by Debbie Burke
Tillman knew she couldn’t pull off a lie. He’d ordered her to tell the truth and she had.
But, God, how it hurt.
Esther shook her head. “Embezzlement isn’t enough reason to kill. Tillman was compiling evidence against Steve so he could go to the bar, the Attorney General, and the U.S. Attorney. He wanted to disgrace him, get him disbarred, not kill him. I don’t buy it.”
Tawny had been holding back the personal angle but now that seemed pointless. It would all come out soon in the arraignment. She rose from squatting and faced Esther. “It’s worse than embezzlement. Steve got Mimi pregnant.”
“Aw, shit.” Esther pulled deep on the cigarette then stubbed it out with such force, the filter broke off. “That sucks.”
“Did you know Steve and Rochelle were having an affair?”
Esther grimaced. “Been going on quite a few years. Steve would get these phone calls and, all of sudden, he’d disappear. I’m stuck having to pacify some pissed-off client because he’s a no-show. Got sick of it. Finally I told him to quit scheduling his quickies when he had appointments.”
“How’d you know it was Rochelle?”
She pulled a sour face. “The kids would call Tillman to pick them up because Rochelle couldn’t. Always happened when Steve was off on his so-called emergencies. I’d seen the two of them together. Didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out.” She pulled another cigarette from the pack, stared at it, then broke it in half and threw it in the ashtray. “Poor Tillman. Wife and partner are stabbing him in the back, partner’s a thief and screws his daughter. That’d be enough to make the Dalai Lama kill Steve.”
Concern clenched Tawny’s throat. “For God’s sake, don’t say that.”
“Aw hell, girlfriend, this is just you and me talking. I don’t blame Tillman for one minute. He’s got every reason to throttle the little prick.”
Frustration welled inside Tawny. “You sound like he’s already convicted!”
Esther’s eyes widened at Tawny’s vehemence. “I’m just sayin’, it’s understandable.”
Tawny paced in front of the desk, too agitated to stand still. “Are the cops looking at any other suspects?”
Esther snorted. “You mean, like Rochelle? I’d hate to get on her bad side.”
“Exactly. Why isn’t she a suspect too? She has as much motive, if not more than Tillman does.” Tawny pondered. “You said Eve Landes is supposed to be such a star. Why isn’t she bringing up other people who might’ve killed Steve?”
Esther shrugged. “If she is, we don’t know about it.”
“Well, dammit, if she doesn’t, I will.” Tawny strode to the staircase and gripped the newel post cap. “Steve had enemies—bad-ass clients that threatened him and Tillman. Someone’s been following Tillman. Steve was supposed to be investigating that. What if the tail killed Steve?”
She made more nervous passes up and down the length of the office. “What about those guys that tried to abduct the kids and me? What if Steve was behind the kidnapping and got crosswise with them? One of them’s dead. Maybe Steve killed him and the partner killed Steve.”
Esther shook her head. “You’re making me dizzy with all these suspects. Anyway, what can we do to track down any of this?”
Tawny pulled on her braid. “Have the cops confiscated Steve’s records?”
“No. They’ll have to get a warrant and appoint a watchdog overseer to preserve attorney-client privilege.”
“We’re employees, right? Researching records is our job.”
Esther squinted. “Ye-ah?”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s start digging before someone tells us we can’t.”
Fresh hope flickered in Esther’s eyes. “OK!”
****
For the next hour, Tawny pored through Steve’s computer and paper files, looking for disgruntled clients, snitches, anyone who could have been gunning for Steve.
Esther appeared at the office door with a business card. “I’ve been calling private investigators the firm uses. You’ll want to talk to this guy, Lou.”
Tawny tapped his number, introduced herself, and told him the situation.
“About three weeks ago,” Lou said, “Tillman gave me a license plate he’d snapped with his cell. I tracked the owner down and called the office to report. Tillman was in court so I talked to Steve instead. He said don’t bother Tillman, that Steve would pass along the info to him. I emailed him the owner’s home address and that’s the last I heard.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hang on, let me check. OK, here it is, Frank Grand. Served two years in state prison at Deer Lodge for cyber-fraud. Been out a year. Tech guru. When he first got out, he worked at the Electronics Emporium for six months but got fired when inventory went missing. They couldn’t catch him on security cams but, every shift he worked, some expensive gadget would disappear. IPhones, GoPros, drones, stuff like that.”
Tawny jerked upright in the chair. “Drones?” Her memory clicked faster. The Electronics Emporium was where she and Tillman had picked up Judah’s gift—the drone that had later been shot down.
Was it possible Tillman had crossed paths with Frank Grand while the man was still working there? Could Grand be the second kidnapper who’d disabled the security system?
“Was Grand ever a client of Tillman’s or Steve’s?”
“Not that I know of.”
Tawny recalled Sasquatch had been incarcerated in Deer Lodge, too. “Can you find out one more thing? Was Frank Grand in Deer Lodge at the same time as an armed robber named Alvin Jimsen, AKA Crooked Neck?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Tawny disconnected and checked with Esther who confirmed Frank Grand had never been a client, nor had he ever worked on the office computers, despite his claim to Arielle.
Next, Tawny pulled up Steve’s email and searched for Lou’s report that he said included Grand’s home address but found nothing.
Steve had probably trashed the report to keep Tillman from seeing it. She typed a quick note to Lou, asking him to resend the info.
Why would this ex-con follow Tillman?
Because someone hired him to.
Steve? Keeping an eye on Tillman?
Steve was smart. He had to know Tillman suspected embezzlement. Was the surveillance to find out how much Tillman could prove? To see if Tillman intended to prosecute him?
Could Steve be behind the attempted kidnapping and five million dollar ransom? If Tillman had paid the ransom, Steve might have used the money to buy Rochelle the mansion she wanted.
Maybe Steve intended to kill Tillman but Tillman fought back.
That meant it was self-defense. Why didn’t he immediately bring that up?
She sighed with bitter realization. Tillman knew a jury wouldn’t buy self-defense when he was a foot taller than Steve and could tear the smaller man in half with his bare hands.
But if Steve had a weapon…except, as far as she knew, no gun or knife had been found in the ravine.
Tawny tried to slow her frantic mind. She was racing too far ahead with wild theories. In order for the detectives to arrest Tillman, they had to have found physical evidence to tie him to the homicide. What was it?
She resolved to do something tangible before she drove herself crazy with what ifs.
****
An hour later, Tawny parked in the driveway of the three-story Spanish house where she’d first spotted the watcher. The For Sale sign still stood at the curb. A peek through windows showed no furniture. She scanned the empty street. If anyone approached, she could claim to be a real estate agent inspecting the property. Even she could pull off a deception that small.
Apparently detectives hadn’t yet made the connection that she suspected linked Steve to this house.
She began trying keys on a ring she’d found in Steve’s desk. The third one opened the lockbox, spilling the house key into her palm. She let herself in.
The entry was spotless, no dust
bunnies floating on the terrazzo flooring. Built-in appliances furnished the kitchen. A few business cards from brokers littered the granite countertop. The house had been stripped bare, only window treatments left behind.
She climbed a circular staircase without leaving fingerprints on the wrought iron bannister. On the second floor, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office were all as empty as the main level.
A master suite filled the entire third floor, offering a panoramic view of Billings. On a Spanish tile floor in front of a picture window lay an inflatable mattress with a rumpled blanket and a pillow without a pillowcase.
A rectangular black charging unit was plugged into an electrical socket but no device was attached at the end of the wire. It appeared too large for a smartphone.
In the bathroom, a grubby towel hung askew. The soap on the counter was dry, no gummy puddle from recent use. She touched a knuckle to the tub and floor of the shower but they too felt dry.
Clearly someone had been using the place but not in the past few hours.
She should never have taken Steve’s word when he claimed he and deputies had checked out this house. Obviously he’d lied.
Using a tissue, Tawny opened the french door and stepped onto the deck. A four-foot-tall stucco wall enclosed the area. Two folding lawn chairs faced Tillman’s mansion across the canyon, along with a tripod, although no scope or camera was mounted on it.
From the high vantage point, she saw the entrance gate to Tillman’s estate, the circular driveway, and many of the view windows in the mansion. At night, with interior lights on, a watcher with a scope could easily observe occupants in the great room, dining room, and kitchen, as well as windows in the wing with the bedrooms belonging to the children and Rochelle. Tillman’s wing on the opposite end was out of sight.
She wished she had binoculars as she squinted to study the rugged terrain. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze along the sheer face of the Rimrocks, marking the location where Steve’s body had been found. He’d been wedged into a crevasse some fifty feet below a narrow trail that zigzagged from the rear of Tillman’s property down the side of the ravine. She recognized another path that she’d hiked up to the vacant house, where she’d met Florentino several days before.
With her phone, she snapped shots of the canyon, the view of the mansion, and the surveillance set-up. Back inside the Spanish house, she recorded the interior layout.
The charging unit in the wall outlet drew her attention again. She put on readers and squatted to study the black box and dangling wire. It appeared similar to what Judah used to charge his drone.
The watcher’s fingerprints might be on it. Should she take it? Would her tampering make it inadmissible as evidence? She didn’t know.
If whoever was surveilling Tillman’s house returned, that evidence might be lost forever. She had to take this chance to preserve it. With a tissue, she carefully gripped it by the edges, pulled it free, and tucked it in her shoulder bag, hoping she hadn’t ruined fingerprints.
Her longing to talk to Tillman bordered on a physical ache. She desperately hoped she was on the right track to raise reasonable doubt. But would her actions make it harder for Eve Landes to defend him? Dammit, she had to talk to Tillman.
Outside the house, she wiped the doorknob and key, and returned it to the lockbox which she also wiped.
In the rear yard, she studied the trail into the canyon, wishing she had a weapon to defend herself since the second kidnapper was still on the loose. Detectives had held onto her revolver as evidence after she shot the men. The bear spray she’d packed for Yellowstone was in her duffel back at the hotel.
But, even unarmed, she needed to keep following this lead.
Was the attempted abduction connected to Steve? And to this eavesdropping perch?
Deputies had already inspected the ravine. Still, she had to see the area for herself. She picked her way down the steep switchbacks, not knowing what she expected to find but compelled to keep going. A blind search for some way to help Tillman.
Round pebbles slid like ball bearings under her sneakers. Footing was treacherous. Steve could have slipped and fallen. Maybe no one had pushed him.
No, something the coroner found convinced him it was homicide. And that Tillman was responsible.
She tried to imagine him clad in a jumpsuit in a jail holding cell. Had Eve Landes visited him? Were they planning their strategy? The helplessness of not knowing gnawed through Tawny’s stomach. Maybe she had antacids in her bag, slung crossways over her torso. She dug deep in it.
For a second, she took her eyes off the trail and stepped on a stone as big as a golf ball. Her ankle twisted and she rocked off balance. She scrambled to regain footing but fell from the narrow rim, landing on her side.
And suddenly she was sliding down the cliff, feet first, on her back.
She desperately grabbed at scrub brush but it pulled loose by the roots. Her feet scrabbled for purchase but kept slipping. Rough sandstone tore flesh from her fingers as she tried to catch a rock, a ledge, a branch, anything to slow her reckless skid.
Down…down…down.
Did Steve Zepruder feel like this just before he died?
After seeming endless seconds, her feet landed hard on a rock outcropping. The freefall stopped.
She hugged the ledge, gasping for breath. Her head whirled as she tried not to look downward, a further drop of at least two hundred feet. How many bones would have shattered if the narrow ledge hadn’t caught her?
Inhaling deeply, she scanned up the cliff and guessed she’d slid about seventy-five feet. No fractured skull or broken neck like Zepruder. Thank God.
Blood bloomed through embedded grit in the scrapes on her hands and arms. She hadn’t noticed the pain until she looked at them. Now her palms burned like fire. Jeans protected her legs but her shirt had ridden up on her back, allowing the sandstone to grate the skin raw like road rash.
From where she now clung to the rough rock, there was no way to climb back up to the trail. She edged sideways, steadying herself against the sheer sandstone face. Fifty feet ahead lay a jumble of boulders. Beyond that, the ledge appeared to widen. If she got past that obstacle, she might find another path up.
A mere twenty steps took ten minutes of painstaking, inch-by-inch progress. She grasped uneven edges with stinging hands and held her breath every time she had to step across a fissure. Pebbles slipped under her feet and cascaded noisily down the cliff in puffs of dust.
She knew rock climbers traveled from around the world to scale the Rims for adventure. They had to be crazy. No one in their right mind did this by choice.
A boulder the size of a grizzly blocked her way. A deep crack cleaved through the middle. She pushed and pulled to test stability, recalling the rock that broke loose and caused Fausto’s accident. This felt secure so she gingerly clambered on top of it.
An object was stuck deep down in the crack. She peered closer.
Judah’s mangled drone.
She plucked it out. Two metal arms, bent and twisted, were still attached to the main body. The other two arms were missing, maybe blown off by the shot. The camera lens was shattered.
She recalled the tale Steve had told her about a drunken neighbor. He’d claimed the man was angry about people spying on him and shot the drone. He was subsequently taken to jail. Or was he?
Considering the rest of Steve’s lies, she no longer believed that story either. The drunken neighbor was probably fiction.
More likely, the watcher in the Spanish house had fired the shot, perhaps the same man she’d seen that first fateful night at Tillman’s, just before she found Mimi near death.
The drone looked beyond repair. With arms missing, it was small enough to fit into her tote bag. She stashed it inside.
Tawny climbed down the opposite side of the boulder then paused to catch her breath. When she dragged an arm across her sweaty forehead, salt stung the raw scrapes.
What an insane week this h
ad been. Mimi’s almost-successful suicide, Fausto’s truck wreck that nearly killed him, the attempted kidnapping, Kemp Withers’ death, Steve’s murder, Tillman’s arrest, and the Rosenbaum children beaten by their mother.
And now Tawny’s own fall that could have killed her.
She had learned long ago never to ask what else can go wrong because then she’d find out.
Measuring every step, she continued to creep along the cliff face. After a sweaty, nerve-wracking half hour, she reached another trail that led up to Tillman’s property. Her scrapes burned and her twisted ankle puffed with swelling as she climbed the steep switchbacks to his yard, huffing with the effort.
She hiked across the broad lawn to the entrance to Tillman’s wing, hoping to wash in his shower. At the lower entrance to his suite, she punched the code into the exterior alarm panel but the light remained red—armed. The security company was still working to repair the system after the kidnapper virused it.
The garage door opener was in Tillman’s SUV, parked across the ravine where she’d left it in front of the Spanish house.
The only remaining alternative: ring the front doorbell and face Rochelle.
Dammit.
Gritting her teeth, she hiked to the front porch but hesitated to press the bell. With every passing moment, the road rash on her back, arms, and hands stung more. She needed to clean the wounds, even though it meant a showdown with Rochelle.
She pushed the button and heard the deep bong echoing inside.
Long moments passed. Maybe Rochelle wasn’t home. Or maybe she was watching Tawny in the monitor and didn’t intend to open the door. Ever.
Tawny rang again.
The heavy door at last swung wide. Rochelle stood like a statue guarding the entry. “What do you want?”
“I need to go to Tillman’s wing. I won’t bother you.”
The woman scanned Tawny up and down, staring at the rips in her shirt, the blood and dirt. “What happened to you?”
Tawny nodded toward the ravine. “I slipped in the canyon.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Rochelle, I’m not playing twenty questions. Are you going to let me in?”
