Always Time To Die sk-1

by Elizabeth Lowell

  From the corner of his eye, Dan watched her struggle out of the heavy forest-green sweater. When she finally managed to yank it over her head, he forgot to breathe. Something that was thin, midnight blue, and fit like skin itself covered her from shoulders to wrists, and neck to waistline and beyond.

  He'd wondered about her breasts and if she wore a bra. He didn't wonder anymore. Her breasts were just right for a man's hands and there wasn't a bra in sight. If there had been, the dark blue material was so tight he'd have been able to tell if the bra fastened in front or in back.

  He wondered if the top was stretchy enough to be pulled up over her hips or if it had snaps at the crotch.

  "Something wrong?" Carly asked, watching him watch her. "Technically this isn't underwear, if that's what is bothering you. It's workout gear."

  "Workout." He smiled slowly.

  "Yes." She looked sideways at him. "And it's no tighter than your T-shirt."

  "Urn," was all he said.

  His pants weren't going to fit right if he kept looking at her nipples pushing against the sleek fabric. He raised his hand and knocked on the door when what he really wanted to do was find out how Carly's body shirt stayed in place.

  Instead of calling out, Winifred opened the door herself. "You all right?" she asked Carly gruffly. "Melissa told me about your car."

  "Other than being angry, I'm fine."

  Winifred looked at Dan as if for confirmation.

  "She's a lot tougher than she looks," he said.

  "She better be. The Senator's son is a hard one." Winifred gestured curtly. "Get on in here. Can't have Sylvia's room getting cold. Glad you brought your man with you," she added to Carly. "I have a lot of stuff for you to take out of here."

  Before Carly could object that Dan wasn't hers, she saw the cartons, bags, and boxes stacked against the wall.

  "Photos," Winifred said, following her glance. "Documents, all the stuff you said you wanted. Even my mother's wedding dress."

  "I didn't mean that I had to take everything with me right now," Carly said. "I can just take a box or two at a time and-"

  "Here's a list of local women who might have been the Senator's lovers," Winifred interrupted curtly. "As for the boxes, take all you can and then come back for the rest. The stuff is no good to me unless it gets into the book you're going to write. There aren't any more Castillos in my line to give it to."

  "What about the governor?" Carly asked.

  "He's a Quintrell."

  Carly looked at Dan.

  He was watching the old woman intently, adding up facts and hunches, and not liking the bottom line. A distinct chill blew across his nape.

  Danger.

  He'd felt the same way when he walked out of a hotel in

  Colombia-and right into an ambush. He'd survived, but only because he'd worn body armor and carried a Desert Eagle. He was firing before the attackers figured out to aim for his legs. The 10 mm Eagle was like carrying a sawed-off elephant gun in his pocket-great stopping power if you were a good shot.

  He'd been good enough to survive. Not good enough to take out the men before the children screamed and fell.

  "If you need help," Dan said, "you call me or Dad. Anytime, day or night, Miss Winifred. Anytime at all."

  Winifred waved off the suggestion with a motion that shifted the heavy Indian bracelet she always wore at her wrist. "You just keep the rats off Carly's pillow and I'll do fine."

  "How did you find out about the rat?" Carly asked, startled.

  "Alma's sister-in-law works for the sheriff," Winifred said. "She about hurt herself laughing over the rat."

  "What a sweetheart," Carly muttered.

  If Winifred heard, she didn't show it. She just went to the corner adobe hearth and added two more chunks of pinon to the already fierce fire. "With the Senator dead, things are going to change. His son isn't a patient man. I want my history book in one month, not three. You get it done, and get it done right, and I'll give you twice as much as we agreed on."

  Carly looked into the old woman's blazing black eyes and wondered again just how sane Miss Winifred was. "I'll do everything I can."

  "If you need to hire some work done, I'll pay for it," Winifred said.

  Dan put his hand on Carly's arm. "I'm lazing around doing nothing. I'll help her just to keep from getting bored."

  "Then start hauling boxes," Winifred said.

  "Melissa was worried that some of the documents you have might be so valuable that Governor Quintrell would have to approve their removal," Carly said.

  "Sometimes Melissa is as full of crap as a Christmas goose."

  Carly blinked. "So I guess it's not a problem."

  "Not for me," Winifred said. "What's mine is mine and to hell with the Senator's son."

  "Okay, then I guess I should pack the things I'll need in the next few days," Carly said.

  Reluctantly she started to leave. She really hoped that there wouldn't be any more gory surprises on her pillow, but she was afraid there would be.

  "I'll come with you," Dan said. "Wait while I load this stuff into the truck."

  "You don't have to go with me."

  "Yes I do."

  Carly smiled, hoping she didn't look as relieved as she felt. She wasn't a helpless little flower, but the sly violence of the dead rat, the paint-drenched car, and the threatening phone call made her feel angry and sick and more frightened than she wanted to admit. She'd much rather deal with Alma's brand of in-your-face bitchiness.

  Dan made quick work of the cartons, boxes, bags, and ancient leather suitcase Winifred had gathered. Carly picked up the shirt, sweater, and jackets that she and Dan had shed.

  "I'll call you as soon as the car is fixed," she said to Winifred.

  "You do that. And put that man of yours to work. He has the best mind of the lot."

  Carly didn't ask which "lot" Winifred meant. She just let herself out of the overheated room with a sigh of relief and went to catch up with Dan. Together they pulled on warm clothes, got in the truck, and drove it around to the guesthouse.

  "Thanks for doing this," Carly said when Dan parked close to her room. "I know I shouldn't let that dead rat bother me, but…" She sighed. "It does."

  "Don't worry about it. You're not used to ugly little games."

  "Can people get used to this?"

  "Oh, yeah." And a lot worse.

  But talking about it wouldn't make her feel better, so he shut up and climbed out of the truck. Together they walked quickly through the cold night to the old house. The wide front door stuck as it always did, the gallery was chilly and dark, and there was a light burning in Carly's room.

  "Did you-"

  "No," she cut in, her voice low.

  "Same shit, different day," he muttered.

  "The door is wide open this time, does that count?"

  He pushed her down next to the antique sideboard. "Stay here."

  "Deja vu all over again," she grumbled, but she didn't get up and follow him.

  Dan walked quietly toward the open door. There wasn't any noise from the room. He crouched and took a swift look inside.

  The bed was neatly turned down.

  Not a dead rat in sight.

  No living ones either.

  Just to be sure, Dan went through the room and then the small bathroom next door, which served the other guest rooms as well. Clean towels neatly folded. Clean glass in the holder.

  He went back to the hall. "It's okay."

  Despite the assurance, Carly hesitated just an instant before she looked at her neat room. "Well, somebody lit a fire under somebody's butt."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Turn-down service on the sheets. My pajamas neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Everything but a piece of chocolate on the pillow."

  "The towels in the bathroom looked fresh. Place smelled like disinfectant, too."

  Carly lifted her eyebrows. "Gee, and I have to leave all this belated luxury."

  "Life's a bi
tch." Dan went to the tall cupboard that served as a closet. "Where's your suitcase?"

  "Under the bed, along with my other stuff."

  He bent and pulled out a suitcase and several other pieces of luggage, including some specialized aluminum cases of the kind made for carrying cameras or guns. Given what he knew about Carly, Dan was betting on cameras.

  "Dan?"

  The quality of her voice brought him to his feet in a single motion.

  She was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at some boxes that had been pushed into a corner of the small room.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  Carly went to the boxes and looked again. No mistake. The boxes had all been closed wrong.

  "I left them lined up along the bed," she said. "Now, even if a really helpful maid put them along the wall out of my way, what was the maid doing pawing through the contents?"

  "How can you tell?"

  "I get a lot of boxes of stuff in my line of work," Carly said. "The first thing I learned was to mark the boxes so that I know what's inside without having to look. With cardboard cartons I mark one flap on the top and two sides. I close the box so that the inventory flap is on top."

  He looked at the top box. The overlapping flaps were bare of any writing.

  "Wonder what's missing. Or added," Carly said bitterly.

  He caught her hand before she could touch the box. "Let me do it."

  But instead of opening the box, he pulled off his jacket, crouched on his heels, and studied the two-foot-square carton.

  "What are you looking for?" she asked.

  "Wires."

  "Wires," she repeated. Then she understood. Her breath came in raggedly. "You don't really think anyone would rig my files to explode?"

  "Paranoia is just part of my job description."

  Carly swallowed hard. "What job is that?"

  "I'm on vacation."

  Dan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding knife. A flick of his thumb opened up a wicked blade. He didn't really expect anything lethal in the box, but he didn't want to die with a surprised look on his face. Gently, patiently, he slit each flap where it joined the box until nothing visibly attached the flaps to the box. The flaps shifted and slid to the floor.

  Nothing on top but papers.

  "How does it look?" he asked.

  She cleared her throat. "Normal."

  "About as full as it was the last time you closed it?"

  "I guess so. I don't stuff the boxes. It creases everything."

  "Okay." He casually riffled through the papers inside. No wires. No rats. Not even a mouse turd. "Looks good. Check it out for anything obviously missing."

  Carly crouched next to him and flipped through the box. Notebooks, genealogical forms, manila envelopes of photos or documents labeled as to approximate decade and/or family relationship. There wasn't anything missing, but something wasn't right.

  "Someone has been through this," she said.

  "You sure?" he asked without looking up from his study of the remaining boxes.

  "Yes. I'm totally anal when it comes to my work," she said. "Genealogy and family history are built on small facts. If you don't organize, organize, organize every single little piece of information you find, you'll drive yourself crazy looking for proof of something that you've already researched and nailed down-and then put the document in the wrong place. But in this box, an envelope holding documents is mixed up with the photo envelopes. The decades are out of order on the photo envelopes. It's not a big thing," she added, rearranging envelopes as she spoke, "but it's real."

  "Anything missing?"

  "No."

  "Check these out."

  She looked up. The other cartons were open. She was pleased to see that the flaps were still attached to the boxes. She started going through the contents quickly.

  "Same thing on all of these," she said after a few minutes. "Nothing missing. Everything not quite in order. Wonder what they were looking for. Or maybe they were just nosy."

  Dan stacked the three cartons on one another and picked them up as a unit. "I'll put these in the truck." Then he saw the look on her face. "What?"

  "I was thinking of breaking into a chorus of how nice it is to have a man around the house. I usually lift those suckers one at a time."

  "I'm too lazy to make that many trips. Get the door for me, will you?"

  Carly grabbed a camera case and a briefcase and trotted after him, opening doors as needed. They repeated the process until she had everything she needed but her suitcase. Dan picked it up and headed for the door.

  "Wait," she said. "I forgot my pajamas."

  He smiled slowly. "Don't feel you have to wear any on my account."

  "Ha ha." She grabbed the pajamas from the bedspread and then recoiled with a gasp.

  Instantly Dan was between her and the bed.

  No rat.

  No gore.

  Just a note made from letters cut out of newspaper headlines:

  Chapter 24

  SANTA FE

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  THE GOVERNOR'S MANSION HAD BEEN DESIGNED TO INVITE VISITORS TO BE comfortable and learn about New Mexico's distinctive art and artists. The national TV personality pacing the parlor and waiting to talk to the governor wasn't gracious, comfortable, or artistic. She was, however, distinctive. Jeanette Dykstra had a huge national following for her television show Behind the Scenes, a combination of gossip, speculation, ambush interviews, and "news" of the sort that gave journalism a bad name.

  Anne Quintrell set her teeth delicately, pasted on a smile, and walked toward the small-screen bitch queen. Dykstra looked older offscreen, harder, almost skeletal. It was the tyranny of TV's added twenty pounds, which resulted in a constant diet for people who made their living in front of a camera.

  Anne understood the skinny edict. What she didn't understand was why women with brown eyes and olive skin thought they looked good as a bleached-crispy blonde.

  "Ms. Dykstra, I hope I haven't kept you waiting," Anne said. "My secretary didn't mention an evening appointment."

  "Call me Jeanette." The reporter smiled, showing perfect teeth and no warmth. "Obviously there's been a mistake. My appointment was with the governor."

  Anne's smile didn't falter. "I'm so sorry. Someone must have forgot-ten to notify you. The governor cleared his calendar after his father's sudden death."

  "Sudden?" Dykstra's dark eyebrows pinched together.

  "Death is always sudden, even when it's expected."

  Dykstra looked at the immaculately dressed governor's wife; no ambush photo op would ever find a hair out of place on her. And there wasn't any hint of gossip about a bad marriage or girls on the side. Or boys. Nothing but Ken and Barbie Quintrell smiling out at the world. Dykstra looked around the parlor, noting the colorful, carefully stenciled designs on the dark beams, the beige overstuffed furniture that somehow managed not to be casual, and the expected southwestern art. Nothing juicy here, either.

  The silence grew.

  "I'm sure the governor will be glad to reschedule," Anne lied. "He has great admiration for your work."

  "That so?" Dykstra made a sound that was close to a snort. "Then the rumors must be true."

  "What rumors?"

  "That Josh Quintrell is running for president."

  "My husband is governor of New Mexico, and is honored to be trusted by the people with such an important responsibility."

  "That's what they all say. Then they throw their hat into the presidential ring and never look back." Dykstra's brown eyes narrowed. "Your husband has some real handicaps in a presidential race."

  "Since he's not-"

  The other woman kept talking. "His son is a boozy screwup who goes through women faster than a ten-million-dollar athlete. The governor keeps his poor ill mother shut away from the world. His dear, recently departed father was a womanizer the likes of which we haven't seen since the heyday of the Kennedys. If anybody looks, I'll bet there are bastar
ds galore out there with the Senator's blood in them. Your husband's family is the stuff of soap operas."

  Anne kept her pleasant expression in place. She'd had a lot of practice smiling through her teeth at the gossips, groupies, and guttersnipes who pursued high-profile politicians. "My husband is a compassionate, intelligent, public-minded man who has done a great deal for the citizens of New Mexico."

  "And zip for his family. Half the voters in America are women. They have a right to know what kind of man is asking for their vote. I'm sure the governor would like to have an on-camera half-hour interview at the ranch with Behind the Scenes, exploring the tragedy of his personal life contrasted with the success of his professional life."

  "That's very generous of you," Anne said neutrally. "I'll tell the governor of your offer."

  "You do that." Dykstra readjusted the strap of her leather briefcase. "And while you're at it, tell him that without his cooperation, Behind the Scenes will air a segment on his family life just in time for the major primaries. Some of the topics I'll cover will include his mother's doctors, people who remember his tragically murdered drug addict/slut sister, rumored illegal sources of campaign contributions, and any of the Senator's bastards we find between now and then. If the governor prefers to cooperate with us, we'd concentrate on him rather than his sister, father, bastards, and tainted money." She smiled thinly. "When he thinks about it, I'm sure the governor will want to put his own words before the people."

  The man who was a cross between a butler and a bodyguard appeared in the doorway as though summoned. Or perhaps he'd merely been eavesdropping and decided to step in. Dykstra didn't know and didn't care. She'd gotten her message across.

  "Please give Ms. Dykstra a card for the governor's appointment secretary," Anne said to the man. She turned to the TV journalist and held out her hand. "A pleasure meeting you. If I can help you in any way, don't hesitate to call."