by Sheryl Lynn
He dumped the cookies in the trash. The house seemed bigger and emptier than usual. He didn’t need two hundred acres of high-country desert. He didn’t need a big old farmhouse where he lacked the heart to enter half the rooms.
This had been Jill’s dream home. With her funny brand of stubbornness she suffered the teasing and mock scorn of friends to raise her fancy sheep, goats and alpacas. The house haunted him with memories, but memories were all he had.
That evening he sat in the living room with the television on, unwatched, and a newspaper open on his lap, unread. He listened to the answering machine fill with cheery greetings and pleas for him to call. Voices filled with worry and concern and touches of fear. He thought again of suicide.
He was not suicidal. He wanted to be left alone.
The following morning he scrambled eggs for breakfast before heading to the barn. Rosie blew her lips in greeting. He stroked her dark neck. “Morning, old girl,” he said before he opened the stall door and turned the horse out in the paddock. He filled her water trough and broke some hay flakes for her.
The mare belonged to Jill. He had sold the other horses, but Rosie was twenty-two years old and blind in one eye. He couldn’t risk her ending up in a dog-food can.
He had finished up in the barn when his neighbor drove up. “Hey, big guy!” Tony Rule called and waved. Tony had removed the top and windows from his Jeep, which had oversize tires and a winch attached to the reinforced front bumper. He wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless shirt.
Carson grinned. “Back I see.”
“Actually I got back day before yesterday,” Tony said. “Raccoons broke into my kitchen and made a mess. I spent all day cleaning. Had to go all the way to Flagstaff to find a new screen door.”
A few months ago Tony had bought the cabin and acreage at the foot of Carson’s mesa. Friendly, self-absorbed and generally pleased with himself, he made a good neighbor.
“I have two cases of pale ale and a new carbide rod and reel. Got any plans this weekend?”
A few hours drowning worms might make him feel better. Tony didn’t pity him. “I’ll see if I can squeeze you into my busy calendar. Where were you off to this time?”
“Toronto. That’s in Canada.”
Carson bit back a smirk. It amused him no end that Tony believed Carson was a country bumpkin.
“Ever thought about investing in telecommunications, big guy?”
“All that business stuff goes right over my head.”
“Your loss.” Tony started the Jeep. He revved the engine, making it roar. He slipped on sunglasses that probably cost more than Carson earned in a month. “See you oh-dark-thirty on Saturday.”
Carson watched him drive away. He should tell Tony about Madeline Shay. Tony was an avid cross-country runner. He ran where he pleased.
Not his job, he decided. If she didn’t want trespassers she should post some signs.
When he arrived at the police station, Wanda beckoned him over. She radiated excitement. A stranger sat in his office, his back to the door and his head bent toward something on his lap. Wanda snagged Carson’s arm.
“You got a visitor,” she whispered.
“I can see that.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“I’m fixin’ to find out.”
“Said he’s an insurance man, but he wouldn’t state his business. I think he’s trying to sell us something.” In her book, insurance salesmen ranked below coyotes.
Carson wished Wanda would remember her job involved taking calls and handling the radios, and nothing else.
“That’s interesting.” The stranger turned on the chair. “I’ll go see what he wants.”
Wanda looked miffed at being robbed of the opportunity for self-important speculation. With a haughty sniff, she went back to her desk with its bank of radio equipment.
The insurance man stood. Carson swept off his Stetson and shook hands. The man was bespectacled and trim. His grip was timid. “Ivan Bannerman. Pleased to meet you, Chief Cody.”
“Have a seat, sir.” He shut the door on Wanda’s prying eyes and pitcher ears. “What can I do for you today?”
He glanced at the door. “I am not a salesman, Chief Cody. I’m a claims investigator with Mutual Security and Assurance.” He handed over an embossed business card.
Carson wondered why this gentleman had traveled all the way from Nevada to a little tourist town in Arizona. “If you’re looking to discuss policies for the police department, you’re talking to the wrong man. You need to speak to Maurice Harrigan. He’s the mayor and head of the town council.”
“I am not a salesman,” Bannerman repeated. “I’m investigating a rather large settlement my company was forced to pay. Some new information has come to light that leads us to believe we can recover our losses.”
Carson sat behind the desk. “Is that so?”
Bannerman blinked rapidly. “It concerns one of your residents. Francis Brawley Shay the Third.”
The insurance man was lucky a wide desk protected him from Carson’s initial impulse to strike out. He gulped down the rise of fury. “Shay is dead. I know that because I’m the one that shot him. If your company was stupid enough to insure a thug, I sure don’t know what I can do for you.”
Bannerman pursed his lips.
“Shay’s folks died when he was a boy. He doesn’t have brothers or sisters. His widow lives on the Fort Apache reservation. Any beef you have about a settlement is with her,” Carson said.
“If I could conduct my business without involving you, sir, I would. Quite frankly, I need your help.”
Carson tapped a pen against the desk blotter. He wished he were a rancher or a gas-station owner or a hunting guide. Any of those occupations would allow him to throw this man out the door and out of his life. As chief of police he had responsibilities—even when it felt like badgers clawed his innards.
Bannerman cleared his throat and nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “Shay stole money from one of our clients. We settled the loss. We now believe we can recover our money.”
“I heard you guys were cracking down on fraud and theft, but this strikes me as extreme. Shay wasn’t that good at robbery. I doubt he made off with more than a few thousand dollars at any one time.”
“I’m talking about millions of dollars.”
That caught his interest.
“You’ve heard of the Worldwide Parcel hijacking?”
Carson had to think. “Four, five years ago. Perps hijacked an airplane and landed it in Idaho…no, Utah. What does Shay have to do with it?”
“An informant claims Shay took part in the hijacking. He hid the money before he went to prison.”
Carson ran a hand over his mouth and pulled his lower lip to prevent a bray of laughter. “Shay got ratted out to an insurance company? Forgive me, Mr. Bannerman, but why would anyone do that?”
“Mutual Security and Assurance is offering a substantial finder’s fee.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They got away with over thirty million dollars.”
Carson stared at the little man sitting so stiffly on the tweed-covered chair. “Pardon? Did you say thirty million?”
“I did.”
Right about then Carson could decide this was a prank, and throw this clown out of the police station. Except, a few weeks before the murders, Shay purchased a used delivery van, and outfitted it with heavy-duty tires. No one knew why a man fresh out of prison, who hadn’t made a single attempt to find gainful employment, needed a delivery van.
“The state police and the sheriff’s office handled the investigation. They didn’t find any money.”
“They weren’t looking for it. Five hijackers were murdered in Utah. The rest escaped, including Shay. He stashed the money before he went to prison.”
“Has your source talked to the FBI?”
“He’s one of Shay’s former cell mates and prefers to remain anonymous.”
“I don’t set much store by anon
ymous sources. Or jailhouse snitches.”
“This one is reliable. He knows details that weren’t in the newspaper or on television.”
“Such as?”
“There were eight hijackers. Not even the FBI knows how many were involved.”
“He could pull the number out of a hat.”
“Four men boarded the plane in Las Vegas. They had inside help from the Worldwide pilot. Four men, with two trucks waited on the ground in Utah. After the money was loaded, the leader started shooting. Shay and Deke Fry got away with the money.”
Jailhouse snitches were an inventive bunch. They had nothing but time to cook up stories.
Tightness gripped Carson’s chest and climbed his throat. Until a year ago he had never thought of himself as a vengeful man. A year ago he rose from bed each morning eager to go to work. He no longer cared about anything except finding a way to make things right. Bannerman offered the possibility of answers. If he could figure out why Shay had murdered his wife, he would feel better.
“Interesting details, Mr. Bannerman, but he could be jerking your chain.”
“Considering how much money is at stake, I’m willing to take the chance.”
Carson scribbled “Deke Fry” on his desk blotter.
“Shay and Fry hid the money until the heat was off. Shay got into a bar fight and was arrested. Jail turned out to be a good place to hide. Fry disappeared.”
“You’ve looked for him?”
“I most certainly have.”
“Fry recovered the money when Shay got locked up,” Carson said.
“Shay was too smart.”
Carson doubted it. “What about the third man? The leader. Name?”
Bannerman picked at his trouser leg. “No one knows. He’s a master criminal. He recruited the hijackers, turned the pilot, planned the entire heist and killed the witnesses. Shay was supposed to die in Utah like all the others.”
“Did you give this information to the FBI?”
Bannerman pulled off the glasses and blew lightly on the lenses. “The FBI has been less than cooperative with Mutual Security and Assurance. They demand the name of my source.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“If I knew his name. I’ve only spoken to him by telephone and he demands anonymity.”
Carson sensed a lie. “How can he collect a reward?”
“We have procedures to reward anonymous tips.”
“I don’t know how I can help you, sir. The hijacking is the fed’s case.”
“I read about what happened to you, Chief Cody. My condolences for your loss.”
Carson lowered his eyelids and leaned back on the chair.
“While money is a paltry substitute for a loved one, it can help ease the pain.” He watched Carson as if judging the effect of his words. “I would like your help—Mutual Security and Assurance would like your help in recovering the money.”
“Need a shovel?”
Bannerman wrinkled his face. “It is Mutual Security and Assurance’s policy to obtain official sanction for our investigations. I need someone who is familiar with this area. I also need the assurance of privacy. People get rather…excited when it comes to large sums of money.”
“You want me to help you dig up the Shay ranch and not tell anybody why.” Carson nodded as if it made sense. He damned himself for being interested.
“The finder’s fee is considerable.”
“I work for the town, not for rewards.”
Bannerman flinched. “It’s not my intent to insult you.”
He wondered if Madeline knew about a truckload of cash. “I need to do some fact checking before I make a decision.”
“I do hope you’ll be discreet. If this leaks to the media it could turn ugly real fast.”
Now Carson was insulted. “You have my word. I won’t tell anybody anything until I’ve discussed it with you.”
“Mutual Security and Assurance did not suffer lightly having to pay thirty million dollars to Worldwide. We have to answer to our shareholders.”
“There is one small problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The Shay ranch is private property. You’ll need the owner’s permission to search.”
Bannerman seemed stunned. “I thought the property was vacant.”
“Shay’s daughter lives there.”
A sneaking suspicion said Madeline Shay wouldn’t cooperate with the man who killed her father.
Chapter Two
Madeline rubbed grit from her eyes. She arched her back and rolled her shoulders, working out the kinks. She needed a good work light, but the utility company demanded a deposit before turning on the electricity. Not that this was too horrible. April in northern Arizona meant plenty of sunshine. The garage made a good natural-light studio. She had plenty of peace and quiet.
Maybe a tad too much isolation. All her life, she had wished for a hermit’s cave, away from phones, television, radio and people. Perfect silence in which to think and create.
Now that she had it, it sucked. She missed Uncle Willy and her little cousins. She missed talking to customers at the trading post. She longed to call Nona Redhawk to talk about art.
She stood and stretched, and walked outside. The garage was in better shape than the house, and it smelled better, too. The concrete floor was smooth, the walls were sturdy and in plumb. On the metal exterior walls, beneath the vile graffiti, lay a fairly fresh coat of paint.
The mesa towering to the east drew her gaze and thoughts to Carson Cody. Spotting his cruiser on the road had scared her, but seeing him had filled her with pity. He gave new meaning to despair and sorrow.
She wondered what he would do if she took him a gift. Throw it in her face? Nothing could ever make up for what her father had done.
Sighing, she carried her work-in-progress to the doorway to examine it in full sun. She armed sweat off her brow. While working, she didn’t notice the heat. Covering a tall wooden vessel in seed beads was a painstaking process. She used gourd stitch, sewing on beads one at a time. A phoenix pattern emerged, the dark bird rising from the flames. She dampened childish delight in the pattern and colors and the hypnotic brilliance of the tiny glass beads, and turned on her critical eye. She had learned the craft from bead workers who had learned from their ancestors. Living up to the knowledge they imparted so generously demanded brutal honesty about her efforts. She searched for buckling caused by odd-sized beads, for gaps in the increases and decreases, and for mistakes in the pattern. She discovered a black bead where a red bead should be.
An approaching vehicle caught her attention. Dust rose over the scrub. Her one visit to Ruff a year ago had left a nasty taste in her mouth. She’d been threatened with violence that transcended reason. That they were capable of it was evident in the house and garage. They were covered with filthy words and curses. Every window in the house was broken and holes were shot through the roof. People had left behind mounds of beer cans and other trash. Vandals had left something especially nasty beneath the house and sometimes the smell grew so bad she took her sleeping bag to the garage. Fortunately, the well was good. The rusty old hand pump was a pain to operate, but at least she had clean water.
At the sight of a police cruiser, she relaxed. Carson Cody might hate her, but their brief encounter had proved him a decent man. A sad, heavyhearted man, but decent nonetheless.
The cruiser pulled up to the house. Madeline sneezed. She groaned at the thought of all that dust settling on her worktable. Chief Cody parked behind her van. His broad-brimmed cowboy hat shadowed his face. Another man exited the cruiser.
Hiding fear and nervousness were second nature to Madeline. Head up and shoulders straight, she walked across the barren yard. “May I help you?”
The police chief tipped his hat. He was a big man with broad, muscular shoulders and long limbs. If he had a decent haircut and a facial, he’d make a good model for advertising pickup trucks. The other man wore a suit. He looked around as if expecti
ng something to bite him.
“Miss Shay,” Carson said, “sorry to bother you. This is Ivan Bannerman, of Mutual Security and Assurance. An insurance company. He hopes you can help him with a problem.”
She looked at the insurance man then back at the trashed house. The attorney representing her father’s estate had found her easily enough. She couldn’t imagine why it had taken the insurance company so long. “What’s this all about?”
Bannerman was a quivering little ferret. “Please excuse our interruption, but I’m sure you’ll understand how important this is.” He fanned his face with a hand. “Whew, it sure is hot out here.”
She folded her arms.
His tremulous smile faded. “I’m a claims investigator for Mutual Security and Assurance. A criminal action against one of our corporate clients caused our company a substantial loss. We have reason to believe it may be possible to recoup that loss.” His speech sounded rehearsed.
Madeline didn’t have time to play. “When you refer to a criminal action, you’re talking about my father, right?” She slid a look at Carson. Sunglasses concealed his thoughts. “If you’re hoping to recoup your losses from his estate, you’re out of luck. This ranch is worthless.”
Bannerman squared his shoulders. “It’s not the land. It’s what might be buried on it. I would like permission to search.”
Her scalp and neck prickled. Carson Cody had no right to parade strangers around on her land. “What is this really about? I told you I don’t want trouble. I haven’t set foot in your town and I won’t. So leave me alone.”
He pulled off the sunglasses and hooked them in the front of his uniform shirt. “Excuse me, Mr. Bannerman, I’d like a word in private with Miss Shay.”
The little man bristled like an offended rooster. “We agreed—”
“I know what we agreed. A moment.”
Carson walked toward the garage. Madeline looked warily between the men.
