Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  The look on her face said it all. Just about every time he opened his mouth, he hurt her. But he couldn’t think about that. Right now, he had to pull his attention back to the case.

  “I’ve been answering your questions all morning, Dutch. So now I’ve got one for you. Your whole life, you’ve been keeping secrets to protect other ­people. Your mother, our father,” he hesitated. “Me. So I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re holding something back now. Trying to protect Cindy. You think that by keeping what’s in that diary a secret, you’re looking out for her. When the truth is, if you don’t tell us what’s in it, we can’t help you find her killer. And I’m assuming you want to find the bastard—­or else you’d be lying on a beach in Mexico, not hanging out in Fort Worth, just thirty miles from the scene of the crime.”

  “Did you miss the part, back in Dallas, where I told you that I do not have Cindy’s diary?”

  “You also told Caity if you did have it, you wouldn’t turn it over to Sheridan.”

  “But I don’t have it. And at some point, you have to start trusting me. It’s a crying shame that I know where I stand with Caitlin better than I do with my own brother.”

  “I believe you didn’t kill your wife. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No. It’s not. And I’ll give you sixty seconds to decide if you can trust me from here on out. Otherwise, I don’t want you on my team.”

  He dragged a hand over his face, trying to cover his indecision. “You’ve lied to me for what, let’s see, all our lives, but now you expect me to believe every damn word you say. Have I got that right?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Caity raised her eyebrows and checked her watch. “Looks like you still have thirty seconds on the clock, Spense.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

  The first time she’d reached out to him since the blowout over his father.

  “I get that it’s hard to believe someone who’s lied.” She cleared her throat nervously, and he knew she wasn’t just talking about his brother. “But put yourself in Dutch’s place. Do you really want to go back to the way the two of you were before, or do you want to suck it up and decide to trust him?”

  Still unsure of his response, he went for his pocket, then stopped himself, remembering he no longer had a cube to help him think. Suddenly, the room was too damn small. He had to get out of there, but there was nowhere to go. He looked up, searching his brother’s face for answers.

  “I don’t have the diary. I’m not lying to protect Cindy, or anyone else. I did a piss-­poor job of protecting her while she was alive, and yes, I intend to find the fucker who did this, and when I do . . .”

  Caity showed her watch. “Ten seconds.”

  Spense knew she didn’t want Dutch to dwell on what he’d do to Cindy’s killer. He’d have to keep a close watch over him to be sure he didn’t do anything that would land him in jail when they found the guilty party—­but first, they had to smoke that guilty party out.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them to find both Dutch and Caity staring at him. His throat worked in a dry swallow. It was time to give his answer. In truth, he had absolutely no way to know whether or not Dutch was still withholding information from him. The only thing he had was his word . . . so he guessed it was just like Caity said. This was a decision, plain and simple. It was his choice to believe in his brother or not. He let out a long, relieved breath. “I want to stay on your team, Dutch.” He paused to collect himself, then added. “I trust you.”

  Then Dutch, too, heaved out a breath. It was like looking into a very strange mirror.

  Caity put one hand on each of their shoulders. “Good. We’re all on the same team. But, I also have issues.” She leveled a hard gaze at Dutch. “We know you don’t have the diary, because you told us, and we believe you. But Jim thinks you ran off with it, so it’s not a big leap to think others think so, too—­like Sheridan and our mystery man. The man who tossed your house and went after your mother took no valuables. He was almost certainly looking for Cindy’s diary. So I have to ask . . . have you read it? Do you have any idea what might be in it that would make someone willing to kill just to get his hands on it? Because it seems that whoever is after us, is after the diary—­or maybe it’s vice versa—­whoever is after the diary is after us. Not sure which is the chicken.”

  Dutch leaned forward earnestly. “That’s my operating assumption, too—­someone wants Cindy’s diary. And if they’re chasing you chasing me, they must believe I have it, or at least that I know what’s in it.” Dutch fisted his hands. “I wish to hell I had read it. Part of me wanted to know what was in it so badly that I went on a search for it one day. And I found it, too, hidden under her mattress. But I couldn’t bring myself to read it. So I just walked into the kitchen and handed it to her. I told her she needed to find a better hiding place if she were going to keep a secret from an FBI agent. Then I suggested she get it out of my sight before I changed my mind and read every humiliating word aloud to the cook.”

  “You did that in front of the cook?” Caity’s eyes widened.

  Dutch cast his gaze downward. “Yes. Cindy got so upset, she ran out of the kitchen crying. And I didn’t go after her. I didn’t do a lot of things I should’ve done.” He sent Spense a meaningful look.

  Obviously, Dutch was alluding to something he thought Spense needed to do with Caity. But again, he couldn’t process that now.

  Caity sorted through some items in her purse and came up with a tissue. Dutch waved her off, then used his shirtsleeve to blot his eyes instead.

  Spense didn’t understand why women always had Kleenex and wipes on them. The only thing he carried around that consistently was his Glock. “You thought the entries would be humiliating.”

  “I assumed the diary contained the sordid details of her affairs.”

  Unfortunately, that seemed like a good assumption to Spense. “If that’s the case, then the most logical suspect would be someone who had an affair with Cindy, and who didn’t—­who doesn’t—­want the information in her diary to get out.”

  “Maybe Cindy threatened to blackmail one of her lovers, then, in a fit of rage he killed her. But now he needs the diary.” Caity sounded unconvinced.

  “Then the blackmailed lover slash killer hired a hit man to steal the diary?” Spense didn’t like the theory much. He still thought there was something bigger going on.

  Caity shrugged as if she really didn’t believe the blackmail theory either even though she’d proposed it.

  “It’s not that far-­fetched.” Dutch tugged at his chin. “Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, Cindy was involved in some kind of blackmail scheme. Anyone she hung around had money, so it’s plausible. And if her lover killed her in a fit of rage, he’d know the diary would not only reveal the affair, but now it would implicate him in her murder. Suddenly, the stakes have been raised. This individual is not, by nature, a killer, and it would be much harder to come after me, a special agent, than it was to murder my wife. He needs help. So he hires a jack-­of-­all-­trades bad guy to get the diary and eliminate anyone who might have read it—­meaning me—­and now, unfortunately, the two of you.”

  Spense liked that only slightly better. Something about the blackmail idea seemed half-­right. He just didn’t know which half.

  Dutch tilted his face toward the ceiling, staring for a few seconds. “Only . . . Cindy didn’t have a mean bone in her body. And she certainly didn’t need cash. She’s not the type to blackmail anyone, so I guess we’re back to square one.”

  “Maybe not.” Caity looked from one to the other of them with obvious excitement. “Dutch may not know what’s in the diary, but he’s seen it. He knows what it looks like.”

  “So?” Spense asked, intrigued, but not following.

  “So, if our hired gun is after the diary, maybe we should give it to him.” She looked at them expectantly.


  They looked back at her, blankly.

  “What color is the diary, Dutch?”

  Dutch gripped the bedspread. “It was a pink cloth journal with one of those cheap locks that would open if you even looked at the key from across the room.”

  Spense smiled. Oh yeah. Caity was right on the money.

  “I’m going shopping in a bit.” Caity smiled. “You think if I bring back a few pink diaries, you could pick the one most similar in size and appearance? Then I’ll write some entries, so they’ll be in a feminine hand.”

  “I’ve got a tracking device in my go bag,” Spense said.

  “We can fix that under the binding somehow, shouldn’t be hard,” Dutch added. “But if this is the Thresher, he’s not stupid. He’s been evading the FBI for years. We can’t just leave the diary sitting around in our room, or he’ll never believe it’s real.”

  “We have to make him believe it’s real,” Caity said. “We’ll hide it somewhere we’d put it if we never wanted him to find it. And then, we’ll find a way to lead him to it.”

  “What if he opens it?” Spense was thinking aloud.

  “He won’t,” Dutch said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because the Thresher isn’t the type who cares. He’s not curious—­he’s calculating. But even if I’m wrong, and he opens it, we’ll make sure there are enough entries that it could pass for Cindy’s journal. I’ll give Caity the names of Cindy’s friends and the details of her routines. We’ll make him believe it’s real, then . . .”

  “We follow the diary,” Spense said.

  “And it leads us straight to the puppet master.” Caitlin spread her hands wide.

  “A decoy diary. Not a bad idea for a civilian.” Dutch reached out his hand to Caity. “You can play on my team anytime you want.”

  Spense shook his head. “Except she’s not going shopping for diaries.”

  “Why not? I thought we were hiding in plain sight,” she said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s obvious. When we found Dutch, he was walking around town like he owned the place.”

  “She’s right.” Dutch said. “I’m a firm believer that it’s better to blend in than to hide. That’s how you become truly invisible. And if I do get caught, I want to be able to say I wasn’t trying to evade arrest. I was just taking a break. Having myself a little fun down at the stockyards.”

  “No one’s looking for a woman on her own. Both of you are well over six feet. I’ll blend in a lot better without you men guarding me, and the shop I have in mind is literally next door. I can do this.”

  Spense folded his arms. “I’m sure you can, Caity. This isn’t about your ego, though. There’s no reason to risk you going out on the street on your own. You stay here with Dutch, and I’ll get the diary.”

  She looked to Dutch for help, but he just turned his palms up as if to say he was going to stay out of this one. “Okay, but I think you’re being overly cautious.”

  “How is that a bad thing?”

  “I guess it’s not.” Caity shrugged.

  Dutch got to his feet. “The real problem may be getting the Thresher, if that’s who he is, out to the stockyards. No one knows we’re here.”

  “Last night, we used cash because we didn’t want to leave a trail. Now we want to lead our assailant to us, so, I’ll use my credit card at the shop next door. If this guy is worth his salt, he’ll be able to track us. It might take a few days, but he’ll find us. And when he does, we’ll ‘accidentally’ lead him to the diary,” Spense said.

  Dutch frowned. “I’m the one going shopping, though, and I’m using my own card. I don’t want you two in any more trouble with the Bureau, in case Jim’s watching your transactions.”

  “You do realize your purchase might not just lead the Thresher to us. Sheridan could pick up the scent, too,” Spense warned. The plan was good but risky. They were baiting a killer and leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for Sheridan at the same time.

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take. From what I’ve seen of Sheridan’s investigative acumen, my money’s on the Thresher to find us first.” Dutch turned to Caity. “Start thinking up some believable entries. Because if this doesn’t work, we’re going to be in even more danger than before.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Saturday, October 19

  10:15 A.M.

  Fort Worth, Texas

  MALACHI STOOD FROZEN on the sidewalk, blinking in the bright sunlight. It was too noisy for him here in the stockyards. Even with his headphones on, he could hear disharmonious sounds wafting off the passersby. He pulled his headphones off, checking to see if the batteries had gone dead.

  Ah. Yes, that was the problem.

  Relieved, he dug in his pocket for his spares, replaced the batteries and was good to go. He smiled at a lady in a blue dress, and she smiled back. This wasn’t such a bad place after all. He strolled up one end of the street and down another, looking for just the right spot but not finding what he needed: someplace quiet. Not just for the sake of his sensitive ears, either. The location had to be near enough for convenience but far away from prying eyes. If not soundproofed, it should at least have thick walls to cover the screams—­just in case.

  In addition, he’d need electricity.

  He walked long enough to grow sore feet and was thinking of sitting down. But the benches were crowded, and he didn’t like the idea that someone might try to speak to him. Most ­people’s voices were unpleasant. Then, off in the distance, he spotted a building with boarded-­up windows, set well back from the thoroughfare with an alleyway behind it.

  Just might work.

  It took him ten minutes, walking across a field to reach the place. Then using a bump key, he entered via the back door. He tried the lights. Excellent. The electricity was on. He flipped the lights back off. Based on the saddles and ropes strewn about, it looked like an old tack shop that had gone under. He headed back to his Escalade, whistling all the while. He’d found the perfect device for Caitlin’s magnificent death at the home store, but it was far too heavy to carry to the abandoned shop on foot.

  Chapter Twenty-­One

  Saturday, October 19

  1:45 P.M.

  Fort Worth, Texas

  THREE HOURS LATER, Caity laid the finished diary on the desk in Dutch’s room. “How did I do? You think this will work?”

  Spense flipped through the pages. “Definitely looks like a woman’s handwriting.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She wrinkled her nose at him, and he realized how lame his compliment had been. She passed the diary to his brother. “I wanted Dutch to look at it, not you. He’s the one who would know if it will pass muster.”

  Dutch took a minute with the entries, then nodded. “Looks like you got her schedule right. Wednesday’s bringing breakfast to the senior center. Friday’s volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club . . .” His voice dropped off. “She was a good woman. I know what everyone thinks, but I’m telling you, Cindy had a big heart.”

  Caity gave him a hug. “I had that feeling when I was composing these entries. Thanks for trusting me with them.”

  A long, sad silence followed.

  “We’ll get him, Dutch. We’re not going to rest until we do.” Spense looked to Caity for help. He didn’t know what else to say to comfort Dutch. But as it turned out, his brother wasn’t going to give him a chance to offer sympathy.

  Dutch was already pulling on his Resistol and tucking the journal beneath his shirt. “I’ll go bury this thing now, while I have the chance.”

  Spense nodded. “I’ll come with you. We just need to stop by the car. I’ve got a bag with a tracking device in the trunk. It’s faster for two to dig a hole than one, and, frankly, you might look suspicious burying the thing. Just in case this Thresher is smarter than we think and
has made his way here already, I’d rather stick with you while you’re wandering around in the boonies.”

  Caity pulled on her shoes.

  Spense looked to his brother. “I think she’d be better off here.”

  “Agreed,” Dutch nodded. “As long as she locks the doors and doesn’t leave the room, it’s probably safer. We have to go off the main streets to bury this thing, so there’s not a lot of blending in with the crowds for cover.”

  Caity slipped off her shoes, then said emphatically, “You’re going with Dutch, Spense. I promise not to open the door.”

  She must’ve read his mind. He didn’t like leaving her here alone, but using his head, not his heart, it seemed like the best plan all around. Dutch needed him for backup in case things went south. It was broad daylight, and Caity would be locked in a bed-­and-­breakfast with plenty of ­people around inside and out. Surely, that was safer than if she came with them to the deserted areas of the stockyards where they planned to bury the decoy.

  SATISFIED WITH HIS setup, Malachi closed the door to the abandoned shop and headed over to Miss Molly’s. He didn’t know for sure that’s where his targets would be, but he had a good feeling about it.

  He parked his truck behind the bed-­and-­breakfast and strolled inside.

  “We’re full up.” A pretty young thing, about twenty, and wearing booty shorts told him.

  “Oh, too bad. My wife had her heart set on this place. But maybe I could look around, in case we want to come back sometime.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s down the street with the little one. Took him for ice cream.”

  “Won’t that spoil his lunch?”

  “We already ate.”

  The pretty young thing smiled. “Well, you can look around if you like, but I can’t show you the rooms. They’re occupied, like I said.”

  “No worries. I’ll just check out the lay of the land.” He headed past the lobby and dining room over to the guest rooms, then paced up and down the hallway, listening for the sound of humming. When he reached the third door on the left, he heard the music of souls.