by Lakota Grace
Silver yawned. She entered the walk-in closet and surveyed its contents. Each shirt was hung neatly, graduated by color. Half a dozen pair of shoes formed a precise line on the floor.
The order and predictability triggered something in the girl. She was tired of picking up after others—maybe it was their turn. She yanked shirts and pants off the rack and dropped them in a heap on the floor. Then she dumped the shoes on top, forming a colorful free-form design. She looked at her work of art and stirred the heap with one toe, rearranging one pink shirt.
What guy wears pink? For that matter, what girl wears pink, either? Silver was more into orange and neon green. They went with the raspberry and purple highlights she liked to put in her hair.
There was one last shirt on a hanger, a well-ironed white long sleeve. Stripping her clothes, Silver stood naked in the doorway and slipped it on. She buttoned two buttons and then unbuttoned the top one.
Heaving a sigh, she dropped into bed beside the snoring man, but not before carefully undoing his belt and unzipping him. Then she turned her back and snuggled her head into the down pillow.
Let the man unwrap his package in the morning. She was done.
Rory’s Dilemma
~ 23 ~
Rory
Rory woke with a pounding headache. The sun glared into his eyes and he froze when he discovered he was not alone in his bed. He listened to the whispering breath beside him. What the hell?
He turned cautiously. Propped on his elbow he surveyed the sleeping woman in his bed. The shirt looked familiar, and the girl, too. He remembered that silver hair, but now the face was relaxed from its constant alertness into a more innocent pose. Gorgeous! The girl of his dreams, the one he’d gone hiking with on Bell Rock.
He felt his own body. Fully clothed. Toes wiggled in boots, shirt still in place. Maybe nothing happened? Then Rory felt his midsection, belt undone and zipper open.
Damn! He'd tied one on before but never had gotten to a blackout stage. After stopping for a drink at PJs, things went blank. How had she found him there?
He hoped he'd enjoyed last night. Hoped she had, too. He regretted the unremembered experiences.
He needed to find out who he’d been sleeping with. Carefully he slid out of bed and zipped himself up. He went to the closet to get a fresh shirt and surveyed the mess of clothes on the floor. The hair on his neck rose.
She didn't have to do that. It would take him all morning to straighten stuff again. Alarmed, he checked the gun safe. No, everything still there. There was that, anyway.
He leaned over, unlaced his boots and set them in a neat row of two. He'd re-arrange the rest later after she left. And gorgeous or not, she was leaving.
He padded barefoot into the living room and spotted her daypack. Quietly he unzipped the main section. He felt through the clothes and underwear.
His hand brushed a cellophane baggie and drew it out. Marijuana? He wasn't surprised; she seemed the type. He set it aside. He wasn’t a cop here in his own home, and besides, the drug was on its way to becoming legal in Arizona.
Where was the ID? She’d called herself Silver, but he assumed that was an alias. He closed that backpack section and opened the top compartment. Still no ID, but he pulled out several worn paperbacks.
Below them, he found a K-Bar knife, with a finely wrought blue handle, similar to the one the suicide, Andy Fisher, had carried. What was this girl doing with an identical weapon?
“Hey! Put that back! What are you doing with my things?”
Her voice was rigid with outrage, and Rory hastily rose from his crouch on the floor. Before him stood a fully clothed Valkyrie. While he’d been investigating, she’d gotten dressed.
“Once a cop, always a cop,” she sneered. “I might have known.”
“Sorry. I was just—”
“What you were just doing was going through my things like a common thief.”
Her voice was angry, but there was hurt there as well. She grabbed the daypack away from him.
Rory struggled to think, his head throbbing with pain. So maybe he was in the wrong, but he still needed to know.
“What are you doing with this knife?”
She pushed back the hair from her eyes and glared at him. “My brother gave it to me. It’s the last gift I ever got from him before he had that plane crash, and now he’s dead and you, you—you’re touching his things!”
Rory tried to feel remorse, but the rational side of him asked, “What’s your real name? And how did you get here in my house?”
“My name is Silver Delaney, and I drove you home last night since you were too drunk to drive yourself, and this is the thanks you give me.”
With each word, she jammed another item into her daypack.
“Sorry,” Rory mumbled.
“Sorry won’t cut it. You had your chance, and you blew it.”
He reached out to touch her, to apologize.
She jerked back, on sudden alert.
“Put your damn shoes on and drive me to Sedona,” she ordered.
With that, she grabbed the keys off the front table and stomped out the door. “I'll be waiting for you in the car.” She flung the words over her shoulder.
Rory lurched into the bedroom. He peered at the white shirt flung on the bed. Missed opportunities, the story of his life. Regretfully, he dug two matching shoes out of the closet pile and laced them up.
Rory and Silver didn’t speak on the way to the Village of Oak Creek. He tried to start a conversation once, but she gave him a silent stare and returned to gazing out the window.
“Stop here,” she ordered as they neared Sedona.
Rory pulled over to the side of the road and Silver unbuckled her seatbelt.
“Don’t come looking for me, again, ever.” She poked a finger at his chest. “And you aren't even that good a lover. What a loser!”
She hitched the daypack to one rigid shoulder and stalked off.
Rory felt scruffy and hung over from his night out. He wanted to sneak in the sheriff’s department dressing room and stand in the shower for a long time. But as he opened the locker room door, someone spun him around.
“You look like hell,” Chas Doon blasted in his ear. “I hope you got something good for the tomcatting that you did.”
Chas pushed Rory inside the locker room.
“Robbyn Fisher is waiting for us. She says she knows where the murder weapon is.” He wrinkled his nose. “And take a shower first. You smell like a dead fish.”
Robbyn Has a Plan
~ 24 ~
Rory
The minute that Rory Stevens entered the interview room, Robbyn Fisher jumped to her feet and grasped his hand in both of hers. She was dressed in a rose-colored linen suit, with a beige silk blouse.
For an instant, Rory flashed back to his fight with the girl in his home that morning, and his own white shirt with the buttons undone. How ravishing, and how totally unattainable at this point. With an effort, he focused on the woman in front of him.
Robbyn's lower lip quivered. “Thank goodness you're here. I came in to correct something I'd told you, and I was fingerprinted. As though I was a common criminal.”
Her voice held horror at being introduced to a world she'd never known before.
Rory removed himself from her frantic grasp, patted her hand, and escorted her to a chair.
The department was relatively new, but these seats must have been WWII surplus. Or maybe there was a supply house that dealt in nothing but puke green-Naugahyde interview chairs. Rory wouldn't be surprised. If an interrogation was built on intimidation, these chairs added the low notes.
“That's standard procedure,” Rory explained. “To eliminate you as a suspect in the burglary.”
“If you’re innocent, that is.” Chas Doon's nasal twang shot from the corner where he'd moved when he and Rory entered the room.
So Chas had switched from protecting the widow because his political friends asked him to, to considering her a
suspect. Nice that he’d let Rory know the change of heart.
Chas’s lack of tea-and-sympathy was renown in the station. Rory slid into the good cop role, one that he usually played when operating with his partner.
“Can I get you something to drink, Robbyn? We’ve got coffee, coke, water,” he said.
“A glass of water would be nice, thank you,” she said primly.
“We'll get to that in a minute,” Chas said. “First, tell Stevens what you told me.”
Rory was still smarting from Doon's comments before he entered the room, and he did what he normally wouldn't have done. He countered his partner’s dictates.
“Won't take a moment. Anything for you, Chas?”
The man tightened his lips and shook his head sharply, the contradiction noted. Rory would pay, later.
Rory took his time returning from the lunchroom with a frosty soda for himself and a tall glass of ice water for Robbyn. She took it gratefully and sipped like a lady.
Doon glared at Rory and then focused attention on Robbyn. “You ready to start now?”
“Name and address, please for the record.” Then he interrupted her before she could respond.
“Just a minute, now. Let me get this recorder set up.”
Robbyn shot a frightened look at Rory.
“Do I have to do this?” she asked. “I gave this information when the patrolman came and found—found my husband.”
Rory reached over and touched her hand once more, the good cop.
“It’s routine.”
“For the record, Detective Stevens just patted the interviewee's hand.” Chas shot a triumphant glance at Rory, clearly signaling he damn well better not do it again.
Fair enough. Rory slid back in his seat and folded his arms. Let Doon handle it from now on, see how far he got.
Robbyn darted a nervous look at him and then stated her name and address.
Rory held her glance for a moment and then stared at the camera in the corner of the room. He folded his hands in front of him, the picture of ease and neutrality.
“Proceed,” Chas Doon ordered.
“Well, as I was telling you, my husband did have a gun, and now it's gone.”
Rory jerked upright in his chair. “Why didn't you tell me this when we were at your house?”
“I was so shocked and upset at Henry's death that I forgot.”
A lie or the truth? Or a portion of both? Witnesses sometimes got it wrong the first time around. Rory was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
But Chas wasn't letting her off the hook that fast.
“You forgot,” he sneered. “Now that you've conveniently remembered, maybe you'd like to tell us what kind of gun it was?”
She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and rattled off the make, model, and serial number.
“And you forget your husband had a gun, and now you remember all this?”
Chas's voice sounded disbelieving and Rory approved. Stage it right and suspects betrayed themselves by concocting a web of lies that a skilled interviewer could dissemble at will.
“Henry got it at a gun show in Las Vegas we went to last year,” Robbyn said. “Well, he went. I visited the discount shops instead.”
“Shopping.” Chas's tone showed disdain for her response. “Not gambling?”
“I never gamble,” Robbyn said.
Rory stirred. This was getting nowhere. Baiting the witness.
“And the reason you came to us now is what, other than remembering?” he asked, making his voice good-cop friendly.
“Well, my daddy told me never to lie, and I didn't really, but there's something I left out.”
“And what would that be?” Rory let his tone slide into the soothing register.
“That's what I'm getting to if Officer Doon will let me.”
Chas gave a wave of his hand.
“I panicked when I remembered Henry’s gun. I feared the police would blame me for my husband's death. I told him a million times not to keep it in his nightstand where poor Henry, Jr., might find it.”
She pulled a delicate hanky out of her pocket and patted her nose. “So after I found Henry, I checked the drawer where he kept his gun.”
“And it was missing,” Rory said.
“No it was there, but then I handled it and I was afraid they’d find my fingerprints.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Just like you did now, and then you'd think I was involved with Henry's death.”
“Were you?” Rory asked.
“Of course not. I loved my husband.”
“Loved him how much?” Chas asked. “You're what, twenty years younger than he was. Did he make a boring lover? Did you have something going on the side? Say with that trainer you saw at the gym?”
His voice got louder as he spun his own possible version of the story.
Rory's stomach tightened. No reason to malign the woman's character. She came to them, not the other way around.
“You told me you were having financial difficulties,” Rory interjected, changing the topic abruptly.
“We were,” she said.
“Then why, when I visited with your bookkeeper, did she mention off-shore bank accounts? Were you intending to put an elderly husband out of the way, to gain access to the funds he denied having?”
Robbyn's face reddened, and her lips compressed. “I didn't kill my husband. I couldn't. He was a kind, decent man.”
“A kind, decent man who hid family money from you,” Chas said, picking up on Rory’s cue. “In fact, funds you were entitled to. If it was me, I'd want to get even.”
Rory watched closely as Chas tightened the interview. Robbyn was hiding something behind her protestations of innocence. Then he had it.
“Where's this gun now?” Rory asked.
“I gave it away.”
“You gave it away.” Chas's voice rose in disbelief. “You gave away a gun worth hundreds of dollars.” He tapped the registration sheet in proof.
“Who you give it to?” Rory asked.
He and Chas were working as a team, two against one. It felt good, smooth, like detective work ought to.
Robbyn looked from Rory to Chas and back to Rory again, suddenly aware, it seemed, of the tag-team that they represented. She folded her arms across her chest.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Now, we can get you a lawyer, right away, that's for sure. But first.” Chas slid into the next phase of questioning.
Rory approved the tactic. Always stall on getting the lawyers involved whenever possible. There was still information they needed before letting Robbyn speak to an attorney who was aware of how the system worked.
This lady knew something. If they could locate the gun, maybe they'd find the killer. Or implicate another person on a murder-for-hire.
“Who you give the gun to?” Chas demanded.
“I met this girl at the coffee shop. She was so nice. She offered to get rid of it for me.”
“A girl,” Chas repeated. “What's her name?”
“I don't think she ever gave it to me.”
“Right. You give away an expensive gun to somebody you don't even know the name of,” Chas said.
“Wait a minute.” Robbyn closed her eyes and rubbed the lids with both hands. “I remember the name she gave to the barista. It was Annie.” She looked up triumphantly. “Annie has Henry’s 45 revolver. She can confirm my story.”
Chas shoved back his chair and rose.
“I've had enough of these lies. You cold-bloodedly killed your husband with his own gun, and then you disposed of it. You killed your husband !”
He was shouting now, looming over Robbyn.
She shrunk away from him, and Rory saw the desperation in her face. She reached into her handbag, and Rory froze. He caught her arm. If there was a weapon in there, they didn't have a chance. Surely they checked the bag when she arrived.
Robbyn jerked away and dug deep into her purse. Then she waved a cafe napkin in the air. “Here. Here'
s her phone number. I can call her.”
“And say what? Oh, pu-lease, kind person, return that valuable gun that I gave you.” Chas's tone was mocking.
“I’ll ask her to meet me, say I've found out my husband was rich. I’ll offer her a finder’s fee. You said Henry had money stashed away.”
Robbyn's voice blurred with anxiety, as she tried to convince the two men. “I’m innocent!”
“Stevens. Out in the hall.” Chas grabbed the napkin and headed out the door.
“You wait here,” he ordered Robbyn.
She crossed her ankles, folded her hands in her lap, and sat back in the chair, ready to obey without question now that her case was made.
Chas slammed the door behind them and stood tapping the napkin against the doorjamb, undecided.
“What do you think, Stevens? She lying?”
Rory shrugged. “Probably. But what do we have to lose? An hour or two? See if her scheme can roust another suspect. Worth the effort.”
Chas clasped Rory on the shoulder.
“Got to hand it to you, partner. I thought you were losing it in there. That lack of respect you showed me, all play acting, right?”
“A subterfuge,” Rory assured him.
“A what? Never mind. We're on the ten-yard line. Time for the winning goal.” Chas spun on his heel and returned to the interview room.
“Okay, little lady, you're on. Make your phone call and let's go see this witness of yours.”
Robbyn brightened. “Do I get to wear a wire?”
The Sand Trap
~ 25 ~
Silver
After Rory had dropped her off in the Village of Oak Creek, Silver scouted new sleeping digs. She had to use a lock-pick to get into a vacant condo near the golf course, never her favorite task.
But once inside, she found a spare key in the kitchen junk drawer. She was set for the evening. Time to scrounge for money. Maybe go hiking up to the vortex on Bell Rock again. That had proved good hunting grounds before. She left her daypack in the garage in case anyone visited the condo in her absence and headed out.
