by Sheryl Lynn
Pete snagged him as soon as he entered the station. “You know that question you asked me yesterday? About the Indian school?”
“My office.” Carson closed the door. “You found something good?”
“Four years ago, February tenth to be exact, an anonymous donor dumped a shoe box full of cash on the doorstep. Ten thousand bucks.”
“I’ll be damned.” Carson leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands over his stomach, amazed as much by Madeline’s selflessness as he was by Bannerman’s snitch telling the truth. “You’re sure it was anonymous? They weren’t playing cagey with you?”
“I talked to Joey Bando, tribal police. I trust him.”
“Have a seat. You aren’t going to believe this,” Carson said.
Wanda opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Lieutenant Imagia is on the phone, Chief.”
She could have buzzed the intercom, but Wanda did not consider a closed door a hindrance.
“Thank you.”
Wanda sniffed in indignation. “State police best not be sticking their noses into our arson investigation.”
“Thank you, Wanda, that will be all. Close the door, please.” He picked up the phone.
“I passed Shay’s vitals to a friend of mine in Las Vegas,” Paul Imagia said. “Witnesses can’t ID his mug shot and there aren’t any fingerprint matches.”
Carson slouched, disappointed. Frank Shay had come up with ten large somewhere, but an anonymous snitch wasn’t enough evidence to put him in the middle of a thirty-million-dollar heist.
“However,” Paul said, “I did some checking into Shay’s arrest down in Phoenix. He was arrested less than a week after the hijacking. According to the arrest report, Shay was buying rounds and throwing around hundred-dollar bills like play money. He took a dislike to a biker type and refused to buy him drinks. That’s when the fight broke out. Shay damn near killed the man with a pool cue.”
“Was any of the money taken into evidence?”
“Nope. But it gets better. Shay posted his own bond, in cash. One week later he actually shows up for court and, against the advice of his attorney, pleads guilty. Didn’t even try for a plea bargain. I talked to the D.A. who handled the case. He says he’s never had anyone do that.”
Carson doodled a fanciful question mark on the desk blotter. “Let me get this straight. He gets busted for a charge even a half-asleep public defender can plead down to a misdemeanor. Instead he bonds out, actually shows up and risks having the judge come down hard on him for being a habitual offender?”
“Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I know you, Carson,” Paul said. “You don’t do anything on a whim. Why are you trying to connect Frank Shay to the hijacking?”
“A fraud investigator received a tip from one of Shay’s former cell mates. The insurance company is convinced Shay got away with the money. If he stashed it on the ranch, it explains why he had a delivery van and why he went trigger happy.”
“Who rats out a cell mate to an insurance company? Why did the insurance people contact you? Why not the FBI?”
“I still haven’t figured it out exactly,” Carson said. “Something to do with finder’s fees. To top it all off, we just recovered a body from the Shay house.”
“Homicide?”
“Looks like it.”
“Who’s the victim?” Paul asked.
“Don’t know yet. Allegedly, two hijackers escaped with the money. Frank Shay and Deke Fry. Maybe Fry is our John Doe.”
“Hold on, I’m writing this down.”
“They left behind the ringleader at the plane. He was killing all the witnesses, including his accomplices. So Shay and Fry were running from the law and the ringleader. The snitch said Shay was scared.”
Paul snickered. “So Shay gets himself thrown into the slammer on purpose? He was hiding?”
Carson turned the idea over, looking for holes. There were plenty. He kept coming back, however, to the fact that from age twelve to the day he died, Frank Shay had spent more time inside penal institutions than out. Prison was familiar, even comfortable. He could have done three years without breaking a sweat.
Three years was long enough for the hijacking case to grow cold and for the ringleader to tire of looking for the men who had ripped him off.
“Can you find out who Shay’s cell mates were during that last stint in Lewis?”
“I’ll do one better, Carson. I shoot pool once a week with an FBI agent. He’s a good old boy, for a fed. He can pull strings you and I can’t even see.”
Carson worried about Madeline. Bad enough she couldn’t go back home, but half the town of Ruff was gunning for her and the other half was hoping the sheriff would arrest her. Every question he asked, every person he involved upped the risk of media involvement. If reporters got wind that Shay had buried thirty million dollars, all hell would break loose. Treasure hunters would swarm over the Shay ranch. People might think Madeline knew where the money was hidden.
“Can you hold off for a while, Paul? At least until we get some confirmation? I promised the insurance guy I’d protect his source. Do you have any contacts in Lewis?”
“A few. But you know nothing ticks off the feds faster than local yokels trespassing on their cases.”
“If I get any hard evidence, I’m more than happy to dump it.”
“Roger that. I’ll get back to you.”
Pete slapped both hands atop the desk and hoisted to his feet. “What in the world is going on?”
“Just between you, me and these walls, it’s possible Frank Shay stole thirty million dollars and buried it on his ranch.”
Pete looked ready to mop the floor with his chin. Carson almost laughed. He revealed Shay’s possible role in the hijacking, including the part about Shay giving Madeline the ten grand, telling her he won the lottery.
“So that’s why she turned up,” Pete said. “Talk about winning the lottery.”
Carson covered his eyes with a hand. “No, man, no. She’s getting ready for an art show. She doesn’t know about the hijacking.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“What about the body under the house?”
“She doesn’t know anything about that, either.”
“So where did she take off to?”
Pete had been a cop for nearly thirty years and Carson’s right-hand man for the past eight. He depended on Pete, and he trusted him. “My place. I don’t want anyone to know.”
Pete was pushing fifty, but his hair was shiny black without a trace of gray and his mahogany-colored face bore few wrinkles. His smile was boyish.
Carson drew his head aside. “What are you smirking at?”
“Madeline Shay is quite a looker. Pretty as a spotted pony at sunrise.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Carson lied. Heat crept over the back of his neck.
“Right.”
“Can it, Pete. I’m keeping her safe until we catch the knuckleheads who tried to burn her up.”
Pete scratched his head. “Guess it escaped my notice that you’re one for putting up witnesses in your own house.”
Wanda opened the door, again without bothering to knock. “That pesky salesman is back,” she hissed. “Whatever he’s selling, I hope you ain’t buying.”
“Send him in. Oh, and Wanda.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles. “That’s what I want to hear before I see your face next time.”
She sniffed haughtily. “Spoken like a man who don’t know how to do right by a woman.”
Pete grimaced quizzically at the dispatcher’s comment. Carson suspected Judy had spread her tale of woe. How long, he wondered, before Judy’s story turned into a sordid tale of a perverted chief of police abusing an innocent housekeeper before turning her out into the cold, cruel world.
Bannerman entered the office. His suit, so crisp a few days ago, was wrinkled and limp. A purplish splotch stained his necktie. He recoiled from Pete and turned
a pleading look on Carson that brought to mind a starving puppy. “Can I please have a word with you, Chief Cody?”
“Close the door, Mr. Bannerman. This is Sergeant Morales. I don’t keep secrets from him.”
“You promised!” If Bannerman had stamped his foot, the petulant child act would be complete.
“I promised to protect your source, sir. So far I’m doing that. Now have a seat.”
Bannerman dropped onto a chair. He fiddled with his shirt cuffs and the buttons on his jacket. “You know why it is imperative that I keep my investigation quiet.”
“Sergeant Morales won’t run around the Shay ranch with a metal detector and a pickax.”
“My job—”
Carson held up a hand. “The situation has changed. It is no longer possible for me to act as your liaison and guide. Did you see the newspaper? We found a body. If anyone does any digging at the Shay ranch, it’ll be law officers, not you.”
“I asked you to help for a very good reason,” Bannerman said.
Carson thought the reason might be that Bannerman believed a small-town cop was greedy enough or stupid enough to keep a little matter like thirty million dollars just between the two of them. He wavered between feeling insulted and amused.
“I want the name of your informant,” Carson said.
“I told you I don’t know.”
“You’re lying, sir.”
Bannerman puffed up and his eyes widened into moons. “Mutual Security and Assurance has policies,” he said, as if invoking the name of his employer held special power.
“I don’t care about your policies, sir. You can give me the name or you can give it to the FBI. Failure to do so could be construed as obstruction of justice.”
Bannerman squirmed. “I don’t know his name.”
“If your company intends to give him a finder’s fee, you can figure out who he is.”
“Our policy—”
Carson slammed a fist on the desk. Bannerman jumped and cringed. “I don’t give a damn about your policies! I’ve got dead people, major crimes. If you can’t or won’t cooperate, then you better find some muckety-muck in your company who will.”
“Mutual Security and Assurance doesn’t like threats.” He lifted his pointy chin and resettled his eyeglasses with a prissy motion. His hands trembled. “We have lawyers.”
“I have handcuffs and a jail cell.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Give me the name of your superior and I’ll ask him.”
“Don’t you worry,” Bannerman said. “You’ll hear from him shortly. Good day.”
Carson had a hunch he’d be hearing from a corporate attorney rather than an executive. It didn’t matter. Paul Imagia could run down a name long before Bannerman spilled his guts. “Oh, and Mr. Bannerman, sir.”
Bannerman opened the door, but he stood there, watching warily over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“You put one toe on the Shay ranch and I’ll charge you with interfering with an investigation. Understand?”
Dark fury flashed behind the thick lenses of the little man’s glasses. As long as Bannerman behaved himself, Carson didn’t care.
The air in the office seemed cleaner after Bannerman had left. Carson hauled in a deep breath.
“What a pissant.” Pete snorted. “Company policy, my sweet Maria. Are you scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Hard to believe he’s a fraud investigator. Pretty squirrelly.”
“That’s what he says.”
“How much is the finder’s fee?”
“Didn’t ask. It doesn’t matter. This office doesn’t accept rewards.”
“Ah, come on now, Chief. I can think of two old cowboys right off my head who have too many hard miles on their pickup trucks.” Pete barked a loud laugh. “How would a person even start spending thirty million dollars?”
He sent Pete back to the Shay ranch to keep an eye on the investigation and help in guarding the crime scene. He busied himself with routine paperwork, but it was hard concentrating on parking violations and petty-theft complaints when his head was filled with death and destruction and trying to fit all the puzzle pieces that were Frank Shay into a coherent whole.
He went off duty at six o’clock. Once out of town he drove faster than usual. When he got stuck behind a tractor hauling a hay wagon, he drummed the steering wheel with his fingers and watched for an opportunity to pass. He was reaching for the siren when he realized how impatiently he was acting. It wasn’t like him to hurry unless it was an emergency.
Eagerness transformed into dread when he approached the house and found it dark. The sun barely touched the mountain peaks. The sky mellowed to dusky blue and the shadows were heavy beneath the porch roof. Rosie pranced along the fence, snorting and tossing her head, foolish as a filly.
Carson stood for a while, listening. In the distance, crows traded cackling gossip and closer in, a cactus wren complained. Nothing seemed out of place. He unsnapped his pistol holster before he fit a key into the lock and opened the front door.
A savory, meaty scent wafted on cool air. His stomach growled so loudly he clapped a hand over it. The swamp cooler rumbled. The house was quiet and gloomy.
Eyes wide, ears straining, he crept to the kitchen.
The smell of roasting meat, rich and peppery, set his mouth to watering. A red pinpoint of light shone from the stove, indicating the oven was on. Madeline sat at the table, hunched over so her nose nearly touched her work, her hands deft and sure as she sewed beads.
The kitchen window faced due east. At this time of the evening it may as well be night. Carson cleared his throat.
Madeline started. Her eyes were luminous. Her full lips parted.
She’s a looker, Pete had said.
In the gloom, her bruises and cuts weren’t obvious. What was obvious was the perfect oval of her face, the long, elegant line of her neck and the shining depths of her eyes. His breath caught in his suddenly thick throat. He grew aware of his own heartbeat.
For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he noticed. Jill was the love of his life, the only woman he had ever wanted, and she was gone, so there would be no more.
That didn’t stop him from drinking in Madeline’s smooth, honey-hued skin and imagining how that glossy black hair would slide between his fingers in a waterfall of silk. Trapped by a yearning he couldn’t control, didn’t want and could not deny, he was rendered useless.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come home.”
Her voice brought him back to reality. He flipped the light switch.
Madeline blinked and looked around. A smile captured her entire face, making her eyes sparkle and creating a dimple in one cheek. “I can’t believe how dumb I am! I forgot completely you have electricity.”
“It’s one of them newfangled inventions,” he drawled. “Got me some runnin’ water, too.”
She wrinkled her nose in mock annoyance. “Let me slide the biscuits into the oven. The potatoes went bad, but I saw a box of instant mashed in the pantry. Will that do?”
“You making gravy?”
“I am.”
“Then we have to have potatoes. Do I have time to change clothes and tend the mare?”
“Certainly.”
When she pulled the roasting pan out of the oven and slid in the biscuits, he watched her slender hips and the graceful lines of her long arms. She could catch him staring like a schoolboy. He made his feet move. Delicious aromas followed him upstairs. His appetite was yelling like a Fourth of July shindig. This past year, eating had been like sleeping, something that needed doing, despite a lack of interest. Jill was a fair cook, but to her it was a chore the way yard work was a chore for him.
His mother was a terrific cook. For years she supplied restaurants in Ruff, Snowflake, Show Low and Springerville with fruit pies, quick breads and cinnamon rolls. Before Mom and Dad retired to Lake Havasu City, Jill had jumped at every invitation to eat at the senior Cody’s house. Her favorite meal was OP
C—other people’s cooking.
He had changed clothes and gone outside to the barn before it occurred to him that he was reminiscing about Jill without hurting. He fed and watered Rosie. His belly growled so loudly, the mare flicked her ears. “If you were a carnivore, you’d understand,” he told her before hurrying back to the house.
The roast beef was dark, so tender it fell apart at a touch. The carrots and onions were caramelized. Biscuits in a basket were golden brown, fat and flaky. A bowl of Three Sisters—beans, corn and squash—steamed. The only lumps in the gravy came from bits of meat and cracked pepper. Even the instant mashed potatoes looked good.
Madeline poured a big glass of iced tea and added a slice of lemon. She placed it on the table and a long strand of black hair unfurled over her shoulder. He squeezed his hands against his thighs, resisting the lure of her hair. She stood shyly a few feet from the table.
“Did you already eat?” He plucked a biscuit from the basket and slathered it with butter. Don’t look at her, he warned himself. Look at the food.
“No.”
“Then grab a plate and join me. Please.”
She sat, but he soon figured out she wouldn’t start until after he loaded his plate. She didn’t move at all until he forked beef into his mouth and practically purred. It tasted even better than it smelled.
“Whoa, Nelly,” he said. “I’m surprised some man hasn’t roped you to his stove. This is incredible.”
Smiling, she spooned Three Sisters onto her plate.
“You don’t have a boyfriend to cook for?” As soon as the question slipped out, he wished to reel it back in. It sounded condescending and nosy. Worse, it made him sound interested. Which he was, but he didn’t want to be and he sure didn’t want her to know it.
She split a biscuit and drizzled it with honey. “I’m lousy at picking men. It’s like I wear a sign saying Jerks Welcome Here. I’m better off putting my energy into art.”
Her frankness flustered him. He focused on the food, which wasn’t difficult since his mouth was celebrating.