Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (27 page)

Under her jackhammer pounding, the glass finally shattered into a cobweb mosaic she was able to break apart. As she reached in to unlock the door, her fingers unexpectedly stopped against another barrier. The curse of double glazing.

“Another one?” Her voice rose in outrage. She picked up her purse and fumbled inside.

I saw the gleam of black metal and jumped forward just as she raised her little Glock 19.

“Stop! You can’t shoot here!”

“Why not? Get out of my way.”

I didn’t budge. “For one thing, a bullet from that gun can be traced. For another, it would probably ricochet and kill us both. Now put it away and take the flashlight.”

Reluctantly she did as I asked, and I picked up the hammer and finished breaking through the second pane. I reached in with the pink rag and unlocked the dead bolt, and at last we were in.

“Either put your gloves on or don’t touch anything,” I reminded Kyla, as I pulled on my puffy fur-lined mittens.

She looked at them in silence, then said, “I’m glad you don’t do this for a living. You’d starve.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just help me look around. Point that flashlight over here, or better yet, give it to me.”

She gave an exasperated snort and flicked on the overhead light.

I yelped a protest. “What are you doing?”

“Anyone who could see the light could see the car out front. I think the time for being discreet is long past, and I don’t feel like tripping over furniture.”

When she was right, she was right. It still made me nervous, but there was no denying searching the place would go a lot faster with the lights on. The house was not large, and it was easy to rule out the common areas such as the kitchen, living room, and den. The whole place smelled musty and stuffy, a cockroach skittered across the countertop, and the kitchen garbage can was making its presence known, but other than that you’d never know that Carl hadn’t just stepped out for a few minutes. The house bore the signs of a man living alone. A single dish and glass rested in the drying rack by the sink. On the kitchen table, a Craig Johnson paperback rested facedown, spine broken, beside a crumb-covered plastic placemat. Kyla noticed, too.

“Who would have guessed old Carl knew how to read?” she said.

We moved into the back of the house. The master bedroom held an unmade queen-size bed, but only one side was rumpled. I glanced at the dresser and closet, but chose to move to the next bedroom.

This one had been converted into an office. A metal desk with a faux oak top sat in the middle and a few beat-up putty-colored file cabinets probably salvaged from a business foreclosure stood against one wall. The closet, accordion doors open, was filled with file boxes, a carton of printer paper, and a battered bookcase holding office supplies. A relatively new computer attached to an ancient massive CRT monitor sat silent on a rickety computer desk in one corner. As a model office, it was not pretty, but it was more organized than I would have expected.

Kyla pushed the power button on the computer and then began pulling open desk drawers while she waited for it to boot.

“That’s not going to help. I bet you anything he’s got it password protected.”

“No doubt,” she agreed, still shuffling through papers in the drawers.

In spite of the glare from the lamps, I could see the first faint breath of dawn lighting the eastern sky through the slats in the blinds. I glanced at my watch.

“We need to hurry,” I said.

She grunted acknowledgment but continued her search. Lifting a tray containing pens and pencils, she ran a gloved hand under it.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Passwords. Most people write them down somewhere. Your more sophisticated types use an encrypted password keeper. If Carl did that, we’re sunk. But somehow I doubt it. Aha!” She gave a cry of triumph and peeled a small card from the back of the big monitor.

She sat in Carl’s chair and pulled the keyboard closer. I looked at the boxes in the closet and lifted the lid off one. It was full of old papers and files. Lifting the top page on the stack, I saw it was a receipt for a new tire dated August 1999. Carl was apparently a bit of a hoarder when it came to paperwork. A hoarder, a wheeler-dealer, probably someone who skated pretty close to the line when it came to claiming deductions on his taxes, but was he the kind of man who would store questionably legal valuables on his computer or in his official office?

I poked around in his bedroom for a few minutes. I’d seen an interview in which a career criminal stated that the most common place people hid valuables was their own bedroom. According to this expert, the “underwears” drawer was a particularly popular hiding place. “Like a thief would be too delicate to paw through your panties,” he’d added scornfully.

Mittens on, I pawed through Carl’s clothing, underwears and all, but found nothing. I searched under the bed, I looked inside his shoes, I even lifted the lid on the toilet tank. Then I sat back on my heels, thinking.

Kyla’s voice came from the office. “This place is Porn Central. I’m glad I’m wearing gloves, and that I don’t have a black light.”

“Ew,” I responded.

“Seriously, I hope Kel has never accepted a disk or opened an e-mail from this guy. This machine is crawling with viruses.”

I suppressed a shudder, but the word “crawling” sparked an idea. I sprang to my feet and hurried back to the none-too-clean kitchen.

The tiny pantry yielded nothing but a few more cockroaches and a spilled box of stale Frosted Flakes. The refrigerator, an ancient model from the days when Harvest Gold had been a designer color, had a few half-empty condiment bottles, a greenish steak covered in grocery-store plastic wrap, and a bottom drawer full of liquefied unidentifiable vegetables. I closed the door hurriedly.

The freezer was frosted into a winter wonderland of miniature icicles. The ice tray was half empty, a stack of Hungry Man dinners filled the bulk of the space. I moved them aside, and as I did so, my hand bumped a Blue Bell Cookie Dough ice cream tub, which tipped back. The movement caught my attention. It was the only thing in the freezer not covered by a thick deposit of frost, and it was very nearly empty. Pulling it out, I opened the lid.

Inside was a thick manila envelope, bent and squashed to fit inside the tub. Opening it, I drew out a handful of printed documents. It took me a second to realize what I was looking at, then I hastily stuffed them back into the envelope, returned the tub, and shut the freezer door.

“Kyla! Shut it down. I found what we need.”

“Really? What is it?”

“A do-it-yourself blackmail kit.”

I heard the electronic pop of someone turning off the power to a computer without waiting for the operating system to shut down, then Kyla appeared in the doorway.

“What’s in it?”

“Contracts with Sheriff Bob for one. Did you touch anything?”

She wiggled her gloved fingers. “I was careful.”

“Let’s get out of here. We’ll look at this stuff later.” I didn’t know why, but I was suddenly filled with a feeling of dread that almost amounted to panic.

Kyla didn’t argue. We hurried to the back door with its shattered window. Closing the door, I hesitated.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Do you think we should try to cover the hole?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well, it looks like it’s going to rain. Plus, if we cover it, maybe whoever finally notices it will think Carl locked himself out and broke the window to get in.”

“Don’t be retarded. You know the police have already been out here to investigate after they found Carl, so they already know damn well it wasn’t him.”

She had a point, but I was now feeling both anxious and guilty, a bad combination if I intended to pursue this life of crime. “But we didn’t steal anything. Won’t they think that’s odd.”

“Yes. But … and here’s the point … no one is going to suspect
us
. Even I wouldn’t suspect us—a savvy, hot young computer genius and her goody-two-shoes teacher cousin?”

“How come you’re hot and savvy, and I’m a Goody Two-shoes?” I protested.

“That’s just the way it is.”

“I want to be hot and savvy.”

“Then why are you wearing that coat?”

By this time, we had collected our toolbox and hurried back to the car. Somewhere behind the heavy gray clouds, the sun was at least peaking above the horizon, illuminating the house, yard, gnomes, and barn. This was the time when country folks would be rising to tend their animals, and it would not be at all surprising to meet someone on the road. We needed to get away fast.

I pulled out onto the county road with a sense of relief. Early though it was, we at least had a right to be here.

“Where are you going?” Kyla asked. “The ranch is the other way.”

“We’re going into town to get doughnuts. That way we don’t have to explain where we’ve been.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, then she nodded with approval. “Good thinking. Maybe you’re better at this than I thought. Give me that envelope.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised. I’m very cunning,” I said, handing her the envelope somewhat reluctantly. I wanted to look through it myself, but could think of no logical reason why she couldn’t examine it while I drove.

Her snort was not complimentary. She clicked on the dome light and pulled out the papers.

A large black pickup truck, headlights on high beam, overtook and passed us as though we were standing still.

“Damn, that guy must be doing close to a hundred.”

Kyla glanced at the rapidly vanishing taillights, then returned her gaze to the photographs. “Looked like T.J.’s truck. Maybe he’s doing a doughnut run for his guests.”

“Are you seeing him tonight?”

“Yup. And I can tell by your snooty tone that you don’t like it, so don’t bother with the lecture. I’ll make it up to Aunt Elaine another time. You know, this doesn’t exactly rank up there with the best family reunion in history. In fact, if it wasn’t for T.J., I would have gone back to Austin yesterday.”

“But Kel’s in jail,” I said.

“Yeah and what are we supposed to do about it? Don’t you think Elaine would probably be thrilled to see the whole pack of us get the hell out of her hair?”

“We’re doing something about it right now. Why do you think we broke into Carl’s?”

“For this?” she waved the sheaf of papers. “These don’t tell us anything. I don’t think they’re blackmail material.”

“Of course they are,” I said automatically. “You don’t store things in the freezer unless they’re important.”

“Let’s say you’re right. What are you going to do about it? Blackmail Sheriff Bob yourself?”

“No, I’ll give them to Colin. He’ll know what to do with them. He can get the Texas Rangers or somebody else to come investigate Bob. And while they’re doing that, they’ll send someone competent to investigate Carl’s death. And Eddy’s. And then Uncle Kel will be able to come home.”

The parking lot of the Donut Hole was full, so I pulled into the adjoining Shell station.

“You can get the doughnuts while I fill up,” I said.

She frowned, instinctively loathing any idea that wasn’t her own, but then shrugged and took herself off.

I started the pump, then took the windshield washer from its bucket of murky water and began wiping the powdery caliche dust from the windows. The water left trails in the dust on my car as I squeegeed it away. A few cars came and went from the parking lot next door. The black pickup that had passed us or its twin was indeed present, and as the pump popped, indicating the tank was full, I wondered if Kyla was taking so long because there was a long line at the counter or because she was flirting with T.J. I dawdled with the wiper a few more minutes, but eventually another car pulled up behind me waiting for the pump, and a truck left the doughnut shop’s parking lot, so I moved the car and went in.

A bell jingled merrily on the door when I opened it, and I was greeted by a rush of warm air and the mouthwatering scent of baked bread, fried dough, cinnamon, and coffee. Patrons crowded around three small Formica tables by the plate-glass front window and piled into the cramped little booths lining the hall leading to the bathroom and kitchen. The bright counter was full of trays of doughnuts, and rolling racks behind the clerks groaned under the weight of kolaches, sausage rolls, and ham-and-cheese croissants. Kyla stood in line behind three men wearing camouflage shirts and bright orange vests, but she was also flirting with T. J. Knoller who stood beside her, holding three large pastry boxes, losing the advantage his speed on the highway had given him.

I joined them, giving a half smile to the grouchy-looking woman wearing foam curlers under a pink headscarf who stood behind Kyla so that she wouldn’t think I was cutting in line.

“Hey there,” said T.J., acknowledging my presence without actually convincing me he remembered my name.

“T.J.,” I said, to indicate that I had the moral high ground of name remembrance without actually indicating I was pleased to see him.

Kyla glanced at me, then became crafty. “Oh good, since you’re here, you can order. I don’t know what we want.” She attempted to get out of line, but I blocked her way.

“No you don’t. I need you to help carry. And pay,” I added pointedly. After all, I’d just pumped forty dollars into the tank of my Civic, and Kyla, although not cheap, was apt to forget things like chipping in for gas.

“Oh. Well, fine. T.J. was just saying that his hunters did not manage to shoot that mountain lion. They were pretty disappointed.”

“I’ll bet. Plus that means that thing is still on the loose.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You might warn your uncle to keep an eye on his stock.”

“I would, but he’s in jail,” I said tartly before I could stop myself. The woman in curlers snapped to attention like dachshund spotting a rat.

T.J. looked embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I forgot.”

Kyla linked her arm through his. “Never mind. She’s just crabby because she’s hungry.”

One of the hunters finished paying, and we moved forward a pace.

Raising his boxes as an excuse, T.J. said, “Well, I better get back to it. I’ll pick you up about seven.” This last was to Kyla.