Bitterroot (Billy Bob Holland 3)

He sat down across from us, his right hand resting in the center of the wood table. When I did not offer to shake hands with him, he removed his hand and put it in his lap. His eyes narrowed once at the insult, then they became totally devoid of expression.

"Your sheet says you've been down four times on the same count, Mr. Dobbs," I said.

He inched a chrome-plated wristwatch out from under his shirt cuff and looked at it.

"You're a lawyer for who?" he asked.

"Dr. Tobin Voss. He's charged with killing a biker by the name of Lamar Ellison. Does that last name mean anything to you?" I said.

"Never heard of him."

Temple looked at the first page on the clipboard she carried.

"How about the name of Billy Shuster?" she said.

"The kid in Sioux Falls? I was three hundred miles away when that happened. I was working in a bakery."

Temple's eyes shifted on mine. It was the use of his vague reference to the event, the lack of a noun or verb that would call up a visual image, that gave us our first hint of the manipulator behind the hornrimmed glasses.

"He was thirteen. Pretty bad crime, don't you think?" I said.

"I wouldn't know. Like I say, I wasn't around," Dobbs said.

"Anyway, that's past history. But I think you got a bum beef on this Montana deal," I said.

"Run that by me again."

"You got nailed in Carl Hinkel's front yard five years ago. Carl told everybody he didn't know you and was glad the authorities had you in custody. I don't think you ever got to tell your side of the story."

"You see Carl Hinkel?" he said.

"With some regularity," Temple said. Dobbs nodded and looked at a spot between me and Temple. "I never met him. I never had a chance to. So I'm not much help to you," he said.

"I hear you're quite a computer whiz. You've cataloged everything in the prison library," Temple said.

"It's a job," he said.

"It's funny you don't know the name of Lamar Ellison. He was in Deer Lodge when you took your last fall," I said.

"Could be," he replied.

"You were invited to Carl Hinkel's house. Maybe you had an appointment with him. Then you get busted in his yard and he calls you a pervert in print. Does that bother you, Mr. Dobbs?" I said.

He touched at the corner of his mouth and rubbed the balls of his fingers with his thumb. He straightened his cuffs on his wrists and glanced through the glass window in the door at a guard in the corridor. "What's in it for me?" he asked.

"The feds have Hinkel under investigation. You could be a big help to them. They can turn keys on state locks."

His eyes seemed to focus inward on thoughts that in all probability no else could ever guess at.

"We're finished here," he said.

"Fair enough," I said, rising from my chair. "I'll tell you what happened, though. You met Carl Hinkel through the Internet. Then you showed up at his house for a meet and got busted. He came off looking great and you're down on a short-eyes. How's it feel? By the way, I'll tell Carl we had a chat."

Dobbs got to his feet and banged on the steel door.

"What's the problem?" the guard asked.

"I want lockup," Dobbs replied.