Cold Wind (6 page)

Newman whapped the side of his hard hat with the heel of his hand. “Oh, now I get it. Why they didn’t want you coming up here. He’s your father-in-law. Man, oh man.”

Joe thought,
Too bad it wasn’t his wife
. He said nothing, but checked to make sure his harness hook hadn’t somehow magically come undone before grasping the sidewall of the nacelle. He leaned over and looked down. The convoy surrounded the tower. The vehicles were tiny from his vantage point, and the sheriff and his deputies were scurrying around like ticks. He could see one of the deputies pulling on a climbing harness with help from the Rope the Wind employee who had accompanied them out.

“The sheriff will be sending someone up now,” Joe said to Newman. He patted his uniform for his digital camera. “I want to get some evidence shots of my own before they take over the crime scene.”

“Sheriff McLanahan?” Newman said.

“Yes.”

Newman shook his head. “He’s a tool. I’ve had a couple run-ins with him. Thinks he’s some kind of Old West cowboy lawman, when he’s just a goddamned ass-hat.” Then he realized what he’d said and who’d heard it and quickly added, “I’m sorry. He might be a friend of yours.”

“He’s no friend,” Joe said.

Taylor was visibly relieved. “I see his reelection signs all over the damn county. I hope he loses.”

Joe nodded. He didn’t want to agree in public. McLanahan had spies everywhere, and he kept a meticulous count of who was with him and who wasn’t. The sheriff made it a point to make life hard for those opposed to him, and had turned it into a career when it came to Joe Pickett.

As they waited for the deputy to scale the tower, Joe withdrew his cell and speed-dialed Marybeth. She should just about be at the library to start work, he thought.

When she picked up, he told her where he was—noting that, whatever his location, it didn’t seem to shock her anymore—and said, “Tough news, honey. We found The Earl’s body.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I’ll drive out to the ranch to tell your mother,” Joe said, already dreading it. “It should probably come from me.”

“What happened? Did he get bucked off his horse?”

“Worse,” Joe said. “Much worse. My first guess is somebody shot him and then they hung his body from one of his own wind turbines.”

“Oh, my God, Joe,” she said again. “That’s awful.”

“It is.”

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I’ve got another call coming in.” Joe could hear the click. “It’s my mother.” There was panic in her tone, which was out of character.

“I better take it,” she said. “What should I tell her, Joe?”

“Tell her that as soon as I can get down off this tower, I’ll be there.”

“As if that will hold her off,” she said. “You know how she is.”

“Do I ever,” Joe said.

He’d scarcely closed his phone when it lit up again. Marybeth.

“Joe,” she said. She was frantic. “She said someone she trusted at the county building just called her in secret to tell her Sheriff McLanahan is sending someone to the ranch now. Not to break the news, but to
arrest
her! For murder, Joe! They think she had something to do with this.”

Joe was grateful he was secured to the nacelle by the cable, because he suddenly felt lighter than air.

“That’s kind of crazy,” he said, turning away from Newman who was eyeing him closely. He was afraid he might be grinning.

“You don’t sound very . . . upset,” Marybeth said icily.

“I am,” he pleaded. “Really. It’s just . . . McLanahan is nuts. There’s no way a sixty-year-old woman shot the guy, drove him to the wind farm, climbed a two-hundred-fifty-foot tower, hoisted a body to the top, and tied it to a blade. Of course, if any woman was mean enough do such a thing . . .”

“Joe
.
”

“I’m kidding.”

“This is not the time,” she said, and he realized she was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel horrible. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. Joe, despite what she is and what she’s done, she’s my mother. And she’s your daughters’ grandmother. Do you want them to think their grandmother is a
murderer
, for God’s sake?”

“No.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said, and he could imagine her wiping at her tears angrily so no one could see her crying. Open displays of emotion in front of co-workers wasn’t her style. “Call me when you know something.”

“I will,” Joe said, closing the phone.

“Sounds like you stepped in it,” Newman said.

Before Joe could respond, Deputy Mike Reed’s helmeted head poked through the hatch. He was red-faced and breathing hard. Joe extended his hand and helped Reed up into the nacelle. When Reed could catch his breath, he reached out and put both of his hands on Joe’s shoulders, looked into his eyes, and said, “The sheriff wants your hide, Joe.”

Joe shrugged. “Won’t be the first time.”

Joe had known and worked with Deputy Reed for a number of years. He liked him. Reed was low-key and dedicated, and had managed to stay out of McLanahan’s web of intrigue and influence. He had surprised practically everyone by filing papers to run against the sheriff in the upcoming election. And McLanahan had surprised everyone by not immediately cutting Reed loose from the department.

“I’m surprised he sent
you
,” Joe said.

Reed chuckled. “He didn’t want to, but he ran out of guys, and he’s too fat anymore to even think about climbing that ladder.”

“Where are his homeboys?” Joe asked. McLanahan had recruited three young deputies who spent most of their time in the weight room or appreciating McLanahan’s original cowboy poetry recitations. Joe had met most of them and saw they aspired to follow in the sheriff’s footsteps, and therefore they were to be treated with caution.

The deputy looked hard at Joe. “I think you know.”

Reed’s radio crackled to life. Because of the proximity to the trucks below, McLanahan’s voice was strong and clear. “Deputy Reed, have you reached the top?”

“Almost, sir,” Reed said, and winked at Joe and Newman.

“Get a move on,” McLanahan ordered.

Reed took a deep breath.

“I’m surprised you’re still around,” Joe said. “But I’m glad you are.”

“He keeps his friends close and his enemies closer,” Reed said. “He wants to be able to keep an eye on me. So,” he said, looking over Joe’s shoulder at the body spinning by, “it’s true then. Earl Alden. This is gonna be a big deal.”

Joe nodded. He filled Reed in on what little he knew, from the missing person’s report to the riderless horse to the climb up the tower with Newman. He pointed out the hoist and the possible smear of blood. The whole time, Reed simply shook his head in disbelief. Then he called down on his radio and repeated the whole thing to the sheriff.

“We’ll need the evidence tech,” Reed said. “There might be some traces, and we might have some blood.”

McLanahan said, “You want me to send Cindy up there? She weighs what, three hundred? How we going to get her up there?”

“I don’t know,” Reed said.

“Can’t you at least stop that damned windmill from turning?”

Reed looked to Newman, who said, “Yeah. We can disengage the rotor. Joe told me not to touch anything.”

“He was right,” Reed said, and then nodded toward the radio, “but you heard the man.”

“And get that son-of-a-bitch Joe Pickett off there,” McLanahan said. “He’s got a built-in conflict. We can’t have him up there.”

“I’ll tell him,” Reed said.

“You’ll
ask
me,” Joe shot back.

“Okay,” Joe said. “But first you have to tell me why McLanahan sent his deputies out to my mother-in-law’s ranch. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see her in prison just to give her a scare, but come on. She can’t really be your suspect.”

Reed shrugged. “From what I understand—and nobody really tells me anything directly—the sheriff has been getting calls for a while about the possibility of this”—he gestured toward The Earl’s body as it flew by—“happening. He got another one last night, I guess. He didn’t act on it because he couldn’t believe it, either. But whoever called—all I know is it was a male—gave us enough detail ahead of the discovery to implicate her. I don’t know all the details, Joe. McLanahan didn’t share them. Maybe he’ll tell
you
.”

Joe snorted.

As he unclipped from the nacelle and reattached the fall-arrest mechanism to the cable to prepare his descent, he heard McLanahan tell Reed they were in the process of locating an industrial crane that would go high enough to unhook the body from the blade. And that he’d already contacted the state DCI (Division of Criminal Investigation) to send their best forensics team north.

“I want this thing puncture-proof,” McLanahan told Reed. “No mistakes. No cut corners. Now stay up there and secure the crime scene, Reed. I need one of my guys here when the crane shows up. I’m headed out to the Thunderhead Ranch to oversee the arrest and the search. And don’t let anyone else up there unless you clear it with me.”

“You want me to
stay
up here?” Reed said, frowning. “It could be the rest of the day. Maybe into the night.”

“That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” the sheriff said. “And why I get paid bigger bucks for making these decisions. We need this to be as clean as our mountain streams and as open as our blue skies.”

Reed looked up at Joe, who said, “I can already hear that last quote on the news and in his campaign ads.”

Reed shook his head and smiled bitterly. “The sheriff’s got this whole thing orchestrated pretty damned neatly. He’s on his way to make the arrest and I’m sure it won’t be a low-profile affair. I’m stuck up here waiting for evidence and forensics folks to somehow get this body down and find any physical evidence they can. If there are any procedural errors in the evidence chain, guess who is responsible? The guy left in charge of the stupidest crime scene in Wyoming history.”

Joe shrugged. “Good luck,” he said, straddling the hatch. “I’ll be checking back with you on what you find here.”

“I may not be able to share everything,” Reed said. “I hope you understand that.”

It was easier getting down the ladder than it had been going up.

But Joe knew as he approached the ground that his life was about to get real complicated.

Although between them
The Earl of Lexington and Missy Vankueren Longbrake Alden had accumulated and then consolidated six adjacent ranches—including the Longbrake Ranch, where Missy had once lived—they’d chosen the wooded compound of the Thunderhead Ranch as their headquarters. Joe passed under the massive elk antler arches that marked the entrance—the gates had already been flung open, so he didn’t need to stop—and drove through a low-hanging cloud of dust obviously kicked up by a stream of vehicles that had arrived just before him. As he approached the headquarters, he could see the wink of metal and glass of law enforcement units parked haphazardly in the ranch yard.

There had been so much traffic ahead of him that even the ranch dogs, who always raised a fuss and ran out to challenge visitors, simply glanced up, exhausted, from their pool of shade underneath an ancient billowing cottonwood on the side of a horse barn.

Joe pulled in next to an unmarked SUV he recognized by the state plates and antennae on the roof as DCI. He swung out, letting Tube follow him, and strode toward the old Victorian mansion that had once belonged to the Aldens, the original owners of the ranch. The renovated block stone home served as the residence of his mother-in-law and father-in-law until their new place was finished. As he skirted the bumper of a highway patrol car on his way to the house, Joe glanced to the west through an opening in the trees and saw a corner portion of The Earl and Missy’s new home. It dominated the high bluff on the other side of the Twelve Sleep River, and was a complex design of gables, windows, sharp angles, and peaks. It was to be 15,000 square feet and the construction of it alone was keeping half the contractors and one of Saddlestring’s lumberyards open through the recession. Joe wondered if the contractors had paused for the day when they heard the news, wondering if their jobs were now over and if they’d ever get paid for the work they’d done so far.

Deputy Sollis saw Joe coming and stepped out from the lilac bushes next to the front door of the ranch house. Sollis raised his hand to Joe, palm out, and said, “That’ll be far enough.”

Joe stopped, looking Sollis over. Sollis was square-shaped and his head was a block mounted on a stump of a neck. He was solid and buff, and his uniform looked a deliberate size too small in order to accentuate his pectorals, biceps, and quads. His eyes were black and small and could be seen like spider holes through the lenses of a pair of black wraparound shades. A fresh crop of acne crawled up his neck from his collar, and Joe thought,
Steroids.

“Sheriff inside?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“So let me in.”

“No, sir. No one goes in. Especially you.”

Joe put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I want to see my mother-in-law. Is she under arrest?”

A slight smile tugged on the edges of Sollis’ thick mouth. “I reckon, by now.”

“What’s the charge?”

“Charges,”
Sollis corrected. “You can take that all up with the county attorney. My job is to keep everybody out.”

Joe stepped back, his hands still on his hips. The day was surreal. The last time he’d been inside this house was two weeks ago with Marybeth and his daughters. Missy had planned the menu—chile relleños smothered in green chile sauce in honor of Sheridan soon going to college—even though the meal had turned out to be Lucy’s favorite and not Sheridan’s. Missy favored Lucy over all the children, seeing in her the spark of a kindred spirit, although Lucy no longer welcomed the attention. Despite the mix-up, Missy still supervised the cooking, but never touched the food and didn’t eat it. Neither did Sheridan.