Baited (8 page)

What had initially seemed like a joke case had turned into a murder case. I broke it down piece by piece. The one thing that stuck out for me, having seen the crime scene, was the exact and obvious placement of the knife on the edge of the bathtub.
 

If Rich had sliced open his arm and his neck, could he have been able to set the knife out in plain view? Especially since he would have been bleeding profusely? If those were self-inflicted wounds, it seems more likely that the knife would have fallen into the tub. Or onto the bathmat.

And, how could the knife that Rich claimed was missing, turn up when JC—also missing—was the last person who’d had it?

Maybe JC had taken it home?

My mind flashed to the cuts on Cindy Jo’s hands and Rich’s warning about the extreme sharpness of his knife.

Maybe JC had it on his person when the drug running “bad dudes” I’d been warned about tracked JC down and took it as a trophy. When they found out that Rich had hired a private investigator to look into JC’s disappearance, possibly the bad dudes paid Rich a visit. And Rich had paid with his life.
 

The truth was, I didn’t know any of this for a fact—I was grasping at every available straw and coming up with a straw man.
 

But one thing was for sure, in either scenario; I’d bet Cindy Jo knew way more than she was telling. Logic dictated either she’d killed Rich herself, or she’d told the bad guys that Rich was digging into something he shouldn’t be and they took care of him.

The end result was the same; Rich Barber was dead in what, to me, was supposed to look like a suicide.

Yet I knew one detail the cops hadn’t figured out yet. I should’ve shared the information, but I’d been scolded numerous times in the past by Detective Mitch Jones about not telling the police how to do their jobs. So, I’d leave them to it. Let them figure it out on their own.

I had bigger fish to fry anyway.

****

Detective Jones released me and as soon as I was enclosed in the privacy of my car, I made a call.

“Hot Tips, this is Mandy. How can I help y’all?”

“Mandy. It’s Julie Collins. I met with Cindy Jo the other day?”

“Oh, you. The one with the slashed up hands. What can I do for you?”

“Cindy Jo and I got to talking and I never did get my manicure. Does she have any openings today?”

“’Fraid not, hon. It’s her regular day off.”

“Oh. Shoot. She works so hard and I know she’s so stressed out about JC being missing that I hope she’s doing something fun.”
Come on Mandy, take the bait.

“I don’t know how much fun it is for her, but she said she was headed down to Angostura to clean out JC’s boat. I think it makes her feel closer to him or something, because she’s been doin’ that a lot since he went missing.”

“The poor thing.” It hurt to choke those words out. “I imagine she took her babies with her?”

“Not this time. She dropped them off here at the salon about an hour ago.”

Mental high five. “That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mandy, taking care of her doggies for her.”

“It’s no trouble. They’re part of the family. Would you like me to schedule you for an appointment tomorrow?”

“That’d be great,” I lied. “The earlier the better.”

“Gotcha down at ten a.m.”

“Thanks. Bye now.” I hung up.
 

On autopilot, I zipped down Highway 79 toward Angostura. With the images of Rich Barber’s dead and bloated body on a flash and repeat circuit in my thoughts, all I could focus on was wondering if my cavalier attitude—not taking his warning about Cindy Jo seriously—had gotten a man murdered.
 

Before I knew it, I’d reached the north side boat ramp. With Rich’s boat key in one hand and my cell phone tucked in the back pocket of my capris, I boarded Rich’s boat. Sheer luck or not, the motor sputtered to life on the first try.
 

Angostura has a reputation for frequent, unexpected gusts of wind. Today was no exception; the gentle breeze turned harsh, whipping the water into a frothy mass of whitecaps. Cold spray stung my face as I pushed the gutless boat to its limit. I hadn’t seen another soul since I’d left the dock.
 

Then I saw JC’s red boat bobbing in the water like a lone cherry in a punchbowl.
 

A small figure stood on the prow.

Somehow seeing Cindy Jo in the flesh jarred the logic center of my brain. What the hell had I been thinking coming down here half-cocked? I realized not only was I alone, I was unarmed, and no one knew I was here. I’d broken the most basic PI rules.

Call Kevin, call Jimmer, call Martinez. Call the damn cops.

I grabbed my cell phone, but it read “no service.”
 

Adrenaline crashed through my system. That, coupled with fear, stirred up an extreme case of nausea.

No time to get seasick, Julie, get your head in the game.
 

I slowed the boat and hastily rigged up the bow fishing system, praying I’d attached the various lines in the right way. I slid the bow down beside the platform and made my approach.

Cindy Jo actually waved.

Maybe this would be all right.
 

But as I got closer, I realized she was waving a gun. I didn’t care what caliber, type or style of gun she held. It was a gun; a big, shiny gun, and she had it pointed directly at my head.
 

“Cut the engine and get your hands up where I can see ’em, Julie Collins,” she shouted cheerily. “Or I’ll blow a hole in you.”

I spread my arms wide, every muscle in my body pulled tight as a fisherman’s knot.

“I have a bone to pick with you.” Her cigarette bobbled in the corner of her mouth as she spoke. “Found out you don’t work for the insurance company.”

“I never claimed I did,” I yelled back, wishing we weren’t having this conversation at 100 decibels.
 

Might as well wish the Ranger would swing by this forgotten cove in his patrol boat and save your dumb butt.

As quickly as the wind blew in, it blew back out, leaving quiet, calm air beneath the gray gloom of the clouds. The lake’s surface became as smooth as glass.

Maybe the universe was on my side for a change.
 

“That’s better,” Cindy Jo said. “What are you doin’ out here, Miss
PI
? Lookin’ for clues?”

“Looking for you.”

“Why?”

“To find out if you know that Rich Barber is dead.”

She grunted and flicked her cigarette butt over the boat rail. It hissed as it hit the water. “So?”

“So. The clues lead to you.”

“You got nothin’ on me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I cautioned. “You planted the knife in Rich’s bathroom after you killed him.”

She gave me her smug attitude. “What makes you think it was me?”

“I didn’t at first. I considered the idea that you’d tipped off the mysterious drug guys you kept mentioning—the ones JC might’ve been working for. Possibly informing them that Rich knew more about what JC had been up to than he’d been letting on, including the bit about Rich hiring me to poke around. I’m pretty sure that’d make guys trying to keep their illegal business on the down low sit up and take notice. But that would bring
you
to their attention. Then I remembered you’d told me you’d had enough of drug dealers with your first husband. Which leads me…back to you. You killed JC. Rich suspected you did it, so you had to kill him, too.”
 

The look on Cindy Jo’s face—a mixture of annoyance and admiration—quickly turned arrogant . “Bad choice, Rich bragging to me that he’d hired you. He called me drunk as a skunk, saying you’d figured out that I’d killed JC.” Cindy Jo snorted. “Boy was Rich surprised to see me.”

Poor, sweet, stupid Rich. He’d been right to call Cindy Jo a psycho, but wrong to bait her like that. Cindy Jo’s confident smirk gave me a new direction. “Trying to make his death look like a suicide was clever.”
 

“I thought so.” She smiled prettily.

“Except for one thing.” I flashed my teeth at her in a non-smile. “All the wounds are on the left side of Rich’s body—those vicious slash marks on his left arm and the nick in his carotid on the left side of his neck.”

“So?” she said again.

“Rich Barber is left handed. The marks on his body should’ve been on the right side, not the left. Once the cops figure that out they’ll know it was murder, not suicide.”

She stared at me dumbfounded and then she snapped, “This whole thing has turned into a goddamned mess.”

The boat caught a gentle swell and I slipped toward the loaded bow, still several feet away. “What whole thing?”

Cindy Jo didn’t answer immediately. “After you left my office I realized I hadn’t checked with our insurance company about the policy on this boat—I didn’t want to seem too eager. I already knew since my name wasn’t on the title, there was no way I could
sell
the damn thing. But I also knew Rich’s name wasn’t on the title yet either. I figured I could sink the stupid boat and claim it was an accident, so I’d collect some cash for all my trouble, right?” Her chilling laugh echoed across the water. “Wrong. JC never took out a policy. On a fifty-thousand dollar boat.
What
a moron.”

“Where is JC now?”

She angled her chin over her shoulder toward a blue cooler, roughly the size of a portable meat locker, at the back of the boat. “The last of him is in there”—she grinned manically—“in pieces.”

My jaw dropped even as my stomach lodged in my throat. “You killed him? Over a fishing boat?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she sneered. “It was never about the damn boat. I killed him because he skinned and tortured my dog.”

“What?”
 

“JC killed my poodle, Moe. I told him to get rid of the boat or I’d call the cops and turn him in for drug dealing. Believe me, I did it before with my first husband. You bet your ass JC changed his tune PDQ—at least on the outside. He acted all sweet and sorry, cookin’ meals, cleanin’ house, takin’ care of me, especially when Moe went missing. But on the inside he was scheming like a son-of-a-bitch.”

I pretended to lose my footing on a rough wave and slid closer to my weapon. Luckily, Cindy Jo didn’t appear to notice.
 

“Moe hadn’t gone missing. He killed her.” Her eyes turned a flat, lifeless brown. “Truth was, that sick bastard carved up my dog, my beloved baby, and literally fed her to me on a silver platter. I didn’t know it wasn’t grilled chicken until he gave me that mean little laugh, the one he saved for when he’d pulled something over on me.” A sob left her throat, the hand holding the gun wavered. “Then he informed me, in that cocky tone, he was done taking orders. The time had come to
fish or cut bait
.”

My confusion was apparent because she clarified, “It’s some stupid fisherman’s saying. He was leaving me. I didn’t care about that, but he wasn’t getting away with killing my dog. So I acted fast and decided
he’d
become one with the damn fish he loved so much. As bait.”

“How did you...?” I’d become so grossed out by the idea of JC’s body parts in the cooler, not to mention grilled poodle steaks, that I couldn’t even finish my thought, let alone form a coherent sentence.

“Chop him into bits?” Cindy Jo asked. “My daddy was a rancher. Taught me once you take the head off something, it’s just meat from the neck on down.” She frowned briefly at the cuts on her palm. “I was pretty rusty. Been a long time since I’d done any butchering. Ended up slicing myself.”

My stomach roiled but I snapped back to attention. No way did I want to become another one of Cindy Jo’s fillets. “Weren’t you afraid you’d get caught dumping his body?”

She looked at me as if I had air bubbles in my head. “I’ve been bringing JC out here a few pieces at a time. Minus the heart and liver. Those I fed to the dogs. Appropriate, don’t you think? Since he proved himself to be a heartless, lily-livered bastard?”

Keep her talking. There has to be another boat around here.

I managed to hook my foot under the bow without tangling the line. The second Cindy Jo got tired of straight-arming that gun at me I’d have her.
 

“Where is his truck?” I asked.
 

“I dumped it on the rez. Probably being lived in by a family of five by now.” She stared at me thoughtfully. “Nothin’ personal, but I have to shoot you. In self-defense, of course.”

“They’ll never believe you.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I did some checking on you, Miz Collins. Seems you aren’t choosy about which men slip between your sheets. No one will question my claim to the cops that JC was running drugs, after you came out here to threaten me to keep my mouth shut because you’re doing the Hombres’ dirty work. You do know who Tony Martinez is, and what he does, don’t you?”

That catty remark about Tony didn’t irritate me nearly as much as her comment about the rez. Cindy Jo’s attitude was typical of the locals that considered the Indian reservations nothing more than a dumping ground for things—and people—they no longer needed. “I don’t deserve to die and neither did Rich.”