Dangerous (9 page)

Curious, he ended the conversation and walked into the outer office.

“Something?” he asked.

She grinned, holding out a sheet of paper.

He took it. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dan Jones?” He stared at her. “Who is Dan Jones and why am I reading his rap sheet?”

“He’s your DB in the Little Carmichael River in Jacobsville,” she said. “I checked the state records for anyone recently paroled, narrowed it down to ten possibles who haven’t checked in with their parole officers lately, and requested DNA evidence to be sent to Alice Jones to compare with the DNA they pulled off the victim. And there he was. Dan Jones.”

He smiled. It was rare for him to do it and extraordinary that he smiled at Joceline, who was his nemesis. She stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him; the smile made him look so different. His black eyes sparkled. His white, perfect teeth gleamed.

“Remind me to put in a request for a raise in salary for you, Ms. Perry,” he said. “I’ll note your contribution to the case, as well.”

“Thanks,” she stammered.

“Dan Jones.” He turned and went back into his office, his mind working in overdrive. “Get my brother on the phone, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

K
ILRAVEN WAS ON FIRE
with the news, once he got it. He spent the next two hours trying to track down Rick Marquez’s partner, Gail Rogers. She’d gone to the scene of a suicide, dispatch said, and gave him the address after he told them, not quite truthfully, that he was working the case with her. The uniformed officers at the apartment door tried to stop Kilraven, but he just waved his federal badge at them and kept walking.

The victim was lying facedown on the sofa. There was a very large knife sticking out of his back.

Kilraven glanced at the female detective sergeant. “I thought they said you were at the scene of a suicide, Rogers,” he remarked.

“Sure. Suicide. He obviously stabbed himself in the back.” She rolled her eyes.

“Sure. You can do that, you just have to have really long arms,” Alice Jones—whose last name was now Fowler—told her, walking into the room with an evidence bag she’d just collected. Behind her was the photographer who was recording the scene. Another crime scene technician was using a vacuum collection system to suction possible trace evidence in the form of hair and fiber from the carpet around the body, and still another had an ultraviolet flashlight with which he was searching for traces of blood and bodily fluids on nearby surfaces. “What are you doing in here messing up my crime scene, Kilraven?” she added with a grin. “This isn’t a federal suicide.”

“From where I’m standing, this isn’t a suicide, period,” Kilraven returned.

“His wife says it is,” Alice murmured. “In fact, she saw him do it.”

His eyes narrowed. “She did.”

“Yes. That was just before the two-headed cat flew in the window and attacked her.”

He whistled.

“They took her down to county,” the detective said, “by way of the hospital.”

“For a psych evaluation?” he asked.

“For detox. She’d snorted enough meth to put two men in the morgue, from the look of it.”

“People who make meth should be hung up by their noses and left to rot,” he said coldly.

“Create a need, and then supply it, that’s how the song goes,” Gail said solemnly. Her dark eyes were cold. “My ex-husband knew every drug known to man, and used most of them. I had no idea until we were on our honeymoon and he tried to get me to shoot up. I left him that very week.”

“Love does blind us,” Alice interjected.

“You’d know, Newly-Married Alice,” he teased.

She grinned. “Harley and I have calves,” she said. “His boss, Cy Parks, gave us a seed bull and several heifers, and they were filled ones.”

Kilraven blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Well, if a heifer is open when she’s not pregnant, doesn’t it make sense that she’s filled when she is?” she asked.

Kilraven just shook his head. “We learn something new every day.”

“Know what the difference is between a bull and a steer?” she continued with a cocky grin.

He gave her a droll look. “I own half of the biggest cattle ranch in Lawton, Oklahoma, Alice. I grew up on a horse.”

“Did you really?” she exclaimed.

“My brother just called me with the news about Dan Jones,” Kilraven told her. “Nice work.”

“I told you I had skills,” Alice reminded him. “It’s amazing to me that I’m not in demand as technical advisor to any number of programs about autopsies on television.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Heck, I’m amazed that they aren’t after me to star in one of them. I’m young, I’m gorgeous, I’m…is anybody listening to me?” she opened her arms wide.

“We’re trying not to, Alice,” Kilraven said with a wry grin.

“Fine. I’ll just go about solving crimes on my own, unappreciated, unloved…”

“Shall I tell Harley you said that?” he asked.

She made a face at him and left the room.

“That DNA match was really good work, Alice,” he called after her.

“No need trying to butter me up, Kilraven, I’m not listening!”

“It was good work, but it doesn’t help much, yet,” Detective Rogers said a minute later. “We have a name and a rap sheet, but there’s a lot of work left to do in order to connect him with anybody.”

“We’ll get there. I wanted to know if you’ve had any luck questioning witnesses around the motel where the victim lived.”

“Nobody knows anything.” She sighed. “Well, let me rephrase that, nobody knows anything for free and I’m broke until payday.”

“I can bankroll you, if you’re willing to go back,” he said.

“I hate paying informants, but I can’t really see any straight-up way to get information in this case. And I’m not really sure that they’ll say anything if we pay for it,” she added. “One of the guys I talked to said we were sticking our noses in places even cops shouldn’t go.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“I’d take bullets, if I went,” Alice suggested from the other room.

“I always take bullets,” Kilraven informed her.

“When I finish up here,” Rogers said, “we can go back to the motel and see if a few photos of Ben Franklin on currency will open any mouths.”

“You’re on. See you, Alice!” he called to the woman in the other room, who waved a hand in his general direction.

T
HE MOTEL WHERE
D
AN
had been living was a seedy, sad little affair on the wrong side of town. Its one enticement to the poor was the low cost of housing. On the other hand, customers had to share space with any number of small furry rodents or long-legged bugs.

There were five men living in the motel, only two of whom were longtime residents. One of them knew Dan Jones, but it took several photos of Ben Franklin to get inside his room and several more to overcome his survival sense.

He was elderly, looked half-starved and wore glasses so thick Kilraven was dubious about his ability to even see his visitors.

“Bad people he was mixed up with,” the old man told them. “Real bad. He said he couldn’t stay anyplace long, because they were trying to shut him up. He knew things, see. He wouldn’t say what, but he said he wanted to go straight and they weren’t going to let him. He had a girl, nice girl, he said. She was real religious and wanted him to go to church with her. He liked it. Said he thought he could make up for some of the things he did.” He shook his head. “I knew he’d never live. Once he said that name, I knew they’d kill him.” He gave Kilraven a hard look. “You just make sure you say I never told you nothing, or they’ll find me in some alley.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Kilraven promised. “What name did he say?”

He hesitated.

“What name?”

He sighed. “Hank Sanders,” he said finally.

Kilraven’s jaw tautened. “Senator Sanders’s little brother,” he muttered.

“That’s the one. Law can’t touch him. He’s got powerful friends. You watch, they’ll never get the guys who killed Dan. They can cover up any crime they want to. You just watch your own backs, or they’ll get you, too.”

“Nobody smart kills a cop,” Kilraven told him.

“Yeah, well, these guys don’t build rockets,” came the wry reply.

Kilraven handed him another Franklin and walked out with the detective.

“Now what?” she asked with a sigh.

“Now what, indeed. How do we investigate the brother of a senator for a possible homicide?”

“Call some reporters…?”

“Oh, no,” he interrupted. “I’m not going to be a nightly news snack. Once they latch on to this cold case, there will be autopsy photos of my wife and child on every tabloid from here to New York City,” he added grimly. “No, we have to play this close to the chest. I’ll see what I can dig up on the senator’s brother. Suppose you see if any of your informants know anything about Dan Jones and his pals.”

“I’ll do that.” She was quiet and thoughtful for a minute. They stood just outside the motel in the chilly night air with the neon sign missing two letters of the word
motel.
It seemed to emphasize the hopelessness of the building, old and in need of much repair that the owner obviously couldn’t or wouldn’t effect.

“I hope I never end up in a place like this,” Kilraven said glumly.

“Me, too, although I’ve lived in worse places in years past,” she said with a soft laugh. She looked up at the night sky. “I want to do something dangerous.”

“Like dive off a building or something?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I want to reopen the case of that teenager who was found in a similar condition to our Jacobsville murder victim seven years ago.”

He was instantly somber. “You think there may be a link to our cold case?”

She nodded. “Just a hunch. I don’t have inside information or anything, but I’ve got a feeling…”

“I have a friend in Jacobsville who has those same hunches. Saved my life once,” he recalled, thinking about Winnie.

“Mine might end in tragedy,” she said with a sudden flash of insight. “It’s very risky. But I think it might be a piece in the puzzle.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think there may be a tie to the senator.”

“I don’t have a scrap of evidence that points to him. Just a hunch. She was very young,” she recalled. “She went off supposedly to meet a boy she was dating and turned up dead in an unspeakable condition, just before you lost your family, and looking like our mysterious Dan Jones when his body was found. It may be a coincidence. On the other hand…”

“It never hurts to play the odds,” he agreed.

“I’ll get right on it. You watch your back,” she added with a grin. “I’d hate to have to identify you by your DNA.”

“So would my brother,” he replied, smiling.

She nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

W
INNIE KNEW SOMETHING
was going on with Kilraven, but she didn’t know exactly what. He’d gone to San Antonio to see his brother and Marquez’s female partner. Before that, he’d spent time with Rick at his house. She wished she knew Kilraven well enough to ask him what was happening. They weren’t getting any inside information at dispatch and that alone was disturbing. They usually had some tidbits about any case that was being worked, even ones up in San Antonio.

She was still floating on air from that hard, sweet kiss, and hoping it wasn’t going to be an isolated incident. He was the first and only man she’d ever had such feelings for. She’d hoped that he felt the same way. But he hadn’t phoned her or looked in at Barbara’s Café where she had lunch most days. In fact, he was conspicuous by his absence.

The holidays were over. She and Keely had taken down the beautiful old Christmas ornaments and packed them away, along with the other decorations and the tree. The house looked cold and bare. Jacobsville still had its tinsel and bells and Christmas trees on light poles, along with garlands of fir and holly. But those artificial leftovers generally didn’t come down until the middle of January. They made Winnie sad. She’d hoped she might see Kilraven during the holidays. But if his cold case was heating up, she could understand that he’d want to be in the middle of it.

She should have realized how single-minded he was about the past. She didn’t.

K
ILRAVEN HAD BARELY
noticed Christmas Day. Jon came by and brought him a diamond tie tack. He returned the gift with one of his own, a rare print of running horses that Jon had been looking for. Kilraven had found it on the Internet months ago and bought it, then had it framed and kept it in a closet for the big day.

“Don’t you even put up a tree in your apartment?” Jon had exclaimed, looking around at the bare apartment. There wasn’t even a photograph on display, no paintings, nothing personal at all. Just gym equipment in one bedroom, job-related computers and monitors in another, gaming consoles, and the bare necessities of furniture in the living room and dining room, with a fully-equipped kitchen where Jon sometimes whipped up gourmet dishes for both men.

“It’s just a place to sleep. I’ve been busy trying to run down leads.”

Jon’s eyes had narrowed. “What I hear is that you’ve been driving people nuts trying to get them to work your cold case above pressing new murders.”

“Hey, it’s the first break we’ve had in seven years,” he said defensively, and his face hardened. “It should have been worked until it was solved when it was fresh!”

“I won’t argue that, but you know what it’s like, trying to give your best to two dozen cases at a time, all with grieving relatives who want blood and tears from the perps.”

“I know that,” Kilraven said tightly. “But this is personal.”

Jon moved closer. “Don’t start obsessing again,” he said quietly. “It took over your life for three years after it happened. I don’t want to see you falling back into that abyss.”

“I’m going to solve it,” he told his brother. “No matter what the cost. Whoever killed my little girl is going to pay for it with his blood!”

Jon understood how he felt. He didn’t know what to say. It was such a personal matter.

“They’ve had weeks!” he burst out. “They know the guy’s name, where he lived, that he was involved with a woman who worked for Senator Fowler, that he went to a church nearby…for God’s sake, there are church members, other employees who worked for the senator, people who lived at the motel he stayed at…!”