The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(6)

“Jim Thomas says you’re the local radio expert around these parts.”

He shrugged and gestured to a silent young man with bristling black hair who now stood in the doorway of the office. “It’s my job supervising the station, but it’s his passion. He knows more about radios than I ever will. My grandson, Joey.”

“Is that true?”

The athletic-looking college student nodded but kept his eyes to the ground. “I do a lot of ham radio stuff, and I’ve pretty much got a radio museum at home.”

I leaned forward, taking my hat from my knee and running the brim through my hands. “Okay then, how hard would it be to break into the Highway Patrol’s radios?”

He looked at me strangely, his eyes finally finding mine. “You mean the frequency?”

“Yep.”

He thought about it. “With the proper equipment, not very hard at all, but you can get into a lot of trouble doing that shit.” He glanced back at his grandfather and then between Henry and me. “So, what’s happening?”

I smiled. “Do you know Rosey Wayman, the new HP in Troop G up in the canyon?”

“The blonde?” He registered a smile at my surprise at his knowing her. “There aren’t that many of them around here and anyway, she’s flip.”

I glanced at Henry, my go-to guy for youth speak.

“Hot.”

I turned back to Joey. “She’s been hearing things on her radio.”

He looked uninterested. “What kind of things?”

“She says she hears Bobby Womack.”

Joey didn’t move for a few seconds but then turned to Sam. “Is this a joke?” He stared at the Cheyenne Nation for a few seconds more and then turned back to me. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“I wish I could—she says that every night or so she hears him on her radio in the canyon. It’s to the point where her captain is ready to send her in for psychiatric evaluation.”

“He should.”

I was a little taken aback. “You’re not curious?”

Sam stood and interrupted. “About what? That she’s hearing radio transmissions from a guy who’s been dead for more than thirty years?” He turned back to Henry—apparently the interview was over.

Joey stepped back, clearing the way, and spoke to the Cheyenne Nation. “I can’t believe that you’re doing this.” He gestured toward me. “After what they did to Bobby?”

“Wait, who did what to Bobby.”

The young man crossed his arms over his flat stomach. “Jim Thomas, he didn’t tell you that story, huh?”

“What story?”

He took a deep breath, calming himself, and then looked at the photo on his grandfather’s desk. His fingers came up and covered his mouth, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. “Maybe you should hear it from somebody else. I’m kind of biased.”

I waited, but then Henry stood and rested his hand on Joey’s arm. “Then could you tell us, Sam?”

Sam looked at the man in the photo again and weighed whether he was going to share. “Hookuuhulu, don’t you have basketball practice?” The young man made a face, pushed off the doorjamb, and retreated without a word. “C’mon, I’ve got another appointment, but I’ll tell you the story on the way to the parking lot.”

He gathered up a battered briefcase and a coat, and we followed him through the hallways and out an exterior door, where a vintage blue import sat behind the main building.

Henry was the first to ask. “You have still got this thing?”

The large man placed a hand on the fender. “This is my baby.”

I studied the car. “What is it?”

His hand glided up and down the fender. “This is the very first Japanese import into the United States market, the Toyopet Crown. It’s actually a Toyota.”

“It is actually a piece of crap.”

“Like you’re a judge.” The heavyset man frowned at us. “Not to change the subject, but back to the stories—you ever heard of the 1888-O ‘Hot Lips’ Morgan silver dollar?”

“I’ve heard of the Morgan silver dollar.”

He leaned against the very compact car. “Back in the early sixties there were stashes of the Morgan, the most famous coin of the Old West, that got released from some long-forgotten government vaults, and the Treasury ran onto a bunch from the New Orleans mint that had been double-struck in error, which resulted in a doubling up of Lady Liberty’s lips, nose, and chin—hence the moniker ‘Hot Lips Morgan.’”

I fished out the coin that Rosey had flipped to me in the cruiser and tossed it on the hood of the car in front of him, where it landed flat but vibrated in a circle on the metal, finally coming to rest. “Look like that?”

He pulled out his reading glasses, guiding them onto his face, reached out with his free hand, and peered at the silver dollar. “Where did you get this?”

“Rosey Wayman gave it to me.”

He smiled. “They went up for auction, and a portion of the find ended up in storage at the Central Bank & Trust here in Riverton, headed for some collector in Helena.”

“I’m assuming they never got there.”

“No. There were a couple of fellas who worked for the Wyoming Department of Transportation and one of them part time as a janitor at the bank, and he figured a way to get into the basement and steal the damn things, ferreting them out little by little until they had more than a thousand.”