by Kieran York
She turned back and with bars between them asked, “What?”
“Take care of Hertha. I know how alone she must feel.” Royce nodded her agreement. She heard the striking of her uniform roper boots as her footsteps hit the tile. And she heard Ray’s lonely one-instrument concert. She could never remember hearing loneliness before.
Chapter 12
Whorls of confusing data filled Royce’s thoughts. Her lungs filled as she took a deep breath before entering the office. She found great difficulty in confrontation. Although not insubordinate by nature, she took pride in standing her ground. She was glad that Yancy was the only one in the office. She hung her Stetson on the hat rack peg and dragged a chair opposite Yancy’s desk.
“Yanc, I need to talk with you.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, glancing up from a stack of duty reports. “Talk away. Just don’t cut into my two days off. In exactly fifteen minutes, at three, I’m outta here. Taking that camper of mine and leavin’ my troubles and woes behind.” His huge, fire-hydrant-shaped fingers sorted the papers a final time. He threw them into his tray. “So what you need?”
“For starters, I talked with Ray, and he recalled something that one of the radio disc jockeys said at nine PM the night Osborn was killed. I called and verified it. Plenty amazing, huh?”
“Damnit to hell, Royce, now you listen to me. You’re comin’ up with all this shit that means nothing. You know, sometimes I think you like throwin’ live firecrackers into a TNT shed. The Indian could have been carrying a transistor.”
“Doesn’t own one.”
With a sardonic glare, Yancy smiled. “Coulda overheard it on any of his stops. It means nothing. We got that Indian behind bars, and he won’t be cut loose this time. I’m wondering if you’re just pursuing this because you can’t stand the thought of being wrong. I gotta wonder about how prejudiced you are against my brother. Here you are going on about all this crapola, and it means nothing. A defense like that would get laughed right outta the goddamn courtroom. Babysittin’ a bunny and listening to his radio station. Shit. I know the perfume ain’t on with this one, but the Indian is our prime suspect.” His eyes became slits. “If we weren’t pals, I’d tend to believe this thing of yours is bordering on some kinda insubordination. Now, I know you would rather believe life is a goddamn lollypop convention. Hell, the evidence points to the man we got locked. Enough.”
“Inquiring into a crime is hardly insubordination. It’s what I’m paid to do.” Her jaw set firmly, and she watched Yancy’s ruddy face. She was not about to accuse him of a cursory investigation. Nor was she wanting to implicate this case with her father’s murder. But she needed the blanks filled in. “Yanc, I dug back into the files to check the records on my dad’s murder case. They appear to be incomplete.”
Yancy scratched his short beard. The stubble crackled. Then he leaned his sturdy shoulders across the desk. “You know we run a pretty loose ship. Less regimented than Denver, that’s for sure. Well, your daddy trained me. Royce, I don’t always go by the book, and neither did he. Gut instinct counts. Well, I didn’t have gut instincts about anything or anyone in that case. Matter of fact, I’ll tell you something for nothing.” He stood and walked around the desk. He hoisted his body onto the corner of the desk. “When your daddy died, I felt like my guts were ripped outta my body. You know, your daddy used to say that people are more important than procedures. Well, I’m gonna sit right here and admit somethin’ to you. I committed a crime. When I hired you on, I went back and purged that file of its ugliness.” His eyes were pools of concern as he fixed them to her stare. “I done that, and I’d do it again. You didn’t need to see those things that were in that file. Hell, his own little girl be subjected to that. No sir, I didn’t want that. And Grady wouldn’t have wanted that. If I had me a daughter, I wouldn’t want her seein’ my body shot up. Naw, Grady would never have wanted that. Or I never woulda touched that file.”
“Your best guess. Who killed my father?”
“Some say he was killed by drug dealers. Mighta stumbled on a deal goin’ down. Others say it was some nutty cop-hater. Take your pick. One thing I do know. Nobody from around here would have harmed him. We loved your daddy.”
“If Ray didn’t kill Trish and Osborn? Your best guess?”
“A serial killer maybe. Someone Trish had been with when she was doing her runnin’ around. Maybe the drifter just fell. There are lotsa coincidences in life. Osborn had been wanting to leave. Maybe in his haste he just plain fell.”
“He didn’t take his backpack. And why would he leave at night?”
“Not a probable. That’s why we got the Indian in jail.” Yancy read the disbelief in Royce’s eyes. “Let’s go over it one more time. Okay, so what we got? Trish meeting someone. There was no vehicle around, according to Osborn. So who was she meeting? Luther? First off, he was with me. Second, where was his car? And why wouldn’t they meet at the ranch? They lived there together.”
“Say she was trying to break up the marriage and was frightened of being at the ranch?”
“So she’d pick an even more frightening place? She sure as hell wouldn’t have met anyone she was afraid of in a remote area of Timber Gulch. Naw. I say it was something goin’ on with her and the Indian. She was a player. We all know about her. Her and her schoolteacher friend, Miss Universe. They were out there running their pants off. Resorts. Vacations. Chasing with the ski crowd. Luther sowed his wild oats too. I’m not saying he didn’t. But he was the goat when it came to Trish and Miss Universe. She was screwin’ around on him. And sure they did battle over it. He’s a hothead. That’s no secret. There are times I think he’s got rocks in his head for the shit he gets into. Hell, I always say that if they’d do a goddamn lobotomy, half the Grand Canyon would come falling outta his head. And yeah, I’ve kicked his ass. But the bottom line is that Luther was being cheated on. Luther knew that, and so did Timber City. Can’t blame him for wanting to kill her.”
“What?” Royce quickly delved. “What did you say?”
Stumbling, the sheriff stuttered, “I mean, mean that you can understand how it was.” In an attempt to recover from what he’d blurted, he declared, “She wasn’t a wife to him. Trish and Miss Universe were off and running.”
“Meaning?” Royce’s eyes riveted to Yancy.
“Meaning that I’d question their closeness. Let’s not play a bunch of goddamn games. That teacher friend of hers is better than beautiful. They were inseparable. Valeria Driscoll stuck to Trish like expensive wallpaper. You get my drift about how close they were?”
“Say it.”
“Luther might have thought that he had a reason to kill her. Can’t be easy for a stud like my brother to admit his wife is playing with both cowboys and cowgirls.” With a Cheshire cat grin, his lips wobbled. “Point’s moot anyway. I was with him. I’ll testify to that. We don’t always run a tight ship around here, but we don’t run a corrupt one. And I’ll give sworn testimony to my bein’ with that boy.”
“The interpretation you just gave is this. Luther might be justified in killing a promiscuous wife.”
“I never said that,” he denied quickly. “Besides, we’re both expert shots. It’d be a hell of a lot easier to shoot someone.”
“And leave ballistic evidence?”
“Maybe not as smart, but easier. Look, you go on with this little investigation of yours. I don’t see you comin’ up with anything, but if you do, let me know and I’ll give you full cooperation and support.” Their eyes collided, and he stood. He pressed the Stetson onto his head. “Well, if your interrogation is complete, I’m goin’ on over to the hotel and have me some sausage and pancakes. Last call for ptomaine. Then I’m headed back to pick up my camper and boat, and I’m outta here for two days of rest and rehabilitation.”
“Have a good couple of days,” Royce said weakly.
“Hell,” he mumbled, “feel like I’m handing over the reigns to a vigilante freedom fighter. Off to prove herself right.�
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“It isn’t like that, Yanc.” Lamely Royce returned to the files on her desk. She then leaned back and crossed her arms. Her fingers wrapped around her upper arms. She traced the crest patches. Those woven emblems stood for law and order. Yancy had slipped and as much as told her that Luther wanted Trish dead. But more, Luther felt some oddball justification for it. There was also a resentment for the relationship between Valeria and Trish. Royce felt a chill. She wondered whether Valeria was in danger. She hoped that their talk had driven some sense into Valeria. And that there would be no more trips out to the ranch.
Royce was more convinced of Luther’s guilt than ever before. But it needed unraveling. Yancy’s reasoning for destroying evidence was in line with her father’s philosophy, Royce agreed. Grady Madison would probably not have wanted his daughter to see the file. He probably would have agreed with Yancy’s sanitizing the file.
Yancy had been protective. Royce could buy that. Just as he was perhaps being protective of his brother. What better cover than an alibi provided by the sheriff? Luther was well-insulated. He had the word of his brother. And she had precious little evidence.
Royce glanced up as Nick entered. “And the day was going so nicely,” she joked sarcastically.
“No time to be my usual abrasive, obnoxious self,” he exclaimed as he rifled through his desk drawer. “Christ, I lost my I.D.”
Dryly, Royce questioned, “Certain it wasn’t stolen?”
“You’re on duty. No one would dare do anything illegal now. Hey, you’re always thinking how great a detective you are. You don’t have any clues about the murders, but you think someone else did it. The rest of us use evidence. You have a tuned-in radar that determines guilt,” he scoffed as he nervously chattered. Fumbling through the maze of papers, he retrieved his wallet. “Ah, here it is.”
“Nick, I don’t like your attitude. At least Yancy is willing to talk about it with me.”
With a brash lift of his eyebrow, Nick inquired, “You really think we have the wrong person?”
“And you really think, without a doubt, that it was Ray Tierra-Blanca?”
“No doubt in Yanc’s mind.” Nick tucked his I.D. into his pocket and headed for the door. “No doubt in my mind.”
“That I can believe. Because there’s nothing much at all in your mind.”
“Deputy,” he jabbed, “you’ve been listening to too many powwows. I didn’t think you were the type to be sweet talked by a man.”
There were no safe rejoinders, Royce decided. She cringed as Nick exited. Her fist then went down on the desktop with such a force that the clipboard flipped onto the floor, scattering reports. Royce went around the desk, knelt, and gathered the papers.
What if she was way off on the case, she deliberated. Her stomach was caving in at the thought. She stood. If her instincts were wrong, she would forever question her abilities in enforcement. That was a given. But if her instincts were correct, Valeria was in danger, and she herself was also in danger. Certainly Yancy had relayed her doubts to Luther. And perhaps he would even tell Luther that he had slipped and mentioned a possible motive.
Although this time she clasped the clipboard in her free hand, Royce hammered the desk again. It didn’t feel any better the second time.
***
Chaotic evenings can never be predicted. They plug into life without invitation. Royce realized that Saturday night. Each of the multitude of disturbances inextricably tied her to the role of Sisyphus. By eleven, when the relief-deputy came on duty, it was evident that Royce would be working overtime at least part of the night.
After a serious auto accident and a domestic quarrel, Royce answered the radio dispatch. An altercation had broken out at the Eagle Inn. She sighed her exhausted murmur of resignation.
When Royce stepped into the entrance, she saw a heated dispute between Chauncey and Shepley, two local boozers. They were regulars at the fine art of brawling. One of the bartenders was trying to keep them apart. Royce pulled Chauncey back. Shep then broke away from the bartender and unloaded a hook that caught Chauncey’s nose. A spray of blood squirted across Royce’s shirt.
“Come on, fellas,” Royce warned sternly. “Shep, you step back over there and freeze. Sit yourself down here, Chauncey.” The bartender had gone for a towel to mop Chauncey’s face. “Need the doc?”
“Hell no,” Chauncey roared.
“Only gonna tell you two this one time. Both on foot?” she asked.
“Yeah,” they mumbled in unison.
“Okay. You two need a refresher course in how to be polite. Next time this happens you’ll get a very long one. Demerits are being counted. You two have more than your share, and I should run you in. Chauncey, I want you to walk north toward your place. You’re not to stop off anywhere. No more trouble tonight. No Bell Ringer on the way. I’ll check with Faye in the morning. Shep, you head south, and if you give Mrs. Shepley problems, you’ll have a new lodging. Got the directions, fellas?”
Accompanying them to the door, she then watched as they staggered in their assigned directions. They plodded, stumbling away. Royce was glad they only had a couple of blocks. She glanced down at the dot-to-dot spots across her uniform. Light uniforms, she muttered. She thought about Denver’s navy serge and how it didn’t show the ravages of the job. But then, she considered, there were far more frequent blood-lettings there.
The bartender offered Royce a cup of coffee, and she quickly agreed. She had had no time for a break of any kind all day, and the caffeine wouldn’t hurt. She glanced over at the undulating, harmonic sway of couples doing the two-step. Hanging from the ceiling was a mosaic mirrored Western boot doing midair circlets. Beams of light flickered as the music kept time on a large, sawdusted dance floor.
As if shock had stubbed her senses, Royce’s head swiveled back to the left. Her view was a fist belting her in the solar plexus. She gasped. She squeezed the next breath into her lungs with a gulp of surprise. There, whirling in Luther’s arms, was Valeria. As always, Royce thought with contempt, she looked gorgeous. She was wearing a ruffled blouse with a drooping neckline that curved over her naked shoulder. A coral concho-trimmed skirt was cinched with a silver belt, and it reached the tops of her full-quill ostrich boots.
When their eyes tapped, Valeria was so stunned that she missed a step and nearly toppled. She had been drinking, Royce noted. Valeria quickly looked away. Royce knew the pain of not being acknowledged. Each moment was a toreador pic in her pounding heart. Royce wondered if the flagging feather wounds were recognizable to those around her. Could those dancers decipher her anguish?
After the song ended, Royce moved toward them. Luther had gone for beer. “I thought you were planning to spend the evening with your dilettantish buddies. Those urbane, cogent Aspen folks. Here I find you slumming with the Timber City locals.”
Bobbling for words, Valeria finally spoke, “It isn’t how you think. I had decided to stay in. Had a couple of toddies. I just needed to get out of there.”
“Out with Luther!” Royce seethed with scorn. “Snug, chummy dancing.”
“Royce, I just ran into him here. Besides, it may be our only way of getting any information. You aren’t coming up with the goods.”
“You’re too trashed out to know a clue from a damned hand up your skirt.”
“I don’t check in and out with you. You were working.”
“And unfortunately, I was pulling some overtime. You figured I was off duty, or I’m sure you would have scattered when the fight broke out.”
“You’re not coming up with any clues on the case. Maybe I can.”
“And what are you coming up with, Val? A bulge between his legs?”
“That’s my business.”
Royce grabbed Valeria’s arm with more force than she’d intended. “Listen to me,” she cautioned, “he’s dangerous. I do have additional information. He’s killed two people, and you could be the third body that we outline in white paint. Back away.”
As Luther approached, Valeria pulled from Royce’s grasp. “I can’t talk now.”
“Your little vendetta game might not end with a mere seduction. You just think that they didn’t suspect you and Trish. Think again,” Royce snapped.
With a cocky swagger, Luther handed a fresh beer to Valeria. She flicked her wet hand after clasping the sweating bottle. “I need a napkin. I’ll be right back,” Valeria said. She strolled to the bar.
Luther’s rakish jeer slashed at Royce. “Tantalizing woman.” He swayed back on his boot heels. “She’s got a hot little ass.”
“You bastard!” Royce spat the words through her teeth. Her eyes fired anger. She issued an open declaration. “Luther, I think you murdered Trish. I think you murdered the drifter. That’s exactly what I think.”
“You think wrong.”
“We’ll see.” Glowering, she stepped back. He had provoked her gauntlet toss. With their mutual hush, she was also aware that she had violated two of her father’s rules. Don’t lose your temper, and always be objective.
Reeling around, Royce passed the bar and whispered to Valeria, “Let me drive you home?”
“You’re not my warden.”
Royce’s eyes displayed the flaring fury that was in her heart. She walked hastily to the parking lot where she felt a cool breeze. When the muffled music ceased temporarily, Royce opened the door and got in the Blazer. Switching the ignition, she heard a knock on the window. She unrolled it and heard Valeria’s pleading, “Royce, don’t leave like this. Let me explain.”
“I’ll take you home. I can leave this vehicle here and drive your car back to your place. You shouldn’t be driving.” Royce called dispatch and asked that a deputy pick up the Blazer. She then locked up and they got into Valeria’s BMW. Royce inhaled the orange blossom fragrance. Valeria reached for Royce’s hand and softly kissed it. A sliver of a smile was etched on Royce’s face.
“Val, only you can provoke this kind of response in me,” she admitted. “I wish I could walk away from you just once. But I can’t.”