Something Borrowed (Borrowed Brides 3)

"If he had a heart." Lee hooked the toe of his boot under the rung of a chair, pulled it to him, and straddled it. He propped his arms on the back of the chair and fingered one corner of his mustache. "I'd say it stopped beating after he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger." He folded his arms across the back of the chair.

"You think it had anything to do with Tessa Alexander hiring you to locate the senator's illegitimate granddaughter?"

Lee met his boss's intense gaze. "I don't think that my asking questions about the senator's personal life or his business dealings helped the situation. Senator Warner Millen definitely had family skeletons in his closet. But if you're asking whether I personally had anything to do with the senator's death, rest assured that the Agency isn't responsible." Lee smiled. "I might have wanted to put a gun to the old bastard's head, but I didn't."

Pinkerton nodded once. "That's what I wanted to hear." He managed a grim smile. "Any luck?"

"Not yet. But there's going to be a senate investigation and I'm pretty sure they'll find that Millen was being blackmailed by his former clerk."

"Reason?"

Lee grinned and his gray eyes sparkled. "Now that's where my investigation comes in. The senator's former clerk knew the whole story of how Senator Millen railroaded David Alexander out of Washington for refusing to marry his daughter—of how the old man falsely accused David of seducing and abandoning Caroline Millen, leaving her alone and in the family way. And it seems"—Lee paused for effect—"that the senator's clerk also knew that Senator Millen, a man who prided himself on his loyalty to his family and friends, disowned Caroline when her daughter, Lily Catherine, was born. He sent the infant to live with strangers when Caroline died just hours after giving birth. The clerk apparently demanded money for his silence, and the senator had no choice but to pay."

William shook his head. "Nasty business, blackmail. Have you located the clerk?"

"Not yet," Lee told him. "But we will. I left Willis working on it. I couldn't telegraph a report that included the blackmail of a U.S. senator, so I figured you would want me to come back and report to you in person."

"It's a good thing you did."

"Why?" Lee asked. "What's up?"

"I'm not sure," William admitted. "But you've got a stack of telegrams waiting for you and all of them are marked urgent." William picked up the small pile of papers and thumbed through the messages. "There's four from Tessa Roarke Alexander in Cheyenne and"—he counted—"one, two, three from McLeary."

Lee reached for the telegrams. "Who's McLeary?"

"Tom McLeary," William explained as he handed them over. "He's the man who took your place in Denver."

"Denver?" Lee frowned. "I don't know McLeary and I haven't been to Denver in"—he thought for a moment— "over three years. Not since—" He broke off abruptly. "What business could your man in Denver have with me?" He quickly scanned the three telegrams from Tom McLeary. "He says someone has left something for me there and he wants me to come and claim it. He says it's urgent."

William nodded.

"Any idea what it is?" Lee asked.

"None. But McLeary's not a man to exaggerate. If he says there's an urgent situation waiting for you in Denver, then I think you should take care of it. Immediately."

Knowing William Pinkerton had already read all the telegrams, Lee asked, "What about Tessa? What does she want?"

"She's ordering you to report to the Trail T ranch." William smiled his first genuine smile of the afternoon. "As soon as possible. She says it's very important."

Lee scratched his chin. "She knew I was going to be in Washington," he told Pinkerton. "She's probably eager to find out what I learned there."

"That's my conclusion as well," William agreed.

"And?"

"Go pack another bag," William said, "I'll send someone down to purchase your tickets and to telegraph McLeary that Mr.—" He paused, glanced over at Lee, then asked, "Smith or Jones?"

"Jones," Lee answered, a flash of amusement lighting the depths of his gray eyes. Assumed names were another part of detective life. "I was Smith on the last trip."

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nbsp; "Mr. Jones is on his way." "Do I have time to shave and change shirts?" Pinkerton glanced down at the copy of the train schedule spread out across his desk. "If you hurry. The next Chicago and North Western train leaves in forty-five minutes."

Detective Liam Kincaid arrived at Union Station in Denver some thirty hours later, exhausted, bone-weary, and heartily sick of traveling. He stretched his tired muscles as he stepped from the train onto the platform, eyed the hired hacks waiting at the depot, and decided to walk the few blocks up Sixteenth Street to Larimer. Pausing at the corner of Sixteenth and Larimer, Lee set his satchel on the ground beside him. He reached in his jacket pocket and took out a slip of paper with Tom McLeary's address. He scanned the signs painted on the false-fronted buildings and hanging from signposts until he located the Talbotton Hotel, across the street and four doors down. Lee stuffed the address back into his pocket and picked up his satchel once again.

"I'm looking for Mr. McLeary," Lee said as soon as he stepped through the etched glass door of the hotel. "I'm supposed to meet him here."

The desk clerk, a slight balding man, responded immediately. "Yes, sir. Mr. McLeary's been expecting you. He's in the Silver Suite. Up the stairs, last door on the right. Here's your room key. Now, if you'll please sign the register." The clerk turned the guest book around to face Lee and offered him a pen and a key on a silver chain.