by Lynn, Sheryl
The rebelliousness lasted only a few seconds. Gil Vance was right. McClintock couldn’t afford a major criminal investigation that spread across several states and possibly involved organized crime. Interstate crimes were the FBI’s jurisdiction.
“Yes, Mr. Albright?”
The agent indicated the briefing room. Looking glum, Gil was already in there, seated at a table and folding a message slip into a tricorner hat. After Tate walked inside, the agent closed the door.
“Agent Albright would like you to bring Diana in,” Gil said. The pink paper hat fit on the end of his index finger. He was angry.
“You have her statement,” Tate told the agent.
Albright smiled tightly. Of medium height, he was a slender man with the ropy build of a long distance runner. Heavy eyelids shaded his eyes. He turned a sheet of paper around on a table so Tate could see it. “Aliases,” he said. “Bernice O’Malley, Bernie Smith, Marie O’Malley, Diana Dover.”
Tate picked up the list and scanned the long list of Bernadette’s assumed identities. “Diana said her sister impersonated her before. So what?”
“The sheriff informs me that Ms. Dover keeps to herself. It’s rare to see her in town on the weekends.”
“She’s my employee. She works Monday through Friday at the bar I own. What she does on the weekends is nobody’s business but her own.”
The agent perched on the edge of the table. His expression seemed appropriate for a kindergarten teacher addressing rowdy charges. “Have you actually seen Bernadette O’Malley? Has anyone?”
Tate laughed and swung his head side to side. “Diana impersonated her sister and arranged for the stolen Buick and Robertson’s corpse as a diversion. And oh yeah, she made a horse disappear, too. Interesting theory. Tell me, Mr. Albright, do you also investigate X-files?”
“Bring Diana in,” Gil said. “We can clear this up with a simple fingerprint check.”
Tate took one step closer to the man and straightened his shoulders. The agent flinched. “You took all our evidence, sir. You know everything we know and more. Why are you still here?”
“To apprehend O’Malley, deputy.”
“Ha! What’s Bernadette’s connection to Farrah Montgomery? What’s the connection to organized crime?”
“As I’ve already explained to the sheriff, it’s my belief that O’Malley and Robertson are involved with Farrah Montgomery. It is also my belief that Montgomery has ties to organized crime. As for Ms. Dover, it is standard operating procedure to interview family members. In my experience, they always know more than they think they know.”
“Well, duh,” Tate said in a deliberately mocking tone. “Thanks for telling me what I already know.”
“Tate,” Gil warned.
“In my experience,” Tate continued, “Feebs like to play spy versus spy games, and to hell with local law enforcement or private citizens. What exactly are you after?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, deputy.”
Like hell you don’t, Tate told the man with his glare. This case was starting to stink like a kennel of wet dogs. “It’s my belief,” he said, imitating the agent’s condescending tone, “that it isn’t Diana’s information you want. You want her because she’s Bernadette’s twin. She’s bait to nab the hit man. Or is it Farrah Montgomery you’re after?”
“You’re mistaken, deputy. Ms. Dover is a witness, nothing more. I’ll take every precaution to ensure her safety.”
“If you want information, I’ll talk to her. She’s not setting foot in town until the coast is clear.” He reached for the door.
“I read your report, deputy,” Albright said. “Diana Dover is a licensed physician.”
Albright’s tone made the short hairs prickle Tate’s neck.
“As you should be aware, doctors are required by law to report gunshot wounds. I must have missed seeing in your report where Dr. Dover reported Bernadette O’Malley’s injuries.”
“Whoa, whoa!” Gil exclaimed. “You don’t come in here threatening citizens in my town, Mr. Albright. I don’t look kindly on malicious prosecution.”
“See what I mean, Gil? He wants to stake her out in the middle of Main Street. Who are you trying to catch, Albright?”
“Diana didn’t break the law and you know it,” Gil said.
“Failure to report, harboring a fugitive, conspiracy? She doesn’t sound all that law-abiding to me.”
The sheriff rose and tossed the paper hat at a trash can. He turned for the door.
The agent jumped to his feet. “Sheriff Vance, I am conducting an authorized investigation in which you are obligated to grant me full cooperation.”
Gil exchanged a hard look with Tate then faced the agent. “Have you met Judge Elias Woodman? He’s our local circuit court judge. He decides what’s authorized and what’s not around here. Give him a call. Just be sure to tell him I said hello.”
“This is not in your best interests.” Albright’s face had turned bright red.
“I’ve spent the last fifty years deciding what’s in my best interests,” Gil said. “I don’t need your input.” He walked out and Tate followed. Gil entered his office and invited Tate to join him. He closed the door. “This is serious business.”
“No kidding.”
Gil pulled a slip of paper from his desk drawer. He pushed it across the desk to Tate. “I made a discreet inquiry. Found out who Williams called from here.”
Tate read the paper. Sparkle City casino, Las Vegas, Nevada. Poor dumb mope. Thought he was calling for legal aid, and ended up arranging his own execution. “Did you show Albright?”
Gil smiled tightly. “Forgot. I called the casino, asked to speak to Farrah Montgomery. She’s unavailable. When I identified myself, I was mysteriously disconnected. So Bernadette and Robertson heist Montgomery’s car. Only nobody reports the theft and Montgomery is missing in action. Now we got a hit man convention in town.”
Tate knew Gil had more to tell. “And?”
“Your friend in Arizona called. First, no ballistics matches on the .22 we sent. Second, he pulled a nice palm print off the screen door at the murdered woman’s house. Surprise, it belongs to O’Malley.”
So Tate had been right. Bernadette had sought her sister and mother, and an innocent woman’s death was a direct result.
“Third, Diana’s mother used to live in one of those compound communities. The kind with guard houses and expensive security. A guard reported that a woman matching Bernadette’s description tried to talk her way into the compound. She was asking for Ruth O’Malley. Within minutes after the guard ran her off, two men asked for the same address, same name. Only get this, the descriptions don’t match Taylor and Williams.”
“Sounds like an army is after our girl.” He laid a hand on Gil’s telephone. “Let me make some phone calls. If I can’t get anything from Nevada, I have a few sources back in New York who might shed some light on what the feds are after.”
Gil indicated permission with a wave of his hand. “Speaking of calls, Oscar is looking for you.”
Tate groaned, eyes closed. His evening bartender must be having a fit over rearranging work schedules to make up for Tate’s and Diana’s absences. He couldn’t afford to close the Shack during the day; he depended too much on the lunch crowd. He especially needed to stay open now. All this commotion had made the Shack a popular place with everyone dropping in for a dose of gossip. He hated taking advantage of a crisis, but he might make enough money to offer some breathing room.
He dialed the Shack, and hoped someone was around to answer the phone.
A heavily accented voice said, “Track Shack Bar and Grill. ¿Qué?”
Tate didn’t recognize the voice. “This is Raleigh, who is this?”
The man replied in rapid-fire Spanish, of which Tate didn’t catch a word. Then he caught a shout, “Tía Consuela!”
“Where you at?” Consuela demanded a few seconds later. She sounded more cranky than usual. Tate could barely hea
r her over the clanking, shouts and laughter in the background.
“I’m working. Who’s there with you?”
“Jesus, Jorge and Lupe and Dulce. Susan came in, too. Been running at a gallop since we opened. What, you don’t care no more about this place, eh?”
A flash of brilliance struck him. “You’re in charge.”
“What?”
“You are now officially promoted to manager. Hire as many of your grandkids, nieces and nephews as you want. Coordinate the work schedules with Oscar. Deal with suppliers. You know what needs done. It’s all yours.”
Silence answered. That was a first. He grinned, wondering why he hadn’t thought about this before. While he still had the advantage of surprise, he added, “I’ll drop in when I can, but I trust you to take care of everything.”
“Okay,” she said, subdued.
“Are you sure this is all right by you?”
“Sí!” She slammed down the phone, making him flinch away from the earpiece.
Openmouthed, Gil stared. “You put Consuela in charge of the Shack? You’ll have to stage a coup to wrestle it away from her.”
“Can’t be helped.” He chuckled. “I should have done it before. She knows ten times more about running a restaurant than I’ll ever learn in a lifetime.”
“If you’re really thinking about selling, why not sell to her?”
Tate rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “Dinero. She can’t afford it.”
“Is that what she said?”
Tate hadn’t asked. He’d assumed she didn’t have the money. He shoved the idea aside. He’d think about the Shack later. At the moment he had some calls to make.
“I bet Albright will have a warrant for Diana by close of business today. Let’s hope by then we know what we’re up against and how we can protect her.”
Chapter Ten
Diana crouched behind a lodgepole pine, and peered through the budding foliage of a scrub oak. From this position, she had a good view of the trailer, the driveway and a dusty Blazer with Nevada plates. A man sat behind the steering wheel.
Diana was positive she’d never seen him before.
Marlee cradled a rifle against her chest. She looked more excited than scared.
Diana wrinkled her nose at the trailer house. “I forgot the darned telephone. I’m so out of the habit of keeping it with me. Give me yours.”
Marlee lowered her face and peered upward, sheepish. “I left it in the truck.”
“We’re a hopeless pair,” Diana whispered.
Marlee peeked around a tree trunk. “So what’s that guy doing anyway?”
Diana hadn’t a clue. “We need to get out of here. Find a telephone.” She looked around at the thick forest and rocky, hilly terrain. The nearest house was half a mile down the road, but it was a vacation cabin and Diana hadn’t noticed any signs of occupation. They could set off to the east in the hopes of finding a house or ranger station or forest road.
“The river is that way? Right?” She pointed east.
“Uh-uh. You aren’t thinking about cutting crosscountry, are you? Aside from the fact that the bears are out and hungry, if we end up out after dark…no thanks.”
The car door opened. Both women tensed. Diana kept a hand on Tippy’s muzzle so he wouldn’t bark. The man looked to be of average height and weight, wearing khaki trousers and a bright red polo shirt. He looked younger and smaller than the hit man who’d pretended to be an attorney, but as Tate had said, the hit man most likely wore a disguise.
He walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door.
“Do assassins knock?” Marlee whispered.
“Have to check my handbook,” Diana muttered. She guessed the distance from their hiding place to Marlee’s pickup at about forty yards. “I bet he drops the act and goes inside. When he does, we can make it to your truck. Are you game?”
Knocking on the metal door echoed off the trees. He turned from the door, shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around. “Hello?” he called. It echoed, o-o-o.
Marlee sat back on her heels. “Hmm. Maybe he’s a lost tourist.”
“Or that’s what he wants us to believe.” Her conviction wavered when the man stepped off the stoop and headed for the barn. He kept calling hello. The goats trotted to the fence, bleating and baaing eagerly. The man reached through the wire and scratched a goat behind the ears.
“Must be one of those soft-hearted hit men.” Marlee giggled, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “Wouldn’t he be trying to sneak up on you?”
The man knocked on the barn door. When that resulted in nothing, he ambled back to the driveway. He cocked his head as if examining Marlee’s truck. He placed a hand on the hood.
Marlee’s truck engine would still be warm. Awash in a fresh wave of fear, Diana stiffened.
He cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled, “Mrs. Dover? Hello!”
Diana’s heart hammered her chest. Her palms grew greasy where she gripped the shotgun.
He returned to the SUV. Instead of driving away, he leaned against the front bumper and pulled what appeared to be a notebook from his pants pocket. He hunched over, writing.
“I can shoot him in the leg,” Marlee said.
Diana guessed her friend was only half-joking. She examined her options. Wait him out, and hope he didn’t have a partner even now sneaking up on them through the forest. Risk heading into the forest and hope they didn’t run into a bear or get lost. She glanced at the shotgun. “Let’s draw him out.”
“How?”
Diana jutted her chin toward the barn. “I’ll sneak behind the barn. You hide in the trees. I’ll call him. If he pulls a gun, then you can shoot him in the leg. If he doesn’t, we’ll get the drop on him. Can we do this?”
“I’m not the one who preaches peace and nonviolence,” Marlee said. “The question is, can you do it?”
“You bet I can.” She lowered the shotgun to the ground, then tied Tippy’s leash to a tree. “Down,” she commanded and pushed on his nose until he lay on his belly. “Stay.” He watched her with anxious eyes. She prayed he wouldn’t start barking.
The women sneaked from tree to tree, always watching the man. He seemed prepared to wait all day for her. Marlee found a hiding place about thirty feet from the barn. Diana went farther until she was out of the man’s line of sight. Only then did she race across open ground and behind the barn. Her heart pounded as if she’d run twenty miles rather than twenty feet. She wiped first one hand then the other on her shirt, gripped the shotgun and inched along the barn wall.
She glanced at Marlee’s hiding place. Green shadows concealed the woman. Diana pumped a round into the shotgun’s chamber. The ka-chack echoed and the man jumped away from the Blazer.
“Hello!” she tried to call, but it came out a squeak. She cleared her throat, then shouted, “Hello!”
“Mrs. Dover? Hello?” He shoved the notebook into a rear pocket and strode across the grass. His hands were empty and his expression was eager. “I’m Patrick Coles with the National Press. May I—”
Diana stepped from behind the barn, the shotgun leveled at his chest.
Coles gasped, stumbled backward, tangled in his feet and went down so hard his teeth clacked. His mouth opened, his face reddened, but no sound came out even though his throat was working frantically.
In her peripheral vision Diana saw Marlee step out of the woods, her rifle aimed at the intruder’s head.
“Hey! Hey!” he shouted and reached for his shirt pocket.
“Keep those hands up!” Marlee was now close enough for him to smell the gun oil on the rifle barrel.
“God! I’m a reporter, I have credentials. I’m not the law, Ms. O’Malley! Oh, God! Don’t shoot me!”
“Turn over,” Marlee ordered. “On your face, arms out. Do it, or I’ll blow off your kneecaps!”
Diana arched her eyebrows. She’d always known her friend was gutsy—she had to be in order to doctor cattle and horses. She had never
realized how truly gutsy Marlee was. Impressive. “Do what she says.”
Careful to keep both hands in view, the man struggled to turn over onto his elbows, then sank to the grass and spread his arms.
“If he moves an eyelash,” Marlee said, “pull the trigger.” She tucked the rifle beneath her left arm then carefully patted the man’s sides, pockets and legs. She removed the notebook he’d been writing in and a wallet. She stepped back. “Keep your hands out and roll over.”
His face was dead white. He looked to be perhaps twenty-five, maybe a youthful thirty. Grass stained his khakis. Marlee patted his shirt front and trouser pockets for weapons. Then she backed away, the rifle again at ready.
“He’s clean.”
“Should we tie him up?” Diana asked.
“I don’t know who you think I am, but I swear, I’m harmless, Ms. O’Malley.” He tried a smile, it was thin and quivery. “Mrs. Dover?” he directed at Marlee. “It’s not what you think. Honest to God.”
Great, Diana thought. Hit men were actually mistaking her for Bernie.
Marlee flipped open the wallet. “Patrick Coles, Las Vegas, Nevada.” She handed the wallet to Diana.
Diana scanned a driver’s license, credit cards, a National Press employee identification card and a library card. They looked legitimate, but how would she know? “How did you know where to find me?”
“I told you, I work for the National Press, Ms. O’Malley. Can I get up? I think I’m on an anthill. Please?”
“All right, on your knees, but put your hands on your head.” Diana backed a step. He struggled onto his knees and laced his fingers atop his head. He tried a wan smile, which neither woman returned.
“I’m an investigative reporter. For the past year I’ve been working on a story about Farrah Montgomery.”
