Free Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry

relief to get all that electronic paraphernalia out of her face and to hear normally. She also released her seat harness. The rotor blades slowly stalled their gyroscopic spin above her head. All vibration ceased, and lights winked off over the control panel. She gathered her purse and sat quietly until Standback nodded for her get out.
    As the door opened, the smell of jet fuel and vegetation assailed her nose. A man quickly appeared beside her in the camp’s dim lighting. Agent Outerbridge. She hardly recognized him in casual civilian clothes – high, rubber-soled hiking boots, blue jeans and a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt covered by a dark bullet-proof vest. The butt of a large gun in a white holster Velcroed to the right side of his vest shone in the lantern light.
    â€œGood evening, Miss Phoenix,” he said, showing his slightly uneven teeth along with a welcoming, creased-face smile. “Glad you could make it.” He politely offered his hand to help her down from the seat and over the skid.
    Ansel grabbed his palm and jumped down. “Agent Outerbridge,” she acknowledged, stepping carefully over the rocky ground in her expensive calfskin half boots. She was not properly dressed for hiking the Badlands at night, but the fresh smell of sagebrush, wheatgrass, and ponderosa pine was like the perfume of a long-lost friend to her. She hadn’t been in the field -the true harsh and dangerous environs of Montana – in a long time.
    The agent silently led her away from the copter, leaving Standback behind. He stopped by a folding table supporting maps and a lantern. Agent Walthers, wearing identical casual apparel with vest, nodded a greeting, then returned to studying a topographic contour map. Dr. LaPierre stood beside an SUV, sipping from a Styrofoam cup and giving her a quick wave. She, too, wore sensible, cool clothing, overlaid by neoprene and steel body armor.
    None of them were taking any chances out here, Ansel realized, feeling suddenly contrite over her glib remark to Standback about packing a handgun. She squelched her shame and concentrated on Outerbridge.
    â€œThe first thing I want to know is how you found out who I am,” Ansel demanded.
    Showing no surprise, Outerbridge said, “Fair enough. BLM Special-Agent-In-Charge Kevin Broderick mentioned your name.”
    Ansel’s eyes widened. “Of course. And I suppose he told you all about me. Let me set the record straight, Agent Outerbridge. I had nothing to do with what happened at the museum.”
    â€œI believe you, even if you were trying to pass yourself off as a county lab tech at a crime scene. That’s considered falsifying your identity to federal officers by the way.”
    â€œI was leaving. Detective Dorbandt gave me that smock. Ask him why he did it.”
    Outerbridge shrugged. “It’s not that important. I’ve checked you out. Graduate of the University of Montana with dual degrees in geology and fine arts. Valedictorian of your graduation class. President of the Paleontology Club. Now a nationally recognized paleoartist and past president of the esteemed Pangaea Society. Even the driving force behind the formation and probably the operation of the future Preston Opel Paleohistory Center. Very commendable.”
    Ansel crossed her arms, nicely accentuating the upper body curves. “Funny how you’re leaving out the part about last summer. Broderick seemed to think that my past experience with a murderer was a national incident.”
    Walthers looked up, casting a concerned look at Outerbridge, who simply said, “I’ve reviewed the jacket on that case and have my own opinion. I consider your presence at the museum rather fortuitous, Miss Phoenix.”
    Relieved but dubious, Ansel brushed back her hair. “Really?”
    â€œYes. I have something to show you. Then I have a proposal, if you’re willing to hear it.”
    â€œWhy in the world would the FBI