SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  And she wished now she never had. Everywhere she turned it seemed he was there, and the memories rose up to torment her. And the questions.

  "…even listening?"

  "Of course," Nicki answered as she drove through the chain-link gate into the quarry, although she hadn't heard anything Lisa had said since she'd seen that solitary figure on the porch steps. He'd always seemed that way, alone, even all those years ago, even at the head of the rough crowd he'd run with.

  "So what do you think? Should I invite him here?"

  "What I think," Nicki said, knowing that no matter what she'd missed, it was a safe answer, "is that you should do what you want. You will anyway."

  Lisa grinned. "That's what I love about you, Nicki. You know the worst about me, but you're still my friend. You don't try and change me."

  "It's hopeless," Nicki said, teasing. The woman had been her friend since elementary school, had been a rock of support in the dark days after her father's death, and had been the only one who truly seemed to understand the grief and betrayal she'd felt. Others might dismiss Lisa as a shallow socialite, skating along on the surface of life, but Nicki knew there was a loyal core to her that few saw.

  "I'll just wait here," the blonde said, looking around with a wrinkled nose at the piles of dirt, rock and gravel, and the dust that floated in the air. "I'll do my nails or something."

  "Okay." Nicki gathered up the papers she'd brought, got out of the car and headed toward the office.

  "Afternoon, Miss Lockwood."

  Nicki turned to see Paul Malone, a long-time heavy equipment operator for the quarry. "Hello, Paul. How are you? How's the new baby?"

  A grin creased the dusty face. "Just fine. Prettiest little girl you've ever seen. Don't feel like I'm old enough to be a grandpa, though."

  "You don't look it, either."

  "Now, I know better than that. Anyway, I'm off to see her now, since my loader broke down, too."

  "Too?"

  "Yeah. Didn't you know? That's the third one since last Tuesday. First Lenny's, then Tim's on Thursday, and now mine. Can't figure it out."

  "What's going wrong?"

  "Different on each one. Hydraulics, brakes, gear box… Just a run of bad luck, I reckon. Weird that it all happened at once, though."

  "Yes." She'd have to ask about it, she thought. "Do you know where Esteban is?"

  "Scale house," Paul said.

  Nicki nodded, exchanged a few more words, then headed for the small building to find the plant superintendent, a man who had also worked for the Lockwoods for years.

  "Nicki, hello!"

  Esteban Montero greeted her ebulliently, as if she hadn't been here just last week.

  "Hello, Esteban. I brought those projections you wanted."

  "Good, good. I want to finish my flowchart. We are running a little behind, and I may have to make some adjustments."

  "I ran into Paul outside. What's this about equipment problems?"

  Montero rubbed a hand over his jaw, his dark brown eyes looking troubled. "I don't know. We have had many little things go wrong this past week." He echoed Paul's list, then added, "And two trucks are broken down, as well. Vandals, we think."

  "Vandals?"

  "Yes, it looks that way. Teenagers, perhaps. Although the night watchman is very diligent. He saw no one around, and only our people have come in and out. They must have come over the fence, although no one saw anything."

  "What happened to the trucks?"

  "Sand."

  Nicki's brow furrowed deeper. "Sand?"

  "In the gas tanks." Montero shook his head. "And it appears that three of our loaders have been tampered with, as well."

  "Tampered with?"

  He nodded, his expression somber. "Lines cut, fluid drained out." He shook his head again. "If we were on strike here, this is the kind of thing I would expect. Little things, but enough to be a great nuisance."

  "Any idea why?"

  Montero shrugged. "Who can say?"

  "No one with a grudge? We haven't fired anyone lately, have we?"

  The man grinned, white teeth shining in his brown face. "No one, you know that. We have good people here."

  "I know. Just checking."

  "Speaking of good people, that new man seems very smart. He is learning our operation here very quickly."

  "New man?"

  "Yes. The one you sent the memo about, that we should tell him whatever he wanted to know."

  Nicki's brows shot upward. "Trav—Mr. Halloran?"

  Montero nodded. "It is … different to have a man in his position ask simply to learn. I respect that."

  She had resolved to put the rumor mill to rest, and the memo she'd sent to all the foremen and superintendents had been explicit in its explanation of Travis Halloran's status. It had been met with reactions ranging from anger to disbelief; everyone, it seemed, either remembered or had been told the story of Robert Lockwood's death.

  Yet wherever he had gone, whoever he had approached for information or knowledge, the opinion seemed to have changed. With the exception of close associates of Richard's, everyone had responded much as Esteban Montero had—with eventual respect, albeit sometimes grudging. The men in the yard at the plant, the people in dispatch, the drivers, all of them admitted that he hadn't been what they'd expected.

  "What did he want to learn?"

  "Many things." The man grinned again. "Although I believe he knows even more than he lets on. Certainly no one needed to teach him to run a 'dozer. He asked if he could try, and he wheeled that big thing around like it was a sports car."

  "He … did?"

  "He would only say he'd learned to run one years ago. I would say he hasn't forgotten much. The men were quite impressed."

  "Oh."

  Once again she wondered what he'd been doing all these years, where he'd picked up this unexpected knowledge, and once again she smothered her curiosity; she didn't care, she told herself. And she wasn't about to let anyone else think she did. Especially Travis.

  "So, what else did he want?"

  "He asked many questions. Not foolish ones, but good ones. He knew the basics already, but he wants more. And he is spending many hours learning."

  "Is? How long has he been coming here?"

  "Oh, several days now. He first came last Tuesday. He was very polite, not at all what we expected. No one was happy he was here at first, but now, no one minds. They have come to believe he is sincere."

  Last Tuesday. The last time, until that glimpse today on the steps of his old house, that she'd seen him. The day after he'd walked out on her and Richard. Walked out without denying what her brother had said. Without a response to her plea that he deny it, a plea she had tried but been unable to suppress.

  She'd wondered where he'd gone. Well, now she knew. He hadn't beat a strategic retreat, he'd merely shifted his field of battle. "Is there a problem, Nicki? Your memo said—"

  "I know, Esteban. No, there's no problem. I'm just … surprised."

  "That he came at all? Or that the men have come to like him?"

  The dark brown eyes were fastened on her keenly, and she didn't bother to dissemble. She had a great deal of respect for this man who had charmed her as a child with his old-world courtliness, and she refused to insult him by pretending she didn't understand.

  "Both," she said frankly.

  "I understand," Montero said quietly. "This must be very difficult for you. Your lovely mother passing, and then finding she had left all this to the man you hold responsible for your father's death."

  "I hold him responsible? He is responsible."

  Montero hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Yes, Nicki. I know. It is just … I find it hard to believe of the man I have come to know in these past few days."

  Days, Nicki thought numbly. Only days, and he had turned the entire crew of the pit around. Then she wondered why she was surprised. He'd had her so confused the first day that she was still reeling, so a week was plenty of time fo
r him to pull it off here. Not even a week, really, in working days. Four days, since Tuesday.

  Tuesday.

  It hit her then with the force of a blow. Tuesday. Travis had first shown up here on Tuesday. Which just happened to be the day the trouble here had begun.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Nicki heard the shouting even before she got inside. "…think you are?"

  Richard again, she thought with a sigh. And she could just guess who he was yelling at in that tone that grated so on her nerves. Travis was back.

  She didn't need this, she thought wearily. Not now. She'd just had another run-in with Carl Weller, and she was in no mood to deal with one of her brother's tantrums. Or with Travis.

  She'd forced her suspicions about the incidents at the pit to the back of her mind. Not that she didn't think Travis capable of such things; if she had to believe he'd killed her father, what was a little carefully engineered sabotage? What held her back was the lack of proof. And a motive. This was his business now, half of it, anyway. What reason could he have to damage it?

  Richard insisted he wanted revenge, but Nicki didn't understand that, either. He had no reason, unless he blamed them for what had happened to him years ago. But all they'd done was tell the sheriff the truth. How could he blame them for that? And even if he had, if he truly wanted revenge, he would have done something long ago, not waited fifteen years, she told herself.

  Besides, the Travis she'd known wasn't like that, or he would have retaliated against his father long ago. But he never had, despite the beatings. So why would he come after them now? Could those two years in the custody of the California Youth Authority really have been so much worse than the hell he'd lived with at home?

  She couldn't deal with it now, she thought, and quashed the thoughts once more as she headed down the hall toward that raised voice. She paused just outside the door to her brother's office.

  "You can't talk to me like that!"

  "You don't want people to talk to you like you're an idiot, then quit making idiotic decisions."

  Travis's voice was low, derisive and utterly calm. And there was nothing more guaranteed to make Richard even angrier than staying calm while he lost his cool; she knew that from rueful, firsthand experience. She stepped into the room.

  "You don't know a damned thing about the cement business, so where do you get off—"

  "I don't need to know sand from pea gravel to see that you're digging a financial hole here you may not be able to get out of."

  "What do you know about finances? You're nothing but a lousy—"

  "Easy, Richie. Don't say anything I might have to belt you for."

  Nicki saw her brother back up warily, and heard Travis chuckle. His back was to her, but she knew the sound; it was how he'd always laughed when he knew someone had fallen for the image. It was how he'd laughed the day he'd left their parlor in the wake of the shocked gasps of the local matrons.

  "What have you done now, Richard?"

  Richard jumped, but Travis only moved aside to let her pass, as if, despite his back being to her, he'd known the moment she had arrived. He was dressed in trim, tailored gray slacks and a pale gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. Expensive clothes, she registered once more, and the questions about the past fifteen years rose again. And she smothered them again.

  "What, Richard?"

  "Nothing," her brother said defensively.

  "Only sent eighty yards out to the Bell-Hornung project this morning," Travis said dryly.

  "What?" Nick's gaze flicked from Travis to her brother in astonishment. "They're already two months behind. They owe us over twenty thousand dollars!"

  "And," Travis added, "shorted the Shelby job by a full load."

  "Damn it, Richard!" Nicki exploded. "Sam Shelby is our best customer!"

  "Bell-Hornung is a good project," Richard protested. "High visibility."

  "Visibility doesn't pay the bills," Nicki snapped.

  "George Hornung is a prestigious man in this state. Being in on one of his projects is good P.R."

  "He's a big talker who doesn't pay his bills."

  "You never look at the big picture—"

  "You keep this up, and a picture is all you're going to have to look at, because this place will be gone!"

  "You're exaggerating." Richard shifted uncomfortably. "You keep saying we're in trouble, but we're still here."

  "Because I'm breaking my neck to save us," Nicki said furiously. "I'll have to call Sam and apologize. And figure out where we'll come up with that extra load, when we're already maxed out today."

  She started toward Richard's desk and the phone, then whirled back on him.

  "And another thing! I've had it with Weller. I want him out of here."

  An odd look flitted across Richard's soft features, gone so quickly Nicki couldn't quite describe it. Then, to her amazement, Richard said firmly, "No."

  She stared at him. "What?"

  "I said no."

  "I heard you. I just don't quite believe it."

  "Me, either. Had a backbone transplant, Richie?"

  Richard glared at Travis. "Keep out of this."

  "No. The man's a menace."

  "Not to mention offensive and useless," Nicki said, glad of the support despite its source. "I don't want him on this property another minute."

  "He's union. You can't just fire him."

  "Watch me," Nicki said. "I've got enough on him to make even the teamsters sit up and take notice."

  Richard paled a little, but shook his head.

  "I know an attorney," Travis said casually, "who specializes in union firings. If you've got the documentation, he can make it stick."

  "I told you to stay out of this, you—"

  Travis did nothing but lift his head, turning his gaze from Nicki to her brother, but Richard instantly fell silent.

  "What's the name of that attorney?" Nicki asked, eyeing her chastened brother in disgust. He'd never had any spine at all, she thought. Why he'd suddenly found some gumption now was beyond her. As was why Travis would know a lawyer who specialized in unions.

  "I'll get his number for you."

  "All right, all right," Richard said, his tone wheedling now. "I'll talk to Carl, tell him to back off, stay out of your way."

  "Not good enough, Richard."

  "Okay, I'll fine him or something."

  "I doubt if even that will get his attention."

  "C'mon, Sis. He'll behave, I promise."

  Nicki hesitated.

  "He's my friend, Nicki."

  "Then teach your friend some manners," she said, capitulating. She supposed Carl Weller was one of her smaller problems at the moment.

  "Easier to teach manners to a rattlesnake," Travis muttered.

  "Get out," Richard spat, "you've caused enough trouble already!"

  "Still blaming everybody but yourself, aren't you, Richie?"

  "Get out!" Richard shouted.

  He looks frightened, Nicki thought as she decided to make her call from the relative peace of her own office. Then she dismissed the thought as the more important matter of how to placate Sam Shelby took precedence in her mind.

  "You're right, you know."

  She hadn't realized Travis had come out of the office with her. "About what?"

  "Hornung. He's a windbag."

  "I know." She yanked open the door of her office, then stopped as something occurred to her. "But how do you?"

  He shrugged. "I heard it around. Heard he's having money trouble, too. I wouldn't count on that twenty thousand, if I were you."

  Nicki tossed her purse onto her desk. He had followed her in without invitation, but she couldn't seem to find the energy to protest. She sat on the edge of her desk, resisting the urge to rub at eyes that were already weary even this early in the morning.

  "Or the five thousand more they'll owe us for my brother's brilliant move today?"

  "Or that.
"

  "And just how did you become so well informed?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Nicki sighed. She wanted to say no, it didn't matter, that nothing he knew or did or said mattered. But somehow she knew that if she opened her mouth, yes was going to come out. Yes it mattered, yes she wanted to know how he knew all the things he knew, including about the cement business, where he'd learned them, where he'd been, what he'd done. She knew it, so she kept her mouth shut.

  She got up to walk around to her desk chair, inadvertently knocking her calendar to the floor. She bent for it at the same moment Travis did. His left forearm, bare below the rolled shirt sleeve, was tanned and strong.

  And scarred.

  She stared at the wicked, curved mark that began at his wrist and curved up the inner side of his arm nearly to the elbow. It was a thin line, puckered slightly here and there, with the paleness of an old injury. But no matter how old it was, it had obviously been a nasty wound, and the thought made her shudder.

  "My God, Travis, what did that to your arm?"

  He straightened, carefully set the calendar back on the desk, then let his gaze go to her face. After a moment he said flatly, "A knife."

  She stared at him. She knew this hadn't happened after he'd started coming to the house, and she didn't remember ever seeing it before. Unlike some of the others in his crowd, he'd never carried a knife that she knew of, or else he had stopped when he'd begun to come to the house. He relied on his reputation to keep any potential opponents at bay, he'd told her, and he didn't want to get caught carrying a weapon at school. She'd smiled, knowing that a few months before, he couldn't have cared less about getting suspended or expelled.

  "But you never carried…" she began, then stopped at his chilling look.

  "I did a lot of things in jail that I'd never done before."

  Her gaze flicked to the scar once more, then back to his face. "That happened … there?"

  "In jail, Miss Lockwood. Sorry if you don't like the word."

  She flushed. "I… It's just… Who had a knife in—in jail?"

  Travis laughed harshly. "A muscle-bound weight lifter who had designs on my cute little backside, as he put it."