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C HAPTER T EN

D arrin was reviewing case files when his wife walked into his office, unannounced. He gave her an annoyed look. “Simone, I told you to knock before you come in here. Can’t you remember anything?”

“Sorry.” She was flushed and slightly breathless. “I just got a call from Mariah. She saw something. Something that could be important.”

Darrin swiveled to face her. “All right. What did she say?”

Simone sank into a chair. “Lila went out at lunchtime. But she didn’t take the Porsche. She took the Jeep. When she came back, Roper came out of the stables. They got into the Jeep together, drove out of the gate, and turned left toward where his ranch is.” She paused for breath. “They were gone a little over half an hour. Then they came back and parked in the shed. He opened the door for her, touched her shoulder, and went back to work.”

“Interesting,” Darrin said. “But it all sounds pretty ordinary to me. I don’t understand why—”

“Don’t you see? He touched her shoulder. Touched her shoulder! She’s his boss. Why would he do that if it didn’t mean something? And they’d just been somewhere alone, plenty long enough to—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Darrin said. “I’ve still got to prepare my case against Lila.”

“But you might not need it. They’re lovers—and I’d bet my life that one of them killed your father. I’d rather it had been Lila, but I think it was more likely Roper. He wanted a chance to compete in the Run for a Million, and he wanted Lila. Now he’s got both. And his only alibi is his parents. They claimed he was home all night. You know they’d lie for him.”

Simone pushed out of the chair and stood quivering. “I’m going to call that FBI man right now. If Roper McKenna isn’t behind bars by tomorrow, I’ll be demanding to know why!”

* * *

Working in the bungalow, Sam sighed as Simone ended the phone call. He’d agreed with much of what she’d said—yes, it was possible that Roper and Lila were involved. And yes, it was possible that one of them, most likely Roper, had murdered Frank. But only possible. Nothing she’d told Sam was proof. As for the alleged affair, even if the two had been caught in bed together, any bearing on the crime would be circumstantial at best.

He needed evidence—blood, prints, a weapon, a witness, an admission of guilt, or something else of equal weight. When he’d explained all this to Simone, she’d ended the call in a huff.

Sam understood. He even felt sorry for her. She was pregnant and married to an abusive man who gave her no validation. Taking over the ranch house was likely her one hope of happiness. In her helpless condition, she was fighting for it any way she could.

At times like this, all Sam wanted was to throw up his hands and leave. But for him, giving up would be unthinkable. It wasn’t just that his reputation hinged on solving Frank Culhane’s murder. He wanted the truth. He wanted justice. He wanted honor. He couldn’t walk away. Not even to be with Jasmine again.

He’d followed every clue, done interviews and background checks on every suspect. What was he missing? He needed a breakthrough.

He was reviewing the notes from Mariah’s interview about Charlie when he heard a knock. After closing the computer screen, he got up from the table and opened the door.

Mariah stood in the doorway. She was shepherding two boys who appeared to be brothers, in their early teens. They were dressed in faded jeans with mud-stained knees. The smaller boy wore a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. The other boy was bare chested. Their feet were clad in worn, soggy sneakers.

Both of the boys were tanned and freckled with sun-bleached hair from long summer days spent outdoors. Their bicycles lay at the end of the driveway. Sam guessed that they were from one of the ranches that bordered the McKenna spread.

“These boys came to the house and asked to speak to the FBI man. They say they have something to show you.” Mariah, her duty done, turned away and headed back to her kitchen. Only then did Sam notice that the older boy was carrying something bundled into a damp gray shirt.

He ushered the boys inside, introduced himself, and gave them cold sodas to drink. “You must’ve had a long, hot ride to get here,” he said. “Let’s see what you brought to show me.”

The older boy handed Sam the rolled shirt. “We were fishing in the creek when we found this. Our mom said we should bring it to you.”

It occurred to Sam to wonder how the boys’ mother had known he’d be here. But this rural ranch country was not so different from a small town. Word would have spread.

Wearing latex gloves, Sam laid the shirt on the table and unrolled it to expose what was inside. His breath caught.

Lying amid the damp folds, coated with mud and moss, was a veterinary-sized hypodermic syringe.

Pulse galloping, Sam covered the syringe and turned to the boys. “Tell me exactly where and how you found this,” he said.

The older boy spoke. “Like I say, we were fishing in the creek—mostly for fun. There aren’t many fish there now that the water’s so low. My hook snagged on something. I waded into the water to get it loose. That’s when I saw this needle. It was stuck between two rocks.”

“How did you get it out?” Sam asked. “What did you touch? Did anything stick you?”

The boy shook his head. “I was careful. I used my pocket knife to work it loose. I just touched the end when I put it in my shirt. At first, I thought maybe some junkie had tossed it out of his car. But then I saw that it was too big for that. It looked more like something for a horse or cow. I took it because I didn’t want some little kid to find it.”

Smart lad , Sam thought. A find like this in the wrong hands could have led to a bad outcome. Had the boys just brought him the murder weapon? That remained to be seen.

He couldn’t count on the local crime lab for this. The syringe would have to be delivered, preferably by hand, to the FBI lab to check for any prints, DNA, and any trace of fentanyl. Given its muddy condition, finding anything useful would be a challenge. But even a small clue could crack this case wide open.

Sam drew a $10 bill out of his wallet. “I’ll need to keep your shirt,” he said, handing the boy the money. “This should buy you a new one. Now, what I want to do is drive you boys home and let you show me exactly where you found this. We can put your bikes in the back of my vehicle. All right?”

The boys nodded, clearly excited to be involved in solving an actual crime. They watched while Sam photographed the syringe, covered it with the shirt again, and zipped it into an evidence bag before stripping off his gloves.

“One more thing,” Sam said. “You need to promise me you’ll keep all this a secret. Not a word to your friends or anybody, understand?”

“Can we tell our folks?” the younger boy asked.

“All right. But they’ll need to keep the secret, too. It’s very important. Do you promise?”

Wide-eyed, the boys promised. Sam loaded the bikes into the back of the SUV, made sure the boys were buckled into their seats, and set out to follow their directions.

He knew the road. It was the one he’d taken when he went to interview the McKenna family. The creek, which flowed south, meandered on the right-hand side through a shallow wash. The creek was low in the dry summer, with boulders emerging from the water. Redwing blackbirds flitted among clumps of overhanging willow.

A sturdy wooden bridge, supported by thick logs, crossed the creek bed where a dirt road cut off to the McKenna ranch. Sam had driven across it when he’d visited Roper’s family. But at the time he’d paid the crossing scant attention. The bridge blended into the landscape as it likely had for decades.

They had driven past the bridge when the older boy touched Sam’s arm. “Stop,” he said. “It was here. I remember that dead stump by the water.”

Sam braked and pulled off the road. The bridge was a dozen yards back—a distance from which the syringe could have easily been thrown by a good arm or dropped into the water and washed downstream.

His heart drummed as he climbed out of the vehicle with his phone ready to take pictures. Roper McKenna had been high on his list of suspects. The horse trainer had just been moved to the top.

* * *

Charlie sat at his office computer, pasting the new photo of Jasmine the elephant into his website. He’d caught her at a moment when she was lunging at one of her tormentors with her ears spread like wings and her eyes blazing fury. The tusks he’d photoshopped into place made a nice addition, even though he would have to explain their absence later.

Of course, he’d cropped the bottom edge of the photo to hide the leg irons that kept her from moving more than a few steps. He’d also removed the log fence from the background and replaced it with a fiery sunset. The result was a dramatic photo guaranteed to stir the pulse of any big game hunter. Photoshop was a wonderful invention.

Bids to shoot the elephant were still coming in. Charlie knew enough about the market to single out the serious customers—hunters who were decent shots and wouldn’t freeze when the critical moment came. They would also need the cash to pay up-front.

With a click, he saved the photo to the page. This image should bring in even more high rollers. He would wait another week, then close the bidding and pick an offer that was both high and safe. With such a big, dangerous animal involved, he couldn’t afford to let anything go wrong.

Too bad Miss Jasmine Culhane wouldn’t be here to see her namesake go down. Charlie had lusted after Jasmine for years, ever since she’d sat in the front row of the high school algebra class he’d taught. But after she’d become involved with the animal rights group that had raided his ranch, he’d been cured of his obsession. He had her red Corvette as a consolation prize. And there were plenty of other women out there who’d appreciate a good man with money.

After sending the image out to his potential clients, Charlie shut down the computer, rinsed out a glass, and poured himself three fingers of Jack Daniel’s. Sipping, he meandered out onto the wide verandah and stood at the rail.

His kingdom spread before him, a modest stretch of untrimmed grassland dotted with clumps of sage, mesquite, and a few acacia trees he’d planted himself—not so different from the African savannah where animals such as lions, leopards, giraffes, and zebras roamed free.

Two vultures, then a third, circled against the cerulean sky, riding the warm updrafts. Charlie had never been to Africa. As far as he knew, neither had any of his clients. But he’d done plenty of reading—books by men such as John Hunter, Jack O’Connor, and Peter Capstick. And he’d watched all the movies. He was selling the big game safari fantasy. That meant making the experience as realistic as possible.

Ten years ago, when he’d first told his grandmother that he wanted to quit teaching and start a game ranch, the old woman had been horrified. She’d even threatened to disinherit him and donate the property to a nature sanctuary. These days, he seldom thought about the old woman. When he did, he wondered what she might think of her grandson’s successful business. Would she be proud or ashamed? But that no longer mattered.

A band of feral hogs trotted across the yard, as bold as you please. Almost a dozen sows, piglets, and rank, husky boars were so close that Charlie could have hit them with the toss of a stone. Attracted by the smells from the compound, the hogs were a nuisance. But since they were on his property, Charlie’s hired men could legally shoot a couple to feed the big cats. He would let them know, or maybe do the job himself.

Tonight he’d be turning out an aging lioness for the hunt. Her teeth were mostly gone, but she still had enough spunk to put up a fight. The hunter was starring in a new TV adventure series and wanted the experience of killing a dangerous animal. It would be Charlie’s job to see that he got his money’s worth.

After that, it would be time to prepare for the elephant shoot.

* * *

Sam drove back to Abilene with the syringe wrapped in the shirt and sealed in the evidence bag. The chain of custody required that it remain in his possession until logged into Evidence. And even without that rule, he couldn’t trust the mail service to protect it from loss or contamination.

After photographing the spot where the syringe had been found, he had driven the boys home and taken their fingerprints, along with their mother’s. The prints would be used to eliminate any that might be found on the evidence.

The task of collecting Roper’s prints from his truck in the parking lot had left Sam conflicted. Until now, he had liked and respected the man. Part of him still hoped to find Roper innocent. But he had a job to do. And assuming the syringe was the murder weapon, any trace of Roper’s fingerprints or DNA on it would make an ironclad case for his guilt.

Still, there were questions. Why would a man as smart as Roper dump the weapon so close to his home, where it could be easily found? Maybe he’d needed to get rid of it in a hurry. Maybe he’d been missed at home and someone had come out looking for him.

Or maybe he’d been framed. Maybe the real killer had dropped the syringe in the creek for a reason. Sam hoped the lab would find some answers. But there were no guarantees.

Nick met him in the parking garage. By then the workday had almost ended, but the evidence desk was manned around the clock. “So you think you’ve finally got a breakthrough,” he said.

“That remains to be seen.” Sam took the evidence bag, along with the fingerprint samples, out of a cooler in the vehicle. “I’m trying not to get excited until we hear from the lab. It’s spent weeks in the water, so we’ll be lucky to find anything on the outside. But there could be traces of fentanyl inside the syringe. That’s what I’m hoping for. That, and any DNA in the needle that could be Frank’s.”

“Let’s get this logged in and routed to the lab,” Nick said. “I can try to rush them, but they’re busy down there. You may not hear for a few days. Will you be staying in town?”

“I planned to drive back tonight. It’ll be late when I get there, but I’ve got a good place to stay. I can’t fault Mrs. Culhane for her hospitality, though I know she’ll be glad to see the last of me.”

“Well, a man’s got to eat. Share a pizza with me before you start back. There’s a good little place around the corner. My treat.”

“I won’t turn that down.” Sam sensed that his boss and former mentor wanted to talk. He was curious and more than a little apprehensive. Was he about to get some bad news?

After logging the syringe into Evidence, they left the building and walked to the small restaurant. It was early for the dinner hour, and the place was quiet. The décor was traditional, with red-checked tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, and travel posters of Italy on the walls. In their booth, Nick ordered a large deluxe pizza and two Michelobs to sip while they waited.

“Have you made any big plans for your retirement, Nick?” Sam asked.

Nick’s expression shifted, deepening the furrow between his thick gray brows. He shook his head. “Sometimes life has a way of making plans for you,” he said. “But never mind that. It can wait. What I want to talk about now is your case.”

“That’s what brought me here.”

“Do you expect to have it wrapped up soon? I’m asking because you can’t stay on that ranch forever. The bureau needs you here in Abilene.”

“I’ll have a better answer for you when we hear from the lab. If that syringe turns out to be the murder weapon, and it has any trace of prints or DNA, that should tell the story.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll keep trying. Somebody planned Frank Culhane’s murder and carried it out in cold blood. If you need to pull me off the case, I won’t argue. You’re the boss. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to quit on my own.”

“And you’re looking at the horse trainer?”

“Everything fits. If the evidence points to Roper McKenna, we’ll have our murderer.”

“What about Culhane’s widow? I get the impression they’re lovers. Could she have been involved in her husband’s death?”

“We can’t rule her out. There’s no evidence, but Frank was cheating on her. If we nail Roper, he might give her up under pressure. You know how that works.”

The pizza had arrived, heaped with toppings and still sizzling from the oven. Sam and Nick helped themselves to generous slices and waited a moment for them to cool.

“And the girlfriend? You told me she was pregnant.”

“That’s right. If Frank knew, and he refused to marry her or even support her, that would give her a reason to kill him.”

“I’m of two minds about that. But why would she kill the father of her baby, especially if there was a chance he’d change his mind later on? Besides, if the syringe turns out to be the murder weapon, it doesn’t make sense that she’d toss it in the creek. As far as I know, she doesn’t even know Roper.”

“What about Frank’s son? Have you cleared him?”

Sam took a bite of his slice, savoring the taste of sausage, onion, peppers, and melted cheese. “Darrin is still on the list. From all indications, he had issues with his father. And he hates Roper. If Darrin did kill Frank—or even if he didn’t—he could have planted that syringe to frame the man. I’m hoping the lab can give us answers.”

“And the girl? Frank’s daughter? Is she out of the picture?”

Sam willed his expression to freeze, betraying nothing. But Nick was looking at him as if he already knew about his secret relationship with Jasmine.

“She loved her father, and she had nothing to gain by killing him,” Sam said.

“But she could have been working for her mother. She’s with her mother now.” Nick drained his glass and leaned forward, across the table. “Be careful, Sam. The Culhane family is toxic. You’re a good man and I’d hate to see you get burned, especially when it could jeopardize your case and affect your career.”

Sam’s stomach clenched. He should have known that Nick would guess the truth. He was being warned before the axe fell.

“Thanks, I understand.” Sam hid his reaction as he helped himself to more pizza. “We were going to talk about your retirement.”

“Were we?” Nick hadn’t eaten much.

“I’m aware that you need me here,” Sam said. “I’ll do my best to make that happen.”

“Thanks. We’re shorthanded as it is, and I can’t bring myself to leave until you’re back. None of the other agents have the experience to run this place. If we can’t do our jobs here, we’ll be shut down. Everything will be transferred to Amarillo.”

“Can you give me a rundown on your case load?” Sam asked.

“Mostly the usual, not much different from Chicago. Drugs. Kidnappings and human trafficking across state lines. Conspiracy groups. Mob activity—and before you ask, I’m still trying to nail Louis Divino. I may have to turn that case over to you.”

Sam studied his old friend across the table. In the flickering candlelight, Nick looked old and weary. He appeared to have lost weight over the past weeks. Sam didn’t like what he saw.

“You’ve told me about the case load,” Sam said. “What can you tell me about yourself?”

Nick sighed. “You’ll find out sooner or later, so I guess it might as well be now. I’ve got prostate cancer, Sam. And it’s not the slow kind that can last inside a man for years. It’s a fast mover, already spreading. My doctor’s pushing me to start chemo. But first, I want to leave things here in good hands.”

The news struck Sam like a blow to the gut. How could that be right? Nick had always been so strong, so wise. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“Nick, don’t put this off,” he said. “I’ll quit the ranch and come back tomorrow if I need to. Your life matters ten times more than finding the person who killed Frank Culhane.”

Nick shook his head. “It’s my call to make. I’m scheduled to start treatment the first of September. I’ll be needing you here before then. Otherwise . . .” He left the thought for Sam to finish.

Sam calculated the time in his head. The need to be here and free Nick for treatment gave him just a few weeks to find Frank Culhane’s killer. If the lab found incriminating evidence on the syringe he’d turned in, the case could be wrapped up early. But he couldn’t count on that. He only knew that from here on out he would need to work harder and smarter. Otherwise he’d be forced to walk away with the case unsolved and his own reputation tarnished.

But in light of Nick’s illness, none of that could be allowed to matter.

“Don’t worry, Nick, I’ll be here,” he promised. “I won’t make you wait. But meanwhile, I’ll do whatever it takes to put Frank Culhane’s killer behind bars.”

* * *

Roper took the chestnut stallion from a full gallop to a perfect sliding stop. Fire Dance was a natural performer. He’d racked up good money for his owners. But learning to trust a new rider in a new place, especially after the attack from a rival, had taken time. At last, the horse was coming around. When he was good, he was flawless. The only question now was one of consistency. With the Run for a Million less than two weeks away, some intensive work lay ahead.

He walked the stallion around the arena to cool him, then dismounted and turned him over to a groom to be showered and put away. He still needed time with One in a Million, who’d be coming to Vegas as his backup horse. The big roan had settled down since his assault on Fire Dance. But it remained to be seen whether the two stallions could be trailered to Las Vegas together.

As a professional trainer, Roper was allowed to bring three horses. His second backup horse for the event was a filly, a daughter of Million Dollar Baby via embryo transplant to a brood mare. Her sire had been Blood Diamond, a stallion from the Four Sixes Ranch. Her registered name, Million Dollar Diamond, reflected her pedigree. But around the stable, she was known by her nickname, Milly. Already a futurity winner, with her mother’s white face and blazing talent, Milly was full of promise. But she was young and inexperienced—a long shot, if needed, to fill in for one of the stallions.

Waiting for One in a Million to be brought out, Roper paused to drink from his water bottle. From where he stood, he could see the house, with its patio and pool in the rear. He hadn’t seen Lila since yesterday when he’d brought her home after their talk.

He remembered the sensual magic of their long, deep kisses. Things were finally good between them, with the promise of more, Roper told himself. But a buried instinct whispered a warning. Something was just waiting to go wrong.

Maybe that was the trouble. Life had taught him that nothing could be counted on. And the higher your hopes, the harder you’d fall when fate came along to send everything crashing down around you.

For now, he would keep his distance, letting her come to him if she needed him. Lila had enough on her mind, with her fight to keep the ranch and the demands of Frank’s pregnant mistress.

He remembered the photograph Sam had shown him—the woman’s dark hair and her hand, bedecked with cheap rings and long fake nails, resting against Frank’s jacket.

Something clicked in Roper’s memory. He had seen her someplace else, and he suddenly remembered where.

The jail—he’d been waiting to speak with his brother, and she’d been there ahead of him to visit the prisoner in the next cell. He remembered the shouting and the swearing from the adjoining room before she’d stalked out and fled into the night.

Had she spoken to him on the way out? Maybe not. The memory had faded. But Roper was sure of what he’d seen—the hair, the nails, the rings . . . it had to be her.

He had to let Lila know.

* * *

After opening a bank account, Crystal had used her new debit card to get her hair and nails done at the beauty salon. She’d opted for eyelash extensions, too, even though she didn’t really need them. When she looked in the mirror, the woman gazing back at her was as glamorous as a movie star—well worth the money she’d spent.

She’d also spent a few hundred dollars on clothes and shoes. Not that Willow Bend had the classiest selection. She could do more shopping later at the big mall in Abilene. She was going to need maternity clothes, too, but that could wait. At least she wouldn’t be needing them for long.

Still driving Judd’s piece-of-crap car, she passed a white Ford Focus pulled off the road with a hand-lettered For Sale sign on it. She called the phone number. An hour later she was driving to the courthouse to register the title. Crystal was no stranger to cars. This one was in decent condition, and she’d talked the price down from $10,000 to $7,500. It wasn’t a Porsche like Lila Culhane had, but at least it was white.

She’d parked Judd’s car on the shoulder of the road and left it there. As far as she knew, Judd was still in jail, awaiting trial. The least she could do was tell him where to find the car. And she wasn’t above letting him see how far she’d come in the world. She would enjoy laughing in his face and walking away.

The waiting room at the jail was empty. After the woman at the desk patted her down and took her new knockoff designer purse, Crystal walked back to the room that contained the cells. Today, Judd was the only prisoner. Rumpled and unshaven, with a ketchup stain on his orange jumpsuit, he glared at her through the bars.

“Well, look at you, missy,” he said, sneering. “All gussied up like a hundred-dollar whore. Did you rob a bank, or find yourself a new sugar daddy?”

“Neither, you butthead. I’m making better choices, that’s all,” Crystal said. “I just came to tell you I won’t be needing your car anymore. It’s parked on the shoulder, out by the power station. I gave the key to the lady at the desk. You can pick up your old junker when you get out of jail, if it hasn’t been towed.”

For an instant, he looked as if he wanted to strangle her. Then his anger fell away. He gazed at her through the bars with the hangdog expression she’d once thought was cute. Now Crystal found it annoying.

“Come back to me, baby,” he said. “I wanted to die when you left me. Some rich old bastard can’t love you the way I do. Nobody can.”

“Go to hell, Judd.” Crystal turned and walked out of the room.

Behind her, she could hear him cursing, calling her every vile name a man could use against a woman.

She didn’t look back.