by Matt Braun
Over the past week Starbuck had become a coast-to-coast news item. The story was first picked up by the Police Gazette, and quickly spread to papers all across the country. With bold headlines and purple prose, the tale of a detective who had killed both father and son was played as high drama. The seven-year lapse between killings, combined with the assassination plot, gave it an added degree of sensationalism. The furor in the nation’s press served to enhance Starbuck’s reputation, and his notoriety. He remained the most celebrated manhunter in the West.
The door opened and Verna glanced up from the paper. A fashionably dressed woman stepped into the office. She wore a tailored waistcoat, with an accordion-pleated skirt and a stylish hat decorated with an ostrich feather. She was slender, somewhere in her late forties, but well preserved and still very attractive. Verna folded the paper and nodded pleasantly.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“Yes, please.” The woman’s voice was surprisingly genteel. “I wish to see Mr. Starbuck.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I—” The woman smiled uncertainly. “I apologize, but I wasn’t aware an appointment was necessary.”
“May I inquire the nature of your visit?”
“A personal matter … confidential.”
“I’m sorry,” Verna said briskly. “Mr. Starbuck does not handle domestic cases. I suggest you try another agency.”
“Oh, no!” The woman’s lip trembled. “I assure you it has nothing to do with domestic difficulties. I wish to retain Mr. Starbuck on a business matter!”
“Perhaps you could provide me with the particulars?”
The woman averted her eyes. “I can only say it’s a matter of the gravest importance. Anything else will have to be said to Mr. Starbuck personally.”
“I see.” Verna frowned, still not convinced. “May I ask your name?”
“Mrs. Roger Latham.”
“Are you a resident of Denver, Mrs. Latham?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Your current address?”
“Why do—” Mrs. Latham stopped, nervously clutching her purse. “It’s 1038 Welton.”
“Capitol Hill?”
Mrs. Latham inclined her head. “Quite near the governor’s mansion.”
“Please wait here.”
Verna rose and moved to the door of Starbuck’s office. She rapped lightly and entered, closing the door behind her. Several moments passed, the low murmur of voices audible from within the other room. Then the door opened and Verna reappeared.
“Won’t you come in, Mrs. Latham.” She motioned, stepping aside. “Mr. Starbuck will see you.”
“Oh, thank you!”
The woman glided across the room and went past her. Starbuck was seated, his desk littered with an accumulation of correspondence. He stood, nodding to Verna, who quietly closed the door. Then he indicated a chair.
“Please be seated, Mrs. Latham.”
“You’re most kind, Mr. Starbuck. I do apologize for interrupting your busy schedule.”
“No need.” Starbuck waited until she took a chair before he sat down. “I was just clearing my desk. Nothing that won’t wait.”
Mrs. Latham looked at him fully for the first time. Her gaze was oddly clinical, almost an inspection. She smiled and shifted her purse to her lap.
“I must say you’re not what I expected, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Well—” Her hand fluttered like a wounded bird. “A man in your profession conjures a certain image. I thought you would …”
Her voice trailed off, and Starbuck made an idle gesture. “No horns and no cloven hooves, Mrs. Latham. I do the Devil’s work, but it ends there.”
“Is that how you see it—the Devil’s work?”
“A figure of speech,” Starbuck said easily. “How can I help you? I understand you’re here on a matter of some importance.”
“Yes, I am.” A pulse throbbed in her neck. “I wish to retain your services.”
“To what purpose?”
“A man stole something from me. Something very dear and very precious.”
“You want me to run him down, reclaim your property?”
“No.” Her mouth narrowed and her eyes took on the dull gleam of an icon. “I want him killed.”
A sudden foreboding swept over Starbuck. He found himself unaccountably disquieted, every sense alert. He could see anger, resentment, and a trace of fear in her eyes. There was a strangeness about her—some haunting familiarity—and unbidden a tantalizing thought popped into his mind. He wondered on it a moment, almost let it slip away. Then he listened and heard again the last words of James Horn.
Kill me and you’re a dead man for certain.
The woman across the desk watched him with utter directness. She was marvelously in control of herself, and yet there was something attenuated in her manner. She sat rigid, and a pinpoint of anguish lighted her gaze. He warned himself to proceed cautiously.
“How’d you happen to pick me?”
“You have no peer, Mr. Starbuck.” She unsnapped the clasp on her purse, and took out a worn news clipping. “I realized that when I read of your last case.”
Starbuck accepted the clipping. He scanned it quickly and saw that it dealt with the Deadwood killing. There was no byline and the dateline simply read Dakota Territory. Yet the typeface was distinctive, unlike any he’d ever seen before. He casually placed the clipping on the desk.
“Offhand, I’d say that came from an eastern newspaper.”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped. “The New York Morning Telegraph.”
“So you’re not from Denver?”
“No.”
“And you’re not Mrs. Roger Latham?”
“No.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Haven’t you guessed?” She pulled a small pocket revolver from her purse. “I credited you with somewhat keener deductive powers, Mr. Starbuck.”
“I’m generally quicker,” Starbuck said lamely. “Course, the story I got was that you’d died some years back. I reckon Dutch Henry had his reasons for lying.”
“Henry was a vain fool,” she replied. “His pride wouldn’t allow him to admit I divorced him.”
“Or that you’d remarried?”
“Bravo!” she said without irony. “How clever of you, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Only makes sense,” Starbuck said, playing for time. “James was attending some eastern college when he got word his daddy had been killed. He came west to collect his inheritance and he never went back. The way that tallies out, he was trying to put something—or someone—behind him. I’d judge it wasn’t you.”
“No.” Her expression was wistful, somehow vulnerable. “James loathed his stepfather almost as much as he loved Henry. The inheritance provided him with the wherewithal to start a new life … to escape.”
“You must’ve missed him all those years?”
“Terribly,” she admitted. “James and I were always very close. He wrote, of course, and whenever he came east on business, we always managed a visit. But it was never the same after Henry’s death.”
“I’m almost sorry I had to put Dutch Henry away.”
“Regrets hardly seem in character for you, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Not that, exactly.” Starbuck feigned a hangdog look. “If I hadn’t killed Dutch Henry, then you wouldn’t have lost your son. See what I mean?”
“I bear you no grudge for Henry’s death. He was scarcely a loss to mankind.”
“The boy was, though,” Starbuck added quickly. “Except for his daddy’s influence, he would’ve turned out all right. Seemed like Dutch Henry had a hold on him—even from the grave.”
“Are you trying to play on a mother’s sympathy?”
“No, ma’am!” Starbuck protested. “I’m just saying life’s not fair. Your son deserved better, a whole lot better!”
“Tell me, Mr. Starbuck”—her tone was raw with bi
tterness—“were those your thoughts the day you killed him?”
Starbuck slowly shook his head. “At the time, he was doing his level best to kill me.”
“I read the newspaper articles.”
“Then you know what I testified to at the coronor’s inquest. He was mad for revenge, and he’d tried to have me assassinated several times. He wouldn’t have stopped until I was dead.”
“Do you honestly believe that matters?”
“I think it would if you gave it some thought.”
“You killed my son!” She drew a deep, unsteady breath, and her voice rose quickly. “I gave that a great deal of thought, Mr. Starbuck! All the way from New York I thought of nothing else!”
“Ask yourself a question,” Starbuck said gently. “What would you gain by killing me?”
“Please, Mr. Starbuck!” Her words were hard, contemptuous. “Don’t beg pity! I have none left—none!”
“I’m not begging.” Starbuck regarded her without guile. “I’m talking reason, common horse sense.”
“Are you indeed?” she said stiffly, her lips white. “Very well, allow me to indulge you. What earthly reason would stop me from killing the man who killed my son?”
“You have too much to lose.”
“Lose!” Her laugh was laced with scorn. “I have nothing left to lose. I’ve already lost it all—everything that matters!”
“A good look in a mirror might convince you otherwise.”
“A mirror?”
“A look at yourself,” Starbuck explained. “You’re a cultured woman. You started out on a hardscrabble farm—with an outlaw for a husband—and you’ve made yourself over into a lady. A real, honest-to-god lady! You shouldn’t throw that away.”
“Now you’re attempting to play on my vanity!”
“Am I?” Starbuck asked softly. “You’ve got position and wealth, and a husband who thinks the world of you. I’d call that a plain fact, not vanity.”
“How—” She seemed to falter, then rushed on. “How do you know those things?”
“A blind man could see it,” Starbuck remarked. “The way you dress, the refined way you speak, all that says a lot about your husband. You must’ve told him about Dutch Henry—lies wouldn’t have held up all these years—and he still married you, didn’t he?”
She studied him a moment. “You should have been a lawyer, Mr. Starbuck. You plead a case very eloquently.”
“It’s your case, not mine. You shoot me and you’re the big loser.”
“I rather doubt that.”
“Do you?” Starbuck said with genuine concern. “No matter how much you grieve your son, that’ll pass. Some things you live with all your life. Killing a man in coldblood tops the list.”
“The way you killed James?”
Starbuck sensed he’d lost. Her expression became immobile and her eyes glittered with hatred, naked and revealed. There was no remorse, no pity, in her look. A tightening around the mouth told him she was about to pull the trigger.
The door burst open. She was momentarily distracted, and in that split instant, Starbuck flung himself headlong to the floor. Then she fired; the slug drilled through the backrest of his chair and thunked into the wall. Her features twisted in a crazed look and she swiftly rose to her feet. She leaned across the desk.
“No!” Verna cried from the doorway. “Don’t!”
She ignored the command. Bracing herself against the desk, she thrust out her arm and pointed the revolver at Starbuck. Her hand shook violently as her finger curled tighter around the trigger. Verna took dead aim with a double-barrel derringer and shot her in the leg. Her mouth froze in a silent oval, then the revolver barked and a bullet whizzed past Starbuck’s head. She stared at him a moment, and suddenly the light went out in her eyes. Her legs collapsed and the gun dropped from her hand. She slowly folded to the floor.
Starbuck stood and moved around the desk. He looked first at the woman, then his gaze shuttled to the doorway. Verna appeared steady, not in the least shocked by what she’d done. He shook his head in open wonder.
“Where’d you get the derringer?”
“Out of my pocketbook.”
“I never figured you to carry a gun.”
Verna sniffed. “You never bothered to ask. As it happens, I am an expert markswoman.”
“Lucky for me you are,” Starbuck said gratefully. “How’d you know she wasn’t on the level?”
“The address,” Verna observed. “She told me she lived at 1038 Welton. I checked it in the city street directory. Welton ends at the 800 block.”
“Loose ends,” Starbuck said absently, staring at the woman. “Guess you’d better run fetch a doctor. No sense letting her bleed to death.”
“Oh?” Verna looked surprised. “I do believe there’s hope for you yet!”
“How so?”
“Perhaps you’re not the cynic you think.”
“Whatever I am”—Starbuck’s mouth lifted in an ashen grin—“you’re a sweetheart. I wouldn’t trade you for all the tea in China!”
Verna flushed and tittered a giddy laugh. She turned quickly away, pausing only long enough to drop the derringer on her desk. Then she hurried out the door.
Still chuckling to himself, Starbuck knelt beside the fallen woman. He took her wrist between thumb and forefinger; her pulse was strong and her color appeared good. On the verge of rising, his attention was drawn to her purse. He opened it and pawed through the contents. A brief search turned up a silver-filigreed calling-card case. He recognized it as the type commonly carried by society ladies and wealthy matrons. He extracted an embossed card and read it with mild shock.
Her name was Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II.
A gentle breeze drifted through the window. The bedroom was dark, lighted only by the dim glow of a lamp from the sitting room. Lola lay quietly in the crook of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She was satiated, drifting on the tranquil flame of their lovemaking. Yet she was wide awake, and thoughtful.
Earlier, he’d told her about the shooting. Verna’s part was related in some detail, and she had emerged the heroine of the piece. All else, including his conversation with Horn’s mother, had been somewhat fuzzy in the telling. Oddly, he’d skipped over several salient points, leapfrogging from the shooting to the bare bones of the aftermath. The woman had been taken to the hospital, and a full recovery was expected. The particulars, all the savory little tidbits, had been bypassed. He’d simply stopped there, and said no more.
At the time, Lola had curbed her curiosity. But now, with her imagination running wild, she could restrain herself no longer. She snuggled closer, her breath warm and velvety against his ear.
“Lover?”
“Hmmm?”
“What will happen to her … Horn’s mother?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” Lola pushed up on one elbow. “Aren’t you going to press charges?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” Lola demanded. “She tried to kill you!”
“Happens all the time.”
“Very funny! What happens when she tries again? You know she’ll try!”
“I got a hunch that says she won’t.”
“Ooo God! It’s like pulling teeth! What kind of hunch?”
“Well—” Starbuck nibbled her nipple, grinned. “I reckon she’s got it out of her system now. We had a long talk at the hospital, and I’m satisfied bygones are bygones. She agreed to leave town the minute the doctors give her the okay.”
“Where will she go?”
“Beats me.”
“What name does she go by?”
“Mizz Horn,” Starbuck said dreamily. “What else?”
“Some detective!” Lola lifted an eyebrow, studied him with mock seriousness. “What you need is a keeper. Or better yet—a bodyguard!”
“No,” Starbuck said, nuzzling her breast. “All I need’s a body!”
“Any old body?” Lola inquired with a naughty wink.
“Or somebody special?”
“What do you think?”
Lola’s laugh was a delicious sound. “I think I’m all the body you can handle, Mr. Starbuck!”
“Do you, now?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Let’s just say I’m willing to be convinced.”
“How long do I have?”
“All the time it takes.”
“Braggart!” Lola darted his ear with her tongue. “You won’t last that long!”
“Try me and see.”
The moon went down over Denver before they were finished. She fell away limp and exhausted, but secretly pleased with herself. However far he roamed, even when he strayed, she knew he would never forget tonight. She’d spoiled him for other women, and the memory would linger. A bright ember, quickly fanned to flame, and always there. His bed was hers.
Starbuck slept the sleep of the weary warrior. He dreamed not of ghosts but of people. He held her close and thought no more of death.
Epilogue
Telluride, Colorado
June 24, 1889
“How many were in the gang?”
“Seven or eight.” The express messenger sounded doubtful. “I didn’t exactly have time to count noses.”
Starbuck nodded. “Your report to the main office said the holdup took place outside Placerville?”
“You familiar with the valley?”
“Not all that much.”
“Well, there’s a bridge that crosses the San Miguel. I’d put it maybe five miles this side of Placerville. That’s where they hit us.”
“How’d they stop the train?”
“It was in my report,” the messenger said testily. “They dropped a rock slide across the tracks.”
“Just checking,” Starbuck replied casually. “How about a description? Anything special you remember?”
“I damn sure remember the one that gave the orders! He kept a gun in my ear the whole god-blessed time!”