Pursuit of Justice (4 page)

“I’ve got the number for the ranch and the sheriff,” Vic said, opening the car door. “I’ll get one of them to open the gate.”

A few moments later, he shook his head and walked back to the car. “The call box doesn’t work. Imagine that.”

Bella pulled her phone from her purse to call Sheriff Adams. Rats. No connectivity. She turned to Vic. “Can you call out?”

He glanced at his BlackBerry. “Nope.”

“We could walk, but I don’t want my rear filled with buckshot.” What a way to begin the investigation.

“Neither do I want to carry our equipment or leave it behind.”

Groaning, she backed onto the paved road and headed back the six miles to Ballinger. Once inside the city limits, she parked at a feed store and saw she had the ability to call out. Again she pressed in the sheriff’s number.

“The gate’s locked on the 67 entrance,” she said after he answered.

“I entered on the west side, where there isn’t a gate. Same entrance where the victims entered. I’ll get Carr to open the gate on 67.”

“Thanks. We’re on our way.” Bella exchanged an exasperated look with Vic and drove back toward the High Butte’s gate. She drove slower this time, taking in what she could see of the ranch to the right of her. In the distance a butte rose up to meet a cloudless sky. Many of the ranches had wind power farms to generate electricity, and Sullivan’s property had them too. Frankly, she thought they were ugly.

A sharp bang startled her.
A blowout.
Bella lifted her foot from the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel while maneuvering the car to the right side of the road. The left rear wheel bumped metal to the pavement as the car slowed to a stop, and she turned off the engine.

“Someone just shot out your tire.” Vic pulled his weapon from his pocket.

Another bang leveled the front left tire. “A rifle.” She leaned toward the right side of the car and retrieved the Glock 26 from her ankle holster. She lowered the windows and strained her ears, listening for more rifle fire. Only the quiet sounds of birds and insects met her.

Vic slowly lifted the handle on the passenger side, then kicked it open. He peered in all directions. All seemed quiet. “I don’t see a thing,” he whispered.

Seconds passed with her pounding heart keeping her company. So they’d been followed. A crow soared above them and called out to another. Cat and mouse was not her favorite game.

She gathered up her phone in her palm and hoped for a signal this close to town. Redialing Sheriff Adams, she realized a little good luck would fit the bill. He answered on the second ring.

“Special Agent Jordan here. We’ve got a little problem.” Bella peered up slightly through the driver’s side window. A faint dry breeze met her. “Someone’s shot out my tires.”

“Are you two okay?”

Until I run into Brandt Richardson.
“Yeah. Fine. Wondering where the shooter is hiding. The shots came from the property to the north of the road.”

“Any more shots?”

“No. He’s had time, unless he only meant to scare us.” Which did scare her a little. No way would she confess that to a twenty-year seasoned agent.

“Where are you?”

She slid her finger across the GPS portion of her phone. “About three miles out of Ballinger.”

“Sit tight. We’ll be right there.”

The longer Bella waited for Sheriff Adams, the more restless she became.
This is ridiculous.
“Know what, Vic? I’m not sitting here waiting for the county sheriff’s department to save my hide.”

“And I don’t plan to read in the local newspaper about how the sheriff’s department saved two FBI agents.”

She caught his attention. “Our egos are bad.”

“But we’re honest. Are you calling your supervisor about the shooting?”

Bella didn’t want to inform Swartzer about the shots, but she was supposed to report the damage done to a government vehicle.

“I will later. I want to check out the tires first.”

Vic eased out the passenger side, using the door and the car as a shield. Bella crawled over the console and followed suit. A few head of Black Angus cattle grazed on the High Butte, unaffected by the rifle fire. Across the road, a clump of trees stood about six hundred feet from the car. Thick enough to hide the shooter, especially if he had a high-powered rifle. If he’d wanted to pick them off, he’d have done so before now.

“I sure would like to know if those bullets are still in my tires,” she said. “The rear is metal to the road, but the front tire should have the bullet.”

“I can take a look.”

“No thanks. I’ll do it.” She pulled a pocketknife from her purse and proceeded to the front driver’s side of her car with the knife in one hand and her Glock in the other. Vic covered her. Kneeling, she studied the terrain again to the left. Nothing, not even a breeze. She saw where the bullet had lodged in the tire, but it was too deep for her pocketknife.

Hearing a siren, she and Vic stood to view the approaching flashing lights of the county sheriff’s car. The vehicle kicked up dirt and dust behind it like a posse on the move. Behind that one was another county sheriff’s car and then a red Ford F-250 King Ranch Crew Cab. One of the other agents had just purchased one, and he’d given every agent in the field office a tour.

The deputies emerged from their cars with their guns drawn. For Bella, a heavy dose of frustration and embarrassment lingered in the dry air. What a way to begin an assignment.

Bella and Vic stepped out from behind the open door and walked toward the sheriff. The man who emerged from the driver’s side was anything but the stereotypical country law enforcer. Sheriff Darren Adams stood nearly six feet three, was tanned, and was definitely in shape. No spare tire there. Definitely the daredevil type.

She stuck out her hand. “Sheriff Adams, good to meet you. Special Agent Bella Jordan. This is Special Agent Vic Anderson.”

She reached for her creds from the back of her waist, and Vic pulled his from his jeans pocket.

The sheriff gripped her hand lightly and made good eye contact. He gave a cursory glance at their creds. “Looks like the FBI needs to do a little field training in West Texas.”

Ouch. That hurt.
“You’re probably right. Thanks for coming when you did.”

The sheriff scanned the area around them. “Any more activity?”

“No.”

“And you
are
okay?” He peered at one, then the other.

“Oh yes.” Bella turned to view her FBI-issued car. It looked sad, reminding her of one of the vehicles in the animated
Cars
movie. “I could have flipped it.”

“Could be the shooter wanted you to lose control.”

“Then he lost round one.” But she figured the shooter wanted them to understand they were being watched, and he probably got a good chuckle out of the episode.

The sheriff motioned to two officers beside him and pointed in the direction where the shots had been fired. “Take a look behind those trees in the pasture.” He shook his head at the crippled condition of her car.
Deflated
had taken on a whole new meaning. The driver from the pickup strode toward them.

“The bullet should be embedded in the front tire,” she said. “I’m anxious to trace the rifle to see if it’s the same as the murder weapon.”

“Let’s hope not,” the jean-clad man said. He held out his hand, and she got a glimpse of his face under a cowboy hat: clear blue eyes, lashes too long for a man, thick blond hair. Shock rode on the wind as recognition swept over her.

“You’re Carr Sullivan.”

“That’s right.” He smiled and shook her hand. He wore a pale yellow shirt with silver snaps, faded jeans, and dusty boots. A portable radio and a cell phone were clipped on his belt. In the five years he’d lived here, he’d definitely learned to fit in. He stuck out his hand to Vic and introduced himself. “In better circumstances, I’d have welcomed you to Runnels County with a barbecue.”

Some things never changed. He still liked to party. “In better circumstances, I’d not be here.”

He nodded at Bella. “That’s a good one.”

She didn’t particularly care for his confidence, more akin to cockiness. “You have a pretty good attitude for a man suspected of murder.”

“I’m innocent, and I’m out to prove it.”

She caught Sheriff Adams’s attention. “I assume Mr. Sullivan has been with you the whole time?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The sheriff turned to Sullivan. “Special Agent Jordan is the lead on this investigation.”

Sullivan looked none too happy. So he had a problem with women too. They were going to get along just fine.

“What can you tell us about what happened?” Sheriff Adams stuck his thumbs inside his belt. Now he looked like a cowboy law enforcer.

“Nothing to tell. We left Ballinger and drove back toward the gate. Didn’t see a single vehicle.”

“But someone saw you.”

“Someone had to have an idea about what we were doing.” Could the sheriff be behind this? After all, he was the only one who knew when she and Vic would be on the road toward the High Butte.

“Possibly having someone watch your hotel and phone ahead when you left,” the sheriff said.

She and Vic were supposed to conduct surveillance work, not the shooter. “I hadn’t noted anyone following us, so your explanation is probably right. What do you suggest about my car?”

“I can tow it to the county sheriff’s department in Ballinger. We need that bullet.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The lack of wheels and being at the mercy of a county sheriff plummeted her spirits.
Nothing like being humbled, and I deserve it.
Too many times she took on a brisk attitude simply because of her gender and her stature. “Should have brought my bicycle.”

Sheriff Adams chuckled. “I’ll get your car back as quickly as I can.”

“Are you returning to Sullivan’s ranch?” Bella said.

“I am.”

“Good. We can spend some time going over the investigation.” She turned to Carr. “Mr. Sullivan, I have a lot of questions to ask you.” She wasn’t about to ask him if he had an attorney.

“Call me Carr. In fact, why don’t you ride back to the ranch with me? We can start the questioning en route.”

Did he think she’d lost her mind along with her ride? “No thank you. I really need some one-on-one time with Sheriff Adams.”

“And the idea of riding with a suspect doesn’t appeal to you?” Carr’s words twisted toward sarcasm. “Would you prefer that Agent Anderson ride with us?”

“Easy, Carr.” Sheriff Adams’s voice rumbled low. “Special Agent Jordan has a job to do. We all want this over with and the real killer found.”

Bella’s opinion of the sheriff raised a notch. No, two notches. The caverns beneath Carr’s eyes indicated he hadn’t slept for a few nights. She wouldn’t want a friend of hers suspected of murder.
Friends on the edge.
A twinge of compassion swept through her for these two men. How far would the sheriff go to protect Carr? A good question, and she didn’t have an answer.

“Mr. Sullivan—I mean, Carr—I understand the past few days have been a nightmare for you. Three murder victims killed with a rifle belonging to you—”

“Stolen.”

“Yes, sir. No doubt if the bullet in the tire of my car is from your rifle, then the suspicions about you are greatly diminished.”

“Will I be exonerated?”

“That will happen when substantial evidence points elsewhere.”

Carr rubbed his forehead. “I understand. Never thought I’d be involved in a murder case. Neither did I ever think I’d find dead bodies on my ranch.”

Was his regret staging? “We’ve got to talk about all of it.” Bella looked at Sheriff Adams. “I changed my mind; I’ll ride with him. Do you have reports for me to see?”

“In my car.”

She could examine them later, and Vic had already indicated a need to follow up on the work done the previous day. Right now her prime suspect was tired and upset. And under those physical and mental stresses, he might let something slip.

“I need to get my equipment first.”

“Would you like some help?” Carr said.

She was definitely in West Texas.

Chapter 4

Carr slowly drove Highway 67 toward the High Butte, sparse trees and grazing livestock dotting the landscape on either side of the road. He hadn’t expected a woman, especially a petite one, but her feisty attitude made up for her tiny frame. If he chose to cast an admiring glance, he did like auburn hair and deep, sea green eyes.

What am I doing admiring a woman who’s investigating me for murder?

The last two nights without sleep had affected him worse than he thought. Carr’s temples began to throb at the thought of the evidence stacked against him. With Agent Jordan sitting in his truck, she could watch his every move and analyze him. He imagined she was weighing his body language, every word he said, and mulling over his past record as a high roller who had a nasty temper. If he were in her shoes, he’d clamp on the handcuffs.

He swallowed what seemed like a boulder and forged ahead. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry.” He gripped the steering wheel. “I know this situation looks bleak. But I didn’t kill those men. I want you to know I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my innocence.”

He assumed she’d heard a lot of innocent pleas from criminals who were guilty as sin—and murder was a sin. And here he was trying to persuade her that the evidence against him was a setup. What could he say or do to convince her that the authorities suspected the wrong man?

“Did the men come to see you prior to the shootings?” Her voice rang soft, sweet, as if she cared about his stress. Obviously she’d learned how to use compassion to wile a suspect’s confession.

“No. One of them called me, Daniel Kegley. That was a shocker, since only a handful of people have my cell phone number. Don’t know how he got the number, but if someone wants something bad enough, I know the information can be found.” Carr moistened his lips. “Kegley said he represented a team of three men who had proof the Spider Rock treasure was buried on my ranch. They wanted to dig for it and would give me 15 percent of the findings.” He reached for his can of Mountain Dew, not knowing what he needed more—the caffeine rush or the sugar to fill the empty pit in the bottom of his stomach. “I turned them down. Told them to stay away from my ranch, or I’d report them to the sheriff.”

“How did Kegley respond?”

“Told me I was throwing away the opportunity of a lifetime. I could be rich beyond my wildest imagination. Buy anything I wanted. He went on and on, so I hung up.”

“When did Kegley make the call?”

Carr mentally calculated the days. Today was Wednesday, and the call came last week. “Last Thursday.”

“Did you hear from them again?”

Carr had kept the other calls to himself, most assuredly a mistake. His head pounded harder. The idea of being arrested for withholding information stomped across his mind. But he had to be transparent and tell her the truth. “Yes. Two more times after the first one.” He shot her a quick look. “And I didn’t tell Sheriff Adams about the other two calls. I don’t have an excuse except that I was trying to make the whole thing disappear.”

“Understandable, Carr. This is a tragic occurrence. So what happened?”

“Friday night, Kegley phoned me with the same request. He claimed to be with his two partners in Abilene. I heard music and talking in the background, which led me to believe they were in a bar or restaurant. I told him to stay off my land, or I’d run them off with buckshot in their rears.”

“So Kegley made contact twice.”

“Right.” Carr paused, thinking through the last call to see if he’d missed something. “The professor phoned me on Sunday night. He had a different tack. I termed it a threat. Said my past would catch up with me if I didn’t cooperate. He had the means to destroy me financially. I figured they were all nuts, and I’d report them to Sheriff Adams after Jasper and I rode fence on Monday.” He shrugged. “You know the rest.”

He could feel her gaze branding him. “I don’t understand why you didn’t reveal this earlier.”

“I told you. I wanted it all to go away. Stupid, but true.”

“That doesn’t make sense for a man who was a prominent business professional.”

His blood pressure zipped from borderline high to nearly uncontrollable. “Managing a business and making an error that costs money is not the same as finding three bodies on your property that costs someone their life.”

“Same man. Same mental faculties.”

“Believe what you want. I told you the truth to assist in the investigation.”

“Are you hiding anything else?”

“No, ma’am.” Anger rippled across his chest. Oh, great. A heart attack would solve the FBI’s dilemma. His coffin would seal his guilt.

“If you do remember something, please call me.” She reached inside her purse and pulled out a business card. From the corner of his eye, he saw her write something on the back of it before placing it on the console. “I wrote my cell number on the back. I don’t make a habit of handing mine out either.”

“I’ll keep it to myself.” He took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

“Thanks. And you’re not to take any trips from the immediate area until the investigation is over.”

“I understand what
prime suspect
means.” Which also meant his dream of establishing a home for at-risk teen boys would remain a dream, at least for the present. “I also understand from Sheriff Adams that I’m not the only suspect. I believe there’s a man on your wanted list who could be behind this.”

“Right. Tell me about your missing rifle.”

Why did she have to be so abrupt? “As I told the sheriff, I have no idea how long it’s been missing.”

“And why didn’t you report it?”

Hadn’t she already read his report? “My mind was on other things.”

They rode in silence with only the rumbling of the truck engine keeping them company. Ten years ago, he would have been contriving ways to seduce her, complimenting her, asking her to dinner, looking for an angle to impress her. How pathetically selfish he’d been then by not valuing women as human beings with sharp minds and tender feelings. He’d never been afraid of a woman until today. Special Agent Bella Jordan had the power to charge him with three counts of murder.

Carr considered flipping on the radio or playing a CD, but the music might offend her.
Who cares?
He punched the Play button for a CD. Ah, Michael W. Smith. Carr needed some reassurance that he wasn’t alone in this nightmare.

* * *

Bella stared at the road while the male singer eased the silence between her and Carr. She’d been right; he was hiding something. But he’d spilled his guts without coercion from her. In fact, he offered the information. In one breath she saw and heard sincerity, and in the next she viewed a polished businessman disguised as a good old boy from West Texas. And she didn’t care for the man’s confidence masked as “poor me who’s been set up for murder” syndrome.

Murderers were desperate people who thought through their actions in hopes of stopping the authorities who sought to bring them to justice. Three men were dead on his ranch, shot with his missing rifle. How much more evidence did she need?

She noted the mobile radio that acted as a repeater for his portable radio and probably for others who worked for him. Mr. Sullivan had all of the toys. Was he accustomed to always getting what he wanted?

A heavy dose of reality halted her accusations. A man was innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around. Carr Sullivan deserved respect until evidence proved otherwise. She knew better. Bella glanced his way. He was visibly upset. Aunt Debbie used to say Bella had a mental block when it came to males, and she needed to forgive those men who had disappointed her instead of blaming every male on the planet. Aunt Debbie was usually right.

“Good song,” she finally said, though she hadn’t been paying much attention.

“Do you listen to his music?”

“No. A little classical now and then. By the time I’m alone in my car or at home, I want quiet.”

“Michael W. Smith is an icon in the Christian music arena. Performed for a lot of audiences, even Billy Graham Crusades.”

“That’s impressive.” Billy Graham she knew. Aunt Debbie believed he was as good a preacher as the apostle Paul, only better, because Billy Graham had that singer with a deep voice and a three-part name—George . . . George . . . She couldn’t remember. Oh, it didn’t matter. A three-part name who sang with a deep voice. Bella had more questions for Carr before they reached his ranch. “Tell me what happened in Dallas.”

He stiffened. “What are you referring to?”

“Let’s start with the last arrest.” She forced herself to sound more like a counselor than an agent seeking to pull out a confession.

“I imagine you have it all in your records. Wouldn’t surprise me if you had the information downloaded to your BlackBerry.”

Smart man.
“I prefer to hear it from you.”

“All right. I partied a lot in those days. One night at a club, after having too much to drink, I slugged a guy who made a pass at my girlfriend. When he got up, I hit him again. Didn’t know he was a popular country-western singer. Went to jail for a few hours. Paid a fine. That’s it.”

“Do you still have problems with your temper?”

He tried to cover his obvious annoyance, but she saw it—his brows arched and his jaw set. “God has shown me how to rely on Him instead of using my fists. Do I still struggle with my temper? Sure. But it’s a whole lot easier to control when He’s walking beside me.” He turned down the dirt road where the locked gate had previously kept her from entering the High Butte. She couldn’t even see a house or a barn.

Carr put the truck in park and stepped out to unlock the gate. He swung it wide, then climbed back inside, drove through, and locked the gate again.

“What do you know about the Spider Rock treasure?” Bella said.

“Never heard of it until those men wanted to dig for it on my land. If you’re asking if I believe it exists, the answer is no. Treasure hunters are those who want to get rich without working.”

Exactly.
“Some folks spend a lifetime looking for . . . let’s say the Spider Rock treasure. They look for clues and follow them. When those are exhausted, they look for more and justify spending money and deserting their families for the sake of the find. The addiction is as strong as cocaine.”

“Not me,” Carr said. “I don’t have the time or the inclination.”

“You run cattle and a few horses?”

“That’s right.”

She allowed a comfortable silence to settle between them. “This is definitely peaceful with all the sights and sounds of nature. Do you enjoy living out here instead of the city?”

He splayed his fingers over the steering wheel. “I do. It’s quiet. Cows don’t talk back. I choose my own company.”

“But it’s so desolate.”

“This is true beauty to me—a wild, untamed freshness that brings me closer to God. No sounds of traffic or smells of polluted air. No taste of disgruntled people or the stress of business to tend to. Just me and God in the nature He created for the world to enjoy. This is where I belong.”

Did Sullivan truly believe this or had he carefully rehearsed his words? “It doesn’t look like you get many people selling magazines.” She purposely turned to stare out the passenger side window at cattle-filled pastures. Typical ranch. Neatly kept. The barns and a house came into view.

“I’ve never had a problem with anyone bothering me until Monday.”

Not exactly what Carr Sullivan should have said to prove his innocence. “Don’t forget: no trips or vacations until this is settled.”

His face pinched. “How long do you think it will take?”

“Depends on how quickly we can work through the investigation and make an arrest.”

“What can I say or do to show my desire to help find the killer?”

She took in a breath. They were nearing a picturesque farmhouse with a huge wraparound porch. Two Australian cow dogs ran to greet them. “That’s a ‘should’ question.”

He stopped the truck and focused on her. “I don’t understand.”

“You
shouldn’t
have threatened those dead men, and you
should
have reported the missing rifle, and you
should
have told Sheriff Adams the whole truth.”