Dangerous Refuge

chapter Twelve



I’m coming inside with you,” Shaye said as Tanner parked in Refuge. “Sheriff Conrad will probably be polite to me.”

“It’s worth a try.” But he smiled to take the edge from his voice.

Come on, Brothers. Call. I’m going to the sheriff with a double helping of nothing much.

The county office was small and brightly lit, papered in the kinds of public service posters that made civilians feel that things were completely under control, with all bad guys numbered, known, and destined for justice. There was a door off to one side, leading to a small office. Tanner assumed that if the sheriff was in, he was behind the closed door.

The secretary’s desk had a nameplate—Ms. Jones—and a man frowning over the phone system like a spaniel confronting a page of quadratic equations. The tag over his right pocket said he was Deputy Feldt. His attitude said he wasn’t interested in visitors.

“That’s the first deputy on scene at Lorne’s death,” Shaye said in a voice too low to be overheard.

“The one who didn’t ask about Lorne’s clothes?” Tanner asked quietly.

“Yes.”

That, plus the deputy’s attitude right now, told Tanner all he needed to know. He walked up and loomed over the desk like the Sierras over the valley, threatening to slide down at any moment.

At first Shaye thought he had growled. Then she realized he was only clearing his throat.

“Yeah?” the deputy said without interest.

“I’m Tanner Davis. I want to talk to the sheriff about my uncle’s death.”

Without looking up, the deputy punched a button. He frowned when nothing happened. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, eyes on the phone.

“So am I,” Tanner said in his cop voice. “Is the sheriff in?”

No wonder Tanner expected the sheriff to be rude to him, Shaye thought. Cops have it down to an art form.

“Listen, Mr. whoever-the-hell—”

A newspaper rattled loudly.

Tanner glanced to the rear corner of the room. Separated only by a waist-high wooden divider and a gate made of the finest wood laminate that the taxpayers would foot the bill for, another deputy sat with his boots propped up on a tiny desk. He didn’t look up, simply rustled his newspaper again, sharply, making the sound of dry weeds harried by the wind.

Deputy Feldt straightened like he had been smacked. “Sorry, I hate this damn phone. What’s the name of the deceased?” His gaze shifted to the phone.

“Lorne Davis.”

“Oh, of course. Same last name and all.”

The deputy in back glanced up from his paper.

Shaye nodded, recognizing him. When Deputy Nathan August wasn’t being an investigator, he often moonlighted as security for Conservancy galas. He had been the second official on scene, but had been called away before he could take pictures with his cell phone.

“Oh, that Davis,” Deputy Feldt said. He looked as earnest as the spaniel breed he resembled. “I was sorry to hear about that. Lorne was a real . . . uh, real.”

“Uh-huh,” Tanner said. “Has there been a ruling on the cause of death?”

“We, ah . . . gimme a moment.” He glanced back toward the other deputy. No response. “I think the sheriff was just looking at the results for that, not sure . . .”

“I’ll need to see them,” Tanner said in a tone that was just short of a demand.

From the back of the room Deputy August said, “Not until the sheriff signs off on the report.”

“Hello, Deputy August,” Shaye said, trying to add some politeness to the conversation.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Townsend.” He looked from the newspaper to Shaye. A long look of male appreciation. “You left the party early last night.”

“Um, it had been a long day,” she said, surprised he’d noticed.

Tanner wasn’t. He made a sound that could have been a growl. The deputy was giving her a visual pat-down.

August looked away from Shaye to Tanner. “My sympathies for your loss.” His gaze went over Tanner, sizing him up like a cop.

Tanner returned the favor.

The other deputy hurried back to the closed door of the office and disappeared. The light came on. A few moments later he returned to the front, carrying a folder.

“I’m sorry you were the one to find him,” August said, switching his focus back to Shaye. “That was a grim bit of business.”

She stood up straighter, shaking off the chill of memories. “It was . . . difficult.”

Without appearing to, Tanner watched her closely. If she realized that August was interested in her as a woman, she didn’t show it.

“Okay,” Feldt said, clearing his throat and paraphrasing from the paper he held in his hand. “ ‘It is the judgment of this expert that the deceased, one Lorne Maximilian Davis, residing at’—hell, you know where he lived—‘is hereby ruled to have died from natural causes, likely stemming from cardiac arrest due to the age of the individual.’ ”

“Bullshit,” Tanner said flatly.

Shaye gave him a sideways look.

“Ex-cuse me?” August said, coming to his feet.

“Can’t be the first time you ever heard the word,” Tanner said, his voice flat.

“What Tanner is saying,” Shaye said in a calm voice, “is that there are some new facts he’d like to add to the investigation.”

“Not what I said,” Tanner muttered in a low growl, but only she heard him.

“Yeah, I figured that out all by myself,” August said. “He must be some kind of city expert come to teach us rural folks how it’s done.”

Feldt looked very unhappy.

“It doesn’t take an expert, city or otherwise, to notice my uncle wasn’t wearing a hat,” Tanner said. “You know any rancher in the valley who doesn’t put his hat on before his boots?”

August said, “Feldt, what’s the time of death there?”

“Hard to tell. Body wasn’t exactly in prime shape, what with the scavengers and all.”

Shaye’s mouth thinned at the reminder.

“What does the report say?” August asked bluntly.

“Uh, best they could decide, it was probably Wednesday, give or take.” Feldt looked at August. “If it was night, he maybe wouldn’t need his hat.”

“Then he’d need a jacket,” Tanner said. “He wasn’t wearing one.”

Feldt looked intently at the report, a man hoping to find a jacket. There wasn’t one.

“Then there’s the question of his boots,” Tanner said.

“He was wearing boots,” Feldt said, tapping the report. “We got ’em all wrapped up waiting for someone to claim them.”

“His regular work boots were on the bench inside the house,” Tanner said.

“The ones on his feet were shiny,” Shaye added.

August lifted his hat, ran his fingers through his thick hair, and resettled the hat. “I thought about that, even brought it up to the sheriff more than once. But it didn’t have much weight.” He shrugged. “Not enough to order an investigation, for sure. From where we are, you can’t even see circumstantial.”

Point made, Tanner thought. August tried to do cop work and was shut down by the sheriff.

“So you’re sure it was an accidental death?” Shaye asked.

There was a flash through the front window, sun glancing off an approaching car. August looked over Tanner’s shoulder to the front door behind him. His suntanned hand closed around the newspaper once again.

The front door opened, rattled in its frame by someone in a hurry.

“Morning, Sheriff,” August said.

The cop in Tanner knew that August had deliberately ignored Shaye’s question. What Tanner didn’t know was why. Unless it was Conrad’s presence. Turning slightly, he got a good look at the sheriff.

Without the stage lighting of the Conservancy gala, Sheriff Conrad had the command presence of dryer lint. His long, slight frame was drawn. Dissatisfaction with life radiated from him like heat ripples off asphalt.

Two cell phones hung on the sheriff’s belt. Instead of making him look important, they made him look ridiculous, especially as one of them was a cheap piece of crap any kid could purchase by the handful at a convenience store.

Since Conrad had settled for being sheriff of the rural county of Refuge, Nevada, Tanner doubted that the man could afford much more than a free dog to worship him. Tanner also had no doubt that he was looking at a man who was like his new captain back in L.A.—huge ambition but no real talent to back it up.

Must be real good at ass-kissing, Tanner thought in disgust. When it comes to promotions, that beats good work almost every time.

If Sheriff Conrad recognized Tanner, he didn’t show it. He nodded curtly to Shaye before he stalked through the open area to his office and closed the door. Hard.

“Never saw a man wearing a Do Not Disturb sign that big,” Tanner said into the silence.

“You’d think somebody would be happy he’s the bookies’ favorite in the next election,” August said.

The corner of Tanner’s mouth kicked up. Under other circumstances, he probably would have liked August. But right now the deputy stood between Tanner and the answers he wanted.

He leaned over and said very softly to Shaye, “Am I the only one who looks at the sheriff and sees a kid playing dress-up?”

She tried not to laugh, and settled for not being loud about it.

“FELDT!” The window-rattling yell came from behind the closed door. “Where in the sainted name of Jesus H. Christ is that final inquest? It’s supposed to be on my desk!”

“I’ve got it right here, Sheriff. All ready for your signature.”

The door opened and Conrad stalked toward them.

Tanner knew that Conrad was trying to project someone-is-going-to-die, but he just didn’t have the right stuff.

Probably why Conrad hired Feldt. Somebody he could intimidate.

“Damn it! That was supposed to be put to bed already!” He stood so close to Feldt that the edge of his hat brushed the deputy’s eyebrows.

That’s got to tickle, Tanner thought in disgust. He’d known too many fear-biters like Conrad. Give them a little power and they were hell on the half shell.

In Refuge, the sheriff had more than a little power.

“Uh, sorry, sir,” Feldt said. “I was just—”

Tanner interrupted. “That has to rank as the fastest inquiry ever spit out by a county bureaucracy.”

“Who the hell are you?” The older man’s voice had an unfortunate tendency to squeak under pressure.

“Sheriff, you’ll be pleased to meet Tanner Davis, nephew to the deceased in question,” August said, deadpan. “He has some questions and observations to share with you.”

Conrad looked at Tanner like he was boot scrapings. Then the name seemed to register. “Kin to Lorne Davis?”

Tanner nodded impassively. “Sheriff.”

Conrad’s mouth tried for sympathetic and settled for harried. “Look, I’m sorry for your loss. But what we have here is a natural death. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“What about the gold?”

Shaye made a startled sound. She hadn’t expected Tanner to mention anything about gold.

August watched the sheriff like a man interested in what he would say next.

“What gold?” Conrad asked before turning to the deputies and asking the same question, only louder because it was much more important right now. “WHAT GOLD?”

“I—I—I—” stuttered Feldt.

“Never heard of it,” August said calmly.

“No damn good, either one of you!” He exhaled a curse and turned to Tanner. “What gold?”

Since the sheriff had dropped his voice, Tanner answered. “At least one roll of pre-Depression gold twenties.”

“What?” Conrad’s voice was rising again.

“He kept them in a family hiding place in the house. A place you could only find with a wrecking crew. The house wasn’t wrecked. Wasn’t even messy, so nobody conducted a search before or after Lorne died.”

“Son,” Conrad said. “You’ve been away too long to know how hard times have been. Lorne probably spent any gold he had long ago. Doesn’t change the fact that he died a natural death at eighty-plus years.”

“He wasn’t wearing a jacket or—” Shaye began.

“Hello, Ms. Townsend,” the sheriff interrupted. “Looks like the Conservancy has bagged another ranch. Which tells me Lorne was flat out of cash or he’d never have given the land to you.” He glanced at Tanner. “You got a problem with your uncle’s death, take it up with the Conservancy. The sheriff’s office has real crimes to fight.”

August’s creosote-dry voice filled the silence growing between Tanner and the sheriff. “The hyoid bone was intact, no strangulation. Toxicology came back clean, no poison. No gunshot wounds, cut marks, or major trauma. His body was good until the coyotes and vultures got to him.”

Without looking away from Tanner, the sheriff nodded curtly. “There you have it,” he said. “Your uncle died on his own ranch with his boots on. There are worse ways to go.”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen most of them,” Tanner said. “I’ve also learned that face value often isn’t worth a handful of cold spit.” He turned and walked toward the front door.

Shaye watched August watching Tanner. When the deputy’s attention switched to her, she turned and followed Tanner out.

“Thanks for your time,” she called over her shoulder.

“Don’t mention it,” August said.

She was certain that underneath his deadpan exterior the deputy was laughing his ass off.

“It could have been worse,” she said as they approached Tanner’s car.

He gave her a look of disbelief and opened the passenger-side door. As she sat down, he asked, “How?”

“The sheriff could have arrested you for contempt. Didn’t your mother tell you that a smile goes farther than a snarl?”

“Not in a place where people want to ignore you. And Sheriff Conrad wouldn’t know a snarl if he saw the teeth.” Tanner slid in behind the wheel and slammed the door. “He’s a leaky balloon trying to float a badge. August is probably a good cop when he’s allowed, but the sheriff keeps a real short leash on everything except himself.”

“August knows more than he’s saying,” she said.

“He figured out real quick that I’m a cop.”

“That’s a no-brainer. One look at you out of a semi-tux and anyone would know you’re not a citizen.”

“I think I’m insulted.”

“Tanner, surely you look in the mirror when you shave.”

“Every day. So what?”

“You don’t look like the guy next door,” she said.

“I’ll leave that to August.”

“News flash. August is a hard case.”

“August wouldn’t mind patting you down real good,” Turner said, starting the car.

She turned her head so fast her hair swung out. “What?”

“Trust me. A guy knows.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You should see the look on your face.”

Shaye told herself she wouldn’t blush. For once, she didn’t.

“I get August,” Tanner said as he backed out of the parking spot and turned into traffic. “What I don’t get is the sheriff. You mind checking at the vet’s before I buy you lunch?”

“I’d like to see how Dingo is, too. Is that who you’re going to piss off next? The vet?”

“I’m expecting a call,” Tanner said. “If it doesn’t come, we’ll start talking to the men who played cards with Lorne. Do you know who the regulars are?”

“Berne Mason would. He manages the Silver Lode Lodge, where they played on Tuesday nights.”

“Do you know Mason well enough to get in to see him on short notice?”

“The Conservancy makes it a point to use the lodge for meetings with ranchers. It’s a favorite with the locals. I often handle the arrangements.”

“Good,” Tanner said. “Call him and find out if you can get in to see him early this afternoon. With a guest.”

“Why?”

“To talk about Lorne and poker buddies. As a favor, if nothing else will work. You’re the Conservancy and the Conservancy brings money into the lodge. And you’re a sexy woman.”

She made an inelegant sound and reached into her purse. “I’ll see what I can do.”

While she talked to various lodge employees, the town sputtered out along the road, becoming boarded-up tourist stores, Mexican restaurants, fields of Black Angus, and ranches all the way up to the mountains on both sides of the valley. Horses posed as if at shows, muscles defined beneath tight skins that gleamed in the pouring light. Hawks and falcons patrolled the grasslands.

“We’re on,” she said. “Two o’clock.”

“Good work. Thanks.”

Damn it, Brothers. Call me. I could chase Lorne’s poker pals all over Nevada and not be any closer to the truth.

It’s called a homicide investigation, Tanner reminded his impatient half. Suck it up. Impatience is a rookie mistake.

“If it helps,” Shaye said after a few miles, “the sheriff sold Mercedes-Benzes until just a few years ago. I guess he got the political itch before that. I heard he ran for supervisor, right around the time that Harold Hill was vacating the spot.”

“Wonder how much the post cost him?”

“Hill?”

“Yeah.”

“We go cheap in Refuge,” she said coolly. “But we like the appearance of law and order. You know, breaking up rustling rings and making sure the hangings go on time.”

Tanner gave her a sideways glance. “Not what I meant. Whatever the sheriff did in his past life, he doesn’t take the stress of this one real well.”

“How could he? The population of the county is small. The sheriff knows every missing person or robbery or domestic violence or car wreck or whatever else that comes across his desk. He can’t drive the street without seeing problems he should fix.”

“I hear if you can’t take the heat you should stay out of the kitchen,” Tanner said. “Yet the sheriff walked in today with the oven on high and frying pans blazing. Something is bugging him. And something is riding August. Notice how he took Conrad’s side the second he walked in the room?”

“And let me guess—you argue with your bosses all the time?”

“Hey, I give them Fridays and holidays off.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “I don’t think that August is any happier with how things are going than you are. Only he doesn’t have the luxury of coming right out and saying it to the sheriff’s face.”

Tanner didn’t argue. He’d told the truth to power and now he was opening drawers in the morgue. He didn’t blame August for being politic.

He just didn’t like the way the deputy had looked at Shaye.

Since when have you been territorial about a woman? You weren’t mad at your wife or her yoga instructor—you were mad at yourself for being stupid.

No answer came to Tanner but the memory of first hearing Shaye’s voice and thinking of tangled sheets and sex.