Chapter 4
Early afternoon I wrap up the background checks on the pitbull posse and confirm with Animal Control. Ferg is hunched over his desk with a magnifying glass examining pictures of a barn invasion robbery caught by a witness in the hay loft. Only in Wyoming.
"Four o'clock okay?" I ask, walking over to his desk, arms crossed, defensive stance. I uncross them. "Ferg?"
He looks up at me, mouth open, like he doesn't know who I am. "I know these guys," he says.
Now apparently he recognizes me, but he's confused as to why I'm here. "Ferg."
"I mean, Vic, I know these guys," he says again with different inflection like he's trying to trick me into thinking it's a whole new statement.
I grit my teeth. Then I ungrit my teeth and smile. "That's awesome, Ferg. Half the job is already done. Much easier that way."
Now it's like he knows who I am and why I'm here, but he doesn't know what the fuck my problem is.
"Or not," I offer. "Were they friends?"
"Sort of." I think he's getting ready to expand on that until he doesn't.
"Okay then. Four? O'clock?"
"For what?"
Clearly this is going to require some of that patience I've been practicing on the coffee maker.
Walt's door is open. "For what?" he calls out.
"What?" Ferg and I say in unison.
"O-kay." I drag out the "O" and the "kay" to make my point. I head for the door. "Let's try this again in half an hour, shall we?"
"Vic," Walt barks. I'm seriously about to lose my shit. He comes out into the lobby. Reluctantly, I look up at him. "Four o'clock for what?" he says like it's the fifth time he's asked me.
I roll my eyes. I know, judge away, but I'm at my limit here. "The puppy mill. Ferg's going with me. We're meeting Marquez and Stone out there."
He puts a fist on his hip and seems to be examining my face for clues. Finally he says, "I thought you and I were scheduled for that."
"Yeah, but I didn't think it actually had to be you and me specifically." He's wearing a new shirt that makes his eyes crazy blue. If I wasn't so annoyed I'd be concerned.
The delay is way too long. He might be thinking. I try to coax it out of him by providing the transition word: "So . . . ."
"Well," he says. He looks over at Ferg, then nothing.
"Seriously, Walt, you're killin' me here."
"Uh, okay," he says, scratching his head. "Okay. You and the Ferg go. No bites."
"I had no intention of biting anyone," I say, and I'm out the door.
Minus the manic energy of homicides week after week in the midst of unceasing and widespread personal crisis, we've turned into a bunch of drooling idiots. But you know what? Idiots have time. Idiots know their neighbors.
My new routine, developed expressly for the purpose of handling situations like the one that just occurred, is to walk from end to end of the business section of Main Street twice, then walk around the square five times. I say normal, everyday things to people like, "Hey, how's it going?" and, "Yes, it is a beautiful day," and, "Really. I'm a deputy sheriff."
I acknowledge the mountains and the smell of fall in the air and remind myself that I am among the fortunate. I think about Sean on the other side of the earth, and I hope he's sorting out the truth from the blame, too.
When I get back to the office Walt is gone. I'm both disappointed and relieved. Ferg has instructions to forward the phones to Walt's house.
"What? Why?" I ask, a little too pitchy, a little too panicked.
Ferg shrugs. "Where were you?" he asks.
"I went for a walk."
"That's weird," he says.
And now we're running late.
