“Have you two ever talked about it? Is there some reason she may have gotten the impression you wouldn’t want to sell?”
Grace’s expression shut down. She glanced out over the diner. “Lily and I don’t talk about much of anything these days.” She paused as her gaze slid back to Cage. “You sure know how to pump someone for information, don’t you?”
“It’s all part of the job,” he said, grinning.
“Some people are a little better at it than others,” she murmured. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“I’m just taking your advice,” Cage said. “Trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
“Right. So let’s turn the tables for a while. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
“What do you want to know?”
She sat back against the booth and obviously tried to relax. “Well, did you always want to be a cop?”
“No, I always planned to play pro football. I was pretty good, too, back in the day. Until I blew out my knee.”
“And that’s when you decided to become a cop?” There was a note of something—almost disapproval, he thought—in her voice.
“I had to be something,” he said. “Law enforcement seemed as good a career as any.”
She stared at him for a moment. “That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“The way Charlie Dickerson talked about you, I had you pegged for the hardcore gung-ho type. You know, the kind who eat, breathe and sleep their badge.”
“Well, we can’t all be like you,” he said.
“You think I’m hardcore?”
“You don’t?”
She seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged it off. “I guess I have my days.” She toyed with a pack of sweetener. “So have you ever been married?”
“Came close once, but it didn’t work out. Being a cop is pretty tough on relationships. I guess you’d know that as well as anyone. What you said earlier about being willing to die—it’s true,” Cage said. “You have to have some acceptance of your own mortality to even do this job. The people who care about you aren’t going to have that same acceptance. That’s why the divorce rate among cops is so high.”
“And suicide,” she said.
“Well, now, that I don’t get,” he said. “I’ve seen my share of misery, but I still have a pretty high regard for my own skin.”
“Right.” She gave him a look. “That’s why you ran out into the open like you did earlier. We need to talk about that. If you do come to work for my department, you need to remember that I call the shots. So, I need to ask you again if that’s going to be a problem for you.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said.
And it wouldn’t be if he was really in the market for this job. Because Grace Steele had pretty much had him at hello.
Chapter Eleven
By the time Cage and Grace got back to the station, word of the shoot-out had spread like wildfire, and several of the deputies filed out of the building to have a look at the shot-up truck.
And unless Cage was mistaken, Grace’s estimation seemed to go up with every whistle and “Aah” over the bullet holes in the metal and the shattered back glass.
But Lily, he noticed, was not among Grace’s newfound admirers.
“We still need to have that sit-down interview,” Grace said. “But I’m going to be swamped for the rest of the day. Any chance we could talk again tomorrow?”
“Sure, no problem. I’ve got things to keep me busy. I think I’ll take your advice and do a little exploring on my own this afternoon.”
As Cage pulled away from the station a few minutes later, a small group of deputies were still crowded around Grace’s truck, but she’d moved off to the side. Cage raised a hand in farewell, but she either didn’t see him or didn’t care to respond. She just stood there staring after him until he lost sight of her in the rearview mirror.
Cage put the top down as he drove out of town. The wind blowing against his face was exhilarating, and a part of him wanted to just keep going. But he only made it as far as the canyon. After pulling off the road, he climbed up to the top again and stood gazing around.
He could see for miles from that vantage, but there wasn’t much to take in. Just the flat, featureless desert, populated by prairie dogs, lizards and the shadowy skeletons of head-high cholla cactus.
Taking care with his bad knee, Cage made his way to the other side of the canyon and followed along the rim until he found a trail that led down to the bottom. The path was rugged, but he figured it would accommodate a four-wheeler with an experienced driver at the helm.
Cage was wearing shades, but the sun was so bright, he had to shield his eyes as he gazed off across the plains. He could see the silhouette of the Nance ranch house to the east, but in such an empty landscape, distance was hard to judge.
If Nance had been the shooter, he could have made it down the canyon, taken cover somewhere along the base until Cage and Grace left, then hightailed it across the desert in plenty of time to ditch the four-wheeler and hide out before they showed up on his doorstep. Of course, that would mean he’d somehow known that Grace would be at the crime scene that morning.
She didn’t think Jesse was responsible for the shooting, but Cage wasn’t so convinced. The proximity of his ranch and his and Grace’s history made him at least a person of interest in Cage’s book.
And there was still something about that overheard conversation at the diner that morning that niggled at Cage.
Once he made his way down the canyon, he climbed into the Caddy and drove back into town. He found a parking spot near the courthouse, which was one of those great old buildings with a domed roof and Victorian-style woodwork. Silhouetted against the blue sky and a backdrop of distant mountains, the courthouse seemed to embody the spirit of West Texas, complete with a broken statue of Justice on top of the dome.
Cage located the county clerk’s office, but there was no one behind the counter. However, through the open door of one of the offices, he could see a young man reared back in a chair, feet propped on the desk, absorbed in a Soldier of Fortune magazine.
When Cage knocked on the counter, the sound startled the poor guy so badly, he almost tumbled out of his chair. Scrambling to his feet, he shoved the magazine in a drawer and straightened his glasses as he came through the door.
“Can I help you?”
He looked to be in his late twenties, a buttoned-up type in khaki pants and loafers. Not exactly the target demographic for Soldier of Fortune, Cage thought, but then computer nerds were the ones who went so insane for all those online war games.
“I’m interested in a piece of property in Cochise County, and I need to take a look at the deed. Can you help me do that?” Cage asked him.
The clerk took some time to adjust his glasses. “If the deed has been recorded, I can locate it for you. But I’ll need a physical description of the property or a tax parcel number.”
“Well, I don’t have either of those things,” Cage said. “I can give you a name. I already know who owns the property, but I’ve been made aware of a possible problem with the deed. That’s why I want to take a look and see what I’m getting into.”
“What’s the name?”
“Jesse Nance.”
The man gave him a curious look before he disappeared back into one of the offices.
When he came back out several minutes later, he put some papers on the counter and motioned Cage over. “I made copies of the deed and all the recent transfers that I thought you might be interested in.”
Cage stared down at the first document. “Okay, what am I looking at?”
“This is a copy of the deed that was issued to Harold and Agatha Nance. When Harold died—” he shuffled the papers “—his wife had to fill out this transfer in order to remove his name from the deed.”
“And this one?” Cage pointed to the third paper.
“This is the last deed on record. It tr
ansfers the property to Jesse Nance and his wife, Grace Steele Nance.”
Cage stared at Grace’s name on the paper. Adrenaline kicked his blood pressure up a notch. “Let me get this straight. The name Grace Steele Nance is on the latest copy of the deed.”
“The last one on record,” the clerk said. “Deeds aren’t always recorded. There could be another copy that we don’t know about. But in order for it to be legal, Jesse Nance would have needed Grace Steele Nance’s signature on a transfer to remove her name.”
“Let’s say this is the latest deed,” Cage said. “What if Jesse Nance wanted to sell the property?”
“Same thing. He’d need her signature.”
“So in essence, Grace owns half this property.”
“I guess that would be for a court to decide.”
“How much is the property worth?”
“You can go to the tax assessor’s office to find out the latest appraisal. Of course, what a property is appraised at, and what it’s worth to a particular buyer are two different things.”
Cage picked up the papers. “Can I keep these copies?”
“Sure. Everything here is a matter of public record.”
Cage nodded. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help…I didn’t catch your name.”
“Brennan. Ethan Brennan.”
“Thanks, Ethan.”
“No problem. Listen, I probably shouldn’t mention this…” His gaze shot to the door as if to make sure no one was listening. “You’re not the first person who’s been in here looking at that deed. Someone else is interested in that property, and unless you’ve got deep pockets—”
“Colt McKinney, right?”
One brow lifted in surprise. “You already know about him, then.”
“I know he’s interested in this property, and I know he has deep pockets.”
“Not just deep pockets,” Ethan said. “He has a way of getting whatever he wants, and sometimes money has nothing to do with it. If you plan to make an offer on Nance’s ranch…just watch your back, is all I’m saying.”
“I appreciate the heads-up,” Cage said. “You wouldn’t have any idea what his plans are for this place, would you?”
“No more than I know what your plans are for it,” he said. “It’s pretty remote and the terrain is rugged out there. But I guess you already know that. You probably also know that only a few hundred feet separate the edge of Nance’s property from Mexico. If someone needed easy access to the border and plenty of places to hide out…” He trailed off on a shrug, but his eyes behind his glasses took on a sly glint that made Cage wonder how often people underestimated the guy.
Before Cage was out the door, Ethan had gone back to his magazine.
Outside, Cage stood for a moment glancing around the town square. Across the street was an old-fashioned movie theater with Rialto spelled out in green, purple and pink neon. The lights were turned off and the ticket window boarded up, the victim, no doubt, of a new multiplex somewhere in town. The square was deserted and quiet, which was why the black SUV that idled at the corner caught his eye.
It was a late model and expensive, with windows tinted so darkly, Cage couldn’t see a soul inside. But it wasn’t hard to imagine a pair of cold, cold eyes staring back at him.
COLT MCKINNEY’S RANCH was a far cry from Jesse’s place. The sprawling hacienda-style home with its stucco walls and red-tile roof gleamed like a jewel in the hot afternoon sunlight as Grace sailed down the paved drive.
Rows of metal wind turbines pumped the precious life blood of West Texas onto an acre of green lawn dotted with flower beds and fruit trees, making it an oasis of bright colors and thick, cool shade.
Grace pulled around the circular drive and parked in front of the house. Cecelia Suarez answered the door. She had a youthful face, but her dark eyes seemed to reflect an old soul, the kind that came with too much hard experience at too tender an age. She was dressed in a turquoise smock embroidered with red and yellow flowers, and her thick black hair was held back from her face with a red plastic headband, showcasing those long-suffering eyes and high cheekbones that hinted at an Indian ancestry.
“Sheriff Steele,” she said in surprise. Her English was nearly perfect, with just the barest trace of an accent. “Mr. McKinney isn’t here. Was he expecting you?”
“I came to see you, Cecelia. May I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, her expression puzzled as she stepped back for Grace to enter.
The house was cool and breezy inside and the rotation of the ceiling fans stirred Cecelia’s hair as she led Grace back toward the kitchen, her brown sandals slapping softly against the slate floor.
Grace followed her down the wide hallway, past arched doorways and long windows through which she glimpsed lush courtyards and shady loggias.
The house was spotless, Grace noticed. Whatever Colt paid Cecelia, he was certainly getting his money’s worth. As if reading her mind, Cecelia glanced over her shoulder, her earlier bewilderment now turning to worry.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, a huge, airy room filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread. Cecelia motioned to one of the leather stools at the handcrafted bar. “I just made some lemonade. Would you like a glass?”
“That sounds nice,” Grace said as she perched on the nearest stool. When the sweating glass was before her, she took a sip and smiled appreciatively. “Delicious.”
Cecelia stood nervously on the other side of the counter, her arms stiffly at her side. “What did you want to see me about? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
“No, of course not. I need to ask you some questions about your brother.”
“Sergio?” Now she looked really distressed. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this…” Oh, how Grace hated this part of her job. “A body was found near Red Rock Canyon this morning. One of the deputies thinks the victim may be your brother.”
“Mi Dios.” She quickly crossed herself.
“We’ll need you to come down to the morgue later to identify the body.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “When?”
“I can drive you there now if you want. Or I can send a car to pick you up later.”
“That’s okay. I have my own car.”
“This is not something you want to do alone,” Grace said. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll meet you over there.”
The young woman nodded. Her eyes were dry, but her knuckles had whitened where she gripped the edge of the bar.
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Grace asked.
“Sergio is my half brother. We have different fathers.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Garcia Gonzalez.”
Grace took out her notebook and jotted the information down.
“I saw him two weeks ago,” Cecelia said. “But only briefly. He wasn’t in town for long.”
“Have you talked to him since then?”
She shook her head sadly. “We don’t keep in touch. My mother brought me back to America when I was little, and Sergio stayed with his father. So we aren’t close. And some of the things he does…his compadres…” She used the term as a slang. “Diablos,” she said with a shudder.
“Has your brother ever been involved in drug smuggling? Does he work for one of the cartels?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. But from the company he keeps…” She lifted a shoulder in resignation.
“Is there anyone else in this area that Sergio might have come to see?”
Something flickered in the woman’s eyes before she glanced away. “No one that I know.”
“Where does your brother live?”
“Nuevo Laredo, last I heard.”
“Is there anyone that we should get in touch with?”
Cecelia shook her head. “Our parents are dead. I’m the only family he has left.” She looked down at her hands, hiding whatever emotion that might have b
een revealed in her eyes.
“When you’re ready to go to the morgue, give me a call.” Grace handed her a card.
Cecelia slipped the card into her pocket without a glance.
“And if there’s anything I can do—”
“Grace?”
At the sound of the male voice behind her, she turned to see Colt standing in the doorway. He looked as handsome and elegant as ever, even with his sleeves rolled up and his white shirt damp from perspiration. His suit coat was slung over his shoulder, and as he came into the room, he removed his sunglasses, his gaze going from Grace to Cecelia and back again.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, and then before she could answer, he said, “I hope you can stay for lunch. I’m sure Cecelia can whip us up an omelet or a salad or something.”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay,” Grace said. “I have to get back to the station.”
Cecelia, head still bowed, said, “Will you excuse me?” and hurried from the room.
Colt glanced after her. “What’s going on? She looked upset.”
“A body was found this morning near Red Rock Canyon. We think the victim may be her brother, Sergio.”
“Well, I can’t say that would surprise me,” Colt said. “That guy had bad news written all over him.”
“You knew him?”
“I saw him in town with Cecelia on a couple of occasions. Luckily, he never came out here to see her. Not that I knew of anyway. I don’t need his kind of problem,” he said with an unfamiliar edge to his tone. Normally, his voice was as smooth as liquid.
“I asked Cecelia if she thought he might be connected to one of the cartels. What do you think?”
“Do the math, Grace. What is the percentage of murders along the border that are drug related?”
She nodded. “Did you ever see him with anyone else?”
“No. I don’t think he came around these parts too often. He and Cecelia didn’t get along.”
“Didn’t get along or weren’t close?”
He shrugged.
“So why was he here last night?” Grace mused.
Showdown in West Texas Page 11
