by Meryl Sawyer
“It wasn’t at his house?”
“Nope, and it wasn’t at his gallery either. His wife claims she never saw the equipment.”
“How big do you think the setup would be?” she asked, excited he was discussing the case with her again.
“Laser scanners are much smaller than they used to be. Storing the prints after they’re produced is the problem. They’d have to be rolled and placed in special cylinders for shipping, right?”
“Right.” She had no idea why he was consulting her, but she was glad to be included. No one wanted this case solved more than she did. If the bearded man wasn’t going to give her an alibi, then she had to let Zach help her.
“You could probably have the setup in a space the size of a garage,” he said.
“What makes you think it’s around here?”
“A check of Morrell’s credit card activity for the past year shows one trip to Los Angeles a month ago.”
“He visited Vanessa Trent and sold her a number of lithographs. She told me so.”
“Okay, but that’s the only trip he took. It only stands to reason that the prints are being produced here, but where?”
“In the last place anyone would look,” Claire said automatically. “Out at the pueblo or in one of the churches.”
“You’re joking.”
“Of course, but it’s someplace where you wouldn’t normally look.”
He was silent, obviously searching for the answer, she decided, imagining him at his desk. His long legs were up on the desk, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. No doubt, he’d wiped his boots, but dust still splotched his black jeans.
“The last place anyone would look,” he repeated thoughtfully.
There was an intimacy to their conversation that hadn’t been there until tonight at the hospital when Zach had dosed the distance she usually kept between herself and most men. Now they were—what? Friends? Lovers?
Well, not lovers yet, but Zach had to believe they soon would be. After that dance tonight, what else could he think? She shuddered, experiencing equal parts anticipation and dread. On one level the thought excited her, yet it frightened her, too.
Her father’s health and psychological state were fragile. The last thing he needed was to discover his daughter was involved with Zach Coulter. Yet she needed Zach’s help. She had the uneasy feeling that she was being drawn deeper and deeper into the Morrell case.
“Claire, do you have any idea who Duncan was in love with? His wife tolerated his affairs for years, but he was leaving her for someone.”
“No. He came on to anything in a skirt, and he got plenty of action. It was always a mystery to me what women saw in him. Even Vanessa Trent went out with him, and she was terribly upset by his death.” An odd thought occurred to her. “If Duncan was in love with someone special enough to divorce his wife after all this time, then what was he doing in a sleazy room at The Hideaway?”
Twenty-one
Zach watched the River Spirit Gallery from the shade of an ancient cottonwood in the plaza, waiting to catch Stacy Hopkins alone. But Lowell Hopkin’s wife showed no sign of coming out of the gallery. Great, Zach thought. He was wasting time he didn’t have.
He’d rather be across the plaza seeing Claire. They’d had two conversations—at the hospital and on the phone—without fighting. Claire was slowly beginning to treat him better.
He wished he’d had time to wait for her this morning. He dropped off Lucy and Lobo, leaving the dogs with Suzi. Claire hadn’t yet arrived at the gallery, and he couldn’t blame her for sleeping in. What he wouldn’t give for a decent night’s sleep. Since Morrell’s death, Zach hadn’t had more than three hours sleep a night.
He wanted to spend time with Claire, but he couldn’t until after the rodeo tomorrow. Getting through today should be easy, but Saturday nights during the rodeo were tough. Judging by the hell-raisers from Texas who’d started the brawl last night, he was going to have his hands full tonight. Then Sunday would be a cakewalk. The rodeo finished in the late afternoon and the cowboys hit the road, heading to the next rodeo. Another sheriff’s problem.
All he had to do, he reminded himself as he kept his eye out for Stacy, was to keep a lid on the drunken brawls. The last thing he wanted was for a fight to become a major incident involving dozens of cowboys. Then he’d have to call on the chief of police for assistance. A prick like Ollie Hammond lived for the opportunity to tell everyone Zach couldn’t handle the sheriff’s job. He hadn’t needed to call on Hammond last night, but it had been damn close.
Tonight he would patrol the rodeo grounds. He’d waited too long last night before breaking up the fight. He’d delayed because his mind had been on Claire. He couldn’t make that mistake again.
He shouldn’t even be here now. Morrell’s murder should go on hold until after the roughneck cowboys and low-lifes that followed the circuit left town. Ollie Hammond and people like Alexander Holt were waiting, just dying for him to screw up. Still, he wanted to question Stacy about the night Morrell died. His sixth sense had kicked in when he’d interviewed Bassinger. The son of a bitch wasn’t telling the truth.
Just as Zach had given up and was leaving, Stacy came out of the gallery and hurried over to her car. Zach crossed the plaza and hopped into his Bronco. He followed Stacy out of town, then stuck his hand out the window and plopped a portable police light with a magnetic attachment onto the roof of the Bronco. He hit the siren and pulled her over the second she left the city limits and drove into his jurisdiction.
“Was I speeding, Sheriff?” she asked, all breathy and wide-eyed when he came up.
“Yep. Get out of the car.”
Stacy threw open the door and swiveled to the side, slowly swinging out one spectacular leg. Her short skirt was already hiked up far enough for him to arrest her for indecent exposure, but she made sure she paused before swinging out the second leg so he got more than just a glimpse of her neon pink panties. Sniffling, she stood up and jiggled to make her skirt fall into place. The movement made her breasts sway.
“I hope I’m not, like, going to get a ticket … or something.”
Or something, Zach thought. He’d busted Stacy once the previous year outside Tía Juana’s for buying coke. She’d come on to him—big time—letting him know she was willing to trade sex to get out of trouble. He didn’t take her up on the offer.
Not that he hadn’t been tempted. Stacy Hopkins had an earthy sensuality that turned on most men. Feminine with a bod that wouldn’t quit—and so willing. She was the opposite of Vanessa Trent whose every move was staged for a camera.
Zach stood to one side so the direct sunlight was on Stacy. “I have a couple of questions about the night Duncan Morrell was murdered. I understand you stayed at the club after your husband left. You went next door to The Hideaway, correct?”
Stacy looked at the jack pine nearby. The sapling was half bent; it wouldn’t survive a cruel winter. “Yeah, I was over there for, you know, a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“I’m not sure … exactly.” Her nose twitched.
“Stacy, a man died that night. Think hard.”
She gazed a him for a second, her brown eyes troubled, then she looked back at the sad little pine. “I was there until dawn, but please don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not interested in giving you trouble. All I want to do is find a killer.” He sensed her reluctance, but he wasn’t sure how to persuade her to talk. “I never mentioned anything about that night in the parking lot of Tía Juana’s, did I? I told you if you got treatment, I’d let you by that one time.”
She swiped at the back of her nose with her hand. “You were awesome, totally awesome.”
“Then why don’t you level with me now? Unless you’re directly involved in the murder, no one will ever have to know.”
She licked her bottom lip, her tongue provocatively moving over the lush fullness. But she didn’t say a word.
“Who were you there w
ith? Can they corroborate your story?”
She shrugged, jiggling her full breasts. Zach was struck with how differently Claire would have handled the situation. Her hands would have been on her slim hips, her chin out, daring him to question her.
He was forced to play his trump card. “Stacy, I have a friend from the Gallup FBI office. He’s unofficially helping me with the case. If you don’t come clean with me, I’m turning your name over to him, and I’ll have to tell about the incident at Tía Juana’s. Could be that deal was part of a drug ring, and the FBI should look into it.”
“You’re lying.” The words were angry, yet had an undertone of fear.
“I believe you met Brad Yeager. He said he walked through your husband’s gallery last night.”
Stacy’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her pupils were dilated, and from the way she kept sniffing, Zach knew she needed another hit. Her nerves were probably like a dozen live wires. And she was undoubtedly experiencing the paranoia that came with addiction to cocaine. Everyone is out to get me. Coke is my only friend.
“I’m your friend, Stacy. I told you to get help.”
“I did. Lowell sent me to a rehab center in Arizona. It cost a fortune. I was all right for a while then I … I don’t know what happened. I just … like … messed up. You know, slipped.”
“I’ll help you again, if you want me to,” he responded.
“Someone’s already helping me,” she informed him with a smile. “I’ve finally met the right man, someone who understands my problems and loves me.”
Zach shook his head. Obviously, Lowell Hopkins had better find a good divorce attorney. “Who?”
“Carleton Cole. He’s totally buff and way cool. He’s going to leave that old bag, Angela Whitmore. We’re moving to San Francisco.”
Zach smiled as if he thought this was a match made in heaven. Secretly he believed Stacy was making a huge mistake. Cole was an airhead. How could he help Stacy? No doubt, she’d end up on Frisco’s streets turning tricks to support a drug habit.
“Stacy, do you know Carleton Cole well enough to leave your husband—”
“I know all about his prison record. He changed his name, too. You know, he has, like, a bod to die for. Edwin Shumski didn’t fit him.” She stared at the jack pine again, her head turned away from him. “I love him, truly I do. He’s into fitness and heath foods. You know, stuff like that. He can help me.”
Zach could see he wasn’t talking her out of leaving her older husband for the buff young hunk. Hell, Cole just might be able to help her. Stranger things had happened.
“Does Carleton know you were at The Hideaway with two men?”
Stacy slowly turned to face him. Her doe-brown eyes were luminous with tears. “Please, don’t tell him. I did it for Carleton, but he wouldn’t understand. He invested all his money in Nevada’s prints, but, something, like, went wrong. Duncan Morrell wouldn’t give him back his money.” One tear broke loose, trembled on her long lashes for a second, then dribbled down her cheek. “Max Bassinger offered me a lot of money to get Seth into that room. I did it because I love Carleton.”
“Lucky guy.” Zach barely got the words out. Did this woman seriously believe love was a reason to prostitute herself? She was so friggin’ screwed up that Zach didn’t know how to reach her.
“I won’t tell Carleton, if you’re up front with me, Stacy. I need details about what went on that night.” She nodded, sniffing and swiping at the tear on her cheek with the back of her hand. “What time did you go into that bungalow with Bassinger?”
“I met him there after Lowell went home. It must have been, like, somewhere around midnight.”
“Tell me what happened next. Don’t leave anything out.”
“It was weird, freaking weird,” she said, lowering her voice as if someone besides the squirrels were listening. “Max gave me half a line of coke. I took it. You know, just to get me through it. Then he turned off the lights and opened the door enough so he could see what was going on outside. He waited until Seth came into sight before making me get on my knees and … you know.”
Zach nodded. “Go on.”
“Then I was supposed to get into bed with Seth,” she said, disgust in her voice. “It went according to plan. Max jumped in, too. It was supposed to be, like, one of those ménage things. You know, three people doing it. Max told me that I was supposed to get Seth ready, then slip out of bed.” She shook her head. “I thought Seth would never go for it. He’s been, coming on to me for months, but he didn’t even notice I was gone. It was, like … yuck.”
Bassinger using Stacy to lure Seth into his clutches? Like, yuck—was a gross understatement.
“What time did you leave that room, Stacy?”
“A little before one,” she said with an impish smile. “Max paid me five thousand dollars to lie to you and say I was with them until dawn, but it isn’t true.” She smiled again, gloating this time. “I made enough money off Max for Carleton and I to go away together.”
Hot damn, Zach thought. This was the break he’d been praying for. Seth Ramsey had a motive to kill, but no alibi. “What did you do after you left that room? Did you see anyone or talk to anybody?”
Stacy shook her head just a little too vigorously, her hair slapping her sculpted cheeks. “I went right home.”
“Lowell will vouch for that?”
“No, he was asleep.”
Stacy was lying, he decided in an instant. Somehow he’d been born with a built-in bullshit detector. He’d known Bassinger was lying, and now he was dead certain Stacy was telling only part of the truth.
“Stacy, unless you tell me the whole truth, I’m going to make certain Carleton finds out about this.”
“I told you what happened,” she protested.
Stacy wasn’t a good liar. Bassinger had been far better. Zach crossed his arms over his chest and adjusted his legs so they were wide apart. It was a belligerent stance, one he’d often used while working homicide in San Francisco. Good cop—bad cop was a common interrogation technique. He always insisted on being the bad cop because his superior size physically intimidated people. Now he had to play both roles himself.
“I swear,” she said, but she didn’t sound the least bit convincing.
He stood, staring at her for a full minute, the blistering midday sun eating through his shirt until moisture peppered his back. He decided to bluff. Hell, it had worked with Seth, hadn’t it?
“I know for a fact that you did not leave at one o’clock. Someone saw you. Now—”
“O-o-oh,” she moaned. “You found the man with the beard. I thought he was some bum on his way to Santa Fe because I never saw him again.”
The bearded man. What in hell was she talking about? It was all he could do to keep a straight face. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”
“Could we, like, go over into the shade?” she asked.
He led her into the pines and found a fallen log not too far from the road. He sat and patted the rough bark beside him. Stacy gingerly sat down, then tugged at her short skirt so the bark didn’t dig into her thighs.
“Look me in the eye, Stacy, and tell me exactly what happened.”
“I did leave that room at one,” she said slowly, despair in her voice. “I got into my car and saw Bam Stegner talking to Duncan. I waited until Bam left and caught Duncan before he got into his Jaguar. In the past, he’d … you know, come on to me and I thought maybe I could persuade him to give Carleton his money back on that print investment.”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second. “He said he’d get a key to one of the bungalows and we could discuss it. Like, I’m no bimbo; I knew what he wanted, but I figured this would be nothing after that total gross out with Max and Seth. I thought I could really help Carleton.”
Stegner and Morrell, interesting. Then Stacy, possibly the last person to see Morrell alive—except the person who murdered him.
“How long were you in there with him?” h
e asked, wondering just when she’d spotted a man with a beard.
“I kept trying to bring up Carleton’s investment, but Duncan only wanted to … you know.”
“What time did you leave?”
Stacy looked down at some suspicious-looking mushrooms growing along the base of the log. “We both fell asleep. Like, I don’t know how long we slept. A noise woke me—a creaking sound. I saw a flash of light and realized someone must have opened the door and seen us. I, like, totally panicked when I realized it was morning. I left without waking Duncan.”
“What time was that?”
“My watch said twenty minutes until six. I rushed to my car, praying whoever saw me with Duncan wouldn’t tell Carleton. That’s when I saw the man with the beard. He was coming out of the woods beside the club carrying his sleeping bag. I hid behind Duncan’s Jaguar. I watched him get into a totally trashed pickup and drive off. I didn’t think he saw me, but I guess he did.”
The last thing Zach had expected was to discover Paul Winfrey had been near the murder scene. Jee-sus! He never mentioned being at The Hideaway.
“Stacy, was there a pillow on the bed?”
“In The Hideaway? Are you kidding? There was a scuzzy throw. That’s all.”
Interesting. The killer brought a gun and a pillow.
“Did Duncan use any protection?”
“Get real. You can’t rely on men. When Max paid me to meet him, I put a box of life jackets in my purse.”
“Did you take the used ones with you?”
Stacy grimaced, one side of her lip rising a fraction of an inch. “They were yucky. I left them on the floor. Why would I take them?”
Christ! The killer had done a major cleanup at the murder scene, removing evidence of Duncan’s fling with Stacy. Why?
Twenty-two
Max Bassinger opened the door of his hacienda and saw Zach Coulter and another man. From what Seth had told him the previous evening, he assumed it was the FBI agent, Brad Yeager. He was right. The cocky prick flipped open his wallet without saying a word, showing Max his FBI seal and photo ID.