Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (20 page)

She must read my mind. “Ray was my father’s law
partner. Dad was the Jaynes of the partnership and Ray just left it
the way it was. When I was fifteen my parents were killed in an
automobile accident and, since there was no next of kin, Ray became
my legal guardian. He took me into his home and shepherded me
through high school and college, then saw to it I had a safe place
to live in Manhattan.”

“
So, that’s why you know so much
about Broadway shows.” “Oh, yeah. I was going to be the Broadway
star. I won some tap and jazz competitions in high school and was
runner-up in the Miss Texas Contest, so I was pretty full of
myself, and announced to Ray that I was going to conquer the Big
Apple. He was wonderful. Never put up a peep. So off I
went.”

“
That’s amazing. How long were you
in Manhattan?”

She laughs. “Seems like a hundred years, now, but I
struck gold my first time at audition. Got a long-running chorus
part in ‘Sugar Babies.’ After that, I wasn’t so lucky, but it was
fun. I did a lot of road show re-runs. It was a great way to see
the country.”

“
And what about Ray?”

“
He stayed here and practiced law,
but whenever I called, he was there for me. Lord knows how many
broken romances he loaned his shoulder over.” She gives me a
gleaming grin. “That’s how I finally hooked him. I just kept crying
on his shoulder until I got his attention.”

At that, I think of Duncan and how close we came to
marrying. “Were you ever sorry you didn’t marry...?”

I pause, wondering how to put my question a little
more delicately, but she beats me to the punch.

“
A man closer my age? Never in a
million years. Not one of those guys could hold a candle to Ray.
But he sure was a slow learner. I bided my time until he finally
grew up.”

“
Speaking of guys...” She lowers
her voice. “Ray tells me you were once involved with Paul
Carpenter.”

Odd, coming from her. I search my mind to recall if
Paul ever made any mention of Raymond Gibbs and come up blank.
“That was a lifetime ago. His wife was my college roommate.”

“
I never met his wife, but I did
know Fanny Hansen. I dabbled in real estate a few years back and
crossed paths with her a couple of times. She was a real
bitch.”

“
Do I hear past tense?” “You
didn’t know?” “Know what?”

She glances toward the door her husband exited, then
whispers, “Fanny disappeared the day Paul died. They think he
killed her first, hid her body, then took his own life.”

I start to protest, wanting to explain that when I
last saw Paul he was trussed like a pig, then think better of
it.

“
He used the same technique on
Fanny,” she said, widening her onyx orbs and making a long slash
with her index finger across her throat, “that he used on his
wife... uh, your roommate.” She lowers her eyes to stare intently
at her wine glass.

Elvira’s crude reference to Reena doesn’t concern
me. “They” means Uvalde—Bill Cotton. I bury the question looping up
from the back of my mind. “But, if they didn’t find a body...”

“
I’m just telling you what I
heard.”

“
Pinning two unsolved murders on a
dead man makes everything very neat and tidy, doesn’t
it?”

Elvira’s expression flattens and I know for some
reason I’ve hit a nerve when she rises abruptly, grabs my empty
glass and begins to stick the last few dishes in the dishwasher.
“It’s late. Guess we better turn in.”

Once I’m beneath the covers, Elvira’s words echo.
They said he used the same technique on Fanny that he used on his
wife.

Why would Bill make an official announcement without
producing a body and then pin it on a dead man?

Why didn’t I listen to Duncan? I’m virtually
helpless. No backup. No Nate’s protective shadow. My groan echoes
my anguish as I curse my egotistical stupidity.

Then I remember my cell. I could call Duncan. Give
him an update. A friendly voice. That’s all I need. A friendly
voice.

I pull my briefcase onto the bed and search for the
phone. Then I search again and groan. The cell is sitting on my
kitchen counter in the charger.

Low voices rising from the patio below pull me from
my panicky thoughts. I can’t quite make out the words but the
timbre of one of the voices sends tingles through me. I leave the
bed, noting that the digital clock reads 12:47, then kneel at the
half-open window.

Gibbs says something, and when the other man
replies, I sink weakly to my haunches. It’s Bill. I go hot, then
cold, with conflicting emotions.

My first thought is to run downstairs and throw my
arms around his neck, even though I know he’s a probable drug
dealer and, after what I learned tonight, possibly a murderer.
Still, he saved my life.

My mind is crammed with unanswered questions. Are
Bill and Gibbs in this mess together? Is it the money? It has to
be. It’s no secret that more than a few law officers have succumbed
to the vast fortunes made from drug trafficking.

But Bill couldn’t have killed Fanny, my inner voice
reasons. He was in the helicopter with me, making sure I got to a
safe haven.

I rise to my knees and press my ear to the opening
in time to hear Bill say, “Okay, okay, if that’s the way it has to
be, I’ll do it. But I don’t like it, Ray. It isn’t safe.”

The crusty creak of the sliding glass door is
followed by Elvira’s voice. “Ray? What on earth are you doing out
here? It’s almost one o’clock. Come on back to bed, honey, you need
your sleep.”

She pulls him into the house. The sliding door
grinds shut and the lights go out, leaving me to wonder where Bill
disappeared to so quickly. It was plain Elvira didn’t see him, or
she would have greeted him.

I roll from one side to the other, unable to
purchase comfort. The Gibbses know too much. Bill knows too much.
And I shudder when I realize that I’ve blabbed too much.

I’m perched on the chair across the desk from Ray
Gibbs, body tense with anticipation. The envelope has been
retrieved from the wall safe and lies only inches from my hand.

“
Coffee?” Ray asks for the second
time in as many minutes. “No thanks.” I gaze toward the door. On
the other side, Ray’s secretary, who was sullen and grumpy when she
unlocked the office door for us at 4:00, is greeting
someone.

I hear the response and shiver. When the door opens,
I suppress a gasp. Though there are more lines in his face, the
sheriff has never looked better.

When he sits beside me, I clasp my icy hands
together to stop the trembling, and ask Gibbs through clenched
teeth, “Are you telling me Sheriff Cotton is DEA?”

“
I most certainly am,” Gibbs says.
“Show Miss Armington your ID, Bill.”

He extracts a leather wallet-sized case from his
back pocket, flips it open to reveal the badge and ID.

Knowing how easily an ID can be faked, I take the
case from him. To his credit, the plastic covering the ID is
discolored and worn from the impression of the badge, which bears
the same wear. And too, the picture on the ID looks somewhat
younger. Still...

“
How do I know this isn’t a fake?”
“You’re alive. Isn’t that proof enough?”

When our eyes lock to telegraph the same message
sent almost a year before, I know nothing has changed between
us.

Oh, God, I want to believe him. But what about his
conversation with Gibbs last night? It’s possible Bill could be a
double agent, but what about his cover? He’s blown it with me.
Gibbs knows too. Probably Elvira.

His eyes beg. My “Yes” is barely a whisper.

Gibbs rubs his palms together, forcing us to turn
his way. “Well then, let’s get this over.”

His joyful anticipation dulls when I say, “I wonder
if your secretary would mind recording this? After all, if this is
new evidence on the drug traffickers, we should have documentation
and other witnesses since there is only one agent here.”

Gibbs shoots a questioning look in Bill’s direction.
“Okay with you?”

“
By all means. I should have
thought of that myself.”

Gibbs bellows, “Hey, honey? Get in here and bring
your pad.”

Once the woman is settled, Bill picks up the
envelope by one corner. “Got a letter opener?”

The secretary runs back to her desk and returns with
a commercial opener.

He slides the instrument across the top of the
envelope, then carefully removes a hastily scribbled sheet by one
corner. “If you don’t mind, Allie, we need to check for
prints.”

I nod and squint at the dangled page. “It looks like
Paul’s writing.”

I look at Gibbs’s secretary, who’s sitting with pen
poised, mouth open. “For the record, I, Alice Armington, attest
that these documents appear to have been written by the deceased,
Paul Carpenter, and dated May third.”

She glances at her boss, who nods. “Write it exactly
as Miss Armington has stated it, then read it back, please.”

After she does this, I read Paul’s letter. First to
myself, then aloud.

Allie dearest:

     
If you are reading this, I am dead. Most probably murdered
because I knew too much.

     
I should never have taken Reena’s Mercedes out of the garage.
Whoever is in charge of the operation must have seen me and
realized I knew about the setup.

     
They’re all in it. Fanny, Luke, even Reena. I’m positive Bill
Cotton and Del are too.

     
This written accusation isn’t much, but it may be enough to
generate some activity by the DEA. I’m counting on you to get this
information to someone there. Ray Gibbs will help you. Trust
him.

     
I always loved you and I always will.

Paul

Guilty tears burn. If only I hadn’t been so
stubborn in demanding my own transportation. Why didn’t I rent? And
why did Paul let me use the car Reena was supposed to have left the
ranch in? It’s plain someone, maybe Reena’s murderer, saw me in her
car and realized Paul was onto something.

I start at the feel of Bill’s hand on my
shoulder and look up, suddenly aware that anything I say could damn
me. If he and Gibbs are colluding, I now know too much and have
given them every reason to put me out of the picture just like
Reena, Paul, and Fanny.

He must read my mind because he says, “We
wanted Paul to believe we were in on the operation. If he wrote
anything else we would all be in jeopardy, can’t you see that?”

I search his face wanting to believe him and
fill with hope when I see his gaze is unwavering. “I suppose that
makes sense.”

“
I’ll have to take the
note as evidence.”

He asks Gibbs’s secretary, “Do you have a
folder we can use?” Then to us he says, “I want the San Antonio lab
to check this.”

When she closes the door behind her, Bill
touches my arm, and pulsing heat shoots through every fiber of my
being. His next words are strangely reassuring. “Paul was right
about one thing. Raymond Gibbs is as honest as the day is
long.”

Gibbs says, “I thank you for that vote of
confidence, but you’re in this mess of alligators up to your ass
and that makes you a dead man if you’re not careful.”

“
Hey, Gibbs, would you
mind giving us a little privacy?”

A chair scrapes and the attorney heads for
the door. “If you two will excuse me?”

“
How long do we
have?”

“
Not more than ten
minutes—fifteen max. You have to be out of here before sunup and
Miss Armington has to make the six o’clock flight to Houston.
Otherwise, she’ll have to wait until the twelve-twenty-five and I
can’t promise a safe exit for her that late in the day.”

When the door closes, neither of us moves.
The tension between us is too strong to act on.

Finally, I manage, “What does Gibbs mean by
safe exit?”

“
It’s best no one sees
you. As for me, it’s taken years to get in with the Mexicans and I
can’t afford to blow my cover now.”

“
You’re assignment was to
infiltrate?”

“
I’m the perfect
candidate. Hometown boy. Not much of a past to trace.” He laughs a
low laugh that sends shivers down my spine. “We’ll have lots of
time to compare histories after all this is over.”

I barely hear his next words. “Nobody but
Ray, his wife, and the secretary knows you’re here. You should be
safe.”

“
What about the
evidence?”

“
Don’t expect to hear
anything until we break this case.”

“
I heard you tell Fanny
and Luke to do what they wanted with Paul.”

His concern seems genuine. “If I tried to
take Carpenter, I might have blown my cover.” “But they killed
him.”

“
Yes. But Paul was already
a goner. He had a very expensive habit and was skimming the stuff
from the cartel. They’re still looking for the million plus in
cocaine he stashed someplace.”

I look away as the memory of that hot spring
afternoon replays and the large fertilizer-type bag Paul struggled
from his saddle and into the padlocked tack room.

Bill’s voice brings me back. “The druggies
were minutes behind me. That’s why I needed to get you out. If I
hadn’t...”

“
And Fanny?”

“
I wasn’t
there.”

“
What about a
body?”

“
People disappear down
here all the time. We did a routine search. Officially, she’s
listed as missing.”

“
Did you have my phones
bugged?”