Flash Flood (3 page)

He cursed the Tercel as he accelerated and made the wide graveled turn in front of the house. The home office had never played loose with travel expenses. Maybe, just this once, it would have been to their benefit. This was the kind of house that dictated you pull up in a Mercedes, something that cost no less than fifty thousand. And the
guayabera
had been a wrong call, too. Designer jeans, thousand-dollar boots, Ralph Lauren linen…much more correct.

He'd reviewed the players until every detail was memorized. William R. Eklund, rancher, sometime politician, founder of Wings of the Dove Bible College, top breeder/importer/judge of Charolais cattle, married to Iris Stuckey, thirty years his junior, second wife but with tied tubes; first one, sickly but filthy rich had left him fixed for life. But it didn't put ol' Billy Roland above suspicion of killing a few of his own cattle for seven hundred thou pocket change.

He walked up the front steps, oddly pristine with no paint chips, no dirt. Out here you'd have to hire someone full time to just keep the dust off. Geraniums and petunias overflowed their hanging terra cotta pots and a huge Stars and Stripes hung flaccid from a thirty-foot pole. Conservative Republican.

Possibly anal retentive, Dan noted.

There was some cutesy wreath on the door about three feet in diameter with wooden cut-outs of Charolais, those brahma-like bumps behind their heads carefully chiseled, each one nestled in corn shucks dyed a teal green to match the trim on the house.

The knocker was another Charolais, this one an anatomically correct brass bull. He let it thud against the wood.

“Yes?”

The door opened so quickly he hadn't been ready. And the person standing there wasn't a servant but had to be Ms. Iris Stuckey Eklund herself.

“I'd like to speak to Mr. Eklund.”

“Not here. Maybe I can help. I'm Iris.”

“Iris.” He repeated her name out loud. Not because it was a pleasing sound but because it made her continue to look at him straight on, full in the face. He had her complete attention, the door between them distorting slightly what he knew was peachy skin, clear and smooth, despite the dot-matrix grayness caused by the screen.

“April, May, June, and little ol' Iris.”

“Come again?”

“My sisters and then there was me and my Daddy fresh out of months. He couldn't have two Junes, now could he?”

“No, I guess not.”

“So he looked around and saw a big ol' patch of purple iris in full bloom. And here I am.”

Dan couldn't think of one appropriate thing to say and just stood there. Abruptly, he cleared his throat. He was there to ask questions and he better get started.

“My card.” The screen door opened half an inch, and she took the card. He waited until she looked up. “I have some routine paperwork to complete. A few questions that I—”

“What sort of questions you want to ask, Dan?” She opened the door another couple inches and leaned against the jamb. He ignored the familiar use of his name. In fact, he kind of liked it when she said it.

“Routine stuff. Just need to make sure that everything's in order.”

“I don't think I can help much.”

“Could you have identified Grand Champion Taber's Shortcake Dream?” He knew the question was abrupt but he needed to know who would recognize a substitution—just a regular ol' cow standing in for the real thing when it came to killing.

The giggle surprised him. She leaned close to the screen, her lips brushing the harshness of the wire.

“I can't tell a heifer from a Hereford and don't plan to learn.” The hint of sultriness wasn't lost on him. Little miss end-of-the-months was one hot tamale.

“Suppose the two of us might sit out here on the steps a minute or two? You could help with names and dates.”

He stepped back and pulled the screen door with him. Silhouetted against the dark interior of the house, Iris seemed bigger than life. He wouldn't need to check the pubic hair to know the blond wasn't real; it was too golden and just above her ears was the shadowing of dark fuzz defying peroxide to return to nature. But the rest of the body explained why she didn't need to know the difference between anything, not even for the man who had devoted his life to raising prize-winning Charolais.

“I'm not real sure Billy Roland would want me talking to you.” But she tucked the skirt of her sundress under her knees and sat on the top step.

“He's real anxious to get this claim in, isn't he? I'd think he'd welcome your involvement.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Do you happen to know where he's off to?”

Iris shrugged; a tiny twisted wisp of a cloth strap slipped over one shoulder. The sundress covered only what absolutely had to be hidden and the lacing on the bodice had pulled apart four inches. His concentration was suffering. He'd try a different tactic.

“What, if anything, did you see on the night of July twelfth?”

The petulant look was giving way to deep thought. She raked her perfectly white teeth over her bottom lip and stared off into space. He was beginning to think she'd help when she glanced at him, and he could see that fear overshadowed all else. Billy Roland must be one mean son of a bitch. Or Miss Iris just doesn't want to fall off the chowder wagon. He was running out of ideas.

“Tell you what. If anything comes to mind, give me a call at the Silver Spur. I'll be there until tomorrow night.”

He thought she nodded as she hopped up, skipping to safety behind the screen door. He felt her eyes on his backside all the way to the Tercel. She wouldn't call, wouldn't think of something. She didn't get to live in this big house by babbling what she knew, which was probably plenty.

He rolled down the windows and waited until the Tercel cooled down, considerably past the end of the half-mile driveway. But then it struck him. This ranch, this land, little Miss Jayne Mansfield look-alike, all of it was a cliché. Too rich, too macho, too Out-West big. He couldn't shake the unreality of it. Even Sheriff Ray back at the gas station was probably some kind of pawn owned by Billy Roland Eklund.

He looked past the fence posts to the right and thought he saw a rider disappear into a clump of poplar. Someone could watch the house from that distance; the grassy knoll, slightly elevated, made a good vantage point. Could it have been the master of the house? Billy Roland spying on Iris, on him, his house? Of course, he didn't know for sure, but how many times had he been wrong? Not very many.

He reached for the binoculars. Two could play this game. He realized that he didn't care if he did piss off Mr. Eklund. He hated being lied to, given some kind of cat-and-mouse run-around. He switched off the engine and, with the field glasses swinging around his neck, eased out from behind the wheel.

He marveled at the stillness. Flat land, livestock, fences. Nothing human. But he had the prickly hair on the neck feeling that he was being watched. He leaned against the top rail and took a bead on the house. Quiet. Might have been a flutter at a window on the second floor. Then again, maybe not.

Movement at the side of the house caught his attention. Coming from the back, someone was walking toward what was probably the pool. Iris. And if she wasn't naked, she had on the tiniest string bikini he'd ever seen. He knew he was meant to fog up the lens, get a hard-on just looking, take his mind off what he might have seen. But Miss Iris wasn't his type.

He turned back to the strand of poplar. Nothing. Better call it a day. Might be the kind of case that nighttime gave up more clues than daylight. He could come back this evening. Jerk. He could get shot, too. Wasn't this one of the reasons he'd opted for a desk job? Stay out of the line of fire. Coast to retirement, get out at sixty after warming a seat the last ten years, giving seminars, training some crack-ass team of agents to do field work? A smile spread across his face. He'd go back to the motel and think it over, but he was already pretty sure he'd be back out here after sundown. Habit was a powerful thing.

***

Three Coors later the grease had congealed along the side of the steak platter and Eric had heard twenty-two years' worth of living in Tatum, New Mexico. Yeah, he was the ticket out, all right. Only thing left around here that could make a girl some money was the Ranch, across the state line near Plains. Not an option if you had three brothers.

Andy had a friend who worked at the Ranch. And she said it reverently, not like it was a glorified whorehouse, but a privilege her friend richly deserved.

“One summer a whole bunch of Japanese businessmen took the place over. They were throwing around one thousand dollar bills until somebody from Dallas, you know, immigration or someone like that, put a stop to it, sort of suggested they move on. I've never even seen a one thousand dollar bill.” She paused to sip on her Southern Comfort and Coke. “I went out there once, on kind of an interview. It's just three big double-wides behind an old farmhouse. It doesn't even look like you think it would.”

“How's that?”

“Well, velvet everywhere, crystal chandeliers.”

“So, what do they have?”

“A big room with cubby-holes. Floor to ceiling. Then another room with hot tubs.” She turned to face him. “You know a lot of their work is therapeutic, massages, steam baths, custom-mixed lotions, stuff like that.”

I'll bet, he was tempted to say, but didn't. He was saved any further discussion of the Ranch's decor by Andy saying her nose needed powdering. He stood to let her out of the booth. And then he saw him. For that split second, their eyes locked in the mirror behind the bar. Recognition? Eric couldn't be sure. There was something. The man was a gorilla, massive, thick neck; his jacket was ill-fitting but an important item if you were trying to conceal something like a gun. Eric could see the outline of it as the man bent forward to pull his drink closer. Some pretty good sized revolver? Semi-automatic?

No. This was stupid. Paranoid. Who would be after him? Andy's father? He almost laughed. Forty and he could get decked by an irate parent. He just knew for certain that it wasn't a setup by Billy Roland. He'd made a bargain with that lawyer and kept his word to the old man, covered for him.

Eric relaxed. The man at the bar seemed intent on studying the burned-in brands displayed in the wood beam above the cash register. One man carrying a gun and glancing his way didn't make an armed assassin. Not that it wasn't important to be on your toes, but it was a little too egocentric to think someone wanted you dead. He'd waited seven years for this day. He needed to start enjoying it.

The band was tuning up, and the lead singer, dripping sequins and fringe, settled herself on a stool facing the audience. Long red hair cascaded down her back and swept below her ass; her full thighs were encased in doe-soft white leather; she looked his way and waved. He nodded and held eye contact a minute. God, women could be so beautiful in these backwash places. Or was he reacting from deprivation?

Horny. That was it. That was what was wrong with him. There was nothing like getting laid to put things in perspective. Actually, no better way to start the first day of the rest of your life than with a bang. The cracked leather back seat of the Caddy was beginning to look pretty good.

Andy was motioning to him from the edge of the dance floor as the vocalist began a slow pulsating tune that had been popular a few years back. Walking toward her, he noticed how young everyone looked; mean age had to be twenty-five. Even the bartender wasn't more than thirty. It was like an entire generation of people had sprung up from nowhere. Seven years had been a long time. But then, two million was a lot of money.

Andy put both arms around his neck and folded her body into his. Holding her like this wasn't helping him put off his decision to get laid. But from the looks they were getting from some of the single women about Andy's age, Eric knew it was important for her to show him off. Even the man with the gun was dancing. Must be a local.

Andy felt good against him. Smelled good against him. If he had to take a guess, he'd say she wasn't wearing underpants.

He didn't encounter any elastic as he slipped an index finger under the cuff of her shorts. He liked that. He had found it exciting behind the kitchen; he found it exciting now. As the band struck up a lively rendition of “Cotton-eyed Joe,” Eric grabbed Andy's arm, steering her toward the booth.

“Let's get out of here. I can think of a couple things I'd like to do that don't require a crowd, and music's optional.”

“Am I going to like these ‘things'?” A teasing smile played at the corners of her mouth. She tipped her head back and on impulse, Eric covered her mouth with his, letting his tongue barely push between her lips. It wasn't a kiss as much as an invitation. Leaving his hands clasped behind her head, he pulled back to read her expression. Just what he had hoped for. God, how he loved women to meet him head on, matching his own raw wanting. Andy grabbed her purse from the booth and hung onto his arm as they worked their way toward the door.

***

No motel used individual air-conditioners anymore. Their inefficiency was staggering. Dan pulled off the tight boots, stripped to his shorts, and fell back prone on the bed, letting the window unit blow full force over his body. He could have stayed in Roswell, at Carolyn's. She had offered. But knowing his sister, it was probably more gesture, the right thing to do, than anything she really expected him to take her up on.

Carolyn had married well to rancher, entrepreneur, oil-rich Phillip Ainsworth. Ski-bum handsome, Yale graduate, native of Roswell, bright enough to recognize blind ambition in a mate. Dan had wondered twenty years ago how Carolyn would ever survive in a town like Roswell. But it hadn't taken her long to groom her ticket to better things. And she'd done a good job of it. Phillip was a force in the state, charter member of a good ol' boy network.