Land of Wolves, page 20
“Liam is in good hands?”
“Child services has him until his mother gets here from Colorado, then I think she’s planning on taking him back there. I thought I would see if I could get them to use Dave and Sally Anders; they’re good people.” Ruby leaned on my doorway, sipped her coffee, and studied me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know. What am I thinking?”
“She doesn’t seem overly concerned about her missing husband.”
“She seems more concerned with getting her son back, which I suppose is normal.” I stared at the black dormant screen on my computer, matching my mood in every aspect. “Any word on Abe?”
“Still unconscious in Casper.” She gestured with a Post-it. “You did get a phone message from Clay Miller that a Jacques Arriett was at Paradise Guest Ranch picking up some wine, and Clay can point you to where his camp is on the mountain.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Who is Jacques Arriett?”
“Another of Abe’s shepherds who was probably on the mountain when Hernandez was killed.”
“A person of interest.”
“For lack of anybody else.”
She studied me. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
She studied me with her searchlight blues. “Really fine or Walt fine?”
I reached out, tapped the space bar, and watched Cady’s and Lola’s faces appear. “Somewhere between.”
“You’re not thinking of going up the mountain, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“Walter, the doctors said for you to rest.”
“I am resting, besides it’s just a ride in my truck. It’s not like I’m climbing up there with a pair of crampons and an ice ax.”
“One never knows, does one?” She shook her head and disappeared, only to be replaced by the Basquo.
“We have a problem.”
“When do we not?”
“ICE.”
“What, the refrigerator is broken?”
“Immigration and Customs Enforcement—part of Homeland Security.”
Evidently, my funny bone was in need of a little fine-tuning. “What about them?”
“They want Miguel Hernandez.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Well, tell them they’re going to have to get in line behind the Chilean authorities and the man’s family back home.”
“You don’t understand. They want him alive.”
“I’m sure that’s what we’d all prefer, but it’s a little late for that.”
“I’m sure it’s pushback from the U.S. embassy in Chile.”
“Did you tell them he’s dead?”
“The guy I was talking to didn’t seem to get it.”
I stared at him. “What part of ‘dead’ did he not seem to get?”
“That they couldn’t take Hernandez back to DC and interview him there.”
“Well, they’re welcome to take him back to DC, but the interview is going to be a disappointment.”
“He wanted to talk to my supervisor.”
“Your what?”
“Supervisor.” He nodded toward my phone. “Line two.”
I stared at the red light. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
I picked up the receiver and punched the button. “Walt Longmire, Absaroka County Sheriff and Supervisor.”
There was fumbling and then someone spoke on what sounded like a speakerphone. “Sheriff, this is Agent Steve Phelps of the Enforcement and Removal Operations.”
“I thought you were Immigration and Customs Enforcement?”
“I’m both.”
“ERO and ICE?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sounds confusing.”
There was a pause. “Sheriff, do you have Miguel Hernandez in custody?”
“In a way.”
“Well, we want him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a war criminal.”
Of all the things I was expecting to hear, this was not one of them, and I took a moment to reassess. “Excuse me?”
“Alfredo Rafael Anaya is a former agent of the now disbanded Columbian DAS, or Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad. He’s wanted back in his home country for countless murders, including three journalists, a sociologist, and his own bodyguard.”
“Wait a minute, we are talking about a shepherd by the name of Miguel Hernandez, right?”
“An alias that Alfredo’s been using for about four years now. We got intel from the attaché in Bogotá and the Human Rights and War Crimes Center—the HRVWCC identified Anaya as being involved with war crimes, persecution, extrajudicial killings, and recruitment of child soldiers.”
Vic, ever with her antenna alert, appeared at the other side of the doorway from Saizarbitoria and watched me questioningly.
“How did you connect this Anaya fellow to Hernandez?”
“The Colorado Department of Labor has all their international employees fingerprinted and one of their people pointed out some anomalies in Hernandez’s papers, and when they supplied the prints to us, Anaya popped up. With all these human-rights violations the Columbians want him bad.”
“When was this?”
“The violations?”
“No, the notification from Colorado.”
“About two weeks ago.”
“And it took you this long to find him?”
Long pause. “You’re not exactly on the beaten path, Sheriff. As I’m to understand it, he was posing as a Chilean national and was a sheepherder in the Montana wilderness?”
“Wyoming.” I glanced at Vic, who sat in the chair across from my desk. “Can you send us the information you have on this case?”
“Certainly. Can you hold him till we can get there? We’ll start the deportation process here in DC and then take custody of the prisoner within twenty-four hours.”
“I can hold him for as long as you want, but you better get in touch with the Chilean consul in that they’re pressuring us to return him to them.”
“We can take care of that.”
“There’s just one more detail you should probably be aware of.”
“I’m listening.”
“He’s dead.”
“Excuse me?”
“Miguel Hernandez or Alfredo Rafael Anaya or whoever the heck he is. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“As Kelsey’s nuts.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Pretty sure, yep.” I glanced at Vic, who cocked an eyebrow. “We’ve seen dead out here before.”
The longest pause yet. “That’s inconvenient.”
“Imagine how Hernandez/Anaya felt about it.”
“How did he die?”
“Suicide, possible murder.”
“Murder?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s going to complicate things.”
“Not for Hernandez/Anaya it’s not.”
“It is with the Columbian government.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked out the window and resigned myself to the thought that the case was about to get a lot more complicated. “So, what do you want to do about this, Agent?”
“I guess we have to come and identify the body and then have the remains shipped to Columbia. Do you have photos, and is the body intact?”
“Besides a general autopsy and a little wolf nibbling, yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure our medical examiner has photos.”
“Can you have those sent to me?”
“My dispatcher or the hospital can. Hold on just a moment.” I cupped a hand over the receiver and called out. “Ruby!”
“What’s the nearest airport there in Montana?”
I uncovered the receiver. “Wyoming. Gillette, Casper, Sheridan.”
* * *
—
“So, our Chilean shepherd was some kind of covert Columbian badass?”
Vic was sitting outside on the bench in the back of the courthouse; she had decided to accompany me in neither the peace nor the quiet as we sat there in the warmth of the early afternoon. “According to the U.S Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”
“Homeland Security.”
I leaned my head back and nudged my hat up, enjoying the sunshine on my face. “Yep.”
“Aren’t they supposed to know where the airports are?”
“Evidently they don’t know where Wyoming is.”
“What are the chances he’s one of the assassins that Bidarte hired?”
“It crossed my mind, but why the heck would he be shepherding up in the Bighorn Mountains—pretty deep cover if you ask me.”
“Just a thought.”
“No, I think it’s pretty straight up—he was a war criminal hiding in the farthest region he could find.” I shrugged. “If he hadn’t been killed, we wouldn’t have been made aware of him.”
“So, who killed him?”
“That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, now isn’t it?”
“Somebody he had a run-in with in his previous life?”
“Possibly, but I don’t see a wide range of suspects, besides . . .”
Even with my eyes closed, I could sense hers on me. “Besides what?”
“His literary tastes, what Keasik said about him . . . It just doesn’t match with the kind of brutal thug that the agent was describing.” Shrugging again, I swiveled my head and looked at my undersheriff. “But I could be wrong.”
“Why don’t you go home.”
“With a murder investigation and a missing-persons case looming?”
“Speaking of, the Lott/Extepare woman is supposed to be here this afternoon to pick up Liam.”
“I know, Ruby mentioned it—any idea what her plans are?”
“Nada.”
“Ruby also pointed out that she seems somewhat unconcerned about her missing husband.”
“She hasn’t exactly burned the roads getting up here.”
I nodded. “Well, I want to stick around long enough to speak with her, but I was thinking about heading up the mountain to talk with Jacques Arriett, the Basque shepherd who may or may not have had contact with Hernandez.”
“Or Anaya?”
“Whichever.” I shook my head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Name me something about this case that does.”
I stood and stretched my back, pulling at my abdomen where I now had a spanking new surgical drain and padding, which felt like a sidecar taped to my ribcage. “My side hurts.”
She stood facing me, hands on hips. “Good, I hope it keeps you up at night.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“I’m at the top of the office pool.”
I nodded and reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, how about you stay here and get an interview out of Jeanie Lott and I take Saizarbitoria and head up the mountain and meet up with the Basquo herder?” She started to interrupt, but I continued. “That way if anything happens, Sancho shoots to the top of the charts and you get off the list.”
She thought about it, trying to find a flaw in my logic but failing, in a sense. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
She hugged me gently, avoiding the apparatus taped to my side. “You make it a small altercation.”
Turning to walk back into the office, I noticed a familiar Toyota pickup pulling into our parking lot. “Uh-oh . . .”
“Is that the Choo-choo woman?”
“I believe so.”
“Good, I wanna talk to her.”
“How ’bout I talk to her first?” Catching Vic’s arm, I urged her toward the office. “I want to see her response to the latest information on Hernandez/Anaya.”
“What, and I’ll get in the way?”
“You might punch her, besides I think she’ll be more open if I talk to her myself.” Horrifically, she couldn’t find a fault in that logic either.
“Fine.” I got the full hand flap with that one as she made her way up the steps without looking back.
Keasik Cheechoo crossed the parking lot with Gansu and studied me as I leaned against the steel railing and raised my hands. “No wrestling, I’ve got a new drain in my side.”
She stopped, looking concerned. “Was that my fault?”
“No.”
She approached but then leaned on the opposite railing. Folding her arms, she looked at me disapprovingly. “What’d you do?”
“You know, I’m really getting tired of being asked that question by all the women in my life, even the ones I barely know.”
“Sorry.” She smiled. “You looked pretty good last night at the wolf meeting when you threatened to throw that hunter out the window.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“I guess you don’t respond like that very often?”
“No.”
She continued smiling. “Well, that explains why the whole crowd looked like they didn’t know what to do.”
I smiled back, happy to change the subject. “Keasik, how much do you know about Miguel Hernandez’s history?”
Her smile faded. “What I’ve told you, why?”
“Santiago, Chile, with a wife and kids?”
“Yes.”
Ruby poked her head out from the heavy glass door and glanced around, spotting me. “Walt, sorry to interrupt, but child services took Liam over to the Anders place on Parmalee Street.”
“I thought they lived on Fetterman?”
“They moved; people do.”
She disappeared as I turned back to Keasik. “And you got that information about his family life from Hernandez himself?”
Watching Ruby go, she turned back to me. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“It’s a possibility that he’s not who he says he was.”
“I don’t understand.”
I pulled the report from my pocket, unfolded the single sheet, and handed it to her. “I got a call from the Immigration and Customs Enforcement folks in DC, and they gave me a report on Mr. Hernandez that doesn’t match up with the information you gave.”
She studied the piece of paper and then looked at me. “Who is Raphael Anaya?”
“They say it’s Hernandez.”
She studied the page anew. “This doesn’t make any sense—I’ve seen pictures of his family and even spoken with his wife in Chile.”
Stooping down, I smoothed her dog’s ears. “Is it possible that he went there after Columbia?”
“He has children.”
I straightened and ignored the pain in my side. “How old?”
“Two and three.”
“So, he could’ve had them after escaping.”
She looked at the paper again and then back up at me. “This really doesn’t make any sense . . . This is not the person I knew.”
“The ICE agent seemed to think the fingerprints made the case pretty irrefutable.”
She continued reading but then looked at me again, her eyes beginning to well. “This can’t be Miguel.”
“Well, they’re going to be here tomorrow to collect the remains—that is if they can find Wyoming—and I’m sure they’re going to want to speak with you.”
She straightened. “Why?”
“You knew him, and you were one of the last people to see him before he . . .”
“Was killed.”
“Yep.”
She handed me back the paper. “How did they become aware of Miguel’s existence and whereabouts?”
“Your own Colorado Department of Labor.”
She looked stymied. “How?”
“Anomalies in the fingerprints threw a red flag.”
“We don’t fingerprint people at the Department of Labor.”
“Somebody did. Would you mind getting in touch with them and finding out what’s going on from their end? And in the meantime, I’d appreciate you talking to Agent Phelps when he arrives tomorrow.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She turned and looked at her truck, and for a moment I thought she might make a break for it. “I need to get back to Missoula.”
“Because?”
“Work, I need to get back for work.”
Folding up the paper, I stuffed it into my pocket again and gave her my most suspicious look, which I’m sure was amplified by my nifty new scar. “That’s sudden, what about the wolf conservancy and 777M?”
“I need to make a living while saving the world, you know?”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to not leave town until you speak with this guy from DC.”
“I’m telling you I can’t.”
“Ms. Cheechoo, we’re talking about a homicide investigation here. I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the importance of acquiring as much evidence as we can about Miguel Hernandez in our attempts to try and bring his killer to justice.”
“Look, I understand, but . . .”
“But?”
“I need a shower.”
“Excuse me?”
She glanced at the Toyota. “I’ve been living out of my truck for about a week now, and I need a shower.”
“That’s what this is all about?”
“I stink.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” As I studied her, she avoided my eyes. “We’ve got a shower in the jail downstairs.”
“I’d rather not.”
Reaching for my wallet, I started to pull out some bills. “Seeing as how you’re a primary witness, I think the county can—”
“No.”
I sighed. “You’re not leaving me many options.”
“Where do you live?”
“About fifteen miles out of town.”
“Is there room to park my truck?”
“Well, there’s plenty of room, but . . .”
“When you get through today, I’ll follow you out and take a shower at your place, then I can just sleep in my camper.”
