Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  She slid her fingers in a feathery caress along the seam of his jeans. He swallowed hard. “The worst thing of all is when we label ourselves.” She offered a graceful hand to the sky. “What we are isn’t out there.” She placed the hand between her breasts. “It’s in here.”

  No matter how many times he told himself her New Age-babble was bunk, he was—always—utterly fascinated by what she had to say. At the moment he was dying to know what she saw when she peered past his defenses to the man inside. He fiddled with his keys. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. You can look at a map of the area, see if you can remember where your dad used to take you fishing.”

  Yellowish light from the tall lamps around the station made her mysterious, her eyes dark, gleaming with inner fire. “Do you even know why you’re so afraid of me?”

  He didn’t deserve her interest, her tenderness and, most of all, he didn’t deserve her acceptance. “Do all our conversations have to turn into shrink sessions?”

  “Anger is fear.”

  “I am not angry!”

  “Hmm.”

  He shook a finger at her. “Cut it out, Red. I mean it. I don’t know why you have to pester me all the time. But cut it out.”

  She gazed evenly at him. He was rattled and she knew it.

  “Do you know,” she said, “why wild animals are rarely neurotic? Aside from the fact that predators are very quick to eliminate the weak?”

  He didn’t want this conversation; he couldn’t make himself leave the truck.

  “Animals in their natural state have an instinctual awareness of when the times are right. Mothers know when to wean their young, when to punish, when to reward, when to eat, when to sleep. They know when it is time to grieve, and when it is time to let go and go on. We humans don’t listen so well to our instincts. It makes us neurotic.”

  “Now I’m neurotic?”

  “Are you?”

  “Not a neurotic bone in my body.”

  “If you say so.” She opened the door. The dome light highlighted sparkling eyes and a smug smile.

  He caught her upper arm. “Why do you do this to me?”

  “Do you recall the first time we met?”

  The heat spread from his ears to his neck. “No,” he lied.

  “Yes, you do. You knocked over an entire display of spray-paint cans.” She touched the center of her forehead. “We smacked heads when we bent over to pick them up. I had quite a goose egg.”

  He lowered his face to hide a sheepish smile. They’d been in the hardware store. She’d been buying fence staples; he’d been looking for primer. Her hair had drawn him like a magnet. Then she looked at him with those incredible crystal-blue eyes, and he walked straight into the spray-paint display.

  “I knew that day our fates are entwined. We’re meant for each other.”

  “We’re too different.”

  She made a neutral sound, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

  “After I sell the bar, who knows what will happen. Gil can’t afford me full-time. I’ll probably have to move to Denver or Colorado Springs, or maybe even back to New York.” The excuses sounded lame. He puffed his cheeks and released a long breath. “I’m not interested in fate.”

  Again, a noncommittal hmm.

  He sank lower, drawing in his chin. He’d been getting on along just fine until she stumbled into his life. Before she started in with her nonsense about sexual tension. Then to kiss him! She might be a nut, but she sure knew how to curl his toes.

  “You know what they say,” she said. “Without pain, pleasure isn’t possible.” She hopped out of the Bronco.

  Refusing to look at her, he escorted her into the station.

  The place was quiet, even for a Sunday evening. The weekend dispatcher was reading a paperback novel. Deputy Bill Yarrow, having recovered enough from shingles to wear his uniform, sat before a computer, hunting and pecking his way through a report. A volunteer deputy was on the telephone.

  “Where’s the sheriff?” Tate asked.

  “In and out,” the volunteer replied. “What are you doing here?” He smiled at Diana.

  “Sheriff’s downstairs,” Bill said. He swiveled his chair away from the keyboard. “Our shooter’s mouthpiece finally showed up.”

  “On a Sunday? He can’t be local.”

  “Never seen him before. Looks pretty high priced.” The deputy cast a speculative look down the hallway that led to the stairwell. The jail was in the basement. “The sheriff is not impressed.”

  John Williams and Richard Taylor, who’d died from bee stings, were carrying false identification. Tate checked the fax machine. No hits on fingerprints from either man. Maybe with his attorney present, Williams—or whatever his name was—would provide a few answers.

  Tate guided Diana to a topographic map affixed to a wall. He put his finger on McClintock. “You are here. See if you can find the fishing pond.”

  A metal door slammed. Gil Vance, garbed in civilian clothes, emerged from the basement. He was grinning and shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen or heard.

  “We’ve got that boy cold,” he said. ‘Illegal firearms possession, illegal discharge of a weapon, attempted murder, assault, trespassing, carrying false identification and reckless driving. And you know what that yahoo lawyer says to me? “I’m sure we can clear up this little misunderstanding.”’ He barked a harsh laugh. “Idiot thinks I’m Deputy Dawg.”

  “What’s Williams’s real name?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.” He turned a business card in his fingers, examining it front and back. “Mr. Lloyd Johnson, Esquire, attorney-at-law, the firm of White and Morgenstern, Denver.” He pointed his chin at Diana. “What’s with the esquire?”

  “It’s a courtesy title. I’m unsure why attorneys use it. Maybe it’s because the word means shield bearer.”

  Gil harrumphed. “Truth in advertising laws ought to make them use bloodsucker.”

  It bugged the crap out of Tate that he hadn’t gotten a hit on either mope’s fingerprints. It didn’t make sense. Taylor and Williams didn’t just wake up this week and decide to take up a life of crime. Unfortunately, not every law enforcement agency entered local fingerprint files into the national database. Figuring out who they were might take a while.

  “So how can he afford a big-shot lawyer?” Tate asked.

  Gil gave him a dry look. “Maybe he’s one of the rich and famous.” He beckoned. “Come on in my office and look what we found.”

  “I’m telling you,” Gil said, as he left the door open enough so he could hear what was happening in the station, “we should get Diana on Jeopardy. She’d clean up, do this town proud.”

  The metal briefcase sat on Gil’s desk. It was empty, the money now locked up in the evidence locker. Gil picked up what looked like the control unit for a radio-controlled toy car. He grinned at Tate and twisted a dial. A high-pitched squeal made Tate flinch.

  “Okay, Mr. New York detective. What have we got? Or do we need to ask Diana?” Gil backed a few feet from the desk and pointed the unit’s antenna out the window. He turned a dial. The unit squealed. When he swung it toward the briefcase, the squeal increased in pitch and volume.

  “I’ll be damned,” Tate breathed. “A bird dog.”

  Gil handed over the tracking device. It was heavy, the face covered with dials and meters. Tate realized this was what Williams had been holding when he ran away from the farm.

  “We also confiscated a fairly decent arsenal, all of it untraceable, by the way, and about five grand in cash.”

  “Professional hitters.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Tate placed the unit on the desk and turned his attention to the case. He poked and prodded at the interior and exterior. It all seemed solid and of a piece, without any type of liner or hidden compartments. He examined the handle. With a letter opener, he pried at the plastic sheath covering the grip. It was stuck, as if glued, and the plastic cracked when he pried at
it. He finally got it off and found a tiny transmitter.

  “Is that the bug?”

  He held the transmitter up to the light. He hadn’t seen anything this fancy outside of a law enforcement trade show. The FBI and CIA had the money to buy this kind of equipment; local law enforcement generally did not. Any private citizen with the bucks to burn could purchase it, too. “Let’s ship this to Quantico. The FBI might be able to trace it.”

  Gil planted his fists on his hips. “What have we got? A drug deal gone sour?”

  Tate showed his palms. “If it is, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “Drug dealers don’t use bird dogs. Bernadette’s made a powerful enemy somewhere along the line.”

  The dispatcher’s voice came over the intercom: “Sheriff? The Kingman, Arizona, police department is on line three.”

  Gil waved a magnanimous hand. “Your call.”

  Tate picked up the phone and identified himself. “What do you have?”

  “We had an incident last week.” He laughed sheepishly. “Took me a while to make the connection. Had a shoot-out at a little motel on I-40. Not far from there we found an abandoned vehicle. A Lincoln Continental registered to Farrah Montgomery of Las Vegas, Nevada. It has bullet holes in it and matches a witness description from the motel.”

  “Who the hell is Farrah Montgomery?” Tate asked. This thing just kept getting more and more complicated. “Reported stolen?”

  “Uh-uh. Turns out Ms. Montgomery owns and operates a casino called Sparkle City. Las Vegas.”

  Remembering the matchbooks Diana had found, Tate sat straighter.

  “That’s not the interesting part.”

  Tate caught a strained note in the man’s voice. “What’s going on?”

  “The FBI. Suckers swooped in like vultures, confiscated the Lincoln and our case file. Questioned everybody.” He laughed, but didn’t sound amused. “Made us all sign confidentiality statements. Put a blanket on everybody, cops and civilians.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “Couldn’t discuss it even if I knew. But it’s big, deputy, real big. Have you heard from the feds?”

  Tate suspected they would in the very near future. He stared at the metal briefcase. Money, a transmitter, the FBI. It added up to either extortion or a kidnapping. “Looks like I better contact them. You’ve been a help, sergeant. Thanks.”

  “Wish I could do more. You folks have fun over there in Colorado.”

  Gotta love small-town police forces, Tate thought. Back East, exchanging information and evidence between jurisdictions usually required bullying, cajoling, court orders or major favors being called in.

  Tate relayed the new information to the sheriff. Gil leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

  “Farrah Montgomery,” Gil said thoughtfully. “You think this woman was kidnapped?”

  Tate frowned at the notes he’d written. “It fits with what we have. Sort of.”

  “That rocket scientist downstairs sure ain’t no G-man,” Gil said. “And if it was the feds having a shootout with O’Malley and Robertson, we’d know it, right?”

  Tate had been involved in one kidnapping for ransom, assigned to interviewing witnesses and following up telephone numbers. From what he’d seen, the FBI had been cool, professional and completely in charge. Their number one priority was recovering the victim alive. No heroics, no hotdogging and they’d used the local police force with maximum effectiveness.

  Maybe the feds operated differently in the West, but he doubted it. Confiscating case evidence and alienating local law enforcement didn’t seem like the best way to recover a kidnap victim.

  “Yeah, we’d know it. Unless this is something bigger.”

  Gil snorted. “What’s bigger than kidnapping…?” His chin and eyebrows raised. “Organized crime?”

  Tate shrugged. “Las Vegas casinos, expensive bird dog, a high-priced attorney for a hired hitter, the FBI. It isn’t much of a stretch. If it is organized crime, I have a feeling the feds will be knocking on our door next.”

  A knock on the door made them both jump.

  Bill Yarrow stuck his head into the office. “Sheriff, Mr. Johnson just left.”

  “Without talking to me? Who does he—”

  “He’ll be back. Said he needs to make some phone calls.” Bill grinned. “Guess he doesn’t trust us not to eavesdrop. Should I put our boy back in his cell?”

  “Nah. Let him stew in the closet.”

  The station didn’t have a formal interrogation room. When they needed to question a suspect, they used a storeroom crowded with metal filing cabinets. It was cramped, hot and intimidating. Prisoners were handcuffed to a metal table that was bolted to the floor. Local attorneys, who had to use it for conferring with clients, called it the torture chamber.

  Tate considered it an excellent place for miscreants to ponder their sins.

  “So what’s our next move?” Gil asked.

  “Make some inquiries with the Las Vegas police,” Tate said. “Maybe I can locate Farrah Montgomery and she can tell us why Bernadette had her Lincoln.”

  “That was a rhetorical question, boy,” Gil said. “Our next move is letting the FBI know what we have. If it’s organized crime, I don’t want any part of it.”

  Tate grunted. “I love Quantico. Best labs, best forensic scientists. But dealing with the feds one-on-one makes me insane. They won’t share information, they take all the credit for busts and witnesses have a bad habit of refusing to testify on a local level when the feds convince them to save it for the big time. They’ll appropriate all our evidence, and we’ll never see it again.”

  Gil leaned both hands on the desk and stared into Tate’s eyes. “Good. I’ll gift wrap the whole damned circus for them.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Grumbling to himself, he stalked out of Gil’s office. He could feel Gil’s grin on his back.

  Diana waved him over to the map.

  “Find it?” he asked.

  “Maybe. It was so long ago.” She looked past him to the door. She lowered her voice. “I hate being judgmental, but that lawyer was creepy.”

  “Did he say something to you?”

  “Just stared.” She shuddered and rubbed her upper arms. “Talk about negative energy. He had eyes like a shark. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him.” A mischievous grin made the skin around her eyes crinkle. “Especially with that awful toupee he’s wearing. I know it’s terribly shallow, but something about a toupee hits a hot button with me. The funniest looking bald spot is ten times better than the best-made hairpiece. Anyway…” She turned back to the map and put her finger on a spot. “Sweetpot Lake. It strikes a chord.”

  He pulled a hand over his mouth and chin, wiping off a smile. It was nice knowing she had her little prejudices and foibles, just like the rest of the mortals. “Didn’t you say it was private property? That’s national forest.”

  “The people who owned it could have sold it or donated it. According to this map, there are no campgrounds or even a picnic area. It could be restricted or something.”

  Tate asked the volunteer deputy to come over. Roger Sommerset was in his late fifties, a native of the valley. An avid hunter, he knew the area as well as anybody. Tate asked him about the lake.

  “Yeah, I know it,” the man said. “Road to it is shut down. Mine hazards. Mess of old shafts in that area.” His silvery eyebrows knit. “Must of been ten, twelve years back, couple of city kids got themselves killed. Caused a big hullabaloo. Folks sued the government, wanting ’em to fill in the mines.” He shook his shaggy head. “Some of them old shafts run hundreds of feet. Forest service talked about dynamiting the mines, but the EPA got wind of it and said it would kill horny toads or bats or some such nonsense. So, government closed off the area.”

  “Then is there an old mining camp there?” Diana asked. “Buildings?”

  Roger grunted in the affirmative. “What you thinking, Red?
Your sister made her way up there? That’s more than twenty miles from your place.”

  “It looks right. Tate, can we go look?” Diana asked. “Tonight?”

  “Not a chance.” Tate turned away from her disappointment. “We aren’t going in after dark. If she’s there tonight, she’ll be there tomorrow.”

  The sheriff’s wife entered the station. She carried a large, cloth-covered basket over her arm. Paula Vance was a little dumpling of a woman, with a broad, pretty face and ready smile. Gil walked out of his office to meet her. He kissed her cheek; she rubbed her nose against his.

  Witnessing their affection gave Tate a tight feeling in his chest. His marriage had lasted less than four years. He’d meant to stay married forever. From the corner of his eye, he peeked at Diana. In a way he couldn’t quite define, Diana reminded him of his wife. Not in appearance. Lisa had been blond and willowy; Diana was broad-hipped and red-headed to beat the band. Perhaps it was her calm self-assurance, or the easy way she had around people.

  Hope was sneaking around him, hiding in the shadows like a cat, ready to pounce and infiltrate when his back was turned. Hope that the grief and guilt would end. Hope that he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone. He didn’t deserve hope. Just as Lisa hadn’t deserved what he’d done to her.

  He checked the fax machine again, even opening the lid to make sure it had plenty of paper.

  “Since you won’t come home no more for supper,” Mrs. Vance said, “I bring supper to you.”

  “I would’ve come home,” Gil said.

  “Uh-huh. When the cornbread turns hard as bricks.” She tossed a grin at Tate. “’Sides, this way I can eat with you. Tell you what your ornery grandbabies did in church today.”

  “What about my prisoner?” Gil asked.

  “Like I’d forget it’s Sunday night, eh?”

  On Mondays through Saturdays, prisoners in lockup were fed courtesy of the Pine Tree Diner. The diner was closed on Sundays, so the task of feeding prisoners fell on the sheriff’s wife.