by Lynn, Sheryl
Tate shook his head.
She closed her eyes for a long moment. “I didn’t think he would. Hope his next life is better.” She pointed at the clothes. A shirt was bloody. “Those are Bernie’s. She stuffed them in with my laundry. I found the matchbooks in the jeans.”
One matchbook was from the Sparkle City hotel and casino in Las Vegas, Nevada; the other was from the Blue Heron restaurant, also in Las Vegas. A telephone number was written inside the Blue Heron matchbook.
He met Diana’s eyes. “I could kiss you.”
She smiled, close-mouthed and seductive. Her eyelashes fluttered. From the corner of his eye he caught the dispatcher watching the exchange with open interest. His ears burned.
“I’m out of here,” she said and started to rise.
“Stay.” The word was out before he realized it sounded like a plea. “I mean, it’s not a good idea for you to be alone right now.”
“Gee, and I was hoping you just enjoyed my company.”
He glanced at the dispatcher. Ellen was grinning like an idiot. “We’ve got a make on the shooter. We should have him in custody before too long.”
“Who is he?”
“John Williams, supposedly from Los Angeles. Know him?”
“Yeah, right.” She turned a frown on the briefcase. “How in the world did they know to look under the beehive? It’s driving me batty.”
“Only thing I can come up with is that Bernadette told them about the farm. What’s your mother’s old address? Where would Bernadette go to find her?”
She gave him an address, then added, “But the house was sold years ago.”
“What about your old address?”
She gave him an address in Scottsdale, Arizona. “It doesn’t make sense for Bernie to hide money only to tell those men where to find it.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth and her brows drew into a deep V. “Unless they were friends of hers. If so, why head for the hills?”
He reached for the telephone. “Questions, questions. Ask me again when I have some answers.” He got through to the Scottsdale police department. He asked to speak to a major crimes detective and was put on hold. “Your sister could have tossed a bone, hoping the mopes would stop chasing her.”
“She didn’t have to do it on my farm,” Diana grumbled. She huffed a humorless laugh. “There’s half a million dollars in there. Toss a bone, yes, but the entire side of beef? That is not the way my sister operates.”
An Arizona detective came on the line. Tate identified himself and explained his problem. The man sounded interested enough for Tate to believe that his request wouldn’t get shoved beneath the get-around-to-it pile. When Tate read off Diana’s previous address, there was dead silence on the line.
“Hello? Detective, are you still there?”
“Can you repeat that address, deputy?”
Tate did so. “What do you have?”
“Mind if I call you back?”
Every nerve went on alert. The detective’s request meant he had something hot and needed to confirm Tate’s official status. “No problem,” he said and didn’t offer a phone number. The detective would look it up.
Within two minutes the secretary informed him he had a call on line two.
“Sorry about that, deputy,” the detective said. “I don’t know if it’s related, but it’s a helluva coincidence. Day before yesterday the woman who lived there was murdered.”
Hairs lifted on his nape. “What happened?”
“Middle of the night, no sign the victim struggled. Looks like she answered the door and bam, right through the heart. Then a neat little shot through the back of her head. The weapon was a .22.”
His blood chilled. Amateurs liked big guns, making big messes and a lot of noise. Pros favored .22-calibre pistols. The round made a small hole going in, bounced around ripping up soft tissue, and rarely exited, especially when shot into a skull. Neat, clean, effective and relatively quiet. He stared at the bagged and tagged .22 on his desk. “Sounds like an assassination.”
Diana started, her eyes going wide.
“Looks like it. Except, the victim is clean. No involvement with drugs or gambling. No ex-husbands or boyfriends gunning for her. No disgruntled employees or co-workers. She wasn’t sexually assaulted. She had some nice electronic equipment, a purse in plain view, but they were untouched. Her place was tossed, but if the perps stole anything or left any evidence, we haven’t found it yet.”
“Hold on a sec.” He placed a hand over the mouthpiece and smiled at Diana. She sat rigidly, her face pale. “Mind getting me a cup of coffee? It’s down that hall, first door on the right.” She acted more than happy to get away from his side of the conversation. “Is there any way you can check out the other address?”
“I can do that. What do you have?”
Tate elaborated on his situation. He promised to send Richard Taylor’s fingerprints along with particulars on Tim Robertson and Bernadette O’Malley. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and would you like to look at a .22 semi-auto?”
The detective whooped and Tate grinned. He told the man about the weapon taken off Taylor and promised it would be flown to Phoenix by special courier first thing Monday morning.
Holding a coffee cup, Diana lingered near Ellen’s desk. The dispatcher appeared to be explaining to her how the radio system worked. After Tate hung up, Diana brought his coffee.
“Did Bernie murder someone?” she asked.
Her plaintive tone made his heart hurt for her. Even when he was angry with his siblings or disapproving of their actions, he still loved them. “I don’t know. The woman who was living at your former address was murdered. It might be related.”
Gil stalked out of his office and at seeing Diana, stopped short.
Tate held up a matchbook. “Might have a lead. Diana found these in her sister’s clothes.” He made a quick mental assessment of the situation. John Williams either realized the sheriff had the briefcase, or he was lurking around Diana’s farm—where a pair of deputies stood watch—trying to figure out how to get past the bees. Diana should be safe. He worked a key off a ring. He handed it over. “Key to my place. Catch a nap, watch some television, read a book. I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then I’ll escort you up to Ric’s place. Okay?”
She smiled gratefully, confirming his suspicion that she was scared to be alone.
He watched her walk out, allowing himself a few admiring thoughts about her backside. Then he turned to Gil. “This might be a whole lot uglier than we thought. Let me tell you what I just found out about Arizona.”
Chapter Six
Diana cruised Main Street. She hardly ever came into town on the weekends and never this late on a Saturday night. The small parking lot behind the Track Shack was full. Vehicles, many with out-of-state plates, lined both sides of the street. Pedestrians strolled along on the sidewalks. It was easy to tell the tourists from the locals. The locals were in short sleeves, unaffected by the temperature that had dropped into the forties after the sun went down. Tourists wore sweaters and jackets.
She found a parking place on a side street a few blocks from the Track Shack. She yawned mightily and rubbed her gritty eyes. A nap sounded good.
She walked past the arcade. It was packed with teenagers playing electronic games. Sweet innocence, she thought sadly. In her youth she’d been too busy trying to meet her father’s expectations to ever have any fun. No wonder her life had been so out of balance.
An RV as long as a Greyhound bus took up three parking places in front of the drugstore. She stepped off the sidewalk in front of the RV and waited for a break in traffic. The Track Shack was lit up, the tinted front window glowing amber. She bet it was even more crowded than it had been earlier. A car passed, and she stepped into the street.
Brake lights flared on the car. Tires screeched. She tensed for a collision, which didn’t come. Back-up lights glowed, the engine roared. The driver must have spotted a parking place. Diana stepped out of the way.
> The dark sedan stopped in front of her. The passenger side window lowered with a faint mechanical sound. Every hair on her body lifted. Her scalp tightened. An inner voice said Run! Her legs refused to obey until a movement in the shadowy car interior reached her brain. She pivoted, slamming her back against the flat grill of the RV.
Crack!
Aftershock smacked her eardrums. Her nostrils caught a whiff of gunpowder. Crack! The ping of a ricocheting bullet spurred her into action. She darted into the street, around the RV, out of line with the sedan’s passenger window. Crack! People screamed. Diana ran like hell.
She raced around the back of the RV and leaped over the curb onto the sidewalk. A doorway beckoned, and she grabbed for the handle. NO! Trap! She ran downhill, dodging people who were frantically looking for a place to hide. The car backed up recklessly; oncoming traffic honked, screeched and veered out of the way.
She darted around a corner, away from the street lights and into the shadows.
Metal crunched metal. Glass shattered. A man shouted, “Get him!” Other voices rose in a furious cry to battle. A siren wailed.
Diana pressed herself into a dark doorway, trying to make herself small, invisible. Her heart pounded. Her mouth was sour with adrenaline.
“I’ve got him, dammit!” a man roared. “Back off! Hey! Yeah, you! Get off him. He ain’t going anywhere. I mean it, put those rifles away! All of you, move!”
Red and blue emergency flashers bounced off the buildings. People milled about on a street corner, seeking a better view. Diana sagged and patted her chest and upper arms, assuring herself she wasn’t wounded. A panicked voice in her head told her the noises and lights were all part of a trick to make her run into the open. Reason told her otherwise, but still she couldn’t make herself move.
If it’s my time…She couldn’t finish the prayer.
A beam of light swept the doorway niche. She bit off a squeal and pressed against the wall, feeling the texture of brick through her shirt. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
“Diana?” Tate called. “Diana!”
“Here I am.” Her legs gave out, and she slid down the wall. Thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Hey, are you all right?” He shone the flashlight at the ground near her feet. “Are you hit?”
“No. Just scared.”
He grasped her arm and hauled her upright. She stumbled against his chest and buried her face against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her. So big and safe—she didn’t want to ever let him go. He murmured soothing words against her hair. At long last the trembling stopped. Her legs felt strong enough to hold her. She lifted her face to his.
His features were hidden by darkness, but his eyes caught lights from Main Street. He smelled hot and dangerous.
“Tate? Did you find her?” the sheriff called. “Is she all right?” He appeared in silhouette on the street corner. He aimed a big flashlight their way.
“I’ve got her. She’s fine.”
Tate guided her back to Main Street. The sedan was crushed like a demolition derby loser between two pickup trucks. Farmers and ranchers strutted in the street like wolves circling a fresh kill. Many carried rifles. Tourists and townsfolk lined the sidewalks. Gil’s official Range Rover blocked the street.
“I saw everything,” a woman cried. She pointed at Diana. “That’s who he shot! That’s her!”
Diana caught a few words from the murmuring crowd. “Shooting up our town…” “Showed him…” “Stupid sumbitch…”
Tate tightened his hold around Diana’s shoulders. They followed Gil. A man, his hands locked behind him, sat in the back seat of a cruiser. His head lolled. He had a bloody nose, swollen jaw and a split lip. Either he’d hit the steering wheel when the trucks smashed his car, or townsfolk had gotten in some blows.
“Little tip for you, boy,” Gil said. “This is a real bad place for a drive-by shooting.”
The man moaned. “I need a doctor.”
“You’ll need more than a doctor before we’re through with you.”
A shudder racked Diana’s body. She’d seen crazed patients attack hospital staff, experienced the terror of gang members carrying feuds into the emergency room, and lived through a nurse’s ex-boyfriend shooting up an X-ray lab in an attempt to get at her. No one had ever shot at her before. Aimed a gun, gave chase, tried to kill her!
“You all right?” Tate whispered in her ear.
“He thinks I’m Bernie, doesn’t he?” she whispered back. “He wants to kill my sister.”
DIANA PLACED A HAND in the small of her back and arched against the ache. She studied the surrounding forest. The sun had risen an hour ago, but still hadn’t topped the trees. Ric’s property sat near the end of a dirt road, and from where she stood there wasn’t one sign of neighbors. Tippy raced around, eagerly sniffing bushes, tufts of grass, rocks and tree stumps. Unseen birds cawed, whistled and screeched.
Logic told her she was perfectly safe. The man who’d shot at her was locked up in a jail cell. She wasn’t hurt, and no one else had been hurt. Even if Bernie looked for her, she didn’t know about Ric’s place.
Still, she’d slept poorly. Wind had rocked the old trailer throughout the night, making it groan, creak and rattle. Every noise had jerked her to nervous wakefulness.
A nearby woodpile had scraps of lumber among the split logs. She picked up a four-foot length of two-by-two and hefted it. It wasn’t a baseball bat, but it would do. While she fed the goats and made sure the temporary fencing would hold them inside the corral, she kept the two-by-two handy.
She entered the trailer and latched the flimsy lock. Irritation rasped her frayed nerves. She hadn’t bothered locking a door since leaving Phoenix.
She lowered her face and closed her eyes. “A gift,” she murmured. “All is Your gift. It is up to me to open my heart and see it. Help me remember I have the strength to deal with everything that is happening.”
She stood still, closing off her thoughts, leaving her heart open. Her nervousness eased.
Hoping a shower would wake her up, she ran water until it was steaming and stepped into the tiny stall. She stood under the hot spray, letting it pound the tension from her bones. She soaped up, scrubbed, rinsed, then lifted her left arm over her head. She did a breast exam, her fingers probing for lumps or changes in the breast and armpit. All was well. She raised her right arm. She traced the scar where her right breast used to be, then checked her armpit for lumps, nodules or tenderness.
She wondered what Tate would think about the mastectomy. Such a self-conscious thought made her wonder if she’d truly come to terms with what breast cancer had done to her body.
“It’s only meat,” she whispered. She looked down at herself and grinned. Even in her twenties, she’d barely filled an A-cup bra. Age had softened her remaining breast, making her almost as flat on the left side as on the right.
Buttoning a shirt made the self-consciousness return. Once upon a time, she’d showed off her toned figure with tailored suits and clingy blouses. She’d possessed drawers full of expensive lingerie. Now she wore elastic sports bras or undershirts instead of lace brassieres, and men’s shirts that made it impossible to tell how many breasts she had.
She dressed for comfort, not sex appeal. Maybe she was fooling herself.
She unbuttoned the shirt and studied herself in a mirror. Her ex-husband, a plastic surgeon, had badgered her to have reconstructive surgery. As if perky boobs would make up for the cancer and the pain and the fear. As if she weren’t a real woman unless she possessed breasts men could admire.
Anger at her ex-husband, at a shallow society, at magazines that worshipped cleavage and two-dimensional sexuality, had dissipated into the realm of vague memory. She thought the fear and self-consciousness had left her as well. Apparently not.
She caressed the left side of her chest, tracing soft cotton and softer skin. She loved her body, scars and all. It allowed for the expression and exp
loration of her spirit. To finally understand the essential truth of her life, made the sacrifice of a breast a small price to pay.
Knocking startled her. She clutched the shirt plackets. Tippy lay on the bed, one ear up and the other flopped over. He stared in the direction of the door, but didn’t bark.
“That’s it,” she muttered. “I’m trading you in for two rottweilers.”
Buttoning the shirt, she tiptoed to the small bedroom window and peered out. The sight of Tate’s battered old Bronco softened her tense muscles. He must have driven up while she was in the shower, otherwise she’d have heard him. Knocking made the trailer shake.
“Coming!” she yelled.
She opened the front door. Tate stood on the metal stoop. He wore a dark blue T-shirt tucked into blue jeans. His sidearm gleamed on his hip. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion drawn.
Her throat tightened. “Did you find Bernie?” Her voice emerged weak and fearful. It was one thing to understand intellectually that her sister chose her own path, quite another to actually realize Bernie could end up shot to death or be tried for murder.
He shook his head. “Not a clue to her whereabouts.”
“Why are you here?”
He ran a hand through his hair. His mouth twisted. “Gil ordered me out of the station. Said he’d shoot me in the foot if I didn’t get some sleep. I don’t report in for regular duty until Tuesday.” His scowl deepened. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He added, gruffly, “And I was worried about you.”
Last night he’d escorted her to Ric’s place and gave her a cell phone in case of emergency. This visit went far above and beyond the call of duty. She didn’t know why she did what she did next, except that she was happy to see him, and glad she could stop jumping at shadows.
She slid her hands over his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. He exhaled audibly through his nose, a sound akin to surrender. He canted his head. Her eyelids lowered in tacit acquiescence. He kissed her.
His mouth was soft, his upper lip bristly. He tasted of coffee. Kissing created a pleasant tightness in her jaw that spread to her throat, her chest, her belly and finally settled in her pelvis. Her hips went heavy and loose. When he put a big hand on her back, electric tingling delighted her spine. He wove his other hand into her shower damp hair, gently pulling her scalp.
