by Jill Gregory
“Look, Snow, you need her cooperation. She’s nothing but an innocent bystander who got dragged into the muck. If you really want to go after a woman who has absolutely no connection to organized crime or corruption in the NYPD, that’s your choice—but it looks to me like a losing proposition. You’ve got big fish on the hook—if you’re smart you’ll go ahead and fry them and throw the minnows back.”
“We don’t need a two-bit sheriff telling us what to do,” Beaumont snapped.
Ty ignored him. “Seems to me the taxpayers would be better served by your putting away a supposedly respectable business tycoon who not only commissioned an international diamond theft but is in bed with New York City’s top crime boss—rather than persecuting a woman who got dragged into something that had nothing to do with her.”
“You make it sound easy.” Snow sighed. “It won’t be.” But deep down he knew Barclay was right about pursuing the woman. Beaumont was just being his usual asshole, pit-bull self.
Snow had already concluded that pressing charges against the Warner woman wasn’t going to accomplish much. She’d been loyal to Sabatini, and he’d gotten some bad breaks and made some bad decisions. But the big prize here was Caventini—and Tate. If they could make the charges stick against those two . . .
If.
“No one’s ever been able to get a conviction against Caventini before,” Beamont pointed out caustically. He ignored Snow as the older man took a turn around the sheriff’s office.
Beyond the window the golden Wyoming day contrasted with the ugliness that Snow and Beaumont dealt with on a daily basis. But unlike Snow, Beaumont wasn’t interested in the view. He was only interested in nailing as many suspects as possible, and getting the maximum amount of credit for it.
“Tate’s connection is going to be even tougher to prove. You can bet your ass he’ll have a dream team of high-profile superlawyers defending him—and they’ll sue our asses when it’s all over if we don’t make the charges stick.”
“Then make them stick. You’ve got Dolph’s testimony.”
“A hit man? You really think he’s going to be believable in front of a jury?” Beaumont scoffed.
“Miss Warner’s testimony will help,” Snow pointed out thoughtfully.
Ty nodded. “If you don’t mess up her reputation by filing charges against her.”
Beaumont and Snow exchanged glances. Match point, Ty thought with grim triumph.
He tried not to think about how Josy was barely speaking to him. Or about how pale and drawn she’d looked when he sat in on her interviews with the FBI and the NYPD detectives who’d flown in to question her. They hadn’t had a chance for a private conversation since their lunch in Bitter Gulch at the Country Goose Diner.
Between all hell breaking loose after the Wheatland shoot-out, and keeping up to speed with fast-breaking events in the rustling case, Ty had barely slept. And Josy had been tied up full time with investigators from one official branch or another.
He doubted if she’d want to talk to him anyway. He’d tricked her about bringing the diamond to Sabatini—and he hadn’t even had a chance to explain that he’d given it to Roy for her own good, to minimize her risk of felony charges. From the moment he’d first heard about this entire mess Sabatini had dragged her into, Ty’s priority had been to keep Josy safe, and to keep her the hell out of jail.
He’d gone out on a limb to try to help her find Sabatini and save his life too—but that hadn’t turned out very well.
And now she wouldn’t forgive him for that. He’d realized it as soon as he saw her face when Sabatini lay dead beside her.
Too much history there, too many recriminations now.
It didn’t really matter, he tried to tell himself. She’d be going back to New York Monday after the wedding was over anyway. That’s what Roy had heard frm Corinne. She already had a plane ticket booked.
Ty’s chest felt heavy, like there was nothing but dead weight inside as he sat with the two FBI agents.
It’s just the letdown after a big bust, he tried to tell himself. There’d been nonstop repercussions after the shoot-out at Slattery’s Saloon. In New York, Caventini and Tate had both been arrested. Dolph was in custody and ready to spill his guts. And although he hadn’t been formally charged yet, the cops in NYPD’s Internal Affairs Division were looking very seriously at the allegations against Captain Wallace Becker.
Ty’s role in the case was almost over—until and if they needed him to testify at trial.
After the wedding, he’d probably never see Josy Warner again.
Which is good, he thought, as Snow’s cell phone rang and Beaumont left the room in search of coffee. There was no future for the two of them. Especially not after what had happened to her hero, Sabatini. Ty’s stomach twisted.
No future, he repeated to himself, as if somehow repeating it would ease the sense of loss he felt.
He’d never even thought about a future with Josy before, never even been able to imagine what that would look like. Especially since they lived in two very different worlds and . . . hell, she’d made it clear from the way she practically looked through him ever since the shoot-out, that whatever brief glimmer of connection might have existed between them was over and out.
Done.
Which was just as well.
Who am I trying to kid?
“Yeah, I got it,” Snow was saying rapidly into his cell. “Right away. Keep me posted.”
He snapped the phone shut and wheeled toward Ty. “You’re not going to believe this. TB!” he shouted, and Beaumont rushed back into the room.
“Wallace Becker committed suicide an hour ago at his home in Staten Island, New York,” Snow announced. “A suicide note has been found. We don’t know the full contents yet, but preliminary investigations have revealed a link to activities that have a bearing on the present case.”
“Hot damn.” Beaumont whistled. “Talk about manna from heaven.”
“NYPD Internal Affairs has already dispatched an investigator, due here late this afternoon to question the Warner woman,” Snow said.
“It looks more and more like Sabatini was telling the truth. I don’t think you need to worry too much about your Ms. Warner at this point,” Snow said to Ty. “I suspect that with the evidence Becker will have left behind, she’s pretty much home free.”
“She’s not my Ms. Warner. My interest in her isn’t personal,” Ty said sharply.
“Yeah?” Beaumont’s lip curled.
Snow grinned outright. He had seen Thunder Creek’s sheriff cast more than one glance at Josy Warner during the interview process and those glances had held more than professional curiosity. A great deal more.
“If you say so,” he told Ty Barclay with a shrug. “But . . .” A sly glint shone in those keen brown eyes. “I have to tell you, Sheriff, you sure as hell could have fooled me.”
Chapter 29
JOSY PARKED HER BLAZER DOWN THE STREET from the sheriff’s department building and sat behind the wheel for a moment, bracing herself for what she had to do next. Not only for the meeting with an internal affairs official from the NYPD who had flown out to interview her, but for yet another encounter with Ty.
She didn’t want to see him anymore. She just wanted Corinne and Roy’s wedding to be over. She wanted to leave Thunder Creek, go back to New York, and try to tear Ty Barclay out of her heart through distance, work, and time.
And she’d do it too. Even if it killed her.
But first she had to get through more police interviews today—and the wedding tomorrow.
The past few days had served up another kind of ordeal. Every night when she tried to sleep, nightmares woke her. She kept seeing Ricky jumping in front of her, taking the bullet meant for her, saving her life.
And falling dead before her eyes.
She kept hearing the thunder of that shot that had left him lying flat in the dirt, gone forever from the world— and from her.
She’d wake up chilled and cryi
ng. And filled with grief as deep and jagged as the steepest Wyoming canyon.
Finally this morning she’d managed to sleep until ten, and then get to the hospital to visit Chance. She’d stopped at Bessie’s Diner on the way, bringing him a bag of warm sweet rolls and one of Bessie’s blueberry pies, and it had cheered her when she walked into his room to see him sitting up in bed, relentlessly zapping through all the channels of the television suspended from the ceiling.
“How come none of my nurses are as gorgeous as you?” he complained as she came over to the bed and leaned down to kiss his cheek.
“Oh, puh-leeze. Don’t you ever stop?” she’d chided him. “I look like hell and you know it.” But as she’d begun setting out the pie and the sweet rolls on a foam plate on his bedside table, he’d told her he’d never seen a more beautiful woman and that if he wasn’t under doctor’s orders he’d be down on the floor, on one knee, ready to propose.
“Propose what?” she’d shot back, but she was laughing when she said it, the first genuine laugh Josy had managed in days. “Never mind,” she’d told him, handing him the plate with both a sweet roll and a generous slice of pie. “I don’t want to know.”
Somehow or other, in the course of an hour-long visit she’d actually been able to engage him in a semi-serious conversation. She’d soon realized that beneath his buoyant charm and jokes he was frustrated more than he would ever willingly reveal. It rankled him no end that he’d failed to learn the identity of the brains behind the rustling operation. Even knowing that he’d helped identify and capture two of the major players didn’t satisfy him. And no matter how she tried to praise him or buck him up, she still detected the gloom of defeat in those normally good-natured eyes.
“I thought I was so close,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his hair. “But they weren’t really ready to throw in with me, or to turn on their boss. They were this close to killing me. If I hadn’t had Ty backing me up you’d be crying over my grave right now.”
She shuddered. “So you didn’t find out who the big boss was. You still captured two of the gang. And maybe some more evidence will be found that will point at whoever is in charge.”
“Well, it hasn’t yet—not from what I hear. And so far, Owens and Barnes aren’t talking. If they’d start squawking, they might even be able to cop a plea, but they haven’t opened their damn mouths.”
“Sounds like they’re either very afraid of someone . . . or very loyal to that person,” Josy remarked. She thought of all she’d done and risked out of loyalty to Ricky. And of what he’d ultimately sacrificed out of loyalty to her.
She probably knew better than most how powerful an influence loyalty could be. And just how dangerous.
Loyalty to Ricky had led her to where she was today— now—outside of the sheriff ’s office in Thunder Creek, trying to find the strength to go inside.
Just get it over with, she told herself, and opened the door of the Blazer.
“I’m back.” She walked through the paneled lobby of the one-story brick building and offered a wan smile to Ty’s efficient, birdlike secretary, who looked up from her desk, peering at Josy through oval, pink-rimmed glasses.
“So I see.” The woman returned her smile, clucking her tongue sympathetically. “I’m sure you must be pretty darned sick of this place, aren’t you? Wait just a moment, he’s expecting you—”
The door to Ty’s office opened then and the two FBI agents, Snow and Beaumont, strode out. They’d questioned her for four hours yesterday, and two the day before. Ty walked out right behind them.
For a moment when he first saw her, she thought she glimpsed something in his eyes, something human and warm and possibly even concerned, but that absurd impression quickly vanished, leaving her certain she must have imagined it.
Especially when he nodded at her in a businesslike way that cut her to the quick.
“Good, you’re right on time. Detective Rossman is waiting inside.”
She nodded, schooling her face to match his impersonal expression. But as she edged past him into the office, which she had come to know all too well in the past few days, she suddenly stopped dead, shock sweeping through her.
“It’s him.” She clutched Ty’s arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “That’s the man I told you about!”
“What man?” He moved closer to her instinctively.
The detective had risen to his feet. He was tall and leanly built with dark blond hair and he wore a conservative dark suit. She had seen him once before. It seemed like months ago, but it had only been weeks.
“You’re the man in Archie’s house—the one with the gun!”
“And you’re the one who got away.” Bemused hazel eyes swept over her, and the man stretched out his hand.
“Detective Ron Rossman, NYPD Internal Affairs.”
Ty steered Josy to one of the chairs facing his desk. He closed the office door. “This is the man you saw in the house in Brooklyn? The one you ran away from?”
“Yes. I thought . . . I thought he was one of the bad guys.”
“Why weren’t you in uniform?” Ty asked Rossman.
Rossman sat down in the chair next to Ty’s desk, addressing his answer to Ty. “I was officially off-duty. There was already an ongoing internal affairs investigation into the charges made by Ricky Sabatini, but I wasn’t assigned to the case. Still, I had my own suspicions that if Captain Becker was involved in corruption, his influence could have possibly extended even into internal affairs. I met with my boss, who shared my concerns, and he put me on special assignment.”
“So you were following me? Or . . . who? Ricky? Archie?” Josy asked, a hint of skepticism in her tone.
“I don’t blame you for being suspicious, Ms. Warner. In fact, I respect it. But let me assure you, I did not have you under surveillance at that time. The night Archie Mc-Donald was killed, we had a tip that something big was going down. Oliver Tate had returned early from Cancún to find that the Golden Eye diamond he’d stolen from yet another criminal was missing. Apparently it didn’t take him long to deduce that Ricky Sabatini had taken it—and he gave orders for his men to find Sabatini and the diamond ASAP.”
Rossman picked up a pencil from Ty’s desk and tapped it absently against the palm of his hand. “Ricky was nowhere to be found,” he continued, “but as we learned later, Tate’s thugs paid visits to nearly everyone Ricky’d had semifrequent contact with over the past six months— and that included, among others, Rafe Terrell, his retired ex-partner; a woman he’d dated for several months; his snitch, Archie—and you. Your apartment was ransacked that night not because they knew the diamond had been hidden there—only because they guessed someone close to Ricky was either hiding him or the diamond or both— and they were covering all their bases at once. Unfortunately, the tip we got was limited—it hinted that something related to Tate and Sabatini was going down in Brooklyn. So we tracked down Archie, but we got there too late. Hammer had already killed Archie. And you had been there and gone, taking the diamond with you.”
“When I saw you in that house that night, with a gun, I just assumed you were after the diamond too—” She broke off, shaking her head.
If she hadn’t run away, if she’d stayed and Detective Rossman had taken the diamond from her right then, maybe Ricky would still be alive, she thought, clenching her hands in her lap.
Or . . . maybe not . . .
“We’ve been able to piece together a lot of evidence backing up the version of events Ricky told us during our initial questioning. We still have a lot more to do, especially now in light of what’s happened with Captain Becker . . . but I think it’s safe to say Ricky’s name will be cleared. At least in regard to everything besides his theft of the diamond.”
Rossman glanced at Ty, standing with his arms folded across his chest, listening grim-mouthed to the explanations.
“The good news is,” Rossman told him, “we now have evidence to prove that Becker did have an accomplice in internal
affairs—he’s the guy who removed Sabatini’s evidence from the evidence room. And he is being questioned even as we speak.”
“So why do you need to see Ms. Warner today?” Ty asked. “She’s already told me and the FBI her story a dozen times. And she’s returning to New York in a matter of days—or so I’ve been informed.” There was an edge to his tone.
Josy stared at him. He sounded bitter. Or angry. Why in the world should he be either one of those things? Because she was leaving? And she hadn’t told him directly?
He was the one who’d made it clear he wanted as little to do with her as possible following the terrible events at Slattery’s Saloon. Aside from being present at all of her interviews with the FBI and police officials, he had virtually ignored her, and hadn’t given any sign of wanting to exchange more than polite formalities with her.
And even before then, she reminded herself, Ty was the one who’d been all business the morning after they made love at the Barclay cabin. Obviously, he had realized he was getting in too deep—or that she was—and he’d backed off.
That hadn’t changed, not as far as she could see. It hadn’t changed even when they’d both almost died out in that field of dirt and weeds.
So why should it matter to him now that she was leaving Thunder Creek?
“You know how these things work, Sheriff Barclay.” Rossman shrugged his shoulders. “The sooner the witness is interviewed, the better. Details tend to fade with time. And I need to turn in a preliminary report by Monday. Ms. Warner’s statement will be of value to me in writing that report. And since someone apparently pulled some strings allowing her to remain in Wyoming for several days before returning to New York for further questioning,” he paused briefly and shot a meaningful glance at Ty, whose face remained as dark and impenetrable as rock, “the powers that be shipped me out here to jump-start the process.”