Читать книгу The Sheriff Of Heartbreak County - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 9

Ten years later, in Montana…

The body lay as it had fallen, arms outflung, eyes staring into the wide Montana sky fabled in story and song. Except for the hole in the center of his forehead the expression on the victim’s face was one familiar to all who knew him, an arrogant smirk that held no traces of fear or surprise.

Clearly, Jason Holbrook had not expected to die.

Not today, anyway, and for sure not like this, thought Roan Harley, duly elected sheriff of Hart County. Gunned down in his own driveway on a cool spring day like a mean and dangerous dog, which, come to think of it—and the sheriff knew he wasn’t alone in this opinion—described the victim pretty well.

“Tom,” he said gently to the deputy breathing heavily over his right shoulder, “if you’re gonna puke, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d find someplace away from the crime scene.”

“No, I’m good,” Deputy Tom Daggett said, a little too quickly and breathlessly for the declaration to be entirely reassuring. He glanced over at Roan, blushing right up to the band of his Stetson. “It’s just…I’ve never seen anybody shot dead before. Not like this. It’s…different, you know?” There was an audible swallow.

Roan did know. To be truthful, he hadn’t seen anybody shot dead before either, except for crime-scene photos in forensics classes he’d taken in college and a few refresher courses after getting elected sheriff. And his deputy had it right—all the car wrecks, hunting accidents and bar fights in the world didn’t do much to prepare a man for violent cold-blooded murder.

“In that case,” he said to Deputy Daggett, “hunker on down here. Tell me what you see.”

Frowning earnestly, the younger man squatted on his heels beside the body. “Okay, uh…you got two—” he coughed self-consciously. “I mean, the victim appears to have been shot twice—once in the head, and then here, in the chest. Right in the heart, looks like. From the, uh, condition of the, uh…the size of the exit wound in the back of the head…maybe a .38?”

“More likely a .45,” the sheriff said, nodding his approval. “Okay, so what do you think happened here, Tom?”

The deputy tilted the brim of his Stetson back and looked around, squinting in the bright morning sunshine. “I don’t know, seems pretty straightforward. Looks like the shooter was waiting for him when he came home. Ol’ Jase gets out of his truck, starts for the house, and bam.” He shook his head, his enthusiasm returning with his confidence, now he was over the worst of it. “The guy must have been right there in front of him—shot him in the chest first, then made good and sure with the head shot. Doubt Jase even saw it comin’.”

Roan shook his head. “Oh, he saw it, all right. Just didn’t believe it. And the head shot was first.” He stood up and waited for the deputy to do the same. “Look here—see this?” He pointed to some spatters on the door of the brand-new white Chevy truck parked just beyond the body. “That’s brain matter. So he was standing up when the bullet went through his skull. Then it went through the driver’s-side window, right here, see? Slug’s probably still in there, inside the cab. We’re gonna want to find that.” He glanced over at Deputy Daggett, who was looking a little green around the gills again, but controlling it manfully. “I’m thinking the shooter stood in front of him, face-to-face, like this—” he demonstrated, arm outstretched “—and shot him. From about three feet away.”

The deputy looked doubtful. “He’d have to be a helluva shot, wouldn’t he, to drill him dead center in the forehead like that with a high-caliber handgun?”

“Yeah, or a lucky one.” With a cool head and a steady hand.

Roan turned back to the body on the ground, his jaw tightening as he gazed down at what was left of Jason Edward Holbrook. Considering everything, he wondered why he wasn’t taking this more personally. He ought to feel something for the death of the man who was very likely his half-brother.

But, except for a profound sense of outrage and insult that such a thing could have happened in his jurisdiction, on his watch, he didn’t feel a thing. Not a damn thing.

“Then,” he went on grimly, “the shooter stood over him and fired a second shot into his heart at point-blank range—see this here? That’s powder residue. Also, considering the back of the victim’s skull was blown off, the shooter had to know he was already stone-dead, but he put that second shot in him anyway.”

The deputy gave a low whistle. “Takes a whole lotta mad to do something like that.”

Again Roan shook his head. “Not mad,” he corrected. “Hate. This wasn’t any crime of passion, not in the usual sense of that word. Whoever did this hated Jason’s guts, pure and simple.”

“Well,” Tom said, obviously pretty well recovered now from his former queasiness and sounding downright cheerful, “that’s not gonna narrow it down much.” Then, belatedly recalling the unwritten rule against speaking ill of the dead, he threw Roan an abashed look and, blushing again, muttered an apology.

An unfortunate characteristic for a deputy sheriff, that blush, Roan thought. For the kid’s sake, he hoped he’d grow out of it eventually—maybe by the time he started shaving regularly.

Tom Daggett was right, though, about there being no dearth of people who might have entertained the notion of taking a shot at Jason Holbrook, one time or another. But for some reason, nothing he could put a finger on, just a gut feeling, Roan didn’t think this was going to be some jealous husband or boyfriend. Something about the killing…facing him like that…and then that second shot at point-blank range…this was payback, was what it was. Vengeance.

And more than that: Whoever had meted it out to Jason Holbrook had wanted him to know beyond any shadow of a doubt who was killing him and what he was dying for.

Holding off the shiver that wanted to run down his spine, Sheriff Harley took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on, then let his gaze sweep the area, taking in the long graveled driveway that slanted down through the pine trees from the paved road to the huge two-story log house Jason’s dad had had built against the mountainside in the style of a Swiss chalet. He turned back to Daggett. “No sign of a weapon?”

Tom shook his head. “Didn’t see one in the immediate vicinity. Thought I oughta wait for you before I started looking.”

“Good call. Stay away from the truck, too. And the body, it goes without saying—at least until the coroner gets here. Where’s the school-bus driver that called it in?”

“She had a load of kids to deliver. I told her somebody’d be over there at the school later on to get her statement. Uh…Sheriff?” Roan nodded for him to proceed, and Daggett did, looking uncomfortable. “You planning on calling in the state guys on this?”

“Already did,” Roan said. “They’re on their way.”

Then for a while he and the deputy just stood there, neither of them saying anything, both of them trying not to look at the body of Jason Holbrook cooling in a puddle of his blood, staring up at the blue Montana sky. It was a bright, beautiful spring morning, but Roan felt like a big black cloud was parked right over his head, the heaviness of it pressing down on him and the first rumblings of thunder already growling in the distance.

“Sheriff?” Tom looked over at him, uneasy again, thumbs in his hip pockets, kind of scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “You gonna break the news to the senator?”

Reflexively, Roan folded his arms on his chest. He’d been giving that some thought himself. “That’s not something you want to hear over the phone,” he said, shaking off guilt, wondering if he was being a little too eager to pass the buck. Talking to Senator Holbrook wasn’t something he enjoyed doing even at the best of times. Which these sure as hell weren’t. “I’ll call the Washington PD, get them to send somebody to tell him in person.”

Tom let out a breath like a tire going flat as he took off his hat and ran a hand back over his short blond hair. “Well, hell. No matter how he finds out, when he does, I expect the you-know-what’s goin’ to hit the fan.”

Roan favored his deputy with a lopsided grin. “I expect you’re right about that. Be nice if we had a suspect in hand by the time it does, don’t you think? You got any bright ideas where to start looking for one?”

Trying not to look thrilled to be asked, Tom hooked his thumbs in his belt while he gave it some thought. Then he puffed out his chest and squinted at the pine-studded horizon. “I’m thinkin’ Buster’s Last Stand—you know, over on the highway?—might be a good place to start. That’s where Jase normally spends…uh, spent his evenings. Somebody in there might know if he ticked off anybody in particular last night. Worse than usual, I mean.”

Roan clapped him on the back. “Good call. Probably too early right now—best to wait for the evening crowd to assemble before we hit there though.” He nodded toward the highway where a van had just turned off onto the lane and was barreling toward them at highway speed, crunching gravel and sending up a cloud of dust. “Here’s the coroner. I’m gonna want you to stay and keep an eye on things for me, Tom. Pick up all the info you can from Doc Salazar and the major-case detectives when they get here, and don’t let that bunch from Billings intimidate you, you hear? I want a full report—don’t leave out any details. Once everything’s squared away here, get on over to the school and get the bus driver’s statement.” He heaved in a breath and squared his shoulders. “Meanwhile, I’ll head back to the shop and get the ball rolling on notifying next of kin. After that…”

Well, he didn’t like to think what his life was going to be like after that and for the foreseeable future, but he figured he ought to do what he could to prepare for the inevitable flood of media and law-enforcement out-of-towners. He imagined it was going to be a while before Hartsville settled back down to its quiet and peaceful small-town ways.

One thing, Roan thought as he went to greet the county’s coroner and deputy medical examiner, he sure didn’t envy the person whose unhappy duty it was going to be to inform Montana’s senior senator of the violent death of his only son.

His only acknowledged son, anyway.

Fridays were always busy at Queenie’s “We Pamper You Like Royalty” Beauty Salon and Boutique. Tucked between Betty’s Art Gallery and Framing and the law offices of Andrews & Klein on Second Street, half a block off Main and just a block down from the courthouse, it was a handy place for any of the downtown crowd with interesting plans for the weekend to drop in on their lunch hour for a wash and set. Its new proprietor, Mary Owen, generally stayed late on Fridays to accommodate the high-school girls gussying up for date night. And, of course, Miss Ada Major, the clerk of the court, who’d had a standing five o’clock Friday-evening appointment for a wash and set since roughly the Reagan administration.

Honoring Miss Ada’s Friday five o’clock was, in fact, one of the conditions Queenie Schultz, the shop’s former owner, had made Mary agree to when she’d sold the business to her six months ago—that, and a promise to do up Miss Ada’s hair real nice for her funeral, in the event the lady ever did decide to depart this mortal coil. To be truthful, that second condition had made Mary shudder a bit, and of course Queenie, being down in Phoenix, Arizona, enjoying the heat and sunshine, probably wasn’t ever going to know whether Mary actually stuck to that part of the bargain or not. But it wasn’t Mary’s nature to break a promise, and besides, at the rate Miss Ada was going, it didn’t look like the issue was going to come up any time soon.

If there was anything Mary Owen had learned in her thirty-seven years it was that life was full of surprises, so there wasn’t much point in looking too far ahead or worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet. She knew from hard experience how things could change in the blink of an eye.

“How are you doing today, Miss Ada?” Mary asked as she settled the tall, dignified lady into the chair and gently snapped a drape around her sinewy neck.

“Why, just fine, dear, thank you for asking.” The circles of rose-pink blush on Miss Ada’s cheeks crinkled with her smile. Keen hazel eyes highlighted in tissue-papery cobalt blue met Mary’s in the mirror—then went wide with horrified sympathy. “Well, my goodness me, what on earth did you do, hon?”

Mary’s teeth scraped over the tender bulge on her lower lip—a reflex she couldn’t help—but her voice was smooth as she replied, “Oh, it’s nothing, just me being stupid and clumsy. I forgot to leave the porch light on last night, and I tripped going up the front steps in the dark. Are we doing color today, Miss Ada?”

Miss Ada interrupted her little gasps and cries of commiseration and glanced at her own reflection in the mirror just long enough to murmur, “No, no, dear, I think another week, don’t you?” Her gaze flew upward past her determinedly auburn curls to home in once more on the vivid marks on Mary’s face. “Did you put some ice on those bruises? And I know you don’t wear makeup, but you know, a little dab of pancake and some face powder would do wonders.”

“Oh, like I said, it’s nothing, really,” Mary said cheerfully as she tilted the chair back and settled Miss Ada’s neck on the lip of the wash basin. “Just a little embarrassing. So…have you been having a good week? Anything exciting going on over at the courthouse?”

Keeping her blue lids firmly closed, Miss Ada gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, well, today there’s nobody talking about anything but what happened to Clifford Holbrook’s boy. You heard about that, I suppose?” She sighed heavily, then went on without waiting for Mary’s answer, her forehead wrinkling in distress. “It is a shame—a terrible thing. My heart just goes out to Clifford. He always was a good boy—I was tempted to vote for him in the last election, even if he is a Republican—but that son of his—that Jason…it’s hard to know, isn’t it, how a child from such a nice family can turn out so wrong?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary murmured the all-purpose response she’d learned in a former life from a dear Southern friend, warming her fingers in the stream of water and ignoring the deeper chill inside her. “How’s that, Miss Ada? Is that gonna be too hot?”

“No, no, dear, it’s fine. Well, I suppose Clifford did the best he could, with his wife being in such delicate health most of the time. But that boy always was a bully.” She sniffed, then added, “Still and all, nobody deserves to die like that. Shot dead right in his own driveway. Makes you wonder if any of us is safe anywhere nowadays.” She gave a genteel shudder.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary watched her fingers massage moisturizing shampoo over Miss Ada’s scalp.

“A good thing we’ve got a decent sheriff in this county,” Miss Ada said with a sniff, her festively painted features settling into stern and uncompromising lines. “Roan Harley—now there’s a fine young man. A real fine man.” She opened her eyes and aimed them upward. “Have you met our sheriff yet, Mary?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t believe I have—except to see him driving by, maybe.” She wrapped a towel loosely around the old lady’s head and raised the chair to its upright position.

Miss Ada pulled one knotted, blue-veined hand from under the drape to touch away a drop of water that had taken the liberty of trickling down her forehead, then gave one of her little hoots of laughter as she met Mary’s eyes in the mirror. “Well, I suppose that is a good thing, isn’t it? Not that I expect you’d have any reason to fear the law.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary agreed as she began to divide Miss Ada’s sparse wet hair into quadrants, twisting each segment loosely and securing it with a clip.

Miss Ada’s face seemed to droop with sadness as her eyes shifted focus to something only she could see, and she spoke more to herself than to Mary. “Oh my, that poor man has had more than his share of trials and tragedies to bear, yes he has….”

“Ma’am?” Mary said politely, only half listening, her mind already numbing with the tedium of winding thin strands of Miss Ada’s hair onto the old-fashioned rollers she favored.

The old lady’s eyes snapped back to Mary’s, light kindling in them now as she prepared to enjoy the kind of harmless gossip people are wont to indulge in with their hairdressers. “The boy didn’t exactly have a happy beginning, you know. No, he didn’t. His mother—Susan Roth, her name was, a perfectly lovely girl—never married, and to be unwed and pregnant in a small Western town…well. You can imagine. You had to admire her, though, she held her head up. Never let her son feel ashamed, either. She worked hard to support herself and the boy—I have an idea the father, whoever he was, might’ve helped out some—and she managed to put money away for Roan’s college. He applied for scholarships and won several—he was a very bright young man. He was going to become a lawyer—that was his mother’s fondest wish. But then she got sick and died suddenly.”

Normally it was Mary’s habit to let this sort of gossip flow in one ear and out the other, but for some reason she was finding this particular story hard to ignore. She made murmurs of sympathy, and Miss Ada sighed.

“Yes…it was sad. Roan came home to bury his mother and never did go back to the university. Instead, he stayed on, married his childhood sweetheart, enrolled in the state law-enforcement academy—I believe he’d had a minor in criminology, or forensics, or some such thing, in college. Anyway, he became a deputy, and when Jim Stottlemyer retired, ran for sheriff and got himself elected first try. Youngest sheriff in the history of the county, and I must say, it was the legal profession’s loss and Hart County’s gain. Roan’s been a fine sheriff.” She paused for another sigh. “It should have been one of those and-they-lived-happily-ever-after stories, but it wasn’t. No, indeed. Roan Harley’s troubles were just beginning.”

“Really? What happened?” Mary turned the chair in order to reach the other side of Miss Ada’s head, and Miss Ada’s eyes met hers directly instead of in the mirror. Mary was startled to see a sheen in them that could only be tears.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the elderly clerk of court said with a halfhearted smile. “Oh my. It’s been four years, but it’s still hard to talk about it. Seems like it happened just yesterday, yes it does. It was such a terrible tragedy, the kind of thing a small community like this never does get over.” She paused, lifted a hand and absently patted the neat row of curlers that marched down one side of her head.

“Well, now…I told you Roan married his childhood sweetheart. Erin Stuart—she’d been a classmate of Roan’s, all the way back to kindergarten, I believe. And her dad, Boyd Stuart, he’d befriended the boy, too, knowing he was growing up fatherless. Roan looked up to Boyd and respected him as he would a father, and Boyd…well, you could tell he loved Roan like a son. In fact, Boyd was so tickled when Roan married Erin, he signed over the deed to his ranch to the newlyweds and moved into the ranch foreman’s cottage.” Miss Ada chuckled, then took a quick breath as if it were a shot of whisky she was tossing back to fortify herself before going on.

“Well then, two years later Erin and Roan had a little girl. They named her Susan Grace, after their late mothers—Erin’s mother, Grace—she was a Pascoe, from over in Lewiston—had passed away, too, when Erin was still in high school. For the next three years—that was when Roan ran for and was elected sheriff—the family was so happy. Truly blessed.” She paused, and when she went on her voice had a quiver in it.

“Then…one night while Roan was out of town on a case, there was a fire. It woke up Boyd down in the cottage, and he came running… Oh, he tried his best, but he was only able to save the little girl. His own daughter, Erin, died in the fire. Boyd and the child were both seriously burned.”

“My God,” Mary whispered. She felt cold clear through, and a little queasy—and how in the world had she let this county sheriff’s unhappy story slip past her radar and take dead aim at her heart? She’d taken care to keep her feelings sandbagged and fortified against just such an assault. She couldn’t afford the luxury of caring. Now more than ever.

Miss Ada’s tear-bright eyes flicked upward and softened when they found Mary so obviously touched by the story. “Yes…yes. Poor Roan, he was just devastated, as you can imagine. He tried to pick up the pieces after the tragedy, I think for his little girl’s sake as much as anything, but I do believe he carries scars from that fire still, just as surely as Susie Grace and Boyd do. The only difference is, Roan’s scars don’t show.” She heaved another sigh. “I don’t imagine it helps, either, that he’s never been able to find out who did it—who killed his wife and maimed his child.”

Mary’s hands stilled, a curler half rolled. She fought to control a shudder of horror. “You mean…it wasn’t an accident?”

“Oh, no, dear,” Miss Ada said softly. “The fire was deliberately set, no doubt about it. It haunts Roan, I think, that the crime remains unsolved to this day.”

“I’m sure it does. It must be awful for him,” Mary murmured. But it was only words, and once again safely distanced from feeling. Her defenses had slipped momentarily, but they were back in place, now.

“It was terrible for everyone,” Miss Ada said, firmly, reaching up to pat the tissue paper band Mary was fastening around her hairline to protect her skin from the dryer’s heat. “The worst time this town’s had since the mines closed, I do believe. And now this.” She threw Mary a look as she accepted the hand she was offering to help her out of the chair. Her eyes were fierce again, and her voice brisk—it was the tone and the look that had kept jurors in line for so many years. “I am sure of one thing: Roan won’t let it happen again. Whoever it was shot Jason Holbrook, the sheriff will find him. I know he will.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary murmured. She was confident that, with the dryer humming away, even Miss Ada’s keen senses couldn’t have caught the tremor that had just rippled through her.

Dave Salazar, Hart County’s coroner, was also both a licensed physician and deputy medical examiner for the State of Montana, and, as such, fully qualified to conduct autopsies, which he did, on the relatively few occasions one was called for, in a basement room at the county hospital. That was where Roan caught up with the two detectives from the state’s Special Cases Unit.

Kurt Ruger was short-legged, barrel-chested and looked like a college football player, with a brushy blond crewcut, prominent brow ridge and sharp, rather small and close-set blue eyes. His partner, Roger Fry, appeared to have been picked to balance the team in just about every way, being tall, lanky, dark-haired and balding, with benign brown eyes behind rimless glasses perched on the end of an oversized nose. He reminded Roan of an economics professor he’d once had.

After murmured introductions and handshakes all around, both SCU men sidestepped to make room for one more in the cramped space against the observation window, well out of the way of any stray odors or splatters.

Roan had seen his share of autopsies and had pretty well gotten over being squeamish about the process. He folded his arms on his chest and stepped closer to the partially draped nude body on the stainless-steel table, startling the coroner, who’d been so engrossed in his examination of the body he was oblivious to everything else, including the arrival of one more observer.

The doctor glanced at him in mild surprise. “Hey, Sheriff.”

“What you got for us, Doc?”

“Haven’t started the autopsy yet, but I found a couple of things that are kind of interesting.” He nodded his head, swathed in a green surgical cap, toward the two SCU detectives. “Like I was saying to these two gentlemen, I wanted to wait until you were all here—no sense in going through everything twice.” Roan nodded, and the doctor reached up to adjust the overhead lamp, then pointed with a gloved finger. The two SCU detectives moved in closer.

“See this here? Laceration on his lower lip?” He delicately inserted a fingertip into the victim’s mouth and turned the lip downward to expose the puffed and discolored inside. “That’s a bite mark. Not self-inflicted—the curve’s wrong. Definitely human, definitely ante-mortem, I’d say two hours, at least.”

Roan frowned. “You mean…”

“Unless Jason Holbrook had a secret nobody knew about, there’s only one way I can think of that could have happened. And that is, he forced himself on some gal, and she bit him.”

One of the detectives let slip a snort of laughter, hastily stifled. Roan said dryly, “Yeah, that sounds about like Jase. You said a couple of things. What else?”

The doctor turned away from the table and gestured for the others to follow as he moved to some articles of clothing spread out on a stainless-steel countertop. He paused in front of the light gray Western-style shirt that was liberally soaked with blood, shifting to allow Roan and the SCU guys to move in close. He pointed, careful not to touch. “Okay, this is interesting—there’s some blood here on the left sleeve—see that? Now…look at the way he went down. Fell backward, arms went straight out, right? Never came in contact with either of his wounds.”

One of the state detectives—Kurt Ruger—cleared his throat and frowned. “Spatter, maybe?”

The doctor shook his head. “It’s a smear, not a spatter. And it’s on the back side of the sleeve. Again, the way he fell, there’s no way spatter would’ve hit there. No…look here. Think about it. What do you do when you get hit in the nose or mouth, and you’re bleeding? You wipe with your sleeve, right?” He demonstrated. “That puts a smear right about where this one is.”

“Okay, so he got his lip bit and wiped the blood on his sleeve.” Roger Fry sounded as if he wanted to add, “So what?”

Roan waited. He knew Doc better than the two newcomers did, well enough to know he wasn’t finished.

Salazar took a breath, threw the three lawmen an expectant look, and backed up a step. “Okay. Now look at his other sleeve. The right one. You got more blood smears here, see? But on the inside this time. Now, you try wiping your mouth with that part of your sleeve.” Again he demonstrated. “It’s awkward—unnatural. You’d have to really twist your arm to put a blood stain where this one is. Anyway, I thought that seemed odd, so…I tested it.” He paused, eyes gleaming. “Just a preliminary, so far, but I’ll tell you this, it doesn’t match Jason’s blood type. And something else. It’s female.”

Roan felt a chill go down his spine, but he kept his arms folded and said mildly, “You got a scenario in mind, Doc?”

The coroner nodded. “If I may…Detective…Ruger, is it? Mind if I borrow you for just a second?”

The muscular blond cop half grinned and lifted a wary eyebrow in his partner’s direction, but allowed himself to be maneuvered into an awkward sort of embrace with the slightly built ME, who narrated as he demonstrated.

“Okay, I’ve just been bitten by this lady, right? What’s my first reaction gonna be? If I’m the sort of guy to force myself on a woman to begin with, I’m probably gonna strike back.” The doctor doubled up a fist and grazed Ruger’s square chin with it, as Ruger obligingly offered a falsetto squeal of pain. “So, I smack you a good one,” Salazar went on. “Your mouth is bleeding, too, now. But that’s not enough for me, I’m good and riled up, not to mention intoxicated—”

“Is that theory, Doc, or fact?”

Salazar jerked Roan a look over his shoulder. “Fact—blood alcohol level was way up there. Anyway, now I’m really gonna get rough with this lady. Something like this…” Turning his demo partner around, he placed his right arm across the detective’s broad chest. “Now, she’s gonna be struggling, trying to get loose, so I tighten my hold, pull my arm higher, up to her neck…like this, see? And my sleeve brushes across her mouth—or anyway, the blood from it.” He let go of Ruger and held up his right arm, pointing to the wrist in triumph. “Voila! Right there, and that’s just where you see that smear on the victim’s sleeve.” The ME subsided, looking expectantly from one member of his audience to another.

Roan and the two SCU detectives looked back at him, not saying anything for a moment or two, none of them smiling. Then Fry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, gave a small cough and said what they were all thinking.

“So, are we thinking rape, here?”

Roan dragged a hand over his face and let out a breath. Ruger glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Hey, if the victim raped somebody—or tried to—and got shot in the process, that makes it self-defense, maybe.” He shrugged and looked doubtful. “I don’t know if the senator is going to buy that, though.”

A vision of that crime scene flashed into Roan’s head in full living color: Jason Holbrook stretched our flat on his back in his driveway beside his brand new Chevy truck, a third eye, bloody and black, in the middle of his forehead. He shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Too soon, he told himself, to be jumping to any conclusions.

He knew one thing, though. Whoever had shot Jason Holbrook, man or woman, it hadn’t been self-defense, not in the legal sense, anyway. It had been more like an execution.

“Strange, though,” Salazar continued in a musing tone, peering interestedly down at the body, “she puts her ‘take that’ shot here, in his heart. Most women…uh, payback for rape…I’d think they’d aim farther south…” He pointed delicately at the part of the body modestly concealed beneath the drape and lifted his sharp black eyes to Roan. “Know what I mean?”