Wyoming Bold wm-3

by Diana Palmer

“The man we’re looking for knew that Merissa kept her headache pills in her bedside table, and that she was starting to get a headache. How?”

  The men looked at one another.

  “I missed a bug. We missed a bug,” Carson told Rourke.

  “Impossible!” Rourke said angrily. “I ran the rooms four times, just to make sure!”

  “You were out of sight yesterday,” Tank said, “when Merissa took the medicine.”

  “Only for thirty minutes.”

  “About that time, I was driving Merissa home. Where was Clara?”

  “I don’t know, but we can ask,” Rourke said, leading the way into the restaurant. “If she was out of the house at all, that gave him the opportunity to sneak in another bug.”

  “How about the capsules?” Tank asked. “That would have taken time. The doctor said it was an almost perfect job of tampering.”

  “He knows she has headaches. All he lacked was the opportunity to place the capsules.”

  “Why not when he was bugging the place?” Tank wondered.

  “I imagine he makes it up as he goes,” Rourke replied quietly. “He plans, but he plans as situations develop. He might have learned about her headaches for the first time after he placed the bugs. The tampering could have taken place over a period of days.”

  “Yes.” Rourke paused. “And he might have counted on Merissa’s father to take her out for him, along with her mother.” He glanced at Tank’s hard face. “The man is unbalanced. Brilliant, but unbalanced.”

  Clara saw them come in and motioned them to the booth where she was sitting. She smiled. “We could eat while we’re here,” she suggested. “Then, if I could impose on you to drive me by the hospital...?”

  Tank said as he slid into the booth, “I’ll go, too.”

  “Clara,” Rourke began after they’d ordered barbecue plates, “when Carson was out placing his surveillance units, did you leave the house at all?”

  She blinked. “Why, yes, just to run by the drycleaners and leave a comforter. I wasn’t gone five minutes. Why?”

  Tank and Rourke exchanged glances. Tank nodded.

  “Don’t say anything in the house that you’d mind being overheard,” Rourke told her. “You must be extraordinarily clever. I’m not going to remove the bug he’s just placed. Let him think we’re too dim to realize it’s even there.”

  “Bug? I don’t understand,” she began.

  Tank explained how they thought the bug was placed, and how the intruder knew where Merissa kept her headache medicine.

  “Oh, goodness,” Clara said heavily. “I opened my big mouth. Just like I did, telling them where Bill was, and I got him killed,” she added sadly. “Then there’s that other man. The one Merissa told us about, that she saw in her mind, a man who knew about this intruder and was going to tell on him...”

  “You can’t save the world,” Rourke said heavily. He gave her a weary smile. “I know. I’ve been trying.”

  She smiled weakly. “I see your point. It’s very hard, though, to know something and not be able to warn anyone.”

  “In that case,” Tank told her, “you have to consider that some things just happen the way they’re meant to. We can’t see very far down the road. God can.”

  “Okay.”

  Carson came back in. He slid into the booth beside Clara. “I’ve put some things in motion,” he said. “There’s been a development back home.”

  “What?” Tank asked.

  “It seems that Cash Grier managed to track down the man who attacked Carlie’s father with a knife. He turned up in the morgue in San Antonio. He was poisoned.”

  “Good grief!” Tank exclaimed. “Merissa told him that there was a man who knew him and was thinking about going to the authorities. He said he knew who it was and he’d take care of him.” He groaned. “It’s going to hit her hard.”

  Rourke’s one eye narrowed. “Don’t tell her.”

  “The man had a rap sheet seven pages long,” Carson added. “One of his arrests was for rape. He’s no loss to the world.”

  “Did he talk to the authorities?” Tank asked. “Do you know?”

  “He made a phone call before he died. It was to a police officer in San Antonio. They’re trying to contact the officer to see if a conversation even took place. One more minor detail.”

  “Yes?” Tank asked.

  “The man was taking a prescription medication for allergies. The capsules were tampered with. Like to take a guess at what sort of poison was in them?” Carson mused.

  “Don’t tell me,” Rourke said. “Malathion.”

  “Exactly. He had access to it on the ranch, didn’t he?” Carson asked Tank.

  “He was in and out of the barn where we keep it, but it’s in a locked shed room,” Tank replied.

  “You keep your keys hanging just inside the back door in the house,” Rourke recalled. “Does one of them fit that storeroom?”

  Tank’s eyes closed. “She warned me about those keys the first day she came to the house,” he said. “She said, ‘he’ll find them there.’”

  “She’s very perceptive,” Clara remarked gently.

  “I wish I’d listened!” Tank groaned.

  “He’d have found another way,” Carson said. “Anything can be used to poison someone, even common household items.”

  “Like hand grenades?” Rourke said, tongue-in-cheek. “I believe El Ladŕon’s convoy was treated to a few of those...?”

  “The convoy of El Ladŕon was accidentally blown up by a few equally accidentally tossed hand grenades.” He looked perfectly innocent.

  “Nice aim,” Rourke said, grinning.

  Carson grinned back. “I get in some practice from time to time.”

  Tank started to ask a question when the jukebox, a holdover from the past, started up. The sounds of rock music filled the restaurant.

  “Try talking over that,” Carson groaned.

  The song was an old hard rock tune by Joan Jett, called “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” It had a hard, heavy beat and it had been a favorite of the Kirks’ mother when she was still alive. It brought back memories for Tank. He smiled as he listened. And then, quite suddenly, he frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Clara asked.

  He caught his breath. “That song,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s loud,” Carson muttered.

  “No! The man who was, or who was pretending to be, a DEA agent when I was ambushed,” he said, feeling all over again the impact of the bullets. “I heard that song.”

  “The mind plays tricks in dangerous situations,” Rourke began.

  “It was that song. But it wasn’t sung. It was...I don’t know...like wind chimes,” he faltered as he tried to recall it.

  “Wind chimes?” Carson mused.

  Rourke frowned. “My...employer,” he said, hesitating before he gave the relationship, and not the real one at that, “has a very expensive Swiss watch that he customized with a tune he was fond of. It plays the opening bars of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.” He lifted his head. “It sounds like wind chimes. Or chapel chimes that used to come out of the steeples at churches.”

  Tank sat very still. He closed his eyes, trying, trying to remember the man. “It’s no use,” he groaned. “When I picture him, all I can see is that damned gaudy paisley shirt he was wearing.” He opened his eyes. “But I know I heard chimes. It could have been a watch. I’m not sure he was wearing it. Judging by his suit, he couldn’t have afforded an expensive Swiss watch with customized music,” he added. “His suit was strictly off the rack.”

  Carson pulled out his cell phone and opened an internet browser.

  “What?” Tank asked.

  “It’s a long shot,” he said. “But I’m curious about that tune. It rings a bell somewhere in the back of my mind.”

  He tapped in a search string and waited. Then he thumbed through the results, which seemed to go on forever. Finally he paused, tapped the screen and his face grew even more grim.

&
nbsp; “Several months ago,” he said, looking up, “about the time Hayes Carson made his bust and you got ambushed, a district attorney was murdered in San Antonio.”

  “And?” Tank asked.

  “They think it was a theft because of what was stolen. His wife was wealthy. He was wearing a very expensive Swiss watch. They said it had a musical alarm, but not what the tune was. It was never found.”

  Tank’s dark eyes twinkled. “A break. Maybe.”

  Carson nodded. He was still pulling up websites. He frowned. “There’s a photograph of the prosecutor who was killed. I want you to look at this.” He handed his iPhone to Tank, who took it and his face paled.

  “What?” Rourke asked when he saw Tank’s expression.

  “The damned shirt. The damned paisley shirt.” He drew in a long breath. “That looks like the shirt the so-called federal agent was wearing.”

  “Can you find out if the shirt went missing?” Rourke asked Carson.

  “Let me find out for you. I know a homicide detective with San Antonio P.D.,” Rourke said. He pulled out his own phone and put in a call to Lieutenant of Detectives Rick Marquez.

  * * *

  “ROURKE,” RICK MARQUEZ stated when he heard the South African accent.

  “That’s me. How are things?”

  “Busy,” Rick replied, chuckling. “My wife and I are expecting any day now.”

  “Congrats,” Rourke replied.

  “Thanks. We’re pretty excited. Big changes coming.”

  “You’re telling me. Listen, I’m working for a bloke up here in Wyoming. Tank, excuse me, Dalton Kirk...”

  “Hayes Carson told me about that,” Rick interrupted. “Any luck catching the culprit?”

  “That’s where we’re hoping you could give us a hand, unofficially,” Rourke replied. “A San Antonio district attorney was murdered some months ago, and some things were stolen from him, yes?”

  “Yes,” Rick said. “He was a good guy. Hardworking and honest and relentless. He left behind a wife and two small children. Damned bad luck. He was walking through the car park after hours when somebody jumped him, shot him to death and robbed him.”

  “You’ve never caught the perp, yes?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “I understand that a watch was one of the stolen items...specifically an expensive Swiss watch.”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I think so.”

  Tank asked for the phone and held it to his ear. “Dalton Kirk here. Lieutenant Marquez. Was your murder victim also wearing a paisley shirt at the time, and was it missing?”

  “Let me think. Oh, I remember now. It was one of the more puzzling aspects of the crime. Of course, criminals come in all colors and mental persuasions. The man’s shirt was removed by whoever killed him. Left his suit coat, which was very expensive, lying on the ground. His wallet was taken, the watch and the shirt.”

  “Was he shot in the chest?”

  “No. In the head. There was some blood, not a lot, on his suit coat. Although there was quite a bit on the pillar behind him...”

  “The shirt, was it identified by anyone?”

  “His wife said it was a couture paisley shirt she had a famous Paris design house create for him... What is it?” Rick asked when Tank drew in his breath.

  “The man who shot me was wearing a shirt like that. Sheriff Hayes Carson remembers the agent who was with him at his drug bust also wearing one. I don’t know if he saw the man’s watch, but you might ask him.”

  “This is going in a strange direction,” Rick said.

  “Tell me about it! It looks like we may have your prosecutor’s murderer up here in Wyoming trying to kill me,” Tank said. “I didn’t know why. But I think it might have something to do with your unsolved murder down there in Texas.”

  “I think you may be right. Tell me everything you remember about the man,” Rick said. “We have one witness who saw the killer running away. He passed right by the window of her bake shop. We pulled in all the usual suspects and did a lineup but she couldn’t identify anybody. In fact, the description she gave us was, frankly, right up there with the ones we get from people on hallucinogenic drugs.”

  “How so?” Tank asked.

  “She said he had flaming orange hair and that he was carrying a blow-up children’s swimming pool toy.”

  “To draw attention away from his face,” Tank said, remembering something he’d heard Carson say. “Or to make the witness sound foolish when giving a description of him. Probably he grabbed a child’s toy from someone’s yard when he fled the scene.”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  “Tell him about the man who stabbed Carlie Blair’s father. That perp was poisoned,” Carson prompted.

  “Yes.” He told Marquez about that, but Marquez already knew. He just hadn’t connected the two cases. There might not be a connection, he added, but he’d check it out anyway.

  “It might be nothing, but I have a feeling there are some connections here. I’ll get people looking into it. Give me back to Rourke. Nice to meet you, by the way.” Marquez chuckled.

  “Same here.” He handed the phone back to Rourke.

  Rourke listened for a minute. “Yes. That’s right. He tried to poison a young woman, a friend of Dalton’s, and he’s repeatedly put her in the line of fire. He’s bugged the Kirk home and her home. We thought he was a nutter, but now I’m beginning to realize that he has a lot more at stake than we realized. Apparently he was afraid Dalton might remember what he just has, to connect him with that murder. Same for Hayes Carson. It also explains why he wanted the computer wiped at Hayes’s office. He didn’t want anybody to see that shirt he had on, possibly the watch as well, and make a connection.”

  “Which leads us to still another question, if he’s some random killer, why is he so concerned that he might be linked with a particular murder?” Rick asked.

  “He made it seem like a robbery, didn’t he?” Rourke said thoughtfully. “Maybe he didn’t want it connected with a case your prosecutor might have been working on.”

  “Damn! Good detective work there, Rourke,” Marquez said. “Why don’t you give up feeding people to crocodiles and come to work for me? You can have free coffee and your own parking spot.”

  “Sorry,” Rourke replied. “Feeding crocs is a bit more lucrative at the moment. Here’s my cell number. I’ll be with the Kirks, so if you need to reach Dalton, this is the best way. Their phones might not be safe. We’ll have to recheck everything.”

  “Good idea.”

  Rourke gave him the number then they exchanged a few more words and hung up.

  * * *

  “WELL!” TANK SAID HEAVILY. “All this, over a murder in Texas!”

  “It would seem to connect,” Rourke replied. He shook his head. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense. He’s gone to an incredible amount of trouble to cover his tracks, but since then, he’s made himself a target with attempted murder here.”

  “He might be in on the hit they planned for Hayes Carson,” Tank said solemnly.

  “I wouldn’t have agreed even two days ago,” Carson interrupted. “But I believe you’re on to something.”

  “I know he is,” Clara, who had been sitting quietly, listening, said. “That was what Merissa saw. She said that you were being targeted because of something you didn’t even remember. It makes sense now.”

  “It certainly does.” Tank glanced at the other men. “We have to be more careful than ever. We can’t assume that he hasn’t placed more devices around the ranch. We have people coming in all the time, from USDA inspectors, to cowboys, to suppliers, even men who drive the cattle trucks and are sometimes temporary hires. It’s a big ranch. Takes a lot of people to keep it operating. We do run background checks on the people who come most often, but we don’t extend it to temporaries who work a day or two.”

  “I can run a check on everyone who comes through the gate with facial recognition software,” Carson said quietly. “It will ta
ke time, but anyone who isn’t a regular will stick out like a red flag.”

  “Good idea. I’ll make sure everyone knows to keep conversation general and away from anything concerning the intruder,” Tank told them. He looked at Clara. “That goes double for you, and for Merissa, when she gets home.”

  Clara nodded. “We’ll be very careful this time.”

  “I’ll get you a scrambler,” Carson said with a smile. “It’s not an obvious block, like jamming. It will just give you a little privacy by confusing the transmitters for anyone eavesdropping.”

  “Thanks,” Clara said softly.

  The waitress delivered trays of food, mostly turkey and dressing plates in honor of Christmas, and they fell silent while they ate.

  * * *

  AFTER FINISHING AT the diner, and saying goodbye to the two men, Tank took Clara with him to the hospital.

  Rourke climbed into the car with Carson. He gave the other man an odd look.

  “What?” Carson asked.

  He shrugged. “Just curious about something.”

  The other man raised an eyebrow before he turned his attention back to the road.

  “You’ve changed,” Rourke remarked.

  “Explain.”

  “All the time I’ve known you, there was nothing you hated more than women. Now, suddenly, you’re Don Juan.”

  Carson looked out the windshield intently. “Variety is the spice of life.”

  “That wasn’t you, even a year ago.”

  Carson laughed coldly. “It was. I have moods. Sometimes I think about things, and women go right down on the scale like a rock falling. I was Mr. Conservative for a while. Then I had a...personal tragedy,” he said, glossing over the tragic death of his wife. “Afterward, I saw women in a different way. Well, most of the time. Hell, they want to play around like men, notch the bedpost at night, laugh at commitment—why shouldn’t I avail myself of the opportunities that present themselves?” he mused. “I’m no monk.”

  “Neither am I,” Rourke replied. He smiled. “But I’m not in your league.” He shook his head. “Damn, you’ve got skills.”

  Carson chuckled. “I gather pretty bouquets. Some have long stems, some have short ones. But the more beautiful they are, the more I enjoy them. For a while.”