Midnight let out another carnival laugh. “Well, she doesn’t have to look too far, does she?”
Pete glared into the fire. The flames licked at the logs with hot fury.
“You said you could control her,” Midnight continued. “I don’t like problems.”
“I’ll take care of Denver. That was the arrangement.”
Midnight’s voice turned raspy with anger. “Arrangements can be changed.”
Pete knew if anyone would renege on a bargain it was this man. Hadn’t the truck episode proved that today? Denver had no idea what she was getting herself into if she persisted in searching for Max’s murderer.
“You’re sure the case file I’m looking for wasn’t at Max’s office?” Midnight asked.
“Yes.”
“Then that leaves the cabin. You haven’t said what you found out there. And don’t tell me you haven’t looked yet.”
Pete wanted to tell him to do his own search but knew Midnight hired other men to do his dirty work while he hid on a phone line, behind a synthesizer. Why so much secrecy? All he could figure was that Midnight had to be someone he knew; it made him nervous not knowing with whom he was in business. “I tried to get Denver to stay at my place tonight so I could search the cabin, but she’s determined—”
“She’s determined?” Midnight let out a string of oaths. “I’m determined. No more excuses. I want that cabin searched tonight.”
“And how do you expect me to do that with Denver there?” Pete asked in frustration.
“I’ve left a prescription in your name at the drugstore.”
“Pills?” Pete gasped. “You don’t want me to—”
“Kill her?” Midnight groaned. “No. A couple of tablets and she’ll sleep like the dead, though. Make sure you don’t overdo it or you could kill her.” His voice seemed to vibrate with an evil that chilled Pete even in the hot room. “Hit the cabin tonight. And you’d better find that file.”
“I told you how Max was. He didn’t think like other people. Who knows where he’s hidden it, if it even exists?”
“It exists.” Midnight sighed. “You realize if Denver finds the file first, we’ll have to kill her.”
And if anyone could find the file, it would be Denver, Pete thought. She already had her suspicions; it was just a matter of time before she figured it out. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”
“If you don’t—” Midnight paused “—I’ll find someone who can.”
Pete started to hang up, but Midnight stopped him.
“We have another problem that needs to be taken care of,” he said. “It’s that kid, Davey Matthews. You know the one who was always hanging around Max’s office? I’m afraid he knows too much.”
“Just what we need, another murder.”
“I’ll call you later at the cabin and we can discuss what to do about Davey. He’s young and foolish. Young and foolish men have accidents. Put the bozo back on,” Midnight said. “Then you’d better get to the drugstore before it closes.”
MAX MCCALLAHAN’S detective agency filled the bottom floor of a small two-story log house on Geyser Street; he had lived in a tiny efficiency apartment upstairs. Denver could never understand why he hadn’t married Maggie. He’d spent most of his time over at her place, but refused to give up the apartment because he didn’t want people to talk. Well, people were talking now, Denver thought bitterly.
A snow-filled silence hung over the street as she walked past Max’s old blue-and-white Oldsmobile station wagon parked out front. She’d forgotten the police had left it there. Like everything else, the car reminded her of her loss. She headed up the unshoveled walk, steeling herself for the memories she knew waited inside, but stopped abruptly. Someone else had already climbed these same steps tonight. There were fresh boot prints in the newly fallen snow—coming and going.
Shadows came to life as the large pines flanking the house swayed and creaked in the wind. Water dripped from the eaves and the old house sighed forlornly under the weight of the wet snowfall.
Denver stopped, fighting to shake off the spooked feeling in her stomach. She suddenly thought of a dozen good reasons why she should come back in the morning. She cursed her lack of courage. After her parents died, Max had brought her to West Yellowstone, offering her a safe place to live so she’d never have to be afraid again. For Max—and for herself—she had to find his murderer or she’d never feel that kind of security here again.
With renewed determination, she ascended the steps, her boot heels thudding across the wooden porch. On the window in the old oak front door a sign was painted in gold letters: McCallahan Investigations. Behind the letters, the drapes were drawn. Nothing moved. She dug for her key, then reached to unlock the door.
But it was already open. The hinges gave a sigh as the door swung into the dark room. With fingers cold and shaking, Denver flipped on the light. She feared what she’d find, but nothing prepared her for this.
File cabinets lay over on their sides, folders sprawled everywhere, their contents crumpled and strewn across the floor. All the drawers on Max’s big oak desk were upside down. Even the photographs she’d given him had been pulled from the walls and thrown into the pile of debris.
Denver clung to the doorjamb fighting for breath. Why would anyone do this? For several moments, she just stared. What had the burglar been looking for? No doubt the same thing she was. That was some consolation. Maybe there was something to find. Or had been, anyway.
She glanced around the office, wondering if it could still be here. If Max was on a hot case, something explosive, what would he have done with the evidence he’d collected? Good question.
Max had no concept of organization. His files were always a disaster with some filed by first names, others by nicknames, even a few by last names. He had once hired a part-time secretary to straighten them, but when she had gone to lunch, he couldn’t find a thing and made such a mess of the file cabinet that she finally gave up and quit.
Denver bent to retrieve a handful of folders from the floor. It would take hours to make any sense out of this mess. And she had to face the probability that any clues Max might have left had already been stolen. Not only that, she might be destroying evidence that could lead Deputy Cline to the culprit who did this, she realized, dropping the files on the edge of Max’s desk.
She righted the huge oak office chair and sat down, more certain than ever that Max had left something behind to help her solve his murder. Think like Max, she told herself. She put her feet up on the desk and leaned back with her hands behind her head, imitating Max’s favorite pose when he was pondering a case.
Where, Max? Where would you put something that would incriminate the person you were after? She surveyed the ceiling lights. Max jotted down everything; that was how he worked through his cases. Usually it was just a lot of scribbles. Sometimes it might be only a few words. Then he filed the notes until he solved the case. If Max was working on a job, there’d be scribbles and there’d be a case file.
And that was what the burglar had been looking for. That had to be it. And the same person was probably spreading those rumors about Max. Muddying the waters. But why bother, with Cline convinced that Max was killed by a hitchhiker for no other reason than robbery?
Denver was so preoccupied that at first she thought she’d imagined the sound. Then it happened again—a floorboard creaked overhead, followed by the scraping sound of wood. It was coming from upstairs in Max’s apartment. She froze. Why hadn’t it crossed her mind that the burglar could still be in the house?
Carefully she slid her feet off Max’s desk and, slipping off her boots, tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. No sounds, except the thunder of her pulse in her ears. She picked up the nearest object from the floor—the telephone—and unhooked the cord, then, carrying it as a weapon, started up the stairs.
Halfway up, one of the steps creaked under her weight and she stopped, afraid to move. Reason invaded her brain. What was she doing?
>
Why didn’t you think to call Deputy Cline before you unplugged the phone, the rational little voice in her head asked.
Nice that you should suggest that now, Denver retorted silently as she looked from the disconnected phone in her hand to the creaky steps behind her. And Max used to think she was a little too impetuous. If he could see her now.
She stood on the step, listening. Silence so strong it seemed alive answered her back. She shifted the phone to her right hand and continued up the stairs, willing herself to remain calm, knowing she wouldn’t.
At the top of the steps, she cautiously pushed open the door to the apartment, phone ready. When nothing jumped out, she reached in hesitantly and switched on the lights. She expected the apartment to resemble Max’s office; she hadn’t expected it to be destroyed. An overstuffed chair was upended, the mattress hung off the side of the bed, its guts spilling out on the floor. The contents of all the dresser drawers had been thrown around the room. She hoped the destruction meant that the burglar hadn’t found what he was looking for.
She exchanged the phone for a brass lamp base, checked the closet and started to breathe a little more easily. Across the room, a shutter banged softly against the side of the house. That explained the noise she’d heard. No ghosts. No burglars. Just the breeze.
The state of the apartment and Max’s office reinforced her theory that Max had left something that would incriminate his killer. All she had to do was figure out what it was and find it before the killer did. If he hadn’t already found it.
That was when she noticed the partially closed bathroom door. She headed for it, thinking about what she’d tell Deputy Cline. Surely when he saw this place, he’d have to give up his hitchhiker theory. Reaching into the bathroom, she fumbled for the light switch with her free hand.
Cold fingers clamped over her wrist in a deathlike grip. Denver let out a cry of total terror as she was jerked into the darkened bathroom. She swung the lamp. It connected with something solid and veered off. She heard a male voice swear as the fingers on her wrist let go, and a loud thud followed. Denver retreated, fumbling for the bathroom light switch on her way out, this time with the lamp in her hand ready to swing again.
She found the switch. The bathroom light flashed on. Denver blinked. At first because of the sudden brightness, then out of disbelief. Sitting crosswise in the bathtub swearing and holding his head was none other than J. D. Garrison.
Denver stumbled backward and fell over, tripping on the overturned chair. She landed on her bottom in a pile of mattress stuffing. J. D. Garrison leaned over her.
“Hello, Denny,” he said, offering her a hand. “It’s been a long time.”
Chapter Four
Denver lay staring up at the man standing over her, unable to move. J.D. J. D. Garrison. After all these years.
She’d envisioned the day he returned thousands of times, always in Technicolor, always with the same basic plot. He’d come riding in like John Wayne, all handsome and charming. He’d beg her to forgive him for not taking her with him, sweep her off her feet, promise his undying love, maybe play a few songs on his guitar. And then she’d tell him to drop dead.
Never would she have imagined it quite like this.
She ignored his offer of help and got to her feet on her own power, dusting herself off. The gesture gave her a few moments to compose herself; J.D. was the last person she’d expected to see in that bathtub.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her pride as well as her bottom still smarting. Damn. The effect he had on her! Her heart was pounding and not from fear anymore; she felt sixteen again. The feeling made her all the more angry with him.
“It’s nice to see you again, too,” he said, his smile widening.
She’d practiced at least ten thousand times what she’d say to him if she ever did see him again. But nothing came to her lips. He’d changed; he wasn’t that lanky young man she remembered. A dark mustache and neatly trimmed beard nearly hid his deep dimples. His eyes, always a blend of moonlight silvers and midnight grays, seemed darker, but there was an older look about them, almost a sadness….
She realized he was holding his head where she’d hit him with the lamp. His gray Stetson dangled from his other hand. “Are you all right?” she asked guiltily.
He nodded and tried to get the hat back on his head over the lump she’d given him. “My head’s too hard for most lamps. But the fall into the bathtub I could have done without.” As he rubbed his backside, she noticed the flashlight stuck in his belt. “I’m sorry I scared you. I heard a noise and thought the prowler had returned.” He grinned.
Prowler indeed. His grin sent her heart racing around in circles. Just what she needed. “So you’re back in town,” she said, before adding, “you missed Max’s funeral and you better have a damned good reason.”
He leaned back and laughed. “You had me worried for a moment there. I thought you’d lost that charming way you’ve always had with words.” Those wonderfully deep dimples were now just a hint under the beard, and little wrinkles had been added around his eyes. It didn’t matter. He still had that same heart-thumping effect he always had on her.
She frowned and turned away from the look in his eyes. What was it? Affection on his part? Or imagination on hers? Without another word, she hurried down the stairs; she could hear J.D. right behind her.
“Don’t you want to hear my damned good reason?” he asked.
“I didn’t really expect you’d make it anyway,” she said, pulling on her boots. “I figured you were probably busy making a new album or performing for all those fans of yours.” Bitterness and hurt crackled from her words and she wished she could bite her tongue. She bent down to pick up files and loose papers from the floor, forgetting all about saving evidence for Cline. “I told Pete not to bother calling you.”
“Pete called?” J.D. sounded surprised.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t get the message.” She heard the soft tread of his boots on the floor as he came up behind her.
“Denny, I was so sorry to hear about Max.” His voice was soft. So was the touch of his fingers on her shoulders. “I wanted to be at the funeral for you.”
She shrugged his hands away and spun on him. “I thought you cared about Max. I thought you cared about—” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She fought the culprits, determined not to cry. She’d shed enough tears for J. D. Garrison. Damned if she’d cry in front of him.
“I do care,” he said, lifting her chin to meet her gaze. “I caught the first plane out. But getting to West Yellowstone this time of year is kind of tricky. You might remember the airport’s closed until Memorial Day weekend.” He flashed her a sheepish grin that beseeched her to give him a break. “I’m here now, though.”
She wished he’d just take her in his arms and hold her, but he didn’t, and she stepped back, all the hurt flowing out of her in place of tears. “I’m sure we’ll probably read in the tabloids next week just how hard it was for you to get back for the funeral.” The tabloids had followed his exploits with one woman after another for years now. “I suppose there’ll be flight attendants involved this time.”
J.D.’s jaw tensed as he shook his head at her. “I’m surprised you read the tabloids, let alone believe them.” He met her gaze and held it as gently as a caress. “Come on, you know me better than that.”
Know him? She thought she knew him. She’d shared his dreams. And a lot more. She’d given him her heart. No, she’d given her heart to J. D. Garrison, the boy she had grown up with, not this stranger in designer Western wear.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, motioning to the mess in the room, probably thinking a little humor would soften her up.
Fat chance. “Don’t you remember? This is the way Max liked his office. Everything out where he could find it.”
J.D. nodded, his eyes darkening. “Yeah, I remember that about Max.” He stood, just staring at her. “You’ve changed.”
He
r chin went up instinctively. “I’ve grown up, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I can see that.” The look in his eyes blew the devil out of her theory. Those weren’t the eyes of a stranger. She looked away. “I assume you won’t be staying long?” she asked, bracing herself for his answer.
He tipped up one of the drawers with his boot toe, and then let it back down gently. “I’ve taken a room at the Stage Coach Inn for a few days.”
She nodded. In a few days he’d be gone again. That old pain gripped her heart. What had she expected? “A few days? And Max’s funeral is what brought you home?” She wanted to clarify it for her heart, just in case the silly thing wasn’t getting it straight.
“I came home because of you, Denny.”
Her head snapped up.
He grinned at her surprise. “I know you, Denver McCallahan. And I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do?” She let her eyes travel the length of him. If he knew what she was thinking, he’d be blushing.
But when her gaze returned to his silver-eyed one, she realized with a shock that he did know what she was thinking. She felt her face flush red-hot and looked away first.
“I’m worried about you,” he continued, his voice gentle. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing here tonight?” She watched him step over a pile of papers on the floor. “You’re looking for Max’s killer, and if you’d arrived a little earlier, you might have found him.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said, her chin coming up again.
He smiled. “I don’t doubt that for a moment—under normal circumstances.” The smile faded. “But Max is dead and someone tore this place apart with a desperation that scares me even if it doesn’t you. You could be in a lot of danger.”
Danger? She’d just gone up the stairs after a burglar with only a phone. Her heart pounded harder, her pulse raced faster just being this close to J. D. Garrison. “I have to go.” She glanced at her watch, seeing nothing. She had to get away. She couldn’t bear spending another minute in the same room with him, wanting to touch him, to feel his arms around her, to kiss those lips. “I promised Pete—” The lie caught in her throat. Who was she kidding? She didn’t even know where Pete was.
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