by Diana Palmer
"Such as, who paid her to get Dale transferred," Josette guessed. "Because she wouldn't have gone to that risk just for the pleasure of his company."
"But she would have for a payoff," he agreed at once. "I don't think she realized she was doing it so that he could get executed, though," he added shrewdly. "And she did seem to care about him. But I don't think Jennings was the only person paying her off. She may have been played for a sucker as well."
"Mrs. Jennings told me that Dale was going with some woman who liked expensive peppermint candy. So I took this," she showed him a wrapper.
Brannon gave it a curious look. "This is imported. Expensive taste for a woman who lives in a used trailer."
"Isn't it, though?"
"You said that Jennings's girlfriend liked expensive mints. Did Mrs. Jennings say anything else about her?"
"Not much. It was just a comment she made, that I remembered."
"I'm glad. Every clue helps."
"Why didn't you want her to get suspicious?" she asked curiously.
"Because I'm going to get a court order for a wiretap on her phone," he said simply. "There's enough evidence, even circumstantial, to involve her in this case. Besides, if Sandra Gates really is mixed up in this, she's in danger. The murderer is not going to want her to tell what she knows to the police."
"So she's expendable."
"Exactly."
Josette dug into the file in her briefcase and thumbed through it. "There's another person here we need to question. He's an associate of Jake Marsh's," she said, frowning as she read over her notes. "This man, Johnny York, has an arrest record as long as my arm, but only one conviction. He was arrested on suspicion of murder last year, but he was released for lack of evidence. He's on probation for an assault conviction. According to what I've found out, he has one favorite haunt. He likes to play pool. So, we might stop by the pool hall on Mesquite Street and talk to him."
"He won't be there at this hour of the day," he assured her. He pulled over to the curb and used his onboard computer to input York's name.
"That's our state crime database," she murmured with delight.
"Yes, it is, and I couldn't do my job without it, either." A huge file of data came up on the screen. There was a photo. The man was ordinary-looking, with thinning hair and small eyes. Funny, how familiar he looked. He scrolled down to York's home address and smiled. "Isn't modern technology great?" he murmured with a grin. "We could have spent hours trying to run down this information by questioning people who know him."
"It really does save time," she replied. "Where does he live?"
"About six blocks from here. He's probably still asleep. We'll wake him up."
It took less than five minutes, even in morning traffic, to get to the address on the screen. As Brannon and Josette got out of the car, a curtain was pulled back and then released at the front of the house. As they approached the steps, they heard a door slam.
"He's trying to make bush bond!" Brannon said shortly. "Stay back. He may be armed." He drew his own pistol and started quickly around one side of the house.
Josette felt her heartbeat shaking her as she disobeyed Brannon's orders and went around the opposite side of the house. Brannon was trying to head off a criminal by himself. Josette was an office person, not a field agent. Nevertheless, she might be able to spook the man enough to run him back toward Brannon. And even if he had a gun, surely he wouldn't be so desperate as to shoot an unarmed
As she thought that, a gunshot sang out. Brannon! She rushed around the corner of the house just in time to see a small, balding man who looked strangely familiar whirl at her approach. She felt a stinging pain in her upper arm and heard a firecracker pop half a second later. Funny, her arm felt very heavy.
There was another shot and the man spun around, dropping his gun. Brannon was on him seconds later, whipping him to the ground, jerking his hands behind him. He cuffed him and stood up, reminding Josette absently of the way he used to compete in bulldogging competition in rodeo; she'd seen him throw and bind the legs of calves just that quickly. She wondered why her mind was stuck on such an irrelevant thing, and why she felt so funny.
Brannon glanced toward Josette just to make sure she was okay. But there was a growing red spot on the beige jacket she was wearing, and she looked as if she were about to faint.
Muttering curses, he reholstered his pistol and rushed toward her, with his mobile phone already out and activated. He phoned 911 as he ran, giving their location, their situation, and a demand for an ambulance and backup.
He caught Josette just as she started to fall. He whipped off his string tie before he eased her to the ground and unbuttoned her jacket, slipping it off her wounded arm.
She lay looking up at him blankly. She began to shake uncontrollably. She laughed. "I feel funny," she said unsteadily.
"Lie still," he replied, his expression set and grim as he tore the sleeve of her jacket to get a look at the damage. Thank God it wasn't through the bone, but it was a nasty wound just the same. It had entered and exited through the inside of the biceps, leaving blood pumping out from what had to be a torn artery. He made a tourniquet of his bolo and a retractable pen from his pocket to help stop the flow of blood while he put pressure on the wound to stop the profuse bleeding. "Come on, come on, damn it!" he cursed, looking around for the ambulance with furious pale eyes. He didn't hear a single siren yet.
Josette felt pain where his hands pressed. The driveway was gravel, and it was cold and uncomfortable under her back. She looked up at Brannon's dark, lean face with a sense that she was somewhere else seeing them together on the ground.
"It hitan artery, didn't it?" she asked. Her voice sounded strange. Her tongue was so thick, it was hard to talk at all.
"Yes, it did," he said. He was still pressing down hard where the bullet had entered and exited. There was blood all over his hands, all over her jacket and blouse, all over the ground beside her. It ran into the soil and gravel and she could smell it. There was a metallic smell to blood, she thought, growing weaker by the moment.
"Of all the idiotic things you've ever done in your life! Hold on, Josie," he said softly. "Hold on." He lifted his head again. "Where is that damned ambulance!" he raged, because his best efforts were barely suppressing any of the red flow. She could bleed to death if it wasn't stopped soon.
Her eyes searched his face. He seemed paler than normal, and his eyes were glittery with fury and impotence. "Marc," she whispered, drifting in and out now from blood loss, "why didn't you say goodbye?"
He was still looking for the ambulance. At last, there was the faint sound of sirens approaching. "What?" he murmured, fixated on his task as he knelt beside her, the suspect already forgotten in the terror of the moment.
"Not a note or a phone call. You justwalked awayand never even looked back. I wantedto die." She grimaced and groaned, trying to twist away from his hands. "Don't!" she choked. "It hurts!"
"Better hurt than dead," he said through his teeth.
"Think so? I wonder." She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Marc muttered curses at the slowness of the paramedics, finally yelling at them with language he was going to regret later. She smiled softly at the memory of his temper from days past. She closed her eyes, oblivious to the sounds of activity around her, and gave in to the pain.
She was vaguely aware of the hospital, but she was pleasantly numb from whatever they had pouring into her from an IV bag. Brannon was still right beside her as she was moved into a cubicle. A doctor entered and examined the wound and pronounced it nonlethal. She was given a local anesthetic and antibiotics were added to the drip. The doctor went to work on her with a surgical needle and sutures. The whole time, Brannon stood beside her and held her other hand tight in his.
"You got him, didn't you?" she asked drowsily.
"I got him. He was brought in with you," he said. "They'll be transferring him up to a secure area when he's had his bullet removed. He fare
d worse than you, believe me."
"You always were a good shot," she sighed. "And nobody could beat you at a quick-draw. Don't you still hold a record of some sort for that?"
"You were lucky," he replied, ignoring the praise and the question. "You're still going to learn plenty about bullet wounds before this is over."
"She is, indeed," the young doctor replied while he worked on her. "She's going to be sore and sick for a couple of days, and on antibiotics for the next ten days. Is there someone who can stay with her tonight?"
"No," she said.
"Yes," Brannon said at the same time.
The physician made a sound in the back of his throat. "We can admit you," he offered.
"No chance," she told him. "It's just a scratch."
"You won't think so when the painkiller wears off," the doctor murmured. "I'll give you a prescription for one and another for the antibiotics before you leave." He glanced at Brannon. "We'll have to fill out a report on this."
"She's with the state attorney general's office," he replied. "A trained investigator, and she can't use a gun. Something she should have thought of when she went around the house to try to help me flush out a suspect." He grimaced. "Don't ever do anything like that again, Josie," he added gently.
"I won't, Brannon," she said. "But I'm tough. Besides, think of the boost this will give my memoirs!"
"It was my fault for putting you in danger in the first place," he continued doggedly. "That being the case, I'll take care of you until you're back on your feet." He held up a hand when she protested. "You'd do exactly the same if it were me."
She sighed. "Point taken."
After Josette was sewn up, and waiting for the physician to write out her prescriptions, Brannon went down the hall to the surgical wing where his prisoner was being tended.
Brannon recognized the young Bexar County sheriff's deputy who patrolled the south end of the county that bordered on Wilson County. He was waiting outside the swinging doors. He glanced at Brannon, grinned and extended his hand.
"Nice work, Brannon," he told the Texas Ranger. "We've been after this little weasel for months. We convicted him for aggravated assault when he was trying to shake down a liquor store owner. He got caught drinking and driving and went underground before we could arrest him."
"He shot my partner," Brannon said angrily. "She wasn't even armed."
"That wouldn't stop York," he replied. "He's the poor man's cleaner locallyhe'll do anything for money, including murder. He's suspected of being one of Jake Marsh's hired guns. In fact, San Antonio PD would finger him for Jennings's murder, if he could be connected with the case any way at all."
"Give us time," Brannon said. He hesitated. "There was a photo of him in the file I accessed on my computer. He sure looked familiar."
"You were at Jennings's funeral yesterday, weren't you?" the deputy asked.
"Yes."
"Remember the minister?" he mused.
Brannon took a sharp breath. "Damn! And I thought the minister was just new and nervous. What the hell was he doing there?"
"At a guess, getting a good look at someone he's been hired to shoot" came the reply. "God knows who."
Brannon shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. He was thinking. If the little man was a hired killer, and he was at the funeral, the murderer had already picked his next target. If he and Josette hadn't played a hunch and decided to pay York a visit this morning, he might have succeeded. But, if the deputy was right, who was the target? And why?
He was still no closer to answers when he helped Josette into the SUV and drove back to his apartment.
She was too groggy and sick to want to talk. He carried her up the steps into the apartment building, into the elevator despite curious glances from other passengers, and got out on his floor.
On the way to his apartment, he met one of the security people. "Hey, Bill, how about taking my key and unlocking the door for me?"
"Sure thing," the other man replied, with a curious look at Brannon's burden.
"We just came from the hospital," Brannon began.
"Hell of a place to pick up women, Brannon," the other man mused. "But if that's the only way you can get one"
"Put a sock in it," Brannon said with a chuckle. "She's been shot. I can't leave her alone and she has no family."
"Shot?" The other man unlocked the door, opened it and handed Brannon back his keys. That was when he noticed the white bandage on Josette's arm, where that sleeve of her jacket was off. "Shouldn't she be in the hospital?"
"S'only a flesh wound," she murmured, with her cheek tight against the hard beat of Brannon's heart under his shirt. The Ranger badge was uncomfortable, but it seemed to be everywhere she moved her face, cold and hard. "He didn't mean to" she added in a slur.
"Now, you're shooting women?" the security man asked with wide eyes.
"I didn't shoot her, you idiot! A suspect got her. But I got him," he added with a gleam of triumph. "And he's in surgery right now."
"Sorry, kid," Bill told Josette, who was watching him with eyes barely open. "Maybe when you're better, they'll give you five minutes alone with him."
"Don't I wish," she murmured. "And two stun guns, one for each hand I'm so sleepy, Brannon."
"Okay. I'll have you inside in a jiffy. Thanks, Bill."
"Anytime." Bill opened the door and put the keys in the hand that was supporting Josette's rib cage. He smiled at Josette and then lifted amused eyes back to Brannon's. "But the next one you get from the hospital's mine. Some luck, Brannon. I never find giveaways like her!" He walked off before Brannon could think of a snappy comeback.
Brannon carried Josette into the spare bedroom and laid her gently on the brown-and-beige geometric pattern of the coverlet while he took off her shoes and skirt. They were followed by her jacket and the ruined blouse under it, leaving her in a full slip, bra and panties. He tried not to pay too much attention to her very nice figure while he was doing what was necessary.
He lifted her long enough to uncover the sheets before he put her back down on them and pulled the covers over her, noting the faint smell of roses that clung to her creamy skin.
He propped his hands beside her head on the pillow and studied her. Her long blond hair was half in, half out of a bun, hanging in strands all around her oval face. He took her glasses from their perch on her nose and laid them on the bedside table. He smoothed back her hair and then, impulsively, pulled out all the hairpins that kept it in place. The wealth of golden hair came cascading down into his hands.
"It will tangle while I'm asleep," she murmured.
"Let it. You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen." His hands speared through it, arranging it around her face on the pillow. He smiled gently. "Tired?"
"Very." She drew a long breath. "Sorry to be so much trouble."
"You aren't. I'll have to go back to work, but I'll be here about five-thirty. Just sleep. You need to get better before we go any deeper into this investigation."
"Okay." She searched his eyes slowly. "It wasn't your fault."
His face set in harsh lines. "I should have known you'd try to play hero."
"Don't blame yourself."
"You're the one who got shot. It should have been me."
She managed a smile. "You're only jealous. It's bullet envy."
"There's a genuine delusion!"
"I'll be fine," she added drowsily.
"Of course you will. But for a couple of days, you need to rest that arm and let your body get over the shock. You lost a lot of blood." He bent down impulsively and brushed his hard mouth over her soft one. "Get some sleep, honey. I'll see you this afternoon. Want me to put you something to drink by the bed?"
Had he called her "honey?" Surely not. "Could you? Something cold?"
"Orange juice?" he asked, remembering how much she liked it while they were dating.
Her eyes lit up. "Yes, please."
He went to get it. By the time he came
back and set it on the bedside table, she was sound asleep.
He stood watching her for a long time with a strange expression. He'd never brought a woman home with him before. He couldn't explain what impulse had led him to make himself responsible for Josette. But she did look so right there, in that bed, asleep. She needed nurturing, taking care of. It touched him to realize that he was needed, on a very personal basis. Since his mother's death and his sister's marriage, he hadn't had anyone to take care of. He missed that. He liked being needed. Not, he added silently, that he was going to tell Josette that!
She didn't wake up for several hours. She was aware of pain in her arm, a fullness and throbbing that were decidedly unpleasant. She sat up with an effort and looked on the bedside table. Brannon had left her a carafe of orange juice and two bottles of pills, one for pain and the other a powerful antibiotic. She took both and swallowed them with the cold, delicious juice. It felt good going down. She put the glass next to her forehead and drank in the cooling contact. She must have a fever, she decided, and wondered if Brannon had anything she could take for that.
She made her way into the master bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet for an analgesic. Finding it, she shook two tablets into her hand and went back to the bedroom.
She laid down for a few more minutes, but she was far too restless to sleep. She got up and looked around for something to put on. She'd have to get Brannon to go by her hotel and get her clothes, or she wouldn't have anything to wear. She thought about some of Brannon's colleagues walking into the room and finding her in her slip. That wouldn't do his reputation much good.
In the end, she drew out a worn old pair of clean denim jeans, Brannon's of course, and a tan-and-white checked long-sleeved shirt with a pocket missing. She left her hair loose because she couldn't find her hairpins, using Brannon's combs to try to get some order out of the tangles. Then she went to the kitchen, her arm still in its sling, and began to look for food.
