Flash Flood

by Susan Slater

  The face looked young, even for twenty. And guileless. Dan was struck by the freshness that emanated from the page. Untainted, unspoiled, a girl next door with a perfect body. He scanned the bio. The usual. Her hobbies included eating pizza, watching movies, and bowling. No surprises there.

  “I married her six months after she showed up on my doorstep. I had to, had to own that perfect animal no matter the internal flaws. I breed all the time for the perfect specimen—that one beauty that no other can have. Something I can flaunt at the shows. And then all of a sudden, I had perfection in my own house. Next to me every night. Son, I don’t have to tell you, I was in heaven.”

  Dan let the past tense slip by. He already knew that paradise wasn’t what it once was. The gilt was off the Iris, so to speak.

  “Then what happened?”

  “About two months after the honeymoon, I discovered she was addicted. Cocaine. Been using since she was fifteen. Left Wisconsin and landed in Hollywood in a world too fast for a youngster. Got the rush from a few shady producers—B movie stuff, glorified porn in one case.”

  Billy Roland took one last look at Iris among the iris and put the magazine back in the drawer. It was obviously a prized possession.

  “We checked out all the sanatariums. Found one in Mexico, near Guanajuato, that fit the bill. She was gone six months. Course, I visited. And she recovered. It was tough. I never want to see someone go through that again. She almost died and I couldn’t help her. Well, when she came back she stayed clean. Worked at the college. Helped with booking travel arrangements for some big names who came this way to relax, take a few weeks to drop out of their world.

  “I should have known the temptation would still be there. I guess I made it easy for her. Last year I suspected she was hooked again but didn’t say anything. Just cut back a little on her allowance. Then the cattle started dying—”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Yes, you do. Think about it. You know the first three heifers to die were listed in her name. My little present, trying to get her interested in the Double Horseshoe, give us something together despite the age difference. Shortcake Dream was the best I’d ever produced. Thought my present of the best would show her how I loved her.”

  Dan was kicking himself. No, he hadn’t known whose name the cows were in. He would have found out eventually. But he had assumed. And had missed a clue, a giant clue. Was he losing his touch?

  “I’ve suspected she’s planning to leave me. Just under a million and she’d have a nest egg. She couldn’t ask me for it. Knew I’d know what she was up to. She knows I’d fight her on divorce. Besides, she signed a prenuptial that lets her out with the clothes on her back, and not a hell of a lot more. I thought at the time I needed to protect my first wife’s money. So, that’s where you come in. An outsider, ace detective, I knew you’d find out. I wouldn’t have to point a finger at my own wife. But I had to stop her and you’d do it for me.”

  Dan was amazed. All this time, he had been part of a plan to trap the errant wife.

  “You believe she killed those cows for the money? But how? She had to have help.”

  “Now, that’s for you to figure out, isn’t it, son?”

  “But you must suspect someone?”

  Billy Roland just shrugged and downed the last of the scotch in his glass. The silence was oppressive. A grandfather clock in the hall boomed out five strokes. The servants would be coming up to the house soon. What could he say? Billy Roland spoke first.

  “Forgive me. I’m weak. Just don’t have the stomach for a fight anymore. But I don’t want to lose her.” His voice was barely above a whisper, choked with emotion. “Can you understand that?”

  Dan nodded. He did understand. He remembered Iris’s behavior at the stock show. Her mood suddenly up shortly after they got there, after she’d queried him on whether he thought she was wasting her time out in the sticks. No, he had no reason not to believe Billy Roland. He knew his story was true. But, now what? He had the motive, the name of the person who stood to gain; what he didn’t have was the evidence to nail her.

  “What do you want me to do?” He looked across the desk at Billy Roland who sat with his head in his hands.

  “What you have to, son, no more, no less.”

  Dan stood, started to say something comforting but didn’t find any ready words that would make a difference, so he leaned over the desk and picked up the vial of crystals. Then put it back down.

  “Why don’t you put this in the safe. I need some time to think.” Then he left the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Dan tagged every sample, neatly arranging them in a box along with the two rolls of film. He thought he’d be early but could see Roger waiting by the WWII Mauser, a memorial that took up the northeast corner of Roswell’s courthouse lawn. It was a quarter to three.

  “Bingo, baby. This is going to keep yours truly in the land of mesquite and sand, but so what? I can stand a little more deprivation for a bust.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dan had felt Roger’s excitement when he walked up.

  “Hey, don’t be so modest. Good idea to drop the stuff off ahead of time. Gave us time to give it the once over. And you’re right. Crack cocaine. How much did you find?”

  Dan stared at him. God damn Eric. Eric must have suspected he wouldn’t turn the crystals over to the feds. And he was right; he wouldn’t, not under the circumstances. So Eric took it upon himself to give the feds something to whet their appetite, something to stick around for. Giving leverage for Eric to pressure Billy Roland into coughing up the two million plus. Only it was looking more and more like Billy Roland had nothing to do with Eric’s drug bust or the two million. So, the only thing his overzealous behavior did was hang Dan out to dry. “How ’bout we go over to the bank parking lot across the street. Don’t want to attract too much attention here.”

  A reprieve. Think. He needed to put them off. He saw Tom waiting in the car. Riding around Roswell in the back seat of a car with two federal agents wasn’t his idea of a fun afternoon. “Hi. You did good.” Tom was leaning back to open the door behind the driver’s seat. Dan got in. What else could he do?

  “How’s a Dairy Queen sound?” This from Tom who turned right at the corner not waiting for an answer. It was all small talk while they waited in the drive-up line. Two car loads of people in front of them ordered fries and hamburgers and colas.

  “You know this is a nice little town. Great place to raise kids.” Roger seemed in good spirits, ebullient even. Dan thought he knew why. He was about to get a promotion, probably based on his timely wrap-up of fingering a major supplier. Only Billy Roland wasn’t a supplier, major or not. He had no idea what was going on. He was just one sick old man with a cocaine-using wife who killed cattle to keep her habit going and maybe stockpile enough money to leave him. And until Dan uncovered evidence to the contrary, it was none of the feds’ business.

  The icy treats were sweet and cool. Not like real ice cream, a passion of Dan’s, the cones lacked the richness and flavor he would have preferred. But they were free. Roger, the last of the great spenders, forked over the three seventy-five. But wasn’t it Dan’s money anyway as a taxpayer?

  “What say we take a little cruise up Highway Seventy?”

  Dan didn’t care. Tom could motor them wherever he wanted. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

  “So the lab said it was crack?” It would be best to stay in control. Ask the questions; direct the conversation.

  “Top grade.”

  “Any idea what country produced it?”

  “Probably Colombia. Matches some stuff that showed up in the East last month.”

  “How much more is there?” This from Tom.

  “None that I know of.”

  Dan said it calmly, offhandedly, like the crack was just something he’d stumbled across, which was exactly what he was going to make them believe. He caught Tom’s expression in the rearview mirror. If they hadn�
��t been on the highway, Tom would have parked the car in about one second and turned on the passenger in the back seat. His eyes registered surprise then turned hard.

  “Tom, why don’t you take that road up there to the right. We need to find a quiet place to talk.” Roger took the news better. Mr. Calmness pointed to a dirt road leading off in the distance. It didn’t look used. His voice was even, a practiced modulation meant to mask emotion, Dan thought, taught and practiced during training, no doubt. When they were out of view of the highway, Tom pulled over and stopped, started to speak but must have gotten a signal from Roger because he abruptly opened the car door and got out. Dan waited.

  The tiny tape recorder made little clicking noises as Roger fiddled with the buttons and finally pressed play. No “would you mind?” or “hope this doesn’t bother you”; they were beyond that. He was now facing two men who probably felt they were getting jerked around. And their fuse wouldn’t be very long. He fought a crazy urge to cross his fingers, doubles, using both hands.

  “Suppose you start by giving any background pertinent to finding the sample of crack cocaine that you delivered to our motel room on the night of September 27. Begin by stating your full name, occupation, and time of this conversation.”

  Dan complied, then said what he had planned to say, and prayed it would be convincing.

  “The sample in question was found in its entirety and in its present container in the glove compartment of a truck, part of a fleet of six, belonging to the Double Horseshoe ranch owned by Billy Roland Eklund and located—”

  “We’ve got that, go on.” More fumbling with the recorder, then Roger said, “Who, for the record, would have had access to this vehicle?”

  “Quite a few including the ranch foreman, resident veterinarian, owner, his wife, and various ranch hands numbering over twenty-five.” A barely audible “shit” came from outside the car where Tom leaned against the hood.

  “What do you plan as follow-up to this discovery?”

  Dan droned on about one-on-one surveillance, a stake-out of areas frequented by the ranch hands, interviews. He referenced the packet of materials he had turned over an hour ago, glorified bullshit that he hoped would get him by and promised more. Finally, Roger seemed convinced that the sample was indeed random, but it, at least, placed illegal substances on the Double Horseshoe. They had more than they had had last week.

  The ride back to town was quiet. Before they dropped him at his car, they set up a time for another chat. “Chat” was Roger’s word; Dan would have chosen “grilling.” It wouldn’t be so easy next time. He only hoped Eric wasn’t planning the delivery of another surprise package. If possible, Dan needed to make certain that he wasn’t.

  By the outskirts of Tatum, Dan knew one other thing he was going to do that afternoon—drop in unexpectedly on Judge Cyrus and discuss the two million. And include a little unplanned, catch him off guard, if possible, discussion of what was going on in his county among its upstanding citizens.

  Dan pulled in next to a sixtyish Lincoln, something old enough to have fins, and marveled at its mint condition. A glance at the steering setup said it was designed for someone not of normal stature—not a bad euphemism for “short.” No doubt the judge was in.

  Junior apparently was the designated welcoming committee but this time he ushered Dan to the back without checking with his father first.

  “Saw you pull up. Just finishing up here. Be with you in a sec.” Judge Cyrus continued to sign papers then handed the stack to Junior and waited until he had left the room before speaking.

  “Been a little disappointed that you haven’t dropped by. No more questions on Voodoo?” The hearty laugh boomed out. “How’s that inventory going? Billy Roland keeping you busy enough?”

  All just meaningless small talk. An answer didn’t seem necessary. The judge was pulling a cigar from a humidor on the edge of his desk and seemed engrossed in rolling it between his fingers, sampling its aroma with his eyes closed, then snapping back to the present before cutting the end.

  “Join me?”

  “No thanks.” Dan knew that lighting the end of anything and putting the other in his mouth would mean buying a pack of cigarettes when he left and another in the morning.

  “I get the feeling this isn’t exactly a social visit, am I right?”

  “I’d like your help. That’s probably more in the business category.”

  “Give it a run. I don’t have any secrets.”

  That’s the first lie, Dan thought, but as long as he was here, “I need to know that there aren’t any surprises for United Life and Casualty when it comes to Billy Roland’s former pilot, a Mr. Eric Linden—no reason that Billy Roland was trying to amass a little extra cash this past year.”

  “Go on.”

  “When was the first you heard about the two million plus that Midland Central was supposedly handling for Eric Linden?”

  “When the request came in, a coded wire-transfer order, the morning he was released.”

  “Who placed the transaction?”

  “Well, it had obviously been sanctioned by Eric. It was all on the up and up. Only there was no money, of course. Request came from a bank in the Caymans.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Called an emergency meeting of Midland’s board of directors. President of our affiliate bank in Roswell. An owner/broker of an investment firm over in Hobbs. Billy Roland. Your brother-in-law, Phillip. A lawyer representative from the Petroleum Trust. A group in Portales. That was it. Two parties were absent.”

  “I imagine everyone was surprised.”

  “Let’s call it shock. I don’t think we really believed it, thought there was some error until Billy Roland found that bank book after the flood.”

  “Was there any attempt to contact Mr. Linden the day of the transfer?”

  “Too late. He was unreachable, already being processed out. So, it seemed reasonable at the time to assume we would just meet with him when he showed up on the doorstep. And that, we all felt certain, he would do.”

  “Was there any speculation about the money? Where it could have come from? Why it was supposedly invested the day he went to prison?”

  “We’re not a bunch of dunces. Had to have something to do with his serving time.” A gray cloud of smoke circled overhead, the layer dividing the room into two five-foot segments, an upper and a lower. “We all guessed he was in with some mafia-type group that could afford to buy him off, pay him for doing time and keeping his mouth shut.”

  “How had the account been opened in the Caymans?”

  “Interesting you should ask. I checked on that a few years back. Eric’s aunt left him fifty thousand when she died. The money was first deposited here. Eric had left an account open, but within a month transferred the fifty to this here bank in the Caymans.”

  “Did that seem strange?”

  “Naw. Can’t stop a man from putting his money where he wants to. Guess I figured he was planning on starting over down there someplace. Time was a pilot could make a good living in the islands.”

  “And the fifty now?”

  “That’s where things get interesting. I checked. Thought I’d get Elaine everything that was coming to her.”

  Or there might be other reasons, Dan surmised. He didn’t rule out the involvement of this man in some overall scheme.

  “It’s gone. Supposedly, a Mr. Linden withdrew principal and interest two days after we know he died. Just about started an international incident when I suggested that might be real hard for a dead man to do and that I’d be happy to supply the death certificate to prove it.”

  “Did you ask for copies of the transaction?”

  “Yep. I gotta show you this.”

  Dan waited while Judge Cyrus unlocked a long, narrow black metal box.

  “Look here. This is Eric’s signature just as sure as this one is, and that one is. The first was signed in this office in front of me.” He pointed to identical loops and tails of le
tters below the line. “Wouldn’t you say these signatures are the same?”

  Dan held the papers to the light. They were exact. No hint of forgery at least to the layman’s eye.

  “Making allowances for maybe here he was having a bad day—these are exactly the same.”

  “This here document was recorded when the Cayman account was opened four years ago, this one is a little over two months old.”

  “I can’t tell the difference.”

  “These were done by the same man. No doubt about it. Now, how you figure they did that?”

  Dan didn’t comment. This wasn’t the time to hint that the man in question might be alive. Instead, he asked, “How was the fifty thousand collected?”

  “Wire-transferred to a bank in El Paso. Picked up by someone no one remembers clearly. Other than his hand was taped, some sort of injury. And wouldn’t you know it? Surveillance cameras were out that day. Now this signature is almost unreadable.”

  He pushed a copy of a receipt across the desk. The squiggles were there but bunched together. The first name was just an initial, not spelled out. The E and the L at the beginning of Linden were intertwined. It didn’t look much like the others, but hadn’t the judge said the man’s hand was bandaged? If you had just survived a flash flood, you wouldn’t be in real good shape. Dan moved a lamp on the desk so that he could illuminate the signature from underneath.

  “What do you think? Done by the same person?” The judge bent over the lamp with him and peered closely at the signature.

  “Could be. Then again, might not be. What are you going to do?”

  “Already acted. Did what I thought was best. I contacted Elaine. After all, it was her money. And, you know, she thanked me for thinking of her best interests, for being concerned but then said to drop it. Just like that. Drop it and stop dredging up the past. Oh, she said it in a nice way, but you could see the hurt, the pain right near the surface. Said she thought anyone who impersonated the dead would get their reward, that she wouldn’t have to do anything.”