Dangerous Refuge (2 page)
Abruptly the stone came out. Nothing but black dust and darkness filled the opening behind.
Tanner’s first thought was robbery followed by murder. He told himself again that it wasn’t a crime scene.
Times have been real hard on small ranchers. Lorne probably traded in the gold to keep himself in beans and bread, and pay taxes, and keep the horses in winter hay.
He left the stone on the mantelpiece, a reminder to check the area again later. Then he went through the small house, looking with a cop’s eyes. No signs of a search. Nothing out of place. No clothes scattered around. Old wicker basket holding dirty laundry. No notes or doctor’s appointment slips or reminders of any kind.
No signs of anything but an old man living alone, keeping up the ranch for a family he hated and a tomorrow he wouldn’t see.
When Tanner was satisfied that nothing was out of place, he stripped the double bed and put fresh sheets on from the extras kept in a steamer trunk in the corner of the room. He was too old to sleep in the barn like he had when he was a kid. He started to kick off his shoes, then realized he wasn’t fooling anybody, most of all himself.
He couldn’t sleep here.
Too many memories. Too many regrets.
Too many questions.
Telling himself he shouldn’t even as he punched in the numbers on his cell phone, he waited for it to ring.
Nothing happened.
No cell, idiot.
Then he froze. The sound outside was familiar and wrong. Someone was driving up the dirt road toward the house.
Now what? Isn’t being stuck in Refuge again bad enough?
The sound came closer.
His car was still out front, pinging and hot from the drive to the ranch. No way to hide it, or himself. Whoever was coming now was either a close friend of Lorne’s who could barge in at any time or someone who had heard about the owner’s death and wanted to give the place a quick toss.
He snapped the light off and waited.
There was a crunch of dirt and gravel as the car stopped on the far side of Tanner’s car.
“Hello?” called a woman’s voice. “Anyone home? Dingo? Here, boy. C’mon, I’ve got treats for you.”
He recognized the voice. No male under eighty was likely to forget that husky sigh of tangled sheets and sex. It was the woman on the answering machine.
Hand on the doorknob, he waited, wondering if she was a thief, a murderer, a neighbor—or all three.
C
alifornia plates,
Shaye thought, looking at the Ford Crown Victoria.
Someone didn’t just stop by like me to check on Dingo and the animals. We’re close to the border here, but not that close.
She took another step from her Bronco and whistled. Or tried to. Her throat was dry. She didn’t like remembering the last time she had been here, the vultures and body that was both Lorne and not Lorne.
No single bark of greeting from Dingo. No lights coming on to welcome her.
Yet there was a car here, its engine still radiating heat into the night.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
She called loud enough to disturb the cows at the close end of the pasture. They rustled and lowed in response. Motionless, she strained to make out a more human sound. All she heard was her pounding heartbeat, blood rushing through her ears like waves on the shore. Fear slid coolly down her spine.
Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever is here is probably asleep.
Swallowing hard, she walked up to the door. She didn’t want to poke around the barn checking the horses and get shot as an intruder. She rapped hard on the wooden door.
Silently, it opened into darkness.
She made a startled sound. A black shape loomed just beyond the door.
The room light snapped on, backlighting the shape. A man. Taller than she was and then some. Not skinny, not fat. Strong and at ease, yet somehow . . . dangerous.
“You’re Shaye,” he said.
The sound was barely above a growl.
“Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Tanner Davis, Lorne’s nephew.”
“He never mentioned any relations,” she said warily. She wished he would back up into the light so she could see him better. Or back up, period.
“He wasn’t a talkative man,” Tanner said.
“It must run in the family.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I just wanted to check on Dingo and the other animals.”
“Very neighborly of you.”
“You make it sound like an accusation,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. If he just weren’t so damn big. “Since you’re here, I won’t worry about the livestock. You do know how to take care of the animals, right?”
“Yes.”
The man shifted, turning just enough that she could see some of the angles of his face. His eyes were still shadowed. He looked as tired as she felt.
“Ms. Townsend. Or is it Mrs.?”
“Ms.”
“I’ve had a hell of a day getting up here from L.A.”
She made a face at the mention of the city. “Los Angeles? I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Beats a one-horse town like Refuge.”
“You should meet my mother,” she muttered. Then, more clearly, “I happen to love Refuge.”
“That’s nice.” His voice was rough. “Anything else on your mind?”
“I just wanted to help out.”
“I’m sure if Lorne was here, he’d appreciate it,” Tanner said. “I’m here for as long as it takes to settle his estate. Today sucked and tomorrow doesn’t look much better. Go home. You look like you could use the sleep.”
“I’m sure you’ll be free to go back to your chosen hell real soon,” she said before she could think better of it. “Lorne was in the middle of a deal with the Conservancy I work for. We were going to hold the land in trust while he worked it until he—”
“Died,” Tanner cut in. “The old buzzard has punched that particular button. Game over.”
She gritted her teeth. “I won’t bother telling you I’m sorry for your loss. Obviously you didn’t lose anything but gas for the trip here.”
Though Tanner didn’t move, he seemed to get bigger. “Lady, I’m a homicide cop. In a homicide capital. I spend too much time talking to people about how they coulda, woulda, shoulda done something to or for their loved one who recently died. Guess how much good the hand-wringing does?”
Shaye turned her back and headed for her car. Tanner was worse than Lorne had ever been.
But the land was still incredible. Somehow, she had to save it, despite Lorne’s looming, abrupt nephew.
She stopped, turned back, and asked, “What are your plans for the ranch?”
“When I decide what business it is of yours, I’ll let you know.”
“Did you train to be rude or is it a special gift?”
“I deal with corpses and bureaucrats all day. The dead don’t care if you push them around and desk jockeys expect it.” He raked a hand through his short hair. “Come back some other time when I haven’t had back-to-back shifts and an eight-hour drive. Then we can have a discussion like civilized human beings.”
She started to say that she doubted that, but he was still talking.
“Dingo is at the vet. They don’t know if he’ll make it.”
“The vet? What happened?”
“Rat poison, likely.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dingo,” she said. “And Lorne didn’t keep rat poison around here. He lectured me on it when I brought a box over because the cats weren’t keeping up with the mice.”
Tanner waited, still blocking the door with his big body. He seemed to expect something from her. She didn’t have a clue as to what and she was too tired to play games. Like him, she had been up for the last twenty-four hours.
She turned back toward her car, then remembered. “The mineral lick for the cattle is low.”
Silence answered.
“And you don’t care about it, either. Gotcha,” she said.
Tanner stood without moving as she climbed into the old Bronco and drove off without looking back or waving.
No wonder my captain wants me to go to charm school,
Tanner thought, yawning wide enough to put his fist in his mouth.
Too bad. I’m a cop, not a politician. Civilization is always backed by force. The rest is just hot air.
But coming out of Shaye’s mouth, words sound damn good. Bet Lorne loved to have her hanging on his every word.
Were some of those words about gold coins?
Tanner turned and focused on the small black hollow in the fireplace.
The coins were still gone.
And his cop instincts still hummed.
He replaced the stone before he went outside, locking the door behind him. As he got to his car, he pulled out his cell phone. Still no signal. He opened the door, sat behind the wheel, and felt every day of his thirty-six years. Tossing the cell phone onto the passenger seat, he drove until he got a signal. Then he stopped in the middle of the dirt road and called one of the few people he really liked.
The phone rang only once before it was picked up.
“Brothers,” the voice said.
In his mind, Tanner could see the other man crammed behind a desk too small for his NBA-size frame.
“Kinda late for you to be at work, isn’t it?” Tanner asked.
The chuckle that came back over the line reminded him that there was more to his job than body bags and death. Some people were good. Dave Brothers was one of them.
“Hey, T-Bone. Bureaucracy never sleeps. You too much in the doghouse to make a personal appearance?” Brothers asked.
“Speaks the dude who gets promoted for breathing,” Tanner shot back.
“It’s my pretty face. It looks so fine behind a desk.”
Tanner laughed. Brothers was the only desk jockey he actually liked.
“You’re just pissy because I get to go home when it’s five o’clock,” Brothers said. “Well. Usually. At least I don’t have to spend midnights on a nasty crime scene wondering why this mook shot that one. So what do you need that has you calling at this ungodly hour?”
“You saying I only call when I want something?”
“I like a man who knows himself.”
“That’s because I’m the only one who can stand me.”
Brothers laughed richly. “Maybe you’ll grow on the new captain.”
“I’m trying.” Tanner stared at the darkness in the rearview mirror. His childhood was locked up back there, but he didn’t live there anymore. “Look, I’ll be straight. Thanks to union intervention, I’m on ‘paid personal leave for an indefinite time not to exceed twenty days,’ which just happens to be the amount of vacation time I have.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Assumed it was window dressing for you pitching a fit about your extended morgue tour.”
“Not this time. My uncle died.”
“Whoa. That didn’t get passed around with the doughnuts. What can I do for you, my man?”
“I need some coins traced—twenty-dollar gold pieces. Specifically, 1932 Saint-Gaudens. I don’t know how many there were. I never had the chance to count them. They were in a roll, along with an unknown number of loose Gaudens. Probably less than thirty, total. Since you have more connections than the power grid, I hoped you could tell me if they’re as rare as I think they are, or if I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Sounds unusual to me. Liquidating the estate?”
“No. The coins are missing from my uncle’s stuff. He could have sold them, but I want to be sure. You know how I am about loose ends.”
“Spelled G-a-u-d-e-n-s?” Brothers asked.
“I guess. 1932. I’m certain on the date.”
“I’ll run pawnshops and coin dealers and let you know.”
“Thanks, D.”
“You and your loose-ends fetish saved my ass when we were on patrol together. You got a lifetime of favors coming. If I find anything, I’ll call or text you.”
Brothers hung up before Tanner could thank him again.
He put the phone on the seat beside him and drove toward Refuge. Nothing to do now but find a motel and wait for tomorrow morning, when Lorne’s lawyer opened up shop.
Wonder what the tall blonde with the haunted brown eyes is doing now, and who she’s doing it with.
He shrugged. Shaye was none of his business.
If that changed, he would care. Until then, she would remain just one more question mark in a world that already had too many unanswered questions.
And deaths.
A
t precisely nine o’clock, Tanner parked near the office building where Stan Millerton worked. The Millerton Professional Building stuck up like a modern middle finger between a sagging old Basque restaurant on one side and on the other side a low-rise casino that promised single-deck blackjack for only five dollars. The casino’s neon sign flicked on and off, buzzing noisily, but otherwise unnoticeable in the sunlight.
For Refuge, this was prime commercial real estate territory.
Looks like being a lawyer pays a lot better than ranching, but that’s hardly news.
A sharply dressed receptionist waited just inside the building, ensuring that visitors had business within. At her back hung a huge landscape showing idyllic fields of cattle grazing near tidy barns and outbuildings in a lush valley ringed by ridges of friendly, snow-topped mountains. It was beautiful and would be forever beautiful and bountiful.
Whoever painted that never tried to wring a living from the unpredictable land,
Tanner thought, amused.
As he walked up to the receptionist, she stopped murmuring into the wireless headset she wore.
“Tanner Davis to see Stan Millerton,” he said.
“Are you expected?”
“I’m here. He’s here. Put us together.”
“I see.” She blinked. “I’ll let him know.”
Tanner didn’t say any more. Rude came too easily to a homicide cop.
Well, I can pretend that I’m not babysitting the room-temperature class, at least. And that won’t last forever, right? Once the captain rotates out, I should be back in the clear.
The anticipation of going back on the beat surprised him. He’d been fighting city hall so long that he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the actual work.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirrored glass that separated him from the receptionist’s area. He looked as bad as the night he had just spent. His sleep had been restless, filled with uneasy dreams and empty darkness. He’d been playing cards and there was something on the table that he didn’t want to lose, but every hand came up short.
A dead Lorne was much harder to ignore than a live one. Even when Tanner slept, old memories and new questions poked like sharp, insistent needles under his skin.
The receptionist came back into the lobby. A middle-aged man with short, graying hair, polished loafers, and a crisp suit followed her. His hand shot out with vigor before his receptionist could do more than open her mouth. He looked like the type who dusted off after walking in from the paved parking lot.
“Mr. Davis,” Millerton said. “Pleased to meet you in person.”
Tanner shook hands automatically. “Sorry I missed you yesterday. Accident down in the Owens Valley cost me more than two hours.”
“No problem,” Millerton said. “My condolences on your uncle’s death.”
Tanner made a noncommittal sound.
“Come back to my office. We have a lot to discuss.”
I hope not. I hate paperwork.
Silently Tanner followed the lawyer to his office. Everything from the lush rug beneath his feet to the framed pictures on the wall stated that the lawyer was a big man in a small town.
Tough to imagine Lorne dealing with this guy.
Millerton waved Tanner into a leather chair close to a desk that was big enough to sleep four. “Now, Mr. Davis—”
“Tanner,” he cut in. “Every time you call me Mr. Davis, I look around for my dad or my uncle.”
“Tanner, of course. Coffee?”
“No thanks. I tanked up at the Corner Café.”
Millerton winced. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve never had worse.”
Tanner just shrugged and let himself sink into the chair. “Then you’ve never had precinct coffee.”
The lawyer looked startled, then cleared his throat. “Lorne’s death was a sudden thing for everyone.”
“It always is,” Tanner said.
“Uh, yes, of course.”
Millerton took the hint that small talk wasn’t necessary with this client. He picked a fresh manila folder off a stack on his desk. Inside the folder was a pile of documents. Many of the papers looked old, but the ones on top were new.
As the lawyer stirred through them, Tanner read upside down. Another habit of his past as an investigator. Nothing in particular caught his eye.
“Are you in a suitable state to discuss matters of the will?” Millerton asked, his manner that of a man who kept smelling salts and boxes of tissues for his clients.
Tanner nodded curtly. He’d been around death too much to be intimidated by it.
Millerton nodded. “Yes, of course. As you probably know, you’re the only living relative. Normally this would be a cut-and-dried estate to handle.”
Silently Tanner waited to hear why things weren’t normal.
“Up until a few weeks ago, you were the sole beneficiary,” Millerton said.
Tanner’s black eyebrows rose. “Huh.”
“Lorne made it clear that his holdings would go to blood before they ever went to the state of Nevada. Even so . . . he was discussing an agreement with the Ranch Conservancy just recently.”
“Is that like the Sierra Club?”
“Not exactly,” Millerton said as he passed the monogrammed papers across the expanse of the desk. It flashed gold, just like the invitation had. “How long has it been since you left Refuge?”
“A long time.” He skimmed over the document quickly.
Millerton grunted. It came out judgmental. “A lot has changed since you left. Small family ranches are almost gone because it’s just too damn hard to compete in the global market.”
“And not many kids want to work twenty-four/seven for low wages, high taxes, and guaranteed uncertainty,” Tanner added, scanning quickly.
The desertion of the next generation had been a common theme of Lorne’s conversations. It was also true, particularly when there was a small pie divided by a growing number of family members.
“A lot of what used to be family ranches have been snapped up by San Francisco or Vegas developers and turned into vanity ranches or luxury neighborhoods,” Millerton said.
“Gentrification hits Refuge.” Tanner thought of all the For Sale and Commercially Zoned signs he had seen along the highway. “Looks like an uphill push.”
“It’s changed the place some. Enough to make old-timers like your uncle cranky. The Ranch Conservancy is trying to slow down the pace of change. They take possession of a ranch on the contingency that the families keep on ranching or farming and preserve the character of the place.”
“And they do this out of the goodness of their hearts?” Tanner’s tone was level. “Nice dream.”
“And you’re not a dreamer?”
“Look, my father left a long time back. There wasn’t enough ranch for both him and his brother. My mother couldn’t wait to get out. A love of the small-town ranching life doesn’t get passed down to kids like eye color or the family name. A hundred years ago there weren’t many choices in how to make a living.” Tanner shrugged. “Now there are.”
“Well, the Conservancy thinks the small-ranch way of life is worth saving. I’ve helped them negotiate many transfers and trusts. There are plenty of people who think the same way. Even Lorne did, at the end.”
At least until a couple days ago, if that torn invitation meant anything.
“Amazing.” Tanner meant it. “He wasn’t a changeable, much less charitable, sort of man. But good for him. So, when does the Conservancy move in?”
Millerton fussed with the edges of the file. “Uh, that’s the problem. Lorne changed his mind a few nights ago. He wanted to change his will, too. Cut the Conservancy out.”
“Why?”
Millerton closed the folder. “I don’t know. If I had to guess, one of the women over there pissed him off. He was ranting about a ‘she’ who thought he was ‘dumb as a sack of hair.’ Last time I saw him was the morning after the regular Tuesday night poker game. And he was none too happy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first all-nighter he pulled over a poker table,” Tanner said, remembering. “High-stakes games?”
“High enough for Refuge. We’re not Las Vegas or Monaco.”
“Everyone still play in the back of the Stampede Bar?”
Laughing, Millerton shook his head. “Haven’t played there since it flooded more than ten years ago. Now we go to the Silver Lode Lodge. There’s, oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty people who come in and out of the group, usually only ten at any time. I’m not what you’d call a regular. Lorne was. He loved cleaning out men with deeper pockets than his.”
“He loved being on top, period,” Tanner said.
“You know him better than I expected,” the lawyer said wryly. “Anyway, he soured on the Conservancy deal. Said he wanted nothing to do with it. He marched into the poker game and demanded that I change his will back to the original. I told him to go home and sober up. He cussed me out but good and left.”
Tanner didn’t doubt it.
“When I got here the next morning,” the lawyer continued, “he was camped out in his truck in the parking lot, waiting. Still dressed in his poker clothes. He was sober and stubborn as a field of mules, so I agreed to change his will to make you the sole heir again—ranch house, outbuildings, land, stock, water rights, and national forest grazing leases.”
“Bet that went down with the Conservancy like a straight shot of gasoline,” Tanner said.
Millerton shook his head. “It doesn’t help you, either. There will be legal reviews. There’s a good chance that Lorne will be ruled intestate, in which case everything will go to the state of Nevada.”
“Sounds like I wasted a long drive.”
“I really can’t say. Legally it’s rather a complex question. If Lorne hadn’t made any amendments to the old will, then it’d be pretty ironclad, assuming no outstanding debts or liens or such.”
“Is there a document that shows Lorne’s intentions to change his will to give the land to the Conservancy?”
“I believe there was a witnessed handshake, sort of a deal to make a deal, which would be finalized at a big party. Then came his verbal, sober instructions to me Wednesday morning, plus a handwritten statement to revert to his original will. I gathered that he was writing his instructions to me when he saw that his dog was sick, so he just tore off the sheet he was writing on and headed to the vet, then waited for me until nine. I have those handwritten instructions, and the new will he requested, but he never came back that afternoon to sign the final document. It’s in a legal limbo.”
And who benefits most from that?
Tanner thought automatically. What he said aloud was, “So he died after he left his instructions with you and before he could sign the final will?”
“Or he changed his mind again before he died. Nobody knows except Lorne. If I were the Conservancy, I’d certainly argue that case.”
For a small town, this place is sure crawling with lawyers,
Tanner thought. And all he knew about the law began and ended in the criminal codes. “What did the coroner say about time of death?”
“I don’t think the death has been certified yet. Sometime yesterday or the night before that, but it’s unclear. Only thing I know for certain is that it happened before this could be set out in legal language.”
Millerton took a sheet of yellow paper from the folder and handed it to Tanner.
The paper had been torn raggedly at the top. Tanner would have bet good money that the tablet the sheet had come from was on the counter next to the phone at the ranch house. Lorne had written the words so vigorously that the pencil had broken several times, leaving impatient gouges on the paper. This was not the work of a drunk. The language was firm and straight to the point. His uncle had been coldly angry, but well in control of himself.
Like he’d been at his brother’s graveside.
Just because your father walked away from his heritage doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Cities will kill you, boy.
That was all Lorne had said, and it had been more than enough.
“This letter is pretty clear to me,” Tanner said. “And it looks like his handwriting.”
“Unsigned, it won’t be admissible. Perhaps as an indicator of intent, but it’s not a legal document and as such can’t automatically replace the witnessed, verbal agreement that Lorne previously had with the Conservancy.”
“Interesting,” Tanner said. “Neither verbal nor written is definitive, so they’re both discarded and the state gets the ranch?”
“The judge will probably rule in a few weeks. Until then . . .”
“Which way is the judge likely to rule?”
“Nothing’s sure. Depends which judge is assigned. Some will rubber-stamp this for the citizens’ benefit and a couple will let the two parties fight it out. How much money do you want to spend to hold on to the ranch?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet that the Conservancy has deeper pockets than an honest L.A. cop.”
The lawyer frowned. “Unless you want to simply surrender your claim to the land and the water and lease rights, I’d advise you to stay here and look after your interests as best you can. The personal effects from the house are yours, no question. The truck, too. But without the land, I doubt you want the livestock, much less poor old Dingo.”
“Did the dog die?”
“Warren is a good vet. He’ll pull him through just in time to be put down at the pound.”
Tanner shook his head. “Who do I talk to at the Conservancy?”
Besides the woman I pissed off last night. Nice going, Mr. Charm.
“I can’t advise that you talk to them. Not without someone looking after your interests.”
“I’m a big boy. I’ll look out for my own rights,” Tanner said. “I’m betting the Conservancy is in the phone book.”
“There’s more of Lorne in you than just his big bones and eye color,” the lawyer said ruefully. “Shaye Townsend is the Conservancy’s liaison with the ranchers. I understand she works all over the state and even on the California side of things, talking to ranchers about the Conservancy and what it could do for them.”
Tanner tried not to wince at the name. “What’s she like?”