Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(21)

“Anything else you can think of?” Joe asked.

“Not really,” Westby said. But he hesitated when he said it.

“What?”

Westby pursed his lips. “It’s club policy not to gossip about the members, you know. And it’s a good policy, because they pay our salaries.”

“But?” Joe asked, urging him on.

“Judge Hewitt is not exactly the most popular man around here. I know of a dozen members who just plain don’t like him. I’ve always gotten on with him fine, but I know he can be really cantankerous.”

“True,” Joe said.

“Sue’s great, though,” Westby said. “She’s always kind and nice to everyone here. We all love her. It’s too bad she got shot and not . . .” He caught himself and turned red. Westby said, “I didn’t mean to say it like that at all.”

“I believe you,” Joe said.

“Judge Hewitt is crabby, but it’s hard to believe a member took a shot at him for it,” Westby said. “Most of our members are type A executives from around the country. They have strong opinions about everything under the sun and they’re used to getting their way. But taking a shot at another member? Nah. They’d just sue him instead.”

Joe agreed and gave Westby his card so the supervisor could have his email address to send the names of the hunters.

“Oh,” Joe said, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.” Then, realizing the double meaning of the word given the circumstances, Westby reddened further and said, “That’s probably the wrong thing to say as well.”

“Don’t worry about it. Could I borrow one of your ATVs? I don’t want to drive my truck out on the golf course.”

“Sure you can,” Westby said while looking over Joe’s shoulder at the WYDOT pickup parked outside. “I wouldn’t want to drive that thing anywhere.”

While Westby went to the attached garage to pull the Polaris Ranger around for Joe to use, Joe opened his notebook again. Well underneath the list of three suspects he wrote: Second Tier.

Then he wrote: Club member? Ask Judy.

Then: Darin Westby: Check Casper alibi.

Then: Out-of-state antelope hunters.

Joe fully expected to cross Westby’s name off the page in the coming hours. His story about not being in town and picking up a part in Casper—which was a four-hour round trip—would be easy enough to verify.

As for the hunters, Joe could use the database of the Game and Fish Department to cross-check their names and verify that they’d drawn the antelope hunting area. Since the computerized drawing had been held months before and there was no guarantee to applicant hunters of successfully obtaining a license, it made little sense that assassins would use that procedure for gaining access to the area.

Joe expected he would cross their names off his list of suspects as well.

*

HE DROVE THE RANGER up the dirt service road to the bench and turned onto the smooth asphalt drive that accessed the outer circle of fine but empty homes. He glanced over at the houses as he passed them and tried to guess how much they’d cost to build. Most had five or six bedrooms and bathrooms and oversized garages to house several vehicles plus personal golf carts. In the first quarter-circle of the drive, the homes faced the golf course. In the second quarter-circle, as the road turned, the houses had been built so the views and access to the course were in the back.

That’s where the Hewitts lived, in a low, sprawling McMansion with a driveway flanked by perfectly spaced mature cottonwood trees flush with fall colors. Joe had never been to the judge’s house before, but it was obvious because of the number of sheriff’s department SUVs in the driveway and the single deputy—Ryan Steck, the other losing candidate for sheriff—who stood in the middle of the road to turn away any oncoming vehicles.

Steck turned toward him with a stern expression on his baby face and his right hand resting on the grip of his sidearm, but when he recognized Joe, his face and posture relaxed.

Joe pulled up alongside him.

“Sheriff inside?” Joe asked.

“He is,” Steck said. “He’s supervising Gary Norwood’s crew.”

Gary Norwood was the crime scene forensics investigator shared by three northern Wyoming counties. He had a part-time assistant. Although the square mileage of the combined counties was just slightly smaller than the state of Massachusetts, only one CSI was necessary and there were weeks when Norwood complained they had nothing to do.

They did now, Joe thought.

“Have you figured anything out yet?” Joe asked Steck.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Steck shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I’d be the last to know.”

Joe grimaced.

“Yeah,” Steck said. “It’s like that. It’s like working for the Finks.”

“Do you mean the Sphinx?”

“Yeah, that guy. The one who just stares ahead and never talks.”

“Gotcha,” Joe said. “I need to go see him. I’m supposed to share information with you guys.”

“Information?” Steck said theatrically. “You mean you’ve got some?”

“Some.”

“That’s more than I’ve got. I’m just supposed to stand here and keep people away from the scene while the boss does his work.”