Too Sexy for his Stetson (20 page)

****

Blade met Skip at the Fort Shoshone cop shop shooting range. They spent the better part of an hour one–upping each other, demonstrating their skills with a rifle before they switched to pistols—Blade a Glock 22 9mm and Skip his trusty Colt .45 with custom–made mesquite grips inlaid with his initials, his trademark for as long as Blade could remember.

Twenty minutes and hundreds of rounds later, they removed their ear protectors and started to pack up. It was time for Blade to get to the point. He hated scrutinizing another officer. Multiply the discomfort by a hundred when it came questioning Skip Coogan.

Blade considered himself to be an unbiased cop, his forte the ability to read others. And ninety percent of the time, he was dead–on with his evaluations. Facial expressions and body language almost always gave away a liar.

“Someone forced me off the road last night on Rim Rock Canyon Drive.”

“What?” Skip’s brows shot up, his Idaho–bronzed skin paling.

It was an honest, surprised reaction, the kind of reaction Blade had hoped for. “The Tahoe’s totaled and then some.”

“Jesus Christ. Blade? You went off Rim Rock into Deadman’s Gulch?”

“Halfway into the gulch.”

“You could have been killed.”

“Someone had that in mind.”

Anguish filled Coogan’s weather–crinkled eyes. His hands started shaking. “What the hell was going down?”

Could anyone fake genuine concern like that? Fake the distress etched on Skip’s face? It took a lot to get a man as hard and tough as Skip to reveal any kind of emotion.

“Blade, just the thought of what might have happened makes my blood run cold.”

“Hey, I’m okay.”

Coogan’s gaze locked on him. “I never had a son, but if I’d had one, I would have wanted him to be just like you…” He shook his head and swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand.

Blade’s heart lurched in relief, a thousand–pound weight lifting from his chest. No way did Skip want him dead. He thought about all the times he’d wished Skip had been his father. An impossible dream, but one that could have spared him the anguish Richard Lutz had caused.

“So it was a deliberate attack?”

“No question. The driver rammed us over the edge.”

“What have you got on the asshole?”

“No leads yet, but Brandy and I have been threatened a couple of times this past week.”

“Threatened? In what way?”

“Warnings. Notes left various places. Then last night we were on the way home from dinner—”

“Dinner?” A vertical crease valleyed between Officer Coogan’s brow.

“Just dinner… nothing more.”

Coogan’s jaw locked, but his message came through, and it put Blade on the defensive. “Look, Skip, it was her birthday. I took my trainee to dinner. That’s it.”

Skip dragged his hand across his mouth.

“Anyway, the Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters are making their presence known.” Blade paused. Waited for some kind of reaction.

Nothing.

He went on to say, “They’re not happy with the Little Chute Sheriff’s Department for various reasons.”
So, Skip, this is where you bring up the undercover operation you’re working.

The older man concentrated on his firearms and avoided eye contact. “Well, there are plenty of crazies in the world. And around here it’s pretty damn easy to saddle everything on the extremists.” He glanced aside. “Not that they aren’t capable of causing a shitload of trouble.”

“You’re damn right they are.” Blade waited. “Exactly what is the extent of the Fort Shoshone P.D.’s engagement with the Christian Identity Movement and the Neo Nazi Extremists?” Couldn’t be more direct than that.

“What do you mean?”

“I think the logging rig that rammed us belongs to Reverend McKee’s constituents. I thought the Fort Shoshone Police Department might have some information on the Neo Nazis that hasn’t filtered down to the sheriff’s department yet.”

“So… it was a logging truck?” Skip’s right cheek muscle hopped.

“Yes. And I did a little scouting the other day. McKee’s got four logging trucks stored up on Thunder Mountain.”

Stone–faced and oh–so–hard to read, Skip stared at him, the wheels in his head obviously turning. In that instant, Blade wondered if he really wanted to read him.

After what seemed like a full minute ticked by, Skip said, “I didn’t want to say anything yet.” He sucked in a breath. “But after I dug up a rap sheet on McKee, I went into the compound a couple of times, undercover, of course.” Skip moved closer and placed a hand on Blade’s shoulder. “I really want to play this right and get McKee to confide in me. Trust me, I’ve got a damned good reason.”

Blade’s chest tightened.

“I think Reverend Abraham McKee is allied with Richard Lutz in some way.”

“Jesus—” Blade’s insides went numb.
Richard Lutz? Dear old Dad.
“Then you think the SOB is still alive?” he croaked.

“I believe so, and I think I’m close to tracking him down.”

As though the earth had quaked, the ground shifted beneath Blade’s feet. Blood pounded in his ears. Bile stung the back of his throat and tainted his tongue. He hadn’t seen the bastard since he was two years old, but he’d never forgive him for what he’d done to his mother, the chaos he had made of both her and Blade’s lives, or the genes he’d saddled Blade with. And Reverend McKee knew where Lutz was? He tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

“I know you’ve waited a long time to confront him, son. I didn’t want to say anything until I had something concrete to go on.”

Son.
Never had it been more clear to Blade that Skip was more of a father to him than the man who’d taken advantage of his mother. How could he have questioned Skip’s integrity? Had Brandy’s accusations blurred his judgment? She’d been trying to turn him against Skip ever since the day they’d met. And that, he realized, was insane. He should have known Skip would never associate with the white supremacists.

****

Daniel Morrisey flexed his biceps and tightened his hold. He moved his mouth to Brandy’s ear, and his breath fell on her cheek, the stench broadcasting that he must have had beer for breakfast. He made a clicking sound and angled the razor–edge of his knife against her throat.

The proximity of her jugular to the switchblade dictated her action. Or lack thereof. She had zero wiggle room, though she would have enjoyed spinning around and landing a quick, hard kick to his groin. Unfortunately, one wrong move on her part would result in a leak to her circulatory system.

Assess. Bad ankle. Cracked ribs. Wrenched shoulder. God, she was in deep shit. Even if she got a chance, between her injured shoulder and her bruised ribs, a karate chop would probably debilitate her almost as badly as it would him.

Then, like an angel from above, Tonya yelled, “Drop the knife, you moron.”

Without moving a millimeter, Brandy shifted her eyes. Tonya stood outside Tour d’Alene’s exit. Five–foot–five–inches of determined woman, backing up her demand with a rifle aimed at Morrisey. And everyone in town could verify Tonya’s skill with a rifle. She was almost as good a shot as Brandy.

Morrisey’s grip slackened, and Brandy immediately shoved him away.

Muttering something under his breath, he raced toward his car. Once inside, he revved the engine and glared, shouting out the open window in Tonya’s direction. “You’ll get yours, you red–skinned bitch.” Accelerating, burning rubber, he turned his glower to Brandy. “We’ve got a date, sweetheart, sooner or later.”

Gears ground. Tires squealed. And then he was out of sight.

Tonya ran over. “Are you all right?”

Shaking, Brandy nodded. “Thanks.” She bent at the waist, hands on her knees. “Who you don’ run into when you don’t have a gun.”

Tonya forced a small smile. “What a creep.”

“Yeah.” Brandy swallowed, straightened, and squared her shoulders. “Tonya, be careful. Until the department picks him up, you need to watch your back, okay?”

“I will. Same goes for you.” She hefted the barrel of the rifle over her shoulder and stood watching until Brandy climbed into her truck and headed out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

B
y the time Brandy reported Morrisey’s attack, the jerk had totally disappeared. He wasn’t at his apartment, and the sheriff’s department had interviewed all of his known friends. No one admitted to knowing his whereabouts.

Late that afternoon, Brandy’s insides churned. She knew the best way to keep her mind off the incident was diversion. If she didn’t concentrate on something else, her thoughts would eat her up.

How could she have let him ambush her the way he had? So what if she’d just left the hospital? “A law enforcer should always be on her game,” she told Rambo, who hadn’t left her side since she’d fetched him from his kennel after she’d hauled the groceries into Blade’s place.

He woofed sympathetically. She grinned.

In the kitchen, she dug out the notes from the TV cooking show she’d watched that morning and pondered her scribbles. Checking Blade’s cupboard for bowls and utensils, she found a fry pan and a large pot and set them on the chipped Formica countertop along with the items she’d picked up at the store.

“How hard can this be?”

Rambo tilted his head and barked.

She read aloud as he sat attentively on a rug in front of the sink. “So, do you think Blade is going to like this?”

Wagging his tail, Rambo leaned his head to one side and yipped.

“Does he like mushrooms?”

One canine ear tipped down, then back up.

Brandy dumped a package of mushrooms into a white enamel colander. Her thoughts strayed again to Morrisey. Shivers worked their way down her back. She refused to think about what might have happened if Tonya hadn’t come to the rescue.

“On TV, this entire meal took less than twenty minutes to prepare.” She met Rambo’s gaze. “You know, buddy, if you could help, it would go a lot faster.”

The dog’s head went from resting on the floor between his paws, to perking up, intent on her every word. He barked and sidled closer, nudging his nose against her foot.

“I’ll never get this meal prepared if I let you sucker me into your agenda.” But how could she resist?

“Mooch.” Kneeling beside him, she ruffled his fur, stroking his soft black ears. His tongue warmed her cheek, and then he scampered away and promptly returned with his brush clamped between his teeth.

She laughed. “You get ten minutes, then I’m going to get this meal put together if it kills me.”

****

The smoke alarm blared in Blade’s ear as he tore through the door.

Brandy stood on a kitchen stool, waving a dishtowel at the ceiling detector while ominous dark clouds emanated from a smoldering frying pan that had been shoved aside on the stove.

“Are you all right?”

“I haven’t burned the place down yet.”

“I mean Morrisey—I just got back to the office and read the report.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but I’m mad as hell that he got a jump on me.”

“God, Brandy… I was…”

“What?”

He shrugged. Okay she was a deputy, and she wasn’t going to let him baby her. “No sign of him yet. We’re still looking for more of his acquaintances to interview. But so far nothing.”

“Did anyone check the compound up on Thunder Mountain? Because I’m almost positive he was one of the guards.”

“I know, but going into the compound is sticky territory. We need to follow everything to the letter of the law… search warrants, backup from the National Terrorism Advisory System, and a clear statement from the feds that there is an imminent threat before we invade the Neo Nazi’s territory.”

“I suppose we don’t want another fiasco like Ruby Ridge on our hands. But it’ll be very interesting to find out what Morrisey knows about Joey Secada and the circumstances of his death… And God, I should have seen the creep coming. A law enforcer should be ready for anything, any time.

“Sometimes you need eyes in the back of your head.”

“I won’t ever get ambushed like that again.”

She paused and peered at him through the haze. “So how was your day? I didn’t expect you this early.”

“I guess so.” He’d raced home the minute he’d heard about Morrisey’s attack on Brandy. He took a second to glance around the smoky surroundings and got sidetracked eying the empty cans, plastic containers, measuring cups, along with a mass of skin and bones piled on a wooden cutting board. Spice bottles—ten or twelve—were scattered across the counter. He didn’t think he owned that many different seasonings.

“Did a grenade go off in here?” He coughed and squinted through the haze.

“Hey, I’m cooking.”

“Let’s open some windows and doors,” he offered, already sliding aside the patio door that had been temporarily patched with plastic sheeting. He dashed back to help her down from the stool. “Uh… what’s for dinner?”

“It’s gourmet.” She glanced at the pan emitting gray clouds. “I may have overheated the skillet, but the recipe says to get the pan smoking hot.”

He looped his thumbs in his back pockets. “Smells great.” A mercy lie, but he figured she needed some encouragement.

“I’ve got this under control.”

“Yeah, I can see,” he said, coughing. He edged toward the open door and took a deep breath.

“Really, I do,” she croaked, suppressing a cough. “Just grab a beer and wait on the deck. It’ll be ready in no time.”

“Oookay. Uh, I think I’ll change clothes and entertain Rambo for a while.”

Ten minutes later on the deck, swigging beer to soothe the after–effects of smoke inhalation and to kill the “smells–great” residue, Blade hunkered next to Rambo, scratching the dog’s ears.

If dinner actually materialized, they had plenty of options for dinner conversation. Coogan’s undercover op. And maybe the news Skip had revealed about Blade’s father, the probable Neo Nazi, white–supremacist–sympathizing creep and friend of Reverend McKee’s.

The muscles in Blade’s solar plexus bunched. What was with him? He’d never even thought about sharing personal baggage like that with anyone before. He didn’t need to go discussing Richard Lutz with Brandy.