Going to his desk, he took a pistol from the lap drawer and checked the cylinder to see that every chamber held a bullet. The revolver was nickel-plated and had a mother-of-pearl-inlaid hand grip. But for all its fanciness, it was essentially a six-shot cannon. He held it at his side against his thigh while waiting at the front door as the deputy alighted from the sheriff’s unit and stamped up the stone steps.
Jenks removed his leather gloves and slapped them against his palm. “Cold as the very dickens.” He tugged off his wet boots and placed them just inside the front door. He also removed his hat, but held on to it.
Thomas tipped his head in the direction of the study. Having been here before, Jenks knew the way. As they entered the room, Jenks looked toward the wet bar. “What I’d give for a whiskey.”
Thomas didn’t offer to pour him one. Jenks would have declined, not because he had a conscience about drinking and driving, but because he wouldn’t leave a fingerprint on a drinking glass, or on anything inside this room, this house.
Thomas sat down behind his desk and placed his hand, still holding the pistol, on the leather desk pad. He was certain the deputy had noticed the revolver the moment he’d entered the house, although he hadn’t remarked on it.
Jenks glanced at the framed portrait of Tiffany that hung above the mantel. She had posed for it dressed in her equestrian habit. Red coat, shiny black boots, small derby atop the platinum blond braid that draped over one shoulder. Her enchanting smile was forever preserved in oil paint.
It was likely that the man looking up at her had had a hand in her murder, and to Thomas that was obscene. He wanted to raise the pistol and blow Jenks’s head off where he stood in his stocking feet. The only reason he didn’t was because he knew that Jenks and the man who’d sent him on this errand would have liked nothing better than for him to attempt it and provide them with a valid reason to kill him.
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They hadn’t up till now only because he had something they desperately wanted. As long as it remained in his possession and inaccessible, he was safe from assassination.
However, they had ways of reminding him that he was vulnerable. He’d tested them; two days later his daughter was dead.
Keeping his hatred under control, his expression vacant, he said, “Why risk the long drive here on a night like this? Why not just call and tell me the bad news?”
“He wanted you to hear it in person. Wanted me to gauge your reaction.”
“Well?”
“Kerra Bailey has gone missing.”
Thomas just stared at him, unable to contain his bafflement. “She ran off?”
“She’s presumed kidnapped.”
“What? As of when?”
“Couple of hours ago. And it gets worse,” Jenks continued in a way that was almost snarky. “The person who took her? John Trapper.”
Jesus Christ. On the inside, Thomas deflated. “The proverbial bad penny.”
“Ain’t he just?” Jenks said. “How come you haven’t taken him out of circulation?” He raised his index finger and tapped it against his temple. “Bet I can guess. I figure it’s because you don’t know what all Trapper’s got on you or where it’s stashed.”
Although his thoughts were in turmoil, Thomas resumed his usual stone face. “Is that what you figure?”
Jenks grinned. “Am I warm?”
He was precisely right, but Thomas wouldn’t credit it. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that if Trapper had anything incriminating, I would be in prison already?”
“Just because the feds didn’t run with it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. With The Major being shot and all—”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have shot him.”
“I didn’t. Petey did.”
“Same difference.”
“Not hardly. Anyway, as I was saying, whatever it is Trapper’s got on you, he may take it out, dust it off, try again, and this time get somebody to give a listen. Think how bad things would get if Trapper has more goods on you than you’re aware of.”
“He doesn’t.”
“You hope.”