Читать книгу The Last Landry - Kelsey Roberts - Страница 14

“You can’t be serious!” Taylor stared at the burly detective standing in the foyer. “A search warrant? To find what, exactly?”

“Read the warrant, honey.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the man. She didn’t care that he had a dozen officers in tow. Nor was she terribly impressed by the shiny gold shield clipped to the front pocket of his tweed jacket. She didn’t even care that him calling her “honey” was both demeaning and dismissive and normally would have caused her to launch into a strict lecture on sexism. All of that paled badly in comparison to the dread that came in a rush.

Detective Rollins and his uniformed minions invaded the house. Unfolding the paper, she carefully read the unfamiliar wording, pausing to absorb the part about probable cause. “An anonymous tip?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am,” the detective acknowledged. “Please stay out of the way during the search.”

“Wait until I call Shane. Or the sheriff.”

“Call whoever you want.” He shrugged. “However, the warrant doesn’t require us to wait while you do.”

Damndamndamn! Taylor raced for the phone, dialing Shane’s cell phone. One, two, three rings, then voice mail. “Wrong time to be ignoring your phone,” she said through gritted teeth as she punched in a 9-1-1 page. Next, she dialed Seth, who was, according to his secretary, in court.

Over the din of several simultaneous conversations and the violating sound of drawers being opened and closed, she opted to try Clayton.

“Justice Project.”

Relief washed over her when she heard his voice. “Thank God,” she breathed, explaining what was happening. “What should I do?”

“First, calm down,” Clayton counseled. “Then read me the warrant.”

She struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice. The first portion cited the date and time of the tip and identified the officer taking the call. Taylor swallowed, then continued, “The caller directed officers to the Lucky 7 Ranch, primary residence of the deceased. Caller identified Shane Landry as the perpetrator and claimed there was evidence contained in said residence, specifically .38-caliber ammunition matching the ammunition used in the crime.”

“Okay. There’s nothing to worry about, Taylor, because that’s the most ridiculous claim I’ve ever heard. Shane would never have killed our parents. Yes, there’s always been ammunition on the ranch but it’s locked up in the attic.”

Her blood ran cold. “The attic?” she repeated, lowering her voice to a near whisper.

“Yes,” Clayton said. “My dad was big on gun safety. He didn’t want any accidents, so the ammo has always been kept separate from the guns. My parents were fanatical about it.”

“Clayton, I—”

“Stop worrying,” he interrupted. “Everyone in Jasper knew about the house ammo rules. I remember hearing people rag on my dad when I was a kid. Folks used to say it defeated the point of having a gun when you had no way to load it in a hurry.”

“Stop!” she insisted, fairly yelling to get his attention. It worked.

“Sorry. What is it?”

Taylor’s eyes darted around to find, much to her utter frustration, that several of the officers were openly eavesdropping on her conversation—such as it was. Chief among them was the lead detective, who was standing a few feet away, rummaging through the top drawer of the highboy. “This isn’t right,” she hedged.

“Trust me on this.”

She took the cordless phone and walked out the front door, hardly noticing the cold despite her bare feet. She let Clayton drone on while she wandered out of earshot.

“…sure it is just someone hoping to collect the reward we’ve offered for information leading to an arrest. The state police are probably inundated with tips. Rollins has to follow up on them, it’s his job. And…” Clayton paused and expelled a loud breath “…this is a high profile case, Taylor. The governor and a U.S. senator attended the funeral. Rollins is probably getting a lot of heat on this one.”

Taylor felt confident it was safe to talk when she was a good ten yards from the house. “Quiet,” she snapped, her nerves frazzled. “Listen to me. I got a note. It basically said the same thing.”

“When?” Clayton’s tone registered instant alarm.

After telling him about the note and the knife, Taylor asked, “What should I do?”

“Where are they now?”

“In my purse, in the hall. Why?”

“Go back in the house. Do it now.”

“I am,” she said, briskly retracing her steps. “Then what?”

“Grab your purse and keys and go.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” Clayton answered. “Just get the hell out of there. Do you have a cell?”

“Yes, but shouldn’t someone be here while they’re going through the house?”

“Technically, no one has to be present. Beside, I’ll handle that. You just get out of there. Call me as soon as you’re off the ranch.”

Motivated by fear and an intense desire to protect Shane, Taylor walked back inside and nearly groaned when she found Rollins still planted in the foyer. How was she supposed to get her purse with its damning contents, with him standing right there?

Oh hell, it didn’t matter. She put the phone back on the cradle, slapped the warrant on the table and in precise, clipped syllables, said, “Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“No,” she corrected. “I wasn’t asking a question, I want you to move.”

One bushy brow arched almost accusingly above a penetrating brown eye. “Because?”

“I don’t have to be here to watch while you harass this family.”

“This family?” he repeated, new interest flaring in his eyes. “I was under the impression that you were an employee.”

“I—I am. A very loyal one. One that will go screaming to the press if you and your goons don’t leave this home exactly as you found it when you’re finished with your little fishing expedition. So, hand me my purse and I’ll be on my way.”

He did as she asked.

Taylor’s heart was pounding as she spun and walked toward the door. She had taken two steps when Detective Rollins said, “Miss Reese?”

She stopped. So did her heart and her ability to breathe. Rollins obviously must have figured something was up. Why wouldn’t he? He hadn’t impressed her as a stupid man. Stupid, no. Wrong? Definitely.

That didn’t change the fact that she was caught. She actually entertained the notion of pulling out the note and eating it. Not smart, but better than giving this man more evidence to bolster the flawed theory that Shane was somehow involved or responsible for the murder of his parents.

Taylor didn’t trust herself not to do something rash, making it impossible for her to turn back to face the detective. Her shoulders tensed as she managed to get a single word past the lump in her throat. “What?”

“You shouldn’t leave.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Am I under arrest?”

“Um, no.”

She whirled around then, trying to read his expression. No such luck. “Then why can’t I leave?”

He pointed at her feet. “No shoes. Unless you make a habit of going out barefoot.”

Pressing her lips together, Taylor stiffly went to her room and slipped on some flats, keeping a tight hold on her purse. Obviously, she wasn’t suited for a life of crime. Not if her shaking hands and wobbly knees were any indication.

It felt like a lifetime passed before she was tucked behind the wheel of her car, speeding down the long drive toward the main highway. Once she cleared the iron archway that bore the ranch’s logo, she fumbled in her purse for her phone and called Clayton back.

“What now?”

“Do you know the old Hudson place?” he asked.

“Kind of.”

“Head northeast once you pass through town. It’s about ten miles up on the righthand side. Park by the tanning shed and one of us will meet you there. Can you do that?”

“Sure. There’s just one problem.”

“What?”

“Which way is northeast?”

SHANE HAD WORKED HIMSELF into an almost blinding fury by the time he shoved open the back door. He just didn’t know which thing to be pissed about first.

Detective Rollins won, mostly because he was seated in the kitchen as if he had some sort of God-given right to be there.

In my house. Thinking I was involved in the deaths of my parents. Shane saw red and stuffed his hands into his back pockets just in case he couldn’t contain the very real urge to punch the guy.

“Mr. Landry,” the detective acknowledged, not bothering to stand as he continued to flip through a file Shane immediately recognized. Thanks to their mother, each brother had a thick box filled with childhood mementos. Shane suspected she’d done it just to make sure each of them felt special. It was her way of acknowledging each of her boys as an individual. Priscilla had always sworn that someday they’d all thank her for her efforts. It stung to know he’d never have the chance.

Shane felt a poignant, visceral pain at the sight of the familiar handwriting on the side of the box lying open at the detective’s feet. His dad used to tease his mom about her appalling handwriting—said it looked as though a fly had fallen into the ink and crawled across the page.

Ah, man… To his heart and mind his mom hadn’t died fifteen years ago, but two weeks ago, and he still felt raw.

Seeing that box anywhere near this guy who apparently thought he was guilty of parenticide made Shane’s eyeballs throb. Without letting the detective get further than a greeting, Shane glared down at him. “You’re way off base.”

“Maybe,” the officer said with a shrug. “You weren’t a very good student, were you, Shane? You don’t mind if I call you Shane, do you?”

“Yes, you can call me Shane, and no, I wasn’t a great student. But since you’re looking at my old report cards, you already know that.”

“Have a seat,” Rollins suggested, his tone revealing nothing. “We need to talk about a few things.”

Reluctantly, Shane yanked out his customary chair and joined the detective at the table. “You think I killed my parents because I got bad grades?”

“I wanted to give you an opportunity to talk. Clear up a few things.”

“Like?” Shane was eyeing the man cautiously. Clayton had warned him not to speak to the cops, but Shane failed to see the harm. After all, he hadn’t done anything. Well, nothing illegal.

Rollins closed the file, laced his stubby fingers together and rested them on top of the table. “Why would someone accuse you of the murders?”

“I have no idea. The reward, maybe?”

The detective nodded, then flipped open a small notebook. “Tell me what you remember about that night fifteen years ago.”

“I wasn’t here that night,” Shane reminded him, annoyed that he was being asked to repeat facts he knew full well were part of the missing-persons report filed fifteen years earlier. “I moved out that day.”

“What precipitated the move?”

Shane kept his gaze level, while his heartbeat faltered. “It was time,” he said easily. “I was eighteen.”

“You stayed away for five years. Why was that?”

“I wanted some space. Out on my own. I can give you a list of the ranches I worked during that period, and there are any number of people who will vouch for me.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched out before Rollin sighed pensively and asked, “How come a guy whose family owns one of the biggest spreads in western Montana runs off to work as a hired hand for someone else?”

“That’s the reason,” Shane answered confidently.

“Why be the help when you can be the boss? I don’t get that. Someone wanted to hand me a ranch on a silver platter, you better believe I wouldn’t up and decide to do grunt work.”

“I’m not sure why this is such a tough concept for you to grasp.” Shane felt a whole slew of unpleasant memories churning in his stomach. “I wasn’t the boss. My father was. As far as I knew, he’d continue to be the boss, so the fact that I left should be enough to convince you that I couldn’t possibly have been involved.”

“That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

Anger washed over Shane as he again was treated to an noncommittal response from the detective. “It’s the only way.”

“Okay.” Rollins stood with a grunt, started toward the door, then glanced back. “I should ask, Shane, how did you get on with your parents?”

Guilt assaulted him. “Like any eighteen-year-old.”

“Could you be a little more specific? Good, bad, what?”

Shane’s mind played a series of video clips. Happy memories interspersed with some that weren’t so happy. Then the chilling details of that last time he’d seen his parents alive. “More like okay. I was a pretty volatile kid. And stubborn. A lot like my father, actually.”

“Really?” Rollins pried. “How so?”

Meeting the man’s gaze, Shane answered, “He taught me not to suffer fools gladly. Is there anything else?”

“Not right now. Maybe when I get results back on the items we’re taking. One of the officers should be in with an inventory for you to sign.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon, Shane.”

Defiantly, Shane replied, “I’ll be right here.”

He was right there ten minutes later when the phone rang. Shoving aside the promised inventory sheet, he grabbed the receiver with such force he sent the base unit sailing across the counter. “Landry.”

“Shane!” Taylor wailed into the phone. “Are you okay? Are the police still there?”

“They’re gone. But forget about the police. A note? A knife? What the hell were you thinking, Taylor? And why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t believe this! You’re yelling at me?” she huffed as she raked her fingers through her hair. Hair that was blowing all over the place. Because she was outside. In the cold. With no coat. In the middle of blasted nowhere. Smelling whatever possibly toxic chemicals were leeching from the metal drums littered everywhere. Saving his butt. “You ungrateful jerk!”

“Don’t even go there,” he warned, his bellowed words echoing in her ear. “Details, Taylor. Right now, before Seth gets there. I don’t want to hear them secondhand. Not like I had to hear from Clayton about the note and knife you got. How could you keep something like that from me?”

She was so angry she wanted to scream. Instead, she very childishly hung up on him, and in an even more childish move, she went over to a nearby, rusted-out barrel and kicked it. Hard. Which accomplished two things: her toe hurt and she had an ugly scuff on one of her favorite shoes.

When her cell phone vibrated as it played Beethoven’s Fifth, she purposefully waited to answer until the last possible second before it switched over to her voice mail. She started to pace on the rutted surface of the unattended driveway. “Maybe I did the wrong thing, but I did it for the right reason,” she declared before Shane could say a single word. “You owe me an apology.”

“No, you owe me one, Taylor.”

She stopped short, recognizing the muffled voice from yesterday, when she’d been baking pies. Man? Probably. Woman? Maybe. Creepy? Definitely.

“This is not a good time, either,” she snapped, wishing now she’d spent the extra three dollars a month for caller ID from her cell service.

“Pay attention, Taylor. How do you think I got this number?”

She rolled her eyes. “Off the Internet, no doubt. Not exactly a challenge in this day and age. This really isn’t a good time, so—”

“Look to your left.”

Annoyance gave way instantly to the rush of fear, making the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, yet she couldn’t help but turn her eyes in that direction.

Nothing. Nothing but an empty field with the remnants of a stripped pickup and a few more barrels. How dare this little weasel pull a B-horror-movie thing? She was equally annoyed at herself for buying into the prank.

“I looked. Now will you get off my phone?”

She was about to hang up when the caller asked, “Do you see the truck?”

Okay, she was completely terrified now. She spun in dizzying circles. “Uh-huh.” She didn’t see anyone. Nothing but the rustling trees far off in the distance. How could he know where she was? Hell’s bells! No one knew. No one that wasn’t a Landry.

Maybe it was just a lucky guess. Yes. Good! Had to be it. The wind was strong, easily letting the person on the other end know she was outside. The truck? Also easily explained. Virtually everyone in Montana had a truck. This was just like those fake psychics. They listen, pick up audible and visual clues, then tell you what you want to hear. A cute parlor trick, but not now.

“Great, there’s a truck nearby. Are we finished?”

“Keep watching the truck, Taylor, and remember, it could just as well have been you. Get him to confess. If he runs, I’ll find him. If you run, I’ll kill you. Then he’ll have your blood on his hands, too.”

“What in the—”

Pop.

It took a second for her eyes to pick up the cause of the sound. The truck rocked. She frowned. What…? The windshield of the old truck spiderwebbed. It took several seconds for the sound and the image to register in her frozen brain.

Her breath left her lungs in a rush of sheer, unadulterated fear. Someone had shot the truck.