by Holmes, Dee
“Like a relationship.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. How about friendship?”
She lowered her head.
“How about friendship because we live in the same apartment building and it’s kind of nice to speak to a neighbor without getting uptight.”
When she took a deep breath, he said, “How about this. I promise to keep my hands in my pockets, my zipper zipped and my thoughts chaste and purse.”
“You’re making this very hard for me.”
“Is that a no?”
“Look, if this were any other time, and if my life weren’t so—”
“Yeah, I know, complicated.” He straightened, looking weary and ready to leave it where it was, which was no place. “Well, I guess that does it, then. Thanks again for rescuing my daughter. See you around.” And with that he walked toward a black Explorer and climbed inside.
Kathleen got into her own car, started the engine and slowly drove out of the lot.
She should be pleased. She’d gotten rid of him. He’d probably never do any more than nod if he should see her. But she didn’t feel relieved or pleased—she felt sad and angry that she couldn’t let herself accept a simple offer of friendship. But he was a cop. Dammit, Booth, why couldn’t you have been a plumber?
But he was the police, and at this point, that made him her sworn enemy.
Better to be sad than have him arrest her and return her to Rodeo. Better to be angry than go to prison for a murder she didn’t commit.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN the ROADKILL Café, a dimly lit saloon on the eastern border of Wyoming, two men sat opposite each other in a red vinyl booth that had darkened to maroon with age. One drank expensive whiskey. The other nursed a bottle of beer. Reba McEntire sang from the jukebox, and a couple slow-danced in the middle of a scuffed dance floor.
The whiskey drinker was a small man with carbon black eyes behind wraparound sunglasses. He wore a mocha-colored silk suit, white shirt and a butter yellow tie decorated with tiny sunflowers. He hardly fit in with the cowboy-country locals, but that didn’t matter. Wherever he went, he was greeted with deference and a degree of fear. He’d brought a bonanza of cash into the local economy, and anyone who asked too many questions conveniently disappeared. No one knew his real name—he was known as “The Rainmaker,” but he answered to the name “Mr. Smith.” He got a kick out of using the phony moniker, a ploy that more than once had been taken as a bad joke, but the Rainmaker always had the last laugh.
He’d arrived in Wyoming about a year ago driving a Mercedes, and escorting a movie star from Mexico known for her nude scenes and touchy temperament. She also had a heroin habit that the Rainmaker had quietly exploited to his own advantage for the past six months. He’d supplied her habit and given financial support to her love child; in return, she’d opened some previously closed doors to the higher echelon of drug traffickers.
The Rainmaker wanted to import on a daily basis; the traffickers wanted new outlets and airstrip access to the U.S. A deal had been struck and would be finalized when the Rainmaker found the required conduit into the United States. Establishing that connection would cost him time and money. He needed more than an inconspicuous chunk of land large enough to set a plane down. What he required was far dicier; he and the cartel needed mutual assurance that the drug-moving operation had protection.
The Rainmaker knew the best protectors were the police. He’d used his vast contacts to search out cops who would, for the right amount of cash, take a bribe. Plus, he’d wanted guaranteed leverage to keep them in his pocket once he had them there. What was necessary were greedy cops with messy private lives, and a department in a financial crunch. He’d ended his search in a flat dusty town that still had hitching posts in front of the sheriff’s office. Rodeo, Wyoming’s sheriff, Buck Faswell, and his deputy sheriff, Steve Hanes, had welcomed the Rainmaker and his endless stream of cash with the enthusiasm of two johns cruising through a bonanza of first-time whores. But then Hanes had gotten too drunk and too talkative.
“I trust that Mr. Hanes had a proper funeral,” the Rainmaker said now to the man seated across from him. He dabbed at his mouth with a linen handkerchief.
The beer drinker, known as Pony, wore a once-white Harley T-shirt with sleeves rolled up to display a tattoo and impressive biceps. His jeans were as grimy as the gum stuck on the underside of the table. But on his feet were brand-new lizard boots. Those brought him whistles from the bartender and a broad wink from the busty waitress. A Chicago Cubs baseball cap was pulled low to shield his eyes—eyes that had witnessed more than a few gruesome murders without flinching.
He wiped the beer foam from his mouth with a beefy forearm, then lit a cigarette. “Yep, the town did itself proud. Flowers and a grave marker that makes old Stevie look better croaked than he did when he was breathin’.”
“Good. And his parents? Are they getting past this?”
“His old lady is still weepin’ and wailin’, but the money made his old man smile.”
“Yes, he thanked me for handling the funeral expenses, and the goodwill money for him and his wife.”
“You’re too good, Mr. Smith. Waving a couple hundred-dollar bills under old Roger Hanes’s nose will make him do more tricks than a trail dog eyein’ a big slab of pork ribs.”
“That will be enough, Pony. The man lost his son. He deserves some compensation. What is the status of Rodeo now?” Implicit in his question was the state of the sheriffs office.
“Uh, things have quieted down. Sheriff is looking for someone to take Hanes’s place.”
“An arrest yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, sir, she seems to have disappeared.”
“‘Seems to’?” The Rainmaker focused on Pony with a probing intensity. “Either the cops know where she is or they don’t.”
“They don’t.”
“And you? You work for me. You don’t need to follow rules.”
“Yes, sir. But me and the boys, we ain’t had no luck, either.” Pony’s cigarette burned his fingers and he put it out, then leaned back as if expecting a palm across his cheek.
The Rainmaker sighed heavily. Pony was an idiot, which was what the Rainmaker got when he let his soft heart rule his good sense. If it weren’t for his old partner being near death and the Rainmaker wanting to give his idiot nephew a chance... He sighed again. “What about her father? Her brothers?”
“They haven’t seen her. Her old man said he hasn’t talked to her in years. Not since his old lady took off with her when Kathleen was a kid. One brother is workin’ on the farm, and the other one blew the place and took off for the bright lights of L.A. a few years ago. Last anyone heard, he had a boyfriend and a job doin’ dog-food commercials.”
The Rainmaker had taken out a leather notebook and made some notations. “The brother in California. That would be Clarke?”
“Yes, sir.” Pony began to relax. He added a street address, and the Rainmaker jotted it down.
“Her friends?”
“Not many. Rose over at the general store, and a cripple the locals call Beethoven. He runs a music store. Talked to both of them and they don’t know nothin’.”
“Perhaps they simply don’t know that they have information.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t ask the right questions.” He made another notation. “Has this young woman had a lot of experience eluding either the police or the Mob?”
Pony blinked, looking confused by the question, then grinned. “Hey, that’s funny, Mr. Smith. She’s a broad, and we all know what they got a lot of experience at, don’t we?”
The Rainmaker didn’t smile. He closed the notebook, slipped it inside his jacket, then leaned forward, his voice dropping. “It appears that we have a bright young fugitive and a bunch of half-assed hunters who wouldn’t know they were in a closet full of rattlers unless someone turned on the lights.”
Pony shrank dow
n in the booth. “Yes, sir.”
“And since you can’t find her, we have to assume she knows she’s being hunted and therefore is hiding.”
“But, sir—”
“And since the police want to arrest her for icing Hanes, then they are in the position to notify other departments across the country—I believe it’s called an all-points bulletin?”
Even Pony didn’t miss the sarcasm. “Yes, sir, they did that, but it’s not like every cop in the country is focused on one broad who offed her old man. I mean, jeez, that happens about twenty times a day. Unless she does something that gets the attention of some cop—you know like a speeding ticket or an accident or gettin’ hauled in on a DWI—” He ran out of breath, took one and finished, “You know, somethin’ where they would have a reason to run a check on her. Otherwise, it’s tough.”
“Pardon me?”
Pony leaned forward and spoke a bit louder, as if the Rainmaker were getting deaf. “I said, it’s tough. It’s a big country, and she could be anywhere. Then again, I mean, hell, what’s the big rush? I mean, she don’t know nothin’. She was gone before Hanes got whacked. I mean, she might not even know she’s wanted. We got lucky when she left him the same day the murder was planned. What with him knockin’ her around all the time, it was choice timing. And with her history of phonin’ up those abuse counselors and then goin’ back to Hanes to try again, she had a perfect motive. Perfect timing, if you ask me.”
The Rainmaker brought his tassel loafer down on Pony’s lizard boot and moved his foot in a grinding motion. Pony stiffened, his head popping up like a jack-in-the-box, his eyes bulging circles of pain.
In a perfectly modulated voice that would have chilled a polar bear, the Rainmaker replied, “I don’t want to hear ‘tough’ or ‘hard’ or ‘freaking impossible.’ I don’t want to hear about ‘choice timing.’ I want to hear she’s been arrested and charged and is doing time for murder. You got it? You think she doesn’t know she’s wanted? You’re a bigger idiot than your sheriff who swore no roadblocks were needed on the secondary roads. She knows she’s being hunted for one simple reason—no one has heard from her, and she’s makin’ damn sure no one does. It’s called brains, and unfortunately hers are in her head, whereas yours are not.”
Pony’s wince grew to a moan as the pressure on his foot increased.
“But,” said the Rainmaker, “running gets tiresome, and having no friends gets lonely. The longer she’s out there, free and desperate and lonely, the bigger the chance she’ll get herself a new best friend who’ll tell her to get an investigator on the ease—and then we’re looking at some potential problems. I, for one, don’t intend to be a target for some flat-footed, rumpled P.I. trying to be a hero.”
Pony hadn’t moved since the Rainmaker had begun talking. He swallowed now, but the pain in his foot had moved all the way up his leg.
The Rainmaker pushed his loafer harder.
“Mr. S-Smith, p-please.” Beads of sweat dotted Pony’s forehead and upper lip.
“You’re understanding the problem?”
“Y-yes, s-sir.”
“And it will be taken care of swiftly with no excuses?”
“Y-y-yes. S-s-sir.”
“Good.” The Rainmaker lifted his shoe and Pony collapsed in relief against the back of the booth.
Standing, the Rainmaker adjusted his dark glasses. “I want a progress report with more on it than the sweat on your upper lip. I’ll be in touch, and I suggest that all your news be exactly what I want to hear.”
He walked to the door, pressing a fifty-dollar bill into the hand of the waitress, who grinned widely. The bartender waved goodbye, shouting, “Always good to see you, Mr. Smith.”
Pony sat as still as a dead man until he saw the Mercedes pull away from the building. Only then did he reach down to rub at the permanent scuff mark on his brand-new boot.
Six DAYS AFTER her encounter with Booth at the Silver Lining, Kathleen sat cross-legged and barefoot in the middle of her double bed. Above her a ceiling fan moved the hot sticky July air in circles around her. She’d opened all the windows after she’d come home from getting her mail, then stripped out of her clothes and put on shorts and a loose cotton blouse. Beside her on the bedside table was a tall glass of iced tea and the portable phone. Scattered in front of her were articles that she’d poured from a large manila envelope. She sorted them by date, looking for some pattern or repetition of information. Like a clue-starved detective, she’d spent the past two hours reading, rereading, analyzing, searching the copies of articles from Wyoming newspapers for some hint of who killed Steve.
She’d concluded that she was being framed in order to get someone off the hook. Either Steve’s death had been an encounter that had turned violent, or it had been a very deliberate murder. But why? There was no mention in the clippings of Cory and the sheriff being at the house when the body was found—only that Cory had called in to report the murder. Maybe it was an unimportant detail, but to Kathleen it loomed like a missing piece of the puzzle.
Kathleen sighed. What did it matter? All this information only raised more questions and offered no solutions, nor any possibility that the police were searching for anyone but her. That troubled her deeply. They had tried and convicted her—but based on what? The fact that she was an abused wife and the assumption that she’d retaliated?
She picked up the phone, held it against her chest for a few seconds while she took deep breaths. Then, before she changed her mind, she pushed the buttons for a long distance number.
It rang and rang, and was finally picked up by a man with a Spanish accent.
“Is Clarke there?”
“Uno momento, señorita.”
She waited, reaching for the paper that detailed events following Steve’s death.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
“Clarke?”
“Kat?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a minute. I want to get some privacy here.” She heard music and laughter and then a door closing. “A bunch of people are here celebrating with me. I got a part in a new movie project that promises to be a blockbuster.”
“Oh, Clarke, that’s wonderful. Maybe this is the big break you’ve been waiting for. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I expected to be saying that to you about your music, but that was before—”
Kathleen thought of her piano still in storage in Wyoming. Just this morning, she’d seen an old Baldwin in a used-furniture store. Her mother had given lessons on a Baldwin, and Kathleen’s best memories of her were of when she had been playing her favorite classical pieces. Kathleen had stood staring at the instrument for so long that the owner, thinking a sale was imminent, had asked if she would like to try it out. The keys were yellow, it was out of tune and two of the ivories were missing, but for a few moments none of that had mattered. She was once again twelve years old, and playing “Greensleeves” while her mother predicted that someday she would play for the world. The whole “world” was a bit ambitious, but the “someday” was definitely doable.
Someday, she thought now with a grimace, when she didn’t have to worry about being arrested for murder.
To Clarke, she said, “Sorry. Just having a flashback.”
“It’s okay.”
“I got the envelope.” Kathleen had taken a post-office box in a town a few miles north of Crosby. She’d only been to the Crosby post office three times, and already the postal worker remembered her. Kathleen didn’t want to take any chances of being recalled as “that woman who got big envelopes from California.” The town north of Crosby, although not a huge metropolis, was much larger, and she felt less visible.
“Tim got it all off the Internet,” Clarke told her. “I didn’t want to subscribe to local Wyoming newspapers or ask for back issues. This way, no one will find it curious and start asking me questions.”
“Has anyone contacted you about me?”
“I haven’t seen anyone. No one has called.”
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For some reason that didn’t relieve her.
“Have you talked to Dad and Gary?”
“Yeah,” he replied in disgust. “Long enough to be called a fag, a queer and a pervert.”
“Oh, Clarke, I’m sorry.”
“It was nothing they didn’t say to my face before I left. Not my problem to deal with. It’s theirs.” He laughed self-consciously. “So how closely did you read the accounts? I mean, did you notice how vague the details were about Steve’s murder? No exact time of death, no other suspects even considered, and someone telling the sheriff that they saw you driving away like a bat out of hell.”
The article he referred to was one she’d read and reread. She, too, had wondered who the someone was. She hadn’t wasted any time leaving, but if someone had seen her drive away the first time, would that give her an alibi? She doubted anyone had seen her when she returned to the house.
“Steve and I had argued so I left in a hurry.” She didn’t tell Clarke about going back. Then she’d have to admit that she’d known Steve was dead, and had seen his body and overheard the police. It just raised too many questions in her own mind, and the less Clarke knew, the less responsibility he’d have, should she be found and arrested. “What are you getting at?”
“You told me Steve waved his gun at you and threatened to kill you if you left him.”
“He did.”
“But you did leave. And you’re alive and he’s dead. What happened?”
Kathleen heard the accusatory tone and reminded herself that if her own brother had questions, she could expect a lot more suspicion from those who didn’t know her.
To Clarke, she said, “He’d also been drinking, and that always made him nasty. I tried to stay calm and reasonable, but he was out of control. He threatened to shoot the tires of the car, so I drove off very fast, making a huge swell of dust so he couldn’t see me. And it gave me the momentum to get away. The last time I saw him, he was standing there with his revolver in one hand and the whiskey bottle in the other.”
