Stephen White - Cold Case

I did.

"Ray's not fond of horses?"

Phil laughed his response.

"Nope. That was Gloria's thing. Ray isn't exactly here at the Silky Road very often, anyway. Most of our time we're in Washington or on the road in the district. This is a big district. Spend a lot of days taking the pulse of the constituents, you know. One good thing-I'm glad Gloria never had to see that stable empty. That would've broken her heart." "I'm sure that's true," I said, making conversation.

"Tell you what, though, I think Ray has some plans for all that space after he retires from public life. I wouldn't be surprised if he sets up a recording studio out there, gets back into radio."

"Really? Back into radio?"

"Sure. He calls it the pulpit of the new millennium. Ray's a preacher at heart.

Don't you think?"

I hadn't thought about it, of course, but at first blush it didn't seem too far off the mark. I decided to consider the thought further. First I said, "This is all a major change for you, Phil. Do you miss what you were doing before? Miss. being in law enforcement, I mean."

He sat back down before he answered.

"You know, sometimes I do. But in a small town like this, being sheriff can get pretty routine. Which is something I can't say about being in Washington. I like my life now just fine, thanks."

I nodded as though I were being agreeable though I wasn't feeling particularly agreeable.

"I saw a sign in town that seemed to indicate that Joey Franklin is in Steamboat today. Do you know him? Do you ever get to play golf with him? I would think that would be a thrill."

Phil stretched his neck and made a valiant effort to touch his chin to his chest. Wasn't going to happen.

"Golf is not my game. But the congressman plays.

As a matter of fact, he and Joey are playing nine as we speak."

Hadn't Percy Smith told me he'd played golf with Phil? Why the lie? I glanced at my watch so that Phil couldn't see how perplexed I was. He saw me check the time.

"Don't worry. They teed off at eight-thirty at the course at the Sheraton.

He should be back out here any minute." "Good," I said. I was aware that Barrett hadn't answered my question about being acquainted with Joey Franklin. I decided that pressing the issue would be too obvious. Instead I asked, "Do you stay out here when the congressman is in town, Phil? On the ranch, I mean?"

He nodded.

"I still have my old place in town, rent it out. Good location, do pretty well with it actually. But it's more convenient for everybody if I'm out here close by trying to keep messes from oozing under the congressman's door.

That's my job, protecting him from blind sides I think of him as the quarterback of the team. And I like to think of myself as the offensive line.

Unheralded but essential. That's me. I keep Ray Welle from getting sacked."

I thought, Well, you certainly have the size to play the position. I kept the thought to myself. What I said was, "It's ironic, don't you think, that you ended up living out here? After what happened?"

He shrugged. Apparently he didn't see the irony.

I snapped my fingers as though I'd just remembered something I wanted to ask him.

"I knew there was something important I was meaning to talk to you about, Phil.

The two girls-Mariko and Tami? I heard that they got into a little trouble with your office just a few months before they disappeared. Something about some skinny-dipping and some dope up at Strawberry Park?" "Let me think," he said.

He thought for half a minute. I assumed he knew exactly what I was asking about, which meant that he required half a minute to choose and polish a falsehood to serve me on a dish.

"You know, I do remember them coming in for something like that. My memory is that that's why the Oriental girl ended up seeing Ray for mental help. You know? Of course you know-you're here to see Ray about the mental help he provided for the Oriental girl, right?"

I was trying hard not to be disagreeable. But I couldn't keep myself from giving the "Oriental" girl a name.

"Mariko Hamamoto. Tami Franklin's friend. What's surprising is that there's nothing in the murder book that refers to the girls' being arrested at all.

I've read the reports quite carefully. Does that, I don't know, concern or surprise you-that the incident wasn't part of the initial investigation?"

He harrumphed.

"No, can't say that it does."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

"Do I mind? Or will I tell you anyway?" He slapped his knee, thought his comeback was pretty amusing.

"Will you tell me anyway?"

"Sure. The reason there was no report is that they were never arrested. They were never charged. I met with the parents myself after the girls were brought in. Came to a reasonable disposition with the parents. I promised to throw the book at the two of them if it ever happened again. Didn't ever have any more trouble with those girls until… well, you know." I said, "I know."

But I remained skeptical. Taro Hamamoto was certainly still under the impression that his daughter had been arrested and charged with a crime after the police had picked her up. I supposed that his cultural unfamiliarity with our legal system could have left him confused about what had actually happened.

Or I supposed Phil Barrett could have been lying to my face at that very moment.

"As sheriff I was, mostly, a compassionate man," Phil Barrett explained.

"They were good kids who made a mistake. I decided not to make them pay for it for the rest of their lives. That's all." scene that began unfolding below the horizon in front of me felt a little like an old western movie. A plume of dust had kicked up down the trail, and over my shoulder the sun was riding high in the sky above the distant peaks.

Pointing in the direction that the dust cloud was rising, Phil said, "I bet that's the congressman now."

Distances on the ranch were deceiving. Although the gate to the Silky Road was visible from the porch, the dirt lane that ran from the entrance soon descended and meandered alongside a dry creek bed, where it temporarily disappeared from view from the house. The road curled around for quite a ways in a pattern that roughly followed the confusing path of the creek before climbing back up toward the house.

Phil and I sat silently watching the progress of the cloud of dust that was Raymond Welle's vehicle as it tracked slowly through the dry bottoms near the creek bed and then through the wide expanse of high prairie that carpeted the dirt all the way up to the house.

"He loves this ranch," Phil told me.

"He was born and raised in Manitou Springs, of course, but he calls this place home."

I sipped bitter coffee from my Dilbert mug. I hadn't known that Ray was from Manitou, but I didn't see that it was relevant to much. I said, "I think it would be pretty easy to love this ranch."

Phil shot a glare my way. I guessed that he was wondering if I had been sarcastic with my comment about the ranch. To put him at ease I said, "Most of us can only dream of having a spread like this, right, Phil?"

"Amen," he said. I suspected that it was a word that rarely crossed Phil Barrett's lips on any given Sunday.

Raymond Welle's vehicle was finally pulling up to the house. The car, if you could call it that, was actually a snow-white Humvee. I should have been more surprised than I was. Welle was driving the huge thing himself. The young woman in the jeans and polo shirt who had delivered my coffee rushed out the front door to meet him. I wondered if that was part of her job description. Ray jumped out with the motor still running. A light breeze was to his back, and it carried his crisp radio voice to the porch. I heard him say, "My clubs are in the back, Sylvie. They'll need to come back to Washington with me this time.