“He never told me.” Maggie looked past Denver, her gaze clouded. “There is one thing, though. A few days before he was … before he died, he brought some file folders home from the office. Old ones.”
“Where are they now?” Denver asked as she sat down across from Maggie.
“He burned them.”
“He what?” Denver couldn’t believe her ears.
“That night we were sitting by the fireplace. He was sorting through some things. That’s when I saw the folders—right before he tossed them into the fire.”
“Did you see what they were?”
Maggie frowned. “I wasn’t paying much attention, but a newspaper clipping fell out of one of the files. I don’t even remember what it was about, just that it was old. I’m sure that’s why Max was throwing the files away.”
“Still, that doesn’t sound like Max. He never threw anything away.”
“I didn’t think it was strange at the time… .” Maggie’s voice trailed off. “You know, he did keep one of those files. I guess he took it back to his office.”
“There are too many strange things. Like Max’s will. Not even his lawyer’s seen it. It seems Max drew it up himself and said he’d put it in a safe place.” Denver shook her head. “I wonder what Max would consider a safe place? Probably the middle of his kitchen table.”
Maggie laughed softly, her eyes misty with private memories of Max. “The police didn’t find it in either Max’s apartment or office. Do you think he could have left it at your cabin?”
“I haven’t looked yet,” Denver said. “And Max’s gun is missing, too. Deputy Cline says the killer must have taken it when he took Max’s wallet. But you know Max hardly ever carried a gun.”
Maggie brushed at her tears. “Max would have given that hitchhiker money before the guy could even ask, and given him his shirt and shoes, as well. Even his car.”
“That’s just it, Maggie. Why didn’t the guy take Max’s car? The keys were in it.” Denver turned and was startled to find Pete standing just inside the kitchen doorway. She wondered how long he’d been there, listening.
“I thought we’d already settled this.” He glared at her, his gaze hard with anger. “You were going to stay out of the murder investigation and let Cline do his job.”
Denver drew in a deep breath. Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear when they’d argued about this earlier. “I can’t stay out of it. How is the killer ever going to be caught when Cline isn’t even looking into Max’s cases?”
“What cases?” Pete demanded. “Come on, Denver. You’re clutching at straws. It was a hitchhiker. You know how bad Max was about picking up strays.”
No one knew better than she did just how Max was about helping people in trouble, she thought as she fingered her mother’s gold locket at her neck. Fortunately, Max McCallahan had been that kind of man.
“No, it simply doesn’t make sense,” Denver said, standing her ground. “Maggie said he burned some old files right before he was killed. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”
Pete raked his fingers through his hair, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “So what are you going to do? Go after this murderer by yourself?”
“Pete’s right,” Maggie interrupted, surprising them both, since she seldom agreed with Pete on anything. “Listen, honey, Max wouldn’t have wanted you getting involved in this. Obviously it’s dangerous. I think you’d better leave it to the deputy sheriff.”
Denver stared at her. It wasn’t like Maggie to tell her to run from trouble; Maggie had always encouraged her to join Max in the investigation business. It had been Max who wouldn’t hear of it, who had insisted she stick to photography, even though she’d helped him by taking photos on some of his cases.
“I’d better get back to my guests,” Maggie said, slipping past Pete.
The tension in the kitchen dropped a notch or two in the moments after Maggie left; Denver knew it was because Pete thought he might be able to dissuade her. She looked out the window. The day had slipped away into dusk.
“I’m sorry,” Pete said, crossing the kitchen to put his arms around her. “I know you’re upset about Max. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
The worry in his eyes startled her. If he believed Max had been killed by some stranger passing through town, why would he be so afraid for her? Clearly he didn’t believe it any more than she did.
“Just promise me you’ll stay out of this,” Pete whispered into her hair. “I want to help you get through it, if you’ll let me.”
Denver buried her face in his shoulder. She felt protected in his arms. Maybe Pete was right. She was a photographer—not an investigator. But that knowledge did little to cool the fever burning deep within her. She had to see Max’s murderer behind bars; she owed Max at least that. And after all those years of hanging around him, she’d picked up a little something about investigative work. She wasn’t going after the killer blind; she knew of the danger. But the danger didn’t scare her as much as the thought that her uncle’s murderer might get away.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” she said, lifting her cheek from his shoulder. “I can’t make that promise.” She felt him tense. He dropped his arms and stepped back, his expression one of disappointment and anger. “I’m going to find Max’s killer if it’s the last thing I do.”
Pete nodded. “It just might be.”
J.D. COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling that Denver was already in trouble, more trouble than just being involved with Pete—a possible killer.
He picked up the phone and dialed Maggie’s number. Someone pretty well sloshed answered. A moment later, Maggie came on the line. “Is Denny all right?” he asked, feeling foolish.
“She’s fine,” Maggie said. “She’s here and Pete just left.” Her voice sounded muffled as if coming from inside a closet. From the party noise in the background, he guessed she probably was.
“Good. I won’t worry about her for the moment anyway.” He hung up and reached for his coat, trying to shake off the ominous feeling he had.
His options were limited. Confront Pete with what little “evidence” Maggie had against him and have Pete just deny it? Or try to talk to Denver about him. Maggie hadn’t taken that route for two good reasons. One was that Denver knew Maggie had never liked Pete, and adding suspicion of murder to that list would only alienate her. The other was that the Denver he remembered would fight to the death to defend a friend, let alone a lover. And it was obvious she and Pete were very close.
J.D. cursed the thought. Nor did he doubt what Denver would do if he told her his suspicions. She’d go straight to Pete. Head-on. That was the way she operated. He assured himself Pete would never hurt her. At least, not the Pete he used to know. He considered Maggie’s evidence against Pete flimsy at best. But Maggie’s obvious fear for Denver made him think twice about dismissing it. If for some reason Pete had killed Max, then what would he do if he thought Denver suspected him? It wasn’t a chance J.D. was willing to take with Denver’s safety. And sitting around a motel room wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.
AFTER PETE LEFT HER ALONE in the kitchen, Denver stood staring at the snow falling in the darkness outside, thinking of Max. The need to avenge his death tore at her insides, holding her grief at bay most of the time. Except tonight. Tonight she felt alone and frightened.
As a girl, when she’d been afraid, she’d fantasized about J.D. rescuing her. Nothing quite as dramatic as being tied to the railroad tracks with the train coming—but close enough. Always at the last minute, J.D. would appear and save her. But this wasn’t a fantasy now. Max was dead. Not even Pete was on her side this time. And J.D. certainly wasn’t coming to her rescue.
The noise from the other room had reached a rowdy pitch, music blasting. Denver heard the kitchen door open behind her only because it increased the volume. At first, she thought it might be Pete coming back.
Cal Dalton closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “I hear you’
ve been looking for me.”
He reminded her of a coyote, a wild look in his eyes, his body poised for flight. And instantly she wondered what he had to be afraid of; he frightened her much more than she ever could him. Everything about him was cold, from his graying pale blond hair to his icy blue eyes. He had to be hugging fifty but he hung around the bars with men half his age. Cal was known in town as a womanizer and a mean drunk, always getting into fights. One jealous husband had even shot him, and Cal liked to show off the scar, according to local scuttlebutt.
“I’m trying to find out what cases Max was working on,” she said. For reasons Denver could not fathom, Max had befriended Cal in the weeks before his death, something she could only assume meant Max was on a case.
“You think I hired your uncle?” Cal scratched his neck. “What would I need with a private eye?” Good question. “Max and I were just drinking buddies.”
“He didn’t mention a case he might have been working on?” she asked. “Or maybe hire you to do some legwork for him?”
“Legwork?” Cal shook his head. His gaze took her in as if he realized for the first time she was a woman and certainly no threat. “Speaking of legs, yours aren’t half-bad,” he said, making her feel as if he’d just peeled off her black slacks.
This had been a mistake. “Well, I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Max did talk a lot about you,” he said.
She found that more unlikely than their being drinking buddies. “If you’ll excuse me, Pete is waiting for me.” She tried to get past him, but he blocked her way.
“I don’t think so. I saw Pete leave.” He was close now. She could feel his breath on her face, smell the reek of beer.
Pete wouldn’t leave without telling her, would he?
Cal leaned his hands on either side of her, trapping her. “I’m afraid Pete’s thrown you to the wolves, darlin’.” His eyes traveled over her with a crudeness that turned her stomach. “How about a little kiss for old Cal?”
“No, and if you touch me—”
He moved closer. “I like feisty girls.” He bent to kiss her. Denver dived under his arm, shooting for the space between his body and the counter. He caught her, swung her into him and gave her a smelly, slobbery kiss that made her gag. “How’d you like that?” he asked, leering. “Better than that pansy boyfriend of yours, huh?”
She jerked her arm free and slapped him with a force that drove him back a step.
He rubbed his jaw; a meanness came into his eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that. All I wanted was a little kiss.”
Denver grabbed the first thing she could find as Cal moved toward her. A pottery pitcher.
“Denver?” Cal turned at the sound of the voice behind him, and Denver looked past him to see Max’s old friend, Taylor Reynolds, standing in the doorway. “Is there a problem here?”
Denver set down the pitcher and pushed past Cal to step into the big man’s arms.
“It’s okay,” Taylor said, holding her awkwardly. The old bachelor wasn’t a man used to a physical display of sentiment. “Buddy, don’t you think you’d better get back to the party?”
Denver heard Cal leave but she didn’t look up; she found herself crying, crying for Max, for herself.
“Hey, easy. This is my best suit,” Taylor kidded, then pulled back to look at her. “What was going on in here? If he’s bothering you—”
She stepped from the shelter of his arms, trying to regain control. “Cal was just being Cal.”
Taylor pushed out a chair for her at the table and pulled down some towels from a roll. He handed them to her and joined her at the table.
Denver took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with a towel and looked at the man before her. She remembered Max talking about his buddies from the army, but she’d never met this one before. Taylor Reynolds was a powerful-looking man much like Max had been. Only unlike Max, Taylor was soft-spoken and shy. He’d shown up right after Max’s murder.
“Max saved my life in the army—I owe him,” Taylor had said, standing with his hat in his hands on Maggie’s porch. “I’ll be staying at the Three Bears if you need anything.”
Denver had taken to him immediately, and so had Maggie. Denver knew it was because he and Max had been so close; in Taylor a small part of Max still lived.
“It’s tough, but we’re all going to get through this,” Taylor said now. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his big hands. He took a toothpick and spun it between two fingers.
“Who do you think killed him?”
Taylor’s face clouded. “A damned fool.”
“Do you think it was the hitchhiker Deputy Cline’s looking for?” She had a sudden flash of Max, the flicker of sunlight on the water behind him, the gentle lap of water against the side of the boat, the sound of his laugh floating across the lake. When she looked up, she realized Taylor had been talking to her.
“Denver?” He studied her, his eyes dark with concern. “You’re having a rough time with this, aren’t you, kid? Be careful. Don’t let Max’s death become more important than living.”
Denver looked away. The noise of the party seemed at odds with the silence of the darkness outside.
Taylor reached across the table and patted her hand, then quickly pulled back, obviously embarrassed by the gesture. He got to his feet. “I think that Cal fellow has had enough to drink. Why don’t I see he gets home where he won’t be bothering you anymore tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re all going to miss Max, kid,” he said as he left.
For a few moments, Denver stood in the quiet kitchen, thinking about what Taylor had said. She knew he was right; Max would have wanted her to get on with her life. And he would have liked her to marry Pete.
“I want to know there’s going to be someone around for you when I’m gone,” he’d said the last time they’d talked.
Denver closed her eyes. And now Max was gone. Had he known there was a chance he might be killed?
The kitchen suddenly felt as if it were closing in on her. Denver took her coat and hat and slipped out through the side door into the night. A chilly wind spun a weathered wind sock on the end of the eaves. She ducked her head against the cold and pulled her coat more tightly around her. The snow had stopped; now it was melting, dripping from warm roofs and dark pine boughs along the street.
Cal had told the truth, she realized with a shock. Pete’s pickup was gone. “Men,” she groaned as she started the four-block walk to her car.
For days she’d told herself that it was all a mistake, that Max wasn’t really dead. Now as she walked the familiar streets, she acknowledged that he was gone. The truth came like a swift kick to the stomach. All the values she’d believed in, Max had taught her. She owed him her very life.
Her Jeep was parked in front of Pete’s apartment, where she’d left it earlier before the service. Pete’s pickup was nowhere to be seen. As she drove down Firehole Avenue, she realized how tired she was. All she wanted to do was go to the lake cabin and get some sleep. But as she looked down the dark street to Max’s office, she wondered again about what cases Max might have been working on, something Cline wouldn’t have recognized as a clue since he was so busy looking for a hitchhiker. Finding Max’s killer couldn’t wait, she realized. And nothing was going to stop her. Nothing. And nobody.
Chapter Three
Pete stood in the snowy shadows of the old log building at the edge of town listening to the night. Normally he loved this hour, when darkness settled in, cloaking secrets and regrets. Tonight, though, he felt vulnerable and afraid. Softly he knocked at the rear door. It opened a crack, then fell open. A hand grabbed his jacket and jerked him inside.
“I’ve told you not to come here. It’s too risky.”
Pete stumbled into the dimly lit room; the door slammed behind him. He followed the man to the front of the cabin. “I want to talk to the boss.” The man swaggered into the living room. Pete followed, realizing he’d been drinking. �
�Let me talk to him. Now. Or I’m walking.”
The man scowled. “So walk. You’re the one who wanted in on this operation.”
“If I walk, I walk to the feds,” Pete said.
“That would be real smart.” The man slumped into a chair before the fire roaring in the small fireplace. He picked up a whiskey bottle from the floor and took a long swig. “But that would be one way to meet the boss. He’d kill you.”
Pete looked into the fire. What little he knew about their boss reminded him of hell and the devil himself. “You going to call him?”
“You’re signing your death warrant if you mess with him.” But he got to his feet and went into the kitchen to the phone. Pete listened to him dial. A long-distance number. It took a moment and Pete knew the call was being forwarded somewhere else. Then he heard the man in the kitchen talking in a hushed tone, apologizing, explaining. Finally, he called Pete in and handed him the receiver. The look on his face warned Pete he’d stepped over the line.
“You have a problem?” the synthesized voice asked on the other end of the line.
“Look, Midnight, I’m tired of putting up with this bozo,” Pete said of the man standing next to him. “I want a number where I can call you. And I want to know why you had someone try to run me off the road this afternoon.”
Midnight laughed, the synthesizer turning it into a midway sideshow. “You certainly want a lot, don’t you?”
Midnight. How perfectly the code name described a man both dark and dangerous. “I’ve proven myself in your little organization, haven’t I?”
Silence. He could tell Midnight didn’t like the “little” part. “So you have.”
“I don’t like being threatened. You could have killed us both!”
Midnight’s voice turned deadly serious. “Yes, I could have. But I didn’t. Did it convince you how important it is to keep Denver from looking into Max McCallahan’s death?”
“I was always convinced.” Pete decided honesty might be the best policy, even with a man like Midnight. “But Denver’s determined to find Max’s killer.”
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