Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  “Hey,” Gil said to the uniformed deputy, “Go put our boy back in his cell and give him some sandwiches. Since I’m feeling generous, treat him to a soda pop, too.” Gil sniffed at the station’s main door. “When Mr. Johnson, Esquire, gets back, he can cool his heels until after the supper hour.”

  While Mrs. Vance and the deputy sorted out the food, Tate told Gil about Sweetpot Lake. Gil agreed that it would be too dangerous to check out the place after dark.

  “I’m worried about her arm,” Diana said. “What if she’s sick?”

  “What if she isn’t?” Gil replied. “I won’t risk the safety of my men.”

  “All right,” she muttered.

  “And don’t you even think about going up there alone.”

  “I won’t.”

  Tate determined that he’d convince Diana to stay in town tonight. He didn’t trust her good sense to overrule her concern about her sister. He hoped he could trust his good sense to keep his hands off her.

  “You two go on then,” Gil said. “If our boy’s attorney decides it’s in his best interests to chat, I’ll give you a call. Otherwise, report back here in the morning. We’ll run over to Sweetpot.”

  “Can I go with you?” Diana asked. Her big eyes held a poignant plea that was difficult to resist.

  Resist he did. Tate shook his head. “It’s best if you don’t.”

  A metal door slammed. Bill walked out of the hallway. He still carried the tray of food. His face was dead white, his eyes were round and glazed. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

  “Bill?” Gil and Tate said in unison.

  “Escaped?” Gil whispered.

  “No,” Tate said. “Can’t be done.” The basement didn’t have a door leading outside, and all the windows were barred. Also, the windows were so narrow, a grown man couldn’t get his head through them, much less his body.

  Bill set the tray down very slowly, very carefully. “Not escaped. Dead.” He blinked rapidly. “He’s dead!”

  Tate and the sheriff exchanged an incredulous glance, then hurried to the stairwell. Gil Vance had never lost a prisoner to illness, injury or suicide. Tate kept thinking about the head injury Williams had suffered when locals rammed his car. A doctor had checked him out, but suppose the doctor had missed an aneurysm or blood clot or other internal injuries?

  Gil’s cowboy boots clattered on the cement steps and echoed in the narrow stairwell. Tate’s athletic shoes thudded.

  The closet door stood open. One quick look showed Tate that Williams had indeed died of a head injury, but it hadn’t been caused by a car crash. The man slumped over the metal table. A neat hole, blackened by gunpowder, seeped blood from the base of his skull. Automatically, Tate sought a pulse he knew wasn’t there.

  “Huh,” he said. “Looks like we can safely rule out suicide.”

  Chapter Eight

  Diana stared unseeing at the small television mounted in the corner of Tate’s apartment. Its faint noise and shifting light offered an illusion of company. She lay curled on the futon, a blanket fisted against her chin. She wanted sleep, she yearned for sleep. She was too afraid.

  When the prisoner’s murderer had walked out of the sheriff’s station, he’d looked straight at her. Williams had thought she was Bernadette. She could only assume his killer thought she was her sister, too. Life was a series of tests and lessons, but what was she supposed to learn from this? That her sister didn’t give a damn about the destruction trailing in her wake? Diana knew that already. That red hair was easy to spot and identical twins were exactly that, identical? She knew that already, too.

  A soft knock on the door made her freeze, every muscle painfully locked. Her heart thudded as if to escape her chest.

  A key scraped in the lock. Tate’s dark head peeked into the room. Rigid muscles slowly relaxed.

  “I’m awake,” she said.

  He entered the apartment. She’d never been so glad to see his massive shoulders and tall stature. She propped herself on an elbow. “Did you catch him?” Please, please, please say yes, she thought hard at him.

  He sank onto a chair and dangled his hands between his legs. “He’s vanished. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion a description won’t help much. The toupee is probably a disguise. I bet he was padded, too, and wearing phony facial hair. Gil is bad off. He’s blaming himself.”

  “Why?”

  “For not checking out Johnson’s credentials. Frisking him for weapons.”

  “How could he suspect someone would commit murder in a sheriff’s station?”

  He raked a hand through his hair, his dark eyes bleak. “If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. When we drove up, I recognized every vehicle in the lot. I didn’t even question how come I didn’t see Johnson’s vehicle. I’ve gotten soft as hell living here.”

  “If we waste time playing the blame game, not much will get done. I take it Johnson wasn’t a real lawyer.”

  “The real Lloyd Johnson, Esquire, was having dinner with his wife and in-laws when we tracked him down. He’s not too happy a hit man impersonated him.”

  She vividly recalled the sick, furious sensation when Bernie had impersonated her. Identity rape. “I know the feeling. What in the world has Bernie done?”

  “Let’s hope the feds have better luck finding out.”

  “The FBI?”

  “They arrived about an hour ago. I’ve got a bad feeling this is going to get real ugly before it gets better.”

  “Let’s go to Sweetpot Lake. Right now. If Bernie’s there, she’ll be asleep. We can sneak up on her. The only way this will end is to find my sister.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m taking you to Ric’s.”

  The mere thought of being alone and isolated filled her with sick dread.

  As if reading her fears, he said, “You’ll be safe. No way can the hitter find you there. I’ll stay with you. Can you handle a shotgun?”

  “I’ve done some skeet shooting.”

  “Ric’s place is as safe as you can get in the whole valley. I’ll be with you. No one can sneak up on us.”

  “What about the men who are watching my farm? Aren’t they in danger?”

  “Don’t worry about them. They’re on alert.” He rose and stretched out a hand to her. She took it and stood. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll have that mope picked up before sunrise, I promise.”

  He was lying, but it was a nice lie, and she wanted to believe him. “I’d feel better if you kissed me,” she whispered.

  So he did, a gentle press of his mouth to hers. It didn’t last long enough to suit her, but it was enough for now, enough to keep her going.

  “Let me pack a bag,” Tate said. “We’ll be out of here in three minutes.”

  Not even the thought of her goats and lonely puppy made her eager to leave the protection of the Track Shack’s chunky brick and plaster walls. All she had to do was get through the night without crawling out of her skin—or being shot.

  THE SOUND OF AN approaching vehicle made every hair on Diana’s body lift. Her chest tightened painfully. She picked up the pump action shotgun Tate had left with her. Its deadly weight offered a small amount of assurance. She believed in the sanctity of life and that violence created the worst sort of negative energy. But protect herself? Darn tootin’!

  She and Tate had spent a restless night. He had tossed and turned on the lumpy old sofa, making the trailer rock, squeak and creak with every movement. She had tossed and turned in the bedroom, her mind so filled with worries about her sister and hit men that what little sleep she snatched left her thick and logy.

  Before he’d left this morning, Tate had given her a quick lesson with the pump-action shotgun. “Just point it in the general direction and pull the trigger,” he’d said. He set up a bale of hay as a target. She hadn’t braced it properly, and had a nice gun-butt-shaped bruise on her right shoulder to show for it. The hay bale had practically exploded, showering the field with drifting straw. Having ministered to
shotgun wounds in the emergency room, she knew exactly what would happen if she hit a man.

  With the weapon cradled in her arms, she stepped out of the trailer.

  Ric’s property was the last one on a road that dead-ended less than a quarter of a mile to the north. Because of the lay of the land, she could hear approaching vehicles long before she could see them.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her mouth felt filled with lint. If a strange vehicle turned onto the property, she would disappear into the forest. If anyone followed her, she’d shoot first, ask questions later.

  Tippy hadn’t liked the shotgun’s booming roar. The puppy eyed the weapon with suspicion, and refused to leave the trailer.

  “Come on, sweetie,” she coaxed until he crept after her. She moved around the end of the trailer where she could watch the road without being seen.

  At recognizing Tate’s old Bronco, she sagged against the metal skin. The only prayer she could muster was, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” A selfish prayer that offered little solace. Tate had promised to call if they found Bernie. That he hadn’t called portended bad news.

  The ancient truck bounced and rumbled up the dirt driveway. She met him in the driveway. His expression was thunderous, those dark eyes flashing. Her throat choked up and her back muscles tensed. If Bernie had died, or been shot, then it was something that had to happen. It still hurt like a knife in the gut.

  As soon as his feet were on the ground, she asked, “Is she dead?”

  His eyebrows lifted and his face softened. “Bernadette? No. We didn’t find any sign of her.”

  Head hanging, she closed her eyes. Relief made her knees watery. He touched a finger to her chin, urging to look at him.

  “We spent hours up at Sweetpot Lake. We had dogs, trackers. Only thing we found was an elk carcass. There’s no sign anyone has been there recently.”

  “I was so sure,” she murmured.

  “There are lots of little lakes and ponds around. Lots of old mines, too. The forest service is checking them out.”

  “Why are you upset?”

  He pushed a hand through his thick hair, leaving a few unruly tufts sticking out over his ears. A muscle leaped in his jaw. “FBI.”

  Still cradling the heavy shotgun, she turned for the trailer. She sank onto the metal stoop and waited for him to explain.

  “We might be dealing with organized crime.”

  She blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend organized crime infiltrating this quiet little valley. All she knew about organized crime came from mopping up the results of street gang violence. The way they shot, stabbed, beat each other and abused drugs didn’t seem at all organized to her. “Are you talking about the Mafia?”

  “I don’t know. Turns out your sister stole a car from one Farrah Montgomery. She owns a casino in Las Vegas, and from what I can gather, she’s under investigation. I can only assume it’s the mob.” He lifted his heavy shoulders in a rolling shrug. “The FBI rolled in with warrants, taking everything. They even took over the shooting in the station.”

  She cocked her head, trying to make sense of everything. “People are trying to kill my sister because she stole a car? What does it have to do with the money we found?”

  He kicked a clod of dirt. “I’ve been busting my butt for days. Collecting evidence, making calls, coordinating techs. Risking death by bees! And the feds waltz in and take everything without so much as a thank-you-very-much.” He looked ready to spit. “Thieves!”

  She repressed a smile. The situation wasn’t funny, but Tate’s need for control was. He had yet to learn that true control lay in surrender. “This means we can concentrate on looking for Bernie, right?”

  “For what good it will do. All we can do is charge her with stock theft. The feds will probably give her immunity from that.”

  She was too relieved over the fact that a marksman hadn’t put a bullet in her sister’s head to care much about the FBI. “Are you hungry? I made chicken and dumplings.”

  He clamped his hands on his hips. “It’s my case, damn it. I did the legwork. I’m handling things just fine without the feds.”

  “Everything happens for a reason. Even if we can’t figure out what the reason is. Acceptance is ever so much easier than going into a battle you’re guaranteed to lose.”

  He waved her off. “Don’t start in on me right now. You’ll soon find out how much fun the FBI can be. They want to talk to you.”

  “Me, why? I already told you everything I know.”

  “The feds think we’re a bunch of small-town hicks. Figure I don’t know a witness interview from a hole in the ground.” He barked a humorless laugh. “I didn’t tell them where you are.”

  “Protecting me or getting even?”

  “Both.” He finally deigned to notice Tippy who was sitting at his feet and beating up a dust cloud with his tail. Tate crouched and flopped the dog’s ears. Laughing, he avoided Tippy’s tongue. “Did you say chicken and dumplings?”

  “It can be ready in twenty minutes.” She handed him the shotgun. “Does this mean I can go home?” She hungered for her comfortable bed and familiar noises. She worried about her chickens and bees.

  He looked over his shoulder at the goats. They lay in the corral, soaking up the sunshine and chewing their cuds. “Chances are, the hit man did his job and split. I don’t want to play the odds with you at risk. With so many tourists in the area, it’s impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

  “What about the Shack? I missed work today. As busy as it is, I hate leaving you in the lurch.”

  His gaze went distant again. “I’ll rearrange schedules. Is that going to be a big problem? I know your sister took all your cash.”

  Dear, sweet man. If only he knew…She laughed, receiving a curious look. “I tend to get in trouble when I’m bored. That’s usually a problem for others.” She pulled open the trailer door.

  Tate followed her inside. His nose wrinkled. Mingled with the savory scent of stewed chicken was the sharp smell of vinegar. She’d scrubbed the place, top to bottom, and washed the windows. It was still shabby and small, but now it was sparkling clean.

  “Can I go to the laundromat? The grocery store? I’ll wear a hat and sunglasses.”

  “Hold on a day or two.”

  “I suppose. Are you still on duty?”

  “Nope, I’m back on regular schedule.” He fingered his uniform tie. “Mind if I change clothes?”

  She bit back the impish urge to ask if she could help. “Go ahead. I’ll finish up supper.”

  He put his hand on the bedroom door, but paused, frowning. His eyes looked black in the shadow of his brow. “If you want, I’ll stay out here at night. I can get somebody to stay during the day.”

  “I’m fine during the day, but have to admit when the sun goes down, it gets pretty spooky. I wouldn’t mind you staying.” She canted her head at the sofa. “That’s really too small for you. I’ll let you stay only if you take the bed.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. His cheek twitched. “Alone?”

  A thump rocked her belly. He was kidding, but then again, maybe he wasn’t. She didn’t want him to be. “None of us are ever truly alone.”

  TATE STEPPED OUT OF THE tiny shower stall and scrubbed with a towel. He’d actually slept well enough to feel refreshed and clear-headed. He was still angry about the FBI’s high-handedness, but he did concede that the Maya Valley’s small sheriff’s department was not equipped to handle assassins and organized crime. He stepped into a pair of briefs, then cracked open the door and peered into the bedroom. It was empty and the door was closed. Wreathed in billowing steam, he gathered his uniform.

  He was tying his tie when he began noticing an aroma of peppers and onions and that buttery oil Diana used for cooking. He heard singing. He couldn’t remember seeing a radio in the trailer, but it sounded like the soulful pipes of Mama Cass belting out Dream a Little Dream of Me.

  He opened the door. Diana stood before the stove,
waving a spatula over a frying pan as if it were a conductor’s baton. Swinging her hips, her wild hair swaying, she sang. Her sweet, sultry voice made his jaw drop.

  He was learning more about Diana in a weekend than he’d learned in a year.

  She noticed him and smiled. He regretted the loss of her singing.

  “I made coffee. Have you time for an omelette and biscuits?”

  “Whole wheat biscuits, right?” Last night, she’d served dumplings made from whole wheat and oats. He’d never seen such a thing and had been reluctant to eat them. Dumplings were supposed to be pillowy and white. She firmly believed that white flour was dead food, robbed of nourishment. Once he got over the texture, the dumplings hadn’t been too bad. He could probably get used to her cooking.

  She set a big cup of coffee in front of him along with a cloth-covered basket of biscuits, butter and honey.

  “If you treated your husband like this, I’m surprised he let you go.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt like an idiot for the cavalier comment.

  Her sunny smile reassured him. “I didn’t treat him like this. I was much too busy to bother with cooking. Our marriage was more of a business arrangement. We enhanced each other’s careers.” She lifted the pan off the stove and slid a fluffy omelette onto a plate.

  “How long were you married?”

  She set the plate before him. His mouth watered at the sight. She used eggs from her own chickens, and the yolks were so rich they were practically orange. The omelette was filled with green peppers and onions, and the edges were crispy, just the way he liked it.

  “Technically eight years, but we were separated for almost two years.” She tipped her chin, her smile amused. “If either of us had ever sat down and taken the time to think, I doubt the marriage would have lasted more than a month.”

  Usually he kept his curiosity in check, but in the intimacy of the trailer, engulfed in the aromas and taste of the food, he wanted to know more. “So what broke you up?”

  She filled a bowl with oatmeal and brought it to the table, taking the chair across from him. She dribbled honey onto the cereal. “First Mother took ill, and I had to take care of her. Then I got ill.”