by Geonn Cannon
"I am." He straightened and looked her up and down. "Are you the FBI woman? The Ranger told me to wait for you. I wouldn't have fussed so much if I'd known you'd be so beautiful."
Mallory rolled her eyes. Even if she had gotten a full night's sleep, it was much too early to deal with this brand of jerk. "I'm Special Agent Faye Mallory. Did you spend much time with Claire Lance?"
Sensing his charm wouldn't work on her, he let it drop. "Not a lot. Passed each other once or twice. Watched her wipe the floor with Roy at pool."
"She beat him at pool?" she said. "So maybe he came after her later when they were alone. Maybe this whole thing is a case of self-defense."
Hadley tensed. "She shot him in cold blood. You bitches, always sticking up for—"
She held up a hand. "Quiet. I'm just telling you what her defense attorney would say if he found out about the pool game. Is it important that she beat him? Or that they even played a game at all?"
He hesitated as if expecting a trick. He squinted at her. "Guess not."
"Have you mentioned it to anyone else? The Texas Rangers?"
"No."
"Good. Let's just keep it between us, then, all right?"
Hadley's confused expression turned into a smile when he realized what she was offering.
"I'm going to want statements from you and your men. Are they in yet?"
"It's five-thirty in the morning," Hadley said. "I doubt they're finished with last night yet."
Mallory nodded. "Call them, get them in here. I'll be back in about an hour. Make sure everyone has their stories straight by then."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Where is Jolly's Garage?"
Hadley gestured with his chin. "Out the door, two blocks to the east. Big sign over the garage doors that says Jolly."
"Thank you." She turned around to leave and stopped when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A gaunt man with a shaved skull was coming out of the bathroom. He was buckling his belt and stopped short when he saw her.
Hadley said, "Come on over here, Kay."
Mallory knew it was a subtle way of saying not to cause trouble, to keep moving. Kay looked her up and down, ran his hand across his bottom lip — a disgusting prospect considering his hygiene and where he had just come from — and sidled over to the bar. Mallory looked at Hadley and nodded her thanks to him. "One hour," she reminded him.
"Yes, ma'am."
She left the bar and looked up and down the street. Twenty-four hours ago, Lance had been walking these streets and breathing this air. She inhaled as if she could track the scent of her prey, and then stepped off the sidewalk and started walking east.
The town was small enough she would have had to be an imbecile to miss the garage. It was two streets over, next to a small cafŽ that hadn't yet opened for the morning. It was a low, yellow building with two garage bays. She tried the knob on the business entrance and was surprised to find it open. Small town life, she figured as she stepped into the main office. There was an unmanned counter fronted with dozens of pages ripped out of bikini magazines, and a Coke machine hummed quietly in the corner. An unseen radio behind the counter played a mournful George Strait song.
Mallory decided not to wait for someone to show up and help her. She pushed through a glass door into the garage. She was almost stricken speechless at the sight of the dark blue 1966 Mustang sitting right in front of her. It was mythical: Claire Lance's car — the Batmobile, the General Lee, and KITT, all wrapped up in one.
She ran her hand over the smooth curve of the hood and smiled. Seeing the car was like seeing a cigarette smoldering in an ash tray — Lance had been there recently; the trail was warming up. She looked into the front seat, hoping that maybe there was something that could bring her closer to capturing her prey.
"Beauty, ain't she?"
Mallory turned and saw a man walking toward her from the other side of the garage. He was old, with snow-white curly hair and a bushy, walrus mustache. His dress shirt was strained at the seams and the buttons, his paisley tie draped across his gut like a fallen flag. His brown khaki pants were smeared with grease, probably deriving in equal amounts from cars and fast food. The outfit had obviously spent more than a few years in the closet, and Mallory figured he was dressed to impress. Not often that the "Fedrul Burah of Investigating" came to town. He extended his hand and Mallory shook it without hesitation. Anything to get closer to Claire Lance. "Yes, she is, Mr....Jolly?"
"Charles Lee Charles, called Charlie, then Cholly, then Jolly," he said with a grin. "Call me any of them you want, pretty lady. How might I help you?" She flashed her ID and his eyebrows went up. "Oh, hell. Well, I knew the FBI was sendin' someone down. Never figured an FBI agent would look like you, though."
Mallory ignored the "compliment" and nodded at the car. "Mind if I take a look?"
"Have at it. I figure I won't be getting paid for the work I already done on her." He put his hand on the roof and patted it. "Might be able to sell it off, though. There's some rust spots, it's a little worn, but—"
"This car is evidence, Mr. Charles," Mallory said. She took the key from Jolly to open the passenger side door and slid inside. "The FBI is going to be taking custody of it."
"Damn it to hell." Jolly slapped the sidewall of the car and shook his head. He sighed and shrugged a large shoulder. "Well, easy come, easy go."
"Thank you, Mr. Charles," she said as she leaned forward to examine the glove compartment — a not so subtle hint for him to get lost.
He sighed. "Right. Take what you need. Let me know when you're done." He wandered to the back of the garage where another mechanic was folded inside the hood of an ancient Chevy. Mallory pulled a handful of maps from the glove box and shuffled through them: Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia...all places she knew Lance had been, places Lance had slipped through her fingers. She put them on the seat next to her and dug deeper.
Chapstick, chewing gum, a pair of black leather gloves...nothing of use there. The seat and floor were littered with the debris of countless road meals. Bags from big fast food chains and anonymous little Mom and Pop shops were piled up on the seat and floorboard. She swept them aside with her foot, not sure what she was hoping to find. Lance wasn't stupid. She had made it this far by making sure her tracks were covered. If Lance had anything incriminating, she would keep it with her at all times. Mallory wasn't going to find anything worthwhile in the car.
Before she got out, Mallory reached up and folded down the sun visors. The photograph fell out from above the driver's side visor and fluttered facedown to her lap like a butterfly, as if it had been waiting to be delivered specifically to her. She picked it up with trembling fingers, already sure what she was going to see when she turned it over.
Elaine had been caught turning toward the camera, her brow slightly furrowed and her mouth open in protest. She was smiling, and her right arm was extended as if to ward off the camera. Her black hair was fanning out with the motion of her body and her blue eyes were wide with surprise.
Mallory inhaled sharply and let the breath out in a series of shaky gasps. She hadn't avoided Elaine's pictures, but it had been a long time since she had stumbled over one like this. It was a shock, but one she could easily file away and process later. She tucked the photograph into the breast pocket of her shirt and climbed out of the car, then slammed the door and called Jolly over. The man left his mechanic and waddled over to her. She aimed a finger at the Mustang. "No one touches this car until the forensics team gets a look at it, do you hear me?"
He nodded and threw off a sloppy salute. "Loud and clear."
She thanked him and left through the open garage door. As she walked down the driveway, she noticed a huge charcoal gray GMC pick-up parked at the curb. As she passed in front of it, the driver's side door opened and someone stepped out. Mallory's hand went to the butt of her gun and she spun around to face whoever it was that had been waiting for her. The statuesque redhead held up her hands and gestured at the silve
r star on her chest. "Texas Ranger Antonia Lazareva. Special Agent Mallory, I presume? Your office called to let me know you were on your way down."
"Ranger Lazareva." Mallory relaxed and moved her hand from her gun. She recognized the woman's voice from the phone, but she hadn't expected someone who looked like this one. "You're an early riser."
"Haven't been to bed. Strike while the iron's hot," the Ranger said. She extended her hand. "Pleased to meet you."
Mallory took her hand and surveyed the woman. She was gorgeous, there was no doubt about that. Her voice held a trace of a Southern accent, but there was another accent that was slightly heavier lingering beneath. Judging from the name, she figured the Ranger was the product of a bilingual household. Mallory gestured at the garage. "Did you check out the car?"
"Eyes only," Lazareva said. "Hands off. Your boys were quite clear that I was supposed to hold off for you."
"I appreciate it, but it doesn't look like we'll get anything important from it." She turned and started to walk, giving Lazareva the option of following or being left behind. The Ranger decided to follow. "Right now I'm going to have a word with the rest of Morse's crew from the bar. See what they can give me."
"Not a damn thing," Lazareva said. Her long legs meant that she caught up with Mallory easily. "If those fellas know anything, they're not going to tell you or me about it."
"Do you think they're planning to go after Lance themselves?" Mallory asked, thinking, Over my dead body.
Lazareva nodded. "I think they'll try. You're wasting your time here. I've already been over this ground."
"I know," Mallory said, reluctant to admit that she had been ordered to waste her time chasing cold leads. "But my SAC thinks it's important, so here I am."
"More important than moving while the trail is hot?"
Mallory smiled and looked at Lazareva. There was hope for this Ranger. "You're preaching to the choir on that score."
"Still, your boss might be on to something. There's definitely something hinky going on in this town."
Mallory stopped at the corner before they reached the bar. "Define hinky."
Lazareva stepped closer and lowered her voice. Mallory surreptitiously looked down, admiring the way the Ranger filled out her blue jeans and cream-colored shirt. Lazareva either didn't notice or chose to ignore that she was being checked out.
"There's a farm outside of town owned by a guy named Boris Younger. When I interviewed Hadley yesterday, he mentioned that Younger hadn't been seen for a while. Since I had to wait for you to show up, I thought I'd go out and take a look. Mr. Younger was in his cow barn, dead from a bullet to the head. Looked like he'd been worked over pretty well before he died. You know about rigor mortis, right? Cadaveric spasm?"
Mallory nodded. "The hands stiffen in whatever position they were in when the person died."
"Boris Younger's hands were clawed," Lazareva said. She demonstrated with her own hands, cupping her left hand and holding it out away from her body, while folding the other into a fist by her waist. "I think he was holding onto a shotgun when he died. You saw the bar, right? The plywood over the mirror?"
"You think Younger died in the bar? Why move his body and not Roy's? Why call the cops for one dead body and not the other?"
Lazareva shrugged. "Roy Morse was a bigger deal than Boris Younger. Hadley and the others are acting like their lord and ruler is dead. I figure Younger died first, they tried to hide it, and decided to stop the cover-up when Roy was added to the list of the dead."
Mallory shook her head. "Okay, but we're assuming Lance killed both Younger and Morse, right?" Lazareva nodded. "So why would they keep her around after she had killed one of their men?"
"According to Hadley, Claire Lance spent the day Roy was killed spending time with his wife. Maybe Gwen Morse was gay. Maybe she wanted to keep Lance around and Roy didn't like the idea of his wife leaving him for a woman. There was a fight, guns got drawn, Lance got lucky."
"Is there evidence that Mrs. Morse was gay?" Mallory asked.
Lazareva shrugged. "It's always a possibility. I got a look at the county sheriff's files. There were more than a few reports of domestic violence in the Morse house. Maybe Mrs. Morse was starved for attention and latched onto Lance for a quick fling. Maybe Lance witnessed some spousal abuse from Roy, decided enough was enough."
Mallory shrugged and looked down the street. A truck pulled up in front of the bar and two men climbed out. They went inside, casting lingering looks over their shoulders at the two law enforcement officers standing down the street. Mallory chewed the inside of her cheek. She had two new deaths she could pin on Lance, but now both murders were looking like they could have been self-defense. That was unacceptable. "Lance robbed the bar before she left. She's taken Gwendolyn Morse, maybe against her will. For now, that's what I'm going to focus on."
"Okay," Lazareva said. "I'm just giving you all the information in the case."
"I appreciate it." She stepped aside. "I need to go interview the men in the bar before my boss will let me join the chase in Oklahoma."
Lazareva frowned. "Why Oklahoma? Dallas—"
"Lance won't go to Dallas. She'll know better than to stop that soon. Oklahoma is the best bet. Now if you'll excuse me..."
"Okay. But don't expect me to leave. There's more I want to talk to you about."
She turned and started back to her truck. Mallory walked to the bar and stopped before walking inside. She looked back and watched Lazareva, the swing of her hips and the swagger of her shoulders. Her jeans weren't tight but they were snug, and caressed all the right places. Mallory allowed herself a small smile as she ran her eyes down the cop's long, slender legs. One good thing about Texans, she thought, as she stepped into the dark bar, was that they were a lot like Australian flight attendants — there was very little chance that she would run into them again in the future.
Chapter Seven
Just past Altus, Oklahoma, Lance got off the interstate and moved onto the surface streets. Gwen had her feet on the seat, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared out the window at the passing landscape. It seemed like they had passed thousands of farms, endless fields and tiny no-name towns, and all of them reminded her of Saxe. She had to keep reminding herself that it was in the past. There was a good chance she was never going back, that she would never see the grocery store or the library ever again. She would never see Roy again.
At the third town, Lance slowed and prowled the main drag. She found a gas station one block away from the main road and pulled into the parking lot. There were two trucks at the far end of the lot and she parked as far from them as possible, out of sight from the front door. "Stay here," she said to Gwen. "I'll be right back."
She got out of the car and pulled the money from the Four Roses safe out of her pocket. She kept her hands tight to her stomach, arranging her fingers so it wasn't obvious how much money she had. She peeled a hundred off the roll and put the rest back in her jeans.
Three bells over the door chimed as she entered. The clerk was leaning against the cigarette rack, placing a telephone under the counter as he looked up to say, "Good morning." Another man, wearing a puffy orange vest and a green baseball cap, was leaning on the customer side of the counter. He turned and nodded to her. He might have been a farmer, or a hunter on his way out to make the first kill of the day.
She nodded politely to them as she hurried to the coolers. The store offered homemade sandwiches, turkey and cheddar or ham and swiss, in Ziploc bags. She took six sandwiches, a couple of bags of chips, and two big bottles of soda. The hunter/farmer moved out of the way as she put her purchases down on the counter. There wasn't much room at the counter, so he and Lance ended up standing side-by-side. His clothes reeked of old cigarettes, but she supposed it could have been a lot worse.
"Morning," the hunter/farmer said.
Lance smiled and nodded. She picked up a local paper and laid it on the counter. She glanced down and relaxed when she saw t
hat her picture wasn't on the front page.
"Road trip?" he asked, undeterred by her silence. "Is that your Camino out there?"
"Yep," Lance said. Her heart slammed against her ribs as the clerk rang up her purchases. He seemed to be taking forever. Had the hunter seen the paper? Had there been a story about fugitives in an El Camino?
The clerk said, "Any cigarettes or anything?"
Lance wondered if he was trying to delay her. Shit, had he been on the phone when she came in? "No, no cigarettes. How much is it?"
"Twenty-seven, even."
Lance was shocked, but then she realized that the store really had no competition nearby. They could gouge the hell out of whatever they wanted. She handed him the folded hundred and he said, "Whoa, I don't know if I can break that."
Lance looked at the clerk and tensed slightly. "Just give me what you can. Keep the rest. Call it a tip."
"I'm not allowed to do that, ma'am."
"Just do it, all right?" she snapped.
The hunter said, "Ma'am, are you in trouble?"
Lance looked at him and saw real concern in his eyes. She forced herself to be calm as she drummed her fingers on the countertop. "No. I'm just, I'm just stressed out. I overslept this morning and we're running late. All I have is the hundred and I don't have time to worry about getting exact change."
The hunter pulled out a thick canvas wallet and flipped it open. He thumbed through the bills, put five twenties on the counter and picked up her hundred. "There ya go. Clark ain't worth a seventy dollar tip on his best day."
"Shut up, Roger," Clark the Clerk said. He loaded the groceries into a brown paper bag, took two of the twenties and handed Lance thirteen dollars in change.
Lance picked up the bag and nodded to Roger. "Thank you."
"Chivalry ain't completely dead. You have a nice day, ma'am."
