She sized him up: studying his red uniform shirt, pronghorn sleeve patch, the badge that read GAME WARDEN 21, and the brass rectangular J. PICKETT nameplate over his breast pocket.

“What brings you to Denver?” she asked.

“I’m working on a case. I was hoping I could take a few minutes of your time.”

“Put your hat back on and follow me,” she said with a sly grin.

He followed.

When he looked over his shoulder at the receptionist, he could tell that she was puzzled by the warm reception as well.

—

“MY FATHER was a game warden in Montana,” Raymer said as she gestured toward an empty visitor’s chair in her office. There was no window, and the fluorescent lighting was harsh. The walls on each side of the room were lined with books and manuals. He noted a credenza filled with framed photos of her husband, her four towheaded children—two boys and two girls—and the entire family on a white-water rafting trip.

“I grew up moving around the state,” she said. “I was born in Choteau, went to grade school in Hamilton, middle school in Ekalaka, and high school in Missoula and Great Falls. We followed my dad from place to place. I don’t think he ever made more than twenty-four thousand dollars in a year, but I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. Have you moved your kids around like that—provided you have some?”

“I do,” Joe said. “Three girls. My wife and I bounced around Wyoming until I got the Saddlestring District up in the Bighorns. I was stationed in Jackson and Baggs for a short time, but that’s a long story.”

“The Bighorns are nice country,” Raymer said. “They remind me of Montana. And what Colorado used to be,” she added with a gentle smile. He liked her.

“I’m surprised you just showed up,” she said.

He nodded.

“And what can I do for you?”

Joe explained finding the dead sage grouse—she cringed—and the gathering of the evidence. He left out the name Revis Wentworth but told her he had a suspicion the evidence had been tampered with or not sent at all.

She shook her head, puzzled.

“I know,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to believe. But I was hoping I could take a look at the package, provided it was received at all. I didn’t call ahead and make an appointment because I didn’t want to tip anyone off.”

“You want to take it out of our chain of custody?” she asked.

“That’s not necessary. I just want to see if it’s here and what’s inside. I don’t want to take it back.”

She closed one eye and said, “This is an odd request. No one has ever asked me to do this sort of thing before. We can’t just open up sealed evidence to the general public, even if you are law enforcement. I’m sure there are rules about this.”

“There probably are,” Joe said. “But I was kind of hoping we could stay out of the rule book on this. I know if you ask somebody in Washington, their first response will be ‘Don’t do anything until we get a ruling on it.’ That could take months. I don’t have months.”

She laughed. “You have some experience dealing with government agencies.”

“I’m in one myself,” he said.

She drummed her fingers on her desk for a minute and looked toward her bookcase, as if seeking an answer.

“I’m surprised you’ve gone to all this trouble,” she said.

He sighed. “It’s a high priority for my director and the governor. We’re talking sage grouse, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. Then: “I don’t get involved with the politics of all this. But I do know there is some concern if this bird gets listed as an endangered species.”

“I try not to get involved, either, but I can’t help it. And when it comes to sage grouse, there’s a lot of concern,” Joe said.

Finally, she said, “I guess it won’t hurt anything to see if we even received it.”

“How could it?” Joe said eagerly.

She booted up her computer. While they waited for the ancient desktop PC to become functional, she said, “I used to ride around with my dad sometimes. It was interesting to see him interact with all kinds of people.”

“I’ve taken my oldest daughter out with me,” Joe said.

“He could have gotten other jobs that paid more and weren’t as dangerous. In fact, I know he interviewed for a couple in Helena after he was wounded in the leg by an elk poacher. But in the end, I think he decided he couldn’t sit at a desk all day. Like me.”

“He’s a man after my own heart,” Joe said.

“He died last year,” she said.

Her eyes filled and she looked quickly away.

Joe said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He had a heart attack riding his old mule, Blue. That’s the mule he used to patrol with before he retired.”

Joe nodded.

“I think he died happy,” she added ruefully.

“I’ll bet he was happy for you, being the director of this whole operation,” Joe said.

“He was,” she said with a chuckle. “He said I was the only fed he ever liked.”

Joe smiled.

—

“HERE,” SHE SAID, jabbing at the screen. “A package was sent from Agent Revis Wentworth in Saddlestring, Wyoming. It arrived over the weekend, and I assume it’s in receiving.”

Joe arched his eyebrows.

She said, “I suppose we can go look at it. But I don’t want you touching anything or contaminating the evidence in any way, even if it’s inadvertent.”

“I understand,” Joe said.

He stood up and stepped aside so she could pass.

“Receiving is in the basement,” she said over her shoulder as they made their way down the nondescript hallway. As she walked, she pulled on her white lab coat.

—

THE SMALL CARDBOARD evidence box was among several others in a canvas bag on a rolling cart. Joe recognized it as Raymer raised it out of the bag and placed it on a stainless-steel counter. The only other person in the receiving room was a Hispanic staffer who shot surreptitious glances at them over the top of his computer monitor.

“That’s it,” Joe said. “But it’s been opened and retaped.”

Raymer paused and said, “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “That’s my clear plastic tape under the new strapping tape he used. He must have cut it open and resealed it.”

“Who would have done this?”

“The man who sent it to you.”

“Why would he do that?” she asked. She was genuinely curious.

“Because I believe he is trying to contaminate the evidence so he can steer us away from who really did the shooting.”

She stood back and put her hands on her hips. She kept her voice in an urgent whisper so the staffer couldn’t overhear. “Are you telling me one of our own agents is trying to derail a case?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Joe said. “I’m following up a theory.”

She shushed him to keep his voice down.

“Maybe you could open it up,” Joe whispered. “I’ll know when I see what’s inside.”

She feigned impatience with him as she pulled on a pair of white rubber gloves from a dispenser of them and reached for a box cutter.

“Stand back,” she cautioned.

Joe didn’t approach her, but he did raise his height by balancing on the balls of his feet so he could see inside the box when she opened it.

“Shotgun shells,” she said, plucking several out and placing them on the counter. “A beer can. A CD. A bag of dirt and some sage grouse feathers.”

Then she looked up at Joe and said, “That’s all.”

He nodded and studied the items. He said, “These shell casings look weathered. They look weeks old—like they’ve been out in the sun and rain. I’m sure you can confirm that with testing. The ones I found were only a day or two old. The beer can and the feathers look like what I put in the box. No need to change them out. But who knows what’s on the CD? I still have the original photos on my camera, so we can compare what I shot with what’s on the disc.”

She hesitated, then said to the curious staffer, “Juan, I need to use your computer for a minute. Isn’t it time for your break?”