The Trophy Hunter (18 page)

Jess did a mental double-take. “Only hers?”
Her brow puckered.

Troy’s eyes rolled back in his head, as if
searching for something. “I guess,” he finally said. Then he
leveled his glance at Jess. “You know, it was the Feds who done the
examination, not us. Like I said, they keep their cards pretty
close to the vest, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Bro, I do.” Jess nodded as if she
understood. But she didn’t. It made no sense that Brandi Rogart’s
would be the only DNA in Strickland’s truck. “Strickland’s must’ve
been in his own truck. You gotta give me that.”

Troy nodded, but not very convincingly. “I
guess. Maybe they felt they didn’t have to state the obvious.”

“Why would Brandi Rogart wipe the truck
clean, but leave her own tracks?” Then she remembered something
else. “Hey, there was one mother of a snowstorm that day. How come
she didn’t have gloves on?”

“You got me there.” Troy dug into a drawer in
back of the counter. “Here’s Benson’s card. He’s still head Fed on
the case. Give him a call.”

Jess took the card. “I just may do that.”

She wasn’t about to share her news about
Patty Strickland. After all, it was still only hearsay. Only
doubtful Darren’s word that the girl was with him.

As she was about to head out, Jess heard Troy
clear his throat meaningfully. “I shared with you, Jessie. What you
got for me?”

She smiled as she fished into her coat
pocket. The one where she kept her special needs business cards.
The ones that still had Winston’s number designated “home” and a
cell number that she’d changed a couple years back. Jess handed one
to Troy. Then she winked.

In her car, Jess found directions to the
Strickland residence using her GPS. As she pulled out of the
parking lot, her thoughts drifted to Rogart. Why wasn’t he still a
person of interest? Her impression of Special Agent Benson, whom
she’d met on her first visit to Westcliffe, was that he was a
tight-ass who wouldn’t give her the time of day. Maybe she’d mine
Troy a bit more, if she thought of some way to slip in the
question. As it was, she’d neatly avoided revealing any
relationship with Darren Rogart. Already she was planning on how to
unburn the Troy bridge.
Hey, Troy, I gave you one of my old
cards by mistake.

As Jess drove, she recalled the first time
Darren had come on to her. Just showed up at her office shortly
after Joe had hired her.
Just showed up … like he did with
Diana.

Their first date had been dinner at The Fort,
a restaurant notable for its old west theme.
With Diana, it was
the Buckhorn.

They’d headed for a motel before dessert was
served. But hadn’t gotten any farther than the camper on his truck
bed.

But when Darren had looked into her eyes and
murmured “Kendra Blair pales before you,” Jess had laughed out
loud. “She sure does,” Jess had fired back. Kendra Blair, the black
super model, had a white mother. Everybody knew this, but Darren
never did seem to get the joke.

It was only after their lovemaking─delayed by
Jess’s laughter─and her return home did Jess find it odd. The
coincidence of Darren’s bringing up Kendra, who was Linc’s
long-time companion, practically her sister-in-law, disturbed Jess.
What was Darren doing? Checking up on her while she checked him
out? What the hell. She’d vowed then to use his body and not worry
about what went on in his head.

But then he’d dropped her like last night’s
trash. She didn’t want to believe it. Was that the real reason her
mind kept putting him in that HUNTER 2 truck?

The thought that she could really waste time
thinking about him in that context so jarred her that she was upon
the turn-off to the Strickland residence before she realized
it.

Chapter 31

After meeting with the security company and
waiting while the technicians completed the repair work on her
alarm system, Diana arrived at her office at ten-thirty instead of
her usual eight-thirty a.m. The relief that a functioning security
system was in place made the hours lost from work worth while.

Her first order of business was to have
Tamara run off a list of all her cases within the last five years.
As she scanned the list, the names of a number of disgruntled
people popped out at her. Not dissatisfied clients. Diana’s clients
were generally pleased, sometimes overjoyed with the results of her
representation. It was the folks on the other side, the sore
losers, that might form a pool of prospects sick enough to put a
camera in her bathroom.

One in particular, Jurgen Warner, seemed a
likely candidate. Jurgen had posted nude pictures of his
six-year-old daughter on the internet. In spite of this, a Denver
judge had granted him unsupervised visits with the child. Diana,
representing his ex-wife, had succeeded in getting the matter heard
by a different judge who reversed the order. Pressure from Diana
had gotten the D.A. to reopen the criminal case against Warner and
he’d ended up serving a term in Canyon City for molesting his
girlfriend’s four-year-old child.

Maybe he was out by now. Diana logged onto
the internet, to see if Warner appeared on the sex offender list.
She was interrupted by a buzz from Tamara. “Marge Lane on line one,
Diana.”

Marge was an Assistant D.A. whom Diana had
worked with on a number of cases. Not Warner, however. “Hello,
Marge. What can I do for you?”

A smoker’s cough preceded Marge Lane’s
request. Diana wanted to say something about that, but succeeded in
keeping her opinion to herself. Marge was a good ally, but not a
close enough friend that she could counsel her on her health
habits.

“I’m looking for a guardian ad litem. Are you
interested?”

“That depends. I might be. What’s the
story?”

“You heard about Duane Clifford’s plane going
down a couple months back?”

“Sure. Who hasn’t?” Diana recalled the
Clifford matter. A wealthy corporate executive had died when wind
shear tossed his private plane into a remote section of the
Rockies, crushing the aircraft and its occupants like discarded
soft drink cans. He’d left children by three wives. And wife number
three appeared to be little more than a child herself.

“Some of the adult children seem to think
they’ve been slighted in his will. Our office has come into some
information that they’re offering the widow an incentive that may
not be in her children’s best interest. The presiding judge asked
me if I could recommend somebody to represent these youngsters. I
thought of you. Is this something you’d consider?”

“I seem to remember the widow was a child
bride herself. Now, with two pre-schoolers. Babies, actually.”

“Actually, three babies, including the
mother. But she has her own counsel. The minor children need
someone.”

“Let me take a look at the file. Can you send
it over as an email attachment?”

“Within the hour. Thanks, Diana.”

“Glad to do it.”

After finishing up with Marge, Diana returned
to her search of the sex offenders list. She did discover that
Warner had been released from Canyon City. But he was listed as
residing in Durango─not a handy drive to Denver.

Back to the client list, she found a number
of others who might be mad enough and sick enough to have done the
deed. But she felt herself ruling out Joe Flannigan. It didn’t seem
to fit his style. Blowing up her house, maybe, but now she wasn’t
even sure that she’d seen a silver truck that night. Her brain
might have just filled in what she was programmed to see, not what
was actually there.

And as for Darren Rogart having any
involvement in the invasion of her privacy, she could imagine no
possible motive. In fact, as she mentally replayed her last
conversation with him, her self-righteous condemnation of his views
on his daughter’s ordeal─well, now her lecture sounded up-tight and
prudish in retrospect. Even the lipstick writing on her bathroom
mirror seemed to shrink in importance. Lori was emotionally wounded
and insecure.

On a whim, she picked up the phone and
pressed in Darren’s number. At the sound of the fourth ring she
realized she had no idea what she was going to say to him. When his
answering machine picked up her call, she was relieved and hung up
without leaving a message.

Chapter 32

The approach to the Strickland house was up a
winding dirt road only wide enough for one vehicle. Jess swerved to
miss a pair of magpies feasting on a rodent carcass at the side of
the road. The only green in sight came from pine trees. In this
mountain town, spring would be at least a month behind Denver in
arriving.

Jess checked her weapon before making the
final turn that brought her up to the summit of the small hill on
which the brown, one-story house sat. Its weathered cedar siding
shouted neglect. Window boxes contained the dried remains of last
year’s flowers that the wind and snow hadn’t managed to carry off.
The vent of a wood stove sprouted from the roof, maybe the only
heating. Maybe not. Jess spied a dirty white propane cylinder off
to the south side of the building. But no sign of a vehicle of any
description.

As she pulled the Camaro up by wooden front
steps, Jess saw a curtain move in the front window. When she got
out of the car, she noted that the house was built about three feet
off the ground. Probably no basement. Not in these rocks. Brown
lattice stretched between the house and its granite base.

Jess zipped up her leather jacket against the
chill of the mountain air as she climbed the steps. There was no
doorbell. She knocked briskly, glancing at the curtain that had
moved. A dingy off-white, it now hung motionless. She knocked
again.

Like the house, the woman who answered the
door was weathered. A tall blonde, her ice-blue eyes darted from
under white-blond brows and lashes. Though she wore no makeup and
the Colorado sun had obviously done a number on her complexion,
Jess guessed she’d once been beautiful.

The pale eyes now looked Jess up and down
like they’d never seen a black person before. “Whatever it is you
got, go peddle it somewheres else.” Penelope Strickland spoke the
words with authority backed by an old Winchester that she held
easily by the barrel.

Jess backed up a step before offering up her
best people-pleaser smile. “I’m not selling anything, Mrs.
Strickland. I’m Jess Edwards. I have some news about your
daughter.”

Penelope slowly lowered the rifle to the
floor. “Patty?”

“You have more than one daughter?” asked
Jess.

Penelope shook her head. “Just Patty.” No
trace of affection spilled through her tone.

Jess looked past the woman, into the room. A
bighorn sheep mount looked back at her from the opposite wall. As
her gaze drifted back to the rifle in the woman’s hand, she asked,
“Is that thing loaded, Mrs. Strickland?”

“Damn straight it is. But I’m probably not
goin’ t’ shoot you. Let’s see some I.D.”

Probably?
“I’m not with the police.
I’m a private investigator working for Darren Rogart.”

It seemed to take the woman a moment to
process that information. “Oh, well … a driver’s license oughta do
it.”

Jess removed hers and flashed it at
Penelope.

“Jessica Edwards,” the woman mumbled as she
squinted at the document.

Wow, it even reads.
Jess was getting
bad vibes, but physical danger from the woman wasn’t one of
them.

“So tell me what’s new with Patty. I didn’t
know it was you that found her.” The woman’s voice sounded annoyed
more than anything. She moved aside so Jess could enter. Then she
leaned the rifle against a gun case.

Puzzled at her unexpected attitude, Jess
stepped inside and shot a quick glance across the rest of the room.
From another wall elk and deer heads gave her the glassy eye.

Blondie’s eyes narrowed as she continued
before Jess could come up with an answer. “If she sent you to ask
if she could come home, I already told Darren no way.”

Aren’t you a real gem of a mother?

“Didn’t Darren fill you in?” asked Jess,
looking farther into the room. She could see dirty dishes on a
countertop through an open doorway behind the woman.

“Dare didn’t tell me you’d be showing
up.”

Dare? Oh, why should this surprise me?
“Your daughter’s pregnant.”

The woman’s shoulders sagged as she settled
into a vinyl-covered chair. “I know. That’s why she can’t come
back.”

You are a real piece of work. Even I have
more motherly instincts … scratch that ….
“Don’t you want to
know how your daughter is? Where she is? Aren’t you interested in
your grandchild?”

Blondie shook her head slowly, like it was
too heavy for her slender neck. Jess watched the sinews in it
tighten and release.

“I’ve got enough on my mind with Larry dead.
Patty brought this on herself.”

Jess winced, then listened as Larry
Strickland’s widow railed on. “She made a choice to get herself
knocked up. Now she’s turned eighteen, she can damn well sleep in
the bed she’s made. I can’t take care of her, much less a kid.
Larry didn’t leave no insurance. I’ve got what you see around you.
And the propane bill’s due.”

“But, aren’t you excited about becoming a
grandma?” Jess pasted on a big, phony smile, stubbornly trying to
get a human reaction out of Penelope.

“’bout as excited as I’d be over a case of
the crabs.” Penelope showed a glint of tooth at the corner of her
sneer.

Jess shivered mentally, aware of another
discovery. Absence of maternal instinct didn’t look so pretty on
somebody else.

As if as an afterthought Penelope added,
“Dare didn’t tell me when she’s due.”

“What exactly did he tell you?”