Cold Wind - C. J. Box [86]
“Like what?” he said. He shifted in his seat because the places on his back where Shamazz had kicked him were sore. He’d had his ribs broken before, and he knew they’d not been fractured. Overall, he was okay, but it would be a while before he knew if anything was bruised or damaged.
“I located the original articles of incorporation application online at the secretary of state’s office,” she said. “Earl wasn’t originally on the board five years ago. Five years is an eternity as far as wind energy companies go. Five years is ancient.
“The chairman and CEO was a man named Orin Smith,” she said. “He listed his address as a post office box in Cheyenne. So of course the next step was to find out what I could about Orin Smith and see if I could connect him to Earl.”
Joe hmmmmmmm’d to keep her going.
She said, “I came back with thousands of hits. And this is where it gets strange. Orin Smith is apparently the chairman and CEO of hundreds of companies incorporated in Wyoming. They run the gamut from energy companies like Rope the Wind to crazy ones like ‘Prairie Enterprises,’ ‘Bighorn Manufacturing,’ ‘Rocky Mountain Internet,’ ‘Cowboy Cookies’ . . . all kinds of companies.”
Joe grunted, and said, “A couple of those sound sort of familiar.”
“I thought so, too,” she said, “but that’s the really weird thing. They’re just names. They sound like companies you hear about, but they don’t really exist.”
Joe shook his head, “What?”
“None of them seem to produce anything. There’s no record of them after incorporation. Beyond the name itself, these companies just seem to be sitting there.”
“I’m lost,” he said.
“I am, too. I don’t get it. And I don’t understand at all how Earl Alden came into the picture.”
Joe said, “We might be really going the wrong direction here. This doesn’t seem to fit any kind of scheme I can think of.”
“I know.”
Then she said, “But I found one thing of interest.”
“Yes?”
“I think I know where we can find Orin Smith.”
“Fire away,” he said.
“He’s in federal custody in Cheyenne. It’s amazing what one can find with a simple Google search of a name.”
“What are the charges?”
“Let’s see,” she said, and Joe could hear her tapping keys. “Securities fraud, investment adviser fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, international money laundering to promote specified unlawful activity, money laundering . . . on and on. Eleven counts in all.”
“Which agency’s got him?”
“FBI.”
“Good,” he said, putting his pen down. “Someone owes me a favor there.”
Before he punched off, Joe said, “Ask your mother what she knows about Bud Jr. being back in town. I think she’s hiding something.”
“Bud Jr.? You mean Shamazz?”
“Yeah. I just had a run-in with him in town. I didn’t get the best of it and I lost him.”
He resolved to tell more her about the encounter later. Much later.
“Call me with what she says,” Joe said.
“When will you be home?”
“I won’t,” he replied, looking into the visor mirror at the swelling and bruises beginning to show on his cheekbone and jaw. “I’m driving all night to Cheyenne to talk to Orin Smith.”
As he drove south out of Saddlestring, he scrolled through the contact list on his phone until he found the name for Special Agent Chuck Coon.
26
“Now, run,” Nate Romanowski said to Johnny Cook and Drennen O’Melia.
“Man,” Drennen said, “you can’t make us do this. It’s cruel.”
“You can’t,” Johnny echoed.
Nate arched his eyebrows and said low and breathy, “I can’t?”
He’d silently marched them a mile east from Gasbag Jim’s place, in the direction of the Wind River Range, with the informant, Lisa, the dark-haired girl who’d learned their names and made the identification, in tow. She was coffee-and-cream color with dark eyes and high cheekbones. Her large breasts swelled against her white tank top. Short, muscular but shapely legs powered her through the sagebrush. She dangled a pair of strappy high heels from her finger