Blue Smoke and Murder

78

SEPTEMBER 17

6:18 P.M.

Grace had watched and listened while her husband peeled away layers of bureaucracy until he got to the man in charge. She stayed silent, because the phone was on speaker.

Besides, she’d already done her part by calling a retired federal judge and having him talk to the sheriff’s secretary.

“So what you’re saying, Sheriff, is that you won’t tell me why your deputy singled out that particular young woman and told her to follow him?” Faroe’s voice was mild, gentle.

Grace winced. She’d learned that when her husband sounded most gentle, he was the most dangerous.

The sheriff might have to learn, too.

Faroe’s hand gripped the phone hard. He wished it was the sheriff’s balls.

“No, I won’t tell you,” the sheriff said impatiently. “None of your business, no matter how many retired judges your wife knows.”

“Then I’ll guess why your deputy decided to pull the woman over,” Faroe said. “My teenage son did a quick database check of contributions to your last election. You received thirty thousand dollars and change in campaign contributions from a group of law-abiding folks up in Carson City.”

“What does-”

Faroe kept talking. Gently. “That’s a lot of money in a little county like yours, so I asked my son to check out those Carson City names. It took him maybe thirty seconds to find links between five of the ten contributors. Seems like they’re all members of the same law firm. Are you following me okay, Sheriff?”

“You’re wasting my-”

“My kid could start a court-records search on one of the proprietary databases that covers your state,” Faroe continued gently, relentlessly. “But I’m betting he’ll find that the law firm has only one real client, and more digging would prove that single client is the source of your campaign funds. Do you want me to name that client?”

Silence, then a sigh. The sound of papers being stacked. The click of high heels on tile as some woman came and went from his office.

“What do you want?” the sheriff asked.

“St. Kilda Consulting is engaged in a murder, arson, and robbery investigation in behalf of the young woman who is presently being intimidated by your deputy, acting in behalf of your big-time donor,” Faroe said.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Just doing a favor for a big man, huh?”

“Nothing illegal about it,” the sheriff said. “The deputy has to patrol the area around Beaver Tail Ranch anyway.”

Quickly Grace typed the destination into her mapping program.

“Odd name for a ranch in the desert,” Faroe said, watching Grace.

“We have some odd ranches here. Again, nothing illegal.”

The printer spat out a piece of paper. Grace handed it to Faroe.

“You keep telling yourself that, Sheriff. Then you listen real good when I tell you that you’re in danger of becoming accessory after the fact to murder.”

“That’s a load of BS,” the sheriff shot back. “There haven’t been any murders in my county in nine months.”

“If you want to keep your record clean,” Faroe said, “you’ll get on the radio to your deputy and tell him to call in as soon as he leads Ms. Breck to her destination. Then you’ll tell your deputy to haul his ass back out to Highway 93 and drive north to”-he looked at the map Grace had printed out-“milepost marker 418. Should I repeat that?”

“No.”

“Tell your deputy to stop at marker 418, turn on the light bar, and block all southbound traffic for the next ten minutes.”

“What for?”

“Road hazard,” Faroe said. “A small private aircraft will touch down south of him and let off a passenger. As soon as the plane takes off again, your deputy can turn off his light bar and head north.”

“Why north?”

“Because you want to keep your job. And if you let your good, rich friend know what’s happening, I will guarantee that you won’t be able to get work anywhere, including picking up trash at a downscale cathouse.”

“If you’re wrong-”

“I’m not.”

Faroe punched out.

“Will he do it?” Grace asked.

Faroe let out a long breath. “Zach will be the first to know.”