Lawman (6 page)

“I hate spammers,” the younger man muttered.

“We have a cyber crime division that spends hours a day looking for scams and shutting them down.”

“Good for you, but that still doesn't solve my problem.”

“You can fly to Oklahoma and show your credentials in person, can't you?”

“I can barely pay my rent,” Marquez said miserably as he finished his steak. “I can't afford the airfare.”

“Your department would pay for the tickets,” Garon said.

Marquez's eyebrows met his hairline. “Like hell it would,” he shot back. “Didn't I tell you that I had to buy my own damned digital camera because my lieutenant wouldn't authorize the expenditure? He likes his job and the city manager goes over departmental budgets with a microscope.”

“I know how that feels.”

“No, you don't,” the younger man assured him. “Unless you've had to bring in a receipt for a cup of ice water you bought from a convenience store to back up claiming it on your expense account!”

“You have got to be kidding!” Garon exclaimed.

“I wish I were,” the other man said sadly, shaking his head. “I guess they'd lock me up for a whole giant Coke.”

Garon chuckled helplessly. “You need to come and work for us,” he told Marquez. “You could even have a Bucar.”

“A what?”

“A bureau car,” Garon told him. “I get to drive mine home at night. It's like moving storage for all my equipment, including my guns.”

“Guns, plural?” the detective exclaimed. “You have more than one?”

He gave the detective a wry look. “Surely you have access to body armor and stop sticks and a riot gun…?”

“Of course I do,” he muttered, “but it's not my own. As for stop sticks, I pull my service weapon and try to blow out tires as long as the suspect isn't near anything I might conceivably hit by mistake. As for a riot gun…” He pushed back his jacket to display his shoulder holster. “This is it. I hate shotguns.”

“They let you wear a shoulder holster?” Grier asked. “We aren't allowed to.”

“I don't know if I want to apply to the Bureau if I can't wear a shoulder holster. Besides, they move you guys around too much. I like being near home.”

“To each his own.”

“Who else is going to be on this task force you're setting up?” Marquez asked.

“We've got the sheriff's department, because the murder took place out of town in the county, along with a K-9 unit, a Texas Ranger…”

“A Ranger? Wow,” the other man said with a wistful sigh. “I tried to get in, five years ago. I passed everything except the marksmanship test, but two other guys had higher scores than I did. That's quite an outfit.”

“Yes, it is. My brother was a Ranger, before he came down to work in San Antonio. He was with the D.A.'s office as a cyber crime expert, then he moved to Jacobsville.”

“He's chief of police there,” Marquez nodded.

“Quite a guy, your brother. He's making some major drug busts.”

Garon felt a ripple of pride. He was proud of his brother.

“Who else?” Marquez persisted.

“We have an investigator from the D.A.'s office who specializes in crimes against children. We've volunteered our crime lab at Quantico for trace evidence.”

“We have one of the best forensic units in the country.”

Garon smiled. “I know. I don't have a problem with letting them process data.”

“When do we meet?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, at El Chico's. About one o'clock. I found one policeman who knows the family of the victim and used to live in the neighborhood. He'll meet us there.”

“I'll have the Texas Ranger on hand and the D.A.'s investigator,” Garon told him. “I hope we can get this guy.”

“No argument there.” He glanced at his watch. “I've got a couple of hours off after this, but I should be back in my office before quitting time, if you need to contact me. I forgot to give my numbers. If you can't reach me at the office,” he added, pulling out a business card, “my cell phone number is on this.”

“Thanks. I'll be in touch.”

Marquez reached for his wallet when they were finished and the waitress had produced the bill, but Garon waved him away and passed his credit card to the woman.

“My treat,” he told Marquez with a smile. “It was a business lunch.”

“Thanks. I wish I could reciprocate, but my lieutenant would send me out to solve stolen gas station drive-off cases if I presented him with a lunch bill.”

Garon just laughed.

 

T
HE LAUGHTER FADED
when he got home. Miss Turner was looking worried and standing by the telephone.

“What's going on?” Garon asked her.

“Nothing, I hope,” she replied. “It's just that I can't get Grace on the telephone. I'm sure she's all right. Maybe she's just not answering her phone.”

“I'll drive over and see,” he replied, and was out the door before Miss Turner could ask to go with him.

He pulled up in the front yard of the old Victorian house, noting again how little maintenance had been done on it. He took the steps two at a time and rapped hard on the door. He did it three times, but there was no answer.

He started around the side of the house. And there she was. In the rose garden, with pruning shears, cutting back her rosebushes. She was talking to them, as well. Obviously she hadn't heard him drive up.

“I know she never liked you,” she was telling the roses. “But I love you. I'll make sure you get all the fertilizer and fungicides you need to make you beautiful again, the way you were when Grandaddy was still alive.” She sniffed and wiped her wet eyes on the sleeve of the flannel shirt she was wearing. “I don't know why I'm crying for her,” she went on after a minute. “She hated me. No matter what I did for her, she never wanted me in her life. But now she's gone and it's just you and me and this enormous house…”

“Are the roses going to live in it with you, then?” he asked curiously.

She turned so fast that she almost fell over. Her hand went to her chest. She was almost gasping for breath. “You move like the wind,” she choked. “What are you doing here?”

“Miss Turner couldn't raise you on the phone. She was worried.”

“Oh.” She went back to trimming the rosebushes.

“That was kind of her.”

He glanced around at the bare landscape. There was a garden spot behind the house that looked as if it had just been plowed. He wondered if she kept the garden, or if her grandmother had grown vegetables.

“Did you find the man who killed that little child?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It's not that simple to solve a murder. This is one of several similar crimes, some from years ago. It takes time. We're forming a task force to investigate it.”

“My father used to work for the sheriff's department here as a deputy, just like Grandaddy did. That was a long time ago,” she added. “He quit when he married my mother because she didn't like him taking risks.”

“What did he do afterward?”

“He got a job as a limousine driver in San Antonio,” she replied. “He made good money at it, too. Then he met a pretty, rich woman that he'd been hired to drive around, and he went head over heels for her. He left my mother and filed for divorce. She never got over it. The other woman was ten years older than she was, and she owned a boutique.”

“Is your father still living?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He and his new wife were driving to Las Vegas when a drunk driver ran into them head-on. They both died.”

“You said your mother disliked you?”

She nodded. “I look like my father. She hated me for that.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She…died about twelve years ago,” she said. “Just two years after Daddy did.”

“What did she do for a living?”

“She was a nurse,” Grace said quietly.

“You're going to kill those bushes if you keep snipping,” he pointed out. “And the temperature's dropping.”

She shivered a little as she stood up. “I suppose so. I just wanted something to do. I can't bear to sit in that house alone.”

“You don't need to. Pack a small bag. I'll take you home with me. You and Miss Turner can watch movies on the pay per view channel.”

She looked up at him, frowning. “That's not necessary…”

“Yes, it is,” he said gently, studying her face. It was wet with tears. “You need a little time to get adjusted to life without your grandmother. No strings. Just company.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. She didn't understand his motives, and it showed.

“I'd do it for anybody,” he continued. “Think of it as one neighbor helping another out.”

She shifted in place. “If I wouldn't be in the way…” she began.

“I work in the study all hours trying to get herd records up-to-date,” he said simply. “You won't bother me. I'll give you the guest room next to Miss Turner's. If you get scared in the night, she'll be around.”

She still hesitated. It was hard for her, trusting a man. Any man.

“If you stay over here talking to rosebushes, somebody's going to notice,” he pointed out. “Think of the scandal.”

She smiled despite herself. “All right, then. Thank you,” she added a little awkwardly.

“You'd do it for me, I'm sure.”

And she would have.

Miss Turner was surprised and delighted at the unexpected company. “He hates having people here,” she told Grace as she poured her some tea in the kitchen of the long, single level house.

“It's only because I was talking to the roses,” Grace faltered.

Miss Turner stared at her.

Grace flushed. “Well, I'm not exactly overcome with visitors these days.”

“You can talk to me,” she told her. “At least, I can answer you back.”

 

L
ATER
, M
ISS
T
URNER
showed her to the guest room and pointed out the quilt at the foot of the bed in case Grace got too cool.

“He says he can't sleep in a warm house, so he keeps it like a deep freeze,” Miss Turner muttered. “Likely you'll get frostbite, but at least you won't be lonely. Got your medications?”

Grace nodded.

“Good. There's water in the carafe by the bed. Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

The door closed and Grace sat down on the bed. It was a pretty room, done in cool blues and beiges. She was amazed at her host for the invitation, and grateful as well. She'd dreaded spending the night alone.

For a man with no social skills to speak of, she thought, he was surprisingly kindhearted.

 

S
HE SETTLED UNDER
the comforter and closed her eyes. But the events of the day had damaged her, and not only her grandmother's death. She kept seeing little girls lying in beds of roses, wearing red ribbons around their necks…

When the screams started, she didn't even realize that they were coming from her own lips.

“G
OD
A
LMIGHTY
!”
CAME A
deep voice from somewhere nearby. “Grace. Grace!”

She was dying. Blood was seeping out all around her, and it was red, as red as her grandmother's roses. She was lying in a patch of sunflowers, looking up at the sky. There was pain. So much pain! She could almost feel merciless hands on her shoulders, shaking her, shaking her…!

She gasped and her eyes flew open. Garon Grier was sitting on the side of her bed in a bathrobe, his blond-streaked brown hair mussed, his dark eyes narrow and concerned. Behind him stood Miss Turner with her hair down, gray and thin, wrapped in a thick bathrobe, chewing her lower lip nervously.

Grace took a long breath and another one. She was shaking. “S…sorry,” she stammered. “I'm sorry!”

The big hands holding her shoulders relented, pulling her into a sitting position. Her long blond hair had come undone from its cloth tie and draped around her shoulders like a fall of silk. She was wearing a thick cotton gown that covered her from throat to heels. Only her face and hands peered out from its whiteness.

“What happened?” Garon asked.

She swallowed hard, looking around her in relief. She wasn't lying in a field. She was in a bed, in a house. Safe. She swallowed again, aware that her eyes and cheeks were wet.

“What was it?” he persisted. “A nightmare?”

She only nodded, still shaken. It had seemed very real.

“How about some warm milk, Grace?” Miss Turner asked. “It might help you sleep.”

“Milk, hell,” Garon said curtly. “Bring her a tot of Crown Royal.”

“I hate spirits,” Grace began.

“Now,” he added, fixing Miss Turner with a level stare that didn't invite defiance.

“Back in a jiffy,” Miss Turner said.

Garon let go of Grace's shoulders. His eyes were like lasers, probing, inquiring. “This isn't a new thing, is it?” he asked suddenly.

“The nightmare? No.” She leaned forward, drawing her knees up under the cover to rest her forehead on. Her heart was skipping madly. She could barely get her breath at all. “I've had them for a long time.”

He wanted to ask questions, demand answers. But she was a guest in his house. He didn't want to invade her privacy. He didn't want to know intimate things about her, either. He only felt sorry for her. This was just a brief interlude in his life, and hers. She needed help that he could give. But he didn't want to let her too close.

She took one last deep breath and grimaced when she saw the look on his face. He was hating this. She didn't even have to ask.

She pushed back her unruly hair. “I'll be all right now,” she said without meeting his eyes. “Thanks for checking on me. It's just an old bad dream. I have them once in a while when I'm really stressed. Losing granny has been…difficult.”

He couldn't imagine why. The old lady had been constantly critical of Grace. But if the old woman was all she had left, it was understandable that she was grieving for her. He knew grief intimately. It was still too fresh in his mind. He'd never shared it, with anyone. Not even with his father and brothers.

Grace was painfully aware that he was only wearing pajama bottoms under the black robe. It was open in front, and his broad, muscular, hair-roughened chest was too close for comfort. She glanced at it nervously, her body tensing with nervous discomfort. Her hands tightened around her knees.

Garon saw that reaction and was irritated by it. She'd been screaming her head off, so why was she acting as if he were trying to attack her? He got to his feet will ill-concealed impatience, glaring down at her.

She couldn't meet his eyes or explain or apologize. He didn't understand. He was a handsome, sensual man who never lacked female attention. It made him angry that this frumpy little woman looked at him as if he were a rapist.

The silence that grew between them was dark and explosive. Miss Turner broke it finally with her return. She had a whiskey jigger full of amber liquid. “Here you go, boss,” she said, handing it to Garon.

He put it in Grace's hand. “Drink it,” he said impatiently.

She grimaced as she sniffed it. “I've never had spirits,” she tried to explain.

“You're having this, or Miss Turner will hold you down while I pour it in,” he said curtly, stung by her attitude when the two of them were alone together.

She looked at him aghast. “You wouldn't dare,” she challenged.

“Come here, Miss Turner,” he beckoned the housekeeper. “I'll show you a half nelson to use on her.”

He meant business. Grace grimaced again, but she held her breath and tossed the liquor down. It burned her throat and almost came up again. She gagged.

“Here,” Miss Turner said quickly, pouring her a glass of water.

“Gasoline would taste better!” Grace raged, glaring at him.

“Bite your tongue, woman,” he shot back, offended. “That's Crown Royal!”

“Diesel fuel,” she muttered.

He threw up his hands and got to his feet. “You can't share precious things with peasants,” he muttered.

“I am not a peasant.”

“Or lunatics,” he persisted.

“I am not a…!”

“You talk to rosebushes,” he pointed out.

While she simmered, Miss Turner grinned. “Actually he does talk to tractors that won't start. I heard him use some Spanish slang that he could be arrested for in Del Rio.”

He glared at her, narrowing one eye. “Some profanity is occasionally necessary to teach the stupid machine that you mean business. It's lucky it didn't get shot, at that.”

“If you shoot the tractor, the foreman will bury you with it,” Miss Turner replied. “He says it's barely usable as it is, and he's trying to get the soil ready to plant.”

“It's February,” he exclaimed.

“In February we plant potatoes,” she said shortly.

“I hate potatoes.”

“We also plant forage grasses for the cattle,” she amended.

He sighed. “I suppose he might need the tractor, at that.” He glanced at Grace with his hands in his pockets. “If you think you can sleep, we might all try to get back to bed. I've got to drive up to Lytle first thing for a meeting.”

“I'll be all right,” she assured him. She recalled that the next day was visitation at the funeral home, and she shuddered.

He remembered that. Reluctant sympathy pushed his wounded ego aside. “I'll be home by five. You aren't having visitation until six, are you?”

She shook her head, surprised at his sudden knowledge of what was wrong with her.

“I'll drive you. Miss Turner can come, too.”

“But you don't have to do that,” she protested weakly.

“There isn't anybody else to do it,” he said without rancor.

She bit her lower lip. “Thank you.”

Her appreciation made him uncomfortable. “You're welcome. Let's go, Miss Turner.”

“Sleep well, Grace,” the housekeeper said gently.

“You, too. I'm sorry I woke you all up.”

“I'm used to it,” Garon said easily. “I work homicide. It isn't exactly a nine-to-five job.”

Her eyebrows arched. “You mean you get called out at night?”

“Night, holidays, weekends,” he agreed. “It's my job. In fact, it's my life. I like catching crooks.”

She managed a wan smile. “It must be challenging.”

He nodded, but he wasn't inclined to linger. She'd made her opinion of him as a man blatantly clear. “Sleep well.”

She watched him go, followed by Miss Turner, with vague regret. He'd only been trying to comfort her, and she'd offended him. She was sorry about it. Her whole adult life had been one lonely ordeal as she met any masculine attention with rigid coldness. She wished she could sleep and escape the memories. That wasn't possible right now. She was too wired to rest. So she didn't lie down right away. She couldn't bear to have the nightmare come back. She propped up in bed and found a paperback to read. Once she was really sleepy, she'd try again.

 

H
E WAS ALREADY GONE
when she got up the next morning. She and Miss Turner had a small breakfast and then Miss Turner drove Grace home.

“I don't like leaving you here alone,” the older woman said.

“I'm not, really,” Grace told her with a smile. “The house is warm and kind. Three generations of my family lived and died here.” She looked around, her eyes lingering on the huge maple tree in the front yard, bare now because it was still winter. In the autumn it was glorious, a symphony in red and gold. Cold winds made it shed its leaves in what Grace always called a rain of leaves. She loved to run through it, with her arms outstretched, and feel the nip of the first cold air on her face.

“That tree is going to come down one day and crush the house,” Miss Turner mentioned.

“No, it won't,” Grace assured her. “It's sturdy, and very long lived. It's the most beautiful tree in this area, in autumn.”

“I'll reserve judgment until I see it,” Miss Turner chuckled. “I'll come back for you about six. Okay?”

“If you're sure,” Grace replied.

“I am.”

She watched the older woman drive away and wondered again at the closeness she felt to Garon Grier and his housekeeper. They were all three misfits, in a way. She didn't know Garon very well, but she knew that he didn't socialize much and that he was a workaholic. So was Miss Turner, apparently. Grace had to admit that she did her own share of work, at two jobs plus her after hours project that never seemed to get finished.

She went through the closet, hoping for one decent black dress. Her spare cash for months had gone to augment her grandmother's social security and pay for medicines that the old lady needed. Mrs. Collier didn't have much of a drug benefit, certainly not enough to cover drugs that cost over a hundred dollars a bottle. Often, Grace did without her own full prescription to cover her grandmother's. Coltrain said that was risky, but Grace figured what he didn't know wouldn't worry him.

“Wilbur!” she called loudly. There was a muffled answer as her old cat came out from under a discarded window box that was propped on a step. “What are you doing there?” she asked, bending to pet him. “Something scare you, baby?”

He only meowed. She didn't see anything near the house, but she'd heard one of Garon's men mention they'd seen coyotes in the area. She hoped none of them showed up at her house. She'd heard they killed cats and dogs. She was fond of Wilbur. He was twelve now, and the two of them had shared some traumatic times. Old Mrs. Collier hadn't tolerated Wilbur in the house, although Grace had sneaked him in during bouts of bad weather without the old lady knowing. Now, it didn't matter anymore. Grace decided that he was going to live inside now and keep her company. It would make her solitude less lonely.

That afternoon, the community came to her door with bowls of salad and platters of meat and cakes and pies. Someone even brought her four pounds of coffee, which she wasn't allowed to drink. But she made a pot, for the visitors.

It was the custom in small towns, bringing food for the family when there was a death. It was a way of showing sympathy. This way, the bereaved wouldn't have to prepare meals while they were going back and forth to the funeral home. Of course, there was only Grace in the family locally. But that didn't stop people from bringing food. Barbara, who owned the local café, brought meats and vegetables. Two sheriff's deputies and their wives came along with cakes and pies. The Ballenger brothers sent two of their sons along with homemade bread, and Leo Hart's wife Tess brought a Crock-Pot full of chicken and dumplings. It fascinated her that some of the town's leading lights thought so much of old Mrs. Collier, and she mentioned it to Barbara.

“Don't be silly,” she chuckled. “It's you they're fond of, Grace,” she added. “You used to baby-sit Calhoun Ballenger's kids, something Abby's never forgotten, and you helped Tess Hart with her rose garden. You should remember that you've always been one of the first to take food to other families, and none of the new rich families in town are snobs—unlike some of the older monied generation.”

“I suppose so,” Grace replied with a smile. She'd noticed that Mrs. Tabor, a leading light of the old money crowd, had actually sent a tray of finger foods, although she didn't mix much with common people. Her niece, who worked at Andy Webb's realty company, had already made a reputation as the worst of the local wild women. In fact, it was she who brought the tray.

“Thank you,” Grace had told her, uneasy at the older woman's piercing scrutiny as she put the food on the dining room table alongside all the other platters.

“I just wanted a look at you,” the woman chided. She was wearing jeans that must have been sprayed on, with a deeply low cut red blouse and sweater. She gave Grace's loose jeans and pink sweatshirt a mocking glance. “Well, it can't be your looks that fascinate Garon. I wondered why he'd be helping you out. I suppose it really is a case of just being neighborly.” She laughed coldly. “I can't believe I was worried about the competition,” she added carelessly, and walked out without another word.