Straight Flush To Murder

Chapter 2

2

Al and Gary waited at reception in the sheriff's office. The reception area was functional and plainly furnished, with a half-dozen simple wooden chairs that could have come from some church meeting room. The pinewood floor was ingrained with dirt from the passage of countless pairs of cowboy boots.

Gary sensed his companion's impatience. Neither man had slept for more than twenty-four hours, but Al showed no discernible signs of fatigue. He marvelled at his boss's stamina. His own eyes felt grainy with weariness and he suppressed a constant desire to yawn.

"Why don't you take a seat," the desk officer suggested with studied insouciance. "The sheriff's a busy man. He may be some time."

Al's reply barely disguised his outrage. "I'm the wrong man to be kept waiting, fella. We'll find him ourselves."

Before Al could make a move, as if by some force of telepathy, Sheriff Johnson materialized in the reception office doorway. Gary had the impression the man had been listening to their conversation from behind the door.

The detectives introduced themselves but did not shake the sheriff's offered hand. Al, at six foot three, had a five-inch height advantage over Bill, which he used, as always, to intimidating effect. He had the sheriff conveniently backed up against the door.

"I want no misunderstandings here, either accidental or deliberate," Al began icily. "You have been officially informed by the District Attorney's office and by the DCI's Director that we're handling the murders of Lorna Swales and Vincent Wood."

"The hell you are!" Bill countered hotly. "I've heard nothing from anyone!"

Gary observed that the sheriff was at least forty pounds overweight and was sweating copiously. He looked as if he would have trouble walking more than half a mile. Gary considered the sheriff was not a good advertisement for his profession.

Al, unlike his younger colleague, had met the sheriff several times before, the last occasion being four years earlier. It seemed to him the man was more florid and flabby than ever. Pampered by the big ranchers, Al thought with mounting irritation.

He fixed the sheriff with a stony stare. "D'you need me to spell it out? First, Lorna Swales was your sister-in-law. Second, serious investigations in Hunters Creek have a habit of getting nowhere. On both counts you're disqualified from involvement in this case. You don't like it, you can always take early retirement."

"Listen here!" Bill began, determined not to be out-gunned. "You can't take a dump in this town without my say-so! I can give you as many TFOs as you need. Without them no one'll talk to you. You may as well go home."

"You listen!" Al countered. "I've as many Task Force Officers and Special Agents as this murder case requires. What I need from you is your entire first floor for the use of myself and my colleagues until this investigation is completed. I want it ready for me in an hour, all your materials removed and all relevant paperwork in my hands at that time. That means everything you have on the two victims."

"You're wasting your time here, Agent Bruce," Bill replied with a confident smirk. "Gotta have local knowledge to solve this one. You'll still be here in a month and be no wiser." He glared at the detectives, pushed past Al Bruce, and hurried angrily into his office.

Al turned on his heel and headed for the street. "Okay, amigo, let's get breakfast."

Al and Gary confirmed the advance booking for themselves and their ten-man team at the Rosewood Hotel, a hundred and fifty yards away on the opposite side of the street from the sheriff's office.

"We can keep our eye on the sheriff from here," Al remarked with a grin. "See what time he turns up for work."

Gary was still adjusting to the fraught situation. He made an effort to catch up. "We've booked the entire hotel?"

"We have, amigo. The whole place for as long as it takes, all organised in advance by the DA's staff. The real investigation will be done from here. I don't think we'll have anything but obstruction from the sheriff."

"But the sheriff will know that we're here," Gary objected.

"He will. But there'll be nothing he can do about it."

"Do we still need his first floor?"

Al laughed. "That's where we're going to spy on him." He laughed again at Gary's look of confusion. "Don't worry. It's all official. There'll be four TFOs working twelve-hour shifts over the road, while we get on with the main investigation over here."

As the two special agents sat down for breakfast in the hotel dining room Al took Gary by surprise again. His words were spoken quietly so as not to be overheard by the coming and going of hotel staff.

"The sheriff knows who did it. Or he thinks he does. And he fears us. We've got to keep it that way."

When Greg entered Al Bruce's hastily organised general office in the residents' lounge of the hotel he was surprised to see three suited strangers busy at their computers. He took in the desks, phones, filing cabinets, the troopers coming in with box files and laptops from his office at Golden Square and felt, for a moment, as if he had entered an alien world.

He had only been into the hotel once before to attend a local rancher's daughter's wedding reception. This was a new and unsettling experience. He wondered what had become of his brother-in-law and suddenly felt bereft of the sheriff's protection. He recalled Bill Johnson's words of earlier that morning: Be careful, Greg. That Al Bruce – he hates cowboys.

He found himself ushered into a small side office, where two slick-suited detectives with very short hair sat waiting for him. A state-of-the-art recording device lay in front of them in the center of the table.

"Sit down, Mr Swales. I'm Special Agent Bruce and I'm leading the investigation into the double murder at Golden Square ranch. This is my assistant, Special Agent Gary Mason."

Greg noticed Al Bruce's suit fitted well, but not too tightly, suggesting that the body inside it was spare and muscular. The man's voice was clipped and a little harsh, conveying a quality of accustomed authority. Gary Mason evinced the loose-limbed build of a natural athlete.

Greg obediently sat opposite the special agents while Gary started the recorder.

"Were you the husband of Lorna Swales, deceased?" Al began.

"I was."

"Where were you last night between nine and midnight?" Al asked, watching Greg's body language closely.

"I drove the twenty miles from Golden Square to High Breaks round six. High Breaks is my family's spread. I run it with my brother-in-law."

"Two spreads," Gary remarked. "You're a lucky guy."

"I've never thought of it as a matter of luck," Greg replied calmly. "When you have land you have responsibilities that go with it."

Al fixed Greg with an openly hostile stare. "Maybe you consider yourself a good farmer, Mr Swales. But it's easy money, isn't it? The cows do all the work."

Greg didn't react. He knew the special agents' tactics were to unsettle him. Nevertheless he was angered by Al Bruce's comment. "I think there's a lot more to ranching than putting cows in a field. You'd understand that if you did it."

Al and Gary realized their aggressive approach had begun to take effect. Greg's body had tightened up and he kept swallowing and l*****g his lips, which suggested his mouth had become dry from nervousness. Though both special agents drank freely from their own bottles of water they offered no water to Greg.

"You went to High Breaks," Al continued, "then what?"

"I did some paperwork, ate supper, then drove into the hills about eight-thirty."

"What happens in the hills?" Gary asked.

"Rustlers. Been missing stock – at High Breaks and Golden Square. You can check the accounts."

"We will," Al confirmed.

"You drove up into the hills on your own?" Gary queried.

"I did."

"Dangerous work, isn't it? What did you plan to do if you came across rustlers?" Gary persisted.

"I'd have contacted the sheriff. He's aware of the rustler problem."

I'm sure he is, Al thought. "Did you tell the sheriff you were going after rustlers last night?"

"I always tell him, so he can have deputies on standby."

"Catch anyone?" Gary asked.

"'Fraid not."

"Were you in phone or radio contact while you were out? We can check," Al added, "so if you lie we'll find out."

Greg shifted uneasily on his chair. "No, I don't recollect speaking to anyone."

Gary knew their suspect was feeling the heat. "Time d'you get back?" he snapped.

"Round ten-thirty or so, I guess."

"Anyone confirm this?"

"My mom can confirm when I got back to High Breaks."

Al uttered a gruff little chuckle of disbelief. "In my experience mothers will lie for their sons ten days a week. You could have been murdering your wife and her lover. It's up to you to give us something that proves me wrong."

Greg struggled to keep his emotions under control in the face of these belligerent detectives. He had no desire to enter into open warfare with a special agent who hated ranchers as much as Al Bruce was reputed to do. "It was like I said: I was up in the hills. If I'd seen anything suspicious I'd have rung the sheriff. We've been trying to catch these guys for a while. The sheriff will confirm that."

"I'm sure he will. Just as many times as he has to," Al stated with heavy sarcasm.

"I didn't murder anyone," Greg said quietly.

Al looked at the rancher for a long silent moment. "Mr Swales, I have to say that I'm finding it difficult to believe you. You have no satisfactory alibi – in fact, no one can confirm beyond reasonable doubt a single word you've told us. Why didn't you phone in every half hour, or take someone with you – your brother-in-law, for example?"

Greg returned the agents' stares. Both Al and Gary had the feeling their suspect was about to attempt to highjack the moral high ground.

"Chuck's been putting in some very long days lately. I didn't think it fair to ask him. I don't expect people to wear themselves out for me or to put themselves in danger. Chuck has a family to care for. It's my ranch so it's my responsibility. If you're a family man yourself, Agent Bruce, you'll understand what I'm saying."

Al was not a family man. He suspended the interview. "I'm not letting you go, Mr Swales. There's a lot more we have to talk about."

Greg was taken to an upstairs room and provided with refreshment. A trooper was placed outside the door.

Al and Gary remained in the interview room.

"First impressions, amigo, please," Al requested.

"He's lying. The rustler thing is complete hokum. He was nervous as hell, trying all the time to appear cool and reasonable. We find one shred of hard evidence he'll confess."

Al uttered his short dry laugh. "You're optimistic! I agree with you to a point, but I think he's tougher than you realize. I think he goes very deep and unless we get him truly boxed in we'll be struggling. If we have no more against him than circumstantial evidence he'll never c***k. Even a small-town lawyer would give us a whipping. We have to establish clear motive at the least and keep the pressure on till something gives."

Ethan stood in the hoist doorway of the old barn at Golden Square. He had a clear view of the backyard and the rear of the ranch house. From his vantage point he could look straight into the murder bedroom opposite.

He had watched the forensics team going about their grim work. He had seen the bodies being taken off for the post mortem. He had noted the two lonely troopers who had replaced the sheriff's deputies and another two driving off with items from the farm office.

All the while he had been thinking about the events that had occurred two days earlier and wondering if he had witnessed the actual inciting incident…

As he crossed the yard he could clearly hear Greg's and Lorna's raised voices coming from the open back doorway. He froze on the threshold.

"You snake!" Lorna's voice was filled with anger and outrage.

"Shoot me, you'll go down. It's not worth it." Greg's words were measured and restrained as usual.

"But it's her!"

"She needed help. I felt I couldn't refuse."

"And who's the girl? What's she doing there?"

"She's just someone connected with the nursery."

"How connected? Who the hell is she? You can't tell me, can you? I'm gonna see my lawyer!"

Ethan stepped quickly into an adjacent doorway as Lorna stormed out. She got into the ranch's white Range Rover that was parked a few yards from the door and drove off fast. Greg ran out, leaped into his Mustang and pursued her.

As soon as they had left the yard Ethan hurried into the house.

A scatter of a dozen photos lay on the kitchen table. He studied them briefly, then slipped two into an inside pocket of his all-weather jacket. He stepped to the doorway and keyed a number into his mobile.

"Hi, Steve. It's me. Little thing might int'rest you… Is it big? Hell, yeah, I guess it is. Bring a wad."

Ethan stood in the hoist doorway smiling at his recollection. He spat into the dust on the floor of the old barn. Those photographs sure had stirred things up. And when certain other parties had seen them the fun had really begun.

He enjoyed unsettling folk. He had made it his business to do just that ever since he'd left home, gotten away from his hated pa. At Golden Square his chance had come. He felt good about his life now. He felt in control.

There was just one little niggling thing that bothered him: who in the hell had taken those photographs?

It was a mystery. And he didn't like mysteries. They introduced unknowns that couldn't always be handled. Except, maybe, with violence.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He preferred manipulation and blackmail. He preferred to watch people squirm.