Carnosaur Crimes Read online

  Ansel looked at her watch. It was late. Nearly seven o’clock. “I’m sorry. I should have offered you something. We can either order out or I can throw something together. Whatever you’d like. And I need to show you your bedroom.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, honey. Let’s get take-out. What are our choices?”

  “Well, there’s either pizza from Ancient Pasta in Big Toe or hamburgers and sandwiches from the Maverick Corral in Mission City. The Maverick food takes a while to get.”

  “Pizza it is then,” Dixie replied. “Got any wine to go with it?”

  “Sure. Red and white.” Just what she needed, Ansel thought, to be holed up with a social drinker the night before the onset of Operation Dragon. She didn’t need the temptation to imbibe when she was really under stress.

  “Red’s fine. Let’s order and break out the bottle. I need to cut loose. Been with those straight-laced, government boys for almost two weeks.” Dixie got up and left the table. From her duffel bag setting on the floor, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Ansel kept her mouth shut and blinked away the first thing that wanted to come from her mouth. She’d never smoked and didn’t care for the habit anywhere in her personal space. The seconds dragged by as Dixie waited.

  Keep her happy and off guard, Ansel reasoned. As soon as the woman turned her back and gave her a chance, she was going to check out that duffel bag. And that ring if she could.

  She flashed a magnanimous grin. “Make yourself at home.”

  ***

  Ansel rolled over in bed and looked at the blood red numbers on the digital clock radio. One in the morning. Her long wait was over. Time to move. She threw back the covers and rose, treading barefoot across the bedroom carpet to the closed door. Then she grabbed a small penlight she’d left on the bureau before going to bed. The catch opened without a sound as she turned the knob and stepped into the hall.

  Her master bedroom was on the west side of the double wide and at the end of a hall coming from the living room. Two more bedrooms and a full bath were on her left. Dixie was sleeping in the guest bedroom next to hers. The hallway looked clear. Dixie’s door was closed. The bathroom door next to that was open.

  According to Ansel’s calculations, Dixie should be fast asleep by now. The paleontologist had consumed liberal portions of wine during their pizza meal and later banter in front of the TV. She’d kept refilling Dixie’s drinking glass while merely sipping her own throughout the evening. Finally Dixie had wobbled down the hall to take a shower, then retired.

  Ansel closed her door and went to the bathroom. As she suspected, Dixie had left her traveling paraphernalia there. Moonlight spearing through the small frosted window revealed a bundle of stripped clothing and shoes on the floor. The open duffel bag was perched precariously on the counter top beside the sink. A hodge-podge of beauty aids and dental hygiene products lay strewn across any other available counter space. Dixie’s earrings, a gold necklace and the grey ring caught her gaze. She’d been hoping that Dixie had removed the jewelry before stepping into the shower.

  She closed the bathroom door and picked up the ring. Using the penlight, she examined it more closely. The clear plastic pinwheel capped off a hollow interior and looked as if it could be easily popped out of its recess. A flash of silver in the hollow depths caught Ansel’s eye and she worked the tiny light beam back and forth through the lattice design. In the bottom there was a square green chip stuck to a circular foil backing just like the one she’d found on the bluff.

  She set the ring on the counter and mulled over this revelation. She’d have to check and see if the ERT wore these rings the next time she saw them. The most she could hope for was that Reid got back to her soon with some info about his foil tab What were these things? Even as she asked the question, a nagging suspicion tickled her psyche. It was connected to college and her classes on geology, but the final connection between its design and purpose still eluded her.

  Frustrated, she went for the duffel bag, probing with her right hand deep inside for unusual items. She found some folders and yanked them out. Two header tabs were labeled “Biography” and “Allosaurus”. Dixie had used these to explain the sting operation and the skull pathologies. She flipped through them and found nothing new. The third file read “Medicine Line.”

  Ansel recognized the name and it completely surprised her. The Medicine Line was the American Indian name given to the 49th Parallel, or simply the United States-Canadian border above Montana. Montana was fortunate enough to share more than five-hundred and forty-five miles of adjoining land touching British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan.

  The Medicine Line cut through rivers, glacial mountains, thick timber, and endless fields of wheat, marked by nothing but an imaginary line or short white pillars stating that the spot was an international boundary. The U.S. Border Patrol was responsible for law enforcement on the stateside and the RCMP monitored the Canadian side. Elk and moose wandered unchecked from one country to the next so crossing back and forth illegally could be easily accomplished in these remote areas as well. The Border Patrol was constantly monitoring for such activities.

  As she reached to flip open the cover, she heard and felt the trailer’s tremble from heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Her head snapped up. Dixie. Adrenalin shot through her body in a single burst of primal panic. She jammed the files into the duffel bag and threw clothes over them just as the footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door. The door knob grated loudly as it was twisted and Ansel’s fear-laden paralysis evaporated. She had to hide, as impossible as that seemed inside the tiny bathroom.

  Ansel bolted toward the tub with shower curtain, bare feet soundlessly stepping onto cold porcelain as she smoothly tugged the opaque, blue plastic curtain with yellow rubber duckies on it closed. She crouched near the water faucet, knees to nose so that her standing form wouldn’t be back lighted by the ochre light coming in through the window. The door creaked open.

  The sound of Dixie’s heavy breathing and quick, cumbersome steps reverberated through the bathroom. Ansel held her breath, praying nothing caused the woman to open the curtain. The noise of clothing being slid away, loud yawns, and sniffles was soon followed by the physical weight of a human body settling upon the toilet. Ansel placed her hands over her mouth in an effort to contain her dismay and total discomfort with this turn of events. Only a couple feet and a thin polyvinyl sheet separated her from viewing Dixie’s ablutions in all their glory.

  The rushing sounds of liquid hitting porcelain thundered in Ansel’s ears, and it seemed to take an eternity before Dixie emptied her bladder. The acrid odor of urine just added to the overall tortuous effect, along with the cramping in her legs from sustaining such an awkward position. Finally Dixie gave the toilet paper roll a spin. The toilet suddenly whooshed and Ansel used the resulting cacophony of noise to shift her feet forward a bit to sit on her rump. Icy cold but better.

  Dixie coughed and muttered lowly to herself, messed with things on the counter top for a few moments, then opened the bathroom door and exited. Ansel didn’t move an inch. And she didn’t intend to until she was sure that Dixie wasn’t coming back. She sat there for a long time. Eventually, she rose stiffly from the tub and dared to peek around the shower curtain. The bathroom door was open again and the duffel bag was gone.

  Ansel crept to the door and listened. No sounds. Once she stuck her head into the hall, she could see that Dixie’s bedroom door was closed. The coast was clear. She sprinted down the hall, opened her bedroom door, and slipped inside. Her back pressed against the door, she closed her eyes and exhaled her relief. Shit, that was close. Too close. Still, if the duffel had been there, she would have risked taking another look at that file.

  Dorbandt. She had to call him and tell him about the sting operation in Billings. Dixie had watched her like a hawk all evening, and she couldn’t risk using the bedroom phone until she was sure Dixie was asleep. It was late, but
she could leave a message.

  Ansel went to the night stand and picked up the remote. She turned it on and auto-dialed Reid’s number. Dead air. She pulled the phone away and looked at it. Turned it off. And on again. And off. And on. There was no dial tone. She slammed the phone. Her cell phone was in the truck. Of course, there was no guarantee it hadn’t been disabled as well by Agent Outerbridge. Only he could have orchestrated this coup to neutralize her ability of communicating with anyone while LaPierre babysat her.

  Ansel steamed quietly and flopped down on the bed. Outerbridge and his damn FBI gophers. They were probably staked out in a car somewhere zapping her phone lines with a remote antenna at this very moment: slurping coffee, eating donuts, and laughing at her. Then she thought about Standback. Well, maybe he wasn’t laughing, she considered. A tiny smile creased her face. Parker Standback. No, he was definitely not laughing. Tomorrow she’d get to be with him.

  Before she knew it, she fell asleep sideways across the bed.

  Chapter 20

  “Good and evil cannot dwell together in the same heart, so a good man ought not go into evil company.”

  Delaware

  Ansel’s pulse quickened as Parker maneuvered the black Lexis on loan from the Billings FBI car-pool into the parking lot of Accent on Antiquities. Nearby, Outerbridge, Walthers, and La Pierre were copying the shop’s closed circuit, video system signals on a laptop.

  “Are you okay, Ansel?”

  She looked toward Standback. He assumed her silence was a sign of anxiety. Far from it. She was mulling over the events of the night before and this morning. Her check of the ERT members’ hands had confirmed that everyone was wearing a gray ring except Standback. Reasonable since he was going undercover. His left hand was adorned with a gold wedding band just like hers. Dixie was also in her thoughts. The paleontologist, thank God, didn’t seem to have a clue about the riffling of her folders or their up close and personal bathroom encounter.

  “I’m fine.”

  She fussed with four concho buttons on her black moleskin skirt. Its split front nicely displayed her knee-high, black calf-leather boots. She’d hot-curled her hair before the helicopter flight to the Billings airport, and wavy tresses fell beneath her black gambler hat with concho hatband, contrasting nicely with the short-sleeve, white turtleneck blouse accenting her curves.

  She’d worn her best jewelry: a silver and gold three-horse, cuff bracelet, diamond rope-knot earrings, and a thick collar necklace with matching three-horse, silhouette cut-outs. Gone was her mother’s Iniskim, which she wished she could wear. However, after piling on make-up and appraising herself in the mirror before leaving, she realized that she really looked the part of a spoiled Yuppie with frivolous but expensive home decorating tastes.

  Parker eyed her as he drove into a parking spot beside a silver BMW. He wore a brown shirt, black slacks, black boots, and a gaudy Texas Star belt.

  “If you’ve got any questions, ask them now,” he said.

  Ansel smiled and fingered the oversized wedding ring on her finger. “No. Let’s do it.”

  He chuckled and turned off the engine. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Parker exited the Lexis, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door. The sudden no-nonsense look on his face was daunting. The game was afoot. Ansel grabbed her small, black saddle purse and clasped his outstretched palm. The sun was scorching bright as she shoved on her Ray-Bans with the other hand.

  Accent on Antiquities was very plain. Just another store in a run-down strip mall with concrete block and tempered glass architecture. A misaligned row of pot-bellied clay planters filled with ferns dotted the concrete walkway beneath an overhang, and the broken Spanish roof tiles looked completely out of place. This was a far cry from Hillard Yancy’s gallery and two very noticeable nanny cams on each corner of the store watched as Parker opened the dirty, swinging glass door for her.

  The inside was cool, well lit, and rather small. It also smelled of new carpeting and a strong, fruity deodorizer. An eclectic assortment of antiquities such as pre-Columbian ceramic pots, South American sculptures, African carvings, woven Indian rugs and wall hangings, and Indonesian wooden masks were packed everywhere, along with pockets of various fossil flora and fauna curiosities. Everything Ansel saw looked to be of top quality, but of moderate price. Nothing extremely rare or outrageously expensive was in sight.

  Only two-thirds of the store was filled with merchandise. Near the back, a long, wall-to-wall tile and wood counter separated the room. A single, brown-skinned man wearing a plaid shirt stood behind the counter laden down by thick three-ring catalog binders, collectible books, a computer station, electronic register, and lots of accumulated junk. He looked Indian. Two more nanny cams spied on them from rear corners of the room.

  “Can I help you?” asked the large man with steely, brown eyes and a noticeable gap between his two front teeth. He didn’t budge, and he didn’t look particularly friendly.

  Parker gave a cool glance in return. “I’m Peter Georges. I’m supposed to meet William De Shequette and discuss buying an Allosaurus head.”

  The Indian’s gaze raked from left to right over both of them, especially Ansel. Then, without a word, he quickly clomped through a pass-thru gate and ignored them totally as he walked to the front door. With a single twist of a deadbolt, he locked the front entrance and turned over a CLOSED sign.

  As he paced toward them, Parker spoke, his voice imperious. “What are you doing?”

  “Just being smart,” the Indian said gruffly as he walked behind the counter. “Billy’s in the office.” He stared at Ansel. “Put your purse on the counter, Mrs. Georges.”

  “What?” Ansel sputtered, making an obvious move to clutch her shoulder strap closer. “I will not. This is outrageous.”

  “We aren’t exactly selling goose eggs here. You both know what you’re asking to purchase isn’t a usual piece of merchandise.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to hide do you? Just put the purse on the counter so I can check it out or you might as well leave.” His square head swivelled toward Parker, eyes like black shotgun pellets. “You, too, kola,” he said, using the Sioux word for friend. “Empty your pockets.”

  “Let’s just get it over with, Angela,” Parker ordered.

  Ansel huffed indignantly and plopped the black handbag on the counter. “Be my guest.”

  The Indian unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the counter top and took several moments examining them. First, he carefully checked out her wallet with all her ID, then slowly surveyed everything: inside make-up containers, a pen, hair clip, small bottle of perfume, and even an open packet of tissues. He did the same with Parker’s keys, wallet, and penknife. Probably searching for electronic bugs, Ansel assumed as she watched, and she’d have to Lysol the whole lot when she got home.

  Eventually he pushed the mound of items toward them. “Okay. Wait here.”

  He turned around and went to a closed door behind the counter, knocked three times, and waited. A lock turned, and the man disappeared. Ansel and Parker were left alone to gather up their possessions.

  Knowing they were being monitored, Ansel made a show of angrily picking up her belongings and throwing them into her purse. “I hope this skull is worth all this trouble,” she groused, giving Parker a soul-spearing look.

  Parker stuffed the wallet into a pants pocket. “Believe me, it will be. Stop complaining. He’s right. A complete Allosaurus skull just doesn’t fall from the sky.” He imprinted an eager, excited expression across his handsome features. “This is going to be great.”

  A few minutes later, the Indian appeared. “Come on back.. Billy’s ready for you.”

  They entered a small office outfitted with a nice gray and black executive desk, workstation, and credenza. Two black fabric chairs with curved tube bases and armrests sat before the desk. The closed armoire-style TV center drew Ansel’s gaze. She’d bet that the TV monitor and VCR recording equipment for the nanny cams wa
s stashed there. The walls were basic white and filled with auction posters of beautiful antiques or cultural antiquities sold at Christie’s or Lloyd’s of London. Another nanny cam eyed everything from behind the desk.

  “Howdy, folks,” said the friendly, gray-haired man standing just inside the door. He grabbed Parker’s hand and shook it. “I’m Billy De Shequette. Nice to meet you, Mr. Georges.”

  Parker grinned. “Hello, Mr. De Shequette. Wasn’t sure if we were going to see you. The guy out front wasn’t very hospitable.”

  Billy’s smile became wolfishly inviting. “Oh, don’t pay Claude any mind. Just a security precaution. We’ve got a lot of valuable antiquities out front. Can’t be too careful.” He turned toward Ansel. “And you must be Mrs. Georges.” He held out his hand expectantly.

  Ansel pulled off her sunglasses and took his large-knuckled hand in hers. Billy looked sixty-ish, tall, thin, and well-tanned. Unlike the thug out front, he was quite average in appearance. His Montana duds made him appear down-home trustworthy. She looked straight into his gray eyes beneath bushy silver eyebrows, wondering all the while what possessed such a wholesome, grand fatherly-looking man to become a slime ball.

  She quickly shook his hand, then disengaged herself. “Hello, Mr. De Shequette.”

  That maneuver completed, Billy lost all interest in her, homing in on Parker. “And congratulations to both of you for your recent good fortune. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I won the state lottery. How much was it?”

  “Three million,” Parker said. “Sure surprised the hell out of us, too.”

  “That’s wonderful. Please, sit down.” Billy gently coaxed the agent toward the desk with a feather light touch on the shoulder. “You’re really going to love the Allosaurus head we discussed by email. Your timing was perfect. It’s a wonderful fossil specimen from Utah that just came on the market through a rancher whose land it was excavated from at his own expense.” The lie rolled across his tongue like clover honey.