Flash Flood (16 page)

Eric finally began to talk, not looking at her, staring straight ahead at the trees, Simon's antics, the cloudless sky. He insisted that he'd been set up seven years ago, but couldn't prove it. No doubt there had been many flights when he had unknowingly acted as messenger, delivery boy. The offer of two million had seemed the least Billy Roland could do. The fact that the two million never existed or was withdrawn kept him in hiding. He would get it back with threats of exposure.

“Do you have evidence of Billy Roland's involvement?”

“I'm working on getting it.”

“Then what?”

“Confront him. Demand what I'm owed.”

“Isn't there a better way?”

“Damn it, Elaine, I was shot at. For all I know Andy would be alive today if someone hadn't shot out the tires on the car.” She watched him as he paused, realizing he'd mentioned the girl. Let him feel awkward. She was past caring one way or the other. It wasn't the first female; it wouldn't be the last. Finally, she said, “I'm not comfortable with all this secrecy.”

“You're not comfortable? What the bloody hell do you think this is?”

He'd leaned over and grabbed her arm, jerking her to face him, his fingers digging into her biceps. “This is my life. How can I make it any plainer? Someone wants me dead.” He released her arm but continued to look at her. Defiant, belligerent, angry, an anger that was slowly slipping over the boundaries of right or wrong almost as Elaine watched.

“So, what happens next?” She moved to the porch railing and sat facing him.

“I need the keys and passport from the safe deposit box.”

“That's what you were looking for when you broke into the house? The night Buddy died.”

“Sorry about ol' Bud. He got pretty excited at seeing me. I was afraid he'd have a stroke.”

“But didn't wait around to help.”

“I don't play by your rules, anymore. I have two goals, stay alive and get what that bastard owes me.”

“Did you ever play by any rules?” She said it quietly, maybe more of a question to herself but searched his face, watched the eyes for an answer.

“I'm not going to say the marriage was perfect.”

“A lack of perfection made you throw everything away for two million dollars?” Sarcasm. It felt good. Then she leaned back, rested against a support post and said, “You know, the only one that ever got to me was Carolyn. All the waitresses and secretaries, the girls you smuggled across the border…you never brought them home, never flaunted them, but my so-called best friend? The wife of your best friend?”

“That was eight years ago. It's forgotten.”

“Time doesn't erase everything. Maybe takes the edge off….”

“Had I been in my grave, I wouldn't have been cold before you started fucking around.”

The calculating iciness of his voice surprised her. How did he know about Dan?

“I think I'm entitled to a life.”

“You're so stupid, Elaine. For all the degrees, all the surface smarts, you're fucking naive.”

“Should I ask you what you mean or could anything stop you from telling me?” A wash of anger left her skin tingling.

“You're being used. Your insurance dick works for the feds. You're a part of the payroll, get close to the poor wife who just might know more about all this than she's saying. Wear a wire, wine, dine and fuck the poor thing. Just a mercy hump for the needy, but then maybe she'll tell you what she knows.”

“You're lying.”

“You know I'm not. The asshole hasn't even gotten back in touch, has he? Fills a room with pillows, spends the night screwing the grieving widow, then disappears, leaves poor little Elaine sitting by the phone. Frankly, it was a good idea to come up here, saved you from looking too pathetic.”

She ignored his meanness, the biting crudeness designed to hurt, and simply said, “Dan wouldn't use me.”

“Then explain this.”

He pulled a folded paper from his wallet and handed it to her. It was a copy of an expense report. A Federal Bureau of Investigation, government form and two items had been circled in red. One, an electronic device, a wire; and two, a seventy-eight dollar bouquet of orchids, white, miscellaneous types, sent to her address. The signature at the bottom was Dan's.

She couldn't say anything…couldn't stop the tears that came from nowhere and burst through tightly closed eyes to run down her cheeks. She wadded the paper and rocked back and forth trying to keep the sobs from pushing up her throat and making any sound. Then abruptly, she said, “You know I'm the one who told Phillip.” She said it softly, swallowing hard. He had to lean forward to hear. She blew her nose on a Kleenex she found in the pocket of her shorts.

“Told Phillip?”

“About the affair with Carolyn. I made copies of all the letters I found, yours, hers, and went to see Phillip.” She had his attention but couldn't read his expression. “So, maybe, turnabout is fair play.”

He continued to stare. Disbelief? Disappointment that she'd been able to take the edge off of his little surprise about Dan.

“Phillip never said anything.”

“But things seemed to cool down pretty quickly.”

“Carolyn ended it. But it was over by then anyway. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't a threat to you or to Phillip. Carolyn was bored. Needed some excitement in her life.”

She couldn't keep the sarcastic laugh back. “And you? Were you bored?”

“I didn't say that. I always thought we were good in bed.”

“Maybe in the beginning.”

She was tired of all this. She needed time to lick her wounds in private. Think about Dan without getting angry about being used. And think about Eric…. “What do we do about the divorce?”

“Depends on whether I stay dead, doesn't it?”

“How soon will that decision be made?”

“I don't know. Depends on how quick our old friend Dan can come up with the evidence.”

“Dan?”

“Yeah. You might say he's an employee of mine. He needs information for the feds. I need information to get on with my life.”

“You know, you haven't asked once about Matthew.”

“I try not to dwell on what I've lost.”

She let it pass. It was still too painful to confront him about dropping out of his son's life. And she felt exhausted. She'd go back to Roswell, get the keys and passport, call a travel agency and get on with the sabbatical.

Chapter Six

Dan rode to Roswell with Hank to deliver the remains of Shortcake Dream to the UFO museum. He had all the pictures, measurements, and samples he needed. It was becoming important to get her embalmed as soon as possible; the museum would take care of that. They planned to use a new freeze-dry chemical that would preserve her indefinitely. When he'd called, they promised to set aside some videos on mutilation for him. All in the name of research. Well, curiosity, too.

He'd gotten the message from Elaine saying she would be in the mountains for a few days. At least, he didn't have to worry about her. Simon was having more fun than he was. The sheer volume of records, some on disk, most hard copy, at the Double Horseshoe would keep him out of trouble for some time.

Hank filled up at the Texaco station just inside Roswell city limits before delivering his cargo. The town was bustling. They turned north onto Main, then took a left on Third. They could see the fork lift in the alley waiting on them.

“Can we assume that you're a supporter, too, Mr. Mahoney?”

Dan looked down at the tiny lady with blue hair and three strands of pearls draped over the bodice of her black dress. She had opened the alley entrance to the back of the museum and directed the unloading of Shortcake Dream, informing them that she was a volunteer every Thursday. Last year she had been a docent at the zoo, but she'd moved on to aliens the end of January.

“I keep an open mind.”

“My, I'd think you would have to in your work. I just bet you have hundreds of fascinating stories.”

Did she bat her eyelashes? Dan was beginning to think his tour guide was some seventy-five-year-old coquette. But the eyelashes weren't seventy-five. The outside corner had come loose above the right eye and poked stiffly straight across, looking more like a tiny misplaced moustache. But he decided against telling her.

“We just don't know how to thank you for the calf. It's the biggest thing we've ever had here.”

Dan didn't think she was talking about size but he wasn't sure how they were going to display the animal.

“I think we'll put her in with Freddie.”

“Freddie?”

“The replica of the clone.” She smiled and motioned for him to follow and took off in that clipped gait of older people, posture erect and stiff, the result of wearing orthopedically correct oxfords for half a century.

Freddie wasn't exactly what he expected. Maybe it was the shade of blue, bright and luminous that made him look… he was thinking unreal but how could a four-foot-high egg-headed being look real?

“You know they aren't real.” What was this, mind reading? True confession? He watched as she absently patted Freddie's head. “These little guys are just messengers, scouts, they don't have any insides so to speak. It's just empty.” She tapped on the side of her head. “They communicate with the mother ship telepathically and all look alike. Real aliens look just like we do. You can't tell the difference.”

“I see.” He didn't see. He just didn't want to argue. But he wished that for the sake of effect, he could sprout an antenna above each eye, that would give his guide a thrill, or a heart attack.

“We're thinking of putting the glass front freezer case there. Perfect, isn't it?” She was pointing to the opposite wall.

Dan nodded his agreement, then followed her to the viewing room. He was ready to kick back and view some blood and gore, only those were the two things that were never found. They had the Linda Moulton Howe tape, one of the most definitive on the subject. So he watched forty minutes of actual footage on mutilations and interviews, every example looking exactly like Shortcake Dream. But if he could check out the tape, so could anyone else—an aspiring alien, someone wanting to throw an investigator off track.

He'd have to come up with something more concrete for United Life and Casualty. Alien mutilation wouldn't get past the first level of underwriters. Maybe it would be better to check on the Masons.

“You need to do anything else in town or can we head back?” Hank stood in the doorway.

Dan thought of leaving a message for Elaine, but pictured Eric's anger and decided against it. He'd check in with Roger instead.

“Just let me make a phone call.”

He used the phone in one of the offices out front. He guessed the number was for a motel somewhere in Roswell and wasn't disappointed. Tom answered but went to get Roger, who asked where he was calling from before talking. Was there just the slightest hesitation when he said the museum? Some urge to ask what the hell he was doing there? Must have mastered his curiosity because he launched right into what Dan still needed to do after a brief acknowledgment of what he'd sent so far to the P.O. box in Roswell.

“Got the copy of the schedule. Two of the five trips down south last year coincide with big dumps on the street. Could be coincidence, could be something we can use. You need to go over that plane. Pictures, fabric swatches from the seats, random samples of engine fluids, air from the tires, you know the routine. Use a vacuum whenever you can, then put everything in envelopes or lab containers. I've sent a package of materials out to the Double Horseshoe, including a camera. Let's say you get that stuff to me day after tomorrow. We'll meet at three, courthouse lawn.”

“Okay by me.” It wasn't, but it was easier to reassure than argue.

“One more thing. That Enrico Garcia? It's just like you suspected, big connections with Columbian drug lords. Stay on it. You could be close.”

Roger wasn't going to waste time on small talk. He hung up after reconfirming the time they'd meet. It was just as well, he could see Hank leaning against the pickup by the curb.

Dan had promised he would have everything. That could be a lie unless he went out to the hangar tonight. He sat a moment and tried to decide what was bothering him. He felt pressured, that was one thing; then, there was this looking the gift horse in the mouth, staying at the ranch, sucking up Billy Roland's hospitality while he was waiting to nail him. But wasn't he trying to nail him on the cattle thing? Somehow, that was different, in the open, straightforward. Billy Roland was helping him find the answers, just like an innocent man or someone incredibly cocky.

For some reason, Hank was talkative on the ride back and Dan decided to take advantage of his mood. He'd picked up a six pack, offering a beer to Dan as he threaded his way through the late afternoon traffic on Highway Three Eighty, pushing the pickup over seventy when he could.

“Did you know Eric Linden, the pilot who worked for Billy Roland about eight years ago?”

“Before my time, but I heard of him. Combined a little business with personal interests. Smuggling, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. You fly to Central America. How easy would it be to bring something back?”

“Probably easy if you had connections.”

“Have you ever been stopped at the border, the plane searched?”

“Twice. A few years back and just a couple months ago. Nuisance. Clean as a whistle both times.”

Dan popped open a beer and contemplated his next question. Hank's input could be helpful, unless he was in on it, too. But he hadn't seen anything that indicated Hank was not what he said he was, a hard-working vet who was also a pilot.

“Do you think Billy Roland could be behind smuggling drugs?”

“No way. He's a straight shooter. Hates that sort of thing.”

Hank hadn't hesitated. And his answer hadn't seemed rehearsed. But maybe false insurance claims fall into another category, Dan mused.

“This Garcia guy in Venezuela. Was he happy with the cows that you delivered last week?”

“It wasn't exactly the Cisco Kid, but I think so.”

“Do you stay with the plane while you're there?”

“It's guarded. I stay up at the villa, private room, a little live entertainment if you know what I mean.”

“Not sure I do.”

“Women,” Hank grinned sheepishly. “All shapes and sizes, I have my pick.”

The beers had loosened Hank up, but Dan could only think of Eric enjoying the same live entertainment years ago.

“Has Mr. Garcia purchased other stock from the Double Horseshoe?”

“For many years.”

“Before you came?”

“Years before. His herd rivals Billy Roland's.”

“This the same Enrico Garcia who's rumored to be tight with the drug lords down that way?” Dan was fishing but it didn't hurt to check. Maybe Hank had noticed something before or after the live entertainment.

“Can't say. All those guys have skeletons in their closets. But the money spends the same.”

“Got another trip planned soon?”

“You thinking of coming along?”

“Might. I've always wanted to go to South America. See the last of the rain forests.”

“You'll probably have time to finish your investigation at the ranch first, nothing's on the calendar until late September.”

The six pack was history. Hank had downed four to his two by the time they pulled up in front of the barns.

“See you at supper.” Hank's apartment was behind the first set of barns. A fairly small four rooms with private patio that put him just fifty feet from the clinic. That was taking your work home with you.

Dan walked back to the house. Supper was a family thing, Iris, Hank, sometimes Jorge, sometimes someone from town. Billy Roland really got off on having a group around him at meal time. Making up for not having a family, Dan thought. But, whatever, the meals were sumptuous. Not that Dan needed mashed potatoes, gravy, and meat every night.

He was crossing the veranda when he saw Billy Roland reclining on a chaise lounge in the shadows next to the house. The ice sounded like tiny bells as he swirled his drink and rubbed the cool glass across his forehead. “Can I fix you up with something?” His voice sounded tired, spent, in pain, even.

“Sure, why not.” Dan walked toward the stocked sideboard and poured himself a scotch. Billy Roland hadn't moved.

“Drag up a chair. We're overdue for a little chat, wouldn't you say?”

“Could be.” Dan chose to sit on the steps.

“You ever have migraines, son?”

“No. A couple nasty hangovers in my youth probably don't qualify from what I've heard.”

“Well, if you do, this here stuff's the only way to go.” He handed Dan a vial that read Banamine.

“A painkiller for cattle?” It was then that Dan saw the syringe and a disposable needle on a tray table next to the chaise.

“Yeah. Dosage is a little tricky. Hank helps me. If I get a jump start on these things, I can lick 'em before I'm flattened. Now, why don't you humor an old man and tell him how you're doing. Just let me lie back here with my eyes closed.”

Dan wasn't sure where to start. He was thinking about how he could check what was in the syringe. Wouldn't that be a kicker if the lord of the manor was a user?

“I've looked into the alien thing. Just got back from delivering Shortcake Dream to Roswell.”

“Tell me the truth, son, you believe little blue people cut up my heifer?”

“I have a couple other leads.”

“I bet you do. You struck me as one who'd think that spaceship stuff was malarkey. But you live out here long enough and it happens more than once, it's hard to ignore. I never sighted anything twirling around in the sky, but some of my friends have. Good upstanding citizens, hard to discount their stories.”

Was he telling Dan how to report the death, or just making small talk?

“I thought I'd check out the Masons.”

“Judge Cyrus would love to help you there.”

Was that a chuckle? For someone with a migraine, old Billy Roland seemed to be enjoying this.

“I'll keep you posted.” Dan stood. He needed a shower before supper.

“No, no, sit a while. Supper's going to be late cuz of my noggin, anyway.” Billy Roland sipped his drink. “You're the best. I know you'll get to the bottom of all this. I wouldn't have asked for you, if I didn't think you could do it. I did my research, and I haven't changed my mind.”

“You asked for me?” Dan sat back down. He hadn't been told. This was the first he'd heard that he was handpicked. So, why would the person being investigated want the best? Yes, a little bit of ego to let him consider himself the best.

“You have any idea how small and how intimate the cattle community really is? The big ranches, other Charolais breeders, the circle of judges? Well, let me tell you. You have gas on Monday, they know it by Tuesday. A few big claims and I might as well have farted in their faces, they know it that quick. And then there's the speculation. Old Billy Roland's in need of money. Who's got it in for him now? They're sharks, son, circling for the kill. I already feel like there's a chunk of me in the water. Innocent or guilty, the reputation suffers.”

Dan waited while he took a long sip of his drink.

“Fix me another one of these, son, if you would, please. Lots of ice.”

“Could someone from that community be doing this?”

“I can't imagine anyone from the circuit killing the Cisco Kid. We didn't show him. He was one of those best kept secrets, you know, every breeder's dream, a little something in the backyard that'd wipe ass from here to Sunday. Next to Shortcake Dream, his death hit me hardest. You got any leads?”

Dan hadn't been prepared and almost let the bottle of scotch slip from his hands. He didn't just have a lead; he damned well knew the killer but couldn't say. He'd tried to forget Eric's place in all this. He still hadn't made up his mind how he'd report it.

“Looks like that bronchial virus thing the labs came up with. I don't have anything better.”

“You know there are times when all this gets to be too much. Losing what you've worked for, thinking your friends might be to blame. Doesn't help the headaches.”