Flash Flood
Flash Flood
Copyright © 2002 by Susan Slater
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002
ISBN: 1-59058-047-8 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781615952533 ePub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
To:
All the independent mystery bookstore owners
and staff who make me feel like royaltyâSpecial thanks to
Ed Kaufman, M is for Mystery, San Mateo, CA and
Nancy Rutland, Bookworks, Albuquerque, NM.
And to Susan Wasson who insisted
that I find a home for
Flash Flood.
Contents
“If that ain't a shit-eatin' grin, I never saw one. You goin' to shatter that plate glass you keep admiring yourself.” The man behind the desk put his pen down and scratched under his arm while flexing his shoulder. His uniform was snug and the collar cut into the second of his chins.
“Careful, Willie. You're talking to a free man now.”
“What's that supposed to mean? That makes you better all of a sudden?” A hint of querulousness, another dig at the armpit.
“Maybe. Maybe you're talking to a
rich,
free man.” Eric dropped his voice and leaned over the desk before stepping back. It felt good to tease Willie a little. Tenth grade education made you eligible for shit-detail if you were born and raised this side of Lubbock, Texas. And Willie qualified. Probably hadn't strayed more than twenty miles in any direction since birth.
“You telling me somebody bought seven years of your life?”
“Maybe.”
“Shit.” Willie picked up the pen again. “Nobody's got that kind of money. Not for my life. Tell me, how much is seven fucking years in this place worth?”
Eric Linden just smiled. It was tempting to brag. America's newest millionaire was about to step out into the muggy closeness of a late summer afternoon. Seven years in Milford Correctional minimum security prison had earned him the right to brag. Willie was right about the years being worth something. Were the seven years a forfeit? A sacrifice? How many times had he flown cattle or semen to Central America for Billy Roland Eklund? And how many times had there been a little something hidden on the plane for the return trip? Was it just plain luck that he hadn't been caught before? Brought down at the border to have agents swarm all over, dismantle the plane before they found the cache, the discreet little bundle with a tidy street value?
“I hear all sorts of crazy things in a place like this. Time was I'd even believe some of 'em.” Willie snorted his skepticism.
Now he had Willie going. But it was true. He'd been asked to take the rap, admit to helping himself, a fringe benny of flying to places like Colombia. He was offered two million by a lawyer who remained anonymous but indicated that he represented Mr. Eklund. And all Eric had to do was be the decoy. The lawyer brought the bankbook. Eric called and verified the amount. Two million had been deposited in Midland Savings and Loan, Tatum, New Mexico. The bank would act as broker, manage the portfolio, send a monthly statement
if
he pulled time. But that hadn't seemed likely.
He'd known he could get off. Talk his way out of it. He didn't have a record. He was just a pilot who couldn't resist temptation, for God's sake. He'd grown up with these people. Gone back East to get a law degree from the right school but returned to hang a shingle in Roswell, New Mexico, practice a little, do some flying, raise a family. Maybe if he hadn't handled his own defense there would have been a different outcome. But how'd he know the judge would be a Yale brother who took pleasure in cleaning up the profession?
“I suppose you goin' tell me you dumped that wife of yours to take off with the piece of ass that's waiting outside? A little quail will get you right back in here. Some men don't never learn. They just whip it out and let it lead 'em around.”
The pronoun reference was clear and Willie was staring at him, mouth shut tight, accusingly sanctimonious. Andrea Lott was twenty-three. But he wouldn't waste his breath telling Willie. And it was good to know that Andy was waiting at the curb. More than likely in that big, pink Caddy, some Mary Kay castoff of her mother's, but it'd get them back to civilization.
“Come on, Willie. You can check paperwork faster than that.” He was beginning to feel antsy and tired of all the small talk.
“Hold your horses. You'd be pissed as hell if I missed something. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right.” Willie was checking dates and signatures and stamping each page. And taking his sweet, ever-loving time. Passive-aggressive came to mind, but Eric didn't push it. Wouldn't do him any good. He just needed to let old Willie play out the control thing, get his jollies by being an asshole. Besides, Eric wasn't going to let anyone ruin his day. Everything he'd ever hoped for was ten steps away.
He sat back down in a chrome and peeling padded leather chair, his back to the wire-reinforced glass partition. He didn't need to check his reflection to know that forty looked pretty good on him. And felt pretty good. Milford Correctional hadn't been so bad. There were amenities in minimum-security lockup, like the Caddy's driver, teaching assistant and highlight of the college enrichment programâand hell of a good fuck. If every Thursday at two forty-five behind the kitchen in the walkway to the freezer, fifteen minutes before the start of Culinary Arts 104 could qualify as something good. Six quickies before the course ended.
“Guess that'll do it.” Willie stacked the papers in front of him, neatly aligned their edges, then slid them into a manila envelope. “They say a fool's born every day.” His look said that he wouldn't mind a little debate on the topic if Eric wanted to stick around. But Eric wasn't biting. Not today.
“That ought to keep you in business.” Eric grinned, picked up the envelope, stuffed it into the outside pocket of his duffle, and walked to the door. “Hey, Willie. No more advice? Nothing about wooden nickels? Or not doing whatever the shit it is that you don't do?”
He laughed, and overcome with a delirious giddiness he pushed out of the building and stood drawing the suffocatingly hot air into his lungs. Out. He was finally out. The rebel yell caught the attention of the guard at the front gate, who watched a minute, then picked up the phone before he buzzed Eric through.
A couple pirouettes, a toss of his duffle bag in the general direction of the Caddy's back seat and he turned his attention to Andy, leaning against the hood in short shorts and halter top.
“Only one other thing might look half as good as you do right now.” He lifted her and did a third pirouette as her tanned legs grasped his waist.
“There's a cooler full of Heineken on the back seat.” She said, her arms around his neck, mouth close to his ear. He pulled back to kiss her, turning to make certain that Willie had a clear view.
“Woman after my own heart. But that beer's gonna have to wait.” He nipped at her bottom lip, then sucked on it, then laughing, covered her mouth with his, pushing his tongue in and out and didn't come up for air until he felt her squirm.
“Oh, baby, you know how I feel right now?” He murmured into her hair. The question was rhetorical. How could anyone know unless they'd been uprootedâjerked out of society and buried for a few years?
“I could check.” That breathy whisper of a voice and then Eric felt her hand drop to his crotch and knead gently. “I think you feel pretty good.”
He laughed and set her down. Maybe there were limits to what Willie should see. Suddenly he just wanted to get the hell out of there.
“Want me to drive?” he asked.
If Andy was surprised at this about-face, she didn't let on.
“I'm okay.” There was a hint of a pout but she slipped behind the wheel. She was West Texas pretty in a rodeo-queen sort of way. Long, straight blond hair, apple-smooth ass with cheeks that just fit the palms of his hands. Growing up he'd watch ass like that circle the show ring on the back of stud Appaloosas. He reached around and retrieved a beer, scattering ice chips across the front seat.
“That's cold.” Andy jumped.
“Thought you needed to cool down.” Eric leaned over and sucked up the melting specks from bare skin, letting his tongue linger on the inside of her thigh. She laughed before pushing him away and gave the gas pedal a couple thrusts. The Caddy roared into action and Andy deftly pulled a U and headed out of the parking lot.
Eric flipped open the glove box. “Got a church key around here?”
“Don't that just twist off?” Andy glanced his way.
“Yeah. Sure,” Eric laughed. A church key probably dated him.
“You hungry? We could stop for something to eat?” Andy was headed southwest toward Meadow, Brownfield, Tatum, then Roswell.
“Maybe later,” Eric said.
“There's that cowboy place outside Tatum. Couple hours from here.”
“Sounds good.”
Was he going to regret this? She'd offered the ride to Roswell but the price might include a ticket outâout of the wide spot in the road she called home. A body like hers could rot in a Tatum, New Mexico, town of five thousand, but did his plans include letting her tag along? Maybe.
He had a couple days business in Roswell; meet with Elaine's lawyer, sign the divorce papers, clean out a safe deposit box, make sure the two million plus had been transferred to the Caymans. Then he was out of there. Next stop was Miami and the best catamaran that cash could buy.
“Will you stay with your wife?”
“What?” Eric jolted back to the present.
“In Roswell. Will I be dropping you off at home?”
“No. That's married in the past tense.”
“Kids?”
“One.” Eric felt vaguely uncomfortable. He didn't want to dwell on what wasn't waiting for him, a son who would start college in two weeks, but hadn't spoken to him in five years.
He waited for more questions but Andy was concentrating on the highway. He let his thoughts stray to Elaine. He hadn't expected her to leave him. They had always been friends, lovers in the beginning. At forty-five she could turn every head in a room. Nineteen years was a long time.
He sighed. Andy quickly glanced his way and he smiled reassuringly, then slumped against the door intent on watching the miles roll by. Not that there was much to watch. The land was flat and scrubbyâthe kind that took four acres to support one cow. But this was cattle country with a few oil wells thrown in. Big ranches, big bucks. The tough plains grass had fed buffalo a hundred years ago; now prize herds of Brangus, Charolais, and Santa Gertrudis foraged among the monotonous up-and-down swing of the pumps.
Standing pools of water dotted the side of the road. This was the monsoon season. Intermittent showers would pummel the earth, and the sun would turn the moisture into steam. Looked like there was going to be more rain. To the west, virga trailed from a bank of high-flying clouds. If the temperature cooled, they could be in for a real gully washer.
***
The hottest damn day of the week but the first one in three that it hadn't rained half the nightâonly half the morning. This was not Dan Mahoney's pick of weather to tour the Double Horseshoe. He'd gone back inside the Silver Spur motel to change shirts twice. The final choice was a linen weave
guayabera,
a relic from six months in Matamoros a few years back. He wasn't wrong; the climate here in Tatum, New Mexico was about the same. This part of the country had some kind of patent on shit for weather. Hot, more hot, then when a person thought he couldn't handle it, throw in sticky-hot.
He'd gotten off the plane bitching about the heat, but if he wanted to be truthful, it wasn't just the weather. He plain didn't want to be here, a detective specializing in insurance claims out in the field tracking down some perverts who had sliced up a calf and threw her over an altar. Probably did a couple half turns to the beat of a drum in the middle of the night to boot. But he wouldn't be here if the calf hadn't been insured for two hundred and fifty thousand. So, who said it was cheap to worship the devil? Lame joke. He wasn't in the mood. It was difficult to see the humor in any of this.
What had happened to the desk job? The cushy nine to five, report every day, go home at a decent hour, have dinner with the wife and kidsâonly there weren't any of those. There had been a couple wives, not at the same time, but both a long time ago. Now it was just a Rottweiler who had earned the right to slobber on him now and then. And the on again, off again thing with the fifth grade teacher that was doomed, and he guessed he knew he didn't want to revive it. The sex was just so-so, but she was a Cubs fan. He'd miss the companionship.
So, what was he doing at fifty-two, somewhere out West in a one-horse town, getting ready to spend Friday and maybe a month of Fridays tramping around the Charolais cattle ranch of one Billy Roland Eklund? The money? No. Ego? Probably. “You're the best. The only one who could get to the bottom of this.” His boss knew how to work him. United Life and Casualty had received three claims in three months. All for over two hundred thousand each. Any insurance company would be hysterical; his was. And there was the family thing, his boss reminded him, as if he needed reminding. He could visit his sister who lived out this way, ninety miles west to be exact, and wouldn't it be nice to combine a little vacation with business? To sister Carolyn, family vacation was an oxymoron and the only word that really fit with family was crisis. But he enjoyed Carolyn in small doses; he'd probably spend a few days in Roswell.
He looked up the street. Odd sensation to not only see the end of the main drag but the open space beyond. He'd been in a city too long. Home was Chicago; maybe he should think of relocating. But not to a Tatum, New Mexico. He liked the amenities of a city, the impersonal, get lost in a crowd whenever you want. Sometimes a person's soul needed that. Here five shops on Main Street were named after their owners: Alice's, Lil's, Jack's, Ray's, Bert & Faye's. Some sort of ego involvement to see your name in two-foot-high neon.
Halfway down the block, a pickup was backed up to a loading dock in front of the Feed and Seed Co-op. Two young men were loading what looked to be some first rate alfalfa. The insignia on the pickup's door panel read Double Horseshoe. Billy Roland's was one good-sized operation. Snatches of Spanish floated down the street as the two workers tossed the bales onto the truck bed.
He eyed the dark coolness of Jack's. A bar probably run by a second or third generation owner with the same name. Even at ten in the morning, it looked inviting. He dug the directions out of his pocket. He missed a briefcase. But somehow out here that would be laughable and brand him as a true outsider. No, boots and jeans were the uniform.
