Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry Page A

evaluate the dinosaur tracks. It’s possible the BLM will close the museum and dig them up. They could be sent to another institution for research and preservation. If he manages that, Big Toe will lose it’s most profitable public attraction. That would be disastrous for the town coffers and the museum.”
    â€œI smell a rescue campaign in the works,” Dorbandt muttered, looking exasperated.
    â€œYou don’t live in Big Toe,” Ansel replied, coal-black eyes flashing sparks. “I knew Chester Dover, and he’d spin in his grave if he knew the BLM had used his lapsed land lease payments to finagle the ranch away from his relatives after his death. Now they’re stealing his dinosaur tracks. The Bureau is no better than the man who tried to rip off those footprints with a concrete saw. At least he wouldn’t have tortured people for months while he stole them. Don’t you dare tell me not to get involved.”
    The conversation ended abruptly as the waitress appeared bearing a large oval plate filled by a foot-long loaf of rye bread split and splayed on the platter. The middle of one slice had been scooped out and filled to bursting with smoked, ground buffalo meat mixed with fried onions and black olive slices. The other half was covered with Romaine lettuce slathered with mustard.
    Ansel’s bowl of buffalo chili with red kidney beans, diced tomatoes, and chopped onions looked puny by comparison. The speedy waitress also set down Dorbandt’s second beer and her water, asked if they needed anything else, then left.
    They occupied the tense silence pulling silverware from their rolled up paper napkins and preparing their food. Dorbandt salted his meat, reassembled the sandwich, and cut the one-pound fare into two pieces. Ansel stirred her chili and blew on it as if it was of prime importance just so she wouldn’t have to speak first. Her temper had to cool along with the meal.
    The gaiety of the Baptists worked as a defusing element while Dorbandt took a big bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. For several more seconds he fidgeted like he had a burr under his pants, exhaled, and then said, “Sorry I made that crack about a campaign. I know you’re passionate about the museum. I just worry about your safety.”
    Ansel looked up. His blue eyes gazed softly at her. He really meant it, but it didn’t stop her from using his moment of vulnerability to her advantage. “I know that, and it means a lot to me. I promise I won’t do anything stupid. Can’t you at least tell me who the poacher was?”
    â€œHokay. No name yet, but he was a young Indian in his twenties. He was also pretty battered on the inside. Had a right claw-foot from a past stirrup injury and some other physical injuries that might be related to a rodeo or bronc-busting career.”
    Ansel swallowed the spicy chili burning her tongue and stared at him. One of The People had ended up in her sculpture’s mouth. Somehow, though it was irrational, she felt responsible. She also felt slightly ill despite the delicious food.
    â€œDo you know his tribal affiliation?”
    â€œNo. The Feebees grabbed every clue at the crime scene. We don’t have much to work with. The coroner’s office has the body, but you saw how burnt that was. Can’t even do the usual facial ID or fingerprint search.”
    â€œSo everyone’s supposed to sit around and wait for Outerbridge or Broderick to toss out tidbits of information,” Ansel groused, stirring her food with wild strokes.
    â€œOfficially, Lacrosse cops are off the investigation, but there are still things we can do.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDorbandt smiled apologetically. “I’m not at liberty to say but if you need to reach me, call my cell phone. I won’t be in the office tomorrow or the day after.”
    â€œUnofficially, you’re up to something, aren’t you?”
    â€œNo.