I drove home Saturday night thinking about the unanswered questions. It was still on my mind Sunday morning while I got ready for my second excursion to Canyon Ranch. My hair went back in a scrunchie. My lips received a halfhearted swipe of gloss. I zipped myself into a marine blue jogging suit with white stripes worn over a white tank and thrust my feet into laceless sneakers.
With more than an hour to spare, I brewed a pot of coffee and toasted a bagel for breakfast. All the while this whole business of the Roths’ estate kept churning around in my head.
Could Diane be the third and final target in a convoluted conspiracy to gain control of the Roths’ wealth through their grandchildren?
It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. As I crunched down on my bagel, I dredged up the details of an article I’d read years ago in one of my favorite glamour mags. The subject of the piece was the downside of great wealth. Sure, the rich and famous jetted off to Monaco and yachted down to Acapulco. They also had to contend with minor inconveniences like stalkers and kidnappers.
As a historical perspective, the article cited the Osage Indians in Oklahoma and what happened to them after the discovery of oil on their tribal lands in the late 1800s. Maybe it was the early 1900s. Whenever.
The point is the massive amounts of black gold pumped from their lands made the Osage the wealthiest people on the planet at that time. The story even included a black-and-white photo of an Osage woman in a stovepipe hat being chauffeured around in a Rolls. Reportedly, her oil revenues gave her the modern equivalent of fifty thousand dollars a day in spending money!
I remember idling away a fun if totally fruitless ten or fifteen minutes speculating on whether I could blow fifty grand a day. It would be a challenge, but I’m pretty sure I could do it. Filling an entire closet with Manolos and Jimmy Choos would certainly be a start.
But I digress. As the article pointed out, the Osages’ huge wealth made them a target. Greedy whites began marrying into the tribe to get a share of oil headrights. Worse, so many Osage parents were murdered by outsiders attempting to gain guardianship of their children that the period became one of the darkest in Oklahoma history.
Cut to today. A single mom with no close relatives other than her children. The same kids who stand to inherit what could be a sizable fortune. Kids whose only parent had already been the target of one near-fatal attack.
Mitch’s suggestion returned with blazing intensity. I couldn’t get the idea behind it out of my head. Who besides Trish and Joey would benefit from Diane’s death?
She must have executed a will and named a legal guardian for the children. The military ought to have access to that information. Maybe even have a copy on file. I was pretty sure she also had to designate someone to take care of the kids in the event she deployed again.
Not being a parent myself, I was a little hazy on that end of things. So I did what comes very unnaturally for me. I took my coffee and bagel over to my combination dining table/desk, powered up my laptop, and did a search of military rules and regulations.
Thirty seconds later I was staring at the title page to DOD Instruction 1342.19, “Family Care Plans.”
“Oh, gawd!”
The groan came from deep inside, a visceral response to the prospect of plunging into the convoluted maze of DOD directives. I still break out in hives whenever I think about the reports and regulations I had to battle through after my lab got torched. With great trepidation, I opened the PDF file for 1342.19.
Monster relief! This sucker was only ten pages long. The last one I had to slog through ran to fifteen volumes ! Happily, I crunched down on my bagel. A moment later, the crumbs turned to sawdust in my mouth.
“I should have known,” I muttered glumly.
DOD Instruction 1342.19 referred me to DOD Directive 4001.1, then to 1200.7, then 1315.7, then . . .
See what I mean about that maze?
A zillion regulations later I had verified that a Family Care Plan was, in fact, required by military couples with children and by single military members solely responsible for a child or an adult dependent. DOD Civilians who were subject to deployment and had the same type of family responsibilities were also strongly encouraged to execute a plan.
In the plan, the responsible member was required to designate a short- and long-term caregiver, then arrange to provide that person with necessary legal documents and financial support in the form of allotments. The caregiver in turn had to sign a statement indicating they fully accepted the responsibility.
The only kicker I could see in Diane’s case was that service members had sixty days to notify their commander of a change in circumstance, like divorce or adoption or the death of a spouse or caregiver. They then had another ninety days to devise and submit a new care plan.
The Roths were murdered in November. We were now in mid-February. So Diane may not have completed a new plan. Still, it was worth a shot.
Gulping down the last of my bagel, I rooted around in my purse for the cell phone Special Agent Blue Eyes had issued me. I pressed a key and had him on the video screen mere moments later. He was in a suit and tie, with a church choir belting out a hymn in the background. Grimacing, I apologized.
“Sorry to get you out of Sunday morning service.”
“Not a problem. What have you got?”
“Nothing yet. Just wanted to let you know that Sergeant Roth and I are spending today at a spa. I may have something later. In the meantime, how about checking her Family Care Plan to see who she’s designated to look after her kids in place of her in-laws?”
“Why?”
“I was thinking . . . We don’t know if Austin or his friends were involved in the attack on the Roths. We do know the kids are in line to inherit a portion of their grandparents’ estate. We also know Austin tried to kill Diane Roth. Might not hurt to check out whoever’s next in line to gain guardianship of the kids.”
“I see where you’re going with this. Only problem is, the children don’t benefit from their grandparents’ will for a lot of years down the road.”
“You know that. I know that. But Austin and friends might not have.”
“True. I’ll run a screen of her Care Plan. I’ll also check out who she’s designated as a secondary beneficiary on her SGLI.”
Well, duh! Why hadn’t I thought of Servicemembers’ Group Life Insurance?
All uniformed members of the armed forces were automatically enrolled in the low-cost SGLI insurance program. Unless a troop opted out or chose to reduce the entitlement, he or she was covered up to a maximum of four hundred thousand dollars, with additional coverage for traumatic injury while on active duty.
I’d designated my mother as my primary beneficiary, my sisters and brothers as secondaries. Given our family’s predilection for self-destruction, odds were half of them wouldn’t live long enough to collect.
Most likely Diane had designated her kids as primary. But who after that? And was the secondary beneficiary the same individual as the caregiver on her Family Care Plan?
While I mulled over the possibilities, a glint of approval came into Sinclair’s blue eyes.
“You put this whole string of possibilities involving the Roths’ murder together, Lieutenant. I like the devious way your mind works.”
“I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment.”
“That’s how it was intended. Ever think about becoming an agent with your Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations?”
“Good Lord, no! I’m feeling guilty enough as it is about all this sneaking around Sergeant Roth. Besides, I . . . Uh . . . Didn’t exactly put all this together on my own.”
The admiring glint vanished. “Who have you been talking to?”
“A friend. Actually, he’s more than a friend. Border Patrol Agent Jeff Mitchell. He helped bust a stolen arms operation and take down the creep who destroyed my lab some months ago. Comb-Ov . . . That is, Special Agent Hurst may have mentioned him when you and he
drove out to the site.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Mitch is one of the good guys, Sinclair. More to the point, he’s as familiar with the principals in the case you’re working as I am.”
I could tell by his tight-lipped expression he wasn’t happy and rushed to explain.
“Mitch and I were meeting for dinner the night Austin opened fire. He arrived on the scene, like, minutes after it happened and met Diane that night. He even picked up her kids from day care while she and I waited to give our statements to the homicide detectives. He was at the cookout I mentioned, too, the one where Diane’s neighbor told me about the Roths’ murders.”
I didn’t bring up the McDonald’s gig. That one was still stuck in my craw.
“And since Mitch is Border Patrol, he’s on the front line in the drug wars. I suspect he knows as much or more about the narco trade as any of you in D.C.”
“It’s possible,” Blue Eyes conceded, “although from an entirely different perspective.”
Perspective, my left foot! I started to ask when was the last time he got shot at. Or had to cut off all ties with his only child to keep her safe. Biting my tongue, I played nice instead.
“I’d like to fill Mitch in on what you told me. Clue him in to Austin’s suspected activities in Afghanistan.”
“Let me check him out first. I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay. In the meantime, I’ll go get seaweed-wrapped with Diane Roth.”
I drove to Diane’s place through light, Sunday-morning traffic. The temperature was already close to sixty-five, with a high expected in the mid-seventies. That’s one thing about El Paso in February. The nights are cold and starry but the days make up for it with plenty of sunshine.
Diane came out of the door looking bright and eager in a poppy-red jogging suit. I locked my car and we loaded into her new, silver-toned minivan.
“It doesn’t give me the safe, heavy feel of the Tahoe,” she confided as I buckled in, my nose twitching at its new-car smell. “But Trish and Joey love the swivel seats and play table. Guess I don’t have to tell you they went nuts over the DVD player and game station Mitch had the dealer throw in. And look at this navigation system. I swear it could plot directions to the moon and back.”
I kept my recent, frustrating experience with navigational systems to myself and duly admired the minivan’s accoutrements.
I’m not sure whether it was the spring morning or the new car or anticipation of a day of sinful decadence, but Diane seemed more chatty during the drive out to Canyon Ranch than she normally was. Or maybe my guilty conscience had kicked in and I was listening harder for nuances in everything she said. Whatever the reason, I didn’t contribute much to the conversation.
The one time I tried to steer it toward the subject of the kids’ guardianship I was sidetracked by the jack-rabbit that hopped into the road right in front of the minivan. Those of you who hail from somewhere other than West Texas may not be familiar with the local breed. There’s a saying out here that they come in three sizes—big, bigger, and stay the hell out of their way. I’ve also seen clay pots in the shape of the legendary jackalope, a cross between a rabbit and an antelope, complete with antlers and a saddle. I mention all this because the critter that jumped in front of the minivan was large enough to do a serious number on its shiny new grill.
Diane’s lightning-fast reflexes saved the day—and the lop-eared jack. I twisted around and saw the dark sedan some distance behind us almost go off the road as it, too, dodged the creature. When I settled back in my seat and commented on her swift reaction, Diane grinned.
“You spend nine weeks in MP training at Fort Leonard Wood. Then you live and work and go out on patrol with a bunch of guys who still aren’t sure women belong in uniform, much less on the business end of a grenade launcher. You learn to react fast in just about every situation.”
That gave me the opening I’d been hoping for. I wasn’t quick enough, however. Before I could ask about some of her experiences in Afghanistan and, oh, by the way, any heroin-related activity she might have witnessed, she preempted me.
“I’ve seen you in action, too. You move fast yourself, Lieutenant. They teach you that in wacko-invention-testing school?”
“I wish! Unfortunately, my team and I have learned pretty much on the job.” I paused for a moment before taking the next step in my Best Buddy campaign. “We’re off duty, Diane. Just two gals out to indulge in a day of sybaritic delights. Why don’t you call me Samantha?”
“I can do that. So, Samantha, tell me about your ex-husband.”
“Not much to tell. We met, we mated, we married in a moment of sheer insanity. Six months later we split.”
“Why?”
“The usual reasons. Hot sex, followed by more hot sex. Just not with me.”
“Bastard.”
We proceeded to compare notes on the shortcomings of our respective ex’s until we turned onto the long, curving drive that led to Canyon Ranch.
JON was thrilled to see us again. His mauve coat flapping, he rushed into the reception area and folded Diane’s hand in both of his.
“Sergeant Roth! Our very own heroine! I’m so glad you and the lieutenant decided to give us another try.”
After he and I did the two-handed thing, he led us toward the double bronze doors.
“Susannah’s so disappointed that she’s booked with another client, but Erik and I will see you two are very well taken care of.”
We pushed through the heavy doors into the airy, sky-lit forecourt and were immediately enveloped in a blend of subtle fragrances. Gardenia, I think, with just a hint of some exotic spice. Jon swept two embossed folders off the marble counter and passed them over as another mauve-robed attendant appeared from one of the treatment rooms. He was a blond, Nordic type, much bigger and considerably more muscular than his associate.
“Ah, here’s Erik.”
Jon made the introductions and presented us each with a folder before shooing us to our dressing rooms. For the second time in a little over a week, Diane and I occupied spacious cubicles extravagantly supplied with lotions, robes, slippers, and fluffy towels. Per Jon’s instructions, I stripped and cloaked myself in freshly pressed linen.
Properly garbed, I took a moment to glance at the printed agenda. It began with a Monticelli body treatment—hot and cold stones to stimulate reflex points, improve lymphatic flow, and detoxify the entire body. A deep-tissue massage would follow, then an Inner-C bath—whatever that was!—a lemongrass wrap, body waxing, and the grand finale of a lip bloom. Designed, I read, to give me softer, shapelier, plumper lips and a more inviting smile.
I could live with plumper lips. Still, I had to remind myself that this was all in the line of duty before I emerged and found Jon, Erik, and Diane waiting. She’d clipped back her pale blond hair and belted the robe around her trim waist. She’d also used the brief wait to secure Erik as her personal attendant. That left me with Jon, who manfully hid his disappointment behind a smile and a flutter of his wrist.
“First stop, the body treatment room. Right this way, ladies.”
Having hot and cold stones piled on your outstretched torso by industrious attendants doesn’t lend itself to the kind of personal conversation I wanted to have with Diane. Ditto the deep-tissue massage, which I have to say brought out a surprisingly sadistic streak in Jon. His manicured fingers dug, kneaded, rolled, and dug again. I alternated between gasping in pain and groaning with pleasure.
I almost crawled to the Inner-C bath. That, thankfully, turned out to be a gentle wave pool infused with active marine ingredients and silk powder.
“This will restore equilibrium to your entire being,” my personal sadist informed me.
After his pummeling, my entire being needed restoring. The wave pool helped, but it was the lemongrass wrap that truly corrupted me.
I stretched out on a table in another private treatment, this one draped with burnt orange and pale yellow batik. Jon whisked aw
ay my robe and left me only a skimpy, strategically placed towel before proceeding to revive my skin and my soul with a head-to-toe exfoliant. I was tingling with delight from that when he slathered on thick, silky lemongrass lotion.
“You need to lie here for twenty minutes while the moisture seeps into your skin,” he instructed. “This wrap will help seal it in.”
He swathed me from neck to ankles in thin, crinkly brown paper. Once I was properly mummified, he produced a set of wireless earphones and a remote.
“Classical music on station one, easy listening on two, soft rock and salsa on three and four.”
No heavy metal or hip-hop for the patrons of Canyon Ranch, evidently. I was fiddling with the headset when I heard Erik’s muffled voice issue the same twenty-minute warning in the treatment room next to mine.
I’d give her ten minutes to seep and seal, I decided. Then I’d casually saunter next door, brown paper and all. I used the interval to plot the perfect lead-in.
I would comment on how lucky we were that Mrs. Hall was available to babysit Trish and Joey today. I would follow that with a not-entirely-feigned concern over who would take care of the kids if Diane had to deploy again. From there I would segue into how tough it must have been for her to be separated from them so long in Afghanistan, especially with the hassle from her in-laws.
That was the plan, anyway. It fell apart when I attempted to sit up on the table. Still greased head to foot, I had to grab the edges to keep from sliding off. In my frantic groping, I almost missed the small, panicked grunt that came from the adjacent room.
When I finally got a robe around me and poked my head through the door, though, it was hard to miss the mauve-coated figure pinning Diane to the table with an elbow dug into her middle. Or the crushing force he was exerting on her windpipe with his other hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EVER try to take on a strangler while you’re buttered up like a Thanksgiving turkey and wrapped in brown paper? Trust me—it is not easy!
Now You See Her Page 13