Free The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 by Craig Johnson Page A

don’t suppose any of this might stem from conversations you may or may not have had with Cady, Ruby, or Vic.”
    He was working the meat around, and the smell of the green peppers was intoxicating. “I talk with a lot of people about a lot of things.”
    “How come you didn’t talk to me about Cody Pritchard eating his last meal at the Pony?”
    He placed the metal stem of the spatula on the edge of the frying pan so that the plastic handle wouldn’t melt and leaned against the counter. I listened to him breathe and realized how much he had aged in the last twenty years, or the last two seconds. After a moment he reached across the counter with a steady hand and poured me another cup. “I did not think it was that important. You ran out of the place Friday night and did not say a word to anybody, and I knew I was going to see you this morning. I guess I thought I had more important things to talk to you about.” He poured himself a cup and placed the pot back on the burner. He looked me in the eye just to clear the air. “Well, officer . . . It was the night of November second at approximately 6:02 P.M. that the aforementioned, one Pritchard, Cody, entered the establishment known as the Red Pony. Witnesses to this fact are Mssrs. Charlie Small Horse, Clel Phillips, and the attesting Henry Standing Bear. The condition of Mr. Pritchard at that time was one of profound intoxication, whereupon he was refused alcoholic beverage and served one Mexican cheeseburger deluxe, including fries and a Coke. Twenty-five minutes later there was a verbal altercation between Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Small Horse, which resulted in Mr. Pritchard being escorted to the door of the establishment and asked to leave. The last I saw of Cody, he wheeled that piece of shit palomino-primer truck of his around in my parking lot, sprayed gravel, and headed east to a far better place than he had ever been before. So, do you want to book me, or you want to go take a shower?” He sipped his coffee.
    “You seem a little defensive.”
    “No shit? I just want to keep my proficiency and conduct reports up to snuff.” He smiled a tight little smile. “Anything else?”
    “No, you pretty well covered it. I think I’ll go take a shower.” I stood up and walked past him toward the bathroom. I picked up the coffee since it was growing on me. I was hoping he’d say something, anything that would give me the excuse to turn around.
    “Do not get me wrong, Walt, I did not like the kid, but then I do not know anybody who did. If you are looking for a suspect, just open the phone book.” He was watching the sausage as it burbled. “Are there any leads?”
    I sighed and leaned against the refrigerator. “Toxicology at DCI said a high content of brewed barley malt, cereal grains, hops, and yeast . . .”
    “Known in the trade as Busch Lite.”
    “Ground beef, jalapeños, and American cheese.”
    “Mexican cheeseburger. Anything else?”
    “Nothing from toxicology. Ballistics says no lands or grooves, and the deformity of impact with the sternum makes identification that much more difficult.”
    His curiosity sharpened. “Smoothbore?”
    I shrugged. “Who knows, but if it is, it narrows the search to ten yards or less.”
    “Which means it was somebody the little shit knew.” He smiled the tight smile again. “At least well enough to let them get close with a shotgun.” He pushed down on the frying pan handle, allowing the grease to puddle at the end of the skillet closest to him. “That is pretty close.”
    “Yep.”
    “No companions, no tracks?”
    “Nope.”
    “Any cover?”
    My turn to smile. “That Powder River country, there’s a goodlookin’ woman behind every tree . . .” He joined me for the rest. “There just ain’t any trees.”
    “Back to square one. Wadding or contact dispersal?”
    “Nope. No powder tattooing, either.”
    “Any hope of brass?”
    “Ferg and that bunch didn’t come up with anything.”
    “Hmmm . . .”