Death on Heels (27 page)

“And what did you tell the sheriff about Tucker’s escape? Did you tell him that you unlocked the shackles because Tucker asked you to?”

“Tucker knocked me out somehow, and took the key.” He put his face way too close to her. “Maybe you helped him escape. Maybe I should tell that to T-Rex.” Grady glared at her, his little duck eyes narrowed.

“T-Rex will eat you alive. You’re not a good liar, Deputy,” Lacey said. “But you are a liar.”

His nostrils flared. He was about to say something but decided against it. He was the first to walk away, head down, hands in his pockets. Lacey watched him take a seat at the far end of the bar, far away from Rico Firestone.

Vic caught up with her and put his arm around her. “You okay?”

She was trembling. “You and Firestone enjoy the show?”

“Firestone held me back. He’s keeping his eye on the deputy. It looks bad to let a suspected murderer escape on your watch. No one is sure about Grady Rush.”

“I’m sure about him.”

“The consensus is Grady’s dumb as a bag of rocks. But a rock is just a tool. Whose tool is he?”

Where’s Tucker now?
Lacey wondered.
Is he safe somewhere, hiding out in one of the other line camps? Is there a dead coyote hanging on a fence wherever he is tonight? Will his cowboy way of thinking save him? Or hang him, like that coyote?

“I knew something like this would happen,” Brooke said during the three-way phone call later that evening.

“All’s well that ends well, right, guys?” Lacey was flat on her back on the bed, her battered cell phone at her ear, trying to keep her eyes open. She gave up and kept talking with her eyes closed. Vic was at the desk with his laptop, catching up on business in Virginia, and Colorado.

“Ha! I nearly died of anxiety, Lace,” Stella chimed in. “I was so upset I had to cancel appointments! Imagine what I might have done to someone’s hair!”

“So that’s on my head too, I suppose,” Lacey said, running her fingers through her hair. It felt dry.

“Exactly. And speaking of your head, don’t forget to condition. I’m not there to watch you.”

“How’s Ben doing? Is he being nice to you?” Brooke asked.

“He’s fabulous. I never expected to see him here, marching to your orders,” Lacey said. “Thanks for sending him, Brooke. I understand the balance of power shifted, and you’ll be in his debt after this.”

“Not for long. I adore Benjamin, but our relationship is like a game of chess and I’m the grand master. He thinks he has me in check, but he’s wrong. Silly boy. Just take good care of him.”

“Cherise took one look at him and decided to be his personal assistant and tour guide. She said something about taking him skiing in Steamboat. Oh, and helping him buy new duds so he’ll fit in.”

“But Ben fits in everywhere. He’s a Brooks Brothers boy. Suitable for every occasion.”

“She was talking about a little Western camouflage. Maybe some Levi’s.”

“Benjamin? In jeans?” Brooke sounded dubious.

Lacey assumed both Brooke and Ben were born in little lawyer suits. While most babies were wrapped in pink and blue blankets, the Barton, Barton & Barton progeny were tucked into tiny pin-striped gray flannels. With little regimental ties. Briefcases instead of baby bags, and a Burberry check baby tote bag.

“Relax, Brooke,” Stella said. “If Benny’s as uptight as you are, he could use a little relaxation. Lacey’s little sis is totally cute, remember, and she’s not as, like,
backwards
as her big sis, if you know what I mean. You know?” Lacey groaned.

Brooke ignored the comment. “Listen, Lacey, just make sure he keeps you out of a twenty-four-hour hold.”

“Ben’s a tiger,” Lacey said. “The minute the sheriff saw him, he knew it was all over and let me go.”

“Good. We want you back in one piece.”

“Don’t worry. Ben is my barrister, and Vic is my personal protection professional. I’m covered.” Vic tweaked her toes without turning away from his computer, and Lacey smiled.

“What about your cute cowboy?” Stella asked. “Looks not guilty to me.”

“Tucker’s not guilty.” Lacey saw Vic shake his head. “No way.”

“So tell us about this cowboy. What’s the situation? Cole Tucker takes one look at you and decides to snatch you out of the courthouse and make a break for freedom?
Swoon!
Am I right, Brookie?” Stella cooed. “Is that totally swoonable or what?”

“Hey! It wasn’t exactly like that, guys.”

“It’s, like,
totally
the most romantic thing I ever heard of!”

“Stella, are you demented?” Brooke broke in. “It was unbelievable, a wildly irresponsible act of desperation and madness. Only a madwoman would think that was romantic. But you have to admit it has a
slight
air of romance.”

“Like I said. It took chutzpah, for sure. But what a gesture,” Stella insisted, still under the spell of her upcoming nuptials to Nigel Griffin.

“It’s not romantic,” Lacey said, noting a puzzled scowl on Vic’s face. “It was awful, uncomfortable, the most embarrassing moment of my life.” She thought of crossing the snowy wastes of Yampa County on horseback, and the fear that ran through her like an icy trickle the entire time she was with Tucker. And the indignities of having to use an outhouse in the snow and, worst of all, exiting the courthouse slung over Tucker’s shoulder. She shivered all over again. “At least there’s nothing on YouTube.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Brooke said. “We’re monitoring the situation.”

“I’ll keep checking,” Stella promised. “If there is, I’ll e-mail you the link.”

“Don’t you dare, Stel. I’m safe and sound, and I’ve got the handsomest bodyguard you ever saw.”

Vic’s scowl turned into a grin. Lacey said her good-byes to her friends and turned her phone off for the night.

Why couldn’t Tucker have thrown this damn phone a little farther?

“Smithsonian. Smile!” Mac held up a copy of
The Sagebrush Daily Press,
the one with the cover story on Lacey’s abduction, and another with a CBI picture of Lacey mounted on Buttercup, being met by Tucker’s brother, Kit, and the sheriff. The headline read: S
HE’S
A
LIVE
!

“Like Frankenstein,” she said.

“Or Laceystein. I picked up extra copies for the newsroom back in D.C.” Tony fanned out his collection of newspapers.

Lacey growled. “Give me that.” She grabbed one of the copies, emitting groans and snarls as she read. But at least, she reflected, she was back in town and off that horse. Today she was clean and comfortable in her dark-wash blue jeans, forest green turtleneck sweater, and a vintage green wool jacket that nipped in at the waist. It wasn’t an exact match for her green and brown cowboy boots, but they went together nicely.

The three of them were sitting at the Amarillo Café, relatively empty at ten in the morning. Laptops ready. Vic had reluctantly left her to meet with Mac and Tony without him. She had asked him to kindly go away, and he’d arranged a briefing with Agent Firestone before the CBI team headed out to find Lacey’s lost cabin.

The rest of the media were nowhere to be seen. With Cole Tucker having vanished into the backcountry, and Lacey relatively safe and sound—and obviously hoarding her own information for an
Eye Street Observer
exclusive—the other news jockeys were sniffing out
other leads to follow. Lacey was big news yesterday, but it was a day later and the world had turned to other events. Except for
The Sagebrush Daily Press
and Dodd Muldoon, who felt slighted that she hadn’t graced him with an interview. She wasn’t speaking to him, so Muldoon had milked Lacey’s past as a local reporter with the intensity of a fever dream.

“I ran into that Muldoon character.” Mac opened the paper to the jump. “Said he taught you everything you know.” He chuckled.

“This gets better and better,” Tony said, reading
The Daily Press.
“What a wacked-out little paper. I’m selling these to the guys in Sports. And Wiedemeyer, he’ll love it.”

“What did Muldoon say?” Lacey wasn’t comfortable around Muldoon anymore. He was after Tucker’s land, and he’d had a fling with one of the victims, Ally Newport. He knew too many of the town’s secrets. Did he know about the silver heel?

“That fool said you were going to give him an exclusive. You never said that, did you?” Mac glowered at her.

“Don’t believe a word he says. When I left town, Muldoon told people I was on vacation and I’d be back in a couple of weeks. He was still saying that a year later.”

“He speaks fondly of you too,” Tony piped up. Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Don’t blame him for trying to weasel a story out of you,” Mac said. “No one in this biz wants the out-of-town papers, the big guns, to come in and scoop you. Isn’t that right, Scoop?”

“Don’t call me Scoop.”
If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get Dodd Muldoon
. Lacey picked up her cup. It was empty.

“If the scoop fits,” Mac said. He turned to his battered black ThinkPad. Lacey stared. She had never seen her editor use a laptop. “You come up with any fashion clues out there on the range, way out west of Purgatory?”

“Purgatory is a ski resort south of here.” Their waitress was nowhere in sight.

“You know what I’m talking about. Or have you lost that special ability of yours, Smithsonian?”

She glared in response. “I’d hate to let you down, Mac.” She helped herself to the unprotected coffeepot and refilled everyone’s cup.

“She’s got something.” Tony scooted his chair closer. “Lois Lane always gets that smug look when she’s bogarting a fashion clue.”

“Spill, Smithsonian. Tony’s got a hunch.” Mac picked up his half-eaten cinnamon roll and took a bite.

“The women were all found barefoot,” she began.

“Shoes,” Tony said, propping his black snakeskin boots on a nearby chair. “Chicks are obsessed with shoes, high heels, flip-flops, flats.”

“Not like
you
, Trujillo?” Lacey eyed his footwear.

She picked up her tote bag to grab a fresh pen. Instead her fingers touched upon something she’d forgotten in the rush: the years-old article about Ally Newport. Lacey unfolded it and stared at the yellowing article. In it, Ally was still blond, still perky, still alive, wearing her bartender apron over jeans and a crisp white shirt. And there was something else about the full-length photograph, something Lacey hadn’t noticed earlier, because it was before she found the silver heel, before she heard about Corazon and her cowboy boots. In the picture, Ally Newport was wearing cowboy boots. Boots with chevrons up the side.

Three for three?
Now Lacey knew all the victims owned and wore unusual cowboy boots, even if that didn’t prove they were wearing the boots when they were abducted or killed.
Get a grip, Lacey. Everyone wears cowboy
boots up here!

“We’re waiting, Smithsonian.” Mac sipped some coffee.

“Right here. This is a clue,” she said, handing the article to Mac.

Tony pulled the article out of Mac’s hands. “She’s wearing cowboy boots.”

“That’s it,” Lacey said. “That’s the fashion clue. If the boot fits, wear it.”

The handsome police reporter made a sour face. “Come on, that’s not fair. She wore boots? So what? So do I.” He lifted up one booted foot as a visual aid.

Lacey lowered her voice. “So maybe I found a fancy bootheel in that cabin. Maybe it belonged to the first victim. Maybe there’s a photograph that proves it. Maybe the CBI is checking out that very cabin today for more evidence.” They stared at her, open-mouthed. She had them at “bootheel.”

Mac cleared his throat. “Start writing, Smithsonian. Doesn’t need to be long. Victim’s bootheel is enough to knock their socks off today. Tomorrow I want you to start writing your personal account of everything from the courthouse to the cabin. We can run it in installments. And, hey, you got a Fashion Bite for me?”

“You want a pint of blood to go with that, Mac? And what’s Tony working on?”

“Trujillo writes police interviews.”

“I spoke with Agent Rico Firestone.” Tony flipped through his notes. “He had no comment. The cops aren’t talking. Transporting prisoners is not their gig, so they’re just laughing their asses off at the sheriff losing a prisoner. The chief of police is out of town. Nobody seems to be in charge there at all. And the sheriff’s not talking either. They really call him T-Rex? Good name for him. He said he’d had enough of out-of-town reporters, and he didn’t much care for the ones in town.”

“You call those interviews?” Lacey asked. “No comments all around?”

“When do cops ever want to tell us anything?” Mac said. “If they won’t talk to you, Tony, work that angle. ‘Local law enforcement clamps lid on story! What are cops hiding?’ Find out what they’re doing at that cabin where Smithsonian was held. Let’s go, people. We’ve got a deadline. Remember there’s a two-hour time difference. I want your stories by noon—that’s two p.m. in D.C. Call this
The Eye Street Observer West
.”

“Why so soon?” she asked.

“I got a mission for you, Smithsonian.”

The sour-faced waitress finally made an appearance, stared at the trio and her purloined coffeepot, and muttered darkly to herself, “This place ain’t been the same since we got Wi-Fi.”

Lacey Smithsonian’s