Seeing Red

by Sandra Brown

  Glenn tugged on his lower lip. “That’s all Trapper’s got?”

  “Slim, right?”

  “Very. Not enough to hang a conspiracy theory on. Did he advance this hypothesis to the ATF?”

  “They dismissed it. He bucked them. It cost him his career and his fiancée but did nothing to sway his conviction. What happened to Kerra and me was the clincher. He’s always been headstrong and rash, but now—”

  “You’re afraid he might actually be crazy.”

  The Major met his friend’s gaze. “No, Glenn,” he said softly. “I’m afraid he might actually be right.”

  On the other side of the car’s console, Kerra sat hugging herself. Trapper asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Body language screams otherwise.”

  “I’m cold, that’s all.”

  After two days of sunshine and milder temperatures, this morning’s sky was overcast. The wind was from the south, but it was brisk and made it feel colder than the actual temperature. The real chill, however, was between him and Kerra.

  She hadn’t slept well, and he knew that because he hadn’t, either. It was difficult to fall asleep with a woody the length and density of a baseball bat. They’d eventually gotten up and taken their turns in the bathroom. They had avoided eye contact and gave each other wide berth as they moved about in the confined space. Except for giving curt answers to direct questions, she’d been uncommunicative.

  Now, as he sped through a yellow light, he said, “Would you rather I’d’ve gone against your express no-no and had my wicked way with you?”

  She turned her head toward him. If looks could kill.

  “Well, sorry,” he said. “I’m confused. Yesterday morning, when on the brink of getting off, you called a sudden halt. You were mad at me then. Now you’re mad because last night I called a halt before getting you off.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I just wish you’d make up your mind.”

  “I have,” she said with angry emphasis. “When we finish at the sheriff’s office, I’m meeting with a locksmith to make me a key for my car. I’m going home. You go your way, I’ll go mine. You do your thing, I’ll do mine, which is to report the news, not be at the center of it, outrunning the police, and forwarding my calls to untraceable phones, and…such. I’m returning to my life.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  In a vexed tone, she asked, “Did you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  He wheeled into a parking slot reserved for the Deputy of the Month, cut the engine, and got out before she said anything more. He came around, but she rebuffed his attempt to lend her a hand as she alighted. She went ahead of him as they approached the main entrance to the sheriff’s headquarters, which was an annex of the courthouse.

  He was glad to see the county hadn’t yet sprung for a metal detector. He’d have hated having to relinquish his pistol. The only screening required was for one to stop at a window and announce his business.

  But before Trapper even introduced himself, the female deputy behind the glass said, “Good morning, Ms. Bailey, Mr. Trapper. I’ll call up and let Sheriff Addison know you’re here. Second floor.”

  Trapper used Kerra’s unfamiliarity with the building as an opportunity to cup her elbow and guide her around a corner to the elevators. They boarded, and as soon as the doors closed, he said to her, “Stop flinching every time I touch you. First of all, it’s pissing me off. Secondly, it doesn’t lend credibility to our arrangement.”

  “What arrangement?”

  Ignoring her question, he leaned down and spoke directly into her face. “To avoid future confusion over the other matter, if we ever get that hot again, we finish.” Leaning down even closer, he whispered, “With me inside you.”

  The doors slid open and the sheriff was standing there to greet them, looking relieved but also cranky.

  Trapper said, “What’s the matter, Glenn? Not getting enough fiber?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t show.”

  “Well, here she is. Delivered as promised.” It pleased him to see that Kerra looked a bit dazed by what he’d said. He had to nudge her before she stepped out of the elevator.

  “I didn’t expect you this soon,” Glenn said. “The FBI agents haven’t come in yet.”

  “I told you bright and early.”

  “When have you ever done anything you were supposed to?” The sheriff turned to Kerra. “Excuse me. I apologize for my grumpy mood. It’s been that kind of morning.”

  “I know the feeling.” She cast Trapper a sour look.

  Glenn drew her attention back to him. “Trapper fill you in on the suspect?”

  “The name Leslie Duncan means nothing to me,” she said.

  “He’s used aliases. Give this a look.” Glenn had Duncan’s rap sheet with him and showed it to Kerra. “It’s a current photo, taken just last night when he was booked.”

  She gave the attached mug shot the consideration it warranted, then shook her head. “I don’t recognize him. I couldn’t identify him as being one of the men at The Major’s house. I never saw them. I’ve told you that.”

  “Maybe when you see Duncan in person—”

  “Face to face?”

  “He won’t know you’re there. They just brought him from lockup in the basement and put him in an interrogation room. All you have to do is look through the window.”

  “It’s a waste of time, but lead the way.”

  Glenn turned to Trapper. “If you want to wait for her, do it down in the lobby. I’ll alert you when she’s done. But since you keep switching phones, I’ll need a number to text.”

  “I stay with Kerra.”

  Glenn exhaled with exasperation. “Trapper, you’ve got no official reason to be here. Even if I was okay with it, the agents conducting these interrogations—”

  “I’m her bodyguard.” He looked at Kerra and tipped his head toward Glenn. “Tell him.” He held his breath, hoping she would realize that this was the “arrangement” he’d referred to.

  She held his gaze for no longer than two heartbeats before turning back to Glenn. “It’s, uh, one of the services offered by his…firm.”

  “You can check the website,” Trapper said, having no idea whatsoever if “bodyguard” was listed as one of his services. “Daily rate plus expenses. Kerra put me on retainer.”

  Clearly not buying it, Glenn scowled. “As of when?”

  “As of the night your deputy was delinquent in his duty and stayed in his car while she went into the hospital alone. As of then, and until further notice, she doesn’t get out of my sight.”

  “This is a sheriff’s office, for crissake. City police department is in the other wing. What could happen to her in here?”

  “Nothing.” Trapper flashed a grin. “So long as I’m standing next to her.”

  Glenn gave up on Trapper and looked at Kerra. “It should ease your mind to know that we got the guy. One of them, anyway.”

  “How sure are you of him?” Trapper asked.

  Before Glenn could respond, the elevator returned and the doors slid open. Carson Rime was the only person on it. He stepped out, his arm weighted down by a briefcase made of stamped saddle leather.

  “Morning, all.” Smiling at Trapper and Kerra, he shrugged off a tweed overcoat and, as he draped it over his arm, leaned forward to shake Glenn’s hand. “Sheriff Addison? Carson Rime. We spoke on the phone yesterday. A pleasure.”

  Glenn didn’t look like he shared the sentiment. “I thought we’d cleared up the stolen vehicle matter.”

  “Oh, we did. That’s not why I’m here.” Carson removed a business card from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to Glenn. “I went to the basement first. The deputy down there said that my client, Leslie Doyle Duncan, had already been brought up here for an interrogation. The first interrogation that will ever be mentioned in court, should this comedy ever go to trial, because Mr. Duncan was d
enied legal counsel during his initial questioning.”

  Glenn rocked back on his heels. “He wasn’t denied counsel. He had a court-appointed attorney who was unavoidably detained last night, but who should be here any minute now.”

  “He had a court-appointed attorney,” Carson said. “He now has me, and I demand a consultation with my client. Please take me to him.”

  Carson’s suit was shiny with wear. The points of his collar flared up and out like a pair of white wings. Between them was a chunk of turquoise the size of a walnut that secured his black leather bolo tie. This morning, his comb-over had an extra layer of goo holding it in place.

  But Trapper wanted to hug him. With only a token amount of whining and a vow to double bill, he had agreed to drop everything and haul ass to Lodal to represent Duncan. A lawyer, reputable or corrupt, first in his law school class or dead last, would be given access to the suspect that Trapper would be denied.

  Glenn hitched up his gun belt as though to reassert that he was still in charge and motioned down the hallway. “Last room on the left.”

  “Kerra had just as well take a look at Duncan now,” Trapper said. “Why make her hang around and wait?”

  “All right.”

  Trapper could tell she was burning to ask questions, but when Carson made an after-you gesture, she started down the hall, the lawyer chatting at her side.

  Glenn and Trapper fell into step behind them. “Clever,” Glenn said under his breath. “But I don’t get why you did it. Why are you so keen on defending the guy who shot your own father?”

  “Why are you so keen on this being the guy? A newbie in town that few people know. Criminal record. Parole jumper. Stopped for speeding in a school zone, and a weapon matching the kind used in the shooting found under the seat of his pickup?” Trapper winced with skepticism. “Seems way too slick and easy, and smacks of a frame-up. I thought an attorney might come in handy.”

  “Well, it won’t matter if you reassemble O. J.’s dream team for him.”

  Trapper slowed his pace and looked at Glenn.

  “Ballistics came back on the pistol, Trapper. No question. The match was so good, it gave our DA a hard-on.”

  “Your DA is a woman.”

  “Figure of speech.”

  The meaning of which didn’t escape Trapper, but he didn’t say anything more as they continued down the hall till they reached the specified room. Glenn stepped forward and opened the door. “Mr. Duncan, your lawyer is here.”

  “Yeah, well, you and him can go fuck each other.”

  Glenn turned back to Trapper. “He has an attitude. Thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “Different circumstances, y’all could be friends.”

  Carson passed his overcoat to Trapper, sidestepped Glenn, and entered the room. “Are the shackles really necessary?”

  Glenn only harrumphed and pulled the door closed. “Kerra?”

  She stepped up to the door and looked through the wired glass window. Trapper looked in from over her shoulder. Duncan appeared to be in his early thirties, although his eyes had the mistrustful, lupine quality of one who’d already endured a lifetime of hard knocks. He didn’t look relieved or show any particular interest when Carson introduced himself. His indolent posture didn’t change, although his surly lips moved, so he’d said something.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” Kerra said and was about to move away from the window.

  “Give it a minute,” Glenn said. “Maybe he’ll do something that’ll jog a memory.”

  Trapper held Carson’s coat in the crook of his elbow and placed his hands on Kerra’s shoulders. “He’s right. Give it a minute.”

  “But—”

  He gave her shoulders a slight squeeze. The private signal worked. She stayed where she was, sandwiched between him and the door. Trapper asked Glenn, “Did you locate his wife?”

  “Girlfriend. If she’s visiting her mama in Ardmore, she’s gone to the cemetery.”

  “He lied about his old lady?”

  “Worries us, because there’s been no sign of her.”

  They couldn’t hear what Carson was asking or what the suspect was saying in reply, but occasionally Duncan would emphasize a point by stabbing his forefinger into the tabletop. Other times Trapper could tell even in pantomime that he’d given a flip response.

  After several minutes, Carson took sheets of paper from his briefcase, spread them out on the table where Leslie Duncan could see what they consisted of, and went over the content of each sheet with him point by point.

  “What’s all that?” Glenn asked Trapper. “His rate chart?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Mercenary son of a bitch.”

  Carson asked Duncan something. He hesitated then nodded. Carson beamed, gathered up the papers and replaced them in his briefcase, latched it, and shook hands with Duncan as facilely as could be done with the manacles. Kerra stood aside, and Glenn opened the door for Carson.

  As he was passing through, Leslie Duncan called from the table, “How do you like being dead so far?”

  Trapper, anticipating that, had stepped around Kerra in order to gauge her reaction. Her lips separated in shock over hearing the familiar words, but when she realized that Trapper was watching her, she looked up at him and shook her head. “The voice is wrong.”

  Glenn’s face was mottled with fury. “Now I get it. That’s what he was about,” he said, flinging out a hand toward Carson.

  Carson retrieved his overcoat from Trapper. “Excuse me. I’ve got forms to file.” Juggling coat and briefcase, he hurried down the hallway, almost running into a deputy as he stepped purposefully off the elevator.

  Trapper was in a standoff with Glenn. “If I had asked nice, would you have given me access to him?”

  “No,” Glenn thundered.

  “All Kerra needed to hear were those few words.”

  “The voice is wrong,” she repeated, addressing the statement to Glenn. “Believe me, I get goose bumps when I think back to hearing those words and realizing what they implied. I’ll never forget the voice.”

  “In your statement, you said that only one of the men spoke. Duncan here could be the one who stayed silent.”

  “He could. But I’m positive that’s not the voice I overheard.”

  Trapper was listening to her and Glenn and following their thread, but he was also observing Leslie Duncan through the window. He was bobbing his head back and forth and playing imaginary drums on the table as though keeping time to an earworm.

  “Sheriff?”

  All of them turned to the deputy who had nearly collided with Carson at the elevator. “We got the search warrant about an hour ago,” he reported. “Found this in Duncan’s trailer. Isn’t it the one that’s been missing?”

  He held up an evidence bag. Sealed inside it was Kerra’s Louis Vuitton.

  Chapter 24

  When they returned to the motel room, Kerra remarked, “I’m surprised housekeeping has been here already.”

  “I’m surprised there’s housekeeping.”

  Trapper’s statement had been spoken in an absent mutter. He was preoccupied with checking one of his various cell phones for missed calls or texts.

  “Nothing from The Major?” she asked.

  “No.” He tossed his coat onto the bed. “If he calls at all, it’ll probably be to notify me that he’s having me certified.”

  “He thinks you’re pigheaded, not insane.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I was over what he thought about me a long time ago.”

  She knew that wasn’t the case at all, but she let it go. Things were already strained between Trapper and her. They’d driven back from the sheriff’s office in silence. She supposed that he was mulling over how much significance the discovery of her missing bag would have on the investigation.

  Pursuant to that, she asked, “What do you think?”

  Trapper had his back to the room, staring through the
window, hands turned palms out in the rear pockets of his jeans—the new ones he disliked.

  “That you’d be wasting your money.”

  Because she’d been envisioning his bare backside inside the jeans, his statement didn’t register. “Sorry?”

  He turned to face her. “You’d be wasting your money on a locksmith. I’ll break into your car and hot-wire it. You’ll have to get it fixed when you get back to Dallas, but the repair will probably cost you less than a locksmith.

  “Better still, ask Carson to set you up with his discount body shop guy. Just be sure that if he gives you a loaner car it isn’t hot.” He motioned to her small duffel bag on the floor in the corner. “Start gathering up your things. When you’re ready, I’ll take you to your car.”

  The drama in the sheriff’s office had obscured her resolve to go home, but apparently it was still fresh in Trapper’s mind, and he wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. Quite the opposite. Before she had time to respond to this turnabout, there was a knock.

  Trapper checked the peephole before opening the door.

  Carson bustled in, rubbing his hands together. “How’d I do?”

  “You did okay,” Trapper replied.

  “Okay?” he repeated with affront. “I was brilliant.”

  “Where is Duncan’s old lady? Did you ask him?”

  “Yes, but anything Mr. Duncan told me is privileged, Trapper. You know that.”

  “I need to know what he said.”

  “He’s my client.”

  “And I’m financing his fee. Now tell me what he said.”

  “That’s grounds for disbarment.”

  “Oh, for crissake. You choose now to turn ethical? Kerra’s not gonna tell on you. Are you?” Trapper looked at her, and she shook her head. “See? And I’m not gonna tell on you. So talk.”

  Carson only assumed a more obstinate stance.

  Trapper bore down on him. “I’m not gonna tell anybody that you violated attorney-client privilege…but I might let it slip that your law degree is counterfeit.”

  Carson started. “How’d you know?”

  Trapper just looked at him and smiled, and when Carson realized that he’d been had, he swore.