Page 51 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

DAY FOUR

TUESDAY

CHAPTER FIFTY

From the station in the morning, I called Connie and wasted no time on niceties when she answered. Fortunately, she’s used to me. And she’s a forgiving person.

“Connie, tell me everything you remember about the day Frank Jardos walked by you in the courthouse parking lot.”

“I told you. I said his name to stop him. He said hello. I asked if something was wrong. He said no. That was it.”

“Back up. You said he came from the side street.”

“Oh, yeah. He did.”

“Did you see him come out of a building on that street?”

“No. Oh . . . Well, maybe. It could have been James Longbaugh’s office, but maybe I thought that because that’s the one I’m most familiar with on that street.

I sort of saw Frank as I came out of the courthouse, then lost sight of him for a while as I walked to my truck, then there he was, coming toward me, then past me, like I said. ”

Yes, I already had James acknowledging that Jardos had been at his office and asked about registered agents. And Connie wasn’t definitive, but it helped tie the topic of registered agents closer to Jardos being distracted and concerned.

“What happened after you asked if something was wrong? If you can remember the exact words he used . . .”

“Exact words . . . Well, I’m pretty sure I asked if something was wrong. And he said — he said I’m okay. And now that you mention it, that’s not the same, is it? Because he could be okay, but something could still be wrong.

“And then I asked if there was anything I could do. He said, no, and touched me on the arm. Then . . . yes, he said something about he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do, either. Then he turned around and walked off.”

He walked off.

I wanted to hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. Why hadn’t I thought to ask before— Self-recriminations were a waste of time when I could be asking now.

“Where did he walk to, Connie?”

“Toward his truck.” A pause. It felt long, because, I realized, I was holding my breath. “But he didn’t get in. He went past it. Toward the sheriff’s department. By then, I was pulling out of the lot and not paying attention anymore. I’m sorry, Elizabeth—”

“No need to be sorry, Connie. Thank you. I appreciate you letting me pelt you with questions.”

I heard the smile in her voice. “Any time. Especially if it helps in even the smallest way with what happened to Frank.”

That was the rub.

I had no idea if it did.

* * * *

To phone or to go in person to the sheriff’s department?

If they were going to share that Frank Jardos visited them that day, a week before someone burned down his cabin, calling Richard Alvaro would be the fastest way to get the information.

If they were not going to share, I could read more by seeing Richard’s and Deputy Ferrante’s faces. Though likely not Shelton’s.

Going there would up the irritation factor for Shelton and Ferrante. Mind you, that could be an upside for me if they weren’t going to give me the information anyway.

My phone rang.

Still debating, I answered — because this was a call I’d always answer — though somewhat absently.

“Hi, Tom.”

“Is Mike there with you?” His tone more than the words caught me.

“At the station, yeah. He flew in last night. Why—?”

“I want to— No, that can wait.” As a rule, he didn’t backtrack in a conversation, second-guessing himself. He had my complete attention. “You’ll want to come out to where I am, but you’ll do better with Mike driving.”

“Tom—?”

“Better to save your questions, too.”

I was already up, heading toward Mike’s office. I could have used those steps to slip in at least a couple questions, but Tom wouldn’t ask me to save my questions — he knew how hard it was for me — without cause. “I’m on my way to Mike.”

The office door was open and Mike at his computer. He looked up when I swung the door closed behind me.

“It’s Tom.” I handed him the phone with a shrug in answer to his look.

“Tom? What’s up?”

After that, he said uh-huh a few times, dropped in a no, and finished up with, “We’ll leave right now.”

I swung by my desk for my bag and met him at his big, rugged, and luxurious vehicle in the lot.

As he headed east, away from town, I asked, “What did he say?”

“Asked if I knew a certain landmark. When I said I did, he gave me another. When he got to one I didn’t, he said he’d text you the directions from there.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

* * * *

We made two more turns while following the text instructions Tom sent — we’d had triple that before we reached that spot.

The last one took us into a sort of fold in the woods, where higher ground rose around three sides, with a relatively lower opening to the north. We had to be near the northern border of the county and the state, unless we were over it.

These tracks didn’t display Welcome to Montana signs.

We pulled up behind Tom’s ranch truck, as far to the right as possible, which still only allowed single file on the left.

When I came around the front of Mike’s vehicle, he was already in front of me.

If I’d had any doubt about that being deliberate, it died when he made an arm gesture, instructing me to stay back.

To be in front, I would have had to push Mike out of my way — did I mention he used to play for the Chicago Bears? — fight thick brush, or clamber over Tom’s truck, so I remained the caboose of this two-person train.

We passed Tom’s truck, then saw it was behind another, this one smaller and nosed into the brush on the right side, with a camouflage tarp over its roof and bed.

Mike looked over his shoulder at me as I took out my phone to take a picture of the license plate.

He stopped even with the front of that truck, still with me behind him. Not much above a conversational tone, he said, “Tom?”

“It’s okay, Mike. Keep coming.”

When Mike stopped a second time after about fifteen feet, I stepped around him and saw Tom, at his ease.

That let naggy phrases like under duress or not of his own free will slide away.

Those phrases hadn’t seriously disrupted my consciousness because of how he’d sounded on the phone. More like gnats flitting around the edges. Small, but annoying.

Gone now.

He was relaxed, sitting with another man in a compact campsite.

Sergeant Frank Jardos wasn’t dead.