their way about the ruins, spraying flame retardant on stubborn pockets of embers.
The tribal investigator headed toward a cluster of men stationed just outside the perimeter of yellow tape.
Scott Parris, who had been listening to a report from one of his officers, turned to see his friend approaching. “Mornin’, Charlie.”
“Good morning yourself.” The tribal investigator exchanged perfunctory greetings with Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. Both men were somewhat wary of the Ute.
Knox scratched at the artificial leg under his trousers. “Damn thing itches worse’n the real one.”
In the superior tone of one who is well informed on such matters, Piggy Slocum offered this advice: “That’s because you’re always scratching at it.”
The pair of policemen walked away, arguing about wooden legs, phantom limbs, and what made them itch.
The chief of police shook his head at the departing duo. “Charlie, you ever want to be a real cop again, you let me know. I’ll put you to work right on the spot.”
“That’ll be the day.” Moon nodded at the smoking ruins. “What’ve we got here?”
“Big explosion late last night. Or to be more accurate—this morning, at about two-thirty. Rattled windows up to four miles away. And according to reliable reports, several cows went dry and a black cat gave birth to six adorable little kittens and a Dalmatian puppy.” Parris was watching the helmeted firemen. “Fire department is trying to make sure there’s no chance of a new flame-up.”
“Accidental?”
“Fire chief’s best guess is that some dumb-ass kids started a small fire in the terminal building. There was lots of construction material stored here, most of it flammable. Plywood, paint thinner, gasoline for the contractor’s electrical generators, acetylene for welding, and a tank of propane for a portable heater. The fire must’ve gotten out of control—at which time the kids scram. Eventually, the flames ignited what was left of the gas in the acetylene and propane tanks. This makes a serious boom.”
“Anybody see kids out here?”
“Nobody saw nothin’.” The chief of police screwed his face into a painful frown. “It could have been a professional arsonist.”
Moon found a peppermint in his pocket, peeled off the plastic cover. “Prime contractor must have plenty of insurance.”
Parris nodded at the inference. “I’ll be checking into that today.” A builder in financial trouble might well drop a match in some tinder. “I’ll know a lot more after the state arson investigators wrap up their investigation.” He glanced at his watch without noting the time. “But they’re not even here yet.”
“Were there guards on site last night?”
Parris rubbed his eyes. “One old geezer with a hearing aid. Used to be a cop over in Pueblo before he retired on a disability. That’s his office.” The Granite Creek chief of police pointed toward a camping trailer almost two hundred yard away. It was set up near a huge, roofless hangar. “Guard swears he was wide awake.” Parris mimicked the old man’s quavery voice. “‘An’ I didn’t see nothin’ unusual, didn’t hear nothin’—not till all hell tore loose and the ’splosion knocked me on my ass.’” The good-natured man chuckled. “One of my officers was within four miles when the big boom blew the terminal building apart. When he got here about five minutes later, the guard was still trying to pull his boots on.”
Moon took a look at the battered trailer. “So he was sleeping on the job.”
“You know how it is. Damn hard to find good help.”
The rancher thought about his motley collection of cowboys. “Tell me about it.”
The friends walked back toward Moon’s truck.
“So, Charlie—what’s on your mind?”
“I’m doing a favor for the tribal chairman.”
“No, don’t even give me a hint. Let me see if the old ESP is working.” Scott Parris pressed fingers against his
The tribal investigator headed toward a cluster of men stationed just outside the perimeter of yellow tape.
Scott Parris, who had been listening to a report from one of his officers, turned to see his friend approaching. “Mornin’, Charlie.”
“Good morning yourself.” The tribal investigator exchanged perfunctory greetings with Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. Both men were somewhat wary of the Ute.
Knox scratched at the artificial leg under his trousers. “Damn thing itches worse’n the real one.”
In the superior tone of one who is well informed on such matters, Piggy Slocum offered this advice: “That’s because you’re always scratching at it.”
The pair of policemen walked away, arguing about wooden legs, phantom limbs, and what made them itch.
The chief of police shook his head at the departing duo. “Charlie, you ever want to be a real cop again, you let me know. I’ll put you to work right on the spot.”
“That’ll be the day.” Moon nodded at the smoking ruins. “What’ve we got here?”
“Big explosion late last night. Or to be more accurate—this morning, at about two-thirty. Rattled windows up to four miles away. And according to reliable reports, several cows went dry and a black cat gave birth to six adorable little kittens and a Dalmatian puppy.” Parris was watching the helmeted firemen. “Fire department is trying to make sure there’s no chance of a new flame-up.”
“Accidental?”
“Fire chief’s best guess is that some dumb-ass kids started a small fire in the terminal building. There was lots of construction material stored here, most of it flammable. Plywood, paint thinner, gasoline for the contractor’s electrical generators, acetylene for welding, and a tank of propane for a portable heater. The fire must’ve gotten out of control—at which time the kids scram. Eventually, the flames ignited what was left of the gas in the acetylene and propane tanks. This makes a serious boom.”
“Anybody see kids out here?”
“Nobody saw nothin’.” The chief of police screwed his face into a painful frown. “It could have been a professional arsonist.”
Moon found a peppermint in his pocket, peeled off the plastic cover. “Prime contractor must have plenty of insurance.”
Parris nodded at the inference. “I’ll be checking into that today.” A builder in financial trouble might well drop a match in some tinder. “I’ll know a lot more after the state arson investigators wrap up their investigation.” He glanced at his watch without noting the time. “But they’re not even here yet.”
“Were there guards on site last night?”
Parris rubbed his eyes. “One old geezer with a hearing aid. Used to be a cop over in Pueblo before he retired on a disability. That’s his office.” The Granite Creek chief of police pointed toward a camping trailer almost two hundred yard away. It was set up near a huge, roofless hangar. “Guard swears he was wide awake.” Parris mimicked the old man’s quavery voice. “‘An’ I didn’t see nothin’ unusual, didn’t hear nothin’—not till all hell tore loose and the ’splosion knocked me on my ass.’” The good-natured man chuckled. “One of my officers was within four miles when the big boom blew the terminal building apart. When he got here about five minutes later, the guard was still trying to pull his boots on.”
Moon took a look at the battered trailer. “So he was sleeping on the job.”
“You know how it is. Damn hard to find good help.”
The rancher thought about his motley collection of cowboys. “Tell me about it.”
The friends walked back toward Moon’s truck.
“So, Charlie—what’s on your mind?”
“I’m doing a favor for the tribal chairman.”
“No, don’t even give me a hint. Let me see if the old ESP is working.” Scott Parris pressed fingers against his
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