Free Fire - C. J. Box [36]
“No need to introduce us,” Portenson said to Ashby. “We know each other from way back.”
“Hi, Tony.”
“I thought I’d gotten rid of him for good,” Portenson said in a way that didn’t reveal if he was joking or not. “But here he is again, like a bad penny. Wherever I go I seem to run into Joe Pickett and then something goes wrong.”
Joe knew Portenson had been seeking a transfer out of Wyoming for years. He hated the state, its people, the quality of crimes he was in charge of. While the rest of the FBI was reshapingitself into a counterterrorism agency, Portenson had to oversee cattle rustling, crime on the Wind River Indian Reservation,and other mundane, career-advancement roadblocks. He’d complained mightily to Joe about it.
Portenson said, “What in the hell is going on now? You’re working for the governor of Wyoming?”
Joe nodded, not sure how much to reveal. He hadn’t expectedsomeone from his past to be in the room, especially not Portenson, who had made it a life’s goal to send Nate Romanowskito prison.
“Sort of,” Joe said.
“I’ve heard Rulon is a loose cannon, a damned maniac. He and the director have been going at each other for two years, ever since the election,” Portenson said. “The guy—Rulon—is power-mad, is what I hear. He thinks the Bureau should march to his orders. He probably thinks the same thing about the Park Service.”
With that, Portenson looked around the room, having quickly established Joe as an agent for someone who threatened everyone in it.
Joe winced. “Thanks, Tony.”
“You bet,” Portenson said, satisfied.
“Eric Layborn,” said a man in an impeccably neat park ranger’s uniform. “Special investigator, National Park Service.” Joe reached out, and Layborn gripped his hand so hard Joe winced. Layborn had a heavy brow and a lantern jaw, a close-croppedmilitary haircut, and a brass badge and nameplate that reflected the single light above the table. Even his gun belt was shiny. Layborn’s eyes were unsettling to Joe because one bored into him and the other was slightly askew, as if it were studying his ear.
“Ranger Layborn headed up the criminal investigation,” Ashby said to Joe.
“Whatever you want to know I can tell you,” Layborn said. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Joe thought it odd that Layborn would lead with that.
“This is Ranger Judy Demming,” Ashby said, gesturing towardthe woman at the table who had not launched herself at Joe as Layborn had. “She was first on the scene.”
“Nice to meet you,” Joe said, flexing his fingers to get the feeling back in them before shaking hands with her.
Demming was a few years older than Joe with medium-lengthbrown hair, wire-framed glasses, a smattering of freckles across her nose. She seemed pleasant enough, gentle, and it was clear to Joe she was ill at ease. He couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortablewith him, with others in the room, or with her role in the case. After shaking his hand she seemed to withdraw and defer to Ashby and Layborn without really moving.
Portenson and Ashby sat back in their chairs, signaling they were ready to start the meeting. Demming saw them and sat too. So did Joe. Layborn remained standing, his eye fixed on Joe and Joe’s ear. He didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t necessary. The stare was a challenge. Joe had seen it before from local sheriffs, police chiefs, Director Randy Pope. The look said, “Don’t cross me, don’t second-guess me, don’t step on my turf. And I’m bigger and tougher than you.”
“Eric,” Ashby said sharply, “let’s get started.”
Layborn held the scowl for a moment longer, then eased back into his chair with the grace of a cat.
Message delivered.
Joe had brought the file folder the governor had given him. The letter from Rick Hoening was on the bottom of the documents,facedown. He didn’t want them to see it.