With Deadly Intent (9 page)

“Good morning.” She slid her arm around her father's shoulders and kissed his bald,
sun-tanned pate. She gave Simon a curt nod.

He observed her and B.J. with an engrossed expression. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Enough.”

B.J. gave her a one-armed hug. “God, girl, you're sure getting skinny. Have a chicken
sandwich. I aim to put some meat on your bones while you're home.”

She pulled away from him. “You worry about your own weight. That extra flab around your
middle isn't doing your health any good.” She glanced sideways at Simon and saw him
smiling at their nagging exchange. “I'm going downstairs and get to work.”

“Great. I may join you in a bit.” B.J. took a sip of his coffee. “Got your keys?”

She jingled the collection she carried, brushed by a tub-sized Boston fern that filled
half the bay window where the men sat, and turned down a passageway.

In Grandfather Thaddeus's house, you ran into oddities everywhere, this wing happened to
be one of them. He'd imported and exported goods and for many years had used his home as
a warehouse. To meet his needs, the builders had constructed a full basement plus
several multi-shelved store rooms along the hall.

At the end of the corridor, she turned off an alarm, unlocked a dead-bolted door, stepped
through and re-locked it. She was now in a tiny anteroom. In front of her stood a
sliding metal panel with a combination lock. The C.I.A. had nothing on her father when
it came to security. His lab was a veritable fortress—barred windows, unbreakable glass,
separate house and lab alarms. Only she and her father possessed keys and knew the lock
combination.

His precautions had been forced on him by necessity. The penny-pinching county council
frowned on up-dating the medical examiner's antiquated lab in Faircliff. Exasperated by
their lack of foresight, her father had set up and furnished his own forensic
laboratory. As a consequence, he stored much of the physical evidence he gathered here
at home—a practice that galled Sheriff Calder.

She flipped a switch, triggering banks of ceiling fluorescents, and descended into the
cool, white depths. Beside a microscope sat several dated, numbered, and sealed
polyethylene bags. Each held material she and B.J. had vacuumed onto paper filters while
examining Oren's apartment.

Processing the rug lint and microscopic particles proved time consuming and unrewarding.
Two hour's labor produced only one item of interest—a number of gray, one millimeter
long fibers. She'd have to use some of the instruments at the crime lab to determine the
chemical composition.

She prepared several slides to take to Seattle when she returned, and browsed around in
search of the bloodstained material. A table she passed contained the footprint casts
she'd made. She paused to examine each with a magnifying glass, before continuing her
hunt.

As she poked through head-high, metal shelf racks, a faint niggling began at the back of
her mind. Something about the casts didn't quite ... Two separately packaged shoes witih
Oren's case number rested on a lower shelf. Her father had probably already compared
them to the print. Still, she wanted to be certain they hadn't overlooked some vital
detail.

She set one of the shoes in the most distinct cast—a perfect match. Stone by stone, she
continued to build a prison around Oren.

She sighed, went upstairs and found her father alone. “Thought I'd try to process the
blood-stained stuff. Where is everything?”

“Locked in Tom's property room. He and the prosecuting attorney claim any decisions I
make are bound to be prejudiced. They've put in a request for an impartial medical
examiner.”

“Great. That's all Oren needs.” She slumped onto a ladder backed chair. “Where's Simon?”

“He took a lot of notes and retired to my study to write his article.” B.J. set a plate
of cookies on the table, poured her a glass of milk and returned to his chair.
“Interesting young man.” He eyed her closely. “Don't you think so?”

She bit into a cookie. “M-m-m-m,” she said, using her eating as an excuse to be
noncommittal.

“Been everywhere.” B.J. persisted, his manner still suspiciously watchful. “Seen a lot.
Got several awards for outstanding journalism.”

She studied him over the rim of her glass.
Don't start, Dad.
“If he spent the
morning talking about himself, when did he have time to interview you?”

A pink tinge spread over B.J.'s cheeks. “Wasn't him, I did a bit of checking.”

She shoved the plate of cookies aside. “Don't go getting ideas. Simon and I have only one
interest in common, and that's Oren.”

He moved the blue willowware sugar bowl an inch and lined the creamer up beside it. “A
doctor or a nurse might get more information at that hospital in White Bird, Montana.”

Still frowning, she mulled over his remark. Hospital personnel weren't necessarily loyal
to each other, but let a lay person threaten any one of them and they formed a tight
circle of silence. Only people in white penetrated the sanctum sanctorum. “You may be
right.”

His blue eyes glinted as he beamed at her. “Sure I am.”

“Shouldn't the evidence we gathered come first?”

“No sense in doing much until the blood work is done. Besides, it won't take you more
than a couple of days.”

She scowled at him. “Are you sure you're not just trying to throw me and Simon together?”

“Ah ... honey. I only want...” His fingers curled into a fist. “Dammit, it's time you
forgot what that no-good bastard did to you and got on with your life.”

She stood up so fast her chair tipped back against the wainscoted wall. “I'll decide.”
She took off for the study, her heels thudding the carpet at every step.

As she entered, Simon glanced up from where he sat at her father's desk. “Just the person
I wanted to talk to.”

She stopped short. Blast him, he always managed to put her off balance. “Oh ... what
about?”

He pushed his laptop computer to one side. “Mind if I mention your name in my article?
B.J. says you two plan on going into the forensic consulting business. If my editor
decides this is worth printing, it'll give you a lot of visibility.”

Who was he
really
thinking about—her or himself? She scraped her shoe against her
left ankle while she thought over his suggestion. “Wouldn't hurt I guess. Our profession
needs informed, intelligent exposure—and it's difficult to come by.”

“Fine.” He pulled his computer in front of him, bent over the keys and seemed to forget
she was present.

After shifting from one foot to the other several times, she screwed up her courage. “I'm
going with you.”

He straightened so quickly the computer case shot halfway across the desk. “You are not.
I'm in no mood to cope with a woman—any woman.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “With, or without you, I'm going.” They glowered at
each other.

“Jesus Christ, Amy, one woman's already been killed. I could be walking into all kinds of
trouble.”

She stood her ground. “'Yeah, and you're in great shape to walk anywhere.”

He opened his mouth as if to give her an argument. Closed it, and shrugged. “Take some
warm clothes.”

Two hours later, when she drove the station wagon up the hill to pick up Simon, her
father handed her a large brown envelope. “Helen and I did some creative thinking,” he
said. “We figured you'd learn more if they think you're applying for a position as a
nurse. So we fabricated a great resume and gave you a faultless recommendation on my old
letterhead paper. We even invented a private hospital and administrator to applaud your
superior qualifications and ran it off on a desktop printer.”

She shook her head. “Dad, I do believe you have a criminal mind.” She pulled out the
resume and saw Amy Jamison printed at the top of the page. “Did you have to make it in
my married name for heaven's sake?”

“We decided you shouldn't go in under Prescott. They may have seen my name and Oren's in
the papers.” He kissed her goodbye, and went around the car to grip Simon's hand. “Come
back real soon.” He smiled and waved as they drove away. “Take care.”

When they arrived in Seattle, Simon had her drive past
Global News
so he could
drop off the computer disk with his story, At 8 p.m., they caught Western Airlines
flight out of SeaTac, changed planes twice and reached Lewistown, Montana at 7 a.m. As
the fifteen seat Cessna circled for a landing, she noticed straight streets and many
trees. The town was probably pretty as a picture postcard in summer. Now, it looked
stark and cold.

When they disembarked she found the frigid, milky white air full of spinning ice
crystals. The passengers hunched their shoulders and set off toward the waiting room.
Simon followed, testing the icy pavement with his crutches before each swing forward.
She straggled along behind lugging both their bags. The sound of the plane's engines
still roared inside her head, setting up a painful throb.

Simon asked several of the passengers if they were going into town. A man who stood about
six foot four, and looked as if he'd been born in his sweat-stained, low-crowned
Stetson, Levi jacket, and jeans said, “Sure thing.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Clyde
Freeman, owner of the Circle R ranch.”

Simon shook his proffered hand, Simon introduced himself and Amy. “We'd appreciate it, if
you'd give us a ride.”

Mr. Freeman touched the brim of his hat, but his gaze didn't even acknowledge her
presence. “Be glad to.” He led the way to a mud-caked 1973 Buick, took the two bags she
carried and jerked his head toward the back seat. After stowing the bags in the trunk,
he smiled at Simon and opened the front door. “Sit up here, son.”

Simon caught her eye, raised his brows and followed the rancher's directions. “You ever
been to White Bird?” he asked after they were under way.

“Once or twice. You think this is cold? Don't hold a candle to White Bird.”

Amy huddled in a corner of the backseat trying not to let her teeth chatter. She wore a
flannel shirt, wool slacks, and a hooded coat, and still the cold sliced through as if
she had nothing on.

Mr. Freeman lit a cigar and puffed a couple times until the fat tip glowed. “Wouldn't go
near the place ‘less I had friends there,” he said.

“Oh? Why is that?” Amy asked. He made no reply until Simon repeated the question.

The big man grasped his cigar between two meaty fingers and swiveled his head toward
Simon. “You still going?”

Simon frowned. “Of course we're going.”

“Then I won't waste my breath.” He jammed his cigar back in his mouth.

Thursday, October 27

Amy headed out of Lewistown on Highway 191. The car rental agency had had only a rather
battered Toyota station wagon available. They hadn't quibbled. They'd already learned
the bus traveled to White Bird only every other day. Besides, the Toyota had four-wheel
drive and she might need it before they reached their destination.

“Were you able to find some warm clothing?” she asked.

Simon smiled and patted his leg. “Two piece thermals. Sure is an improvement. How about
you?”

She shook her head. “I guess someone who's five foot five isn't supposed to wear a size
four.”

His heavy brows drew together. “Are you warm enough?”

“I brought a sweater and some extra socks. They help a little.”

The road traveled past ranches and harrowed wheat fields. Frost laced every tree, every
building, and every fence post. According to their map. White Bird lay in the Judith
Mountains fifty or sixty miles to the northeast.

As she drove, she mulled over what she'd learned about Elise: attractive, moody,
evidently someone who manipulated men. She frowned. What had Simon meant by “games.”
Perhaps, Elise had bruised his and Oren's male ego—sufficient reason for both of them to
want to keep it to themselves—but frustrating for someone trying to investigate a
murder.

She looked over at Simon and smiled. He had the trouser leg of his suit stretched taut.
His brows drawn together in a scowl, he gripped the razor blade he held, and
concentrated on cutting stitches instead of blue worsted wool. “It's refreshing to meet
a man who isn't helpless. Mitch couldn't cook, clean, or even make a bed.”

Simon pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Any man can. Maybe Mitch didn't want to.”

“Probably. He was adept at side-stepping responsibility.”

Simon studied her before returning to his task. “I'll be an expert seamstress by the time
my ankle is healed.”

She grinned. “Then you'll have another skill to fall back on in case your writing...” Oh,
God, how stupid could she get? She glanced at him almost fearfully. He sat terribly
still with tiny drops of blood oozing from a thin red line along his thumb. “I'm sorry,
Simon. I didn't think.” She stopped the car and pawed through her purse until she found
a Band-Aid. He didn't resist when she took his hand and wrapped the Band-Aid across the
cut.

After she finished, he released a long breath. “That's a nightmare every writer has to
learn to live with.” He gave a hollow laugh. “To quote my father, ‘then I can get a real
job.'”

She squeezed the hand she still held. “I'm sure you're much too critical of your work.”
She found herself becoming acutely conscious of the warmth of his hand. She quickly set
it back in his lap and got the car under way.

At a sign post, she turned off the highway onto a two-lane road. Before many miles had
passed, the cultivated land gave way to stretches of sage brush broken by deep gullies.
The air had cleared, but a gray sky brushed the tops of shadowed mountains spanning the
horizon.