Page 13 of One in a Million
Her words spilled out in a long sigh. “There was more to Darrin’s message. Frank’s preliminary autopsy was put on STAT and the results called in. The tox screen showed a high level of drugs, probably fentanyl, in his bloodstream. It’s a new case now.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Her nod was barely perceptible. “Frank’s death wasn’t an accident, Roper. It wasn’t a medical emergency. My husband was murdered.”
CHAPTERFOUR
Willow Bend, the next night:
In the overgrown lot behind the Blue Rose Motel, the muddy creek flowed as thick as Texas barbecue sauce. Mosquitos hovered above the murk, the hum of their wings blending in a high-pitched whine. Bats and night-flying birds darted among clouds of insects, catching prey in their gaping mouths.
The night was hellishly warm, the AC boxes on the old motel rusted out and hanging loose on their hinges. Not that the Blue Rose was a place where any self-respecting traveler would choose to stay; but according to the AAA guidebook, it was the only lodging within forty miles of the Culhane Ranch, where Agent Samuel Rafferty had orders to show up at first light.
In his thirteen years with the FBI, Sam had put in a lot of road miles. He didn’t usually have trouble sleeping, even in dumps like this one. Too exhausted to drive another mile without rest, and not wanting to arrive at the ranch before morning, he’d checked into his room, fallen into bed, and was drifting off when a new set of neighbors arrived next door, ready for an old-fashioned good time.
Sam already knew what to expect. He tried to ignore the amorous pair, but nothing could muffle the moans of pleasure, drunken giggles, and creaking box springs that filtered through the wall next to his head. He could pound on the wall or the door, but starting fights with intoxicated strangers wasn’t in his job description. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well get dressed and leave—even though, if he pulled off the road and tried to sleep in a small car that was too short for his long legs, he couldn’t expect to get much rest.
He slid his feet to the floor, shuffled his way to the bathroom, and shooed a swarm of mosquitos out of the shower before closing the plastic curtain around himself. The rusty water was barely lukewarm, but it felt good to sluice away the dust and sweat of the long drive. Before undressing for bed, he’d laid clean clothes over the back of a chair and taken his Glock out of his checked bag. Looking professional was part of a federal agent’s public image. And with miles of open country between here and the ranch, he’d be lucky to find anyplace else to clean up and change. Just one more rule for a newly arrived Yankee cop to relearn and remember.
He toweled himself off in the bathroom before opening the door. As he stepped into the room, the mosquitos closed around him like a blood-starved pack.
But something had changed. And it wasn’t the mosquitos. Sam strained to hear through layers of sound—the insects, the gurgle of aging pipes, the rustle of dry willow branches blown against the metal roof. What was missing?
As the answer dawned, Sam exhaled and shook his head. The moans of human lust that had kept him awake had gone dead quiet.
Irony tugged Sam’s mouth into a twisted smile. Wouldn’t you know? Just when you give up, what happens? The noisy lovers decide to take a break.
Maybe he should crawl back into bed and steal an extra hour of sleep. Lord knew he could use it. The transfer from Chicago—the memories, the losses, the shock of the divorce, and the recent death of his young partner had left him physically and emotionally drained.
But what was he thinking? Sam gave himself a mental kick. What he really needed was to hit the road and arrive at the Culhane Ranch on time and ready to do his job. Anything else could wait.
Minutes later, wearing fresh jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt with a light denim jacket, Sam picked up his travel bag and made a last-minute visual sweep of the room. Outside, the wind had risen. Sam could imagine it clawing like an animal on the front door.
As he tossed the room key on the bed and turned to leave, a powerful wind gust wrenched the doorknob out of his hand and slammed it inward against the wall. Sam lunged for the door and yanked it back. As the latch clicked, he saw that the same wind had blown open the door of the next room. With nothing to stop it, the door could rip loose and strike the neighbors, who were probably passed out drunk on the bed.
Sam called a warning. No one answered. Peering past the flapping curtains, he could see the empty, unmade bed next to the wall. There was no car in the lot except Sam’s rented Subaru. The mysterious lovers had gone as if they’d never existed.
Sam’s undersized compact Subaru stood alone on the far side of the parking lot, dwarfed by the huge willow tree that hung directly over it. One heavy branch swayed in the wind, threatening to fall and crush the car. Even now, Sam could hear the limb begin to splinter.
Instinct took over. His legs propelled him across the yard and into the car. As the gears slammed into reverse, he hit the gas full throttle. The limb barely scraped the car, but the Subaru became a swaying, tilting carnival ride that spun across the parking lot in reverse and came to rest in the bar ditch with Sam slumped against the door.
Time blurred . . .
Sam’s thoughts flew backward into the swirl of lights and sounds of the previous day; the flashing directional signs, the tread of a thousand feet on the worn tiles of the airport floor. The announcer’s echoing voice over the P.A. The food concessions, smelling of pizza, fries, and greasy sandwiches. The whiny voices of children begging for snacks.
The flight from Chicago’s enormous O’Hare International Airport to the pocket-sized Abilene Regional had involved three transfers—all of them either delayed or canceled. By the time Sam trudged down the last concourse, the weight of his wheeled carry-on dragging behind him and another, bigger suitcase waiting in Baggage Claim, he felt ready to drop.
At last Sam recognized a gray-haired senior, walking toward him with the shuffle of an old man who’d stayed up past his bedtime. Nick Bellingham, Sam’s boss in the old Chicago years, who had left for a promotion in Texas. Now he was months from retirement, and he looked it. Over time, the two men had kept in touch by phone and email, but face-to-face meetings had been rare. Now Nick had recommended Sam as his replacement and invited him to come to Abilene for an interview. For Sam, the timing couldn’t have been better. But he still needed to show his old boss that he could handle the job.
“Sam! You son of a gun!” Nick strode forward to greet the young rookie agent he’d mentored so long ago. “It’s a pleasure to see you. I swear that boyish face hasn’t aged a day.”
“Neither has your bullshit, old friend.” Sam chuckled. “But the face should improve after a few hours of shuteye. Just point me to the nearest bunk and bring me some coffee when it’s time to wake up.”
“I’ll buy you coffee on the way out of here. But sleep will have to wait. We’ve got a big case to wrap up before any of us can expect to get a wink—and that includes you, my friend.”
“Wait.” Sam stared at him. “You said I’d be coming for a job interview. What’s this about a case?”
“Oh, the interview’s for real, all right.” Nick appeared to be playing hide-and-seek. “Truth be told, it’s more than an interview. It’s an emergency.”