Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  Caity hadn’t yet clicked her seat belt into place. Reaching over, he did it for her. “Tell me everything you remember about your private conversation with Dutch,” he said. “If this is about Cindy’s diary, and the killer thinks Dutch has it, he may suspect that we know what’s in it. Otherwise, I don’t see the killer’s motive for coming after us.” He turned to her and took her by the hands. “I know you care about Dutch. And I know this case is bringing up feelings of helplessness about your father.”

  He waited for her to protest, but she didn’t. She kept her gaze steady, listening intently.

  “But we have to be smart about this. We have to consider every angle without personal prejudice. And that means we have to admit the possibility that Dutch killed his wife. And that he might’ve orchestrated that carbon monoxide leak. I’m tempted to call Jim, fill him in on what’s happened, and send you back to Dallas for safekeeping . . .”

  Her face flushed. He was glad to see she had enough oxygen in her system to turn pink, even if it was because she was pissed. “While you continue to put your life in jeopardy –and your career? Absolutely not.”

  “Take it easy. I said I was tempted. But I won’t send you back. Until I know who tried to kill us . . . and why . . . there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me, Caity.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m just reminding you to stay alert. Right now, I don’t trust anyone. Not even Dutch.”

  She cast her eyes down to her lap, and the healthy pink in her cheeks drained away. He wished it’d been safe to stay at the hospital longer. “You don’t look so hot.”

  She waved off his concern. “I’m fine.”

  “Let me rephrase. You make warmed-­over death look like the after picture.”

  “I promise I’m fine—­physically.”

  He squeezed her hands then released them. “I don’t know what that means, babe. Are you upset about something else? Does this have anything to do with what happened between us last night? Because if you’re having second thoughts . . .”

  She leaned over and pressed her fingers against his lips. “Shh. No second thoughts.”

  He let out a relieved breath.

  “It’s just . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He didn’t push her, but the apprehension in her voice, the way her pupils had dilated set his pulse racing.

  “We can trust Dutch,” she said at last.

  “I disagree. I understand you like the guy. More than I do, for sure. But don’t be naïve. His wife cheated on him. He knew about it, and now she’s dead. He was among the last to see her alive, and he discovered the body. Forensic experts say the blood spatter on his shirt is consistent with blowback from a gunshot. He fled town just when he was about to be charged. He lied to the police about Cindy’s keeping a diary, and he probably has it with him now. You can’t tell me that if you didn’t know him, if he weren’t with the FBI, that you wouldn’t like him for Cindy’s murder. I’m sorry to say it, but you have a blind spot because of your father. But this isn’t the same thing at all. No one is framing Dutch.”

  “You don’t know that. You said yourself, this could be about something much bigger than marital infidelity. I don’t believe he killed his wife.” She unhooked her seat belt and turned to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “And I know he didn’t try to kill us.”

  “Then you must know something I don’t, because . . .” The look on her face made him stop midsentence. “You do know something I don’t. What the fuck aren’t you telling me, Caity?”

  Her lower lip trembled, but she made no answer.

  “For God’s sake. Someone just tried to kill us. I’d think that if you had any information at all, you’d have told me already.”

  She looked away, then back again, with moist eyes. “You’re right. And I was wrong.” Her throat worked in a long swallow. “Spense . . .”

  “I’m waiting.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, suddenly fed up. There was no excuse for her withholding anything about this case from him.

  “Dutch is your half brother.”

  She was looking at him so intently, for a second he thought she was serious. Then he shook his head. “That’s the strangest attempt at a practical joke I’ve ever heard.” Not to mention the timing sucked. Then a thought occurred to him. Confusion was one symptom of carbon monoxide poisoning. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand. “You sure you feel okay? No headache or nausea? You don’t seem feverish.”

  She just stared at him, as if expecting some sort of delayed reaction. “I’m not crazy or confused. Your father had an affair with Yolanda Langhorne that started before you were born and continued until the time of his death.”

  His throat tightened ominously, but his mind fought back. “Caity, that’s ridiculous. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I’m thinking maybe we should go back to the hospital and have your carbon monoxide levels rechecked.”

  Her eyes didn’t drop. They seemed clear, not confused. His head, on the other hand, felt fuzzy. He reached in his pocket for his Rubik’s cube. It wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on her words, stripping away all the emotion that was getting in the way of evaluating them. “You’re serious.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re telling me that Dutch Langhorne is my brother—­and that my father was a-­a . . . lying, cheating bastard.”

  Her eyes widened, and she grabbed his hand.

  He shrugged. He’d evaluated her statement calmly, and it still made no sense. “That’s impossible, Caity.”

  “I don’t think it is.” She folded her hands in her lap, finally dropping her gaze.

  “If Dutch told you that—­”

  “He did.”

  “Then he was lying—­and you just swallowed his story hook, line, and sinker. What proof did he offer you?”

  “I figured it out on my own. I’m the one who asked him how you two were related. I didn’t ask for proof.”

  “You figured it out, how?” He narrowed his eyes, concentrating, wondering what the hell she could mean. He and Dutch were polar opposites. That’s why they didn’t get along.

  “The two of you are so similar . . . you’re both brilliant and stubborn. You’re built the same, your features are almost identical. Your mannerisms . . .”

  “We look nothing like each other. We are nothing like each other.”

  “It’s hard to notice at first, because of his red hair and blue eyes. But if you look past the coloring, you’ll see it. The similarities are striking. Didn’t you ever notice anything familiar?”

  His jaw clamped down. “No.”

  “Because I sure did. And I couldn’t quit thinking about where I’d met Dutch before until I suddenly realized the two of you had to be related somehow. Spense, he has the same birthmark on his ankle that you do.”

  Anger flooded his system, replacing his initial astonishment. She actually believed Dutch was his brother, and yet she’d kept it to herself. The whole idea was preposterous, and clearly a lie, but if she believed it to be true, she should’ve come to him. “When did you have this epiphany of yours? Wait, don’t tell me. It was the night the two of you had a private party and got rip-­roaring drunk.”

  “Yes. Except, we were only a little drunk. I’m not denying the whiskey, but don’t misunderstand. We had our wits about us. That night, I found him in the study—­holding a pistol to his head. An empty one, but still, he was grieving. He truly loved Cindy, in spite of all their issues. I cannot believe he killed her. I do not believe he killed her.”

  “If he loved her, he sure had a piss-­poor way of showing it. And even if he did, love is a fantastic motive for murder—­in fact, it’s the most common one.”

  “No, Spense. You’re confusing obsession with love. But I didn’t get tha
t feeling from Dutch. I believe his love for Cindy was genuine, and I don’t think he would’ve ever hurt her. Real love requires forgiveness and selflessness.”

  He didn’t know how much longer he could keep sitting in this car without punching the windshield. “Get the stars out of your eyes, Caity; they’re blinding you. And more to the point, you’re avoiding the real issue. If you honestly believe what Dutch told you about my father is true, then why the hell haven’t you told me before now?”

  “I was wrong not to tell you.”

  “You’re goddamn right you were wrong.” He laid his hand on the center of the steering wheel, and the horn blared. “Everything about this is wrong. All those hoops I jumped through for you, proving myself to you, waiting day after day, week after week for you to trust me—­to take me at my word. Now I come to find out, after we made love, Caity, that you’re the one hanging on to a big fat earth-­shattering secret. It’s not true, but the point is you think it is, and you damn well should’ve told me.”

  Silent tears poured down her face, and any other time they would have softened his heart, but not now. Not today. He’d trusted her, believed in her, and she’d betrayed him. “If this really were true, Caity, just think of the consequences of not telling me.” His heart squeezed painfully.

  She looked at him, and he could read the anguish in her eyes. “If someone is avenging a loved one by attacking Dutch’s loved ones, then if it came out that the two of you are brothers, it might put you in danger. That’s the main reason I didn’t tell you. But I was wrong.”

  His lungs stung from breathing the air in the car. He got out and jogged toward the trees, faster and faster. From behind, he heard Caity running after him, calling his name.

  Dammit, it was hard to breathe. The carbon monoxide had weakened him more than he’d realized. And if it was hard for him to breathe and run, it might be flat-­out dangerous for Caity. She was smaller, and her carbon monoxide levels had been higher than his. She was chasing him, and that had to stop now.

  It wasn’t safe.

  He pulled up short, and she slammed into him, almost knocking him over. He put his arms on hers and shoved her away, keeping her at a distance, but still supporting her, not letting her fall.

  “I’m sorry. So, so sorry. I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid, and I didn’t think it was my place. I thought it would be better for Dutch to tell you himself when the time was right.”

  “That doesn’t play with me, sweetheart. Your loyalty is supposed to be with me, not Dutch.”

  “My loyalty is with you. And that’s exactly what I told Dutch. But he convinced me that someone might be out to get him. That Cindy’s murder had something to do with his past. Maybe someone was seeking revenge or . . . he wasn’t exactly sure.” She pushed his hands away. “You can believe me or not. But I think that’s why Dutch ran away. Not because he’s guilty but because he’s trying to protect you. To keep you from being dragged into this.”

  Spent, he dropped down on the ground and rested his arms across his knees. “If you think this information will somehow endanger me, why tell me now?”

  “Because we’re already in danger. Someone just tried to kill us. Now I understand the real risk was in not telling you. I was afraid of how you’d react, but I should’ve trusted you. You didn’t have a complete set of information, so how could you hope to predict the killer’s next move? I wanted to tell you so badly, but I-­I didn’t think you’d be willing to keep up the lie, and that would make you a target. I was wrong—­but I can’t undo my mistake.”

  He couldn’t swallow, and his chest was tight. His breath came out in short, wheezy spurts. And something besides Caity’s betrayal was gnawing a hole in his gut. Someone wanted them dead, and he didn’t have a reasonable explanation as to why.

  A small voice whispered in his head that this was possible.

  Maybe an old enemy from Dutch’s past was seeking a twisted form of revenge. Stranger things had happened.

  “It’s not true,” he muttered, but this time, he knew he was convincing himself, not Caity. “It can’t be true. My father was a good man. A good husband.” He paused and spit bile from his mouth. When he was a boy, his father was his world.

  Jack and his shadow his mother used to call them.

  “Dad taught me right from wrong. He was my conscience, my moral compass. How could he teach me to stand up for the truth if his whole life was a lie?”

  Caity reached out her hand to him.

  He turned his face away. “And how can I ever trust you again when you’ve lied about something this important?”

  “I-­I don’t know. And I understand you want proof. I suppose, if I hadn’t seen that birth mark, if I hadn’t sensed the connection between you and Dutch so strongly, I would’ve asked for some kind of evidence.” He heard her breathing heavily. “There’s someone else who knows the truth. Someone you trust.”

  “Not my mother. I’m not going to her until I know for certain this isn’t some crazy scheme to make me . . .”

  “To make you what?” she asked. “If Dutch is trying to manipulate you with false information, why would he swear me to secrecy? But don’t worry, I’m not talking about going to your mother with a question like this.”

  “Then who?” His head felt so heavy, he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it up.

  “Jim Edison. If you don’t believe Dutch, I’d suggest you ask your father’s best friend.”

  “I can’t ask him now, and you know it. Not when I’m going directly against his orders to stay out of the case.”

  He let out a low moan.

  There was someone else who knew the truth.

  And they were headed to her ranch right now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday, October 18

  8:00 A.M.

  Near Caddo Lake State Park, Texas

  THE WIND CARRIED the smell of manure to Malachi’s nostrils. The nearby wetlands infused their soggy flavor into the east Texas air, and there was no way to stop it from landing on your tongue. Even if you kept your lips shut tight, the stuff would make its way down your nasal passages and eventually wind up in your mouth. Some said it tasted like earth, but the plain truth was the air here tasted like shit. He didn’t mind, though, because it was that same dankness that made everything here green and fertile. Looking around, he thought about how this spread would make good farmland. But from what he could tell, Yolanda Langhorne wasn’t much of a farmer. He’d seen an old cow or two in the pasture, and some chickens, but no crops. He wondered what a woman was doing out here on a washed-­up ranch in the first place. Maybe she’d moved out here with her man, and he’d left her high and dry—­or around these parts, you might say high and wet.

  His shoes made a slurping noise with each forward step.

  He smiled. Though Malachi didn’t enjoy killing—­he didn’t enjoy anything, really—­he found satisfaction in doing something the right way. So he was looking forward to his work today. He wiped his palms on his slacks, leaving red-­brown mud streaks on the sides. He could tell by the color, that stain would never come completely out of the fabric. No matter. These were his killing clothes, so he was going to have to burn them anyway. He’d come prepared with a change of outfit in the car.

  The natural-­wood ranch house up ahead had a ground-­hugging profile, long low roof, and attached garage. The place was old but kept up. That and the cows in the pasture meant there would likely be a ranch hand around somewhere. Malachi scanned the horizon and spotted a barn about one hundred yards back from the house.

  Despite the early hour, the sun was blazing, and perspiration dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped his brow with a hankie he got from his jacket pocket. Today’s job required him to dress the part. Normally, he liked to make a good appearance, but it was too hot out for a suit. He was definitely on the right track. He’d find Dut
ch Langhorne and the diary soon enough. He only wished he didn’t have to sweat to do it. Stuffing the soiled handkerchief back in his pocket, he passed the house and headed for the barn. He arrived at the entrance, pressed his back against the open door, and carefully edged over until he could peek inside. A Hispanic man, probably in his early thirties, whistled as he mucked out a stall.

  Malachi let the door swing open and stepped squarely into the entrance. He could feel the warm light of the sun pouring over his shoulders, spotlighting him, and he imagined that from the perspective of the ranch hand, who’d now turned to face him, he must seem like one of those apparitions ­people were always claiming to run into around here.

  “You lost, mister? Can I help you?”

  Mild disappointment rippled through him at the man’s unfazed reaction. Malachi listened intently, and heard a rickety, unpleasant sound coming off the ranch hand. No special treatment needed here. Reaching beneath his jacket and behind him, Malachi gripped the butt of his pistol, which he’d stuffed in his waistband. He drew, aimed, and fired. For obvious reasons, his pistol was equipped with a silencer, so only a faint pop accompanied the muzzle flash.

  The man’s expression froze in confusion, as if he literally didn’t know what had hit him.

  No reason not to be polite to the target. “I shot you,” Malachi explained.

  The man grabbed his gut, sank to his knees, then fell sideways.

  Malachi turned around and headed back toward the house.

  By the time he’d retraced his steps, he was feeling content again, despite the heat. Maybe he did enjoy killing after all. The front door to the house stood open. He tried to pull open the screen door, but it was locked. He knocked on the frame.

  “Be right there, Francisco,” a female’s cheery voice called out.