Flash Flood (9 page)

Dan didn't hear the last part.
Eric Linden.
He had just boffed the wife of the man whose body he'd helped hunt for, the man who had some pretty lousy friends. Ones who would shoot at him and help themselves to his money. Or the two million might have found its way into the accounts of the beautiful wife.…Dan was pretty certain that someone had wanted Mr. Linden dead.

“Is there something wrong?” She sat beside him on the sofa. “I guess I thought that Carolyn would have told you. It was pretty scandalous when Eric first got caught.” She stubbed the cigarette out and pulling a leg under her, turned to face him.

“What did he do?”

Why was he asking? If he had any smarts, he'd just get up, walk to the door, offer some thank-you for the evening, and get the hell out of there. Not run any risk of a complication. The wife of a felon was not his idea of the ideal date.

“This bothers you, doesn't it?” She was staring at him now, then broke eye contact and got up and reached for another cigarette, not waiting for him to answer. “Eric was greedy. I should have seen the depth of it, that anything to keep up with his friends attitude, the world owed him….” She stopped with her back to him fumbling with the pack of cigarettes and didn't continue.

“I have no right to pry.” He got to his feet and checked his watch, made a big deal out of being surprised. “Whoa. I can't believe the time. Tomorrow's a full day at the office, get things set up, then back out to the Double Horseshoe.”

He moved toward the door but she didn't turn around. It wasn't the best exit, made it seem like he was running away— well, wasn't he? “I can find the door.” Not that she offered to show him; she just lit a cigarette and walked around the back of the desk to put the pack away. She didn't even look up.

He walked down the drive past her Benz. New, a 300E but still expensive enough to set someone back forty-odd thousand, and the two-hundred-thousand-dollar home and the clothes. And where had Carolyn said the son was going to school? Boston College? That was another twenty plus grand a year. Even with a full professorship, fifty or sixty thousand a year could get stretched pretty thin. Or not make ends meet at all.

He sat behind the wheel of the rental and realized how angry he was. Pissed that something with the potential of being so good could have turned to shit. Jesus. What stupid luck. He thought of the feel of her body under him, of her passion, and realized how much he had wanted this to work…turn into….He reached in his pocket for his keys and pulled out the small lavender leather pouch and cursed Dona Mari, then started the car and drove back to Carolyn's.

***

He slept in fits and starts, jolting awake, his mind busy with a thousand details, questions…pain. Elaine, the wife of a felon, living beyond her means—most people's means. Someone killing prize cattle costing the company he worked for hundreds of thousands…Billy Roland? Hard to believe he could do it. Kill what he'd worked to perfect all these years. So, who? Could the informant tell him? He hadn't heard from him in five days. Had something happened to make him change his mind about talking?

The sunlight surprised him and he awoke with that shock of disorientation that comes with lack of sleep and checked the clock on the bed stand. Six-thirty. Shower, shave, cup of coffee, and he'd be at the ranch by eight.

Hank met him in the corrugated steel building that had a regulation-sized show ring in the middle.

“Looks like a lot of expense to go to, but buyers like to see their purchases paraded around, compared to others. Helps some make up their minds.”

Dan nodded and looked at poster-sized pictures, advertisements, of various breeding bulls hanging on the wall behind him.

“Impressive.”

“Some of the best.”

Dan listened as Hank extolled the virtues of the bulls, giving a brief history and an update as to their whereabouts. Billy Roland's stock was everywhere. All over the world. More than one top-grade herd got its start right here at the Double Horseshoe.

“Let's go on back to the breeding barns.”

He let Hank lead the way through insulated steel buildings with stalls opening onto paddocks, pens filled with scrubbed-shiny calves, young bulls kept separate, some with individual handlers who worked with them daily and slept in a bunk room not far away. There was a lab, full veterinarian hospital with racks and lifts and tie-downs, and two other vets on call who had access to the operating equipment.

“Used to feed milk.” Hank was pointing to a walk-in cooler room. “Sort of a veal approach for the general herd, but now feeds are more scientifically balanced. You can get that off-the-mark growth spurt with combinations of grain, pellets, and grass. But we used to keep about thirty Guernseys, still have the milking equipment.” Dan looked through a glass window into a room with pipe stalls, rubber mats for traction and drains down the center aisle, and a jumble of hoses and stainless steel vats.

“Now here's the nursery.”

Dan was not one to think of cattle as cute but the five little guys in the center of the room could pass for adorable without even trying.

“They're up here for their weekly physical, weight, temperature, shot of BST—”

“BST?”

“Recombinant bovine somatotropin, the genetic copy of the hormone that occurs naturally in cattle but when increased through injection, gives the little guys a real kick in the rear. Growth rate is substantially higher.”

“This stuff legal?”

“You mean has the FDA approved it?” Dan nodded. “Last fall. Then slapped a moratorium on its use, then lifted that last month.” Hank paused and leaned against a freshly painted railing. “This is a crazy way to make a living. If you're not regulated to death, you lose stock by natural disaster, or unnatural….”

This seemed as good an opening as any, Dan took it. “Any ideas who might want to hurt Billy Roland?”

Hank shook his head. “Whoever it was had some inside information.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, the worth of the stock, not just in money but in breeding potential. He hasn't lost an animal whose death won't be felt. Shortcake Dream, the Cisco Kid—the end result of years of work to introduce the right combinations. Can't be duplicated.”

“And you don't have any idea who it could be?”

“I've gathered the employment records, they're in my office. Thought they might help. But, honestly? I can't think of anyone who would want to do this.”

“What about competitors?”

“Makes sense. I've thought of that. But where do you look? A lot of the market is overseas. Japan, France, not to mention South America.”

“So you're saying that the mysterious virus that killed the first two heifers could have been intentional?”

Hank just nodded. “How'd you pick up on sucostrin succinvicholine?”

Dan swallowed. “One of those theories that came out of an investigation back East.” He hoped he sounded convincing.

“I was impressed. You know your stuff.”

Dan didn't quite know how to react. He hadn't been trying to fool anyone; his knowledge was limited. It was the informant who knew his stuff.

“Do you feel you have enough protection for the barns?” Change the subject, get Hank talking about the ranch.

“We should. Mr. Eklund hired on ten new hands last week.”

“Am I going to find working papers for the guys I've seen so far?” Dan said it with a half-smile; it wasn't meant to be threatening.

Hank looked sheepish. “Papers are in progress. But it takes awhile.”

“Are you comfortable with Mexican nationals working with the herd?”

“Some have experience. All are good with animals. It's always worked out before. Some of the regular hands have been here for years, twenty or more.”

“You know, I need to inventory this entire operation.”

“No problem. It's going to take awhile.”

“Can we set a date? Start first of next week?”

Dan waited while Hank seemed to consider something and watched as the vet scooped a pinch of tobacco out of a pouch in his breast pocket. “I'll need to have some men on standby. We're talking about rounding up a lot of stock.” Hank pushed the wad between his cheek and gums.

“I'll go over those records on past workers first, do what I can around here, get the office stuff out of the way. I could put off the bulk of the herd for a month probably, if that would help.”

“Yeah. I'll be in Caracas next week.”

“Cattle delivery?”

“Mr. Eklund sweet-talked Señor Garcia into taking two cows in calf by the Cisco Kid. A four for the price of one package.”

“Who's your pilot?”

“Yours truly. Safer to have a vet on board during transport. Works to Mr. Eklund's advantage if they're one and the same.”

“I'd also like a list of all vets who might have had access to the stock, here at the ranch or at shows over the past year. Maybe a list of competitors, too. Anyone who might possibly stand to gain.” Not to mention Billy Roland himself, who was pocketing the insurance money, but Dan wasn't convinced that the money was the cause of it all. He was looking at a multi-million dollar spread. How could a few hundred thousand be that important?

***

Dan spent that evening finding an apartment in Roswell. His contract allowed that on extended road trips. And it got him out of Carolyn's hair. She'd balked, insisted, at first, that he stay there at the house; then, thinking he was seeing Elaine and needed privacy, drove him nuts trying to pry out the details.

The apartment was furnished. That was being kind; it had furniture was more like it. But it would do. Side entrance off a fire escape served as a back door. He was one story up and to the back with a panoramic view of the stables and training barns belonging to New Mexico Military Institute. All this from the fifties-vintage bay window.

He'd probably stay at the motel in Tatum most of the time during the inventory. Driving a hundred and fifty plus miles every day round trip wasn't his idea of working expediently. He'd had a phone put in at the apartment. So he could call Elaine? He hadn't made up his mind. But it surprised him that he couldn't keep from thinking about her. So, her husband had been a felon, did it really make that much difference? Wasn't he being a little tight-assed about the whole thing?

He got up a half hour earlier the next morning and walked to work. Now that was something he couldn't do in Chicago. He liked towns with turn-of-the-century buildings. Old red brick two-story structures that oozed history and displayed their conception in a chiseled stone corner block.

Roswell's courthouse had a weathered green metal dome that could be seen for miles perched on top of a three-story stone, wide, rectangular-shaped collection of offices placed well back from the main street and surrounded by hundred-year-old elms. Across the street and down two blocks, the local office for United Life and Casualty occupied the second floor of a refurbished Victorian, resplendent with wine and green trim, shutters to match, the brick recently sandblasted to capture the patina of soft rose. The cornerstone read 1889. Upstairs the offices were high-ceilinged, all with fans and the original embossed tin tiles, their floors gleaming a varnished oak.

“Visitors. I put them in the conference room.”

Dan smiled his thanks and followed the receptionist's pointing finger and continued toward the back of the suite.

The conference room contained a mahogany table so long that it was rumored it had been built right there in the room, a ship in a bottle. Dan was never sure the story was true but it could have been. The two men sitting at the table looked like Mormons, a little old maybe, but still with that crew-cut, clean-shaven good looks. But he knew he'd be wasting his time looking for bicycles. It was funny how agents and missionaries could look alike.

“Mr. Mahoney? Roger Jenkins, FBI. We'd like a little of your time.”

So what was he going to do? Refuse? Dan closed the door behind him and held out his hand.

“Tom Atborrough.” The second man rose, leaned across the table and shook hands. Dan pulled out a chair and sat opposite two open briefcases.

“I'll get right to the point,” Roger said. Must be the dominant one, Dan thought, as he watched Tom lean back in his chair. “We've heard the tape, Mr. Eklund and the vet explaining their investment in the bull that died last week. Frankly, we have no reason to suspect that it isn't on the up and up. The insurance part of this is of no interest to us.” Roger paused, then pushed back from the table and stood, towering over him before he continued. Setting up a psychological advantage, Dan noted; these guys couldn't put much over on him.

“We have reason to believe that Mr. Eklund is using the cattle business for a cover-up. Seven years ago we were pretty certain that it was drugs, deals with Colombian drug lords. But then they pulled that little sacrifice, gave us their pilot on a platter and backed off.” Roger paused to pick a folder out of his briefcase. “We have a copy of the report you sent to your home office in Chicago. Apparently, you witnessed the possible drowning of that pilot, Eric Linden? Saw the car he was in being chased by the county sheriff? And later inspected the car and ascertained that the car had, in all probability, been a shooter's taget?”

Dan nodded.

“One of our snitches at Milford Correctional said a bank statement was delivered every month and two million dollars was collecting interest in Midland Savings and Loan in Tatum, New Mexico. The bank was to have been in charge of managing Mr. Linden's investments. I don't need to tell you that the money has disappeared or didn't exist in the first place.”

Dan didn't need to ask how they knew that he knew; Junior probably shared their little conversation. Or maybe Judge Cyrus.

The community was more than a little inbred.

“We do know that the Lott girl was hired to set Linden up. The plan, obviously, went wrong.”