Free Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry Page A

have a proposal for me?”
    Outerbridge grinned like a Hell Creek fox. “Because you’re Indian.”

Chapter 8
    â€œThe good looking boy may be just good in the face.”
    Apache
    Chief Cullen Flynn parked his vehicle on the weed-infested driveway in front of a dilapidated house, shut off the headlights, and cut the engine. The cool air rushing from the vents died with it. The only sound inside the green Range Rover was that of the engine block ticking off a temperature drop second by second. God, I don’t want to do this, he thought. But he had to.
    It was his job to follow every possible lead in the museum investigation. So far, none of his inquiries had panned out. Coming here was a long shot. So far-fetched that he hadn’t even told anyone at the station.
    He peered through the grimy windshield, hands dangling over the top of the steering wheel, keys still in the ignition. Nothing had changed in the last three months. A full moon illuminated the house, and the place was still a dump. No doubt about it.
    One exposed ceiling bulb cast a feeble light over the rectangle porch with four spindly, leaning pillars with cinder blocks pushed against their bases. Windows not covered with plywood held no screens, just open casements with a tick-tack-toe alignment of cracked panes. Dirty sheets, pinned inside as curtains, lay motionless in the sweltering heat. Big Sky weathering had made a seborrheic dander of the cheap, white latex paint. The front door, stained an incongruous Kelley green, gaped open.
    Nobody came out to greet him, even though a primer-splotched, green El Camino was parked beside the squad car. Hell, he knew who was inside, all right. Snubbing a law officer was part of the game in this repeating scenario, carefully choreographed for maximum affect and aggravation. And it worked on him every time.
    â€œDamn pain in the ass,” Flynn sputtered as the door creaked open, and he stepped into an ankle deep patch of dandelions. Nothing else could survive the drought.
    He slammed the door, adjusted his ten gallon hat, and walked toward the wood-rotted porch. Blue flies buzzed around the brown bottles strewn across the veranda planking, the yeasty smell of fermenting beer holding the promise of an easy feast. A large rat skittered under a porch corner as he approached, and Flynn popped the grip strap on his holster. All he needed was to get bitten by vermin while trying to corner a pest of another kind.
    â€œCyrus, you in there?” he called, climbing two warped steps. “It’s Chief Flynn. I’m coming inside.”
    There was no answer so Flynn stepped onto the porch and continued with purpose toward the door. Beyond the opening, everything was dark. No lights. No sound. He slowed and edged against the doorjamb, trying not to make the floorboards squeak. The acrid smell of piss and marijuana wafted from within. No real surprise, but he wished he hadn’t smelled it.
    Flynn moved through the doorway, middle-aged eyes adjusting to the darkness oh-so-slowly. The tiny space serving as a living room held little furniture. He saw a sofa and the man sleeping on it first. Then the end table and recliner. A small portable TV on a shelving unit made from eight-by-twelves laid between more cinder blocks stacked up on ends. The rest of the room was a disaster of dirty clothes, fast food containers, and faded boxes that had never been unpacked since being carted in the summer before.
    He took the opportunity to walk quickly around the house while the man slept. From the open doorways, his eyes scanned for a pot stash or other drug paraphernalia within the filthy kitchen, both bedrooms, and the minuscule bathroom with unflushed toilet. He didn’t see anything illegal in plain sight. No weapons either. He passed the basement door as he headed for the living room, considered going down, but decided he didn’t want to turn his back on Cyrus too long.
    In front of the couch, he said,