An Obvious Fact by Craig Johnson

it?”
    â€œI’m assisting the investigating officer.”
    She sighed and looked away. “My father says I’m not supposed to say anything to anybody, that it’ll just lead to trouble with those people.”
    â€œWell, seeing as how you’re an eyewitness to what may or may not have been an attempted homicide, I can get a subpoena and we can have this conversation down at the Hulett police headquarters or the Crook County sheriff’s office.”
    â€œI found him, okay? I didn’t witness anything.”
    â€œOn the side of the road.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWas he alone?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I turned and looked at the young woman. “Can you give me an indication as to what kind of condition he was in?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWas he conscious, unconscious?”
    â€œHe was unconscious.”
    â€œDid he have anything with him on the motorcycle that you saw lying around—saddlebags or anything like that?”
    She took a long time to answer. “No.”
    I looked pointedly at her injured arm. “Was there anybody else on the motorcycle with him?”
    â€œNo.”
    I gave her the long pause I’d learned from Lucian—the one that crept like an epoch-eating glacier—just to let her know I had my suspicions. “Then I guess I’ve got only one more question.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhen did you get his cell phone number?”
    A voice sounded from behind me. “I think you’ve answered enough of the sheriff’s questions, Chloe.”
    I turned to see a fireplug of a man with a shaved head standing behind us, aiming what looked to be a sporting-clay over-and-under shotgun mostly at me. “Mr. Nance?”
    He strolled up a little closer, and I could see two men standing behind him in matching black polo shirts. “You’re supposed to follow that with ‘I presume.’”
    I shrugged. “It’s late, and the guy who does my Sherlock Holmes is asleep.”
    â€¢ • •
    Next to big-game hunter Omar Rhoades’s log palace back in the home county, and Versailles, Bob Nance’s ranch house was just about the most extravagant place I’d ever visited.
    â€œWill you still be needing us, Mr. Nance?” The muscle in the black shirts continued to glance at me. “We can stick around if you need us.”
    Nance, with his back to the three of us, was mixing two drinks. “That’s fine, Mr. Frick. I think we’ll be okay.”
    I watched as they left and turned back as Nance handed me one of the drinks. “Is the other one’s name Frack?”
    He ignored my joke. “Vintage ’66, thirty years in cask 559, and bottled on June eighteenth of 1996 at the Laphroaig distillery.” He handed me a tumbler, neat, and then adjusted the flames on the river-rock fireplace with a remote. “I know it’s summer, but I like the ambiance—a little like Dick Nixon in that regard.” He lifted his glass. “I hope you enjoy it.”
    â€œI have to tell you this is the most civilized stickup in which I’ve ever taken part.”
    He sat in an overstuffed leather chair, throwing his polished boots onto a matching ottoman. “We strive to please.”
    I took a sip of the amber liquid and was pretty sure that it was the finest stuff my palate would ever touch, and that if I wasn’t careful I’d be asleep by the time I finished it. The room was lined with bookshelves, and there was a gigantic burled-wood billiards table at the center, with red felt where he had laid the Krieghoff K-80 Pro Sporter. “Nice place—almost as nice as mine.”
    â€œIs yours log?”
    I nodded. “Yep, and I believe my whole house would fit in this one room.”
    He smiled and glanced up at the timbers, a good forty feet in the air. “It’s kind of over-the-top, but you know how it is when you think you’re