Damn, Dean thought, this detective stuff comes roaring back after an absence-like bike riding, swimming and sex. He welcomed the man to join him and extended his hand. "David Dean," he said.

"Dickinson Faust, here. Are you staying here at the Beaumont?"

"No," Dean replied, but not adding he probably couldn't afford these digs. "I live in town."

After the requisite comments on the beauties of Ouray and the surrounding mountains, Faust explained he was from California, here on business-for a short stay, he added.

"Well, good luck in selling or buying or whatever you do," Dean said, crafty interrogator that he was.

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"Actually, I'm a lawyer, working with local counsel on a pending case."

"And you make house calls?" Dean asked with a smile.

Faust laughed, shaking the table. "You might say that. My client's in court out here and I'm keeping an eye on her assets." Wink, wink. "Mostly I'm a divorce lawyer," he answered, carefully wiping whipped cream from his upper lip. "I sort of got roped into this mess by default. It should be a slam-dunk and quick flight home."

"Not a juicy murder case?"

"Just the opposite. Boring, with a capital B."

But he wouldn't elaborate. Dean considered a further prompt, but a dozen years of dealing with attorneys taught him it would be both unsuccessful and unwise. After a few more banalities Dickinson Faust rose, shook Dean's hand, patted his shoulder and bid a cheery adieu.

As long as he was on a roll, albeit a limited one, Dean had one more errand. The next stop on his list was visiting Ms. Lydia Larkin, deputy sheriff, whose presentation of a speeding ticket and general attitude still pissed him off, just remembering it. But much as he hated to do so, it was time to eat the proverbial crow and make peace. Jake Weller had said Larkin was at one time a guard at the Cañon City prison, where Martha Boyd's mother was incarcerated. While it was a long shot that the bitchy deputy could be any help, Dean was frustrated enough with the other available avenues to bite his tongue and ask for help. He would cross his fingers and trust she wouldn't divulge any confidences to her boss, Fitzgerald. The less that bastard knew about Dean's private life, the better. He wasn't about to donate any fodder to the other horse in the race.

Before leaving the Beaumont, he looked at the recently published Ouray phone book. His roll rolled on. There was a listing for newly arrived L. Larkin, with an address on Oak Street. He glanced at his watch. While she'd most likely be out on the job, he'd case the place, now that his detective hat was fitting so well. The auction crowd could wait a little longer for his chauffeuring gig.




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