Another Man's Moccasins

“He has been sampling an awful lot of the product the last couple of days.”

“We’ll roll by and check in on him.” I handed her my menu and followed the Cheyenne Nation’s lead, ordering a Butch Cassidy Burger Deluxe with cheese, bacon, grilled onions, and fries.

She scribbled on the pad, glancing at Henry and then back to me. “I heard you picked up that big Indian.”

I looked up at her. “Virgil White Buffalo.”

“Is that his name? ” I nodded. “He’s been around here since I had the café. He used to watch the kids play out at Bailey School; made some people nervous.” She adjusted the menus under her arm. “You think he killed that girl?”

“Roberta, you got some Tabasco around here somewhere? ” She disappeared into the back, not particularly satisfied with the title of chief cook and bottle washer. I turned to Henry. “This Maynard thing seem suspicious to you?”

He leaned back in his metal bentwood chair, which squealed its disapproval. “Not enough to miss lunch.”

I watched as Saizarbitoria’s unit pulled up. The handsome Basquo got out, slapping his hat at the dust on his jeans in an attempt to freshen himself—riding around with the windows down had its disadvantages. He swung the glass door open and came over to stand by our table, his left thumb tucked in his gun belt.

“What’s up, Sancho? ”

“I waited till one and then went and knocked on Tuyen’s door at the motel, but he didn’t answer.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“I thought I’d give him a ride.”

I looked up at my young dandy of a deputy. “It’s only a half a block.” He shrugged and folded his arms. “You trying to make up for my picking on him?” He didn’t say anything more, so I stood and motioned for him to sit. “When Roberta comes back, order up another burger and you take mine.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going over to check on Tuyen.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I took one last sip of my iced tea. “No, you eat, and I’ll go get him. Chances are he’s asleep or in the shower.” Santiago continued to stand and study me as I scooted my chair back under the table. I stood there looking at him, fighting the urge to laugh. “I promise I won’t rough him up.”

He kept watching me until Henry pulled out a chair.

It was even hotter, but I decided to walk to the motel. It was just easier. I flipped on my antique sunglasses and started up the boardwalk. The main street was paved, but the side streets and alleyways were dry reddish dirt, with dust as fine as talcum.

We needed rain.

By the time I got to the motel, there was a wide slick of perspiration holding my uniform shirt to my back, and I’d taken my palm-leaf hat off twice to wipe away some of the sweat that continued to flood down and behind my glasses. I was regretting my decision to walk.

The Land Rover was parked out front. As I crossed the dirt and gravel parking strip between the motel rooms and the street, I noticed a set of motorcycle tracks, the mark from the kickstand where it had been parked, and the tracks where it had been backed up and ridden off.

I thought about Phillip Maynard and knocked on the door. “Mr. Tuyen? ”

Nothing.

I knocked again, but there was no sound. “Mr. Tuyen, it’s Sheriff Longmire.”

One kick would do it, but I figured the management might appreciate a more subtle approach. As I walked past the Land Rover, I noticed the doors were locked, but the hard case was missing from the front seat.

“You got a key for room number five? ”

A young woman I didn’t know—with one earphone connected to a small device in her shirt pocket, the other dangling at her chest—handed me the fob from a hook behind the counter. “Is there some kind of trouble, Sheriff?”

“No, I’m just checking to see if all the mattresses still have their tags.” She continued to look at me, and I could hear what passed for music to her in the one loose earbud. “I’m kidding.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

I palmed the key in my hand and stood there for a moment, enjoying the air-conditioning. “Have you seen Mr. Tuyen this morning?”

She nodded. “Yes, he left pretty early and then came back a couple of hours ago. Is he in trouble?”

I tossed the key in the air and caught it as I swung open the door and faced the wall of heat. “Only if he’s taken the labels off.” I left her there to wonder if I really was serious this time.

I knocked again and waited, thinking about the missing hard case. “Mr. Tuyen, this is Sheriff Longmire. I got the key from the front desk, and I’m unlocking this door.”

I turned the key and swung the door open. There was an entryway to the bathroom on the left, and I could see an open closet where a number of expensive suits hung along with plastic-covered and freshly laundered shirts.

I took a step inside and allowed my eyes to adjust. Tuyen’s toiletry and personal items were on the bathroom counter, along with a hand towel, which was saturated with blood, that hung from the lip of the sink, the excess dripping to the tile floor.