Cassie recalled driving through the area in the height of summer a few years before and seeing full parking lots at every hotel. Tourists on their way to or from Yellowstone. It was different in mid-October. Inside, she could see a male and female behind the check-in counter looking out as if imploring her to come inside to relieve their boredom.
Leslie said, “We’ve notified the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department to deliver the bad news to Mr. Johnson. He probably won’t be shocked by it because he was apparently very cooperative earlier today when he provided Raheem’s toothbrush and strands of his hair to the authorities to get DNA.
“So it looks like you might be on the right track after all.”
“Still, I would have rather you said it wasn’t him,” Cassie said.
“Me too.”
“I’ll call Mr. Johnson as well. Does he know the circumstances of Raheem’s murder?”
“Not that I know of but I don’t know what the locals will tell him.”
“I’ll steer clear of that if I can,” Cassie said.
“So where are you?”
“Bozeman.”
“Bozeman? I thought you were going home. I thought we had an agreement.” She sounded miffed.
Cassie said, “You made that recommendation and you must have assumed I’d take it. But the more I thought about things this morning, the more I thought I needed to follow the only thread that makes sense to me—that Ronald Pergram finally came back home.”
They discussed her theory and Cassie could tell that Leslie was dubious of it for a couple of reasons. The first was that Cassie was flying blind, which Cassie acknowledged. She’d crossed law enforcement jurisdictions and state lines, which was something she never could have done when she worked for the sheriff’s department. The second, unspoken, reason was that Leslie wanted her joint task force to succeed.
If Ronald Pergram were to be found and arrested Leslie wanted it to happen so cleanly, to be so procedurally correct, that no defense attorney could touch it. She’d already been burned once by being outmaneuvered in court and she didn’t want it to happen again. Cassie understood that. And she understood that Leslie might think Cassie might get too far out in front of the task force and foul up the case by inserting herself into it.
Cassie said, “As I told Rachel Mitchell tonight, I’ve got no intention of getting in too deep.”
“I would say you’re already there,” Leslie said.
Cassie could tell Leslie was building up a head of steam for a full-blown argument. They’d had a few over the past few years and Leslie, using her prosecutorial skills, usually came out on top.
Then Cassie’s phone beeped with another call. She looked at the screen.
“We’ll have to talk later,” Cassie said to Leslie. “I’ve got Rachel Mitchell on the other line.”
“Look—”
Cassie discontinued Leslie’s call and punched in Rachel’s.
“Cassie?”
“Yes.”
“My dad says there’s a guest host he doesn’t like on The O’Reilly Factor tonight.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means come straight over. You’ve got—and I’ll quote him on this—‘one hour until Tucker Carlson Tonight comes on.’ And believe me, he never misses Tucker Carlson.”
“I’m on my way,” Cassie said as she put her Escape into gear. She could check into the hotel later.
The two clerks inside watched her go with puzzled expressions on their faces.
“What’s the address?” she asked Rachel as she roared out of the parking lot.
*
“HIS CAVE IS in the back,” Rachel Mitchell said to Cassie after she let her into her house. “Follow me.”
Cassie appreciated that given the time constraint Rachel didn’t engage in small talk. The attorney had changed into sweats—she even looked good in sweats, Cassie thought—and led her through her home. It was large and well appointed with overstuffed leather furniture, a flickering fireplace, and original paintings of Montana landscapes on the walls.
As they passed the kitchen Cassie glimpsed a teenage boy doing homework on the table and a man in his mid-forties reading the copy of the Bozeman Chronicle that was spread out on a marble kitchen island. The man looked up pleasantly and nodded as they passed.
“My husband, Tucker,” Rachel said over her shoulder. Then in a whisper, “He’s a saint. My dad isn’t the easiest guy to live with, you know.”
Cassie nodded and they continued down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. She thought the house didn’t look big enough from the outside to have such a long passage.
“You’ll see why I call it the cave,” Rachel said, opening a door and stepping aside for Cassie, who was hit in the face with the uncomfortably loud volume of a TV.
“He won’t wear his hearing aids,” Rachel said into Cassie’s ear. “So prepare to shout.”
Cassie stepped into the room as the sound pummeled her. It could have been the inside of a small hunting lodge, she thought. Elk, moose, bear, deer, and antelope heads on the walls, dim light from a deer antler lamp, black-and-white framed photos on the walls at odd angles and heights, at least a half-dozen battered cowboy hats lined crown-down along the top of a bookcase. Wooden pack saddles and battered panniers were mounted on sawhorses, and looped lariats hung from nails in the wall. A glass-fronted cabinet was filled with various long guns.
A large-screen television tuned to Fox News glowed on the far wall and she could see the back of a recliner with two large stockinged feet propped up on the footrest sticking up like rabbit ears.
“Dad,” Rachel called out, “she’s here.”
“Who’s here?” His voice was a rusty roar.
“Cassie Dewell. The woman I told you about. The private investigator.”
Cassie turned to correct her but Rachel winked as if to say, It’s easier this way.
“Tell her she’s got”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“thirty-four minutes,” Mitchell said.
“I’ll leave you two,” Rachel said to Cassie. “I’ll hover around outside if you need anything. And to eavesdrop, of course.” Rachel stepped back and closed the door with a sympathetic smile.
Cassie had to admit she liked her. She wasn’t so sure about him.
“Do you mind if we turn that down?” Cassie shouted as she pulled a folding chair over to face Rachel’s father.
“What?”
Cassie gestured toward the set and repeated herself but louder.
Bull Mitchell was a big man with a white crew cut who filled the recliner. He had a head like a cinder block mounted on broad shoulders. With deep-set eyes and a full mouth drooping down on the corners, he reminded her of some kind of big bottom-dwelling fish.
His hands were huge and scarred and they sat on his thighs as if he didn’t know what to do with them. The remote control for the television rested between his legs. He wore faded jeans, a red-checked cowboy shirt with pearl snap buttons, and wide red suspenders.
He squinted as he looked over at her and his mouth curved down even more into a grimace. But he located the remote and brought the sound down to a murmur.
“I feel sorry for you,” he said. “This country is going to hell. I’m glad I won’t be around to see it burn.”
Cassie said, “My mother agrees with you.”