Gabriel shook his head. “Nothing conclusive. Some partial prints. Most of which are probably ours. Anything that we can’t identify will be checked against Cullen’s employee list. He’s got prints on everyone in the building.”
“Nice of him.” Harrison smiled. “And I suppose if we still have any unidentified we can run them through the computers at Langley and Quantico just to be certain.”
“Exactly, but my guess is they won’t turn up anything significant.”
“Even if we don’t identify the hacker,” Madison said, “I’d still say the fact we had one, combined with the murders, is a pretty strong indication that we’re on the right track.”
“It would seem that way, certainly. But until we verify that the other three deaths were also intentional, I’d prefer we maintain our skepticism.” Gabriel finished the last of his whiskey.
“Well, without an autopsy, how do you suggest we proceed?” Harrison asked. “They’re all in different jurisdictions.”
“Divide and conquer.” Gabriel smiled, and Madison was certain she wasn’t going to like the rest of what he had to say. “Harrison, you can check out Macomb’s death. The car wreck happened in Albany, so you should be able to request records from here and still finish your work on Cullen’s computers. Payton and Nigel can head for Virginia. Dashal has family there. And we already have the police report.”
Madison’s stomach churned. Alan Stewart had died in Colorado. In a remote mountain town.
“And you and I—” Gabriel’s gaze collided with hers, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth “—will head for the mountains.”
Madison looked to Harrison for support, but he only shrugged.
Some best friend.
There had to be a way out. Something she could say. But her brain stubbornly refused to provide an excuse, choosing instead a completely reprehensible route, and before she could stop them, the words tumbled out of her mouth.
“What time do we leave?”
* * *
Cullen Pulaski sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen. The list of files stared back at him, the cursor blinking, waiting for him to take action. He entered a series of keystrokes and a password, and the machine buzzed, then presented him with a list of documents. Opening one, he skimmed the pages, wondering if the intruder had made it this far.
He’d set up safeguards. But nothing was impregnable. Whoever had broken into the computer system had obviously known what they were doing, and what they were after. Cullen entered more keystrokes and checked the hidden log. He hadn’t shared its existence with Harrison. The man had found the decoy. And searched it. But of course there was nothing to find.
Cullen had almost told him about the second one, wanting to share his genius with someone who could appreciate it. He’d designed the program himself. A way to track activity within his systems. An extra set of eyes watching his back.
But in the end, caution had won out. He needed to look on his own. See what, if anything, was there. He scrolled down the screen, stopping when he reached the record of the day’s activities.
It took a moment to isolate, but it was there. An unauthorized entry. Someone had gained access to his files. Unfortunately there was no identifier. Just as Harrison had predicted, the pathway had been wiped clean. There was nothing left to tell him who it was.
Nothing at all. Only the fact that someone had been there. Someone who desperately wanted to bring Cullen down. But Cullen couldn’t let anything get in his way now. He was too close. Everything depended on these final moves, the death dance of opponents in a battle for survival.
And despite all he had accomplished, Cullen Pulaski was afraid.
Chapter Eight
Town was probably too optimistic a word for Creede, Colorado. Situated on a horseshoe bend in the highway, there wasn’t much more than the main street, but the way that street settled into a majestic crag in the mountains went a long way toward explaining why summer homes had sprung up all along the valley. That and the fact that the Rio Grande was prime fishing water.
There was big money here. Discreet money. A far cry from the town’s heyday as a rip-roaring boomtown, but no less important to its survival. Gabe drew in a cold, cleansing breath. Winter was in the air, but hadn’t come yet, the aspens still decorated with gold.
The streets were fairly deserted—tourist season was on the wane. Some of the shops had already closed for the winter. It gave the street a desolate feeling, as if it didn’t really exist. Gabe swallowed a laugh. He’d gone poetic.
“We’re almost there.” Madison pointed toward an open parking area between two buildings. “The one on the left should be the courthouse, and according to this map, the sheriff’s office is just beyond that.”
They’d flown into Alamosa a couple of hours ago, rented the Jeep, and had been on the road ever since. Between red-eye flying, jet lag and the tension emanating from the woman next to him, it had been a hell of a ride. A sort of pleasurable pain. He liked to keep his edges sharp, and Madison Harper, it turned out, was the perfect hone.
He pulled the Jeep into the parking lot, and without farther conversation they got out and walked back to the main sidewalk. The sheriff’s office looked more like a house than a public building, but the truck out front was clearly marked and the man getting out of it was unmistakably the law.
“Gabriel Roarke?” The big man closed the distance between them quickly, already extending his hand. “Patrick Weston.”
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us.” Gabe shook the offered hand. “This is my associate, Madison Harper.”
“Not sure what I can give you that you don’t already know, but always glad to lend a helping hand.” The sheriff’s eyes crinkled at the corners. A lifetime spent laughing. Gabe wondered idly what that would feel like.
“We’ve read the report, of course,” Madison said, looking up at the sheriff as they walked. “But you know as well as I do that sometimes things are omitted.”
Weston nodded, his expression turning serious. “I take it you all are considering something more than an accident?”
“It’s possible,” Gabe said, not willing to reveal too much too soon.
The sheriff shrugged, leading them up the path to his office. Gabe put him somewhere between forty and forty-five. A career lawman, if he had to call it, with the rugged look of an outdoorsman.
“Did you know Mr. Stewart?” Madison asked, her brows drawn together as she studied the man.
“Everybody knows everybody up here. Or has heard about them.” Weston held the door open, then followed them into the office.
The room was a hell of a lot like every sheriff’s office in the country, right down to the smell of burned coffee. They followed Weston into a cramped space that served as his office, taking seats in the perfunctory metal chairs that were meant, no doubt, for guests and suspects alike.
“Alan Stewart was a good man.” Weston leaned back in his chair, tipping it to balance against the wall. “Gave a lot to this community, even though he was only a part-time resident.”
“Part-time?” Madison pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Gabe noted that Weston followed the motion with his eyes, his gaze appreciative. Not that he could blame the man.
“Yup.” He nodded. “Creede isn’t the most hospitable of places in the dead of winter. And without the draw of major ski runs, most of the population clears out at the end of October, leaving only a handful of full-timers until the spring thaw.”
“Did you actually see the body, Mr. Weston?” Madison looked up, her gaze searching, and the sheriff’s focus returned to matters at hand.
“Nope. I was over in Del Norte at a meeting. By the time I got back, everything had already been taken care of.”
“How do you mean?” Madison’s frown deepened.
“Alan’s death had been ruled an accident, and arrangements had been made to take his body home.”
“To Texas,” Gabe said. When not in Creede, Alan Stewart had m
ade his home in Austin.
“That’s right. Body was transported directly from their cabin. So I never saw it.”
“But you wrote a report.” Madison paused, her gaze meeting the sheriff’s. “Who gave you the information?”
“Got some of it from the widow, and the rest from Doc Martin. It was all pretty routine and my report was just for the record. We had no reason to believe there’d been any foul play.” Suspicion colored Weston’s formerly genial face. “Are you saying I did something wrong?”
“Not at all.” Gabe held up a conciliatory hand. “We’re just trying to understand what happened.”
The sheriff nodded, but his expression remained watchful.
“So who is this Doc Martin? A local physician?” Gabe asked, on a breath of frustration. They were getting nowhere fast.
“Nah.” Weston shook his head. “Another part-timer. From Oklahoma. Has a house out in Rio Grande estates.”
“Is he even a real doctor?” Madison’s frustration was apparent, mirroring his own.
“Hell, yeah.” The flicker of anger was back, but to his credit Weston held it in check. “A heart surgeon. Retired. Lives just upriver from the Stewarts.”
“I don’t suppose he’d happen to be out here,” Gabe threw out, even though he was already fairly certain of the answer. The crisp fall wind was enough to tell him that most residents had already closed their houses for the season.
Weston’s grin widened. “Well, now, seems in that you’ve got a bit of luck. The Martins are still here. Not due out ’til the end of the week.”
“You think he’d talk to us?”
“Don’t see why not.” Weston shrugged. “I can go with you if you’d like.”
* * *
“I still wake up at night and expect to find him next to me.” Alicia Dashal’s smile was melancholy and a bit apologetic, as if she wished she were made of stronger stuff.
Nigel exchanged glances with Payton, wishing he could get the hell out of there. Interviewing widows wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. He’d much prefer the Bolivian jungle.
“Where exactly did the accident happen?” Payton had morphed into the role with the ease of a chameleon, his tone the perfect blend of solicitude and authority. The bloody git should have been an actor.
“In his workshop.” The widow dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tissue, her carefully made-up face accentuated with a permanent smile, the effect of one too many plastic surgeries. “He liked to work with wood. It helped him clear his head.” Her smile was bitter. “Sometimes I think it was more about escaping all of this.” She waved her hand at the perfectly appointed living room, the Georgetown brownstone probably worth a small fortune.
“I think most men need a retreat,” Payton said, his words erasing the bitter expression from her face.
“Yes. I suppose they do.” She nodded, as if reassuring herself. “I was the one who found him, you know.”
“It must have been awful,” Payton said, his tone encouraging her to share with them.
Stupid woman. She’d opened her home without question to two strangers claiming to be insurance investigators without even asking for identification. Nigel shook his head and forced himself to focus on the conversation.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Jacob slumped over the workbench like that. He’d been using the saw.”
“An electric one?” Payton asked.
She nodded. “Circular, I think you call it.” She paused to blow her nose. “The paramedics said he died instantly. Some sort of power surge.”
“And you didn’t call the police?”
“There was no need.” Her eyes widened. “Was there?” The last was said on a whisper, almost as if she was afraid to voice the actual words.
“Probably not.” Nigel shook his head, trying to reassure the woman, knowing that he hadn’t accomplished the goal. He was not a man to suffer fools lightly and this woman represented everything he’d been brought up to despise. Too much money, too much time, and not the sense God gave a goose.
“We just need to cover all the bases.” Payton smiled. “You understand.”
“Of course.” The woman nodded, then frowned, something unpleasant occurring to her. “There won’t be any problem with the money…” She trailed off, her expression somewhere between alarm and embarrassment. Perish the thought that Alicia Dashal wouldn’t get even more money.
“I couldn’t say for certain at this point.” Nigel drew out the words, watching as she blanched, then feeling absurdly guilty, he put her out of her misery. “But let me hasten to add that we’ve no reason to believe there’ll be a problem.”
“There’s no need to worry, Mrs. Dashal.” Payton reached over to pat her hand. “Everything will be just fine. As I said, we’re just here to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. In fact, all that’s left is to see the workshop. Would you mind showing us?”
Her smile was genuine this time, if a bit water-logged. “Of course.” She stood up, tottering on high heels meant for a much younger woman, and led the way through the house into the back garden.
The enclosure was immaculate. Nigel couldn’t help wondering if there was staff waiting in the wings to dash out and catch a leaf should it dare fall from the tree. The shed in the corner had a derelict look, as if it had been dropped into the garden by mistake.
Mrs. Dashal opened the front door and motioned for them to enter. “I haven’t been in here since he died, you understand. It’s only been four months.” The tears appeared again, and Nigel tried to determine if they were driven by real emotion or were just a show for the two of them. “I just can’t face it. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Nigel assured her, relieved that they would be able to examine the shed on their own. She nodded once and turned for the house, and Nigel stepped across the threshold into the musty shadows of the shed.
Payton was standing by the workbench, his gaze encompassing the room. “She said he was using the circular saw, right?”
“Yes. Is that it on the workbench?” Nigel wasn’t big on tools. In truth he couldn’t tell a circular saw from a jigsaw.
“Looks like it.” Payton frowned reaching over to lift the saw up using a piece of scrap wood. “Based on the dust, I’d say no one has touched this thing since the accident.”
“Judging from the amount of corrosion I’d say it’s seen better days.”
Payton turned the saw slightly, examining the casing. “It’s vintage, actually. Which goes a long way toward explaining what happened.”
“Come again?” Nigel asked, feigning interest. What he really wanted was a drink. He’d done his bit for country and queen, and there was really nothing to do but wait it out. Preferably in the hotel bar.
“These things aren’t insulated like they should be. And judging from the rust, I’d say this shed isn’t exactly the ideal place to be operating electrical tools.” Payton shot a look at the rickety, rotting walls.
“So the poor sod was doomed from the start, eh?”
“Looks that way.” Payton nodded. “No GDI, no insulation. Combined with an old machine and I’d say electrocution was pretty much a forgone conclusion.” He bent over to look at something behind the workbench.
“So this has all been a bloody waste of time.” Nigel tried but couldn’t keep his temper in check.
“Maybe.” Payton reappeared holding the end of an extension cord. “And then again maybe not.” He held it out for Nigel’s inspection. “The ground pin is missing.”
Nigel frowned down at the plug end. “But doesn’t that happen a lot? I mean especially when the wall plug is two prong.”
“It’s possible,” Payton said, his tone preoccupied. He had picked up a screwdriver and removed the saw’s casing. “But not when you consider this.” He pointed to the end of the saw where the cord joined the base.
Nigel leaned over for a closer look. The wires emerging from the cord had clearly been cut and resoldered. A makeshift booby trap that, combined with th
e missing ground, had shocked Jacob Dashal quite literally to death.
* * *
The Martins’ cabin was more like a small resort. Complete with satellite TV, the two-story structure had a wraparound porch and a two-car garage. Situated among a stand of spruce on a spit of land that dropped down to the Rio Grande, the property was worth a small fortune.
Peace and tranquility, it seemed, always came at a price.
Still, as retreats went, this one was first-rate. Christened Lands End by a signpost at the head of the driveway, it was a beautiful place, and despite Gabriel’s presence and their reason for being here, Madison closed her eyes and let the rustle of the trees and the whisper of the river soothe her.
Gabriel must have noticed her withdrawal, because she felt his hand on her elbow, urging her forward. She opened her eyes, and with a sigh, moved on, patently ignoring the touch of his fingers against her skin.
A tall man Madison guessed was in his late sixties stepped down from the porch, outfitted in waders and fishing vest. He lifted his hand in welcome. Sheriff Patrick Weston had obviously reached him.
Although they had declined the sheriff’s offer to accompany them, he’d insisted on calling Ronald Martin to let him know they were coming, much to Gabriel’s chagrin. The man obviously preferred popping in on everyone unannounced. She shot Gabriel a look, managing at the same time to disengage her elbow.
“I’m guessing you’re the folks from New York?” Dr. Martin’s voice still held the command of his profession, his bushy eyebrows rising in tandem, the combined effect off-putting. “My wife just got off the phone with Weston.” There was a hint of rebuke in his voice.
So much for the sheriff paving the way.
“We’ve got some questions about Alan Stewart’s death.” Gabriel as usual took control of the situation, and Madison stifled a surge of irritation. “Sheriff Weston thought you might be able to help.”
Martin studied Gabriel for a moment and then, with a nod, motioned to some Adirondack chairs on the deck. “Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll talk out here?” They followed him up onto the porch. “Virginia doesn’t allow me in the house in my gear.”
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