by Lynn, Sheryl
Marlee looked as intrigued as Diana felt. “Go on.”
“Is this a joke?” he asked Diana. “You know why I’m here.”
She loosed a long breath. If this man actually was a reporter working for a large syndication, then maybe he could help get out the word that she, Diana, was not and never had been her criminal sister. “I am not Bernadette O’Malley.”
He blinked rapidly.
“I’m Diana Dover. Bernie is my sister.”
He looked between the women, uncertain and suspicious.
“Bernadette,” Marlee said, “is gone, pfft, vanished into the mountains. So if you’re a hit man, you’ve got the wrong sister.”
His hands began a slow slide off his head. Marlee brought up the rifle with the ease of an expert. He locked his fingers. “I wasn’t sure there was a Diana Dover. O’Malley used the name as an alias. You’re really sisters then?”
“Identical twins. On the surface anyway. So why are you here? Unless you do want to kill Bernie.”
“I told you, I’m working on a story about Farrah Montgomery. Three weeks ago, she vanished. None of her people are talking. Nobody is confirming anything. And let me tell you, in Las Vegas discretion is rarely considered valiant. I heard from an inside source that Montgomery was kidnapped. There was a ransom drop, but it went wrong, and they didn’t recover Farrah. A lot of people think she’s dead.”
Diana’s belly tightened most unpleasantly. She lowered the shotgun. “Half a million dollars in ransom?”
“Something like that.”
“So everyone thinks my sister kidnapped Farrah.” She drew a deep breath to steady herself. “And committed murder.”
“Yeah. But the law is the least of your sister’s worries.” He narrowed his eyes and peered closely at her face. “You look a lot like her.”
“I told you, we’re identical twins. Much to my dismay at the moment.”
Marlee cleared her throat. She looked skeptical about Coles’s story. “How did you find Diana?”
“It wasn’t hard. I talked to the old guy over at the Bugle office. Frank…whatever.”
“Carson,” Marlee said. “I know for a fact he wouldn’t have told you where Diana was.”
“He didn’t. He told me about Robertson and the man who died from bee stings and the man who was killed in the sheriff’s station. I did some research, and found out who you are, Mrs. Dover. Or who you said you were—whatever. Anyway, I stopped in at a diner and overheard people talking. They mentioned Buchanan’s place. Public records showed me where it was. It’s all on the up and up. I didn’t do anything illegal.”
Ah, the charm of small towns, Diana thought. “Never mind that. How did you even know Bernie was in the area?”
He gave her an oh please look. “I picked up the story off the wire. Make that multiple stories. Your sister has been involved in shoot-outs, there’s a possible connection to a murder in Phoenix, and a murder here and now a fugitive search.”
Diana hadn’t read a newspaper, other than the chatty local weekly, in over a year. She’d forgotten how small a place the world could be. “Do you know who’s sending people after my sister?”
“I have a good idea. Farrah’s father is Douglas Montgomery.” He nodded as if he expected them to recognize the name. He seemed rather disappointed when they didn’t. “He’s an international arms dealer. He started out legit, making billions by supplying small countries with weapons of war. But then he got political. If the allegations are true, he’s outfitting terrorists. Police agencies around the world have been trying to catch him for years.”
“Oh, my.”
“The FBI believes he’s using Farrah’s casino to launder cash and get it out of the country.”
Oh, Bernie, look what you’ve done…“So where is this man?”
“Nobody knows.” He grinned as if sharing a naughty secret. “Nobody has actually seen Montgomery in over ten years. Some say he committed suicide, some say he lives on a secluded island, others claim he’s hiding out in the Middle East. What is a fact is that Farrah is his only child. Even phantoms care about their kids.”
“So he isn’t after the money, he wants revenge.”
“It’s possible.” He shrugged as if to say, That’s very bad.
The shotgun suddenly felt very, very heavy—and very, very inadequate. “We have to call Tate. He can find out if this guy is who he says he is.” She turned a tight smile on Coles. “No offense, but I don’t like getting shot at. So until the law arrives, I’m tying you up.”
He groaned and began lowering his hands. Both women whipped weapons to their shoulders. He locked his fingers atop his head.
“Okay, okay—jeez! No wonder Montgomery hasn’t gotten to you. You ladies are mean.”
IF THE SITUATION WEREN’T so serious, Tate would be laughing his head off. A peek at Gil showed the sheriff was fighting a smile. Like a pair of banditas, Marlee and Diana toted weapons. Patrick Coles was trussed up on a kitchen chair. Both hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were secured to the chair legs. The man looked relieved to see uniformed officers.
“And to think I was worried about you, Red.” Tate nodded at the man. “So what’s your story?”
Patrick Coles started talking, the words tumbling out of his mouth like water from a hose. While listening to the reporter’s tale, he and Gil examined the contents of Coles’s wallet.
Tate didn’t much care for journalists. His comments had been taken out of context and misquoted often enough to put a permanent bad taste in his mouth. At the same time, he respected them, especially investigative reporters. Some of them were as accomplished in detective work as the most experienced cop. Since shady types would say things to reporters they wouldn’t dream of telling the police, many journalists had better sources than the cops did.
Gil asked, “So how exactly did O’Malley get close enough to Montgomery to kidnap her?”
“Farrah has a weakness for strays.” Coles looked warily at Diana. “Hookers, strippers, addicts, ex-cons. She takes them in, cleans them up, buddies around with them. Kind of a weird hobby. Or maybe it’s her trashy side.” He smiled at the law officers, guy to guy. “Who can figure women, right?”
The story accounted for the money, the bugged briefcase and the army on Bernadette’s tail. Tate wasn’t certain he was falling for it, though. Something about the reporter bugged him. He seemed too eager.
“I think Farrah is dead, and her father knows it.”
“May I search your vehicle?” Tate asked.
“Anything. Look, I’m on the up-and-up. I’ve been working this story for months. I can’t state with full assurance that it is Douglas Montgomery behind the hit men. I am confident in saying that if he is, he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”
Tate untied the man, but snapped on handcuffs and led him outside. He put him in the back seat of Gil’s Range Rover. Gil got on the horn to dispatch to run checks on Coles’s identification and vehicle registration.
“I’ll search his car, sir,” Tate told Gil. He glanced at the women, and grinned. Coles must have peed his pants when they leveled weapons at his head. Gutsy gals, the both of them.
He searched Coles’s Blazer. It was a late model, but there was nearly a hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The interior was littered with fast food wrappers and notes written on cocktail napkins, torn phone book pages and receipts. There was a box of cassette tapes, labeled by date, the oldest being a little more than a year old. He had eclectic taste in music, judging by the melange of country, rock and roll and classical CDs scattered on the passenger seat and passenger side floorboard. There was a very expensive camera and a cheap vinyl carryall carelessly stuffed with clothes. Tate found a cell phone with number storage capacity. He scrolled through the listings, finding numbers for law enforcement agencies, research services, Chinese restaurants and pizza delivery, and a large number of female names. He recorded all the numbers to check later.
He didn’t find a wea
pon, ammunition or anything more dangerous than a screwdriver.
“Well?” Diana asked. Marlee echoed the question.
“He’s a slob, but I don’t think he’s a killer.” He backed out of the Blazer and showed them a photograph. Bernadette, dressed in a funky silver jumpsuit, posed arm-in-arm with a dark, elegant looking woman. Both of them mugged for the camera. Bernadette was thinner than Diana and her hair was tamed into a smooth, shoulder-length bob, but the resemblance was phenomenal.
“She really does look like you,” Marlee said. Then she laughed. “Except for that outfit. Tacky.”
Diana wasn’t smiling. Her brow twisted, her expression pained. “That must be Farrah. They look like friends.” She turned away and covered her face with a hand.
Marlee patted Diana’s back. “Hey, girl, are you okay?” Then her eyes widened and her cheeks reddened. “I have such a big mouth. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not you, hon. It’s the whole thing.” She skittered away from the photograph as if it might bite her. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I know Bernie is selfish and short-sighted and…criminal. But a murderer? A heartless killer? We shared a bedroom until we were ten!”
Marlee wrapped an arm around Diana’s shoulders and led her friend toward the trailer.
Tate passed a hand over his face. Diana’s pain shook him to his core. Professional distancing wasn’t working. He doubted if it ever would where Diana was concerned.
“YOU CHECK OUT, MR. COLES.” Tate removed the handcuffs and replaced them in the case on the back of his belt.
Coles rubbed his wrists and smiled without rancor. If anything, he seemed as excited as a kid before a baseball game. “Does this mean you’ll give me an interview?”
Gil rolled his eyes.
Tate laughed. “Reporters are all alike. No such thing as tragedy, just photo ops.”
“Look, I’m a big believer in you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I have a lot of information you can use.”
“If we need information from you, sir,” Tate said, “we’ll take you down to the basement in the sheriff’s station.”
Coles gulped, his eyes shifting up and down as if just now realizing how big Tate actually was. He sidled a step toward the sheriff, but Gil growled deep in his throat and the reporter froze.
Tate signaled for Gil to step away, out of Coles’s earshot. He ignored the frustration on the reporter’s face. In a low voice Tate said, “This whole thing stinks. Did the FBI mention international terrorists or kidnapping?”
“Not that I recall. Think that boy is feeding us a line?”
“Or Agent Albright is. Doesn’t it seem funny to you that Albright isn’t all that interested in the fugitive search?”
“Has crossed my mind.”
“Albright has access to helicopters, National Guard, hell, infrared cameras and night-vision scopes. So why hasn’t he offered them?”
Gil stuck his thumbs in his gun belt. His brown face took on smooth, bland, thoughtfulness. Then he blinked, once, twice. “Well, now, could be he’s trying to gaff himself a big fish.”
Tate eyed the reporter. The man’s ears were nearly swiveling on his head. He was probably salivating over the prospect of a big story. “Let’s say Albright isn’t interested in Farrah Montgomery. Let’s say he is after the father. Bernadette must seem like manna from heaven to him. The perfect way to draw the man out.”
“You mean draw him to our town.”
Tate rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “How many assassins would you let screw up before you got mad and went in yourself?”
“So why does Albright want Diana? He wouldn’t dare try to pass her off as her sister.”
“Worst casing it, he might. Or he’d let Montgomery’s boys have a crack at her, so they can fail again.”
“What’s our best plan of action then?”
“First, we get Diana out of here. We need—”
Gil put up a hand. His dark eyes were blank and hard. “Diana Dover is a private citizen. It is absolutely none of my business where she goes.”
Tate took the hint. Hiding Diana was his job, and he was never to speak of it to Gil. In protecting her from the FBI, they risked their jobs and quite possibly their freedom.
Then louder, designed for the reporter’s ears, Gil said, “How about this boy and I head on back to town? We can have a cup of coffee and a chat. You finish up here.”
“Got it, chief.” He looked around at the trees. A sick sensation settled in his gut. If Coles spoke the truth and Montgomery was as rich and powerful as claimed, then the world might not be big enough to hide Diana.
Chapter Eleven
Diana downed a glass of cool water. The well water had a faint mineral taste that tingled against her salivary glands. She could see out the tiny louvered window over the kitchen sink. Tate’s cruiser was parked behind Marlee’s truck. The sheriff and the reporter had departed, with the sheriff driving behind the reporter to make sure he made it all the way to town. She was exhausted. There had been entirely too much excitement lately, and what it was doing to her body worried her.
Tate touched her back. “Are you all right?”
“No. I’m scared and I’m frustrated. I’m worried sick about Bernie. I’m even more worried about McClintock and what this could do to our town.” She turned her head enough to see him. His concern eased her heart a little. “I was ready to shoot that man. I don’t like what that says about me.”
“It says you’re smart,” Marlee stated firmly. “So what now, Tate? If Coles found her so easily, then this place isn’t safe.”
Anger added itself to Diana’s inner turmoil. In the Maya Valley she’d found peace and a sense of safety she’d never dreamed possible. She wanted it back.
Tate glared at the door. “The FBI is a problem, too. Albright is threatening to get an arrest warrant.”
“For who?” Diana drew her head warily aside. “Me? Whatever for?”
“Trumped up garbage. Nothing he can make stick, but that’s not the point. You’re a means to an end.”
Marlee snapped her fingers, and her eyes lit up. “I know where she can hide. Daddy’s lodge.”
Tate startled. Having no idea what her friend talked about or why Tate reacted so strongly, Diana sank onto a chair. She let a hand drop onto Tippy’s head. He’d forgiven her for tying him up in the forest, but he still stayed far away from the weapons. His nose was icy against her palm.
“What’s wrong with the lodge?” Diana asked.
“It’s where Elaine’s first husband was murdered. And my father died there, too.” Marlee paused as if judging Diana’s reaction. “Granted, it’s creepy as all get out, and it has no electricity or heat. But, it’s isolated on Mc-Clintock Ranch and there’s a chain across the driveway. You’d have to be a native to find a way through the forest to get there.”
Tate pulled his chin. He looked worried. “What about your mother? Or your sister? Elaine will freak out if she finds out anyone is in the lodge.”
“So we don’t tell her. We don’t tell anybody. We can tell everyone you’ve left town. Gone on vacation to Mexico, or Canada.”
Diana liked the sound of being someplace where she could gather herself and regain her serenity. “What about my animals?”
“Take Tippy with you. I’ll take the goats to the ranch. I swear, nobody will mind having them around. The lodge is perfect.” Marlee checked her watch then her beeper.
“I don’t have any appointments today that can’t be postponed. You and I will switch vehicles, and you can wear my hat. That way if anyone spots you on the ranch, they’ll think you’re me.”
“And if some bad guy thinks you’re me?” Diana shook her head hard. “We can’t risk—”
“Oh, come on! Your pickup looks like a thousand others around here.” She patted her light brown hair, which was cut in a short practical style. “No one would ever mistake me for you. Besides—” she patted her rifle as if it were a faithful pet “—I can take the e
ye out of a bullfrog at a hundred yards. I’m not scared.”
Tate’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I have a better idea. We leave your pickup here, Red. It might throw off anyone snooping around. I’ll get you to the lodge. You’re sure no one will stumble onto her, Marlee?”
“The cattle have been moved out of the north pastures, so nobody will be on the roads up there. Mama hasn’t set up any logging operations or brush-whacking. We’ve got no guests looking to rough it. Unless somebody parachutes onto the roof by accident, no one will ever know.”
Tate picked up the cell phone he’d loaned to Diana. A frown creased his broad forehead. “Cell phone transmissions are easy to capture. We have to keep communication to a bare minimum. All right, we can do this.”
In less than an hour, the three had Diana’s belongings packed and the goats loaded in Marlee’s pickup.
Diana hugged her friend. “You’re the best. See you in about an hour.”
Marlee trundled off with the bleating goats. Diana opened the back door of the cruiser and whistled for Tippy. The pup leaped eagerly into the back seat, where he sat with a happy grin in a cloud of drifting white hairs. She turned to Tate.
“Is this going to get you into trouble?”
He smiled. Such a lovely smile with his dark eyes sparkling and a hint of a dimple in his cheek. He chucked her chin with a knuckle.
“My duty is to this valley. Protect and serve. If the feebs want to catch terrorists, good for them. But not at the expense of people I care about.”
She touched his tie, giving it a little tug. “Ah, so you admit you care about me?”
“Don’t start, Red.” His smile faded. “Of course, I care.” He cupped his large hand against her cheek, a gesture so tender it made her throat tighten. “All the years I’ve been a cop, and I never got personal with a case. It’s a job, and I’m good at it. I’m good at leaving it behind. Coppers who can’t detach, who get personal, they burn out, go crazy. I never did that.” One finger gently caressed her cheek. “Damn it, this is personal. You know I don’t want to care this much about you.”
