“Can you come over for breakfast? I want to make sure you’re all right.”
Cara glanced at Mitch. A sheet covered him from the hips down—darn it. But the view of his muscular upper body, his sleepy, smiling eyes, was highly enticing, too. Still, she didn’t have much choice. “Sure, Mom.” As Mitch’s hand began stroking her side, then rose to cup one breast, she forbore from sighing or moaning into the phone. Keeping her voice level, she said, “I’ve got…something I need to take care of here first, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
MITCH WAS LATE arriving at the department that morning.
He’d showered at Cara’s, which had turned into yet another irresistible interlude that kept the water running for half an hour. Maybe longer.
He’d followed her to her folks’ place, after extracting a promise that from there she’d go straight to the paper. Call him if anyone looked suspicious on the way. And stay there till they talked again. Better yet, till he came for her.
Then he’d had to stop at home, put on a fresh uniform, grab a cup of coffee and try to get his head on straight.
What had he done?
He’d let himself be seduced by that sexy little fireball Cara Hamilton. Let himself? Hell, he’d welcomed it. Jumped in with both feet and enjoyed every hot and hungry second of it.
They’d known each other days, not weeks. She was a victim and a witness in matters he was investigating. She was a reporter bucking against his need for confidentiality. What he had done with her was highly unprofessional.
And he’d do it all over again, given the chance. In fact, Cara and he had already discussed getting together that night and—
“Hey, Steele. You telling time by the sun these days?” Of course it would be Hurley Zeller who’d spot him coming in behind schedule. “There’s such a thing in our world as the clock, but that’s only in civilization. Something you know nothing about.”
“Cram it, Zeller,” Mitch growled. He knew better than to react, but he was reaching the end of his patience with Zeller and the sheriff’s tolerance of him.
Hell, he had little tolerance for Sheriff Ben Wilson, too. Suspicions notwithstanding, was he deluding himself into thinking he’d eventually find evidence to clear his father? Even his friend Assistant Attorney General Tim Bender seemed merely to be humoring him now.
Maybe he would just quit, once and for all. Get a job someplace where fellow officers really were civilized, instead of ignorant apes like Hurley Zeller.
Ignoring Zeller’s ugly grin, he edged past the others in the deputy admin room and slipped into the chair behind his desk.
Who was he kidding? There was no way he was leaving Mustang County till the Nancy Wilks matter—this case—was solved. And certainly not while Cara remained in danger.
And who knew? Maybe by the time he got that all wrapped up, he really would find the smoking gun to unearth the truth about his father once and for all.
Yeah, right. After two long years, some piece of evidence would drop from the heavens into his lap. Maybe Zeller was right about him and his Native American background. Of course these days, he figured that damned few Indians accepted that their Mother Earth or any other deity would drape miracles about them just for the asking.
Though maybe his mother did. He would have to track her down and visit her one day. Maybe then he would find peace with his ancestry. With her.
There was a large, sealed envelope on his desk, labeled as originating from the lab. He opened it. It was the report on the crime-scene analysis at Nancy Wilks’s place. Nothing noteworthy other than that the poor vic’s body had been found. No murder weapon. No fingerprints of potential suspects. All those identified had been accounted for as Nancy’s, Cara’s, friends with no motive or opportunity to murder and a maintenance guy hired by her landlord, the ill-tempered John Ayres.
There’d been no indication of a break-in. Nothing missing that anyone could tell. Nothing broken or trashed to indicate a crime of passion. Nothing identified as important enough that Nancy had called Cara to come over to see it in the middle of the night.
Nothing.
Not good enough.
Who were his main suspects? Well, only one person left at Lambert & Church could have done it: Donald Church. But what motive would he have had?
It all hinged on what Nancy wanted to show Cara. Something to do with a client? Linked to the two prior murders, Ranger Corporation was obvious. Too obvious? Still, he wouldn’t rule out Roger Rosales. But he wouldn’t ignore the possibility it was Shem O’Hallihan, either. The contractor was a nasty SOB who’d threatened Cara. And he had ties to Ranger Corporation.
It was long past time to pull this all together.
Mitch signed out on official department business and made sure the dispatcher knew he had his cell phone on in case anyone needed to contact him. Then he stalked out of the station.
Something at Nancy Wilks’s place would give a clue about who killed her and why. And Mitch was going to find it.
IT WAS CLEAR whose genes ruled Cara’s family. She had known that from when she was a kid, particularly when her brother, and then her sister, were born with fuzzy red hair. Hair that grew curly like hers as they got older. Like hers and their dad’s, Charley Hamilton.
Great hair. Unique hair. Cara loved it.
Their mom, Ada, had ordinary hair that was light brown way back when, but got progressively more blond as she grew older and more experimental. Now, it was a soft-platinum cap framing a face that was quite youthful for a woman nearly fifty.
Except when she frowned, as she did now, over the breakfast table at Cara. They sat in the roomy kitchen in the Mustang Valley house where Cara grew up, a sprawling ranch-style with bedrooms for each of them. Now just Cara’s folks lived there, and she was the only one of her siblings who remained in town. Her brother, Allen, was an accountant in Austin, and her sister Leona was studying for her master’s degree in Dallas.
“Is it true that poor Della Santoro got sick right in your office?” her mother asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Cara prayed the rumor mill hadn’t gotten wind of the suspected truth. But that prayer was short-lived.
“And it was from eating candy that someone sent to you? Poisoned candy?”
“People exaggerate, Mom. The stuff’s been sent to a lab, but there’s no reason to think—”
“Of course there’s reason to think it, or no one would suggest it.”
Cara met her dad’s eyes, pleading silently with him. But though he was usually able to get Cara’s mother to see reason, he looked as troubled as she did. “That truck nearly ran you over a few days ago, too,” he pointed out grimly. At least they didn’t know about the attack in the park. “Cara, whatever story you’re working on, it’s not worth it. Back off, will you?”
“I’ll be careful, I promise.” That sidestepped the issue, and her dad recognized it. He didn’t look happy. “How’s business?” Cara asked, hoping to change the subject. Her father was the successful owner of his own small furnace-and-air-conditioning company. Cara had helped with publicity from time to time, getting someone from the Gazette to interview her dad when something warranted an article.
“Fine, honey.” Her dad launched into a tale of how he’d fixed the air-conditioning at a local retirement home before the senior inhabitants fried in this heat, and hadn’t charged a cent. Cara made a mental note to make sure his altruism made the paper.
The rumor mill had apparently not gotten wind of her relationship with Deputy Mitch “Sexy” Steele. Thank heavens. She wasn’t sure how she’d deal with that. It was a business relationship, founded on a common need to solve poor Nancy’s murder. But as of last night it was a lot more. Though, where something as passionate as what they’d shared would go… Who knew? She had no idea where she wanted it to go, except to the nearest bed. Again. But once the murder was solved, then what? Mitch had made no promises. And neither had she.
Cara didn’t want to think about that. She’d tak
e things day by day. No, night by extraordinarily passionate night…
“Earth to Cara,” her mother said. “More pancakes, honey?”
“No, thanks. They’re great, though.” Their luscious blueberry scent still filled the kitchen. “I have to run.”
She gave them both a kiss, promised again to be careful and to call soon. And then walked outside.
She loved the comfortable, aging residential area where her folks resided. She still knew most of the neighbors. But right now she was glad she didn’t see any in their sun-scorched, browning yards. For, in the interests of finally solving the Nancy Wilks murder and hopefully finding its tie to the other local killings, Cara had come up with an idea worthy of Shotgun Sally. She was going undercover, and for that she needed a disguise.
She headed for the garage, where her father kept a lot of stuff related to his business, including uniforms.
Soon Cara would transform herself into a repair person for Mustang Valley Heating and Cooling.
Chapter Thirteen
Mitch parked his official vehicle at the curb on Caddo Street and approached the converted Victorian house where Nancy Wilks had lived.
He returned the cheerfully inquisitive greeting of Nancy’s upstairs neighbor Bea Carrow, but was glad the building’s bad-tempered owner John Ayres wasn’t around. He unlocked the door with a key from the file at the department and ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape.
The place smelled musty. He’d get the forensics technicians to make one more sweep after he’d gone over the scene himself, then release it to Ayres.
He strode straight through the pastel-colored entry and down the short hall toward the bedroom where Nancy had been found. There’d been no sign of forced entry, so she’d either shown her assailant into the room or run there from somewhere else in the house. That meant whatever she’d wanted to show Cara could have been anywhere…assuming it hadn’t been taken by her murderer—a big assumption. But Mitch intended to search the place minutely, just in case.
Mitch was a professional. He knew how to don detachment the way he did his uniform and Stetson, and the vinyl gloves he pulled on to avoid adding fingerprints in case a further sweep was needed.
But being in the bedroom that had once belonged to a living, breathing woman, a friend of Cara’s—it unexpectedly bothered him. Perhaps his background spoke to him here. Both backgrounds. His mother’s people believed in spirits, both human and animal. Was Nancy’s spirit still here, guiding him?
Or was it his father’s spirit—or his training as a peace officer—that led Mitch in his search?
He saw nothing out of the ordinary in Nancy’s bedroom. It looked like the refuge of a lonely woman, with books of all types on wooden shelves—biographies, romances, historical epics. The television was large and sat on a stand facing the bed. All were indications of a woman who slept alone.
In the bathroom Mitch scanned the sparsely filled medicine cabinet, the area beneath the sink with its cleaning supplies and female products. Nothing caught his attention. Still, he lifted each item, examining it, examining behind it. And then he headed for the living room.
It contained the usual furniture, plus more bookshelves. Mitch looked just as carefully through them all, again pulling them out to make sure nothing was behind them.
One book caught his attention. It appeared old, with a cracked brown leather binding. On the front was printed, The Legend of Shotgun Sally.
Hey, Mitch thought, Cara would be interested in seeing this.
Cara would be interested….
Hell, was this what Nancy had for her? Carefully, he pulled it out and thumbed through it.
That was when he noticed the anachronistic twist: some pages were tabbed with yellow sticky notes. Annotated sticky notes. Whose notations?
Whoever had made them, Mitch was all but certain this was what Nancy had called Cara about.
Thanks to spirit guides or detective skills or a combination, he’d found it.
And somehow it would lead to Nancy’s killer.
SHE SHOULD HAVE BORROWED one of her dad’s trucks, Cara thought as she strode down an alley off Main Street, a beat-up old toolbox in one hand. Of course, then he’d know she had the uniform. And he’d suspect what she was up to.
Her mother would have heart failure if she knew.
No, better this way.
She’d driven in a complex pattern, doubling back on herself to make sure no one tailed her. She also kept her eyes peeled for a blue pickup. When convinced no one was following, she dressed hurriedly at an empty rest room in a park outside town. That way, no one would notice that a woman with curly red hair wearing a long skirt went in, and a guy in a heating company uniform and cap came out—both holding the same filled gym bag. She was equally cautious driving back to town and parking in a church’s auxiliary lot that was deserted on a weekday.
She’d promised Mitch she’d go straight to work at her office after breakfast at her parents’. She had gone straight to work—just not at her office.
He’d be steaming. But as much as the earth moved beneath her each time they’d made love, it hadn’t moved so much that she’d suddenly become an obedient little mouse. She had a job to do, as he did. And even he would appreciate it if she found something useful for his case.
I have my own lawman lover, Sally, she thought delightedly. And just as Sally and her man Zachary Gale had done, Cara and Mitch were working together to solve a murder.
A newspaper woman and a deputy, sharing information and more while the world was led to believe they hated each other’s guts.
I think I’m in love, Sally, Cara thought. What would Shotgun Sally say to that?
Cara could almost hear her say, “Nothin’s sweeter, gal, than havin’ a man who can do more than shoot good waitin’ for you at home.”
Wiping the grin off her face, Cara headed for the lovely old building that housed Ranger Corporation and other prestigious businesses. It wasn’t the busiest block in town, and at midmorning she was the only person on this side of the street.
At the aging granite building’s outer door, she walked in, head down as she checked her watch for the time.
She’d already called and asked for Roger Rosales. The receptionist, Erma, had said he was out at a meeting, and Cara had extracted from her that he wasn’t due back until eleven o’clock—could he return her call then?
She’d thanked Erma and said she’d call back herself. Instead this workman was appearing in Roger’s absence.
At the reception desk, Cara prayed that Erma, whom she’d met when she’d visited before in her own clothing, didn’t recognize her. Her voice low and gruff, she said, “I’m with Hamilton Heat and Air. The building manager wants the air-conditioning checked in Mr. Rosales’s office. He must have complained.”
Fortunately Erma, a spreadsheet extended in front of her, barely looked up. “He didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. She nodded toward the nearest closed door. “Go ahead.”
Cara obediently went into Roger’s office, glad her hands were too full to pat herself on the back. That would be premature, anyway.
This time she wouldn’t have to read the files upside down.
Had Shem O’Hallihan been angry enough about her questioning him that he’d had someone attack her, then try to poison her? Had it been Roger Rosales himself? Cara was determined not to be scared off, especially for Della’s sake. She was going to find out who wanted to stop her from researching her article. That way she’d also learn who’d harmed her friend.
She couldn’t count on having the full hour till eleven o’clock, so she hurried, every once in a while clumping and thumping in a way that she hoped sounded as if a workman was testing the cooling system.
There was nothing useful she hadn’t already seen on top of Roger’s rich mahogany desk. There were no file cabinets in this executive office, either. She tested the desk drawers. Fortunately, they weren’t locked.
The deep one on the right side contained
files. She rifled through them until she found one that looked promising. Yes! It contained a chart of Ranger Corporation and its subsidiaries. Among them were the ones she’d hoped to confirm as being connected to Ranger: Eastern Mustang Property Acquisition and Texas Mustang Valley Sites, the companies that had gobbled up some of the property around Bart Rawlins’s ranch outside town.
Then, Ranger was making inroads into acquiring land. Why? What was its development going to be?
Was it important enough to trigger three murders?
No business deal could be that important.
Cara glanced around. Unfortunately, there was no photocopier. She’d have to steal the paperwork.
As she folded the page to stick into her toolbox, another subsidiary’s name caught her attention: Juniper Holdings. Where had she heard that before?
She quickly closed her toolbox and went out the door. At the reception area, she mumbled to Erma something about everything looking fine, then headed outside.
As she hurried toward her car, she glanced at her watch. She’d been quick. Fifteen minutes to spare.
How long, though, would it take Roger to notice that the Ranger Corporation family tree was missing?
She got into her car and started the engine. What she’d done wasn’t exactly legal. Should she tell Mitch, anyway? Probably, since it could be evidence to show the extent of Ranger Corporation’s dealings in Mustang County. And Ranger’s name kept cropping up in relation to the first two murders.
Besides, it would give her a good excuse to see Mitch. She couldn’t wait to be with him again after last night, and—
Mitch! Oh, heavens. Cara suddenly recalled where she had heard the name Juniper Holdings before. It was the company from which Sheriff Martin Steele had been accused of accepting bribes two years earlier. Supposedly, Juniper had been engaged in a lucrative illegal scheme involving theft of water rights, and to get the sheriff to look the other way, it had paid him a lot of money.
Lawful Engagement - Linda O Johnston Page 17