Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  The bedclothes were rumpled. A streak of blood stained a sheet. The air was heavy with the smell of antiseptic and sage smoke. The first-aid kit was missing from the side table. The bathroom was empty. She fingered a towel. Dry.

  “Where did she go?”

  Tippy wagged his tail.

  Diana had a sick feeling that more than her sister was missing. A look inside the closet proved her suspicions. Two flannel shirts, jeans and a pair of boots were missing. So was her heavy winter coat. In the kitchen she discovered the pantry stripped of everything that could be eaten without cooking. A camp kit was gone, too. The jar where she deposited tip money was empty.

  She closed her eyes, envisioning her sister gathering warm clothing and food. Supplies that would serve a person who intended roughing it in the wilderness.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed and ran outside.

  Behind the house was a two-stall barn. The corral gate stood wide open. Shoulders sagging, Diana slowed to a walk. The barn felt as empty and deserted as the house. No friendly snuffle welcomed her. “Smoky Joe?” she called, and whistled hopefully. Her horse, and all his tack, was gone.

  Guilt about sharing her concerns with Tate Raleigh winked away.

  “I should trade you in on a rottweiler,” she told the dog. Tippy wagged his tail and grinned.

  She was so disgusted, and embarrassed, too. This same thing happened the last time she’d seen her sister. Bernie had shown up bruised and battered, needing a place to hide from an abusive boyfriend. Diana had fed her, tended her, made appointments with social workers, then arrived home from work to find Bernie gone, along with blank checks, jewelry and Diana’s ex-husband’s Porsche. Diana had convinced Jeff to not press charges about his stolen car, then had written off the stolen jewelry as a loss and made good on forged checks.

  It seemed neither sister had learned from the past.

  “I’m going to have her arrested,” she told the dog while she stomped back to the house. “Enough is enough.”

  TATE STEERED THE CRUISER around deep potholes and rocks poking through the long driveway. Locals called Diana’s property the O’Malley place. He never had figured out why. He did know the driveway needed grading and filling in the worst kind of way. He topped a hill. A tire dropped into a deep rut, and he bounced on the seat, striking his head on the roof. Rubbing his smarting crown, he wondered how she made it to work when it snowed.

  Off to the right, goats grazed a boulder-strewn field. As one they lifted their heads to watch the vehicle. Four were white, two were black and one was tricolored like a calico cat.

  He’d had it in his head that she lived in a shack or a teepee or even a cave. The house proved to be a log cabin with a stone chimney. The porch was painted forest green to match the shutters.

  A dirty Buick LeSabre with Arizona plates was parked next to a shed. The sister’s, he guessed.

  There was a barn behind the house. Red chickens pecked in the dirt inside a wire enclosure. A barbed wire fence surrounded a garden plot. High altitude, low precipitation and a short growing season discouraged many gardeners. Those who persisted were plagued by deer and elk that found salad fixings and bean plants irresistible.

  A glint of metal caught his eye. Beyond the barn and corral was a curious sight. It looked like a chain-link dog run. Instead of dogs, it held a row of white boxes. It must be the beehives she talked about. He wondered why she fenced them in.

  He parked behind the Buick. Through a shed’s open door, he spotted Diana’s pickup truck.

  A high-pitched yip accompanied a black-and-white streak. Then a young dog was curling around Tate’s legs and wagging its tail so hard, Tate feared the pup’s spine might break. The dog barked and whined while Tate petted him and thumped its ribs. Its wriggling deposited white hairs on Tate’s uniform trousers.

  Diana stepped onto the porch. “Tippy, come!”

  The dog whined and wagged, torn between obedience and greeting his new friend. Finally, he loped to Diana and sat at her feet, panting and bright-eyed. Diana waved to Tate.

  He called in to dispatch and reported his location. The dispatcher chided him about overtime. He responded with, “10-4. It’s only a minor health and welfare. No charge. Over and out.” Cool air raised goosebumps on his arms. He breathed deeply, expecting to smell the stench he’d heard goats were infamous for, but inhaling only clean, dry air and a hint of wildflowers.

  “Hello,” she called. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I figured it was time I saw how you spent your paycheck. Nice place.” Her mood appeared much improved, but the strain was there. If he didn’t know her so well, he’d say she was angry.

  “Come on in.”

  The house was even nicer inside than outside. The hardwood floor was polished, with a patina of age and loving care. Throw rugs were scattered like flower petals. The sofa facing the fireplace took him aback. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked to be made of fine leather. Prints and paintings, all with a circle and spiral theme, were professionally framed.

  A not unpleasant acrid smell hung in the air. He wondered if it came from one of the pots on the stove.

  Other than the Buick, he didn’t see or hear indications of anyone else. He slid a hand over the back of his neck. “Okay, I’m here. What’s going on?”

  With a graceful wave she indicated a chair. “It’s a long story.”

  A wall-hanging next to the front door caught his eye. Made of cloth, feathers, bits of wood and stone beads, it reminded him vaguely of a female body, but lacked hands, feet or features. Below it was a pile of rocks stacked neatly and topped with a lavender ceramic bowl filled with water.

  She followed his gaze. “My prayer altar.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “It helps me focus. Would you care for tea? I have some raspberry that is just luscious.”

  “Okay.” The house felt comfortable, with an open kitchen and exposed ceiling beams. Homey, but with a genteel air that didn’t fit his preconceptions of how she lived but suited her anyway. Artistic bowls filled with smooth stones, beaded candle holders, and exotic sculptures decorated tables and shelves. Violets bloomed on the kitchen table. Ceramic lizards hung from the edge of the pot.

  She had a lot of books. It looked like most were about spirituality or feminist studies. Quite a few were medical texts. Novels begged for his attention. It had been months since he’d been able to buy any books, and McClintock didn’t have a library. He was hungry for a good read.

  As soon as he sat down, the puppy sat on his feet and leaned against his shins. He stared up at Tate with one adoring brown eye and one adoring blue.

  Diana filled a tin ball with loose tea, then hung it inside a squat teapot. She poured boiling water into the pot and a fruity aroma filled the air. She brought the pot, two mugs and a bowl of dark honey to the table.

  “So what’s your story?” he asked. “Where’s your sister?”

  She gave him a woebegone look. “She stole my horse.”

  On sunny days she rode the horse to work. She tethered him in the small field behind the Track Shack. “Are you sure? Maybe she went for a ride.”

  “She also stole clothing, food, camping supplies and about three hundred dollars in cash. She is definitely gone.”

  “Huh.”

  Shaking her head, she chuckled, a rueful note. “It isn’t my place to judge, but merely to experience. But darn it, I am sick to death of her ripping me off!”

  Well, well, she was angry. He thought he’d never see the day. “She’s done this kind of thing before?”

  She rolled her eyes and made a sound full of disgust.

  He took that as a yes. “Why would she steal your horse?” He nodded toward the driveway. “That is her car, right?”

  “That’s what she drove up in, but whether or not it’s hers, I have no idea. She’s running from something.”

  “What? Or should I say, who?”

  “I suppose she’s running from whoever shot her.” She lif
ted the teapot lid, sniffed, then poured steaming, fragrant, reddish tea into two mugs.

  This was getting interesting. “How did she get herself shot?”

  “I don’t know. She claimed she tripped and hit a sharp rock. Which is a lie. It’s definitely a bullet wound, a few days old, with signs of infection.” She tapped her left arm. “It took a chunk out of her triceps. I should have told you yesterday. I should have told you as soon as she showed up!”

  “Why did she come to you?”

  “She didn’t.” She waved a hand in a slow circle. “She came to this place. She was as surprised to see me as I was to see her.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “This cabin has been in my family for years. We used to come here for vacations. Hiking and such in the summers, and skiing in the winters.” She smiled, her gaze gone distant. “Anyway, Bernie didn’t know I was living here.”

  His curiosity about Diana’s background upped a notch. “Is O’Malley your family name?”

  “Yes. Dover’s my married name. I’m divorced.” Her brows lowered. “Did you know my father? Peter O’Malley? No, you haven’t lived in McClintock long enough. He died twelve years ago.”

  “Before my time. I was just wondering why people call this the O’Malley place.” She began grinning at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  Her grin took a wicked turn. “I’ve seen you in uniform a lot of times. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen you acting like a cop.” She wagged her eyebrows. “It’s kind of a turn-on.”

  She was kidding, expressing gratitude in her own weird way. Still, his ego puffed a bit. “You’re a real clown, Red. Back to your sister. You’re positive she took off into the wilderness.”

  “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Bernie is an accomplished outdoorswoman. She’s familiar with this country.”

  He pulled out a notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. “Do you want to file a complaint?”

  “No. But I’m going to anyway.”

  He was happy to hear it. “What’s her full name?”

  “Bernadette Marie O’Malley….” Her voice trailed and she frowned. “Who knows what alias she’s using. She’s even impersonated me before.”

  “How about a description of her?”

  “Look across the table. She’s my identical twin.”

  Chapter Three

  Tate radioed in a request to run the Buick’s license plate. The state patrol had handheld computers that could run plates in seconds; McClintock couldn’t afford the gad-getry.

  While waiting for dispatch, he studied the horizon. A few stars were visible in the east. To the north, west and south spread the Maya Valley with its rolling hills and boulder outcrops. To the east, across the road from the farm, was a thick pine forest, rocky and cut through by steep ravines and the Maya River. If Bernadette had taken off right after Diana left for work this morning, she could have reached the mountains by now.

  Tate had taken part in search and rescues. Half the time, searches ended tragically, or never ended at all. The Rockies had a habit of swallowing people. Bernadette couldn’t have chosen a better place to disappear.

  Diana had her lower lip caught in her teeth.

  “Worried?” Tate asked.

  “I shouldn’t waste energy worrying about her. She certainly doesn’t concern herself with me.”

  “Stock theft is taken seriously around here. We’ll get your horse back.”

  “It’s not just the horse. Bernie’s arm is infected. It was a through and through wound, but if the bullet nicked bone…I should have dragged her into town. She needs antibiotics.”

  He scanned the horizon again. Pinpoints of lights indicated other ranches and farms. “She didn’t drop any clues about who might have shot her?”

  Diana leaned against the cruiser and folded her arms. Dusky light made her eyes seem bigger, luminous. She reminded him of a woodland nymph creeping from the shadows of the forest and into the moonlight. He shook the whimsical thoughts away. Her and her damned talk about sexual tension!

  “She gave me a story about having to quit her job in a Las Vegas casino because her boss was sexually harassing her. It was a lie. I believe the part about Las Vegas, but nothing else. She probably robbed a liquor store or something.”

  If the Buick was hot, ditching it made sense. What would also make sense would be to wait for Diana to fall asleep then steal the pickup truck. To steal a horse and head for the hills, however, didn’t make sense—unless the woman was a desperate fugitive. “Does she have a habit of robbing liquor stores?”

  “As a teenager, Bernie was busted for burglary. She’d done a lot of petty crimes before that, and always talked her way out of trouble. The burglary put her in a juvenile facility. It’s been downhill ever since.” Her eyes held a distant expression, as if she saw beyond the stars. “Mother wanted to save her, Dad wanted her to sink or swim. I’ve tried to resist helping her, but…” She shrugged. “I can say no to Bernie in the abstract, but not face-to-face. She’s so…Bernie.”

  He listened with half an ear to the radio traffic.

  “I haven’t heard from her in years. Until she showed up day before yesterday, I didn’t know if she was dead or alive.”

  “I thought twins were close,” he said. “Psychic connection and all that.”

  She cocked her head, her smile faint. “Nobody in my family was ever close to anyone.” A wistful comment that made Tate want to pat her shoulder, or even hug her. “We were afflicted by anger.”

  “You don’t strike me as an angry person.”

  “I used to be.” She looked around the farm. “It’s pathetic. She consistently makes poor choices. She takes and never gives. She lies, steals…all she has to do is smile and I fall all over myself to bail her out of trouble.”

  Tate heard his call letters. He brought the mike to his mouth and told the dispatcher to go ahead. She informed him that the Buick had been reported stolen last Sunday, in Kingman, Arizona.

  “Well?” Diana asked.

  “Car’s hot. Did she leave keys?”

  “No.”

  He reported to the dispatcher his intention to process the vehicle. She dropped the official language and said, “You’re still not on duty, Tate. Sheriff will squawk about overtime.”

  “Can’t be helped, Ellen. Call the garage for a tow truck. Then contact the state boys and see if they have a forensic tech available. I might have a real crime scene for them to look at.”

  Ellen’s laugh came through tinny and sharp. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

  “I try, but it finds me anyway. Over and out.”

  He fetched an evidence kit from the cruiser’s trunk. He pulled on latex gloves, then took out a nine-volt flashlight and a slim jim. He flexed the thin metal. Before he jimmied the Buick’s driver door, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. As soon as he opened the door, he caught a whiff of a disgustingly familiar stench. Recoiling, he snorted. He’d know that stink anywhere.

  Diana clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. “There’s a body in there!”

  The certainty in her voice stunned him. The vast majority of civilians went their entire lives without smelling a corpse. He noticed the puppy creeping closer, his nose working. “Better tie up your dog.”

  The Buick had a blue cloth interior. The flashlight beam picked up fast-food wrappers, discarded clothing and large stains that might be blood. The reek gagged him. He’d processed a lot of corpses, some of them in advanced stages of decomposition, but he never got used to the smell. A blanket-shrouded bundle lay on the back seat. He opened the back door. He carefully lifted a corner of the blanket and saw hair and a human ear.

  “Bet the Buick’s owner won’t want this back,” he muttered and lowered the blanket.

  Diana appeared curious and concerned. “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “Don’t know yet. Can’t touch anything until forensics gets here.” He returned to the cruiser, but instead of using t
he radio, he called Gil Vance on a cellular phone. When the sheriff answered, Tate said, “I’ve got a body. Possible homicide, maybe even a murder.”

  Gil breathed an obscenity. Murder was rare in the Maya Valley. Tate had investigated very few since he’d been working for the sheriff’s department. Only one had required real detective work. Tate gave the location and particulars; Gil ran down the list of authorities and technicians he would contact. Tate asked for an APB on Bernadette O’Malley. “She’s Diana Dover’s identical twin.”

  “I didn’t know she had a twin sister.”

  “I didn’t, either. She has a gunshot wound that needs medical attention. And she stole Diana’s horse.”

  “Now that was a mistake, wasn’t it? I’ll put the state police and forest service on alert, and be there quick as I can.”

  THE BUICK WITH ITS macabre cargo drew Diana’s gaze, as compelling as an itch. Having a body on her property was bad. Much worse was the memory of Bernie sitting at the kitchen table, making small talk and complaining about her sore arm, then sleeping in Diana’s bed, all the while aware that there was a dead person in her car. It was as if Bernie were from a different planet.

  Diana focused on Tate while he talked on a cell phone and paced thoughtfully around the Buick. Lantern light reflected off the equipment attached to his belt. His khaki shirt fit snugly over broad shoulders, the shirt sleeves stretched over massive biceps. His size alone made him stand out in a crowd. He was at least six feet four inches tall, and she estimated his weight at around two hundred and forty solidly muscular pounds. Add to that jet-black hair and a rugged face, and he was not only imposing, but very attractive, too.

  He thought she was kidding about the sexual tension between them. Or maybe he was just scared.

  Something beyond the physical drew her to him. The first time they’d met, she’d sensed his sorrow. Deep wounds scabbed over by time and force of will, but un-healed. He smiled, he joked, he walked with the proud stride of a confident man, but the sorrow was always there.

  She supposed sorrow was part of her life path. She’d certainly had enough of it in her life. She’d healed her wounds, and perhaps she was fated to help him heal his.