“He’s an errand boy, not a killer.”
I’m getting into computers and moving up around here. Wasn’t that what he’d told her? Had the mailroom employee taken ambition way too far, thinking he could impress these people?
“What about Murdock or Walt Bingham? They could’ve done it.”
Keep talking. This line of conversation made the numbness in her legs almost bearable. But, damn, she wanted to clear her throat. When was the last time someone vacuumed around these cabinets?
“Mike, listen to what you’re saying. You make it sound like we’re professional hit men. None of us are killers. We were dragged into this. And to think Allen Murdock could kill someone?” Vic’s laugh was sardonic. “After he heard about Leo, he puked his guts out. I told him to go home.”
“I feel the same as Allen,” Michael said. “I didn’t sign on for murder. I may have organized the crews, but that’s it. I want out. You can keep the money. Even if I have to leave the company, all I want is my wife back.”
“You’re as crazy as Leo,” Vic said, his salesman-like approach gone. “There is no ‘I want out of this.’ We don’t stick together, and don’t see this thing through, we end up in a federal penitentiary. I’m not going to prison. Are you?”
A silence as dead as Leo invaded the room.
“All right then. Show some balls. You’ll get everything I promised and your wife back. But you’re not done until I say you’re done. Got it?”
If Michael gave a verbal response, Diana didn’t hear one.
“Schedule another crew.”
“All right,” Michael responded reluctantly. “How many drums?”
“Four. After we dispose of this final load, we’re on the straight and narrow again. No one can touch us, and we’ll make sure this never happens again.”
“I hope you’re right. Okay, I’ll schedule the run for next Wednesday as usual.”
“No. It has to be tomorrow night.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Does this face look like I’m kidding? That sheriff asks for federal assistance, the EPA will swarm this place. If they find those drums, all the other dumps will have been for nothing.”
Drums, dumps? The pieces fell like shattering glass at Diana’s feet. Could the men in the room hear her heart pounding, her teeth chattering?
Leo had contacted her because Jordan was dumping.
Thanks to Vic’s talent for terror, Leo hadn’t felt free to go to Neil. If Vic was telling the truth, she still didn’t know who had killed Leo, but suddenly everything she and Brad had witnessed in the researcher’s apartment made sense.
“What do you know about Diana Reid being in town?” Michael asked.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, even as her heart sank. Her greatest fear had been realized. The minute she left this room, she’d go to her mother. If Clayton sought his revenge, Faith would need Diana more than ever.
“Never heard of her. Who is she?”
“Woman who used to live here. Big-time reporter now. I heard a couple of deputies talking downstairs. Said the sheriff hauled her ass off to jail last night.”
“What’d she do to get arrested?”
“Beats me. But I heard them say she spent most of the night in interrogation until she left with Brad Jordan.”
“Jordan? Damn, Mike. I don’t like this. No wonder Tafoya knew as much as he did. That sheriff’s been getting information from a reporter. Leo must’ve been talking to Reid.”
“What’re we going to do?”
From the shuffling noises going on inside the room, both men appeared to be moving. Huddling as far back as possible, she might have uncovered details about them, but just as rapidly, they were discovering facts about her.
“For one thing, we’re gonna stay cool. You say she left with Jordan?”
“That’s what the deputies said. But it still doesn’t explain why the sheriff wanted to talk to me. My job had nothing to do with Leo’s, and he didn’t know I was involved.”
“Wonder if Susan knows why Diana Reid’s in town.”
Diana lifted her eyes to the ceiling. All hell was breaking loose. If these men didn’t dispose of her body, Susan surely would.
“Get going. Schedule that crew, then go about your work as usual.”
“Okay. But, I’ll need the number.”
“Right. Give me a sec. It’s in my file.”
Here it came. Sweat drenched Diana’s body. At any moment when Vic opened that drawer, he’d see the card on the floor. He’d recognize that someone had gone through his files.
She trembled violently.
“That’s weird.”
“What?”
“The card . . . it’s not here.”
“You’re sure?”
“See for yourself.”
“Here it is, Vic, on the floor.”
“Dammit, Mike, I’m getting careless. All right, here you go. Tomorrow night. If the interpreter gives you any shit about no notice, promise him extra money. Tell him five hundred per worker. That’s a fortune to these men. Have a crew waiting at the rendezvous site at midnight.”
At yet another close call evaded, Diana drew air into her lungs. Still, her mind continued to race. The interpreter? She looked down at her palm. She’d written the number of the go-between on her hand.
Michael Montoya was no doubt necessary because he spoke Spanish. I organized the crews. These goons had hired Mexican nationals to dump a toxic chemical.
People are going to die, and Jordan Industries has everything to do with it.
Liz’s patients had no doubt developed a rash due to exposure. It all made sense now.
Speaking of exposure, with the amount of dust mites in this place, her nose had started to run. She prayed these two would finish their illicit business so she could report them, send them to prison, and most of all, get the hell out of here.
“Just a minute.” The wheels rolled back in Vic’s chair. “Before you go, I have something for you.”
Diana winced as she heard him approach, striding to the armoire on the back wall across from her. He opened the cabinet doors, which, extended, prevented her from being seen.
Closed, however . . . Diana’s heart thundered in her chest. All she could hope was that after he shut them, he wouldn’t turn toward the file cabinets upon returning to his desk.
“We couldn’t have gotten through this mess without you,” Vic said, his gaze alighting on Diana in her crouched position as he shut them. “I think . . .” Envelope in hand, he blinked as he obviously spotted her. “Mike . . .”
Coming to her feet, she grabbed Hagen’s glass Manager of the Year award and lamely prepared to defend herself.
Michael appeared at his boss’s side, his expression fading from curiosity to absolute shock.
“You’re no mailroom worker. Who are you?” Vic said.
“Who I am is not important.” Diana swallowed hard. “What is important is that I’m going to leave this room or scream my head off and let everyone know what you’ve done.”
Vic narrowed his gaze. “You’re that reporter.”
“That’s right, and Sheriff Tafoya knows where I am,” Diana said, omitting the small fact that she’d told Brad and not Gray. “If I don’t walk out that door, he’ll come looking for me.”
Neither man budged. She remained trapped between them.
Vic finally lowered his head. He stepped aside. “It’s over, Mike. Do as she says. Let her go.”
Before her eyes, Michael’s youthful face seemed to age. “Lady, you got to know we didn’t mean for any of this—”
“When I make my report to the sheriff, I’ll make that clear. Now, let me out of here.”
Michael started to move out of her way, but sensing her one and only bre
ak, she shoved the award into his chest. As Michael stumbled backward, she sprinted for the door.
Unfortunately, Vic beat her to it. He drew back his fist.
Gripped by panic, she stiffened. What followed was a blinding white pain, followed by blackness.
Chapter Thirty-two
IN THE FIFTEEN years that Dusty Acres had been in existence, Brad knew the residents had seen nothing like the scene unfolding on Allen Murdock’s property.
On this blistering West Texas day, cruisers with flashing lights, emergency vehicles, police photographers, and videographers went about their business, while onlookers trampled Jolene Murdock’s carefully-tended flowerbeds.
Brad learned fast that the position of mayor held little sway when it came to a criminal investigation. Relegated to the role of bystander, he was told to stay put and out of the way, a directive he had no problem obeying.
Gray secured the crime scene, then ordered deputies at Jordan Industries to stand guard outside Lab Ten until a warrant could be issued to confiscate Allen’s computer, files, and personal effects.
Finally, the medical examiner and the sheriff left the barn, and made their way toward Brad who stood with Murdock’s widow. Brad’s arm solidly around Jolene’s shoulders, he’d held her while she cried.
Gray shot Brad a commiserating look before he spoke to her. “My condolences, ma’am. I’m gonna give you time to collect yourself, but then we’re gonna need to talk.”
Jolene pressed a tissue to her nose and nodded.
A deputy, barring spectators from entering the crime scene, stood nearby.
“Terry,” Gray called. “Ask Fielding to take your place. Escort Miz Murdock back to her house.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy said. Seconds later, Terry and another coworker exchanged duties, and he led Jolene away.
“Miz Murdock say anything to you?” Gray asked Brad, when the two were out of earshot of the others.
“I heard a lot of whys, but nothing coherent,” Brad said. “Dammit, Gray, what the hell’s going on? Does someone out there have a vendetta against chemists?”
“You’re assuming Murdock was murdered then.”
“I didn’t see a note.”
“Nope. But suicide victims don’t always leave one. Didn’t you smell the alcohol? Murdock’s body reeked.”
“To tell the truth, as soon as I saw the body, I hightailed it out of there. I don’t think a full thirty seconds elapsed before I called you.”
“A dead body can have that effect on you,” Gray said.
Brad frowned. “Pretty early in the morning to start drinking.”
“Not if he was drinking to forget,” Gray said.
“You think he heard about Leo and decided to drown his sorrows?”
“Either that, or maybe Allen Murdock killed Leonard Winters and didn’t want to spend his retirement in prison or live with the guilt. That grave was a good ways off the road and under a whole lot of brush. If that dog hadn’t sniffed him out, Leonard’s body would still be out there undetected.”
Brad removed his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his brow, and put them back on. “When I spoke with Mrs. Murdock, she didn’t say a thing about her husband being on edge. I’m guessing a man who’d committed murder would be out of sorts.”
“One with a conscience,” Gray admitted, glancing out toward the barn. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Eleven, why?”
“Let’s get some photographs of your soles. The dirt floor in that barn makes it impossible to get casts.”
“Any sign of a struggle?” Brad asked.
“Clothing’s intact, no apparent bruising, and the abrasions around the neck are consistent with suicide.”
“You’re not seriously thinking Murdock killed himself?”
Gray tugged his Stetson low over his brow. “Tell you what, Mr. Mayor, I won’t run city hall if you stay out of my official investigation.”
At Gray’s brush-off, Brad took no offense. He would’ve said something similar if he’d been called to speculate. But if Allen Murdock had killed himself, why wasn’t Brad relieved? After all, guilt pointing to someone else positively ruled Neil out as a suspect.
Still, the whole set-up didn’t feel right.
“Why’d you come out here anyway?” Gray asked.
“Diana suggested it. Said Murdock called in sick. Thought I might find out what he knew.”
“That’s a fact,” Gray said. “I had him scheduled for an eleven o’clock interview.”
“Anybody at the plant opening up around you?”
Gray smirked. “Not much. Often it’s what they don’t say that intrigues me.”
The barn doors swung open, and paramedics brought out the body already bagged and on a stretcher. Gray turned in the direction of the ME who paced several feet away, talking on a cell phone.
The rotund physician, wearing oversized pants and a straw hat, disconnected and sauntered toward the van. “Thanks, boys,” he said, once the paramedics had loaded the deceased into a hearse. Then addressing Gray, he added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
Brad watched the ME drive away and wondered what came next in the investigation. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Let’s retrace your steps,” Gray said.
As much as Brad loathed reentering that barn, the sheriff gave him little choice.
A photographer snapped digital images, a fingerprint technician lifted prints from black dust, and footsteps overhead indicated that even the hayloft wasn’t immune to scrutiny.
“You touch anything?” Gray asked.
“You’ll find my prints on the door.” Brad stepped farther into the barn, now aired out considerably and lit by a county-provided generator. “Oh, and you’ll find them on that rake.”
Gray eyed the long-handled instrument leaning against a stall. “Why’s that?”
“Damn thing was in the middle of the entryway. Almost put my foot through it.”
“Show me where, exactly.”
Brad pointed.
“You placed it over here, then?”
“Yeah. Didn’t occur to me I’d be disturbing a crime scene when I moved it.”
Hooks and racks along the south wall held lanterns, shovels, a pitchfork, and myriad equestrian products. Allen Murdock had been as organized as his wife. Had Gray made the same observation? Brad couldn’t resist commenting, “I don’t think Murdock would’ve left it lying around like this.”
Gray’s only response was to nod.
From the hayloft, a deputy shouted, “Sheriff, we got something.”
Shaking hay from his uniform, the man tried to stand, but his head butted up against the ceiling, causing him to hunch.
Gray climbed the ladder. A lifetime passed, and when the sheriff said, “bag ’em,” Brad’s insides quaked.
Interference be damned, he wanted to know. “What’d you find?”
“Empty Jim Beam bottle and a black binder.”
A breath caught in Brad’s throat. “The journal from Leo’s apartment?”
“So it appears. And an additional coil of rope. Still convinced it’s murder?” Gray asked. “This man has guilt written all over him.”
“Mind if I see your shoes, Mayor Jordan?” a tech asked.
Using a column for support, Brad removed his footwear.
His task complete, the tech handed Brad back his shoes. Then, appearing somewhat mystified, the photographer met Gray as he descended the ladder.
The two spoke in hushed murmurs, until in a louder voice, the sheriff said, “I’ll be damned.”
Brad approached. “What is it?”
“What it isn’t, is suicide.”
Despite the sw
eltering barn, and even though he’d suspected as much, the conclusion chilled Brad to the bone. “Just minutes ago, you thought otherwise.”
“No signs of force, alone in his barn with a bottle of booze, a diary, and a rope, someone had me goin’.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Marvin, bring your camera over here, will ya?”
The tech returned and opened up a frame on his digital camera. On each individual shot, a shoeprint was captured.
“Okay, I give,” Brad said, examining the enhanced screens. “Is this supposed to tell me something?”
“Look closer,” Gray said.
Comparing the images, Brad noted that each had a circular emblem in the center. He narrowed his gaze. “They’re the same shoe.”
“That’s right. And they’re all yours,” the sheriff explained. “As a matter of fact, every single footprint in this barn is yours.”
“What the . . . that can’t be right. Well, of course, mine would be in the barn, but there should be others. How about Allen’s? Jolene’s? Are you saying—”
A smirk tugged at Gray’s lips. “I’m saying whatever genius did this made a critical mistake. That rake you stumbled over? My guess is our bad guy used it to get rid of footprints. When he eliminated his own, he wiped out the victim’s. Check this out.”
Dismayed by this newest revelation, Brad followed the sheriff to the yellow taped-off quadrant.
In the restricted vicinity, and attached to a beam, a rope swung overhead. Noticeably missing anywhere in the roped-off area were footprints.
“Someone worked real hard to make us believe this was a suicide. But even if Allen Murdock climbed up there, tied the noose, and tossed himself over, his footprints should still be somewhere in the barn, particularly leading to the ladder of the hayloft.”
Careful not to touch the black and yellow plastic separation, Brad squatted beside it. His prints, the one with the circular emblem, stopped at the tape. “These are obviously mine. Hell, I’m beginning to think I did it.”
“You’re not that crafty,” Gray said. “And if you did, you went to an awful lot of trouble to make sure all the evidence pointed to you.”
Glancing up, Brad caught the faintest hint of a smile.
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