Pursuit of Justice (3 page)

Chapter 3

The following morning, Bella woke refreshed, and she needed every second of rest until this assignment was completed. At 5:45 a.m., she slipped a baby Glock into an ankle holster and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Once her tennis shoes were tightly laced, she stretched out, anticipating a good run.

After copying the case’s file onto a memory stick and tucking it into her pocket, she secured her computer with a cable lock and grabbed her room key and BlackBerry. Anyone attempting to see what her computer contained would be hit with more than one security blockade.

She made her way from the hotel room and down the stairway to the lobby. The property had a fitness center, but this morning she needed to clear her head outside. This part of her life, the relished run, might take a vacation while she carried out her assignment. But at least for today, she’d start the day with her normal routine.

She positioned her earbuds as though she were listening to music on her BlackBerry instead of observing the people and vehicles around her and proceeded onto the street that swung right toward Abilene’s mall. All the while, she focused her mental acuity toward anything out of the ordinary. A Hispanic man and woman sat in a late-model car in the hotel parking lot arguing. A landscaping truck slowed, then turned in to the hotel, its bed filled with shovels and a mound of mulch. As she ran past a Popeyes and the Sherwood Hills apartments adjacent to the fast-food restaurant, she spotted a dark green SUV parked along the curb with no visible driver.

After an hour of running around the outskirts of the mall, she retraced her steps to the hotel. A few vehicles lingered, and she took note of colors, makes, and license plates. But nothing had impressed her as out of the ordinary.

Back in her room, she showered and readied herself for the day in jeans and tennis shoes. Already at eight o’clock the sun beat down hard and ensured a scorcher. As soon as breakfast and her token two cups of coffee had powered her up, she grabbed her tools for the investigation and piled them into her car, often referred to as the office on the go. Vic Anderson would meet her at nine, but she didn’t know if he’d ride with her or drive his own vehicle.

She’d grown fond of her midsize Ford and how it weaved easily in and out of traffic, as well as its performance on the road. In the past, company-issued vehicles with their mile-high antennae stuck out like lighthouses on a foggy night, but with new technology, the issued vehicles now slipped by the public—and most criminals—undetected.

Promptly at nine, a prematurely gray-haired man dressed in jeans and a light blue button-down shirt walked into the hotel lobby and caught her attention.
Vic Anderson.
He looked just like his photo.

“Special Agent Jordan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mornin’. Agent Anderson.” He stuck out his hand, and she grasped it. “I understand the High Butte Ranch is calling our names.”

“So I hear. My car’s outside if you don’t mind me driving.”

He nodded. “I’ll get my equipment.”

In the parking lot, Anderson transferred his raid jacket, Kevlar vest, and tactical belt to her trunk. He pointed to her vest folded in the corner.

“That looks like it would fit a kid.”

“It’s all I could get.”

He eyed her with a grin. “You look about the size of my daughter—five-two?”

“Right.”

He picked up her vest. “What do you use for pockets?”

“My creds, handcuffs, and gun slip nicely in the back waistband of my pants. I also use an ankle holster.”

He shook his head. “Size has its advantages.”

“So does being a woman.”

He shut the trunk. “I’ve worked with women agents, and they were able to get into places and secure information where a man didn’t have a chance.”

“And I’ve been in a few places where I wished I were a man.”

He laughed. “Okay, we’re even. Let’s get this investigation on the road. We’ve got three murders too many. Did you happen to talk to the manager of the hotel again?”

“He’s off today, so I’ll catch him tonight.”

“Just wondered. His report seemed vague to me.”

Bella liked Vic’s Southern gentleman drawl. His success rate of running down criminals was impressive, and she could learn much from him.

First thing on this morning’s agenda was a sixty-five-mile drive to the southern part of Runnels County and an interview with Carr Sullivan and his workers. Tomorrow morning, she’d talk to the manager of the Courtesy Inn and his staff about the murder victims who’d stayed on the property prior to their demise.

As soon as they left the city limits, Bella punched in the number for the Runnels County Sheriff’s Department. A woman with the voice of one who’d smoked for thirty years answered the phone.

“Sheriff Darren Adams, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Special Agent Bella Jordan from the FBI.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll put you through.”

While she waited for Sheriff Adams to answer, she pressed in the address for Carr Sullivan’s ranch on her BlackBerry’s GPS and proceeded south on Highway 83. Finally the sheriff answered the phone.

“Special Agent Jordan, this is Sheriff Adams. I’ve been expecting your call.”

“I’m driving to the High Butte Ranch with Special Agent Vic Anderson. What time will you be there?”

“I’m here now with some of my deputies.”

“Good. I have your findings with me, and I’m looking forward to working with you on this task force. From what I’ve seen, you’ve done a top-notch job with the investigation. You’ve already seen to dusting Professor Miller’s SUV and requesting phone records. The field offices in Houston and Dallas speak highly of you.”

“Thanks. We believe in our job. I haven’t contacted the Texas Rangers since I knew you were on board. We haven’t found a single thing to link a shooter to the crime scene, but we’re scouring the area.”

“Did you place a rush on the car sweep?”

He chuckled. “Nothing out here is done fast, but I’m doing my best.”

With the limited resources available to them, the sheriff’s department had done quite well. Perhaps she could speed along the car sweep.

“Sounds like Sullivan is our prime suspect since it was his rifle that turned up missing.” She waited for the sheriff to fill in more of his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “I . . . I don’t think he’s our man. Carr Sullivan is a fine man. In church every Sunday. Volunteers there and in the community. Likable. I read his past record, and this is not the same man. He has too many good things on his side to pin three murders on him. I’d say there was more to these killings than a rancher gunning down three men for trespassing.”

Bella inwardly moaned. With the sheriff on the side of one of the suspects, the FBI’s job would be harder. “I understand he has an alibi.”

“His employees vouched for him.”

That’s worthless.
“What can you tell me about them?” Bella had read the background checks on the two people, but the findings hadn’t come from someone who knew them.

“Jasper and Lydia Flores are over sixty years old and devout Christians. Jasper knows more about ranching than anyone I know, and Lydia is the best cook in the county. Both of them have been with Carr since he bought the High Butte.”

“Let me guess. They’ve lived in this community all of their lives.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Oh, how she remembered the loyalty of these people. “How did they come to work for him?”

“Carr indicated to the pastor of our church that he needed help, and our pastor knew Jasper and Lydia were in a bit of a bind financially. It worked out well for the three of them. They’re like family.”

So Adams and Carr attended the same church. She filed that away for future reference. “Can you assist Special Agent Anderson and me with this case objectively, knowing your friends may be involved with three murders?” Bella wished she could see his face and better read how her question affected him.

“Special Agent Jordan, those people may be my friends, but that doesn’t mean one of them isn’t capable of concealing a crime. On the other hand, I trust my instincts.” Irritation ripped through his voice.

She needed to make friends with Sheriff Darren Adams, not alienate him. “I apologize if I sounded like you were not a professional.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were you briefed as to why the FBI has been called into this investigation?”

“Brandt Richardson’s involvement in the Spider Rock treasure. He’s on your wanted list for murder and may be involved.” He recited the explanation as though she were testing him. Not good. She needed to befriend him.

“Do you believe in the treasure?”

“Lots of folks around here swear by the old stories.”

Those old stories had nearly been her demise.

“The clues are everywhere, strung out in several counties, but the likelihood of the treasure being buried in Runnels County is slim. In response to your question, I’ve more important things to do than waste my time and money on searching for a supposed treasure.”

“Thanks, Sheriff. I’m hopeful this assignment will be completed in days and not weeks or months. I’ll be at the High Butte within the hour.” Bella disconnected the call and turned to Vic. “Do you know much about the sheriff? I heard a wild tale about him, but I don’t know if it’s true.”

Vic ran his hand through his hair. “Probably is. We call him Daredevil Adams. He’s been known to climb out of the passenger side of a moving patrol car and jump onto the bed of a pickup loaded with bundles of marijuana.” He laughed. “I’ve been known to pull a stunt or two, but I’m not sure I’d risk my neck for a little grass.”

“The story I heard had him standing up to half a dozen gang members who attempted to crash a high school dance. Adams and his wife were chaperoning in plain clothes. When one of the knife-wielding boys threatened a teacher, Adams used martial arts to settle all of them down.”

“That’s Daredevil Adams.”

“I look forward to meeting this West Texas hero.” And she hoped he had the integrity her report claimed.

Bella set her BlackBerry on record and fed it the information she’d gathered from her conversation with Sheriff Adams. This also gave Vic the opportunity to hear the other side of the conversation.

The farther she drove south on Highway 83, the more remote the area and the drier the air. An eerie feeling swept through her, as if she were driving from one world into another. In essence, she was. In some of the outlying areas, the nearest large town could be an hour’s drive or more. There the folks lived by their own rules and ethics. She should know; she’d witnessed the evil that could dwell in a man’s heart in this part of Texas.

“Sheriff Adams’s friendship with Sullivan bothers me,” she said. “I’ve read the sheriff’s career stats, and they’re admirable. Yet the church loyalties could mean a cover-up, a way for those involved to look like good Christian citizens while breaking the law.”

“I agree. The sheriff could be purposely ignoring clues. I’ll take a look at his reports and see if anything’s missing. When it comes to a violent crime, I don’t care whose toes get stepped on.”

“Good. While you’re at it, could you check on the vehicle belonging to Professor Miller? It was at the crime scene and hauled in for a complete sweep. The sooner we have the results, the better.”

Vic drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “I have a few questions about why you’re the lead agent.”

Here it comes.
Vic’s talk about respecting women agents was about to get flushed down the toilet. “I’m surprised you weren’t informed. I spent the first fifteen years of my life in Runnels County. I know the locale.”

“I see. Is your family still here?”

“My aunt raised me, and she lives in Pennsylvania.”

“You’re a long way from home. Or close to it.”

“Depends on what a person calls home.”

Vic didn’t seem pleased with her response, and she couldn’t blame him. With his tenure at the bureau, he expected to be the lead. She considered explaining a little more, but why be defensive? She took a deep breath to rid herself of the animosity inching across the car seat. Nothing in her life had ever been easy, and nothing had led her to expect the road would be smooth now.

The countryside sprawled out on both sides of them: rolling land with little vegetation, harsh and unforgiving. Like most of her memories. Mesquite trees with their featherlike leaves and live oaks dotted the land. Cacti bloomed in yellow, adding color to the bland countryside. Everything here was a postcard of a place she vowed never to revisit.

She entered Runnels County on the north side, a little more rolling and flat. To the right of 83, fields had been plowed and irrigated. Memories, like haunting nightmares, swept over her. She needed this assignment for more reasons than she cared to list.

Once through the small town of Ballinger, the county seat, she took 67 toward Coleman and Valera, according to the GPS recommendations on her phone. These were towns she remembered from school days. She had about another six miles to the High Butte Ranch, passing over Long Branch Creek, then Bearfoot, Butternut, Mustang, and Middle Mustang creeks. More time to think and plan, and Vic wasn’t a big talker. She couldn’t tell if he was sulking about not having the lead or simply quiet.

Bella drove past a Dodge pickup caked with red dirt. The driver lifted a finger from the steering wheel. It reminded her of old neighbors—neighbors who smiled and went on with their lives, neighbors who thought Christianity meant minding their own business. Neighbors who thought they knew each other.

As much as she didn’t want to relive her younger days, if something embedded in her mind led to finding Richardson or solving the case, she’d bring it to the surface.

Opposite a cemetery, she turned right onto a narrow dirt road that was supposed to lead to the High Butte. She moaned. Railroad tracks, then a locked gate strung across the narrow road—not an unusual sight for this area, but she’d hoped for clear passage to the ranch. A sign read,
6187 Acres. No Hunting, No Fishing, No Firearms.
Someone should have told the shooter. A solar panel to operate the gate was mounted high on a pole, and a call box was affixed about five feet from the ground.