Free Any Other Name: A Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson

toward my face, but the ever-present wind snatched it and forwarded it to the Black Hills. “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Nope, and with it being in the proximity of the elementary school over there, it could be a hefty penalty—”
    Tommi interrupted me. “Do I know you?”
    She probably wasn’t as old as she seemed, but the alcohol, tobacco, and hard living had rolled up her odometer. “Probably not, and I don’t know you—I thought we’d established that fact.”
    She studied my face, and then her eyes dropped to my chest in search of a badge. “You’re really a cop?”
    I began copying the information from her ID, just in case the conversation didn’t improve. “I am.”
    She sucked on the small cigar again, as if it were life affirming. “Around here?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Not for long, bucko.”
    It was about then that I decided to give her the ticket. I’d just pulled her over so that I could start a conversation, but the chances of that seemed slim, so I held up a finger before she could continue. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”
    “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    I stopped and looked back at her. “Nope.”
    “Well then, fuck you, and the horse you rode in on.” The whir of the electric window going up was the only other sound.
    I shook my head and climbed back in the Bullet, unhitching the mic from the dash and changing the frequency to that of Campbell County. “Dispatch, this is Walt Longmire, I need a 10-14 on a black Cadillac Escalade, plate number 17—”
    Static. “Who is this again?”
    I keyed the mic. “Walt Longmire, I’m the sheriff of Absaroka County.”
    Static. “Where?”
    “Absaroka County, just to the west of you.”
    Static. “And how can I help you, Sheriff?”
    I read her the plate number along with the woman’s name.“Tommi, that’s Tommi with an
i
Sandburg of Gillette; I’ve got her stopped for a traffic infraction, and I’m writing her up.”
    There was a longer pause this time.
    Static. “I’m transferring you to the sheriff’s office.”
    I keyed the mic again. “I thought this was the sheriff’s office.”
    Static. “I mean
the
sheriff’s office, the office of the sheriff, himself.”
    With a sinking feeling, I went ahead and asked. “Why is that?”
    Static. “Because she’s his sister.”

4
    “She’s quite the charmer.”
    Static. “Isn’t she though? She was worse when she had all her teeth.”
    I keyed the mic while looking at the smiling face on her ID. “She has teeth on her license.”
    Static. “Fake, some boyfriend or another knocked out the others.”
    “I’m giving her a ticket on general principles.”
    Static. “Okay.”
    “No argument?”
    Static. “Well, she won’t pay it, and I’m the one that’s going to get the screaming hissy fit . . .” The airwaves over northern Wyoming went silent.
    “You mind telling me why you didn’t say that your sister owned the strip club on the edge of town?”
    Static. “Didn’t seem pertinent to the investigation; I thought you were working on Gerald Holman’s suicide, not the case of the supposedly missing dancer—”
    “Jone Urrecha.”
    There was a pause. Static. “You think there might be a connection?”
    “It was the last case he was working on.”
    Static. “You want me to lean on my sister?”
    “It might be helpful.”
    Static. “Take your time writing her up, and I’ll call her on her cell phone and make up some bullshit about you being some kind of special investigator for the state.”
    “Roger that.”
    I took awhile writing the ticket by noting in great detail the conversation between us, practicing my cursive handwriting with special attention to the curlicues, dots, and assorted design factors, which were being eroded by the digital age. After a few minutes, Tommi Sandburg exited her vehicle, slammed the door, and crossed in front of mine, still puffing a cigarillo as she yanked open my passenger-side door.
    “Not in here.”
    She stared at