CHAPTER 12

It had to be a mistake.

That was Beau’s first thought. Then reality slammed him like a runaway train. Slade Haskell was dead. And it wouldn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to name the prime suspect in his murder.

“Are you all right, Natalie?” he asked, needing to be assured of that.

“I will be.” Her voice quivered slightly. “It’s just the shock of it. You were at the ranch last night, weren’t you? Will can verify that.”

“Call Tori,” he said, ignoring her questions. “Tell her everything the sheriff said.”

“Beau, I’m worried.”

“Call Tori,” he repeated. “Do it now. I have to go.”

Beau ended the call. He wanted to assure her everything would be all right, but he couldn’t promise that—not until he knew more about what had happened.

He had added the sheriff ’s number to his phone contacts after Jess Warner’s murder. Walking back toward the house, he made the call.

“Axelrod,” the deep voice answered.

“Sheriff, this is Beau Tyler. Natalie just called me about Slade. She says you want to talk with me.”

“That’s right.” Beau could hear the crackling sounds of a police radio in the background. “We’re on our way to your place. We’re about fifteen minutes out. Stay where you are.”

“I’d rather meet you.” Beau knew he was innocent. But a roomful of witnesses had seen his fight with Slade and heard his threat to kill the man if he hurt Natalie again. Now Slade had been found murdered on ranch property. It didn’t look good.

Axelrod paused before he answered. “All right. Drive out and meet us on the road. We’ll give you an escort back to town.”

Beau ended the call, an uneasiness churning in the pit of his stomach.

He caught Jasper’s attention as he walked toward the vehicle shed. “I need to run into town,” he said. “I shouldn’t be long.”

When Beau spotted the squad car, there was a second officer driving the tan Jeep Cherokee with the burly sheriff in the passenger seat. As Beau pulled off the road, the sheriff got out and climbed into Beau’s truck. “We can talk on the way in,” he said, shifting in the seat to give Beau a view of the holstered pistol at his belt.

Beau started the engine and pulled onto the road, following the sheriff ’s vehicle. “I can guess what you’re thinking, but I didn’t kill Slade,” he said. “I detested the man, but I’m not a murderer.”

“However, you are a trained killer,” Axelrod said.

“So are thousands of other combat veterans.”

“But you were a specialist. A sniper.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? Was Haskell shot?”

“Since you’re bound to hear it sooner or later, yes. He was shot several times at close range.”

“If I had killed him, which I didn’t, one shot would have been enough. And it wouldn’t have been up close.”

“That remains to be seen. We’ll be testing your hands for gunshot residue of course.”

A curse escaped Beau’s lips. “You’ll find it. I was target shooting with my niece yesterday. Jasper was there—you can ask him if you have to.” Beau was hoping to clear this up without involving anybody else at the ranch, but the way things were looking, that might not be possible. He could sense the wheels turning in Axelrod’s mind—how an explainable shooting event could be used to cover a criminal one.

“What can you tell me?” He steered the conversation away from himself. “Where was Slade? Who found him?”

“A Cessna pilot called it in. He spotted Haskell’s flatbed by the bog, with the body on the ground.”

“Dumped, like the girl?”

“Nope.” Axelrod’s eyes narrowed. “We found blood and casings at the scene. There’s more, but we can cover that in interrogation.”

Interrogation. The word sent a chill along Beau’s nerves. Axelrod, it appeared, had already zeroed in on the most likely suspect. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.

The sheriff shrugged. “You’re a smart man and you know the law. Up to you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Beau was seated in a room with a two-way mirror on one wall. The sheriff faced him across a narrow table. The process was one Beau had taken part in countless times. But he’d been the one asking the questions, not the one answering them. He willed himself to stay calm. He was innocent, he reminded himself. He had nothing to hide.

“Can you account for your whereabouts two nights ago between nine o’clock and midnight?” Axelrod sounded as if he’d memorized a script.

“I decided to go into town around nine. Stopped at the Blue Coyote for a few minutes, but it was crowded and I didn’t stay. There was an NBA game on TV. Lakers, I think. Didn’t pay much attention. After that I drove by Dr. Haskell’s, but she wasn’t there, so I drove home. Got there about ten-fifteen.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“I didn’t talk to anybody at the bar, but Will was awake when I came home.”

“Are you intimately involved with Natalie Haskell?”

The question jolted Beau. Despite his best intentions, his temper began to rise. He’d wanted to keep Natalie out of this, but that wasn’t going to happen. “After Slade beat her up, she filed for divorce. He was set to stand trial for assault and would have most likely gone to jail. She’d have been free to remarry. Why would I want to kill him over Natalie?”

“I’ll take that as a yes to my question.” Axelrod scratched the corner of his grizzled mustache. “Did you or did you not threaten to kill Slade Haskell if he bothered his wife again?”

“I did.” A drop of sweat trickled between Beau’s shoulder blades, soaking into the back of his shirt. It was all circumstantial, but the sheriff was building a damned good case against him.

A manila envelope lay on the table. Opening the clasp, Axelrod slid out a sheet of creased, sweat-stained, blood-spattered white paper enclosed in a plastic sleeve. He passed it across the table to Beau. “Do you recognize this?”

Beau stared at the crudely phrased letter. His stomach contracted. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I’ve never seen it before. Where did you find it?”

“Crumpled inside Slade’s shirt pocket. Isn’t that your signature?”

“It’s a damned good imitation. But I never signed anything like this and I sure as hell didn’t write it.” As Beau studied the grammar-school printing, the awkward sentences, realization dawned. He was being framed—by a perfect storm of circumstances and an enemy clever enough to take advantage of them.

But who was it? And why?

“Did you dust this letter for fingerprints?” he asked, knowing his own prints couldn’t possibly be on it.

“We tried. But the paper was too far gone. This isn’t a blasted TV crime show. We do the best we can with what we’ve got, and sometimes it isn’t much.” Axelrod slid the letter back into the envelope and fastened the clasp. “Must’ve been pretty rough over there in Iraq. I hear tell some men who’ve seen a lot of killing come back messed up in the head. They have spells where they think they’re still in combat.” He glanced up, meeting Beau’s eyes. “You ever have trouble that way?”

“It’s called post-traumatic stress, and that’s just one way it can manifest. I had a few issues after I left Iraq, but I was lucky enough to get help. Apart from some bad dreams, I’ve been fine for years.” Beau had answered similar questions openly in the past. He had no problem with answering this time . . . until a horrific thought struck him.

“Why would you ask me that question?” Beau kept his tone calm and neutral, but his pulse was surging.

“Just thinking, that’s all.” Axelrod brushed a stray fly off his wrist. “We haven’t had a murder in this county for years. Since you came home a few weeks ago, we’ve had two, both of them connected to your ranch. In my line of work, I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences.”

In the tense silence, the droning fly sounded as loud as the engine of a helicopter. Beau rose slowly to his feet. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple, but he kept his voice level. “You’ve known me most of my life, Sheriff. You’ve known my family and you know our values. So far, you’ve given me nothing but conjecture. Unless you can offer solid proof—”

The door opened partway to admit the deputy. “Excuse me, Sheriff, but there’s something out here you gotta see.”

Axelrod stood, shooting Beau a glare. “Sit down and stay put,” he ordered.

Given no choice, Beau sat and waited. This was a nightmare. He’d had nothing to do with Slade’s death. But he’d had motive, means, opportunity, and no solid alibi. Anyone in the sheriff’s place would’ve brought him in. Hellfire, he would have done it himself.

The sheriff was back, trailed this time by his deputy. “A road worker brought in a rifle, a thirty-thirty he found lying next to the highway. No prints, and we’ll need to wait for the ballistics report, but the caliber matches the casings from the crime scene, as well as the bullets the medical examiner took out of Slade Haskell’s body.

“A thirty-thirty?” Beau shook his head. “Anybody who hunts has a gun like that. There must be thousands of them in the county.”

“But not many with a serial number registered to Bull Tyler,” the sheriff said. “And none that would have Jasper Platt’s name engraved on the stock. That rifle came from your ranch.”

Beau remembered the theft of Jasper’s gun—a gift from Bull. But before he could explain, the door burst open and a tall, blond whirlwind of a woman swept in. “This stops right now!” Tori commanded. “Sheriff, I’m here to represent my client. You’re not to question him unless I’m present.”

Axelrod rocked back on his heels, looking smug. “Tori, I’d say your timing’s about right. Beau, here, is going to need you.” He unhooked the handcuffs from his belt. “Beau Tyler, I’m arresting you for the murder of Slade Haskell. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

 

Three nights later, Tori picked up a pineapple ham pizza and a couple of Diet Cokes from Burger Shack and drove to Natalie’s house. It wasn’t much of a meal, but she’d been too busy to cook, and she needed to see that her friend ate something. With Slade’s body still in the county morgue and Beau charged with his murder, Natalie was barely holding herself together.

Natalie met her at the door dressed in jeans and a light blue T-shirt. Her hair was combed, her face freshly scrubbed, but her haunted eyes had purple-tinged shadows. Tori guessed she had slept little since the news broke.

“How’s Beau?” Natalie asked, holding the door open so Tori could carry the pizza into the living room.

“He’s been charged and had his bail hearing. Now he’s out and looking for ways to prove he was framed. He asks about you. Every time I talk to him, the first thing out of his mouth is ‘How’s Natalie?’ ”

“I need to see him.” She closed the door and locked it.

“You mustn’t. Beau’s right about that. If this goes to trial, you could be called as a witness for the prosecution.”

Natalie slumped onto the sofa. “They’ll twist my words to make Beau look guilty. The worst of it is, there’s nothing I can say to help him. I was tending a sick mare the night Slade died. And if I have to tell the truth about our relationship, it’ll only make things worse.” She shuddered.

“None of this is your fault,” Tori said. “And it’s not like you to waste time beating yourself up. Do you have any idea who might have killed Slade? Could one of his employees have held a grudge against him?”

“I wouldn’t know if they did. Slade never discussed his business with me—or his finances.” She pushed her thick hair back from her face. “I suppose that mess has fallen in my lap, too, and heaven knows when I’ll have time to deal with it.”

Tori weighed the news she’d come to deliver and decided it could wait. “Did Slade have any family left?”

“Not living. His older brother died in a motorcycle wreck before we were married. And his parents have been gone for years. That’s how Slade came to have the trucking business. It was his father’s—but you’d remember that, growing up.”

Tori opened the pizza box and popped the tabs on the chilled soda cans. Lifting a pizza slice, she shoved it toward her friend. “Eat. You’re running on empty and you’re going to need your strength.”

She watched as Natalie nibbled at the melted cheese. Natalie was tougher than she looked, but even Tori didn’t know how her friend would take the news she’d been holding back until now. Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead.

“I spent some time researching in the county recorder’s office today. Brace yourself for some disturbing news.” She paused to give Natalie a moment, but Natalie surprised her.

“For heaven’s sake, Tori, my husband’s just been murdered and Beau is under arrest. Whatever you’re about to tell me, it can’t be any worse than that.”

“All right. Here it is. Slade didn’t own the trucking business. The property, along with the trucks and equipment, was taken over last year by Stella Rawlins.”

Natalie froze. A blob of cheese slid off the pizza and fell unheeded onto her jeans. “Stella Rawlins. That’s the woman who owns the Blue Coyote.”

“As nearly as I can figure out, she loaned him money on the company, and when he couldn’t pay her back, she took it over. But she kept him there to run the business.”

“And he never said a word to me.” A spark of the old fire flickered in Natalie’s dark eyes. “Not about the loan, not about losing the business . . . nothing. I know we were having money troubles for a while, but Slade said everything would be all right, and it was. After that he always seemed to have money for things he wanted, like his new pickup.”

“I’m surprised you’re not more upset about this,” Tori said.

“I figured Slade would get the trucking business in the divorce, so it’s no loss. What bothers me more is that he kept it a secret, even from me. Why?” Natalie sighed and shrugged. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, will I?”

Tori studied her friend. Natalie was taking healthy bites of pizza, as if her appetite had returned along with her spunk. For now, it appeared she was going to be all right. But if Beau was convicted of murder, the blow would be a hard one, especially if what Tori had heard from a contact in the district attorney’s office was true.

The prosecution wasn’t just seeking a conviction for Slade’s murder. They were also gathering evidence in the slaying of Jess Warner. If they could pin both crimes on Beau, he would almost certainly be facing the death penalty.

 

Natalie peered through the closed drapes, watching Tori’s station wagon back out of the driveway. She had always assumed she knew everything about her husband. But according to Tori, Slade had built a whole separate life apart from her and their home. The trips to Mexico, the money, the infidelities . . . was there more to this?

Had she been married to a criminal?

Could his secret life have led to his murder?

Yellow crime scene tape fluttered from the stakes that marked the spot where Slade Haskell had died. The deputies who’d picked over the ground like so many scavengers had long ago taken their gear and left. The body was gone and so was Slade’s flatbed truck. There was no one here to stop Beau and Will from crossing the lines to see if anything had been overlooked.

They’d ridden their horses to the bog and left them tethered in the brush. Now, starting at the outer edge of the staked area, they walked the perimeter and slowly worked their way inward, toward the place where Slade’s body had fallen.

The ground was a maze of tire tracks and boot prints, obliterating anything useful. But they had to search. Finding some vital bit of evidence was their only hope.

“Poor Jasper’s pretty bummed about that rifle,” Will said. “He blames himself for leaving it strapped under the seat. Anybody could have broken into the shed and stolen it.”

“Anybody who knew exactly where to look, like Lute, maybe,” Beau said. “I certainly wouldn’t have put it past him. But I can’t see Lute actually using it to kill Slade. It takes guts to face a man—and I don’t think Lute has them.”

In the absence of chalk, the position of the body had been outlined with string. The red earth was still bloodstained and indented where one bullet had blown through Slade’s head. The ground had been probed with tongs where the deputies had recovered the bullet, along with the others that had passed through his body. Will frowned as he studied the spot. “Notice anything funny about this?” he muttered.

Beau bent forward, peering over his shoulder. “I’ll be damned. If Slade had been standing when he was shot, the bullet would have landed somewhere behind him, maybe even in the truck. But from the look of the ground, it went straight down, like he was flat on his back.”

Whipping out his cell phone, he snapped two photos to record the evidence.

“Could’ve happened that way,” Will mused. “Say the first shots dropped him and then the killer went in close to finish him off.”

“No, look.” Beau pointed to the other holes where the bullets had been removed—all of them directly under the body. In his line of work, he’d seen plenty of shootings, but this one didn’t look typical. For one thing, the close-range body shots had gone all the way through, but there was surprisingly little blood in the soil beneath. And there was something else. Beau bent closer.

“These shots were all fired from above. Either the killer forced Slade to lie down before he was shot, or—”

Will’s cool blue eyes met Beau’s as he finished the sentence. “Or Slade was already dead.”

 

Natalie walked into the Blue Coyote and sat down in an empty booth. It was midafternoon. The place was open, but not yet busy. Two old men sat at the bar nursing their beers. A middle-aged couple at one of the tables appeared to be arguing. A muscular man with black tattoos on his shaved head was polishing glassware behind the bar.

When the waitress, young and jaded, her jeans straining over her plump hips, wandered over, Natalie ordered a Bud Light in a glass and waited. The speakers mounted against the ceiling were blaring Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.” Ironic under the circumstances, Natalie mused as the waitress returned with her beer.

Her eyes were drawn to the bartender. He looked out of place in this small Texas town, and she couldn’t help wondering what had brought him here. He had a hard look about him, like a man who’d spent time behind bars—a man who was no stranger to violence. His eyes were like a raven’s, dark, sharp, and emotionless. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Was she looking at Slade’s killer?

The thought fled her mind as Stella emerged from the back hallway. In a tight black denim skirt, black cowgirl boots, and a green silk blouse embroidered with horseshoes, she was striking in an overblown way. Her manner exuded confidence as she spotted Natalie and strode straight toward the booth where she sat.

“My condolences, Mrs. Haskell.” Up close, Stella showed her age beneath her too-heavy makeup. Even so, she was a handsome woman.

“Please, call me Natalie.” A show of graciousness never hurt. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Until things get busy.” Stella slid into the opposite side of the booth, her expression guarded. “What can I do for you, Natalie?”

“Not much, really. I’m just hoping you can give me some closure. Until my lawyer mentioned it, I didn’t know you’d bought Slade’s trucking business.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Slade kept a lot of things from me. I’m just discovering some of them now that he’s gone.”

Stella shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. His business was struggling a couple of years ago—the economy, mostly, along with the drought and some bad debts. I offered to help him out if he put his company up as collateral. When he couldn’t pay me back, we came to an arrangement. He’d go on running the business and we’d split the profits. It worked out well for both of us.” She leaned forward, her ample breasts resting on the edge of the table. “I liked your husband, Natalie. I’m going to miss him. He’ll be a hard man to replace.” Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, since you were divorcing him, that’s no longer your concern, is it?”

Natalie felt the chill. “Since the divorce wasn’t final, it’s fallen to me to settle his affairs. I just wanted to make sure there were no loose ends to tie up.”

“None. The business is mine. Slade and I squared our accounts before he died, so if you’re wondering whether I owe you anything—”

“No, of course not.” Natalie was liking the woman less and less, but she wouldn’t walk away until she’d learned all she could. “I was wondering if I could get Slade’s personal things from his desk at the trucking company. There might be something his friends would like.”

Stella glanced restlessly around the bar, clearly eager to end the conversation. “The desk has been cleared out. But if anybody bothered to box his things, you can pick them up. Just tell the man in the office I said it was all right.”

“Thank you.” Natalie would have risen to go, but just then Sheriff Axelrod walked in the door. Dressed in his uniform, complete with badge and pistol, he strode over to the booth.

“Stella, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like a word with this young lady,” he said.

“Fine. I’ve got things to do.” Stella rose and stepped away. The sheriff slid into her place, his husky body barely fitting against the table.

“I’ve been looking for you, Natalie,” he said. “Matter of fact, I was on my way to your place when I noticed your vehicle outside. Can’t say I figured you for a drinking woman.”

Natalie ignored the comment. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were all right. You’ve been through a lot in the past few days, losing your husband and having your boyfriend arrested for his murder.”

“I’m fine. And Beau Tyler is innocent.”

“Is he?” Axelrod leaned a few inches closer. His breath smelled of the Marlboros he smoked. “I pulled a few strings and got a look at his military record. The man did a lot of killing over there in Iraq. I mean, a lot. Something like that could get to be a habit—even an addiction. That’s why I need to warn you about him.”

“Warn me? That’s ridiculous.” All Natalie wanted was for the man to go away. But she needed to stand up for Beau. “Slade had more than his share of secrets—things I’m just learning about now. Those secrets could have made him some enemies. Have you looked into other suspects, Sheriff? Maybe you should.”

Axelrod shook his head. “I believe this case is what’s known as a slam dunk. Did you know Beau was treated for post-traumatic stress disorder? That stuff doesn’t just go away. I’d guess he was able to satisfy his killing urge as a DEA agent. But here in this little Texas town, with no Al Qaeda or drug runners to shoot, he’s having to look for other victims. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m pretty sure he killed that poor girl who was dumped in the bog. Sooner or later, if we don’t put him away, he’s bound to target somebody else—maybe even you. And that, young lady, would be a dirty shame.”

Natalie slid out of the booth and pushed to her feet. She was trembling, but she willed herself not to show it. “Sheriff, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she declared. “Do your job. And that means checking out everything and everyone. Slade always seemed to have money to spend and I don’t think it came from the trucking business. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was involved in something illegal. That’s where you should look for his killer.”

Before he could respond, she turned and strode outside. As she closed the door behind her, she could almost feel Stella’s eyes burning into her back.

She made it to her SUV and collapsed, quivering against the wheel. Pulling her emotions together, Natalie backed out of the parking lot and drove across town to the large fenced lot where Haskell Trucking was located. The name on the sign out front hadn’t changed. But that was no longer her concern, Natalie reminded herself. She was here to collect Slade’s personal belongings and look for anyone, or anything, that might provide a clue to his murder.

She’d been here before over the years, though not often. But she recognized the thin, graying driver in the Haskell uniform who greeted her in the parking lot when she stepped out of her vehicle. He’d started here more than twenty years ago, working for Slade’s father.

“Right sorry about your husband, Mrs. Haskell,” he said. “Slade was a good boss. Always paid us fair and on time.”

“Thank you, Ernie,” Natalie said, dismissing the kindly man as unconnected to the murder. “I can see you’re still open for business. Who’s in charge of the place now? I need to speak to someone about getting Slade’s things.”

A shadow of displeasure flickered over the time-creased face. “Young squirt in there.” He jerked his head toward the prefab building that served as the office. “Don’t ask me whose ass he had to kiss to get the job, but—” He broke off with an apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry, ma’am, my sainted mother taught me better than to use that kind of language in front of a lady.”

“It’s all right, Ernie. Please tell your family hello for me.” Giving his arm a light squeeze, she hurried into the building—and stopped as if she’d run into a wall.

Sitting behind the supervisor’s desk was Lute Fletcher.

For an instant he looked as startled as she was. His jaw dropped slightly. Then his mouth stretched into a smirk.

“Well, if isn’t Mrs. Haskell. I hope you aren’t here to lay claim to this place.”

Irked by his manner, Natalie squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m aware that Stella Rawlins owns the business now, if that’s what you mean.”

“So what are you doing here?” His insolent grin widened.

“I might ask you the same question. After Beau fired you for almost killing the Tylers’ mare, I’m surprised anybody would give you a job.”

“Your late husband appreciated my talents enough to hire me. So did Stella. She promoted me to his spot. So you might say Beau did me a favor.” He flipped a lock of long black hair off his face. “So why are you here, Mrs. Haskell? Anything I can do for you?”

Somehow Natalie managed to hold her temper in check. “Stella said I could come by and pick up Slade’s things. You can call her if you need to.”

“No need. You can’t take anything related to the business. But since he lived here a while, you might as well take his dirty laundry home. I’ll get it for you.”

He disappeared into a back room and came out with a cardboard box. It was piled high with dirty clothes and bedding. With a mischievous grin, Lute shoved it across the desk toward her. “Here you go. It’s all yours, lady.”

Fighting the urge to fling the laundry in his face, Natalie took the box and walked out to her vehicle. Facing Lute had been a maddening experience, but as she pulled out into the street, she reminded herself that she’d made some important connections. Stella had taken over Slade’s business. Slade, who’d hated Beau, had hired Lute, who hated Beau, too.

Now Slade was dead and Lute had taken over his job. There was no way these events could’ve been random. They had to be connected to Slade’s murder.

Since Lute had worked on the ranch, he would have known where Jasper kept the rifle. And he could easily have sneaked into the shed and taken it.

What would the sheriff say to all this when she told him? Natalie wondered.