Fourteen

From across the plaza at the open-air café, Tortilla Flats, Zach saw Alexander Holt’s van pull away from The Rising Sun. He checked his watch, deciding to give Brad Yeager another three minutes. The FBI agent already was ten minutes late.

As he toyed with his Coke, Zach saw Claire walk into the plaza and sit on a bench. Weird. With all the people in her gallery, why would Claire want to be alone? Because that jackass of a father said something to upset her.

Didn’t Claire see what a selfish bastard Alexander Holt was? Of course not. Your parents had a special place in your heart, he reflected. No matter what, you loved them.

Too well, Zach remembered his youth. He’d loved his father, even though Jake Coulter had been so absorbed by his photography and his affair with Amy Holt to spend much time with Zach. His mother had been a different story. She’d devoted herself to her son—when she wasn’t drinking. Trouble was, the bottle was more interesting than her child. But he’d loved her just the same. When she wasn’t drinking, she was the best mother in the world.

How different his parents’ lives would have been—if he hadn’t been born. He’d been conceived in the back seat of a Chevy when his parents had been in high school. His father had done the honorable thing and married his mother, sacrificing a scholarship to college.

The marriage had been doomed from the first, but somehow Zach always blamed himself. Was that what Claire was doing now, blaming herself for something beyond her control? Zach was ready to toss a couple of bills on the bar and go talk to Claire when Yeager walked in.

“Wow!” Yeager said. “This is some celebration.”

Zach gazed out at the plaza where vendors were preparing tamales and blue corn taquitos for the tourists who were slowly drifting out of the galleries. The aroma of roasting chiles and piñon wood filled the summer air along with the sounds of the rock band tuning up. In another hour, people would be dancing and stuffing their faces. Tortilla Flat’s outdoor bar was brimming with chattering people.

Only Claire Holt was alone.

“It’s the beginning of the tourist season,” Zach told Yeager. “I have my hands full. I put on my badge for the first time since last year’s rodeo. I activated four reserve deputies and the Mounted Patrol to handle the problems.”

Yeager leaned against the bar, ordered a Red Dog beer, then asked, “Are you expecting trouble?”

“Nah. We’ll have a lot of drunk Texans. They’ll want to fight. The deputies and the volunteers on the Mounted Patrol will help me toss ’em in the drunk tank and let ’em sleep it off.”

Yeager’s eyes lit up—proof positive the SAC had been at the FBI’s Gallup post way too long. He missed the action. “Tell everyone that I’m in from Gallup to help you if you need it. That way people won’t be suspicious about me being around.”

“Right,” Zach said as he noticed Angela Whitmore join Claire on the bench in the plaza. “What did you find out?”

Yeager moved closer, his beer clutched in one hand. “Duncan Morrell was killed by a single shot to the temple at close range. The bullet came from a .25 caliber automatic, a gun easily concealed. It could have been in a woman’s purse, or in a small duffel bag.”

Zach thought of Claire’s wallet being found in the room next to Morrell’s. Incriminating. Sweat peppered his upper lip, but he cuffed it off with his shirt. Jesus H. Christ, leave Claire out of this.

“There were traces of fiber in the wound.”

“A homemade silencer,” Zach said. “Someone put a pillow or something to his head before pulling the trigger. That explains why no one heard the shot.”

“You didn’t find the pillow or anything with blood.”

“Nope. I had the mounted patrol comb the area searching for the murder weapon. They would have picked up anything bloody.”

Yeager grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “I have the list of major investors in Morrell’s lithographs. Number one investor. Wanna take a guess?”

Shaking his head, Zach shot a quick glance sideways. Beyond the patio of Tortilla Flats, he could see Claire and Angela talking on the bench. No, he did not want to guess; he wanted to be with Claire.

Yeager chuckled. “Nevada Murphy was the number one investor.”

“Really? Nevada planned to make a killing on his own lithographs. Interesting.”

“The number two investor was—now this is a stunner—Vanessa Trent.”

Zach nodded, thinking he’d never met the actress, but she’d called the station after Stegner blabbed around town that chukes had kidnapped him. Zach had seen Trent’s show once or twice. Mindless drivel. The actress strutted around, jiggling boobs way too huge to be original equipment.

“Almost as big an investor was Seth Ramsey.” Yeager took a swig of beer while Zach twirled his glass, clinking the ice against the side. “And get this, Ramsey is tap-city.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Cocky little prick, Zach thought. Ramsey tooled around town in a Ferrari even though he was nearly broke. “Was there anyone else at The Hideaway who’d invested and had a motive to kill Morrell?”

Yeager drained his glass and motioned to the bartender for another. “Way, way down the list of investors is Carleton Cole.”

Zach conjured up a mental image. Buff but brain-dead. He was perfect for Angela Whitmore. Zach stole a glance sideways and noticed Angela and Claire were still on the bench, talking.

“Let’s discuss the body,” said Yeager.

Body. Zach’s muscles responded instantly, thinking of Claire’s soft body. He could almost feel her beneath him. He noticed Yeager studying him with a puzzled expression and Zach managed to appear interested.

“Good thing you had them save Morrell’s vital organs and tissue samples,” Yeager told him. “He had ejaculated within half an hour of being killed.”

“Really? We didn’t find any condoms. No visible semen on the body either.”

The bartender slid another beer across the bar to Yeager. The agent caught it, took a sip, then said, “A special forensics team went over the body. If they say he’d had sex, they’re dead-on.”

“We’ve interviewed all the personnel at The Hideaway. No one reported any woman in the area.”

“Except for Claire Holt.”

It was all Zach could do to keep his face expressionless. He didn’t trust Yeager enough to talk to him about Claire. “I checked. She has one gun registered, a .38.”

“That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have used another gun.”

“I’m not buying it. Claire Holt is not the type to murder anyone in cold blood.”

Yeager drained half the beer. “True. We had our criminal profiler go over the case. The profiler doesn’t rule out a woman, but the killer could be a man with repressed sexual impulses or something.”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means a bull-dyke who still goes for men, or a man who’s a switch hitter.”

“They could tell that from the evidence at the murder scene?”

Yeager shrugged. “They’ve been amazingly accurate in other cases.”

“I know. I worked with a profiler in San Francisco. He analyzed crime scene photos and the physical evidence, then came up with the perp’s criminal behavior pattern. When we caught the serial killer, he fit the description. But I didn’t pick up on any clues at the murder scene to indicate a woman committed the crime.” Zach shook his head. “A pervert? Nothing there either.”

“The odds are against it being a woman. Men are more often the killers.”

“Crimes usually come down to greed or passion,” Zach said. “You think this was a crime of passion.”

“Not necessarily. Just because Morrell recently had sex doesn’t mean that it was a crime of passion. Perhaps this situation merely provided the opportunity for the killer.”

“Then we’re back to square one,” Zach said.

“This is where we double-check alibis to rule out suspects. What about that actress who invested heavily in Morrell’s prints?”

“Vanessa Trent missed her flight, and didn’t arrive in Taos until after Morrell was killed.” Zach stole a look at Claire who was still out in the plaza talking to Angela.

“How’s Carleton Cole’s alibi?”

“Up in the air. Cole took Angela home about midnight, then went to his room. No one can verify his whereabouts at the time of the murder,” Zach told him. “Now that I know he invested in those prints, I’ll take a closer look.”

“What are you going to do about Seth Ramsey?”

Zach couldn’t help smiling. Alexander Holt was so high on the prissy lawyer. “I say squeeze him. Hard.”

Max Bassinger sauntered into The Rising Sun Gallery beside Seth Ramsey. Four shots of Johnny Walker in a plaza-side bar had improved his attitude, and he was feeling mellow. He enjoyed being with Seth. He’d analyzed their relationship and knew what attracted him to the blond man besides his good looks.

They were complete opposites. Max had been born a stone Okie in a shack with an outhouse behind it. He’d never finished high school, but he had street smarts up the ole wazoo.

Seth had been born with a silver spoon in each hand, a flock of servants to wait on him. Private schools all the way, then Harvard and Harvard Law. Now he was catering to Max like he was a king.

And Max loved it. How far he’d come.

The bright lights inside the gallery soured his disposition. What a mob scene. He wanted to return to the opulent hacienda he had renovated. And get naked.

On the far side of the gallery, he spotted Vanessa Trent. He imagined making love to the famous actress.

Women were useful, he decided. For as long as he could remember, Max had been attracted to both sexes. He accepted himself for what he was. Bisexual. It worked for the ancient Greeks. Sex was sex. Limiting yourself to one gender was boring.

As Max headed toward the bar, he came face-to-face with Vanessa Trent. He had seen her television show maybe twice. It played up her incredible tits. Unexpectedly, Vanessa Trent smiled, a sensuous bewitching smile.

“Hello, again. How have you been?”

It took Max a second to realize the actress was speaking to him, not to Seth. He knew he was stick ugly; women were only interested in his money.

“We met last year at the Talbotts’ party,” she continued.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he let his eyes wander down the graceful slope of her jaw to her neck. Then lower. He blatantly inspected the exposed breasts that would have had most men drooling. But then he wasn’t most men.

He’d run into the actress several times, not just at the Talbotts’ party. She’d never stopped to give him the time of day. So why now? Simple. The conceited bitch wanted something.

“Someone told me that you’d totally renovated the old Sanchez hacienda. I understand it’s a showplace now,” Vanessa cooed. “I’d love to see it.”

Max studied Seth out of the corner of his eye. There was more than a flicker of interest. The actress turned him on. Max was about to blow her off, but if Seth wanted another group grope, why not?

Claire sat on the plaza bench beside Angela, gazing at the gazebo where the band was setting up. She’d been talking to Angela for some time, explaining her father’s unexpected reaction to Paul Winfrey’s painting. She’d half expected Angela to jump up and storm into the gallery to see the controversial work, but she hadn’t. She seemed genuinely interested in Claire’s troubles, and Claire realized Angela was a better friend than she’d first thought.

“Your situation is very similar to what I went through with my father,” Angela confessed. “He had a great deal of money and wanted to tell me what to do and how to live my life. Every time an eligible man came along, he would insist the man was only interested in my money.”

“How did you handle it?”

“Mr. Right came along in the form of a tennis pro. Papa hit the roof. ‘That man’s only after your money.’ He convinced me to drop him.” Angela gazed at Claire, her brown eyes concerned, and Claire could see how hurt she still was. “It took years for me to get over it.”

“What happened to him?”

“He found someone else. The last I heard, they were happily married with three kids.” Angela shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but Claire knew better. “I learned to live with what my father said because it had the ring of truth to it. I have more money than I can spend. That’s what men are interested in, so I’ve learned to play along. I go for young guys I have no intention of ever marrying. A feminist version of love ’em and leave ’em.”

Claire’s heart went out to her friend. What a way to live your life. To have everything but no one to share it with. “My father says I’m just like my mother. I guess that has the ring of truth to it, too. I look like her. I love finding talented artists and displaying their work.”

“All you’d have to do is take up with Zach Coulter”—Angela stopped. Obviously something in Claire’s expression had alerted her. “Small towns thrive on gossip. I heard all about your mother running away with Jake Coulter.”

The ring of truth. Claire was more like her mother than she cared to admit. She was hopelessly attracted to Zach, but it was a relationship without a future. She could never take him home to her father—not that he’d want to go.

“Oh my God, Claire! You’re not!” Angela cried when Claire didn’t say anything. “You’re not involved with Zach, are you?”

“It hasn’t gone that far yet.”

“Well, I can’t say that I blame you. If he were younger, I’d go after him myself.” Angela slammed her palm against her forehead. “I’m sorry. This situation isn’t funny, is it?”

“I don’t know what makes Zach so attractive. If I became involved with him, he’d throw me over in no time.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Zach has a reputation for taking out women just once, then dropping them.”

Angela considered this for a moment. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to gossip. The Sheriff may just not have found the right woman.”

“Possibly,” she conceded, “but if I went out with Zach, my father would be mortified. He might have another stroke.”

Angela held up her hand. “I have a suggestion. Go for a one-night stand out at Zach’s place where no one will see you. Satisfy your curiosity, then find someone you can take home to your father. That’s what I would do.”

It was a tempting idea, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to risk it. Would one night with Zach Coulter be enough?

“I’d better get back to the gallery.” Claire rose, smiling at Angela. “Thanks for listening to my troubles. Come with me. I’d like you to see Paul’s work. I want your opinion.”

Zach Coulter shouldered his way into The Rising Sun Gallery with Brad Yeager at his side. Being a head taller than everyone gave him the ability to spot Ramsey right away. “He’s the blond-haired guy standing next to Vanessa Trent.”

Yeager craned his neck. “By God, it’s the Vanessa Trent. She has a set of knockers that won’t quit.”

Zach didn’t bother to look around the gallery for Claire. He knew she was still in the plaza with Angela Whitmore. But he couldn’t help comparing Claire and the actress. Give him Claire any day. Better yet, any night.

“Who’s the old, bald runt with them?” Yeager asked.

“Max Bassinger, the billionaire from Texas. He lives here part of the year. Ramsey’s his attorney. Run a check on Bassinger, will you?” Zach moved forward as Seth headed to the bar. “Let’s take Ramsey out back and question him alone.”

Zach tapped Seth on the shoulder just as he came up to the margarita bar. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

Seth shot him a hostile glare that might have intimidated some men. “You’ve questioned me twice. I’m busy getting Vanessa Trent a drink.”

“Out back—now—unless you want Vanessa to see you arrested.”

“What for? I haven’t done anything.”

“Obstructing justice. You didn’t tell me that you had a motive to kill Duncan Morrell. You invested a bundle in his lithographs and lost your ass.”

A dull flush shot up Ramsey’s face, and Zach saw that he’d scored. With Yeager at his side, he led Ramsey through the crowd to the back of the gallery. Lobo and Lucy were sitting just outside the rear entrance. Zach gave his dog a pat and let Lobo lick his hand while he positioned himself so the light over the door shined directly in Ramsey’s face.

Pointing at Yeager, Ramsey went on the offensive, a bullshit lawyer tactic. “Who’s he?”

Yeager pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to show the official FBI seal and his photo ID as Zach said, “Special Agent Yeager is down from the Gallup office to help me with rodeo problems.”

Seeing the Feebie ID shook Ramsey. “What do you want to know?”

“You had a reason to shoot Morrell. You don’t have an alibi,” Zach said.

“I say arrest him, get a warrant, and tear his place apart,” Yeager put in, following the plan they had to squeeze the smarmy lawyer. “You’ll find the murder weapon.”

“I did not kill Duncan. Sure, I was angry because he sold me those lithographs, but I’m rich, I—”

“You’re lying,” Zach yelled. “You’re maxed out on your Visa. American Express cut you off.”

Ramsey glared at Yeager. “The FBI must be in on this case. You wouldn’t have access to those records.”

“Why would I call in the Feebies?” Zach hedged. “Brad’s up in Gallup bored silly. He’s doing this for fun, right Brad?”

“Yeah. Not much happens on the res,” Yeager responded, then he waited a minute. When Ramsey didn’t speak, Yeager told Zach. “Read him his rights.”

“Just a darn minute! You can’t arrest me.”

Darn? Zach grinned. What a wimp. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“I can prove I didn’t murder Duncan Morrell. I have an alibi.”

Zach slanted a glance sideways at Yeager. The bluff had worked. “I interviewed you twice and you said that you looked for Claire Holt, couldn’t find her, then went home. Are you changing your story?”

Ramsey’s face was even more flushed than before, having turned the color of an eggplant. Boy, this was going to be good. Zach could just feel it. “You’d better tell me the whole truth this time, and don’t you dare leave out a single detail.”

Seth raked his fingers through his hair, ruining the too-perfect line, then said, “I waited for Claire, but she didn’t come out. I had picked up the key to number five. I was going to take her down there.”

As Ramsey hesitated, Zach saw Yeager was confused. “The Hideaway doesn’t have a front desk. The keys are in boxes,” he explained. “You slip in ten bucks and take the key. If the key is missing, you know the bungalow is in use.”

“I walked out there to say I’d be there as soon as I found her … but I went in and didn’t come out.”

“Was there a party in number five?” Zach asked.

Ramsey tilted his head upward and the glare of the light revealed the sweat coating his brow. “You could say that.”

“Get more specific,” Yeager told him. “You’re in deep shit.”

“Look, I’ve been seeing Claire Holt for months. Her father is crazy about me, but I’ve never gotten to first base with her. Max Bassinger suggested slipping half a Roofie into her drink to relax her, then bring her down to number five.”

“You little prick!” Zach cocked his arm, ready to give him the same punch that had leveled Bam Stegner.

“Zach,” Yeager cautioned. “Don’t touch the suspect. Let’s do this right.”

Zach could barely control himself. “A Roofie can make a woman helpless.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Ramsey whined. “I just thought that if Claire made love to me, she’d like me a whole lot more. It was just half a pill. She was still talking. She seemed okay to me.”

“So what was Bassinger going to do?” Zach asked. “Watch?”

“Of course not. He was just holding the room until we could get there.”

Yeager asked, “What went wrong? You never came back for Claire.”

Ramsey looked down at the dogs, sitting by Zach’s boots. “Stacy Hopkins was in there stark naked giving Max a blow job. I couldn’t drag Claire into a scene like that. I went in and shut the door.”

“Who was laughing?” Zach asked, remembering Claire had heard laughter.

“Max hooted and said I was too uptight. He’s my best client. I didn’t want to alienate him. I stayed in the room and watched. Stacy couldn’t get enough … so I let her take care of me.” Seth’s voice was dropping with every word until it was hard to hear him over the sound of the band in the plaza. “The three of us were in that room going at it until dawn.”