by Janet Dailey
“I guess.”
Logan smiled at the mumbled answer. “I wish we could stay here with you. But from now on we all have to pitch in and help Jessy for a while. It’s what your grandfather would want.”
Pulling away, his head still down, Quint wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “Does that mean we’ll move here?”
“No.” He combed some of the dark hair off Quint’s forehead with his fingers. “Jessy is in charge here. She’ll do fine.”
But that didn’t mean she would have an easy time of it, and Logan knew it. Distracted by the sound of light feet running down the stairs, he looked up to see Laura. When she reached the bottom, she made a beeline for Logan.
“Trey is in Grampa’s room. I told him to get out, but he wouldn’t listen.” Her dark eyes snapped with temper.
He had only to look at the anguish in his own son’s face to know that all three of these children were too young to endure this kind of grief. The twins hadn’t been old enough to understand when Ty was killed, but that wasn’t true anymore. He glanced in the direction of the second-floor bedroom.
“It’s all right if Trey stays in your grandpa’s bedroom for a while,” Logan told her.
Dissatisfied with his answer, Laura turned away. “I’m going to tell Mommy.” Off she went.
Chapter Three
With dusk purpling the sky over Fort Worth, the streetlights flickered on. The mix of neon and backlit signs stood out above the storefronts. But the sweltering afternoon temperatures had yet to wane.
The air conditioner in Laredo’s pickup worked mightily to cool the cab’s interior. It brought only modest relief as he cruised down Main Street, a troubled frown creasing his forehead.
This detective business had turned out to be a bit more difficult than he thought it would. So far he had hit every saloon, bar, and restaurant in the Stockyards District, certain the man he called Duke had to have been at one of them on the previous night. Every time he had dragged out his carefully rehearsed spiel that he was supposed to meet a man there but had lost his business card and couldn’t recall his name, then offered his description of him. Each time he had struck out.
That troubled him. Duke was the kind of man who stood out in a crowd, even at his age. Yet no one remembered anyone matching his description. It was always possible that he hadn’t asked the right person. If necessary he would make the rounds again, but later.
Right now his focus was on hotels. Judging from the expensive cut of the suit Duke had been wearing, Laredo had decided to check out the more upscale hotels first. He pulled into the lot of the next one on his list and parked the pickup in an empty space.
Inside the foyer, he located the registration desk but paused before approaching it. At the two other hotels, he had learned that hotel clerks were stingy with information about possible guests, something their patrons probably appreciated, but it didn’t help him. Laredo glanced around and noticed that the bell desk was manned by a Mexican-American. He veered toward him.
“Buenas noches, amigo,” he greeted the man, making use of his fluency in Border Spanish.
“Buenas noches, señor. How can I help you?” the man asked in thickly accented English.
Laredo didn’t make the switch back to his own native tongue. Instead he continued to converse in Spanish, trotting out his customary spiel but giving it a few new wrinkles. Specifically he pleaded hard times, claiming he desperately needed the job the man had offered him.
The bellman repeated Laredo’s description of the man they had dubbed Duke and added a few more details in the form of a question. Laredo brightened immediately.
“Sí, he is one mucho hombre.”
“Ah, señor.” The bellman looked at him with abject regret. “The man you seek ees Señor Chase Calder. Eet grieves me to tell you, but ees dead.”
Startled, Laredo repeated in disbelief, “Dead? Are you sure?”
“Sí. The police, they come here thees afternoon. I hear them talking to the manager. They say his car, eet crashed last night and he ees dead.”
“Gracias.” His mind raced with a dozen possibilities. He started to turn away, then stopped. “Señor Calder, where was he from? Maybe this is the wrong man.”
The bellman lifted his shoulders in a shrug of uncertainty. “Some place up north, I theenk. Maybe Montana. I cannot say for sure.”
“Gracias.” Laredo tapped a hand on the desk in finality and walked out of the hotel.
He climbed back into his pickup and drove out of the lot. This unexpected turn of events meant there was only one place he might get additional information. The next stop was the police station.
The desk sergeant glanced up with disinterest when Laredo walked in, but the glance made a practiced, sweeping appraisal of him just the same.
“What can I do for you?” The question was a half challenge.
“A man by the name of Chase Calder was killed in an auto accident sometime late last night. The family called and asked if I would come down and identify the body and spare them that ordeal. Could you direct me to the morgue?” Laredo counted on the fact that no one else had stepped forward as yet.
“Do they know you’re coming?”
“No.”
“What was the guy’s name again?”
“Calder. Chase Calder.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richard Hanson.” That was the name on the driver’s license in his billfold.
“Just a minute.” The sergeant called someone on the phone, repeated the gist of Laredo’s request, then nodded at the response he received. “Right,” he said and hung up. “Detective Stabler will be right out, Mr. Hanson.”
“Thanks.” Laredo moved away to cool his heels in the waiting area.
It was closer to five minutes before Detective Stabler made an appearance. A heavyset man in shirtsleeves and a tie, he walked up to Laredo and extended a hand.
“Hanson, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Laredo briefly shook hands with him. “You must be Detective Stabler.”
The man nodded in confirmation. “You wouldn’t be any relation to the Hansons of Hanson Oil, would you?”
“I wish.” Laredo smiled smoothly.
“Don’t we all,” he agreed. “But I thought I should ask. It seems Mr. Calder was an important man.”
“Yes,” Laredo replied, playing along, then repeated his previous request to identify the body on behalf of the family.
The detective gave him a sideways look. “You do realize that would be pointless.”
“Why?” Laredo asked in wary question.
“I guess you didn’t hear. But it appears the car’s fuel tank ruptured on impact and the whole thing went up in flames. By the time the responding fire units were able to put the fire out, the body was burned beyond recognition.”
“Then how were you able to determine it was Mr. Calder?”
The detective began to tick off the reasons, some Laredo had already surmised. “First, the car was a rental. When we checked the agency’s records, the car was signed out to one Chase Benteen Calder, Montana driver’s license. Among the personal effects that were recovered was a badly charred wallet, but the driver’s license was still readable. It was issued to Chase Calder. A hotel key was also found, which we were able to trace to the hotel where he was staying.” He stopped, his eyes narrowing on Laredo with a hint of suspicion. “Why would you think it wouldn’t be Mr. Calder?”
“No reason. I guess it was just the shock of hearing about the fire. It threw me for a minute.”
Satisfied, at least temporarily, with the explanation, the detective nodded. “I understand. Some of the family will be flying in tomorrow to claim the body.” It was one of those exploratory remarks to see how much Laredo knew and how close he really was to this family.
“That’s right. They are eager to finalize arrangements to have the body shipped home to Montana. I don’t know if they plan on flying it back on their plane or not.” He
added the last to bolster his credibility in the detective’s eyes. “Thank you for your time, Detective. I’m sorry I took up so much of it for nothing.”
“No problem, Mr. Hanson.”
A blaze of sunlight through the window heralded the arrival of morning. The man called Duke sat up on the edge of the bed, relieved to discover the room didn’t spin even though his head continued to pound unmercifully. He donned the thrift-shop jeans and shirt and ventured out of the bedroom, following the smell of coffee.
He was still a little on the weak side, but definitely stronger and more sure of his step than he had been the day before. But that was the only improvement. His memory was just as blank as it had been.
When he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, Hattie Ludlow walked in the back door. Her gaze made a quick inspection of him. “I didn’t expect you up so early. Feeling better, are you?”
“Some,” he confirmed and looked out the window. There was no sign of the pickup. “Where’s Laredo? I never heard him come back last night.”
“It was close to midnight when he rolled in. He hollered at me just a few minutes ago and said he was going into town but he would come right back. Have a seat and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.” She motioned to one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
He sat down at the chrome table. “What did he find out yesterday? Anything?”
“I don’t know. I only heard him come home. I didn’t get up.” Steam rose from the cup she set before him. “Are you hungry enough for some bacon and eggs?”
“Sure.”
“How would you like your eggs? Over easy, sunny side up, or scrambled?”
“Over easy, I guess,” he replied, irritated to find he didn’t even know how he liked his eggs fixed.
Soon bacon sizzled in its own grease, filling the kitchen with its distinctive aroma. Like so many things, the smell was familiar, but it triggered no memory, only more questions that probed for one.
He watched as Hattie broke two eggs in a bowl and deftly slipped them into a hot skillet. With a pair of tongs, she lifted the bacon strips from another iron skillet and laid them on a paper towel to drain. She checked the eggs again, then glanced his way, catching him looking at her.
“I’m not used to people watching me so closely when I cook,” she remarked with a touch of amusement. “Are you that hungry, or haven’t you ever seen anyone fix breakfast before?”
“Everything you have done is familiar to me. I must have watched a woman cook before, but I don’t know who she was.”
“It could have been your mother or your wife.” Hattie scooped up the eggs with a spatula and slipped them onto a plate. She carried it and the platter of bacon to the table, setting both in front of him.
“What makes you so sure I’m married?” He didn’t feel married. Laredo and the mirror had said he was up in years. But he wasn’t so old that he didn’t find a woman like Hattie attractive.
“I can’t imagine some woman letting you get away,” she informed him with a dry smile. “Although I doubt any woman married to you would have an easy time of it.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, not sure what she meant by it.
“For one thing, you’re too used to being the one in command,” Hattie replied. She hesitated, measuring him with a long glance. “And I suspect you keep your own counsel. If there is a problem, you don’t talk about it until you have a solution. Most women prefer to be a part of that decision process since it will affect their lives as well. It can be very irritating to be informed of the problem and the solution after the fact.”
“I suppose it would.” He reached for a piece of toast.
“Out of curiosity, Duke,” Hattie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table opposite him, “how do you plan on finding out who you are?”
“I’m not sure.” He broke the egg yolk with his fork and dipped a corner of the toast into it.
“You must have a few ideas.” She spooned some jam onto a piece of toast.
“A few. It will depend on what Laredo was able to find out last night, if anything.” An instant later, he realized her game and sent her an amused glance. “Are you happy that I proved your point and refused to discuss my problem?”
“You were slower to catch on than I thought you would be. Your head must be hurting.”
“Not as bad as yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything stronger than aspirin for it.”
“I’ll survive.” He took another bite of eggs and chewed. “What kind of operation do you run here?”
“What do you mean?” Hattie frowned.
“Laredo said you have a small ranch. Is it a cow-and-calf outfit?”
“Do you know something about a cow-calf operation?” She studied him closely, her dark eyes bright with interest.
He thought about that a minute. “I guess I do.”
“Those cowboy boots aren’t just for show, then,” Hattie observed before answering his original question. “In my position, I can’t really afford the financial risk that goes with ranching. I need an income that is a bit more reliable. I worked a deal with a local rancher to run his cattle on my place. He pays me rent for the pasture and labor costs for looking after his stock as well as reimburses me for any hay or feed.”
“It’s not an uncommon arrangement. I understand quite a few small ranchers are opting for deals like that. It’s a bit like sharecropping in the old days,” he heard himself say. He didn’t understand how he could have knowledge of such things yet no recollection of his personal identity.
“It keeps the wolves away from the door,” Hattie replied.
“The financial kind, anyway,” he said with a knowing smile.
“Why, Duke, I do believe you are flirting with me.” Hattie mocked, but it didn’t mask the pleased look in her eyes, a look that hinted at her interest in him.
A dog barked outside, sounding an alarm as a vehicle approached. Rising from her chair, Hattie glanced out the window. The barking turned to excited yelps.
“Laredo is back,” she announced.
A new tension gripped him, heightening his senses. Each sound from outside came sharply to him—the crunch of tires on gravel, the sputter of a dying engine, the slam of the cab door, and the approach of footsteps to the rear door. Unwilling to betray his eagerness to hear the results of Laredo’s investigation, he didn’t look up when the cowboy walked into the kitchen.
“You’re up. That’s means I won’t have to wake you.” Laredo crossed to the table, tossed a newspaper on top of it, pulled out a chair, swung it around, and straddled it.
“Did you have any luck?” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, reaching for his coffee cup.
“You could say that.” Steady blue eyes held his gaze. “I located a bellman who remembered you, said your name was Chase Calder. Unfortunately, according to the morning paper”—Laredo gave it a push toward him—“you’re dead, killed in a car crash the night before last.”
He picked up the paper, but the type was blurred. He extended his arm, trying to bring it into focus.
“Need some reading glasses, do you,” Hattie guessed, rising from her chair. “I’ll get you a pair of mine. They might be the right strength.”
Questions buzzed in his head, but he held his silence until he read the article. Hattie’s glasses worked well enough to allow him to see the print. The write-up was a small one, between two and three inches long. Its length was mostly due to the identity of the victim in this particular traffic accident. Even then there were few facts to glean from it, merely that the deceased was Chase Calder, owner of the Triple C Ranch in eastern Montana.
“Chase Calder.” He spoke the name, but it had no more meaning to him than if he had said John Doe. He set the paper aside and laid the glasses on top of it. Hattie picked up both.
“Do you remember anything at all about the man who robbed you?” Laredo studied him thoughtfully.
“No. I only rememb
er you telling me that you saw a man holding me up. My memory starts with the slam of a car door, gunshots, and a vehicle peeling out.”
“That was your holdup man, making his getaway as fast as he could,” Laredo stated, “taking with him your wallet with its identification and driving the car you rented. He even managed to wind up with the key to your hotel room.”
“It’s also possible the victim was Chase Calder.”
“It’s possible,” Laredo conceded. “But I don’t believe it. That article in the paper omits one important detail—following the crash, the car burst into flames. The body was burned beyond recognition. Granted, I didn’t get a good look at your robber, but to the best of my recollection, he was about your height and build. He could have even been about your age. We may never know, unless the family requests an autopsy. At this point, the authorities definitely haven’t ordered one. Why should they when they are convinced they know both the man’s identity and the cause of his death?”
“But there’s someone who knows the dead man isn’t Chase Calder,” he murmured, thinking out loud.
“That’s right,” Laredo said with a decisive nod. “The man who tried to kill you. It’s possible that he might not know that the thief took off in your rental car, but not likely.”
“He won’t know for sure unless I come forward—assuming I really am Chase Calder.”
“The newspaper archives might have a photo of Chase Calder,” Laredo told him. “That’s one way you could find out. Of course, there is another way.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone from your family is flying in this morning to arrange to have the body shipped home for burial. I have the name of the mortuary they’ll be using on the Fort Worth end. All you would have to do is show up there and wait to see if you are recognized.”