Dutch assumed that Wes would get to the point of his visit sooner or later. In the meantime, he wished he would go away and leave him alone. He resented being mothered. He didn’t feel like making casual conversation. He wanted to wallow in his misery alone, thank you. If that sounded paranoid and self-persecuting, too bad. That was how he felt.
And why shouldn’t he? He couldn’t make anything happen. Nothing he did turned out right. In fact, each action he took ended in disaster. His aborted attempt to take Cal Hawkins’s rig up the mountain road would probably result in several lawsuits. Hawkins might press criminal charges against him.
On top of that debacle, his authority had been repeatedly challenged. Defying Begley’s warning, he’d driven out to Whistler Falls Lodge but had been stopped before he could get inside cabin number eight to see for himself the kind of evidence against Tierney the feds were guarding.
He was the primo, number one law enforcement officer in this burg, yet Begley had burst out of old Gus Elmer’s cozy office and confronted him, accusing him of jeopardizing an ongoing federal investigation and talking down to him like he was nobody. Even his own men had grown surly and mouthy every time he gave them an order.
“Dutch?”
He snapped out of the vexing reverie and focused on Wes. “What are you doing here?” he asked querulously. “Why aren’t you at home cuddled up with your wife?”
Wes snorted and took another drink from the bottle. “I’d rather cuddle up with that flagpole out there. It’s a hell of a lot warmer and cuddlier than my wife.”
“What’s the matter?”
With a dismissive gesture he said, “PMS, a headache, who knows? Who cares? Her panties are always in a wad over something.”
“How’s Scott? Has he said anything about the meeting this afternoon with Begley and Wise?”
“Why?”
Judging by Wes’s knee-jerk reaction, the FBI interview was a sore spot. “No particular reason. Just wondering how Scott felt about it.” Dutch took a sip of his whiskey, eyeing Wes over the rim of the cup. “Scott seemed a bit hesitant with some of his answers to their questions. Was he lying?” He picked up a paper clip and reshaped it, then held it up to Wes. “Or just bending the truth.”
“Look at it from his standpoint,” Wes said. “He was surrounded by five grown-ups, all authority figures, asking questions about him and his girlfriend. At his age, would you have been straightforward with them about your sex life?”
“I wouldn’t be straightforward with them now.”
Wes chuckled. “Well, there you go.” He stacked his hands behind his head, propped his ankle on the opposite knee, and settled back into the chair, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Dutch suspected otherwise. Wes hadn’t come here to pass the time. Nor was he concerned about sepsis on Dutch’s face or when he’d had his last hot meal. The whiskey was a nice, friendly gesture, but Wes wasn’t that thoughtful a friend. He had an ulterior motive or he wouldn’t be here.
Dutch’s gut clenched when he considered what the purpose of the visit might be. Maybe the whiskey was for easing the pain. If so, he’d just as soon suffer it sooner rather than later.
“Did you come here to fire me, Wes?”
Wes’s sputtering laugh appeared genuine. “What?”
“Are you the self-appointed committee representing the city council?”
“Jesus Christ, Dutch. You are one paranoid son of a bitch, you know that? Where’d you get a wild notion like that?”
“From what you said last night. Don’t you remember? You reminded me that you’d put your neck on the line when you hired me. You said that my failure would reflect poorly on you.”
“Aw, hell. We were tired, edgy. Our nerves were shot. You were going a little bit round the bend on the issue of Lilly, and her being in the cabin with this guy. As your friend, I was only trying to shed a different perspective on things. Get you back on track. But you know,” he rushed to say when he saw that Dutch was about to interrupt, “over the course of this day, I’ve come closer to your way of thinking.”
Dutch eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”
Wes shot a glance over his shoulder at the closed door. He sat forward and lowered his voice. “You think as I think—hell, as the feds think—that this Tierney is our culprit, right? He’s kidnapped five women and
done God only knows what to them. And that blue ribbon shit? How creepy is that?”
Dutch gave a terse bob of his head, unwilling to commit more than that until he knew where Wes was going with this.
“And your wife—the ex being a minor detail—the woman you love is trapped up there with him. I admire your self-restraint, buddy. I really do. If I’d been in your shoes today, I would have killed anybody who tried to keep me off that peak.”
“I nearly did.”
“Hawkins doesn’t count.”