“Is there a third choice?”
“Third choice?” Crystal frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve said either it was a total accident, or someone is trying to kill her. Any other choices?”
The frown persisted. “I certainly can’t think of any. Can you?”
“No. But then, I’m not too smart. I thought—”
The phone interrupted Brandi, and she answered it. After a moment she said, “Oh, hi, Doug. How’s it going?”
Immediately, Crystal began waving her hands in front of her roommate’s face. When Brandi looked up, Crystal was shaking her head and mouthing “no”.
“Ah, she’s not here right now, Doug.” She listened for a few seconds. “No. I have no idea where she went, or when she’ll be back. But I’ll tell her you called.”
She hung up the phone. “What was that all about?”
“I can’t deal with Doug right now.”
“Just tell him what’s going on. He’s a nice guy, and he really likes you.”
“He’ll want to know all the details, and then he’ll tell me they were just accidents and I’m being silly to worry.”
“Which is sort of what you’re saying.”
Crystal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah. And I’d like to have someone reinforce my feelings in that direction.”
“But not Doug?”
Crystal shrugged.
“Want me to ask Tom?” Brandi was dating Tom Hawkins, a detective in the Dallas Police Department. “Or ask him yourself. You know how easy he is to talk to.”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Mark? You think he’s pretty levelheaded. Discuss it with him. After work. When he can concentrate on you. I mean, your problem.” Brandi raised her eyebrows and wiggled her head.
Even Crystal had to smile at Brandi’s suggestive look.
Chapter 9
"PUT in a landing and a ninety-degree turn in the stairs," Mark said.
"It just isn’t necessary. A flight of stairs is not dangerous, except perhaps to the elderly. And it is my house, after all.”
Rod Tucker was standing in the den of Mark O'Malley's sprawling ranch house. Located about thirty minutes south of his downtown Dallas office, the house seemed an extension of Mark himself: the unlikely combination of Texas country and high tech. It sat in the middle of twenty acres, had a pickup parked prominently on the circle drive, and had four Merced-based computers that controlled just about everything.
"You're wrong. Stairs are dangerous,” Mark said. “Why are the English so stubborn?”
Rod lived about three miles away. Last week, he had finished a deck outside his study and now was planning some stairs down to the back yard, about eight feet below. Mark was concerned that Rod's young son might fall down the stairs.
"We’re not stubborn, just firm in our beliefs,” Rod said. “But, I'm an experimentalist. Let's just test this theory.”
Without another word, he walked over to a door and opened it. On the other side, stairs led down to the garage under the den. He turned and looked at Mark as if to say, "I have to prove everything to you.” Pivoting back, he let his knees buckle and tumbled down the stairs.
Mark ran to the door, afraid of what he might see. Rod lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. The back of his head was on the concrete floor and his right arm was folded under his back. His legs sprawled at strange angles, and he was not moving.
Mark took the steps two at a time, fearful of what might have happened to his friend. As Mark descended the stairs, Rod’s left hand began to move. It came up and adjusted his glasses, still hooked behind his ears, if somewhat askew. Then, with the suddenness of a five-year-old, he bounced up and faced a slightly pale Mark. "See, they aren't dangerous. You can fall down a flight of stairs without sustaining injury.”
Mark was too stunned to say anything.
He knew Rod was tough as rawhide and strong as a new well rope. And he realized Rod believed most things wouldn't hurt him. Apparently, he applied this to his son as well. Mark just shook his head and followed his friend up the stairs.
"I don't expect Ethan to fall on the stairs,” Rod said. “But if he does take a tumble, he'll simply roll down—and the grass will be softer than your garage floor.”
"Ethan doesn't have as hard a head as you do. And he may not understand the dangers any more than his father does.” Mark went to the small refrigerator in the den and took out a Dr Pepper. "You're out of your mind. I will talk to Joan this week. Your wife has always had more common sense than you.”
"But, I just showed—"
"I'm not discussing this topic with you anymore. I'll talk with Joan and she'll straighten you out.”
Rod gave his small laugh. "Please remember, it is my house.”
"And Joan's. And Ethan is my Godson.”
Just then, a rather feminine voice said, "Mark?”
"Yes?”
"You have a visitor coming. Crystal Moore.”
A grin spread across Rod’s face. "I see you've added some improvements since we hooked up Shannon’s camera.”
Only a month ago, Rod had helped Mark install a digital camera and sensors near the gate on his drive. Rod had concealed the camera in a fake log that could elude close scrutiny. The area around the gate was bathed in a soft light, unnoticed by visitors, but sufficient for the camera to record all arrivals. Information from the camera was relayed to one of the computers in the house. Mark had given that particular computer the name “Shannon.” After analyzing the data, Shannon’s synthesized voice passed the message to Mark.
"I liked knowing someone was arriving,” Mark said. “But I decided knowing who, would be even better. So, I have the computer scan the license plate and check the results against a list of likely visitors. If Shannon finds a match, it tells me who it is. Otherwise, it simply says I have a visitor and displays a picture on the monitor.”
"What does it do about me?” Rod rarely drove a car, unless he was going somewhere with Joan and Ethan.
"It knows that you are about the only person who would ride a bicycle to my house. So, it expects it to be you. But, if the rider didn't have some of your characteristics, it would not identify the visitor as you.”
Rod gave his self-conscious laugh. "What kind of characteristics?”
"It tries to decide if the rider is the kind of person who would deliberately throw himself down a flight of stairs,” Mark deadpanned.
"So, Crystal's coming over on a Friday night.” Rod went on the offensive. “What happened to Gloria?”
"Nothing’s happened to Gloria. In fact, we’re going out tomorrow night.” Mark felt a bit defensive. “Crystal's coming to talk about her grandmother.”
"Her grandmother? Does Crystal often come over at night to talk about her grandmother?” Bits and pieces of a snicker escaped Rod’s tightly closed lips.
"She’s never been here before. But several things have happened—”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Mark threw up his hands, abandoning his defense, and went to answer the door.
When he and Crystal returned, Rod was gathering a few items into a backpack.
"Hi, Rod,” Crystal greeted him brightly. "Your book-reading machine is working as smooth as custard.”
"Thank you. Mark said it seemed to be holding together.”
"There’s an understatement. Without it, we wouldn't be making nearly as much progress. I think you should charge IRS a royalty, or maybe a reading fee.”
"I might just do that.” Rod picked up his backpack. “Up for a few sets tomorrow?” he asked Mark.
“Sounds good. Eight-thirty?”
“See you there. Don’t let him work you too hard, Crystal,” Rod said as he left the room.
#
"Before we start on why I called and wanted to come over to talk to you, I've got a question.” Crystal was standing by the fireplace. She had on well-fitted jeans and a crisp cotton shirt with an intricate design embroidere
d on the front. She wore just a touch of blush to complement her coral lipstick, applied more skillfully than it had been Monday morning.
"Fire away. Would you like something to drink?”
She cocked her head to one side as if debating with herself. "How about a Coors?”
"You’ve got it.”
“May I look around in here?”
“Sure.”
When Mark returned, Crystal was checking out the CD rack. “Looks like a pretty eclectic collection.”
“I enjoy all music——well, almost all. I love the Meyerson,” he said, naming the famous Dallas symphony hall. “At the same time, I also enjoy going to Jimmy Joe’s New Honky-Tonk. I know. Weird. That’s what my mother says.” He handed her the beer, with a napkin wrapped around the bottom half of the bottle.
“Is this your father?” Crystal pointed to a picture of Mark, clad in dusty jeans and denim jacket, with his arm around an older man. Mark nodded. “And this is your sister?” Crystal indicated a picture of a beautiful blonde woman.
“No. Just a friend.” His face suddenly felt warm.
Crystal studied the picture of the woman a minute longer, a slight frown on her face.
This close to Crystal, Mark was aware, not of perfume, but a fresh, outdoor scent. “So, what was your question?”
"What is this plaque? The one with the bull on it.”
Mark looked at the plaque, then took a drink before answering. "That's a story from another life.”
"Come on, Mark. You said you'd answer.”
"Actually, I said 'Fire away'. I did not say I would answer.” He walked over and settled onto the couch.
"Okay. Technically, you didn't say you would answer. But you know how curious I am. Why not just tell me?”
Mark contemplated his Dr Pepper for a moment. "On one condition: it's between you and me. It does not go to the office.”
"Deal.”
Mark hesitated, deciding just how much he wanted to divulge. "I grew up in Mesquite. When college time came, there wasn't enough money. So I rode in rodeos to help pay for college. I'd ridden all my life and thought I was pretty good. I found there was more money to be made riding bulls, so that's what I did. I paid for most of my college as a bull rider.”
Crystal threw her head back and laughed. "That's terrific. I'll bet you were the only member of MIT's graduate school that rode bulls.”
"I rode bulls to pay my way through Texas. When I went to MIT, I had a fellowship. No more being thrown in the dirt—or up in the air. No more hoping the bull didn't step on you. Some of those bulls weigh a ton or more, and their hooves can be sharp. They can do a lot of damage if they step on you.”
"Did you ever get gored?” A mischievous smile crept across her face. "I know that's a little, um, gory, but did you?”
"No. No goring, no broken bones.”
"Did you get that scar riding bulls?”
Mark fingered the scar that traced his left cheekbone. "Yeah. A big red bull up in Elk City rubbed me the wrong way and when I went off I hit the fence.”
Crystal grimaced. "Sounds terrible.”
"Actually, I did my eight and won some money to boot. That took some of the pain out of it.”
"Did your eight?”
"You're supposed to stay on the bull for eight seconds. Only use one hand. Have some sort of style. And hope for a bull that makes you look good.”
"Is that all? Just eight seconds?”
"Believe me, it seems a lot longer.”
"And just how does the bull make you look good?”
Mark grinned. He hadn't thought about bull riding in a long time. "You need a bull that looks like the meanest critter in the world, that is very active in the ring, a bull the judges can't believe anybody could stay on for the full eight, but in fact isn't that tough to ride."
"Did you get those very often?"
"No. Maybe one a year, if I was lucky.”
Crystal pointed to the plaque. "And this was for . . .?”
"That was for being too dumb to know when to quit.”
Crystal stared at Mark, and the corners of her mouth turned down. She shook her head no.
"Actually, it was for rookie of the year. Best newcomer to the circuit—in bull riding. Of course, it was the last plaque I ever got. But I paid for college and that's what counted.”
"Why didn't you get a scholarship to Texas?”
She asked the question with such innocence that Mark ignored its impropriety and simply answered it. "My grades in high school weren't good enough.”
Crystal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to the surprising statement.
“I was smart enough. My SAT's were high. But I hadn't been concerned about grades. You know the bit: it's not the grades, but what you learn, that counts. I learned a lot, more than most kids in my classes. I just wasn't worried about grades. Result: no scholarship.” He paused for a moment to take a drink. "So I rode bulls. And, I got more concerned with grades.”
"Did you enjoy it? Bull riding, I mean.”
"Yeah. Mostly, I enjoyed the people, the other riders and ropers. Quite a bunch. Straightforward. Friendly. Say what's on their minds. And they do like to have fun.”
Mark looked out the window, a faraway smile on his face. He had forgotten what good times those were. He remembered the smell of rodeos, the hot animals, his own sweat, the leather. He could almost feel the rope, tight around his right hand, and two thousand pounds of raw power restless under him, waiting to explode. The surge of adrenaline when the gate opened. The thrill of a successful ride.
Saturday had been ample compensation for a sore Sunday.
The clock on the bookshelf chimed and jolted Mark back to the present. "But, that's not why you wanted to come over. What's on your mind?”
She took a drink of her beer before answering. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday afternoon. About Nana not sounding like the paranoid type. You're right. She isn't. I can't remember her ever sounding paranoid. Generally, she's the reverse. If people around her are worried about something, she just dismisses it.”
"That could be the theory of opposites working.”
Crystal looked puzzled. "Theory of opposites?”
"Goes something like this: if two people are facing a problem, the angrier one gets, the more subdued the other becomes. Person A gets a little madder; person B gets a little more subdued. They may even change sides. If person B begins to get mad about it, then person A will become calmer. In the past, when others worried, your grandmother was calm. Now, nobody is concerned about these incidents, so she is.”
Crystal studied Mark for a minute. "Did you just switch sides? Or is that the theory of opposites working in our discussion?”
"Could be. But I prefer to think of it as considering all sides. Maybe she's making more of it than it deserves. Then again, maybe someone is out to injure her.”
Mark saw worry and tension work their way down Crystal's face. Her eyes, normally so shiny and alive, now looked dull and brooding. No doubt she had considered the possibility that someone wanted to injure her grandmother, but this was probably the first time an outsider had said it. Mark knew that one asked for an independent opinion, hoping it would reinforce what she wanted to hear, not what she feared.
Crystal frowned at the bottle in her hand and abruptly set it on the mantle, as if it had suddenly become colder. She stared at the floor and wrapped her arms around herself.
"Crystal, I'm not saying there's someone out there. I'm saying you have to consider it.” For a moment, Mark just watched her. Her expression didn't change. "What do I tell you to do when you start a new project at IRS?”
Crystal looked up and gave a half laugh. "Finish it on schedule.”
Mark chuckled. "True. And my other generic instruction?”
She thought for a minute. "Consider at least three different ways to approach the problem. Don't just grab the first thing that comes to mind and run with it. Even if it turns out to be the way you event
ually solve the problem, you'll have more insight from having considered alternatives.”
"Consider alternatives.” His eyes turned toward the large window opposite the fireplace. Outside lights accented a bright-pink Mimosa tree. Why would someone want to injure an old lady? "Has anyone tried to buy your grandmother's land?”
"No. Nana would never sell her Park.”
"That's my point. She wouldn't sell. If someone wanted it badly enough, they might try to scare her off.”
"She won't scare. But I see what you mean. She hasn't mentioned anything like that.”
"Would she?"
"What? Tell me if someone offered to buy it? I don't know. I mean, she would if it came up. But she might just dismiss it, not think to say anything about it.”
"You might ask her, casually. It's worth checking. Has she had any boundary disputes? Does anyone share mineral rights on the land?”
Crystal shrugged. "I don't know. I never heard any discussion about that sort of thing. She and my granddad bought the land over fifty years ago. I can't imagine any boundary dispute coming up now.”
"Understand, I'm not suggesting there is one. I'm just saying you have to consider all possibilities. You think of your grandmother as a sweet old lady whom no one would ever try to hurt. If she's right, then there is someone who would do her harm. You've said she's strong willed. Strong-willed people can rub others the wrong way. Someone may see her as unreasonable, arbitrary.”
For a minute, neither said anything. Mark broke the silence. "At IRS, when a project comes along, there are two possibilities for you. It might go to someone else, in which case, you're mildly interested in it. The second possibility is it becomes your project. Then you must look at it from all angles, consider all facets.”
Crystal nodded several times. "Okay. This project is clearly mine. I'll consider all possibilities. It's too late to call Nana tonight. I will tomorrow.”
#
Mark watched Crystal drive off. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten, but he knew Josh Kinsolving would be up, if he was home.
On the fifth ring, Josh answered.
"Hey, how are things going?”
"Terrific, Mark. What's on your mind?”
A Ton of Gold (Crystal Moore Suspense Book 1) Page 4