“That’s correct.”
“You don’t know where Mr. Purcel is?” she said, repeating her question.
“That’s what I said.”
“You were here in Montana when Sally Dio’s plane crashed into a mountainside on the res? You were here with Mr. Purcel?”
“I wasn’t ‘with’ him. But yes, I was here in Montana when Sally caught the bus. It was a heartrending moment for everyone.”
“The Bureau considers his death a homicide. I understand Dio’s men smashed your friend’s hand in a car door.”
“Tell you what — a guy who can give you firsthand information on this works at the Wellstone ranch up in the Swan. His name is Lyle Hobbs. He did scut jobs for Sally when he wasn’t molesting children. You know the Wellstones, don’t you?”
Her eyes took on a sharper intensity at the implication in my question. “I know who they are,” she said. “You think my visit here has some connection to them?”
“I have no idea why you’re here. But I don’t believe it’s about Sally Dio. The feds didn’t care about him nineteen years ago. I don’t think they care about him now.”
Molly opened the front door. “Would you like to come in for coffee?” she asked.
Wrong time for southern protocol.
“That would be nice,” Special Agent
Alicia Rosecrans said.
Inside the kitchen area of the cabin, Molly began setting pastry and cups and saucers on our breakfast table, which was spread with a red-and-white-checkerboard cloth. Alicia Rosecrans sat down and opened a notebook on the table. “You and Clete Purcel are now helping Sheriff Higgins in the investigation of the homicide that took place behind Albert Hollister’s house?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I reinterviewed some of the same people you and Purcel interviewed. You’re walking on the edges of meddling in a federal investigation, Mr. Robicheaux.”
Molly had been moving pots and pans around on the stove, but she stopped and turned off the propane on the burner. The only sound in the room was the wind blowing in the cottonwoods that shaded the cabin.
“I’m a police officer,” I said. “Any interviews I conducted were done with the consent of the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department. I think the question we’re not dealing with here is your involvement in the investigation of a local homicide. Why are the feds interested in the deaths of two college kids?”
“One of them was kidnapped.”
I wasn’t buying her answer. Since 9/11, the FBI had shifted its emphasis not only to the vast and attendant connotations of the word “terrorism” but to following thousands of Mideastern college students all over the United States. I doubted they had time or resources to worry about what appeared to be the random murder of two college students in Missoula, Montana.
“Dave, I completely forgot. I promised we’d take Albert’s cat to the vet’s office this morning,” Molly said.
Alicia Rosecrans closed her notebook and returned it to her purse. She folded her hands and stared out the window at the cottonwoods swelling with wind. Her features were as immobile as those in an oil painting, her eyes full of private thoughts.
“Ma’am?” I said, wondering if indeed she had accepted Molly’s invitation to leave.
“I think your friend is with the Wellstone woman this morning,” she said.
“Can you say that again?”
“I believe he’s about to get himself in a lot of trouble,” she said. “Thank you for your time. Thank you for preparing the coffee, too, Ms. Robicheaux.”
Then Alicia Rosecrans went out to her car and drove away. But I had a feeling we would be seeing a lot more of her.
“What was that?” Molly said.
“The feds have Jamie Sue Wellstone under surveillance. The question is why.”
CHAPTER 7