Too Sexy for his Stetson

by Olson, Mal

  Blade swallowed against the tightness in his throat, his insides churning.

  “Search her and make sure she’s not carrying any other weapons,” Skip said.

  Jesus. Blade’s heart dropped into his stomach.

  “So, I was right about you all along, Coogan.” Brandy’s voice hissed with anger.

  “Brilliant deduction, Deputy.”

  Blood surged through Blade’s head. No. He refused to believe it. This was crazy.

  “You’re nothing but a stinking, dirty cop just like I always thought. What I want to know is why? Why did you frame my mother?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because you murdered Marilyn Abbott.”

  “It’s a long, complicated story.”

  “Too bad your dad and your grandfather aren’t around to see how admirably you’ve carried on the family tradition. They’d be so proud.”

  Good. Keep stalling, Brandy. But it did nothing to stop the sweat forming on Blade’s brow as he flicked his phone to mute, headed the Jeep toward the Interstate, and stomped the gas pedal. They were at least thirty minutes from Lake Shoshone.

  “Shut up, Brianna.”

  A smacking sound stung Blade’s ears. The bastard had hit her! Blade bit his tongue as nausea crept into his throat and his fist choked the receiver.

  “My patience is wearing thin.” Skip again.

  Jesus, Skip Coogan is a stinking dirty cop. As much as Blade wanted to roar into the phone, he kept it muted, clamped back the rage, and continued to monitor the call. Facing Thigpen, he mouthed, “My deputy needs backup. Now! Call it in for me. The Fort Shoshone Marina.”

  Thigpen nodded and started texting.

  And, God, the estimated thirty minutes to reach the marina was on a good day. In this deluge, it could take… too damned many freaking impossibly long minutes to get to Brandy. He hoped the backup units were closer than he was.

  ****

  Hell and damnation, Coogan had walked back into the boathouse with Daniel Morrisey at his side. Brandy was screwed. With Coogan’s gun aimed at her, she didn’t dare draw if she wanted to keep breathing. God, she hoped Blade had remained on the line and was en route. Stalling wouldn’t work forever, but the longer she kept Coogan engaged, the longer she stayed out of his boat, and the longer she stayed out of creepy Morrisey’s clutches.

  “Everyone knows I left the office with you. You’ll never get away with—”

  “You’d be surprised what I can get away with.”

  Morrisey grinned, and Brandy kept baiting Coogan. “Like murdering the woman you were having an affair with? Someone you supposedly cared about.”

  “Marilyn knew too much, and she wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “Knew too much about what?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “So you obviously killed Secada, too, when he threatened to change his mind about where he was the night Marilyn Abbott was murdered. Was he going to blackmail you?”

  Coogan’s eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched, he said, “You’re guessing. And no one’s got anything on me.”

  Keep him engaged.

  “She’s wasting time, Coogan.” Morrisey’s eyes traveled over Brandy like he was a starved bear sizing up a gourmet dinner.

  “It’s over, Coogan. Blade and I pulled a .45 out of the river next to Secada’s body. Secada never got rid of your murder weapon the way he promised, did he? Careless mistake, leaving Morrisey in charge. He never bothered checking Secada’s daypack.”

  Coogan’s face flushed red with anger as he turned to Morrisey. “You imbecile.”

  “Shit, man, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Just let me take care of her.”

  Coogan’s glare turned steel–hard. He grabbed her, his fingers digging into her shoulders. “So you think you’ve got it all figured out, Deputy? It’s not going to do you a damn bit of good.”

  “How much did you pay Secada to get rid of your gun? And when did you discover he’d kept it for insurance?”

  “No one can prove anything now that the bastard’s dead.”

  The poor, unfortunate bastard who had probably freaked when Attorney Rosenberg started questioning him a couple of weeks ago.

  “He tried to milk me for more than he was worth,” Coogan raged. “He got his fair share of the pie. I’m the one who took all the risks.”

  All the risks? “You must have quite the pie.” What in the heck was he mixed up in?

  “For years, as a cop, I put my life on the line. I decided I deserved a better pay–off.”

  “Yeah,” Morrisey cut in, “if you can’t beat ‘em, join em’.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Morrisey.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re wasting my party time, Coogan. You promised I’d get Goldilocks here alone. I think she and I should head over to the cabin before it’s time to take care of the business at the dam.”

  “Business at the dam? Oh my God,” Brandy gasped. Coogan couldn’t possibly be part of a scheme to take out the dam. Could he? Blade. Poor Blade was getting an earful, and the truth would hit him like a landslide. That was, if he’d stayed on the line and her phone battery hadn’t conked out.

  “How could you be a party to destroying the dam and killing hundreds of innocent people?” Or was all of this a masquerade for Morrisey and the NNFF’s benefit? Part of the undercover operation?

  “Sometimes collateral damage is necessary.”

  She shrugged away from him. “I hope whatever you’re involved in is worth it.”

  “Oh, believe me, it is. I’m about to retire to Mexico to live like a king.”

  “A murdering king.”

  “It’s better than dying a pauper. Like Morrisey says, if you can’t beat ‘em…”

  She shook her head in disgust. “Blade’s going to be so proud when he finds out you disgraced your badge for money.”

  “He’ll never know. And money, my foolish girl, makes the world go round. In the end, it’s all that matters. It can buy anything your heart desires.” At that moment, Brandy knew, instinctively, that what Coogan had just admitted was the truth. This was the real Coogan.

  “Can it buy respect? The kind your father and grandfather had?”

  “My old man died a penniless hero. What did respect get him? He never even saw a tropical beach. I own one.”

  “You’re sick, Coogan.”

  “This is bullshit.” Morrisey grabbed Brandy, locking his arm around her waist. “You gonna’ let this bitch stand here and preach to you all day, Coogan? Let me take care of her like we planned.” He pulled her tight against his sweat–stained shirt and grabbed her Glock from the holster.

  “Do a better job than you did with Secada. And make sure she hasn’t got any other weapons hidden on her.”

  Morrisey’s disgusting hand skimmed over Brandy’s body, shoulder to crotch. She cringed as he took his time groping. His hands fumbled down her hips, her legs, to her ankles, to the phone in her sock. Damn. He yanked the phone free.

  “Come on, Blondie, we’re going to the cabin, and the only way to get there is by boat.” Grinning, he dragged her out into the pounding rain and pitched the phone into the lake.

  She elbowed him hard in the ribs. He staggered. Swore. Then rebounded and backhanded her. She swayed, and crashed into Coogan, who clamped his arm around her.

  Gritting her teeth, she refrained from fighting. Save your energy. Stall. There was one thing the creep had missed. The tiniest of Swiss army knives she had tucked in a hidden pocket in the waistband of her trousers.

  “When does it end, Coogan? What’s your encore going to be?”

  “I think a clever little deputy like you would have already figured that out. Too bad you won’t be around to make use of your stellar investigative skills.” His jaw hardened. “Get rid of her, Morrisey.”

  Morrisey shoved her toward the yacht. “Quit yapping. It’s party time.”

  Hands clasped together, Brandy jammed her arms sideways and whacked him in the gut. He
oomphed, and she lunged backward. But there was nowhere to run. Except into the water.

  Before she could jump, lightning split the sky and reflected off the SIG Coogan held aimed at her heart. Morrisey lurched toward her again, blocking Coogan’s aim for a second. Brandy slammed into Morrisey and knocked him off–balance. But it resulted in him swiveling and thudding down on top of her. She squirmed beneath his girth. Pounded her fists into the thick wall of his chest until she felt the muzzle of Coogan’s pistol against her head.

  “Stop.”

  Morrisey laughed.

  “Get into the boat,” Coogan ordered.

  His stooge rolled off her.

  She stiffened her jaw, pushed to her feet, and stepped aboard the luxurious Tequila Sunset. Morrisey followed and slammed his fist into her back, shoving her to her knees. Spinning, she lashed out with her right foot and targeted his groin. But he sprang backward, and her blow barely clipped his thigh. He dropped onto her legs.

  “Bring it on, bitch. Danny Boy needs some loving. I like a little spit and sass in my women, especially when they focus it on something more interesting than talking.”

  Yeah, he probably did need some loving if what Tonya had said about his abusive father was true. Some parental love, not the kind of loving the converted white supremacist had on his brain–washed mind at the moment.

  With an eerie grin, he hovered over her. The last thing Brandy remembered was a fist rocketing toward her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

  Blade flicked on the light bar, floored the Cherokee and raced west on Interstate 220, driving like a crazy man toward the marina. Rain cascaded down the windshield, creating a veil of water the wipers hadn’t a prayer against. Suddenly, through the blur, a pile of debris came up to meet him. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop at the edge of a landslide that obliterated the highway.

  Damn, damn, damn, no! He glanced at Thigpen and notified dispatch, then checked to see if any LCCS units or other law enforcement units had made it to the marina.

  Christiansen came on the line. “By the time our squad reached the dock, the place was deserted. No sign of Brandy or the Tequila Sunset. And no sign of Coogan.”

  Jesus!

  Morrisey’s leering comments hammered in Blade’s head: Let me take care of her… come on, Blondie, it’s party time We’re going to the cabin, and the only way to get there is by boat… His stomach churning, Blade turned the Jeep around as he spoke and started back toward Little Chute.

  “Christiansen, set up road blocks on Interstate 220 on the south side of Fort Shoshone and the west end of County LC. Inform all law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for Fort Shoshone Police Chief Skip Coogan and detain him.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Blade came back with a question. “Where is there a cabin on Lake Shoshone that can only be reached by boat?” Morrisey had said something about taking her to a cabin.

  “Give me a sec.”

  “Hurry, damn it.”

  Meanwhile, Thigpen silently communicated with his people via an electronic device he called robo phone, a voice–to–print–transcription system.

  Christiansen came back with, “There used to be a dozen of them, primitive fishing cabins at the end of a channel on the south–east side of the lake. Only one left. No road access. That’d be about fifteen, twenty minutes from downtown Fort Shoshone by boat. The channel connects to the Shoshone River.”

  “How can I get there?”

  “Fastest route—take Trestle Creek road just past your place. That’s assuming your vehicle has high enough clearance and the creek doesn’t rise. The thing is, once you reach the end of the road, you’ll have a devil of a hike to reach the cabin.”

  “Give me the coordinates. You’re sure there’re no other cabins without road access around here?”

  “Not according to our most current maps. Most folks nowadays like the luxury of civilization—”

  Blade cut in, “Dispatch our water patrol unit immediately.”

  “Copy that.”

  A flash of lightning lit the sky. Static. Then silence.

  “Ten–one, Christiansen,” He gave the code indicating he had static again. “Do you copy?”

  Precious seconds ticked by.

  “Ten Four,” Christiansen’s voice broke through. “We’ve got a problem, Lieutenant. Fort Shoshone is fogged in, big time. The responding water patrol team’s not going anywhere until that shit lifts. They’re reporting they can’t even see the lake, let alone find the channel that leads to the cabin.

  Damn the weather. In Little Chute, fog wasn’t the problem. They were still plagued with torrential rain that had lodged between the mountains and settled in like uninvited relatives.

  “How far on Trestle Creek Road to the foot trail?”

  “All the way to the end. Fifteen miles, approximately. Which may be a moot point, because with the monsoons, you might need a Bobcat rigged with titan tracks to get through. That sucker’s not paved.”

  “We’ll make it. And Christiansen, I want those roadblocks beefed up. As of now, there’s an NTAS alert for Fort Shoshone Dam. We need all available deputies on duty. The National Guard will assist.”

  “Roger that, Lieutenant.”

  As Mother Nature continued her rampage, Blade and Thigpen headed toward Trestle Creek Road, making a stop at Blade’s place to pick up Rambo. Minutes later, Blade navigated Trestle Creek Road amid streaks of lightning exploding across the pitch–black sky.

  From the back seat, Rambo nuzzled his shoulder and twitched one ear. Blade reached back and patted his neck. “We have to find Brandy.”

  Rambo whimpered softly.

  “Nice dog.” Thigpen turned and scratched Rambo’s ears. “He’s not afraid of storms or thunder?”

  “Nah, he’s a veteran. Born and raised around guns. My previous partner.” Blade let out a breath, but his hands remained white–knuckled, strangling the steering wheel as he tried not to think about the amount of time that had ticked by since Brandy’s call, or that Skip Coogan, a veteran cop and possible murderer, held her fate in his hands.

  They’d barely made it a mile when they met a three–foot diameter horizontal tree stretched across the road.

  “Son of a bitch.” So much for Trestle Creek Road.

  “Alternate route?” Thigpen asked.

  Blade reached for the radio and clicked it on, wishing he’d been around Little Chute long enough to become more familiar with the area, wishing headquarters would pick up quicker, wishing the damnable rain would stop.

  But the deluge continued, the surrounding hillsides gushing like waterfalls gone wild. A flash of lightning stabbed the ground so close the smell of ozone permeated the air. A simultaneous clap of thunder shook the Jeep.

  Finally, Christiansen came back on the line “Your only option is to take County Trunk LC and go into Fort Shoshone from the south. The problem is, you’ll end up in pea soup… Sorry, Lieutenant, but at the moment, it’s impossible to get to that cabin—except by river. And right now would be a hell of a time to launch anything in the pissed–off Shoshone. A couple of drowned rats won’t do anyone any good.”

  Blade faced Thigpen and repeated the message.

  The agent quietly considered the challenge for two heartbeats. “Then we better make sure we don’t drown ‘cause I’m feeling the urge for some whitewater rafting.”

  “I like the way you think, Thigpen.”

  “Call me Thiggy.” He tipped his head. “Something tells me Tonya from the tour company could expedite this adventure as efficiently as anyone.”

  “Let’s do it.” Blade ground gears and headed for Tour d’Alene.

  ****

  “You want to do what?” Tonya Crawford asked.

  Blade’s heart was in his throat as he, Thiggy, and Rambo stood dripping in the sporting goods–rafting shop, creating rivulets that snaked across the polished hardwood floor.

  “We need a raft, and we want to put in at
your launch site.”

  She raised a dark, graceful, yet doubtful eyebrow. “Now?”

  “Exactly.”

  “A suicide mission?”

  “A necessary mission. We have to get to the east side of Lake Shoshone. Fast. Water patrol in Fort Shoshone is fogged in. A landslide’s blocking the Interstate, and the road to Trestle Creek is blocked with a downed tree.”

  “You’re crazy, you know. Even if you made it all the way down the Shoshone, you’d have to bail eventually before the current took you the wrong way. There’s a drop—Scuppernong Falls—just before the river dumps into the lake, which would be impossible to navigate after this amount of rain.”

  As far as Blade was concerned, nothing was impossible if it meant he could get to Brandy. “There’s a channel that connects the lake and the river. We need to reach a cabin that’s supposedly close to the confluence of the river and the channel.”

  “Ah, this is getting halfway feasible. You’d still have to go over or around Quicksilver Falls and then hoof it on a trail to get to the cabin. Your chances of success would blossom after the storm.”

  “Brandy’s in trouble. We think she’s at the cabin.”

  “Serious trouble?”

  “Morrisey’s got her.” The words scorched Blade’s throat.

  Tonya’s chin jutted. “Oh my God. Why are we wasting time?”

  She lurched toward the counter and grabbed a set of keys. “Make yourselves useful and load the blue raft out back. The one closest to the rear exit. Put it in the bed of my black pickup. Behind the store. I’ll grab the life vests and helmets, and—”

  Blade was out the door before she finished. He and Thiggy muscled the raft into the truck, and Thigpen hopped into the driver’s seat. Tonya, wearing a life vest, ran after them, her arms loaded with vests, helmets, a dry pack, and her rifle.

  “Ma’am,” Thiggy said, “this is a two–man operation. Official business. You’d best stay here—”

  “Shut up and move over. This is my truck, my raft, and Brandy’s my friend. I know this river better than either of you.” She climbed into the driver’s seat, forcing Thiggy to slide over, while Blade and Rambo crammed into the cab from the passenger side.