this, but I think once we look into him we might find some surprising things. You should run that aka through your databases and see if he turns up. Can't be that many guys named Whip.

“Yeah, that's a lot,” Joe said. “And it's possible I might add to that list or need to revise it. I think we both know how high it might go.

“In fact,” Joe said, “I met the man himself today. You couldn't
meet a nicer guy. But I'll bet you dollars to donuts that when the indictments start coming down on their heads, one or more of these guys will crack when you start squeezing them individually. They'll deal and point the finger higher up.

“So that's it for now,” Joe said.

Then, after a beat: “Thank you, Don. I appreciate that. Just keep an eye on your email inbox, and happy reading.”

Joe discontinued the call. He realized he was covered with a thin film of sweat, even though the room was cool. He closed his eyes and replayed his words, hoping he hadn't tripped himself up, but realized—and feared—there wasn't much he could do if he had.

•   •   •

A
FTER CHANGING OUT OF
his uniform into a worn snap-button cowboy shirt and black fleece vest, he threw all of his clothes and possessions into the duffel bag on the bed. He left his shaving kit in the bathroom, though, so it would look like he was staying the night. All he'd have to do was snatch it and toss it into the duffel if he had to make a quick exit. While he glanced around to make sure he'd gotten everything, he found it hard not to look up at the ceiling.

Joe called Daisy and went outside to his pickup and let her bound into the cab. As he left the Whispering Pines for the afternoon, he noted Anna watching him from the office window.