Carnosaur Crimes Read Online Free PDF Page B

had built a Jericho Wall of silence around the crime scene that even the sound bytes from a newsie’s satellite hook-up couldn’t crumble. Dorbandt had disappeared, and Bieselmore hadn’t called to gab about what the FBI had done.
    Ansel got up and tossed the Coke can and wrappers into a trash bin beside her art table. She’d work on the Giganotosaurus drawing when she felt more objective. Her portfolio deadline was near, but a few hours lost today wouldn’t make much difference. Better to distance herself than continue drawing useless pictures which would completely clog up her artistic flow.
    She set the security alarm, exited the hangar, and walked along a well-worn path through a field of parched grass that spanned several acres behind her blue and white trailer. Usually this strip of land, which had once been a grass runway for the former owner’s Bonanza six-seater, burgeoned in the summer with an assortment of colorful, wild perennials. Scorching western winds and dust had reduced everything into a straw-brown mat. Gone were the rainbow hues of beargrass, Indian paintbrush, Astor, columbine, and Dogtooth violet.
    As she walked toward the back porch, Ansel glanced at two Langstroth beehives several hundred feet away. Concern for each colony of fifty-thousand bees furrowed her brow. Would there be enough pollen to sustain them through the summer and winter? She made a mental note to get Feltus Pitt, a local beekeeper, over to inspect the hives.
    Her thoughts intent on the bees, Ansel almost ran into the couple suddenly appearing on the path. Startled, her hand went to her chest. The last thing she expected was anyone walking behind her forty acres of land unannounced. She’d had a bad experience in the past with people sneaking onto her property to do her harm.
    â€œYou scared me,” Ansel accused, trying to calm her racing heart.
    â€œSorry,” said a blonde-haired woman wearing a toupe hat with a Department of Interior patch on the bill. A gun belt accented her uniform. “We knocked on the trailer door, but nobody answered.”
    â€œAnsel Phoenix?” asked the tall, stocky man beside her.
    â€œYes.” Ansel squinted against the sun. He wore no hat and had a short, well-trimmed moustache and chin beard. His belt holster was bigger, and he carried a clipboard with a gold pen on it. His look was all business. “What can I do for you?”
    The man pulled out a gold shield from his breast pocket. “We’re from the Bureau of Land Management. This is Ranger Eastover from the Red Water station. I’m Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge Broderick from the state office. I’m investigating the attempted theft of dinosaur prints from the Big Toe Museum. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    â€œAll right. Let’s go inside.”
    Ansel led the BLM officers through the cluttered back porch and up some trailer steps. The double-wide was roomy and outfitted with nice furniture in shades of blue and brown. Luckily she’d been spending most of her time inside the hangar so the living room looked clean and orderly. No bowls of fossils percolating in acid solutions on every flat surface, digging tools on the floor, or journals draped over the chair backs to mark her place.
    â€œHave a seat.” She sat in her favorite chair, an antique ladder-back rocker beside the bay window. A quick glance through the glass, and she noticed the white and green BLM patrol pickup with topper and light bar parked on the front drive.
    Broderick sat on the blue sofa across from Ansel, his stocky legs barely able to fit behind the glass coffee table. He fussed noisily with his clipboard and pen. Eastover sat beside the SAC officer. It was obvious that she didn’t enjoy his proximity despite the smile plastered across her pretty, mid-thirties face.
    â€œI’m surprised you’re here. I’m not on the museum staff,” Ansel said.
    â€œI’m