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T
urner peered into the Chevy’s rearview mirror and carefully snipped off a hank of straight dark hair. She was a bit anxious
about cutting her own hair, but it wasn’t like she could walk into Bea’s Clip ’n’ Snip on Main and ask for a cut and style.
Not without being arrested, anyway. She’d had no choice but to take the scissors into her own hands, so to speak, and she
was rather pleased with the result. Probably it helped that she wasn’t trying for any particular style.
She trimmed the wisps at her temple and then looked at her wristwatch. 5:50 p.m. Calvin and Shannon should be leaving for
the Lutheran church potluck dinner soon. It was held the second Sunday of the month, and the Hymans were regular attendees.
At least they’d been for the last year. They’d started attending about the time that Calvin must’ve decided to make a bid
for the state legislature seat. The current legislator was Mason Carter, who was retiring after his term ended because of
poor health. Carter had already endorsed Calvin, and since the seat was traditionally a Republican one, Calvin was pretty
much a shoo-in for it. Assuming everything went well and he got the Republican nomination in two weeks’ time.
Turner sighed and checked the rearview mirror again. It looked like the left side of her hair was a tad longer than the right,
but it was hard to tell in the little mirror. She shrugged and put away the scissors.
The sound of a car engine came from the rural lane. She instinctively slumped down in her seat, even though she’d made sure
to pull the Chevy far enough off into the woods so that she couldn’t be seen easily.
The car drove past.
She got out her binoculars, climbed to her knees, and turned to look out the back window of the Chevy. From this position
she could just make out the county road the car would turn into. After a minute, a car drove past. Yep, that was Calvin’s
cream Cadillac retreating into the distance. She waited another ten minutes in case they forgot something and returned.
But they didn’t. She pulled on her gloves, picked up a small paper bag, and got out of the truck. The day hadn’t cooled off
yet, and as she hiked up the lane to the drive she felt perspiration dampen her freshly shorn hair. The Hymans lived in a
new house, a huge monstrosity with multiple gables, pale brick facing, and two-story pillars flanking the front door. It was
on five acres of land outside of town. A long, grassy lawn rolled down to meet the road, brilliantly green in contrast to
the surrounding brown weeds. The Hymans must have spent a fortune watering the lawn.
Turner walked up the gravel drive without worry that she’d be seen; the nearest neighbor was half a mile away. She strolled
around the back of the house and stopped dead. An enormous black-and-white dog was sitting in a chain-link kennel. Her heart
leaped into her throat before she realized that the animal couldn’t get out on its own. It was huge, like a giant Dalmatian,
only with pointed ears. Maybe some kind of Great Dane? Whatever it was, it stared at her, tall ears pricked forward.
Turner sidled toward the brick patio at the back of the house. The dog stood up, pink tongue lolling from massive jaws. It
looked hot, and no wonder—the kennel was in the sun. She snorted. Only Calvin would put out a dog without shade.
She waited for the dog to start barking at her, but it merely watched her approach the house. The patio had a teakwood picnic
table and chairs and a fancy-looking gas grill. A set of French doors led to the kitchen. She examined the doors for a minute.
Damn. Should’ve brought a hammer. Fortunately, several concrete pigs were placed artistically in the flower bed surrounding
the patio. Turner selected a self-satisfied-looking porker—it was sitting on its haunches, grinning—and heaved him through
the doors. The glass shattered with a spectacular crash. She glanced over her shoulder. The dog had its massive head cocked
but didn’t look particularly excited. Maybe he’d watched the house being burgled before. Turner picked up a spatula from the
grill. She took a moment to knock out a couple of big pieces of glass from the doorframe and then stepped through.
The kitchen was vaulted with a distressed-beam ceiling and a thingy for holding copper pots hanging over the island. The theme
had probably originally been conceived as French Provincial. But sometime between the planning and the execution, it had been
attacked by a platoon of pigs. Pigs cantered down the wallpaper, frolicked on the curtains over the sink, and sat complacently
on the counter in the form of ceramic jars.
Turner blinked for a second, then headed down the hall. She passed a bath, a great room with an enormous fireplace, the stairs,
and an empty guest bedroom. The hall dead-ended, and she reversed to the stairs. On the upper level, the master bedroom sprawled
over most of the second floor. She paused in the doorway to scan the room but didn’t see what she was looking for.
The next room was pay dirt.
It was a study—Calvin’s, she knew by the fishing-themed border that circled the room at head height. Not a single pig in sight.
A dark desk with a bookcase/hutch contraption over and around it stood in one corner. Another table branched off it, with
a computer monitor on top and the keyboard on a pull-out surface under the table.
Turner felt like crowing. She sat at the desk and flipped on the computer, then went through the desk while waiting for it
to boot up. The hutch held a few books,
The Da Vinci Code,
a couple of Clive Cusslers, some fishing books, and a whole row of
Chicken Soup
for various and sundry souls. Brass navigation instruments were placed artistically at intervals—as if Calvin would know
how to use a sexton. There was a framed photo of Calvin and a bunch of guys standing on ice and holding dead fish. She peered
closer. Frozen dead fish. They must’ve been ice fishing. One of the men looked like a former Republican governor.
She made a raspberry and started pulling out drawers.
The middle drawer held paper clips, pens, staples, Post-it notes, and a key ring with four keys on it. In the back were papers,
and she flipped through them but didn’t find anything incriminating. She decided to check the computer before she went any
further—after all, it was the most likely source of information. Calvin had fishing wallpaper on his computer with little
cartoon fish jumping over the bow of a rowboat. She opened
My Documents
and found a list of files.
Ten minutes later, she sat back in frustration. She wasn’t a computer expert by any means, but she knew as much as the average
computer owner did nowadays, and she saw no trace of an accounting file. Shoot. Calvin had to have another set of books for
the bank. How else could he keep track of the money he was embezzling? She’d gambled—and lost—yesterday when she took the
opportunity to open his safe deposit box. She’d hoped it would contain a computer disc or even literal ledgers detailing the
money he was stealing from the bank.
If he hadn’t kept a concrete record . . .
No, she wouldn’t go there. It did her no good at all to think that he had no record, no evidence of his crime. He must. And
since he must, she would find it.
She opened more desk drawers. The right-hand side drawer held a black handgun. Sheesh. She hoped it wasn’t loaded. The next
drawer held files. She paged through household appliance warranties, medical records, a copy of his car insurance, and bills.
If you didn’t keep accounting books on a computer, then where would you keep them? Not at his bank desk, surely. Even Calvin
wasn’t that confident. Besides, she’d searched there more than once and had never found anything besides the safe deposit
key. That left this house. Another drawer held a file of brochures for fishing boats and motors, maintenance records for the
Caddy, and the mortgage information for a lake cabin.
Surely he wouldn’t keep it in the car. Shannon could run across it at any time, and Turner didn’t think Shannon knew about
her husband’s illegal activities. At least she couldn’t see Shannon—the biggest gossip in town—keeping silent about them if
she did.
She pulled out the center drawer again, and her eyes hit the key ring. A cabin. Would Calvin hide the evidence there? It wouldn’t
be as accessible as the house, but it wouldn’t be hard to get at, either. Who questioned a man visiting his own cabin? And
in Calvin’s case, a cabin would have the added bonus of not being under Shannon’s daily control. He wouldn’t have to worry
about her finding suspicious books while he was away at work.
Turner picked up the key ring and examined it. Two of the keys were identical and looked like they fit an ordinary door lock.
The remaining two were different. One was for an ignition, the other a small, narrow key.
She pocketed them all. She glanced at the wall clock, which took the form of a walleye circling a fishing lure. 6:45 p.m.
The Hymans shouldn’t be back for another hour or more, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
She took a piece of printer paper and wrote down the address of the cabin listed on the mortgage papers. Then she stood and
looked around the room. She had a strong urge to smash the computer and all the pretty sailing instruments. The Lord knew
Calvin deserved it. But that wouldn’t help her cause. Instead, she switched off the computer and replaced everything neatly,
just to mess with his mind.
She backtracked to the master bedroom. Ew. The bedspread was quilted pink satin and had flying pigs on it. She upended the
paper sack onto the middle of the tacky bedspread. Gold coins, jewelry, stocks, and a couple of certificates of deposit slithered
around the spread. All from Calvin’s safe deposit box.
Turner suddenly thought about the FBI agent who’d called her. What would he think when he saw what she’d done? Would he understand
the message to Calvin? It gave her an odd feeling, knowing that MacKinnon was following in her footsteps, analyzing her every
move. Not that it mattered. Her message was for Calvin, and he’d surely understand what it meant:
I’m not after your money. I’m after you.
Turner smiled. She did a quick check of the rest of the house, just in case she was wrong about where Calvin would hide the
evidence, but didn’t find anything more incriminating than bad decorating taste. Half an hour later, she gave up and went
back downstairs.
Outside, the dog must’ve lost interest waiting for her to return, because he’d laid back down on the concrete floor of his
kennel, mailbox head on his crossed paws. He came to his feet as she exited the broken patio doors, and then he gave a tentative
tail wag. Turner ignored him and began walking around the house.
Behind her, a low moan started.
She kept going.
The moan turned to a mournful howling.
Roooow. Rooroooow. Rorororwoooooow. Eek!
The howl ended on a strange high squeak.
Turner swung around. “Hush!” she hissed at the animal sternly. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, a great big dog crying like
a puppy?”
His jaw dropped open, huge tongue lolling as he wagged his tail at her.
Turner frowned at him and noticed an overturned red bowl by the door of the kennel. “What did you do? Flip your water bowl?”
At her words, the dog’s entire rear end started wiggling. She sighed, unlocked the kennel, and reached in carefully for the
bowl. The dog watched her, tail slowly wagging. She found the outside water spigot, filled the red bowl, and placed it within
reach of the dog. It noisily lapped at the water.
She started walking away again.
Rooow. Rooowrowrooooow.
Eek!
She turned around. The dog was staring at her, jaw closed, water dripping from its muzzle. It gave a tentative tail wag.
“What?” For God’s sake, she was talking to a dog. The enemy’s dog at that. Except it was very hard to see this animal as anyone’s
enemy. And what kind of jerk left a big dog out in the August heat without water? “Fine.”
Turner marched over to the kennel and opened the chain-link door wide. The dog swiped her hand with his tongue and then made
a bounding victory lap around the yard.
“Come on.” She picked up the red bowl and set off down the drive.
The dog barked once and followed.
I
t was almost midnight by the time John made it back to the dinky Starlight Inn motel Sunday night. He parked the navy Crown
Victoria in front of his room and got out slowly, almost expecting his knees to creak. It had been a long day, and he hadn’t
needed the late-night call to investigate the Hyman home break-in.
The row of motel doors and the cracked sidewalk beneath were illuminated by a bare yellow bulb. Moths and mosquitoes were
swarming the light. Every now and then, an insect would hit the bulb with a
dink
sound. Poor bastards, doomed to a pointless death because of evolutionary wiring that no longer worked. There was probably
a moral in there somewhere.
He unlocked his motel room. No modern card keys here. John shut the flimsy door behind him and turned the little knob lock—as
if it would stop a determined three-year-old. The AC had cut off sometime during the day, and the room was oven hot. He toed
off his boots and socks, stripped off his jacket and holster, laying the Glock on the crummy bedside table, and then took
off his shirt. He cranked the air-conditioning unit as far as it would go—which was not very. He needed a shower. He needed
a beer. And he needed to talk to Turner Hastings. If he was smart, he’d start with the first, spend some time on the second,
and forget all about the third. But he’d never been too bright when it came to women. He skipped directly to the third.
John took out his keys, wallet, and cell from his pocket, dropped them on the bedside table, stripped off his pants, and flung
himself on the bed, wearing only his shorts. He stuffed the foam pillow under his neck, picked up the cell, and hit the speed
dial.
“Mmm?” Her voice was so husky it was scratchy. He must’ve woken her.
Oh, man. His horny brain immediately flashed on her in a big soft bed, wearing a black silk shorty nightie—no, make it red—the
shoulder straps sliding down her arms, her nipples poking at the fabric.
He shifted on the bed. “Did you have to throw the pig through the window?”
There was a silence on the other end. Then she said, “You woke me up. Again.”
“I figured if I had to be awake because of you, you should be, too.”
“You’re angry.”
“Oh, just a little. Do you have any idea how Shannon Hyman feels about pigs?”
“Well, I did see the kitchen. Pig wallpaper.” She sounded more awake now, but her voice was just as husky.
He wondered idly if she was aware of the effect that voice had on men. Probably not. “Would that have been on the way to ransacking
Hyman’s study?”
“Why, yes, it would.” Bit of testiness there.
John grinned. Good. “That’s breaking and entering, you know. Emphasis on the breaking.”
“Hey, I was careful with Calvin’s desk. I left it neater than when I first saw it.”
“Yeah, but he liked it the way he had it, neat or not.”
She snorted on the other end of the phone.
“And did you have to take the dog?” he asked. He’d nearly laughed in Hyman’s face when the man finally realized that his expensive
pet was missing. The guy had been furious, although John suspected it was more from the loss of money than affection for the
animal.
“Yes, I did,” Turner said.
“It’s worth a lot of money,” John replied gently. “Did you know that? It’s some kind of fancy-ass purebred Great Dane. I wasn’t
even aware they came in different colors.”
“Then Calvin should’ve taken better care of it.”
“What are you going to do with a Great Dane?”
“I don’t know, but at least I can make sure he has water and food and companionship.”
“And how do you know that Calvin didn’t give the dog companionship?”
“Because he’s got calluses on his elbows from sitting in that concrete kennel run.”
“Why don’t you bring back the dog, Turner?”
“And he squeaks when he howls.”
“Turner.”
Silence. Was it his imagination, or could he hear her breathing?
“What were you looking for?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.”
John blew out a breath. God, this conversation was frustrating. “Where are you?”
She sighed. “You don’t really think I’m going to tell you that, either, do you?”
John stared at the fly-specked ceiling. This was getting him nothing except blue balls. What did he think he was doing, anyway?
He was acting like a high school geek with a crush on the pretty, smart girl who sat in the back of chemistry. “Are you targeting
Hyman because you still blame him for turning your uncle in?”
He heard her suck in her breath. “You’ve been talking to people.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of my job. So. Are you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think yes.”
“Smart man.”
“And I think you loved your uncle very much.”
She sighed, the sound carrying clearly through the ether. “Yes, I did.”
“So much so that you planned a bank robbery to get back at his accuser.”
She surprised him. She laughed out loud. The sound was husky and low and tugged at his loins. “Is that what you believe?”
“Didn’t you?”
She made a noncommittal sound.
“I saw you grab the key from Hyman’s desk and skip right into that bank vault like it was planned.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” she whispered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Silence.
He sighed. “Of course, you left the entire contents of the safe deposit box on Hyman’s bed tonight, which would lead some
to believe it wasn’t the money you were after.”
More silence.
“Did you see today’s crossword puzzle?” he asked softly.
“What?”
“The
Wisconsin State Journal
crossword.” He shifted and reached for the newspaper from the bedside table where he’d left it this morning, nearly eighteen
hours ago.
“Now, when would I have had the time to do that?” She sounded grumpy.
He smiled. “I got stuck a couple of times. Fifteen down, four letters, messenger goddess.”
“Iris.”
“Really?” He pulled out the bedside-table drawer and found a pen. “How about Indian royal, five letters.”
“Ranee. You must not do too many crosswords. They’re always using
ranee.
”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And the crosswords in the local papers are real easy. You should try the
New York Times
or the
Chicago Tribune.
”
“Really. Didn’t know that.” He tossed the pen and newspaper aside. “You’ll have to teach me proper crossword etiquette.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.
“Maybe not, but it’d be fun.”
“Good night, Special Agent MacKinnon.”
“John.”
“What?”
“Call me John.”
A pause. “Good night, John.”
The line clicked because she’d hung up, but he said it anyway. “Good night, Turner.”
Then he punched off and put the phone on his bedside table. God, he was tired. It had been a long, long day, and he was at
the point where it was hard to think. He needed to think. Something about Turner and the bank president . . .
John snorted. Hyman wanted round-the-clock security for himself and his house now. He claimed that Turner was on a vendetta
against him. The sheriff had politely pointed out that Turner probably weighed a hundred pounds less than the bank president,
but that had only made Hyman madder. Sheriff Clemmons had finally had to confess that even if he wanted to put a twenty-four-hour
watch on Hyman, he just didn’t have the manpower for the job. Hyman had shut up about security fast when he’d been told he
could hire private bodyguards. But he hadn’t looked happy. That man surely didn’t like being made a fool of.
Was that what Turner’s goal was? To humiliate the bank president? Because it wasn’t too bright of her to stick around after
knocking over a bank. She had to have some kind of reason to stay in the neighborhood besides robbing Hyman. Of course, the
woman wasn’t stupid. Maybe she’d taken off after the Hyman house robbery. Heck, she could be on the way to Mexico at this
very minute. But he didn’t think she was all that far away. Whatever Turner was doing included the bank president, and John
was pretty certain she wasn’t done. He remembered the expression of rage—and maybe fear—on Hyman’s face when he’d seen the
contents of his safe deposit box in the middle of his bed. John was almost certain that the other man knew what Turner’s reason
was for leaving her present. He sighed and turned off the bedside light.
He only hoped she hadn’t underestimated her adversary.