“I’m doing my best, and so are all the others working on this investigation.”
Tiffany glanced toward the kitchen, where one of the boys was opening the refrigerator. No doubt listening to every word. “You think the men found dead on Carr’s ranch are linked to Darren’s death too.”
“Possibly.”
“I’ll talk to my boys, see if they have any idea where their dad could have gone. This may have a simple explanation. Plus, it will give me something to do—to stop my mind from thinking about it.”
Bella remembered a murder case in which a woman recorded her thoughts about a deceased parent. When she shared the contents with Bella, the murderer was found. “Do you journal?”
“Why, yes. I do. It’s a part of my quiet time with God.”
“Are you writing down your thoughts and memories about Darren?”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to see it if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, especially if it helps find who did this to him.” Tiffany stumbled over her words, then committed to help in any way she could. “I’ll go get my journal now.”
Bella drove into Ballinger and snatched up her phone as soon as she had coverage. She called the FIG in Houston. “Hey, Pete. I’d like a complete workup on Sheriff Darren Adams.”
“I’ll get on it. Anything else?”
“Yes. Transfer me to Swartzer’s office.” She waited until he answered.
“Any closer to a solution?” Swartzer said.
“Maybe. There’s a few minutes’ time lapse from when Sheriff Adams left home to when he arrived at the High Butte. His wife has no idea where he might have stopped, but his kids may know.”
“What about his habits?”
“He looks squeaky-clean, but a few things raise a flare.”
“Like what?”
“Very nice house and his wife doesn’t work. She drives a new Toyota hybrid SUV, and they have three teenage boys, stair steps in age; one’s going off to college in another year. I’d like to see Adams’s bank records and a list of cases he’s worked on. His wife told me they’ve been married twenty-two years. She used to teach school until the kids came along. There could very well be a legitimate reason for how they live, but the doubts are still there. I’ve asked Pete for a complete workup.”
“Keep me informed. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
Bella had wanted to toss around a few other thoughts, but she could talk to him later. “One quick question. Who interviewed the families of the murder victims?”
“An agent out of Dallas. In fact, your partner, Vic Anderson.”
Why hadn’t Vic told her about the interviews?
“I’m going to talk to them again. Something is missing, and I think it’s there.” She changed lanes, leaving a late-model truck far behind in her rearview mirror. “Another thing: I learned that Richardson caused a divorce about twelve years ago, and the husband threatened to kill him. Hadn’t seen that in our report before. It’s worth a follow-up. Richardson’s appearance on the fugitive list happened about ten years ago. I’m wondering if the husband is dead or if he’s available for me to talk to.”
“I’ll get back to you once you receive your reports. I think the candy wrapper prints are insignificant unless something comes up in Adams’s background. It will take a while to trace the boots from Walmart.”
Bella started to protest, but she’d wait. “I have a few loose ends here; then I’ll drive to Waco and Austin to talk to those families. Probably Friday.”
“Bella, slow down. Your mind is moving faster than I can keep track of. Is Agent Anderson going with you?”
She wanted to mention Vic’s absence, but she’d let this week coast by first. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“He’s involved in other things.”
“Don’t go alone. Not safe and you know it. One more thing,” Swartzer said. “Richardson could have easily obtained the thanatoxin. I have my doubts Sullivan killed the sheriff.”
“Me too.” Relief flooded her that she’d not allowed her feelings for Carr to override her investigation. “The evidence tells me he’s being used as a scapegoat.”
“Looks that way. But it could be part of his tactic, especially if he’s working with Richardson.”
Bella remembered the conversation this morning with Carr. The conversation had been laced with sincerity, and she doubted he was lying. She had puzzle pieces, and she knew Brandt was part of it, but none of them fit together—yet.
* * *
When the afternoon sun slipped behind storm clouds and the sheriff’s department and county poison control had finally left the High Butte, Carr stepped outside in hopes that physical work would help relieve the stress of the day. Lydia had opted for a nap, but he was too restless.
The whys and whos of the week stalked him day and night. He had no answers and the web—yes, the Spider Rock web—continued to entangle him. Brandt Richardson, the fugitive who had drawn the FBI into this case, had to be in the center of it all.
Darren.
Had his friend and accountability partner stumbled onto clues that convinced the killer to poison him? Or was his death something isolated from the case? The memory of how the fast-acting properties of the poison caused Darren to suffer made Carr physically sick. How was he poisoned? Carr blew out a sigh and a prayer at the same time.
Poor Lydia had faced the shame and mortification of having her kitchen turned upside down by the county officials and deputies looking for the poison or the ingredients to it. He’d stayed right there with her until they finished tearing through all the cabinets, refrigerator, freezer, pantry, and yes, the trash again. They found nothing but took a number of pantry items and unmarked containers from the barn and stable.
Carr recognized his fury—the senseless killings, the grieving families, the loss of a dear friend, his name along with Lydia’s and Jasper’s splattered with blood, and the female FBI agent who acted like he was innocent one minute and guilty the next. However, Vic Anderson was convinced of his involvement, so maybe having Bella partially on his side had kept him from being formally charged.
He pounded his fist into his hand.
Why, God? What have I done to deserve this after I turned my life over to You?
Chapter 15
“Good things come to those who wait.”
How many times must Brandt remind himself of this adage? In truth, it was a campaign slogan for ketchup from the eighties. However—and he chuckled each time he thought about it—the slogan fit his plan. And he’d followed it ever since.
How long had he been seeking the gold? Some days it seemed like forever, especially when it was the first thought of the morning and the last delicious morsel at night—that and Rachel. Ever since he read about the lost gold in college history, ever since he’d first seen Rachel, both had become an obsession. One entwined with the other. Pure treasure.
“Good things come to those who wait.”
The maps with their clues kept him focused on the prize. He’d chased down the meanings of the so-called indecipherable carvings—the tunnel inscription, the Roman numerals, the turtle, the arrows—and talked to experts and dirt farmers. The years he’d spent in Peru studying the Incas and their culture had given him an appreciation for their religion. His travels, his work had paid off. Some parts of the journey had been disheartening, especially when he couldn’t locate the Spider Rocks that had disappeared from Aspermont and Clyde. The sketches helped, but he’d wanted to touch the real thing. When he was able to place his hands, his fingertips, on the artifacts, life flowed through him. He heard the cries of those who had lost and gone on before him, but their obsession urged him on. At one time, he talked to those near Aspermont who were convinced the Spaniards had mined copper in the area and buried their vast storehouse of gold nearby.
He’d been up and down Salt Fork and to Kiowa Peak. He’d searched Knox, Jones, and Haskell counties and walked the same trail as those who had gone before him. He’d memorized the web, studied the copper relics with their carved symbols, and drank in every clue.
Many people had spent their entire lives and everything they had in vast diggings that turned up nothing. The longing, the yearning for the treasure kept Brandt alive. No one dared to get in his way. The gold belonged to him, and in Peru he’d found the answer.
The treasure had been traced to the High Butte Ranch, Carr Sullivan’s land, far away from where others had searched, and Brandt couldn’t touch it. Not until arrangements were made to eliminate those standing in his way. But no one would hurt Rachel. Those who worked for him understood that from the beginning. He’d purchased an estate in Brazil where the two of them could live forever. How very hard to see her every day and not reach out and pull her into his arms. As a girl, she’d refused his advances, but as a woman, she’d welcome him and all he offered. Perhaps his voice had repulsed her, but that would no longer hold her back.
He glanced at his watch. Once again Aros was late. He’d have an excuse; he always did. The habit irritated Brandt.
A charcoal gray sedan pulled onto the dirt road and eased to a stop at the foot of the bridge. Attorney Aros Kemptor climbed out and met him halfway. Dressed in a suit, he looked like a member of organized crime. In essence, he was. Brandt’s organization.
“Sorry about being late. Accident coming out of Abilene.”
Brandt skimmed a stone across the creek. His knee hurt to stand. Hurt to walk. “Do you have everything in place?”
“I do.”
“The media are our friends, and I’d better not have any surprises.”
Aros studied him, then loosened his tie. “Who is the real you?”
“Why?”
“Every appointment you’re in a different disguise.”
Brandt might have laughed if he hadn’t been so disgusted with the jerk’s disregard for scheduled appointments. “It means you haven’t earned my trust.”
“But we’re partners.”
Aros’s whining grated at Brandt’s nerves. He had more likelihood of winning the lottery than ever collecting a dime from the Spider Rock cache.
“Of course. But you don’t have the FBI on your tail,” Brandt said.
“From the looks of Bella Jordan, it might not hurt getting caught.”
Brandt tossed him a halfhearted grin. Rachel belonged to Brandt long before she formed an alliance with the FBI. Time had taken her girlhood charm to classic beauty. Longing tugged at his body. Soon all he’d waited for would be his.
Staring at Aros, Brandt reached into his khaki pants pocket with a glove-clad hand and handed the man a typed piece of paper. “Here’s the contact. I want it done now.”
“Why me?”
“Why not you? You’re paid to take orders, not question them.”
Chapter 16
Bella checked her e-mail. As the flood of messages filled up her in-box, she looked for one from Aunt Debbie. How she’d like to hear her aunt’s voice and soak up her wit and wisdom. A smile turned at the corner of Bella’s mouth as she clicked on Aunt Debbie’s name.
Hi, Bella!
Expect your birthday present when you arrive home in Houston. Hope it’s okay. I went to the leather handbag Web site you recommended and picked out a good one. You certainly go through the purses. Must be all the heavy gun stuff. Gives me the creeps.
I miss you, sweet girl. The house is lonely without your every-other-weekend visits, and my animals don’t respond to my conversation. Rockefeller, and you know how much I love my dear sweet terrier, has taken to having accidents in the house. I guess it’s because he misses you too.
We’ve talked.
He has issues.
Yesterday was my volunteer day at the nursing home. Didn’t help that one of the staff members thought I was a resident. When I told her of my elevated status as a volunteer who fixes hair and paints tips and toes, she thought I was a bit . . . Well, eccentric would have been a compliment.
On the serious side, I’ve been wishing you hadn’t burned those letters from your father years ago until you’d read them. Of course, hindsight is better than foresight, and his letters were sent before we moved to Pennsylvania. I was determined not to leave a forwarding address so he and that Richardson jerk would not try to come after you. And now you’re back there in the thick of evil.
And I mean evil.
Anyway, those letters might have helped your investigation.
I’m praying for you.
Love you bunches,
Aunt Debbie
Once Bella finished laughing about Rockefeller and his issues, she read and then reread the section about her father’s letters. The frightened fifteen-year-old had cut the unread letters into tiny pieces and tossed in a match. But Aunt Debbie was right. They would have given her more insight into the case today. The years had come and gone, but rarely did men change their personality, and Bella hadn’t forgotten.
Her cell phone rang while she was midway through responding to her aunt’s e-mail. A quick glance didn’t reveal the caller.
“This is Bella.”
“You’re in too deep,” a muted male voice said. “Sullivan is hiding a secret that needs to be exploited.”
“What kind of a secret?”
“His cover-up to four murdered men. That makes him a serial killer.”
“Possibly.”
“He’s about to spring. Last I heard, he’s escaping to Mexico. Check it out. His pastor knows all about it.”
“I will.”
“Once he’s gone, all you can do is recommend he be placed on Texas’s ten-most-wanted fugitive list. Of course your career would be finished.”
If only she had a way to trace the call. “Guess you need to explain all of this to me.”
“He’s clever, and he’s playing stupid. Watch him. Whatever evidence surfaces exonerating him, he’s behind it.”
“Really? Can we meet and talk?”
The man chuckled. “Now, why would I want to be the next victim? I have no desire to find myself at the receiving end of Sullivan’s rifle. Have you seen the paper today?”
“Not yet. Listened to the local news about two hours ago how the evidence is stacked up against Carr for all four murders.”
“Smart girl. This is a warning. You might be on the killer’s list.”
Who is this guy?
“I’ve heard that before. What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter. My point is, Sullivan is a murderer, and he’ll have no problem eliminating you. For your own protection, you should arrest him and file charges. And don’t believe a word from Lydia and Jasper. They’ve always covered up for him.”
“What if he’s innocent?”
“He’s not.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m a man of justice.” The man ended the call, leaving Bella wondering who led the brigade against Carr. Couldn’t be a law-abiding citizen when he refused to give his name. A couple of deputies had given Carr a rough time, and someone had given him a black eye. The caller wasn’t Brandt, but who was it?
Bella studied the notes she’d taken during the conversation. The man was stringing her along, but first she’d call Pastor Kent Matthews, then check out the latest news. The pastor answered on the third ring.
“Pastor Matthews, this is Special Agent Bella Jordan. A few minutes ago I received an anonymous phone call from a man who claimed Carr planned to leave the country and you had knowledge about it. The caller suggested I talk to you.”
“Carr did plan to go to Mexico, but he canceled his part in the mission trip after those men were killed.”
The caller knows Carr’s every move.
“I see. Is the trip still on?” As Bella suspected, she’d been strung along with just enough truth to cause her to follow up.
“Postponed. Darren Adams and Carr were on the planning committee to build a church for a pastor we support there. The mission team decided to wait six months.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Bella toyed with the pen in her hand. “Can I have a list of the others on that committee?”
“Why?”
“Curious. I’m following up on anything in which Carr and Darren were involved. Whoever poisoned Darren may have other motives—or victims.”
“Okay. It was a small team: Carr, Darren, Tiffany Adams, Jasper, my wife, and myself.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.” Bella disconnected the call. Nothing there either.
* * *
Carr closed the book about the Spider Rock treasure. He’d read a section that fascinated him; then the information would drift into detail, and he grew bored. His interest peaked and lagged about Dave Arnold, the heavyset man who at the turn of the twentieth century entered the area carrying a parchment map of the treasure. Claimed to have gotten the map from an old Mexican sheepherder. As the years rolled by, rumors claimed he’d murdered for the map.
Arnold had a knack for conning others into helping him dig for the Spanish gold. He located one of the three Spider Rocks and claimed to be able to read the hieroglyphics. Maybe he could, since he found a number of artifacts. Others came after him searching for the treasure, and all were obsessed in finding the hidden cache. The biggest mystery to Carr came in the presumed location of the gold, which wasn’t anywhere close to the High Butte. So Carr continued to read, some reports and accounts conflicting with others. Many opinions. Many missing clues. Was it worth all this effort, and did it have anything to do with the murders on his ranch?
He’d never been superstitious, but the trail of misfortune from those who sought the treasure was beginning to make sense. The book he was reading recorded the exploits of treasure hunters on into the sixties and seventies who had tried and failed to find the meaning of the web of intrigue.
His phone rang, and he saw Bella’s name on the caller ID.
“Have you seen the five o’clock news?” The slight rise in her voice clued him that trouble had knocked on his door again.
“No. Sounds like I should.”
“Are you near your computer?”
Carr stood from his favorite chair in his library and walked behind his desk. “I can be. Give me a moment.”
“Have you talked to any reporters?”
“What do you think? I’d run them off—”
“Like you did those three men?”
Heat rose from his neck to his face.
“I’m sorry. Out of line,” she said. “No reason to hit you with my lousy mood.”
He mentally flipped off the switch on his fuse box of anger. “All right. But before this conversation is over, I want to know whether you believe I’m innocent or guilty.”
“Are you online?”
“Dial-up, remember?” What a time for slow Internet.
“Right.”
“I’ll take your answer now.” Exoneration for the three men’s murders would give him a good night’s sleep and make a nice deposit on his self-respect.
Silence met him.
“Bella, do you think I’m responsible for the deaths of those men or for Darren Adams?”
“It’s not a simple yes or no.”
Carr practiced his breathing techniques. In the five years he’d lived on the High Butte, he’d never fought to control his temper so many times. “It’s either you do or you don’t.”
“Are you online yet?”
He was, but she could wait. “My answer.”
“We’ve been through this before. The evidence pointing to you is too obvious, sloppy.”
“Then you believe in my innocence.”
“Maybe.”
He couldn’t win with this woman. “I’m connected.” As he browsed, the latest news updates filled the monitor, and Carr’s spirits plummeted as he read an inflammatory editorial aloud.
“‘New information has cast a suspicious eye on Carr Sullivan, the owner of the Runnels County ranch where three bodies were found. Not only were the men shot execution-style by his rifle, but he was heard threatening the three men to stay off his land. The county mourns the death of Sheriff Darren Adams, who was poisoned on Thursday while investigating the murders. Adams arrived at Ballinger Memorial Hospital in Sullivan’s truck after Adams allegedly complained of flu-like symptoms. The county sheriff’s department refuses to comment, stating the FBI is involved in investigating the murders, which brings us to another interesting addition to the case. The three victims found on Sullivan’s ranch were looking for the Spider Rock treasure. The question tonight is why Carr Sullivan hasn’t been arrested. The answer may be in an anonymous tip received earlier this afternoon. Sullivan and the FBI agent assigned to the case have been romantically linked. Is this your definition of justice? Leave a comment and tell us what you think.’”
“That’s . . .” The words describing his reaction weren’t the kind honoring God. “
Inaccurate
sounds good.”
“The devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
“My adjectives are a little more colorful,” Bella said.
Truthfully, so were his. “What does your supervisor have to say about it?”
“Ignore the media. Do my job. If the slander gets worse, they’ll address it. But I wanted you to know the media is out to crucify you with this.”
Carr cringed at the word
crucify
. Not a pretty picture. “I figure if enough evidence had been found to arrest me, then I’d be sitting in jail.”
“True.”
“So even if you refuse to admit it, you’re convinced of my innocence.” When she didn’t respond, he chuckled.
“Glad you have a sense of humor in this mess.”
“That and a strong belief in God.” Again she didn’t respond. “Is there anything I can do about the report?”
“I’ve been thinking if there is anything in it we can use to our advantage. Possibly contacting the editor and asking for a chance to air the other side of the story. But taking the offense might backfire and make you look guilty.”
“Or contacting a TV station for an interview?”
“Hmm, let me think. Doing nothing may be the best move.” She sighed. “Guess we’ll have to stop the late dinners in Abilene and the bar hopping afterward. You’re a wild dancer, Carr Sullivan.”
Surprised at her candidness, he complimented her wit. “We could play into the report.”
“What?”
“Consider this: if we were seen openly together, acting as though the report was correct, wouldn’t we throw the killer off guard?”
“Possibly. I’d need to let that suggestion rattle around in my brain for a while. Run it by my supervisor. So you’re suggesting we play into their hands in hopes the killer exposes himself?”
“Just a thought. What if you charged me with the crime?”
“Without evidence, it’s not wise.”
“Can’t you talk to your supervisor to see if I could sign something that allowed you to pin the charges on me?”
“You are innocent, aren’t you?”
He heard the conviction in her voice. “Yes, Bella. I did
not
kill those three men, and I did
not
poison Darren. I’m ready to do anything to prove that to you.”