[b]The Pastor's Statement[/b]

If Los Angeles bothered to replay the tape at any point, he would hear the friendly voice of James Bachmeier. The man had talked briefly but efficiently.

"We don't really know a whole lot about Roman Cunningham, to be honest. Some people think he came up from New Orleans, others from Kansas City, other people say the Czech Republic or Britain. Nobody really knows for sure. All anyone knows is that about a year back he showed up and deposited a couple million at the Savings and Trust, then took out loans to build up his trucking company."

"At first everyone was excited- the mine dried up back in the Fifties and there wasn't much work to be had. The trucking company meant jobs, right? That's the way everyone chose to look at it. And sure, some people here in town ended up getting jobs. But most of his employees seemed to come from out of town. Thugs and toughs from all over the country, a lot of them with gang tattoos. Some complained, but ultimately they kept to themselves and seemed happy to spend money here in town."

"Then the drugs started coming in. The meth was getting sold at the high school, at the bowling alley, at bars, everywhere. Ordinary, decent people were getting hooked, they were selling their cars and furniture just to be able to buy more. And Roman just seemed to be getting richer. The police didn't seem to care. Dealers would get busted once in a while, then given a slap on the wrist. Just keeping up appearances. The mayor did nothing. Finally, it seemed like only me, Harlan, Joanna, and Sigurd cared at all. We got ahold of some folks in Helena, and they sent out Captain Twentykiller to have a look around. And now the DEA! Prayers really do come true."

[b]The Street[/b] 

Cheyenne heard the screeching of brakes next to her. A Crown Victoria slid into the curb at speed. Normally, there are three different users of Crown Vics: police, senior citizens, and rental agencies. This particular car belonged to the last category. That fact might normally be of some comfort to Cheyenne, except for the man jumping out the door and the Smith and Wesson 442 dangling from his hand atop the door frame.

"So, lady, did someone rip the S section out of your dictionary?" he called. He was a thirty-something Asian man, his eyes hidden behind expensive sunglasses. Dressed in a flashy sharkskin suit, it was clear he had money to burn. "Because you don't seem to know the meaning of 'subtle'. Killing the principal right in front of the school took some guts. I like guts, but it takes more than that to get by in this business."

 As if on cure, a siren started to sound in the background. "See what I mean?" said the man with a wry grin. "Tell you what, you want to hop in, I'll give you a ride and bend your ear a little. I've got a line on Harlan Kohler, but it looks to be a two-man job. I get you away from the Five-Oh, you help me out, we see where it goes from there. Win-win, right?" The man known only as Honolulu grinned ear to ear as he invitingly opened the passenger side door of his rental.

Cheyenne was faced with a choice. Taker her chances with the police, or take her chances with Honolulu.

[b]The [i]Herald[/i][/b]

The receptionist wrinkled her nose at LA's request. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lindquist is out on assignment at the moment. I really can't say when he'll be back. Could I maybe take a message for you, sir?" 

Silva, hanging back and watching in the lobby, could see the mysterious Hispanic man hanging out by the front desk. That was one advantage to this contest taking place in such a small town, especially one in Montana- anyone who wasn't white or Native American would stick out like a sore thumb.

As if to punctuate that thought, another man came into the lobby, one who was very hard to miss. Maybe it was his height of 6'5", maybe the shaven head and walrus mustache, maybe the thick arm muscles. Maybe it was the fact that he was the only black man Silva or Los Angeles had seen in this town so far. Or maybe it was his yellow and black Steelers hoodie. 

Whatever it was, it made him immediately noticeable. Everyone in the lobby seemed to be watching this man as his long legs carried him up to the front desk. "Is Sigurd Lindquist in?" he asked in a deep, rumbling voice.

The receptionist shrugged. "Like I just told this gentleman, no, he's out at the moment. May I take a message for either of you?"

The big man didn't respond, instead turning to look at LA like a bear looks at a salmon. "You were asking after him too, eh?" the big man asked slowly.