“I’m sorry, sir. He’s not here today.”
Somebody was lying. Brad wanted a clear-cut answer once and for all. He directed the receptionist to patch him through to the lab.
When it rang, a harried voice answered, “Lab Ten.”
“Is Allen Murdock in today?”
“He was, but he went home sick. Take a message?”
“No, thanks.” Brad disconnected the call. Okay, Allen, where are you, and why don’t you want to talk to Gray? Brad started the car, and circled the drive, taking his foot off the gas when he caught a glimpse of something shimmering behind the barn.
He drove that way, discovering the gleam was the sun’s reflection bouncing off the fender of a beat-up Ford truck. A closer inspection revealed a Jordan access badge on the upper left-side windshield—one that matched Brad’s. The emblem allowed employees to enter the plant without having to stop at the security gate every time they reported to work.
All at once, he had a sneaking suspicion that Allen hadn’t told his wife he was sick because he wasn’t, and she might start asking questions.
That’s okay, Jolene. I’ll be asking them for you. Brad stepped out of the Navigator. He’d start with question number one: Why had Allen decided to ditch a police investigation by hiding out in his barn?
Manure and hay assailed his nostrils as he entered the poorly-lit structure. An image of a large dog with sharp teeth filled his head, and Brad sincerely hoped Allen didn’t have one guarding the premises.
“Hello?” Brad called. “Allen, you in here?”
When neither a man’s voice nor a dog’s growl greeted him, Brad ambled farther inside. “Allen. It’s Brad Jordan. I’d like a word with you.”
Again, silence filled the area. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he noted two empty horse stalls. Remembering the horse in the corral, he wondered if Allen might be off riding. Brad’s foot connected with something solid. A rake handle sprang up and nearly struck him in the chest. Looking down, he discovered he’d stepped on the tool’s upturned tines.
“Dammit.” He grabbed the rake and leaned it against the stall. Lucky for him he hadn’t ended up with a spike through his foot.
Teeth clenched, Brad repeated, “Murdock. Enough’s, enough. We gotta talk.”
A few more steps brought him past the stalls to several bales of hay. Brad searched the rafters. He backed up to scan the beams when something brushed the back of his head. He whirled, and came face to face with a pair of boots.
Boots?
Mind reeling, his heart near his tonsils, Brad closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked up and saw the body hanging from the rafters.
He’d had it all wrong. Allen Murdock hadn’t been ditching a police investigation. He’d become part of it.
Chapter Thirty
“SEÑOR JORDAN, you’re home.” Gloria met John at the stairs in the foyer, a delighted smile on the housekeeper’s face.
He’d only been gone three days, but from the information he’d gathered, it might as well have been a lifetime. He smiled for Gloria’s benefit, while furious inside.
In his briefcase, he carried Congressman William Harrison’s sworn affidavit that he’d never written nor been a party to Clayton’s mindless accusations against Chief Warrant Officer Benton Reid.
If anything good had come of John’s meeting with the politician that morning, it was that a full investigation was now underway. Because MIAs were often killed, their dog tags buried with them, or transferred from one spot to another, their whereabouts were almost impossible to track.
But considering what Reid’s family had been through, the congressman had made the man’s whereabouts and circumstances a top priority, and vowed a swift resolution.
Still, Harrison couldn’t produce facts without substance.
“May I get you something to drink, señor? Something to eat?”
“I ate on the road, but a cold drink would be nice,” John said. “Where’s my dad?”
Concentrating hard on her English, Gloria replied, “On the patio. Señora Reid make him go outside. And he talk better every day. Your father, he getting stronger.”
John nodded. Faith continued to work with Clayton, even when the man deserved no such kindness. Perhaps John would buy her a bouquet of flowers or check with her friends to see if there was anything particular she needed or wanted. Besides, he not only owed her a gift, he owed her an apology, and God only knew how he could make it up to her.
If Faith had known what Clayton had done, she might not only have insisted he go outside, she might have drowned him in the swimming pool. Moreover, she might not have a thing to do with John, and that’s what terrified him the most.
Gloria hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d entered the house. Glad to see her, too, John winked. “That drink, Gloria?”
“Oh! Si, si, señor.” Hurriedly, she disappeared toward the kitchen while John wandered into the study. Unclasping the briefcase, he paused before opening it. Why had Diana stayed silent all these years? What had Clayton said to make her believe such bunk? And the question that haunted him most was, why hadn’t she confided in her mother?
Gloria returned with a glass of iced tea. “I put a lemon slice in it for you.”
“Thanks. You’re a peach.”
Gloria frowned. “You want a peach slice instead?”
John laughed and took a long drink. “No, the iced tea’s perfect. If I tell you you’re a peach, Gloria, I’m paying you a compliment.”
Her brow furrowed, and she glanced down at her petite body as though trying to make the connection. “You think I am round and fuzzy?”
Grateful for the much-needed laugh, John shook his head. “I think . . .” He switched to Spanish so there could be no misunderstanding between them. “Pienso que bonita eres y que buena.” In other words, I think you’re pretty and good.
Gloria smiled. “Thank you, Señor John.”
He drained the drink, then wandered through the house and entered the family room leading to the backyard. Standing at the sliding glass door, he saw his father reclining on a lounger beneath the awning. Head bent, Clayton slept, an open magazine spread across his chest.
John walked outside, discovering it was an old issue of Field and Stream. Amazed at how much Clayton and he had in common, John was equally dismayed at how much they did not.
He gathered his strength. Then placing the file on the patio table, he called on his disgust to steel his heart. Shaking his father, John said, “Dad, wake up, we need to talk.”
Clayton started. “J—John? Johnny, you home?” The magazine fell off his chest to the ground. “Good to see you, boy. Damn lonely with nobody to talk to.”
His blatant disregard of Gloria and Faith as nobody further necessitated this confrontation. John’s gut churned. He’d been raised to honor his father. Based on what he’d learned in Austin, John could no longer honor this man.
Arms outstretched, Clayton held his hands level with his chest. “Look son. Hardly shaking anymore. Not s—stammering as much either.”
To John, the tremors seemed as pronounced as ever, but what good would it do to argue? Wasn’t mindset part of getting well?
“Glad you’re feeling better.”
Clayton glanced around. “I’m thinking I’m doing so good we should go fishing soon.”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
John stepped away from the lounger and moved to the patio table. He picked up the file.
Clayton frowned. “Whatcha got there?”
John held the brown file closer so his father could make out the faded word, “Classified.”
His rheumy eyes widened. “Where’d you get that?”
“This?” John tapped the file. “I drove down to First Bank of El Paso and too
k it from your safety deposit box.”
“You . . . you can’t do that. Those are my personal papers. You have no right.”
“I have every right. You gave me your power of attorney.” John’s voice shook as the anger he’d suppressed exploded. “You’re the one who had no right. What did you plan to do, take this goddamned lie to your grave?”
In the seconds that followed, John saw a man he no longer recognized. Clayton’s eyes flashed, his breathing became ragged, and a dangerous expression appeared. “Someone had to take charge,” he rasped. “You never would. Would I have taken it to my grave? Damn right I would. I did what was necessary.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those boys aren’t average kids down the street, Johnny. They’re Jordans. All their lives, you treated them like they were ordinary. You failed them. Let Neil traipse all over Europe, marry too young, and never once listened to what I had to say.”
“Maybe I didn’t listen because I didn’t agree with you. My decisions where my children are concerned are none of your business.”
“They’re my flesh and blood, also,” Clayton said. “I was too late to help Neil. But when Brad brought home that girl, and you ignored my warning a second time, I had to intervene.”
John clenched and unclenched his fists. Of all his father’s off-the-wall comments, this one made the least sense. “Warned me about what?”
“I told you she wasn’t good enough, that Brad could do better.”
John vaguely remembered discussing Diana’s heritage. He’d given it the merit he would a hangnail, and told Clayton to butt out of Brad’s business. John fought to keep his voice steady. “What did you do, Dad?”
“Steered him right, of course. Young hearts mend fast. They’re nothing but hormones at that age. It’s not real love.”
Not real love? John couldn’t agree less. He’d known his wife of eighteen years only three days before they’d married. On a weekend leave from Dyess Air Force Base, he’d never even thought to ask his father’s permission.
Because he and Amy had been stationed in Munich the first two years, John had never witnessed Clayton’s outrage firsthand, and by the time they’d returned to Diamond, Amy was pregnant with Neil. Even so, during the course of their marriage, John had had to defend his young wife numerous times when she’d been forced to deal with his father.
The idea that John hadn’t put a stop to Clayton’s controlling madness from the start sickened John. “Not real love, Dad? I’d wager if Brad were standing here, he’d argue the point.”
“If Brad had married Diana, their marriage would have been doomed. I kept—kept my grandson from marrying beneath him.”
“Where’d you get this report on Benton Reid? I already know it’s a sham, so don’t lie to me.”
“P—paid someone.” Clayton’s tremors had become violent and the slur in his speech was back. For a moment, John was tempted to back off from his inquisition. After all, he and Bill Harrison had been able to fill in most of the blanks. But John’s rage had intensified and he had to know. “Who did this? Who did you pay?”
“Wh—why do you care? Brad’s happy. And that Re—Reid girl, s—she’s doing all right, isn’t she?”
Gloria chose that moment to step outside. With an adamant shake of his head, John warned her away. She reentered the house, eyes huge with understanding.
“According to your standards, Diana’s doing all right. Brad loved her, Dad. She loved him. Who the hell gave you the right to play God?”
“Don’t bl―blas―pheme around me. You don’t talk to—”
How dare Clayton resort to religion? Every Sunday he’d sat in the front row at church, and on the other days of the week, he destroyed peoples’ lives.
“I’ll talk to you any way I please. When I opened this file, you lost any right to my respect.” John’s throat threatened to close as hot tears stung his eyes. “You messed with my boy’s life. Why’d Diana go along with this?”
“Be―believed me,” Clayton said. “If she left, no one had to know, if s―she stayed, I swore to ruin her . . . and her mama.” Clayton flung back his head.
John narrowed his gaze. He’d pushed his father as far as he dared; he’d stop the haranguing for now. But one answer seemed certain. Faith had never known.
Diana had taken ownership of this terrible secret and given up Brad in the process. All the bitterness John had ever felt for the girl evaporated.
As for his father? John felt like a black hole had swooped down and swallowed him. All he felt now was despair and sorrow—sorrow that Brad would have to know what his grandfather had done, and that, eight years later, more lives would be shattered by making this right.
As if he sensed John’s thinking, Clayton opened his eyes. “Don’t . . . tell him, Johnny. P—please. Br—Brad’s better off now.”
Unable to tolerate his father’s presence a second more, John tucked the file under his arm and headed for indoors. “I won’t say a word.”
Clayton slumped in relief.
John drew back the sliding glass door. “Once I get Brad over here, you’ll tell him yourself.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“HOLD MY CALLS,” Vic Hagen said as he entered his office.
Her heart doing a rendition of a samba drum, Diana never thought to confront the man. Space existed between the wall and the file cabinet, and using a speed that surprised her, she’d wedged in between.
Too late, she realized her folly. If Vic sat at the conference table instead of at his desk, he’d look straight at her.
Calm down. The sheriff’s in the building.
She’d wanted information, and in her present location, she could be the proverbial fly behind the file cabinet.
That was, if Vic Hagen wasn’t guilty of murder. If he’d played any part in Leo’s death, she was in serious trouble. Her current position left her stuck tighter than an insect on flypaper. Best to stay hidden. She glanced at her watch. Surely the man ate lunch. When he left his office, so would she.
But damn, could it get any hotter? As sweat trickled from the wig and glasses, she wanted to rip the disguise off her head.
When Vic picked up the phone and keyed in numbers, she dared a peek beyond the cabinet. He sat at his desk, facing away from her.
“Where are you?”. . . “That can wait. Get up here.” He hung up, leaned back in his chair, and muttered, “Shit.”
With her muscles cramping, dust mites tickling her nose, and all escape routes nonexistent, all she could do was wait. The good news was, he hadn’t seemed inclined to leave his desk and wander the room. Resting his elbows on the armrest, he swerved in the chair. The tip of his shoe brushed over something white.
Diana’s heart reengaged its frenetic pace. No, no, no. The business card. In her haste to put the file back and hide, she must’ve dropped it again.
Whatever you do, don’t look down.
Two short raps came at the door.
She inched farther between the wall and the cabinet.
Vic’s voice sounded like a boom from a cannon blast. “Come in.”
“What’s up?” said a man with an unmistakable Hispanic accent.
“Shut the door. How’d it go?”
“All right. Tafoya asked some general questions, seemed really interested in your relationship with Neil, and asked if I knew Leo. When I said I didn’t, he let me go.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Ten minutes, tops. Why do you think I made his list of people to interview?”
“Good question. I was wondering the same thing. You haven’t mentioned any of this to Carmen, have you?”
Too bad she couldn’t snap her fingers. All at once Diana knew the visitor’s identity. Michael Montoya, Carmen’s soon-to-be ex-husband.
“Yeah, Vic. I told her all the details every night when we were in the sack. Hell, no, I didn’t tell her. Why do you think I’m divorcing her? I want my wife completely out of this.”
“Keep your voice down. I’m not accusing you, nor do I understand why you thought you had to leave your wife over this. I’m just curious where the sheriff is getting his information.”
“Maybe Leo went to the cops after all.”
“If he did, he’s braver than I thought he was. I put the fear of God in the little wacko.” Vic sighed. “Rather, Neil did. I convinced Leo that Neil Jordan could make people disappear.”
“Maybe he can,” Michael said. “From what you tell me, he was pissed at Leo and wanted to get rid of him.”
“As much as it would make my life better, Neil didn’t kill Leo. He’d have to take too much time from the profit and loss columns to do it, and I can’t see that happening.”
“Vic?”
“Yeah?”
“Where were you Monday night?”
The plant manager groaned. “All right. I guess I had that coming. On Monday, I tried once and for all to persuade Leo to quit. I promised him an excellent severance package and impeccable references if he’d forget about PR50. If he didn’t accept my offer, I promised to make his life fucking miserable.
“When I left him, he seemed ready to accept. But he was alive, Mike. The only thing I’m guilty of is covering our asses. I don’t make a habit of killing people.”
That statement worked for Diana, and she breathed easier. Now if only he’d explain the “cover our asses” comment and take a long lunch so she could feel her legs again.
“It had to be one of us,” Michael said. “How about Buddy? He’s the one who brought Leo to the plant.”
Buddy? Diana bit down on her lip. Buddy was in on all of this? He was a creep and a harasser, but a killer?
“Buddy brought Leo to the plant because I ordered him to. I wanted Leo to believe Neil had reconsidered and decided that Leo knew best.”
“So, you don’t think Buddy . . .”
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