Speed Trap (2 page)

“You think I can't do it? I've been working accidents since before you were born.”

Rather than take offense, she chose to mollify him. “That's why I want you to stay and see that it gets done right. You know as well as I do we'll get the crime scene reports back faster if we let the KHP assist us on this.”

“And what are you gonna to be doing?”

“I'm going to get cleaned up, then I'm going to pay Mr. Bowen a visit. He wouldn't be the first ex-husband to settle a marital score with murder.”

Mandy knew that all to well.

 

Garrett pulled a bent nail from the pouch at his waist and laid it on top of the wooden fence post. With careful taps of his hammer, he straightened it. Using his elbow to brace the next board against the post, he hit the nail, hoping it wouldn't bend. It went in straight and sure.

“See that, Wiley? All it takes is finesse.” He glanced at the shaggy black-and-white mutt sitting near his feet. Wiley cocked his head to one side and wagged his crooked tail.

Garrett straightened another rusty nail, but it bent like a wet noodle when he tried to hammer it in. He tossed it into a nearby bucket of similar failures. The dog dashed over to nose the contents.

“Laugh at me, Wiley, and you'll go to bed without supper.”

The dog leaped to his hind legs and pawed the air as he turned in an excited circle and yipped. The words
breakfast, lunch
or
supper
all brought about the same reaction. Wiley had a thing about food.

“Just kidding, buddy.” Having suffered that punishment more times than he could count as a boy, Garrett would never inflict it on Wiley. He and the little stray had a lot in common. They both knew what it was to be beaten, hungry and abandoned.

“I may not have enough money for new lumber, but I reckon I can afford kibble.”

Garrett stared at his half-finished corral. For now, he had to make do with used boards and nails salvaged from an old shed, but with a little luck and hard work, next year would be different. His herd of Angus cows might be small, but they were producing some fine calves this spring and prices were good.

Careful saving and the extra money he'd started earning as a cattle buyer would let him add to his herd in the coming months, but there wouldn't be cash left over to fix up the place.

He didn't mind waiting.

Pushing his hat back, he paused to lean both arms on the post and survey the green rolling grassland sweeping toward the horizon. Someday, these hills would hold hundreds of fat black cows with calves at their sides, all wearing his brand.

It was the one dream he held on to.

The month before Garrett turned eighteen, his alcoholic father died of a stroke. Garrett had inherited a nearly worthless house, two hundred and fifty acres of pasture and a mountain of debt. He'd had nowhere to go and no reason to stay—except that he loved the land.

Nothing about the prairie was closed up or shut in.

He loved the wide sweep of the horizon and the way the wind sent ripples dancing through the long grass. He loved the smell of newly mown hay and the sight of cattle knee-deep in the emerald green pastures. He loved the freedom the wide sky offered. The land asked for nothing, promised nothing. It just was.

After ten years of scrimping and saving he'd been able to buy back most of the land his father had sold off. He owned almost a thousand acres now. With the right stock, Garrett
knew he could build up a breeding program to be proud of. He had a good start, but there was still a lot to be done.

It was a dream Garrett hoarded carefully. Too many of his dreams had been squashed by people he'd trusted. Like his father and his mother. Like Judy.

It's better not to wish for too much. Better not to trust at all.

Garrett pushed away from the post. Self-pity wouldn't finish his fence. He glanced at the sun nearly straight overhead. Judy should have been here by now.

He still wasn't sure how he felt about her impending visit. Why was she so adamant about seeing him? Why now?

Still pondering the question, Garrett walked to his truck. Pulling a board from the bed, he eyed it to make sure it was straight. Wiley barked twice, then raced off down the gravel lane.

In the distance, Garrett recognized the sheriff's white SUV approaching. A feeling of unease settled like a rock in his stomach. Pulling a red kerchief from his hip pocket, he wiped the sweat from his face, then settled his hat low on his head and waited until the vehicle rolled to a stop a few yards from him.

There was no mistaking the woman behind the wheel. Miss Mandy Scott—big-city cop turned small-town sheriff—slowly opened the truck door. Garrett fought to quell the churning in his gut as old memories rose to the surface.

His mother had called the police a few times, but their visits had only made matters worse. When the cops were gone, his father made her pay dearly for her audacity. Garrett had been too young and too frightened to help her.

His mother took her husband's abuse as long as she could. Then one day, she just left.

The slamming of the truck door yanked Garrett back to the present. He waited as Sheriff Scott approached.

She wasn't tall, maybe five foot five or six, but the way she carried herself made her seem taller—as if she were looking down on him instead of up at a man who had a good six inches on her. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line.

Everything about her from the mannish cut of her blue uniform to the shine on her black boots seemed to shout that she was a woman in charge.

She would be pretty if she smiled. Not that she was homely—just intense.

“Afternoon, Mr. Bowen.” Her tone was all business. Pulling off her sunglasses, she let her gaze sweep over him. He forced himself to remain still, but his gaze slid to the house.

Shame clawed at his gut. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

 

Mandy wanted the man to take off his hat. He was a person of interest in his ex-wife's murder. She wanted to see his eyes. The bright noon sun and the wide brim of his battered Stetson made it impossible.

“Afternoon, Sheriff.” He kept his hands at his sides.

“Nice day, isn't it?” Keeping one eye on him, she moved toward his truck.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I see you're getting a new corral in.” She glanced at the rag-tag assortment of boards in his truck. She could see where he'd pulled down one of his outbuildings. Several more looked ready to fall down, yet his barn was in good repair.

“Yes, ma'am.”

He wasn't much of a talker. Now that she had a face to put with his name, she remembered seeing him in town a few times. A tall, lean man with midnight-black hair and dark eyes, he was attractive in a quiet sort of way.

He wore standard ranching attire. A dark brown Stetson that had seen better days, faded jeans over scuffed cowboy boots and a blue, western-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The taut muscles in his tan forearms and the sweat stains on his clothes told her he wasn't afraid of hard work.

His record had been clean since his out-of-state arrest for marijuana three years ago, but that didn't prove he was innocent. It might only prove that he'd gotten smarter.

He stood silently before her. The thing that struck her most was how still he was. Almost at military attention, he waited as she crossed the graveled yard toward his vehicle. The crunch of her boots on the crushed rock was the only sound except for the panting of the little dog that scampered at her feet.

She wished the man would take off his hat.

Strolling to the front of his truck, she noticed a number of deep dents and scratches. “You've got some damage up here.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She waited in vain for him to explain. He didn't say a word, didn't move a muscle. Finally, she nodded toward the hood. “Care to tell me how this happened?”

“It's an old truck. It gets used hard.”

Wow, two whole sentences. He's really loosening up.

Stepping back, she cocked her head to one side. “This midnight blue looks almost black, doesn't it?”

He didn't say “Yes, ma'am” this time. He said, “Is there something I can do for you?”

His tone was clipped, lacking any emotion. His stillness bothered her. Was he hiding something?

 

Garrett wasn't used to company—especially not the company of a pretty woman who happened to be a cop. She'd come for a reason. He wished she'd get to the point.

She gazed at him without flinching. “Do you know a woman named Judy Bowen?”

His unease flared like a grass fire. “Yes.”

“How well do you know her?” Her question sounded nonchalant, but it wasn't.

“What's this about, Sheriff?”

“I asked how well do you know her?”

Something was wrong, but he sensed he wouldn't get answers from Sheriff Scott until she was ready to give them.

He forced his tense muscles to relax. “She's my ex-wife, but I figure you already know that.”

Only the slightest lift of her eyebrows acknowledged his assumption. “When did you see her last?”

He clamped his teeth together. He didn't like sharing details of his personal life. “Judy split about a year ago. I haven't seen her since.”

“I heard she was here today. What time did she leave?”

How did the sheriff know Judy was coming to visit? “She hasn't shown up yet.”

“Care to tell me why she was here?”

“I told you, I haven't seen her yet.” He kept his face carefully blank. He'd learned as a child not to show fear or anger or anything that would trigger his father's rage. Still, it was hard to hold back his growing concern.

“Is that so?” She clearly didn't believe him. Her eyes locked with his, seeking something. Weakness?

Never let 'em see you're scared.
He could hear his mother's cautiously whispered advice.

Garrett raised his chin a notch. “I'm not answering your questions until you tell me why you're asking. What's wrong?”

Mandy's eyes widened. “Why would something be wrong?”

“Because you're out here, grilling me.”

She folded her arms and leaned back slightly. “Your ex-wife is dead. What do you know about that?”

M
andy scrutinized Garrett Bowen's face, paying close attention to every detail.

“Judy's dead?” The disbelief in his voice was the first crack in his armor that she'd seen.

His gaze dropped to his boots. The dog came over. Whining, the mutt rose and braced his front paws against Garrett's knee. After a long moment, Garrett asked, “How?”

A flash of sympathy darted through her, but she suppressed it. Her job was finding Judy Bowen's killer. Mandy pulled her notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. “Her car was deliberately run off the road. Where were you at seven o'clock this morning?”

He looked up sharply. “Here.”

“Who can verify that?”

“Wiley.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And who is that?”

He nodded toward his feet. “The dog. I don't get a lot of company.”

Not much of an alibi, yet his words had a vague ring of truth. If he wanted to cover up his involvement in a murder he could certainly do better than make a dog his only witness.

“Care to tell me what Judy wanted to see you about?”

“I don't know,” he stated quietly.

Once more her suspicions were aroused. “Your ex-wife was coming to see you after a year and you had no idea why?”

“That's right. I got a call from Judy a week ago. She said she had to see me—to tell me something she couldn't put in a letter or talk about over the phone.”

“Didn't that seem strange?”

“It did, but I didn't pry.” He stared at his boots again. “Were drugs involved in her death?”

“That's an odd question. Why do you ask?” She hoped pretending ignorance of his record would put him off guard. If she could, she wanted to catch him in a lie. It would help her decide if she believed anything else he'd told her.

“Judy—had a drug problem.”

“Really. When was this?”

He waited for a long moment, then said, “While we were married, and before I met her.”

“I see. What about you?”

Glancing up suddenly, he said, “I was arrested once for possession as I'm sure you already know. You think I had something to do with her death.”

She arched one eyebrow. “I never said that.”

“You don't have to say it.”

“
Did
you kill her?”

“No.”

Again, she heard a ring of truth in his voice, but she wasn't willing to accept his word. She'd been wrong before.

Let me get this one right, Lord. Help me find justice for that little boy.

Deciding to press Garrett, she stepped closer. “I can see how things might have gotten out of hand. You had a fight. She took off. You followed. Maybe all you wanted to do was stop her. You never meant to send her car off the road.”

“No.” His stood absolutely still. He didn't so much as flinch at her accusations. The wall he kept his emotions hidden behind was thick and well-crafted.

Mandy swept a hand toward his pickup. “I'd like to collect a paint sample from your vehicle.”

“Don't you need a warrant for that?”

“I can get one.” It wasn't an empty threat. She knew Judge Bailey would grant her request, but she also knew he was gone on a fishing trip until the end of the week. She didn't intend to wait that long.

Garrett slipped his hands in his hip pockets. “Take anything you want if it will help find who killed Judy.”

His cooperation added weight to her feeling that he might be telling the truth, but didn't completely sway her. He wasn't what she would call eager and willing to help.

Keeping one eye on him, she set about collecting the paint scraping, sealing it in an evidence envelope and tucking it in her shirt pocket.

When she was finished, she turned and walked back to her vehicle. With one hand on the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Don't leave the area, Mr. Bowen. I'm going to have more questions for you.”

 

Kathryn Scott opened the oven door and extracted a meat loaf with a pair of blue flowered oven mitts. “A murdered woman, an ex-husband with no alibi and a baby. This case sounds a lot like the one you worked in Kansas City just before your father died.”

Mandy didn't need to be reminded of that fact. It had been rolling around in her mind all day. “It is similar to the Wallace case.”

“Whatever happened to him?” Kathryn placed the pan on an iron trivet on the table.

Mandy, standing at the counter in her mother's cheery white-and-yellow old-fashioned kitchen, continued filling two glasses with iced tea. “He's serving life in prison for smothering his baby daughter. I—We were never able to prove he killed his wife.”

“Life can be so terribly sad. Sometimes, it seems as if evil is winning.”

“Sometimes it does,” Mandy agreed softly.

She'd only been a homicide detective in Kansas City for a few short months when she caught the Wallace case. In spite of the fact that her partner thought the husband was guilty of his ex-wife's murder, Mandy believed the man's story and released him after questioning him only briefly.

If she'd been less trusting, less gullible. If she'd dug a little deeper, tried harder to break him, maybe his daughter would still be alive.

“Do you think Garrett did it?” Kathryn asked.

Mandy considered the question as she carried the glasses to the table. She'd sensed Garrett's unease, but he seemed genuinely shaken when he heard his ex-wife was dead.

Her conscience pricked her for the way she'd delivered the news, but gauging his reaction was part of her job.

She still didn't know what to believe. His shock was the only bit of emotion she'd seen in the man. Something wasn't right about that.

But he hadn't asked about the baby. That as much as anything made her think he hadn't seen his ex-wife that day.

“I'm not ruling him out.”

Mandy sat down and waited as her mother dished up slices of meat loaf. The mouth-watering smells of cooked onions, spices and barbecue sauce filled the kitchen.

Mandy had sent paint samples from Garrett's truck along with scraping of the paint transfer from Judy's car to the
crime lab in Topeka. It would be a few days before she had the results.

“What's he like?” her mother asked suddenly.

Mandy thought about it before answering. He was a tense and disturbing man, but there was something about him, something she couldn't put her finger on.

He seemed so alone. As if holding still could hold him separate from what was going on around him. He seemed incredibly lonely.

She shook off the fanciful notion. She wasn't about to share that image with her mother. Instead, Mandy said, “He's not what you'd call the friendly sort.”

Her mother paused in the act of passing a bowl of green beans. Alarm widened her eyes. “And you went there alone?”

Mandy sought to reassure her mother. “Don't worry. I know how to handle myself.”

“That's what your father used to say.”

Mandy watched as a sad faraway look filled her mother's eyes. Kathryn Scott had been devastated by her husband's death. A decorated police officer with nearly thirty years on the force, he'd been shot and killed during a drug raid two years ago.

For months afterward, Mandy had worried that her mother's frail health would fail and she would lose another parent. When the job of undersheriff in Timber Wells became available, it seemed like a gift from heaven.

The move back to her mother's hometown had been a good idea. With the help of old friends and caring members from the community's tight-knit church, Kathryn had slowly regained her health and her interest in life.

Less than a month after accepting the job, Mandy found herself promoted from undersheriff to sheriff when her predecessor died of a sudden heart attack.

Kathryn leaned forward to squeeze her daughter's arm. “I pray the Lord will look after you, and I know your father's giving Him a hand with that.”

After saying grace, Kathryn began a monologue of her day. Mandy listened with only half an ear. Garrett's face kept intruding into her thoughts.

There was something perplexing about the man. For one thing, what right-minded cowboy kept a roving dust mop as a ranch dog? The little black-and-white ball of fur might make a coyote fall over laughing, but it sure wouldn't be able to chase one away from the livestock.

Kathryn began to butter a roll. “Have you had any luck solving the farm supply store robbery?”

Mandy forced her mind away from the puzzle that was Garrett Bowen. “Not yet.”

Mandy might not miss the hectic pace of the Kansas City Police Department, but she did miss the crime lab people. It normally took days, even weeks to get reports on prints and evidence she had to send to the Kansas Bureau of Investigation labs for processing. The turnaround time on evidence was one of her biggest frustrations.

“Why would anyone steal so much camping fuel?” Kathryn asked.

Mandy knew and it sickened her. “To make meth. Illegal methamphetamine labs are a major drug problem. It's easy to make, easy to transport and so addictive that a person has to use it only once or twice to become hooked. Yet, the stuff they make it with is poison. I don't know why people don't get that.”

Just thinking about the havoc the drug caused was enough to stifle Mandy's appetite. Last month, she had arrested a couple so high on speed that they were lying on a railroad track screaming in paranoid terror while their two young children watched. The kids hadn't been fed in days. They'd been living
on scraps while their parents spent every dime they could beg, borrow or steal on the drug that was destroying them.

Unless Mandy could stop the flow of meth into her county, she was afraid she was seeing only the tip of the iceberg. Rural crime was on the rise, and her department had seen a sharp increase in drug-related arrests in the town. Far too many of those crimes involved teenagers.

Kathryn took a sip of her tea, then said, “I thought the number of meth labs dropped off once the state passed stricter controls on over-the-counter cold medications.”

“They did—for a while. Instead of stealing the pseudo-ephedrine or ephedrine from the local drugstores, they're getting it off the Internet from Canada or Mexico.”

Reports from narcotic units in both Kansas City and Wichita pointed to the fact that large shipments of meth were coming out of Mandy's area. She knew she had a major drug ring operating almost under her nose. She just couldn't pin them down. Yet.

Mandy ate in silence as she tried to figure out what she had missed. After a few minutes, she felt her mother's gaze on her and looked up. “What?”

“I said Candice Willow's daughter is expecting again.”

“What will that be, her fourth?” Mandy forked a piece of meat loaf into her mouth and braced herself for another round of why-don't-you-settle-down-and-raise-a-family hints from her mother.

“Candice's daughter is the same age as you are.”

“Really? She's been busy.” Mandy tried to hold back her sarcasm but failed.

“Grandchildren are such a blessing.” A heavy sigh followed Kathryn's comment.

Mandy studied her mother's carefully blank face without comment.

Kathryn took another sip of tea, then said, “Did I mention Candice's oldest son is coming for a visit. He's a doctor. A radiologist.”

So that's where this was going. Mandy laid down her fork and laced her fingers together on the table. “I'm guessing he's single.”

Kathryn brightened. “As a matter of fact, he is.”

“Don't you dare try and fix us up.”

“I never suggested such a thing.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Grandchildren are a blessing. He's a doctor. Come on, Mom, I can read you like a rap sheet.”

“Grandchildren
are
a blessing, and I'd like to have some of my own before I die. It wouldn't hurt you to go out on a date once in a while.”

“Fine. I'll go out with the next guy who asks me. In case you haven't noticed, they're not exactly lined up around the block.”

Mandy rose from the table and carried her dish to the sink. “If and when the right guy comes along, it will happen. If not, then that's okay, too.”

“Candice's son could be the right one. How will you know if you don't meet him?”

As soon as he hears I'm a sheriff, he'll run the other way. They all do.

“Just meet him. That's all I'm asking,” her mother continued with a slight pout, then changed the subject.

After clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, Mandy bid her mother goodbye and left. Walking down the porch to the next doorway, she unlocked her side of the duplex and went in.