C. Box - Endangered

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” She seemed no longer suspicious, just puzzled. She had a sweet soul, Joe thought.

He said, “I got a lead on Lek Sixty-four.”

“You did?” She was genuinely surprised.

“Do you remember meeting the Cates family? They said they remember you.”

She cupped her chin in her hand and searched the clouds, then said, “Are they the people who live just to the south of Lek Sixty-four? Kind of a junky place?”

“That’s them.”

“What do they have to do with this?”

“Eldon, the old man, said he saw a vehicle up on the bench the night the lek was wiped out. He said he heard shooting immediately afterward but he didn’t think much about it at the time.”

Her eyes widened, prompting him for more.

“He said it was a new-model white pickup. He said it looked just like the government truck that you and Wentworth drove out to his place.”

She shook her head. “It couldn’t be ours,” she said. “We didn’t go up there until the next night, if you’ll remember. We went up there after you confirmed there had been a crime. Do you think Mr. Cates got his days wrong?”

“It’s possible,” Joe said. “But is there any chance you two were up there the night before? Like maybe you were lost or something?”

She looked at the underbelly of the clouds again, searching for the answer. Joe thought it must be some kind of yoga thing. He said, “It would have been Thursday, March thirteenth. I found the lek Friday.”

Hatch shook her head. “No, that can’t be right. I was in Casper at an agency meeting that day. I didn’t even get back until Friday morning.”

Joe let that settle, then asked, “Was Wentworth with you?”

“No. He stayed here . . .” And the doubt showed on her face. Everything Annie Hatch thought, it seemed, showed on her face.

“So Wentworth was here alone with his truck?” Joe asked.

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Just asking,” Joe said. “I remember you told me you first learned about Lek Sixty-four through a call to your tip line, right?”

“Right.”

“Who retrieved the information, you or Wentworth?”

“Revis did.”

“Did you ever figure out the identity of the tipster?” Joe asked.

“No, why?”

“Did you ever listen to the recording yourself?”

“No. But Revis heard it.”

“Right. Is it still recorded somewhere?”

She shook her head. “You’d have to ask Revis.”

She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. She shifted her gaze from the clouds to the lawn between her feet. “You’re saying you think Revis had something to do with this?” she asked.

“I’m not blaming anyone yet,” Joe said. “But I’ve got another question for you. Did you send that box of evidence to the lab in Denver?”

“Yes,” she said. Then after a moment, she said, “Well, we did. I didn’t personally send it.”

“Were you there when Wentworth took it to the post office, or FedEx or wherever?”

“No. But he told me he sent it in.”

Joe let that settle.

She shook her head again, as if ridding her hair of dust. “No,” she said adamantly. “There is no way Revis had anything to do with it. You just want to pin the blame on someone. You just don’t like him.”

“Could be,” Joe said. “I’ve got a request for you.”

She looked up at him.

“Don’t call Wentworth back for fifteen minutes. Will you promise me that?”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’ll take that much time to clear him,” Joe said.

After thinking it over, she said, “Fifteen minutes. But I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“I’ve been wrong before,” Joe conceded.

—

AS HE RACED BACK to the Holiday Inn, Joe had no confidence Hatch would restrain herself from contacting Wentworth. But it was worth a try.

He pulled his pickup in front of the lobby and went straight to the front desk of the hotel. The young female assistant manager on duty had purple-streaked hair and a nose ring and he recognized her as one of Sheridan’s high school friends. She was texting with someone, but when she looked up she seemed to recognize him as well. Everybody knew the game warden.

He said, “Is Revis Wentworth still in the same room on the third floor? I need to ask him some questions and I’m pretty sure he told me it was room 348.”

The girl looked on the computer and said, “No, he’s in 343.”

“Thank you,” Joe said, tapping his fingers on the counter in thanks. “Good to see you again.”

“No problem,” she replied, and reached for her phone.

He’d had no idea of Wentworth’s room number and he knew she wasn’t authorized to give it out. He felt slightly guilty about the ruse.

—

JOE KNOCKED LOUDLY on the door of room 343. He stepped to the side so Wentworth couldn’t see him out of the peephole and pretend he wasn’t in.

Joe watched as the peephole darkened, then lightened again. From inside, Wentworth said, “Who is it?”

“Joe Pickett.”

He heard a long sigh and the lock being thrown.

Wentworth wore sweats and gym shoes. A basketball game blared from the TV. His face was fixed in a snarl and he said, “I saw you out there sneaking around in the parking lot. What the hell was that all about?”

Annie Hatch had kept her word.

Joe said, “I was gathering evidence to prove that you slaughtered all the sage grouse in Lek Sixty-four. Annie is going to be very disappointed in you.”

Wentworth’s face drained of color and his mouth opened slightly. For a few seconds, his eyes went blank.

“You can’t prove a thing,” Wentworth said.

“That’s the first thing guilty men always say. They don’t say they didn’t do it or that I don’t know what I’m talking about. They always say I can’t prove it.” Joe smiled. Then: “I don’t know much about women, but I don’t think this was the most brilliant way for you to spend more time with Annie Hatch. After all, what would your wife think?”

“We’re separated,” Wentworth said. As he spoke, he unconsciously kneaded the naked ring finger of his left hand with his right.

Joe said, “That’s your business.”

Wentworth stepped aside as Joe entered the hotel room. The closet door was open and Joe peered inside. A 12-gauge pump shotgun was propped in the corner of the closet and an open box of Federal shells was on the shelf above the hanging rod. Joe could feel Wentworth tense up when he realized what Joe was looking at. Joe quickly withdrew his phone and snapped a photo of the shotgun and the shells.

“I’ll be confiscating your weapon and the ammo,” Joe said. “Don’t worry—I’ll give you a receipt.”

“You can’t do that,” Wentworth said.

“Sure I can. Weapons suspected of being used in a wildlife crime can be confiscated until it’s proved otherwise. So I’ll be taking your shotgun with me for analysis.”

Wentworth shook his head. He was trying to force a smile. He said, “I know shotgun pellets aren’t like bullets. You can’t match up the markings on pellets to a certain gun, and those Federal shells are a dime a dozen.”

“Yup,” Joe said, gathering the items. “But every shotgun leaves a unique firing-pin indentation on the primer. You can’t see it with your naked eye, but a forensics lab can see it through a microscope. They’ll know if this gun was used to kill those birds when they match it up with the spent shells I found at the scene.”

“Bullshit.”

“This time I’m sending the evidence to my lab,” Joe said. “If I were you, I’d start a long conversation with myself about all this.”

“So what are you going to do?” Wentworth talked like his mouth was dry. He looked at Joe with pleading eyes.