скачать книгу бесплатно
He turned his head to gaze, unseeing, through the slanted blinds at the parking lot. “You want my opinion?”
“Yeah.”
“It is good in that I don’t have another murder to investigate. But for you personally...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’d say this makes it even more likely that coincidence didn’t play a part in your discovery yesterday.”
“He had those windows rolled up on purpose. So the fire wouldn’t get very far. So I’d be sure to see the blood.”
“That’s my guess.”
Again she was silent.
“No fingerprints on the door handles, steering wheel, emergency brake... The ones we found were in spots he didn’t wipe clean. My bet is, they’re old.”
“Did you run the VIN?”
“Yup. It isn’t your father’s pickup. This one was sold by a rancher up in the Dalles a year ago to a—” he glanced down at his notes “—Julia Carvenas. She reported it stolen a week ago.”
“Did you check her out?”
“I can’t see any connection to Elk Springs.”
“Horses? You know my brother-in-law—”
“No horses,” Ben interrupted. “I asked. She runs a landscape business.”
“Then this is a dead end.” Dismay sounded, clear as the cry of a hunted animal.
Abby Patton had struck him as a supremely poised woman. She’d been a firefighter; now she’d added the training to make her a cop. He wondered when was the last time she’d felt any emotion approaching fear.
He kept his gruff voice low and soothing. “I’ll be talking to the teenagers who discovered the fire. I’ll go door-to-door at the houses on the outskirts. See if anybody noticed the pickup passing. I’d like to know how the perp got back to town.”
“Motorcycle?” she suggested. “He could have carried it in the bed of the truck.”
Okay, so she was sharp. Ben didn’t know why that surprised him, even faintly. Yeah, she was a leggy blond beauty with sky-blue eyes, Hollywood’s stereotype of a bimbo, but so was her sister. And he’d long ago learned that Meg Patton was smart and tough, a cop first and a woman second. Hell, their sister Renee, just as pretty and blond, was about to be sworn in as the new Elk Springs police chief.
“Motorcycle’s my guess, too,” Ben said. “Usually loners are the ones who do something so...” Not wanting to alarm her, he hesitated.
“Warped?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would,” she said, blunt enough to satisfy him, before she added dismissively, “Thanks, Shea. Let me know if you learn anything further.”
“Wait.” Okay, where had that little spurt of panic come from? So what if she hung up—he could call her back. He knew where to find her.
“You have something else?” she asked, her surprise edged with curiosity.
This should be easy. He’d thought about it all day. She was a foxy woman; he knew from Meg that Abby wasn’t dating anybody seriously.
So why did he put his feet on the floor and sit up straight as if for inspection before he could spit out his question?
“Any chance you’d like to have dinner?”
“Dinner?”
She didn’t have to sound as if he’d suggested bungee jumping naked, thought Ben, stung.
Nonetheless he said doggedly, “Yeah. We could maybe talk this over. Uh... Get to know each other.”smooth. Real smooth.
“As in a date.”
Goddamn it. There she went again, making him feel small.
“That such an outlandish idea?” he asked, his voice edgy.
He could feel her thinking in the moment of silence that followed.
“No,” she said finally. “I don’t usually date cops, is all.”
“There some reason?”
“We’re just...too much alike. We have too much on our minds. I like to have fun. Lighten up. You know?”
“I can have fun,” he said defensively, knowing it was a lie. Yeah, okay; sure he enjoyed himself sometimes. But fun? The way she meant? Probably not. He didn’t drink, hated loud music and detested parties. “We don’t have to talk about work,” he added.
“Dinner.” She sounded cautious. Wheels were turning in her head; he could damn near hear the clatter.
“How about tonight?” Ben asked.
“I’m going to Renee’s tonight. We’re having a war council. So to speak.” She paused. “If you want to come...”
What did this mean? She went from telling him he might not be fun enough to taking him home to meet her family?
“I don’t want to intrude...”
“No, you might have something useful to offer. Daniel’s the one who wants to talk this out.” She sounded mildly impatient. “He’d be glad to have you.”
“What about you?” Ben asked. “Would you be glad to have me?”
“To dinner?” She paused just long enough to be sure he got the point—no innuendos allowed. “Why not?”
He knew where the Triple B was. She suggested they meet there, which he accepted without argument. Most women liked to drive themselves on first dates. She wouldn’t be stuck with fending him off on the doorstep if she came to the conclusion that this had been a mistake.
Hanging up the phone, Ben wasn’t sure how to feel about this evening. Hell, he didn’t know whether it was a working dinner or a date.
He did know he wasn’t used to being rejected. I don’t usually date cops, she’d said, as if he’d crawled out from under a rock.
He wouldn’t take it personally, Ben decided. Maybe she got hit on all the time down at the station. Given her looks, she probably did.
Funny, when he thought about it, because it wasn’t her glorious legs or lush mouth or tangle of honey-blond hair that had gotten to him—although he’d noticed them, he couldn’t deny it. But he didn’t ask out every beautiful woman he met, either. And normally her princess act would have turned him off. A man couldn’t warm his hands on a chilly woman.
But he’d seen something in Abby Patton’s eyes. Something defensive, even scared. Her defiance was a cover-up, he thought, for a woman who didn’t want to admit she was lonely.
And if he was wrong—well, maybe he, too, would be glad they were going their separate ways tonight.
TIRES CRUNCHING on the red cinder lane, Ben drove past the turnoff to the handsome new home that crowned the ridge above the Triple B barns and the pastures, improbably green from irrigation in the midst of brown, high mountain desert country at midsummer. Fences enclosing pastures, paddocks and two outdoor arenas sparkled with fresh white paint. The place was prosperous, the horses and cattle he could see at a distance glossy.
Someone was working a cutting horse in the nearer arena. More like going along for the ride. The horse seemed to be doing the thinking. He was separating one steer from a clump of six or eight, anticipating the poor dumb cow’s every dodge, moving so surely, so quickly and fluidly, it was pure poetry.
Ben had never been out here, but he’d heard stories about the ranch: the senile old man—Daniel’s grandfather—wandering out into the wintry night, his body never found; Daniel’s father dying when he got thrown into a fence post; and finally the human skull brought home by a dog.
Now this.
On the way to the Patton family war council, Ben had decided on a minor detour. He wanted to see for himself how hard it would have been for a thief to slip into Shirley Barnard’s garage to steal the license plates from her car.
The guy sure as hell couldn’t have driven right by in broad daylight. Before Ben reached the first barn, two men stepped out, looking toward him.
He pulled to a stop, set the brake and turned off the engine. Between barns, he saw a young cowboy walking a horse with sweat-soaked flanks. In the aisle of the barn, another horse—this one a fiery red—was cross-tied and being shod, from the sound of metal ringing out.
Ben got out of his car and nodded at the two men waiting. “Good day.”
“Can we help you?” one asked.
“I’m with the sheriff’s department. Detective Ben Shea.” Ben showed his badge. “And you are?”
“Lee LaRoche.” The taller and older of the two tipped back his Stetson. “I’m a trainer.”
“Jim Cronin.” The younger guy couldn’t be much over twenty-five. Stocky and strong, he wore the ranch uniform: dusty denim, worn cowboy boots, white T-shirt and buff-brown Stetson. “I just work here.”
Ben nodded. “You two fellows know about the break-in at Mrs. Barnard’s?”
“You mean, her garage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell of a thing.” The trainer shook his head. “Shirley wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would someone go picking on her like that?”
“Maybe just to show he could.” Ben watched the two carefully; saw nothing but perplexity and mild curiosity about why a Butte County detective was out here questioning them about such a minor crime. “I just thought I’d find out whether someone could go right on down there without being noticed.”
“Not in a car.” LaRoche sounded sure. “We don’t get much traffic out here. Someone’s coming right now.” He nodded past Ben toward the main road leading from Butte Road and the Triple B gates onto the ranch.
Ben turned. A plume of lava red dust rose like the spray behind a hydroplane. That nice shiny 4x4 was going to need a bath.
Like his own car, he realized ruefully.
LaRoche continued. “Especially at this time of year, we have plenty of warning. Somebody always pokes a head out to see who’s come calling.”
“What about at night? With Mrs. Barnard away?”
“I live there.” The lanky older man pointed to a small white-painted cottage in the cottonwoods beside the creek. “Some of the hands have places in town, but a couple room in the bunkhouse. Cronin here’s one of ‘em.”
The young ranch hand scratched his chin. “Well, I won’t say if we’d heard a car we would have fallen over our feet rushing out to see who was here. But we’d have most likely glanced out. Mrs. Barnard don’t get that many folks coming by, and Lee’s place is the only other one on down the road.”
“But he could have parked a ways back and walked.”
Lee LaRoche slowly took off his hat and ran a hand through sweat-streaked hair. “Well, now. Sure. I suppose so. ’Course, if someone had come along he wouldn’t have had anyplace to hide. With no trees till you get down to the creek. And his car would’ve stuck out like a palomino in a herd of bays. Say, if Daniel or Renee had come or gone. But at, oh, three, four in the morning... Sure.”
He sent Cronin with Ben to check out the garage itself. The structure was detached from the original farmhouse where Daniel Barnard’s mother still lived. Through a small dusty window, Ben could see the blue sedan. The lock on the side door was one of those push-button models, not a dead bolt. Anyone good with a paperclip could have gotten in. The main door, the cowboy told him, had an automatic opener.
“So Mrs. Barnard can drive straight on in, like in the winter. Daniel installed it himself.”
“How long have you worked here?” Ben asked idly.
“Only about a year.” Jim Cronin’s face was boyish, despite the beginnings of lines at the corners of his hazel eyes. “I like to move around. See the country.”
Not so different from the ski bums who operated lifts up at Juanita Butte, or the temporary crews that fought fires in the dry woods every summer.
“Barnard good to work for?” Ben asked.
“The best,” the man said simply. “Cutting horses bred and taught their tricks here are in the top ten every year. I’d like to train horses, not just ride ‘em and muck up after ’em. This is the place to learn.”
The two men walked back to the barn where Ben had left his car. Ben thanked Jim Cronin for his time and watched him disappear into the barn. Well down the aisle, Lee LaRoche appeared briefly, looking Ben’s way. When his gaze met Ben’s, he tipped his hat and faded back into the shadowy interior of the huge barn. Had he been watching for Ben? Making sure Cronin went right back to work?
Ben paused before getting behind the wheel of his car. He liked to take in his surroundings, soak them up as he did the sun’s midday warmth in winter. It never paid to be hasty, he’d found; he learned things on a subliminal level if he allowed time.
Giving him curious glances and civil nods, a man and a woman rode by. The horses ambled, heads down, sweat darkening shoulders and flanks. Tiny puffs of dust bloomed beneath their hooves. Reins lay slack against the dark shiny necks.
Car door open, Ben watched them go, the horses both possessing the powerful, chunky hindquarters of the quarter horse breed, the two riders swaying easily in the Western saddles. Two barns away, a mare and foal were being loaded into a fancy-looking trailer. The foal didn’t want to go, and kept shying away at the last minute, skinny legs flying. The men doing the loading were patient, giving the skittish colt time to settle down. In the arena, a different horse was being worked now. A gray-haired man with a skinny butt sat on the fence watching, heels hooked over a rail.
Busy place, this. An unlikely choice to burglarize. No, someone had wanted to send a message: I can get at you anywhere.
More than the blood or the stolen pickup truck, the license plates lifted from Shirley Barnard’s car were what worried Ben. The message was not a comforting one.
And he had to believe, it wouldn’t be the last.
Ben slid in behind the wheel and slammed his car door. Time to be getting up to Daniel Barnard’s place, before Abby started to worry about his absence.
In your dreams, he jeered, and started the car.
THE LAST TO SIT DOWN, Abby scooted her chair forward and braced herself for an in-depth analysis of the arson fire set in the pickup truck.
In his paternalistic mode, Daniel Barnard looked around the table with an air of quiet satisfaction. The troops were gathered. Even Will, Meg’s sixteen-year-old son, had been allowed to stay. Only Emily, Meg’s three-year-old adopted daughter wasn’t at the table; Meg had settled her in the living room where she was out of earshot but in sight, happily occupied with a pile of blocks and half a dozen puzzles.
Meg had even wanted to invite Jack Murray, her former lover and Will’s father. “This concerns Will,” she’d said. “Which means it concerns Jack.”
Abby had gently discouraged her sister. There were things Meg didn’t know. Jack was just as uncomfortable with Abby as she was around him.
Both did their best to encounter each other as seldom as possible.
