The Texas Ranger (2 page)

He was holding something back. She could see it in the way he looked at her.

“You know you can't hide things from me,” she said abruptly. “What is it you don't want to tell me?”

He shook his head and laughed. “I forgot that uncanny ability of yours to sense what people are feeling. Okay. They're sending Marc Brannon to look into it,” he told her finally. He held up a hand when she froze and started to speak. “I know there's bad blood between you, but Marsh is notorious. I want him as much as the D.A. does, so I'm going to send you over there to run liaison for my office during the investigation. I've got a bad feeling about this one.”

She wasn't listening. She had a bad feeling about it, too. Her heart was racing. Two years.
Two years
. “You'll have a worse feeling if you send me there. Can you see me and Brannon, working together? It will only be possible if they confiscate all his bullets and make me leave my stun gun here in Austin.”

He chuckled. Despite her tragic life, she was strong and independent and dryly funny. He'd hired her two years ago when nobody else would, largely thanks to Brannon, and he was glad. She had a degree in criminal justice. Her choice of jobs was to be an investigator in a district attorney's office. Fate
had landed her here, working on the Prosecutor Assistance and Special Investigation Unit for Simon. She could be loaned out to a requesting district attorney, along with other investigative personnel and even prosecutors, providing resources for criminal investigation.

It was a harrowing job from time to time, but she loved it. She had access to the respected Texas Crime Information Center. It boasted a statewide database on wanted persons and provided real-time on-line information to law enforcement agencies. Josette counted it as one of her biggest blessings during investigations, particularly those involving cybercrime.

“It's nothing definite yet,” Simon added. “They're still at the scene. The murder may not even be connected with Marsh, although I hope to God it is. But I thought I'd prepare you, just in case you have to go out there.”

“Okay. Thanks, Simon.”

“We're family. Sort of.” He frowned. “Was it your third cousin who was related to my stepgrand-mother…?”

“Don't,” she groaned. “It would take a genealogist to figure it out, it's so distant.”

“Whatever. They can't accuse me of nepotism for hiring you, but we're distant cousins anyway. Family,” he added, with a warm smile. “Sort of. Like the staff.”

“I'm glad you think of them like that, because ‘Cousin' Phil wants you to know that he likes his job and he's sorry he messed up your e-mail,” she told him, tongue-in-cheek. “And he hopes you won't take away his job with the Internet Bureau.”

His light eyes flashed. “You can tell Cousin Phil to kiss my…!”

“Don't you say it,” she warned, “or I'll call Tira and tell on you.”

He ground his teeth together. “Oh, all right.” He frowned. “That reminds me. What do you want in here, anyway?”

“A raise,” she began, counting on one hand. “A computer that doesn't crash every time I load a program. A new scanner, because mine's sluggish. A new filing cabinet, mine's full. And how about one of those cute little robotic dogs? I could teach it to fetch files…”

“Sit down!”

She sat, but she was still grinning. She crossed her legs in the chair across the desk and went over the question she'd been faxed from a rural district attorney, who'd asked for a legal opinion. For Simon's sake, she acted unconcerned that fate might fling her in the path of Marc Brannon for a third time.

 

But when Josette left Simon's office, she was almost shaking. It had to be an easily solvable murder,
she told herself firmly. She couldn't be thrown into Brannon's company again not when she was just beginning to get over him. She went through the rest of the day in a daze. There was a nagging apprehension in the back of her mind, as if she knew somehow that the murder in San Antonio was going to affect her life.

Her grandmother, Erin O'Brien, had been Irish, a special woman with an uncanny ability to know things before they happened. The elderly lady would cook extra food and get the guest rooms ready on days when the Langley family dropped in on “surprise” visits. She could anticipate tragedies, like the sudden death of her brother. When Josette's father had stopped by her small home to tell her the bad news, she was wearing a black dress and her Sunday hat, waiting to be driven to the funeral home. It was useless to try to watch murder mysteries with her, because she always knew who the culprit was by the end of the first scene. Erin was Josette's favorite person when she was a child. They shared all sorts of secrets. It had been Erin who told her she would meet a tall man wearing a badge, and her life would be forever entangled with his. When Marc Brannon had rescued her, at the age of fifteen, from a wild party and near-rape, Erin had been waiting at her parents' home when Brannon drove her there in the Jacobsville police car, with her arms open. Marc had been fascinated by the old woman, even that long
ago. Erin's death before the family moved to San Antonio had devastated Josette. But, then, so had losing Marc two years ago. Her life had been an endurance test.

That evening, she went home to her tomcat Barnes in her small efficiency apartment and deliberately got out her photo album. She hadn't opened it in two painful years, but now she was hungry for the sight of that tall, elegant, formidable man in her past.

She'd loved Marc Brannon more than her life. They'd come as close to being lovers as any two people ever had without going all the way, but he'd discovered a secret about her that had shattered him. He'd dragged himself out of her arms, cursed her roundly and walked out the door. He'd never looked back. Scant days later, Josette had gone to a party with an acquaintance named Dale Jennings and a wealthy San Antonio man had died there. Josette had accused Marc's best friend, and a candidate for lieutenant governor, of the murder, citing that he was the sole heir of the old man. Brannon had used her past against her in court to clear his friend. They hadn't spoken since.

It had been a fluke, that whole situation. She couldn't really blame Brannon for defending his best friend. But if he'd loved her, he couldn't have walked away that easily. And he wouldn't have treated her like trash, either.

Most people around San Antonio said that Brannon wouldn't know love if it poked him in the eye. It was probably true. He was a loner by nature, and he and his sister, Gretchen, had suffered terrible poverty in childhood. Their mother had died of cancer two years ago, not long after Josette had split up with Marc. Gretchen had been wined and dined and then horribly jilted by an opportunist when he discovered that she inherited little more than debts. Like her, both Brannons had known betrayal.

Barnes purred and rubbed against her arm, diverting her from her sad thoughts. She petted him and held him close. His loud purr vibrated against her skin and gave her comfort, like the weight of his big, furry body. He was a battle-scarred alley cat who'd needed a good meal and a bath. Josette had needed something to come home to after a hard day's work. She'd never been able to walk past anything that was hurt or deserted, so she'd loved Barnes on sight. She'd taken him to the veterinarian for a checkup and shots and then she'd taken him home with her. Now, she couldn't imagine life without him. He filled some of the empty places inside her.

“Hungry?” she asked, and he rubbed harder.

“Okay,” she said, sighing as she got to her bare feet and stretched lazily, her slender body twisting with the motion. Her hair was down around her shoulders. It fell like a golden cascade to her hips
in back. Brannon had loved her hair like that. She grimaced. She had to stop remembering!

“We'll split a hamburger, Barnes. Then,” she added with a wince, “I have to comb through a thousand files and download a dozen pages into the laptop for Simon. After that, I have to write a summary and take it back to Simon so that he can compose an opinion on it. Then I have to fax it to the district attorney.” She looked down at Barnes and shook her head. “Oh, for the life of a cat!”

N
othing about a crime scene ever got easier, Marc Brannon thought as he knelt beside the body of the shooting victim. The man was young, probably no more than late-twenties, and he was dressed shabbily. One bare arm bore a tattoo of a raven. There were scars on both wrists and ankles, hinting at a stint in prison. There was a pool of blood around his fair hair and his pale eyes were open, staring blankly at the blue sky. He looked vulnerable lying there; helpless and defenseless, with his body wide-open to the stares of evidence-gatherers and curious passersby. Evidence technicians went over the scene like bloodhounds, looking carefully for trace evidence. One of them had a metal detector and had just found a slug which they hoped would be from the murder weapon. Another technician was videotaping the crime scene from every angle.

Brannon's big, lean hand smoothed over the neat khaki of his slacks while his keen, deep-set silver-gray eyes narrowed in thought. Maybe Marsh had nothing to do with this, but it was curious that a dead body would be found so close to his nightclub. No doubt Marsh would have an iron-clad alibi, he thought irritably. He had dozens of cronies who would give him one whenever he needed it.

Deep in thought, Brannon watched the lone medical examiner investigator work. She was going very slowly and methodically about securing the body. Well, she should. It could turn out to be a very high-profile case, he reminded himself.

The homicide detective for the central substation, Bud Garcia, waved at Brannon before he spoke to the patrol officers who'd apparently found the body. He sighed as he joined the medical examiner investigator beside the body, out of the way of the evidence technicians who were busily garnering trace evidence close to the body. Brannon had an evidence kit himself, but he would have felt superfluous trying to use it with so many people on the case. There were continuous flashes of light as the corpse was photographed as well as videotaped.

“Hi, Jones,” he greeted her. “Do we know anything about this guy yet?”

“Sure,” she replied, busily bagging the victim's hands. “I know two things about him already.”

“Well?” he prompted impatiently, when she hesitated.

“He's male, and he's dead,” Alice Jones replied with a wicked grin as she put the last bag in place with a rubber band. Her hair, black and short, was sweaty.

He gave her a speaking glare.

“Sorry,” she murmured dryly. “No, we don't have anything, not even a name. He wasn't carrying ID.” She stood up. “Care to guess about his circumstances?”

He studied the body. “He's got abrasions on his wrists and ankles. My guess would be that he's an escaped prisoner.”

“Not bad, Ranger,” she mused. “That would be my best guess, too. But until we get him autopsied, we're going to have to wait for our answers.”

“Can you approximate the time of death?”

She gave him a long, appreciative look. Her eyes twinkled. “You want me to jab a thermometer in his liver right here, huh?”

“God, Jones!” he burst out.

“Okay, okay, if you have to have a time of death, considering the state of rigor, I'd say twenty-four hours, give or take two either side,” she murmured, and went back to work. “But don't hold me to it. I'm just an investigator. The medical examiner will have to go over this guy, and he's got bodies backed
up in the morgue already. Don't expect quick results.”

As if he didn't know that. Evidence processing could take weeks, and frequently did, despite the instant results displayed on television police shows.

He swore under his breath and got to his feet gracefully. It was a hot September day and the silvery metal of his Texas Ranger badge caught the sun and glittered. He took off his Stetson and swept the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. His blond-streaked, thick and wavy hair, was momentarily visible until he stuck the hat back on, slanting it across his eyes.

“Who called you in on this?” the assistant medical examiner asked cursorily as she worked to prepare the body for transit.

“My boss. We're hoping this may be a link to a guy we've been trying to close down for several years without success, considering where the body's located. Naturally my boss sent someone experienced and capable and superior in intelligence to investigate.” He looked at her mischievously.

She glanced appreciatively up at her rugged companion, appraising his lean physique and commanding presence. She gave a long, low whistle. “I'm impressed, Brannon!”

“Nothing impresses you, Jones,” he drawled.

He turned around and went to look for Bud Garcia, the homicide detective. He found him talking to
another plainclothes detective, who had a cell phone and a notepad.

“Well, that sure fits the description,” Garcia was agreeing with a satisfied smile. “Right down to the raven tattoo. It's him, all right. What a lucky break! Thank the warden for me.”

The other officer nodded and spoke into the cell phone again, moving away.

“Brannon, we've got something,” Garcia said when he saw the taller man approaching. “Wayne Correctional Institute down near Floresville is reporting a missing inmate who fits this man's description exactly. He escaped from a work detail early this morning.”

“Have you got a name?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well?” Brannon pressed.

“It's Jennings. Dale Jennings.”

It was a name that Brannon had reason to remember. And now the face that seemed so familiar clicked into place. Jennings, a local hoodlum, had been convicted of murdering a wealthy San Antonio businessman two years before. He was also alleged to have strong ties to Jake Marsh and his underworld. His photograph had been in half the newspapers in the country, not to mention the front page of several tabloids. The trial had been scandalous as well. Josette Langley, the young woman who had been Jennings's date the night of elderly Henry Gar
ner's murder, insinuated publicly that the person who stood to gain the most from the death was Brannon's best friend, who was Bib Webb, now Texas Lieutenant Governor.

But Webb's attorney had convinced the prosecutor that it was Jennings who committed the murder and that Josette's testimony in Jennings's behalf was filled with lies. She had, after all, been proven a liar in a rape trial some years earlier. Her past was what had saved Webb from any charges. Silvia Webb, Bib's wife, had seen old man Henry Garner outside and waved to him just before she left to take Josette home. She also said she'd seen a bloody blackjack on the passenger seat of Jennings's car. Both she and Bib Webb had an alibi for the next few minutes, during which Garner was said to have lost his life on the pier of the private lake at Webb's estate.

When Silvia came back from taking Josette home and saw Garner's car still in the driveway, and empty, and nobody remembered seeing him recently, she called the police to report it. Several guests remembered hearing her make the call, and sounding disturbed. The guests were forbidden to leave the party while they searched for the old man, whom they found floating near the pier, dead. It looked like an accidental drowning, one newscaster said, and it was rumored that the old man had been drinking and walked off the pier, hitting his head on the way down. Still, no one was allowed to leave
the scene until the police and the EMTs, along with the coroner, were finished. Witnesses were questioned.

Even so, it just might have passed for an accident. Except that Josette, who heard the breaking story on television later that night, called the police and told them that Garner hadn't been drinking at all, that she hadn't seen him outside when she and Silvia left the party, and that there had been no blackjack in Dale Jennings's car. She knew because she'd ridden in it to the party.

A lump was found on Garner's head when they pulled him out of the water. There was a blackjack lying visible on the passenger seat of Dale Jennings's car. He'd protested wildly when the police took him away.

Josette was positive Bib Webb was involved. But it was that suspicion, against the ironclad alibis of Bib Webb and his wife, who stated that Jennings had a motive—an argument the day before with Garner over his salary. It turned out that Garner had been paying Jennings to be his combination handyman and chauffeur. It was alleged that Jennings was helping himself to the old man's possessions as well. They found a very expensive pair of gold cuff links, a diamond tiepin and a lot of cash in his apartment, which added to the sensationalism of the trial. Jake Marsh had been pulled in and questioned repeatedly because of some nebulous work Dale had
done for him. But there was no hard evidence and Marsh walked away without a blemish, to the dismay and fury of Bexar County prosecutors and State Attorney General Simon Hart.

Brannon stuck his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. They clenched as he recalled Josette's face in another courtroom, years ago, when she was only fifteen and trying to convince a hostile jury that she'd been drugged and nearly raped by the son of a wealthy Jacobsville resident. Josette's life had been a hard one. But it wounded him that she could have accused Bib Webb, his best friend, of something as heinous as murdering a helpless old man for money. It was so obvious that Jennings had done it. He even had the murder weapon in his car, blatantly in sight on the front passenger seat, still bearing minute traces of blood and tissue, and hair, from poor old Garner's head. The medical examiner positively identified the blackjack as the weapon used to stun the old man before he was pushed into the water.

“You know the Langley woman, who works in Simon Hart's office, don't you?” Garcia asked suddenly, dragging Brannon back to the present. The two men had known each other since Garcia was a patrolman and Brannon a fledgling Texas Ranger.

Brannon nodded curtly. “We both come from Jacobsville. Josette and her mother and father moved to San Antonio some years ago. I heard that her
parents were dead. I haven't seen her in two years, not since she moved to Austin,” he added, reminded unwillingly that he'd broken off their relationship the week before Garner had died.

“No reason to, I imagine,” the officer said carelessly.

Brannon's eyes went back to the body on the ground. “This does look like a professional hit,” Brannon said out of the blue, studying Dale Jennings's body, with his hands bagged and his white, still face vanishing under the zip of the dark body bag. “One downward-angled gunshot to the back of the head at point-blank range. His knees were covered in red mud, just like this.” He moved the dirt caked on the pavement with the toe of his boot. “He was probably kneeling at the time.”

“That was my first thought, too. And it's a pretty big coincidence that Marsh's nightclub is only two doors that way,” the detective agreed, nodding toward the street that fronted the alley.

“If Marsh is involved here, I'll find a way to prove it,” Brannon said bitingly. “He's walked away from murder and attempted murder, drug-dealing, prostitution and illegal betting on sports for years. It's time we made him pay for the misery he's caused.”

“I'll drink to that. But we can't just walk in and arrest him without probable cause. Not that I don't wish I could,” Garcia confessed ruefully.

“Well, there's no time like the present to get started. I'm only in the way here as it is. I'll go back to my office and fill Simon Hart in on what we know.” He pursed his lips. “He's going to be madder than a teased rattlesnake.”

Garcia chuckled. “That he is.” He looked toward the body. “Did the guy have any family?”

“A mother, I think. Did they find the slug?”

“They found a slug. Ballistics will have to tell us if it's the right one. I'd bet on a nine millimeter handgun myself, but that's why we have the Bexar County Forensic Science Center.”

“And the department of public safety's own lab,” Brannon felt obliged to mention.

“Which is a very good one,” Garcia agreed, smiling. “Say, wasn't Jennings convicted of murder a couple of years ago?” he added suddenly.

“Yes. In a trial that almost implicated our brand-new lieutenant governor, too,” Brannon told him. “It almost cost him the election. Both contenders were first-time state office seekers. But the other guy dropped out a week before the election, and Bib won. He's a good man.”

“Yes. So he is.”

“I had a nice, easy month all planned,” Brannon sighed. “Now here I am up to my armpits in a dead body and a two-year-old murder case that the press will resurrect and use to embarrass Bib Webb. It couldn't be worse timing. He's just won his party's
nomination for that senate seat that the incumbent resigned from because of a heart attack. The publicity could kill Bib's chances.”

“Life, they say, is what happens when you have other plans,” Garcia said with a grim smile.

“Amen,” Brannon agreed heavily.

He went back to his office and phoned Simon Hart with the news. An hour later, he was on a plane to Austin.

 

Simon Hart listened to Brannon's report in his spacious office in Austin. He'd requested the Ranger's help on the case as soon as he knew who the victim was. Brannon had a good track record with homicides and the Texas Ranger post in San Antonio was where he was stationed, anyway. Brannon had legal authority to investigate in multiple jurisdictions, and that complication existed. Jennings was killed in Bexar County, but he'd been in a correctional facility in Wilson County. Simon was certain that the murder was going to make national headlines. There was a sad lack of sensational news lately and the media had to fill those twenty-four-hour news channels with something. Sure enough, the murder had led the noon news on local channels. The body was barely in the morgue before the wire services and national television broadcast the story that the victim was tied to a murder case two years ago in Austin, Texas, that had involved the state's
lieutenant governor, Bib Webb. God knew, the media loved political scandal. But with luck, they just might get Jake Marsh for murder at last.