“I’ll do that—though she might lie to cover for you,” the sheriff said. “And I’ll also check your hands for gunshot residue. Not that I expect to find any. A man plotting a careful murder would have thought to wear gloves.”
“Fine.” Luke had had enough. “Do what you have to. I know the circumstances look bad, but you won’t find a shred of solid evidence against me, because I didn’t do anything.”
“So you say.” The sheriff rocked forward, the front legs of his chair thudding against the floor. “But I think we’ve got enough to hold you for now—and we know that you’re capable of violent behavior, Maddox. We did some checking on your background. Just three years ago, you served six months for assault against a man who’d hired you.”
* * *
Hidden by the shrubbery at the far corner of the parking lot, Marie waited for the last customer to leave the Blue Coyote. She didn’t have a watch, but the height of the moon told her it was after midnight. Even at this hour, the night was warm. She was sweating beneath the black leather jacket and jeans she’d worn to blend with the dark shadows. She’d even smeared her face with soot and covered her hands with the black silk glove liners she kept ready in her pocket. She couldn’t take a chance on being seen. There were too many people around who might remember her from her waitressing days. The ugly scar on her face was hard to forget.
A buzzing mosquito lit on her cheek. She felt the prick as it sucked her blood. But she didn’t move as the blue neon coyote on the sign out front went dark. Abner Sweeney came out through a side door. Turning, he used a key to lock the dead bolt behind him, then walked around to the back of the building and drove away in his SUV.
Marie waited a few more minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back. Then she approached the building, keeping to the shadows. There was no outside security light and no alarm system—she’d already checked for signs of those things. Still, it paid to be careful.
The front entrance and side door, which led to the office where the safe was kept, were locked with dead bolts. But the door at the top of the outside back stairs, used by generations of pleasure-seeking men, had simply been boarded up, which implied that the door itself didn’t have a secure lock. Marie was carrying a canvas satchel with a few tools in it, including a small flashlight and a short crowbar. She also had the pistol she’d stolen from the old man in the wash—which she hoped to heaven she wouldn’t need. All she wanted was to find the heroin and hit the road. Accomplish that, and she’d be free. Erin Tyler could live her privileged little life, and Stella could burn in hell.
Moving like a shadow, she crept up the back stairs. This would be the riskiest part of her plan. Here she would be exposed, with no way to hide. And prying off the boards could make enough noise to attract attention. But short of breaking a window, there was no other way in. She would have to trust to stealth and luck.
A half dozen scrap boards were nailed at angles to the door frame. Keeping low, Marie started at the bottom. Using the crow bar, she found getting them loose was easier than she’d expected. Whoever had nailed them in place hadn’t taken the time to do a good job. Once she’d freed the first three boards, she was able to reach through to the doorknob, push the door inward, and crawl in through the space she’d created, dragging the tool bag behind her.
Once inside, she closed the door, stood, and turned on her flashlight. With luck, any person looking up from the ground would see only the higher boards that were still in place.
The door opened into a dingy hallway. Off to her left was the stuffy, urine-scented room where she’d slept when she worked here. Unlike the waitresses before her, she hadn’t entertained men up here. A few of the bar’s customers had been bold enough to pat her skinny bottom, but one look at her face had been enough to scare them off. That little room had been miserable, but not as bad as Gatesville. No matter what happened, Marie reminded herself, she would never allow herself to be hauled back there. She would die first.
But right now she needed to find Stella’s heroin stash.
The hall ended in an inside stairway, descending into the bar. Marie made her way down, trying to think like Stella, with the law closing in, a half-million-dollars’ worth of heroin on her hands, and no fast way to sell it. Where could she hide it? Not upstairs. The second floor was too flimsy. In the office, maybe? Under the floor, beneath the filing cabinet, or better yet, under the heavy iron safe?
Lost in thought, and with her eyes and the light on the sagging wooden steps, she almost slammed into the solid door at the bottom of the stairs. This was something new. Marie shoved against it, twisting and rattling the knob, but nothing budged. The door was securely locked from the other side. This was why no one had bothered to secure the door at the top of the outside stairs. It was no longer possible to get into the bar that way.
Swearing, Marie gave the door a final kick and turned around to go back the way she’d come. That was when a blinding light flashed on from the top of the stairs. Her dazzled eyes could make out the silhouette of a man standing in the open doorway, half shielded by the remaining boards.
“Blanco County sheriff,” a young voice called out. “Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
Trapped in the stairwell, with no way out, there was only one thing to do.
In a lightning move, Marie drew the old man’s pistol, aimed up at the dark figure, and fired.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEAU HAD CAUGHT A RED-EYE FLIGHT FROM DC AND PICKED UP A rental car at the airport. Erin and Rose, who’d both slept fitfully, if at all, were up before dawn, having coffee in the kitchen, when he walked in.
Erin jumped up and ran to him. As he held her close, murmuring words of comfort, she fought back her tears. She’d needed Beau to come. But she couldn’t just fall apart and let him take over the situation. She had to show him that she could be strong. That’s what her father would have expected of her.
She eased away from Beau and stepped back. Now she could see that he looked exhausted, his face unshaven, his bloodshot eyes set in shadow. The news of Will’s death must have been as hard on him as it had been on her—maybe even harder, because the two brothers had missed their last chance to make peace.
“Thank you for coming, Beau,” she said, taking charge. “Sit down and have some coffee. I know you’re tired, but we need to talk.”
Beau filled a mug from the carafe on the counter. As he took a seat, his gaze fell on the pistol that Rose had laid on the table, but he didn’t ask about it. “So get me up to speed and tell me what I can do,” he said.
Erin told him everything she knew about Will’s trip to town, the ambush, and the shooting. “The medical examiner still has his body,” she said, forcing herself to talk about it as if this were some stranger, and not her father. “We can’t plan the funeral until we know when it will be released.”
&nbs
p; “What about arresting the bastard who shot him?”
Erin had known the question was coming, but it still landed like a blow. Roy had called her late yesterday, as a friend, to let her know that Luke had been picked up and was being held as a person of interest in the shooting.
“The sheriff is holding Luke,” she said. “There’s some circumstantial evidence against him. But I know he didn’t shoot my father. He couldn’t have—he wouldn’t have.”