― George Eliot
Sam blasted the air conditioner, which seemed anemic against the heat-soaked car upholstery, roads, and buildings.
“I don’t know how people stand this heat,” he muttered.
“It’s not as if Santa Fe’s without hundred-degree weather,” Jeannette said.
“Still the exception rather than the rule, and I hope it stays that way. It’s September—and this weather feels like June.” He curled his lip.
“Why do I suspect it’s not the weather that’s bothering you?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. “You want Frank to be innocent,” she said after a moment. “I get it. For Cici’s sake, I hope Frank isn’t a criminal.”
“But?”
“But…he’s slick. A lawyer. Which means that he knows what to say and how to evade questions.”
“Maybe KaraLynn will be more forthcoming.”
“You’ve met her before, right? Before this week, I mean.”
Sam nodded. He turned onto the highway and headed toward the large parcels of jewel-bright lawns and large pools with equally large homes.
“She and Frank came out for the holidays one year and for Anna Carmen’s engagement party.”
Jeannette’s brows drew together. “And the funeral?”
“No. She said it was a family affair.”
Jeannette grumbled a curse as she crossed her arms over her chest.
They pulled into the entrance to one of the largest homes, topiary and statuary lining the cobbles. The house’s large and ornate exterior loomed over them as Sam drove up the circular driveway and turned off the vehicle. This was the type of house Sam’s father would appreciate. To Sam, the opulence reminded him of a mausoleum, no matter the warm, earthy tones and charming red tile roof. He shook his head at the gem-green patch of lawn next to the Spanish-style mansion.
“Such a waste of water,” he muttered.
Jeannette chuckled. “I have to admit, Santa Fe’s lack of lawn grew on me, especially after I learned grass is the largest irrigated crop in the country.” She lifted her hand and waved it toward the yard. “That shouldn’t be here. In a hundred years or whatever, someone’s going to be all Mad Maxing it, wishing they had some water and cursing the rich assholes who wasted it on St. Augustine.”
Sam chuckled. “You’re feisty.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like assholes.”
This Sam knew, which was one of the reasons he was glad Jeannette was on his side—at least currently. He had no doubt she’d pledge her allegiance back to Bresdeen if it would save her from losing her badge and serving time; she’d basically told him that earlier.
He exited the car and waited for her to join him. Jeannette stepped out, and her blazer seemed to wilt against her frame. Sam was sure his did the same, but he shifted his shoulders and buttoned it.
“Ready to meet the other half of Scottsdale’s former power couple?”
“I don’t really have a choice,” she said in a grumpy voice.
They climbed up the imposing steps to the thick wooden door studded with wrought iron and inlaid with tiny pieces of glass.
“A freaking fortress for a door,” Jeannette said.
She wasn’t wrong.
KaraLynn opened the door, her shocked expression morphing into annoyance.
“Sam. And I see you brought a…friend.”
Jeannette stiffened beside him, offense at KaraLynn’s tone rolling off her. Yet she smiled, all teeth, as she flashed her badge. “Sam’s my partner, and Cici’s my bestie,” Jeannette said after introducing herself.
Sam managed not to roll his eyes. Sure, he wanted Jeannette and Cici to get along, but “bestie”…that was pushing it.
Though maybe not for Jeannette. He frowned. She didn’t have many close relationships, and Cici had helped her, comforted her, when few others would.
“We’re here to ask you a few questions,” Sam said.
KaraLynn raised her platinum eyebrow but stood back, motioning them inside. “I have an engagement later.”
“We won’t waste your time,” Jeannette said.
KaraLynn’s décor of choice was stark and devoid of color, just as Cici and her twin had described it to Sam after their first lackluster Thanksgiving with their father and his new wife.
Sam took in the many niches and paintings, understanding Cici’s belief that the palatial residence was meant to showcase both KaraLynn’s vast wealth and her knowledge of contemporary artists.
Jeannette pursed her lips, no doubt making the same observation.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Gurule,” she said.
“I prefer Ms. Walker.” KaraLynn led the way into the formal parlor. “What do you want?” she asked once they’d all sat down. “Does this have something to do with the law firm? You really should talk to Frank about that, seeing as how he’s been working to push me out.” Bitterness snapped from each of her words.
“That’s interesting,” Jeannette said. “And we’ll want to talk to you about that, yes. But first, do you mind if we record this conversation?”
KaraLynn’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. Jeannette started her tape recorder and rattled off the date, time, location, and KaraLynn’s name. Then she set the device in her lap, careful to keep the microphone toward KaraLynn.
Sam wanted to ask Jeannette why she’d brought out the recorder, but now wasn’t the time to question his partner—even if he wasn’t on board with her antagonistic tactics. Intimidation would never work, not with a woman renowned for her courtroom cool.
“I take it someone is under investigation,” KaraLynn said, tipping her head toward the device. Satisfaction settled over her features along with a small smirk.
“Who should we be investigating?” Sam asked.
KaraLynn folded her narrow hands into her lap. She wore a large diamond on her right ring finger along with a band of gold on her pinkie. Around her wrist wrapped a narrow platinum-banded watch. Sam didn’t know the manufacturer, but he knew it was expensive—and called a timepiece. Only poor shmoes wore watches.
Her cream-colored slacks and casual sling-back heels with red soles reminded Sam of his mother’s attire. KaraLynn screamed money right up to her soft, intricately highlighted hair. He didn’t know what the cut was called, but it was short and no-nonsense—the type of hair he expected to see on a doctor or attorney or investment banker.
“Oh, I don’t know,” KaraLynn said. Her voice held a false note of indifference. “I’d start with Franklin, myself.”
“We understand you served him with divorce papers around the time he told you he wanted out of the firm,” Jeannette said.
Sam had gleaned that tidbit of information during one of his short phone conversations with Frank earlier in the week, when they’d been rescheduling their missed Monday-night dinner. “Was there a reason?”
KaraLynn’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “Besides the fact that he’s a terrible husband and partner?”
“Yes. Besides that.” Jeannette held the other woman’s gaze long enough for Sam to want to fidget in his chair. The power struggle between the two of them was intense.
“No. I couldn’t say.”
“Then why don’t you tell us about your relationship with Nelson Walker?” Jeannette asked.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Jeannette had circled KaraLynn, letting her think she was in charge, but now a faint crack appeared in the older woman’s mask.
Sam’s belly cramped with concern.
“Nelson is an attorney, but he doesn’t love the work, so he’s pretty much checked out. Sometimes he’ll do research for Frank or me.”
“Why doesn’t he do more of the litigating?” Sam asked.
The cracks in KaraLynn’s façade grew. Her hands fluttered for a brief second before she clasped them again, but this time her fingers seemed clenched.
“He doesn’t like it,” she replied.
“Frank told me on a call yesterday that Nelson hasn’t been in the office in weeks,” Sam said, picking up the thread Jeannette had handed him. “Is he missing?”
“And Cord McGee, one of your paralegals, also hasn’t been in the office,” Jeannette said. “Which is either quite a coincidence or…” She leaned forward, her gaze firm on KaraLynn.
The older woman fingered her narrow band. “Cord’s missing?” she asked, her voice smaller.
“Do you know where we might find either of the men, Ms. Walker?” Jeannette asked. “We’re concerned, especially after the office gossip we heard—”
“Nelson has nothing to do with this,” KaraLynn snapped.
“It’s interesting,” Sam said, his voice light, “that you mention Nelson.”
KaraLynn looked away.
“Not Cord, who seems to be a bigger asset to the firm,” he continued. “Based on your earlier comments.”
KaraLynn brushed nonexistent lint from her pants. “You first asked about my brother, Nelson.”
“And you started a firm with him thirty years ago, but he hasn’t litigated in over a decade. I don’t understand his contribution to the firm.”
KaraLynn stood. “This meeting is over.”
Sam pulled out the bag holding the diamond stud. KaraLynn’s hand twitched up toward her ear before she returned it to her side.
“We found this at a crime scene this morning. I take it you’re familiar with the earring?”
KaraLynn swallowed. “I have diamond studs. One went missing.”
“Oh?” Jeannette asked, leaning forward. “When was that?”
“A while back.”
“How long ago?”
KaraLynn pursed her lips. “A few months, maybe?”
“But you’re not sure?” Jeannette crossed her legs and wagged her foot. “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with—”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to answer further questions,” KaraLynn said stiffly.
Sam tipped his head toward the door as he rose. He’d loosened his suit jacket on sitting but now rebuttoned it. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Walker.”
She inclined her head as she stalked toward the door to see them out.
His phone pinged. The text was from a New Mexico area code. Sam pulled up the message as soon as he stepped outside the house, Jeannette grumbling behind him.
“They got an ID on the dead man in the acequia behind Cici’s dad’s house,” he said to her after KaraLynn had closed the door behind them.
“There’s a dead body?” Jeannette asked, standing on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder at his phone.
“In Santa Fe. Yes. I’m surprised Gordon sent me any details.” Sam tugged at his lip. “Not that he sent me the name of the victim.”
“I’ll drive. You call him.”
Sam did so.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” Gordon said, his tone heavy with frustration.
“What’s that?”
“The dead dude? He’s in his sixties. And, according to his driver’s license, his name is Peter Soolven Gurule.”
“All right. That is strange because, as far as I know, Cici doesn’t have a relative by that name.”
“Don’t know if the deceased is related, true. But she had an uncle,” Gordon said. “He died in the seventies. Suicide.”
“You’ve pulled the file?” Sam asked, getting into the car as Jeannette started the engine. He wasn’t sure what Gordon wanted from him, what he expected Sam to do from Scottsdale.
“Oh, yeah. Not much to go on. His name was Peter Johnson Gurule, so we don’t get the Soolven reference.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to think through possibilities.
“He was a well-liked kid,” Gordon continued. “He’d just graduated from high school, and he’d been accepted to Yale. Everyone thought highly of the guy. Then, he turned up floating in the ditch after one of those summer rains.”
“If he’s dead, then how did you end up with a guy who’s his age with his name? And whatever happened to the caretaker?”
Jeannette glanced over as she stopped the car at the end of the driveway. Why wouldn’t she be intrigued by this case? It sounded more interesting than many Sam had worked on in the past. Another damn Gordian knot with too many threads.
Sam finally understood why Gordon had called him. He was in way over his head and didn’t know what to do or how to go about resolving the inconsistencies. Not that Sam had a great idea either with the scant information Gordon had provided.
“I can’t get more information on the caretaker. I think the chief or someone wants me out of that loop—to prove a point, no doubt. Look, this position isn’t a done deal for me, Sam.” Sam could hear Gordon swallow. “I…I want the SAC title here, bad. My wife wants me out of DC, thinks a smaller metro area like Albuquerque will be safer. This is my first case as the lead agent, and I’ve managed to piss off that Sanchez woman, who called the chief, and now he’s not playing nice either. You’re the only one who’s talking to me—the entire local PD closed ranks.”
“And you have nothing to link Cici to the crime.”
“Less than nothing because all details point to a guy who died forty years ago, but my superior was keen on me focusing on that angle.”
“And who’s your superior?”
“Isaac McCall.”
At the name, Sam’s stomach tightened. “How well do you know Isaac?”
Jeannette whipped her head toward Sam, eyes wide. Having finally pulled out onto the road, she nearly ran up the bumper of the car in front of her when it slowed down suddenly. She cursed and slammed on the brakes.
“Not well. He’s been pulled into a special task force.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s Paul Bresdeen’s right-hand man.”
“Who?” Gordon asked.
“The task force director—the one who sent us to Scottsdale and you to Albuquerque with my wife’s name.”
Sam waited, hoping Gordon would connect the dots, see the same pattern both he and Jeannette did.
“I don’t get why SAC McCall would feed me your wife’s name,” Gordon said, his bewilderment evident. “And I don’t get why the Albuquerque office didn’t send up one of their veteran guys.”
“You’re asking the right questions,” Sam murmured.
The silence grew. “I’m not going to like the answers, am I?”
Jeannette must have heard the last bit because she snorted. “Not if he keeps going after your wife.” She waited for Sam to hang up. “I’m calling Bresdeen.”
“Why?” he asked, worry still skittering along his nerve endings.
But she’d already pulled over and dialed the number. She pressed the speaker feature and settled the phone on her knee.
“Why are you squeezing Cici?” Jeannette demanded.
“I don’t have to answer that,” came Bresdeen’s voice.
“You do when both your agents here, working this case, think you’ve gone rogue and may be working with the murderer.” Jeannette’s voice was firm, but the trembling of her lips and the whiteness of her knuckles gave away her trepidation.
Sam cursed under his breath. If Bresdeen had gone rogue…Sam didn’t have the resources to protect Frank, himself, and Cici. Not against a man that well placed in the upper echelon of the government.
But Cici knew someone who might. Anton Vasiliev, he’d first introduced himself as, only to later admit his real name was Sterling Danvers. A spy. A well-connected one who’d worked with Cici out in Chaco, foiling a well-oiled plot designed to create more unrest within the nation.
Sam’s heart fluttered much like a butterfly on its maiden journey. If he could get in touch with the guy, they might have a chance. Slim, but a chance against Bresdeen.
“I’ve given you a lot of leeway, Jeannette,” Bresdeen said, “because of that assault—”
“You mean rape,” she said, her voice flat. “I was raped, and you feel sorry for me.”
“I’ve never once felt pity for you. But right now, I feel a whole lot of anger. How dare you accuse me of going against my country’s best interests?”
“Because from here you look dirty,” she snapped back. “And I refuse—absolutely, completely refuse—to participate in your disgusting attempts to besmirch a woman who’s done more good in her life than you or I ever will. Which is why I’m demanding you tell me the truth.” Her last words shook a little, and Sam couldn’t help the sympathy searing up his throat when she said, “Paul, you owe me.”
Bresdeen must have realized she wouldn’t be swayed. “Not over the phone.”
“Then get out here and be a leader.”
“I can’t.”
Sam leaned over and spoke into the speaker. “I’ve called in reinforcements.” He hadn’t yet, but he would get in contact with Sterling Danvers as soon as he could figure out how.
Paul’s growl of frustration rippled through the airwaves. “I’m well aware of the difficulties my agent is having in Santa Fe.”
“Oh, no, that wasn’t me,” Sam said. “You attacked one of the city’s favorite citizens, and your guy went against procedure, pissing off the chief of police, the mayor, quite a few of its most prominent citizens…need I go on?”
“No,” Bresdeen gritted out. “And you would have done it, too, to flush out her father.”
Sam shook his head, a tidal wave of disappointment rushing over him. “No, I don’t involve innocent parties.”
“That’s where you’re failing, Paul, not just in this job but in life,” Jeannette said.
He remained silent but so did Sam and Jeannette, unwilling to break.
“I need my UC. He still has vital information about the case,” Bresdeen finally muttered.
“You want to tell us why Cord never showed?” Jeannette asked.
“I don’t know,” Bresdeen snapped.
“And he didn’t follow up with further intel?” Sam asked.
“No. He’s been unstable. That’s part of why I wanted him to fly to DC.”
“You mean back to DC, right?” Jeannette asked, her brow furrowing.
“Cord joined us via the Houston office,” Bresdeen said.
“Maybe he went there? Back to familiar territory,” she suggested.
“No one’s seen him there,” Bresdeen said. “He’s…gone.”
Sam and Jeannette shared a long look. So that was why Bresdeen had harassed Cici. He’d hoped by doing so, Frank might offer information about Cord McGee’s whereabouts. That’s if the two men were working together. While Bresdeen had Cord’s reports, losing an agent, especially one who might’ve chosen to disappear, reflected poorly on him.
Instead of replying, Sam leaned over and ended the call. Jeannette raised an eyebrow.
“I have an idea that can give us some cover with Bresdeen,” Sam said, “maybe keep Cici safe and gain us leverage. It’s risky.”
“This whole case is a cluster,” Jeannette said in a huff. She grabbed her phone and shoved it into her back pocket.
“I want to call in the spy. Tell him everything we have.”
“Oh. Oh.” Jeannette’s face morphed from interest to resolve. “I think I can get through to him.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
She side-eyed him. “Your wife sure does collect an interesting crew of supporters.”
Sam nodded. “Let’s hope this one is still in that group.”
“And that we find Cord McGee.”