Read Online Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson - Free Book Online Page B

quarterbacks?”
    “Better than quarterbacks—average of twenty-six.”
    He thought about it. “So, I’m above the average for the highest-rated position?”
    “Looks like.”
    He waited a moment before asking. “You ever take the test?”
    I slipped my hat on and started out the door. “Not in the NFL.”
    —
    I sat in my truck outside the Sixteen Tons, the best and only bar in Arrosa. There wasn’t anything to munch on since Dog had eaten the remainder of the ham, the red and gold foil remnants lying on the passenger-side floor mat.
    He looked at me, completely unrepentant.
    “You could’ve saved me a little.”
    I spent my time on stakeout leafing through the files, looking for something, anything, that would connect the three women. I rested them against my chest, also wondering why it was that Gerald Holman, if he was so upset by the disappearance of Jone Urrecha, had visited her residence and place of employ only twice. It was easier to understand why Richard Harvey hadn’t made the trip to Arrosa, in that he was trapped in a basement with the cry and hue of Inspector Holman’s career coming to rest upon him—like he said, shit rolls downhill.
    After a few moments, I saw the inspector general come out of the post office, lock the door, and start toward my truck. I rolled the window down as he stood by the Bullet.
    Dave Rowan glanced at the SIXTEEN TONS sign. “The bartender says to tell you that you’re bad for business.”
    I rested the files on the center console. “I’m hoping not to be here for much longer.”
    “So is he.”
    “You know this Tommy who owns the strip club?”
    “Some; I’m the one who sorts the mail and puts it in the box for Thor.”
    “The bouncer?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Seems like a nice kid.”
    He stared at me for a moment. “You’ve obviously never seen him knock somebody down and kick their head for five minutes.”
    I glanced at Dirty Shirley’s and the lurid blonde on the sign, thinking the kid might not be completely off steroids. “Bad news, is he?”
    “Yeah. Sometimes in the afternoon, if his victims can’t find anyone else to call them a cab or an ambulance, they crawl into the post office.”
    I sighed. “Does the owner of the strip club live around here?”
    “No, or they wouldn’t have their mail delivered to a P.O. box.”
    “Good point.”
    He glanced over his shoulder at the intersection, where a familiar Cadillac Escalade EXT rolled through the stop sign. “Speak of the devil; you can ask for yourself.” He gestured with a hand and sounded like a sick Ed McMahon. “Heeeeeere’s Tommy!”
    I hit the ignition, flipped on the light bar, and pulled out as Rowan stepped away. “Thanks.”
    I was on the tail of the Cadillac and even blipped my siren before he could get to the parking lot of the strip club, but I guess he figured he was close enough that I wouldn’t mind if he pulled in there.
    He sat, waiting patiently, as I got out of my truck and straightened my hat the way the HPs always did, bringing my aluminum clipboard along just for appearances’ sake.
    The motor on the Caddy was still idling, and he had his license and registration hanging out the open window as I approached. I thought it was a little odd that he had on fingernail polish. “Hey, I . . .”
    Snatching off the sunglasses, worn despite the cloudy day, the driver barked, “Do you know who the fuck I am?” As it turned out, Tommy was a Tommi with an
i
and a middle-aged woman with a massive pouf of reddish hair and a formidable chest.
    I studied her for a moment, as if I were trying to remember where, exactly, we had met and then gestured toward her sign. “Dirty Shirley.”
    She lit a cigarillo and shook her head, unimpressed with my performance; her voice was like a foghorn through 60-grit sandpaper. “Very funny.”
    I gestured toward the only crossroad in Arrosa. “You didn’t come to a complete stop at that sign back there.”
    She took a drag and blew the smoke