The Trophy Hunter (19 page)

Jess watched Penelope’s expression grow
shrewd. Her denim eyes narrowed as she asked, “Didn’t you say you
were working for Dare? One’d think you’d know … all he knows about
Patty. Or Trisha as she calls herself now.”

“Your daughter was prostituting herself down
in Denver. Didn’t Dare tell you?”

Penelope shook her head.

“I guess he didn’t want to scare you.”

“But you don’t mind.” Penelope removed a
cigarette from a pack on the scarred table beside her. She lit it,
took a drag and looked at Jess. “That don’t sound like Patty. And
it don’t seem like she’d get many takers in her condition.”

“Yeah. I understand the baby’s due soon,”
said Jess.

Blondie took another nervous drag on the
cigarette, exhaled smoke through her nose.

Something about the woman’s lack of comment
made Jess wonder if she knew more than she was letting on. “Who’s
the father?” asked Jess on a hunch.

Penelope’s pale, dry complexion reddened
suddenly as she stood up from the chair. “Larry’s
dead.
Can’t defend himself.” The words gurgled from her throat.

“I didn’t say─”

“You didn’t have to. I know what they’re
sayin’ in town.” The woman’s eyes glinted maniacally. Nose to nose,
she and Jess were almost the same height. “I’ve heard the whispers.
After she found her daughter, they think Brandi Rogart killed Larry
because of what she thought he done, an’ her old man is hiding her.
Larry’s never gonna get justice.”

Old man
could mean husband or father.
Just for the hell of it, Jess turned the question around to get
Penelope’s reaction. “You think Darren is hiding his wife?”

Penelope’s outrage was palpable. “Course not!
Dare would never do that. Old man Flannigan’s who I mean.”

“You seem to think your husband’s the victim
here.”

“He’s dead ain’t he?”

“But how do you explain a thirteen-year-old
stashed in his cabin?”

“They all had keys to the goddamn cabin. You
think a one of ‘em would admit it? Blame it on the dead man.”

“Did you tell the sheriff about the keys?”
asked Jess.

“You bet I did. A lotta good it done.”

Nothing in the reports.
“Did Darren
tell the cops about the keys?” Jess strove to keep her tone
even.

Penelope frowned. “I’m sure he must’ve.” She
tilted her head back, as if trying to remember, and exhaled a plume
of smoke into the stale air. “They’ve all had keys for years. Used
our cabin for when the weather got bad and they didn’t want to come
back to town.”

“That’s why the chain,” Jess thought
aloud.

“Huh?”

“The chain on the door was to keep out the
men with keys. Except for the one who took the Rogart kid.” Maybe
the woman was right. Maybe Larry was a victim.

Penelope stubbed out her cigarette in a metal
ashtray. “They’re never kids. Not from the time they sprout tits
and start wigglin’ their asses.”

“Excuse me?”

“This’s a real small house, Ms. Edwards. She
didn’t even bother to cover herself when goin’ from bed to
bath.”

Who’s she talking about? Not Lori
Rogart.
“Who’s the father of Patty’s child, Mrs.
Strickland?”

“Get out of here.” Penelope seized the barrel
of the Winchester with her left hand and hefted the stock up to her
shoulder with her right.

She thinks it’s her husband.
Jess
backed away. “Before you do anything dumb, listen up. I just left
the sheriff’s station. The deputy on duty knows where I was headed.
So you may want to put that gun down.”

Penelope lowered the gun, but still kept a
loose grip on it.

Jess edged toward the door, but she wasn’t
quite through. She hadn’t even broached the truck thing. But the
paternity angle was bugging her unexpectedly. “So you don’t think
the father is Joe Flannigan?”

“That old goat?” Penelope’s lips curled back
in what might have preceded a laugh, but none followed.

“You don’t share the theory about Joe and
Larry exchanging Lori and Patty for sexual purposes?”

Now Penelope did manage a dry laugh. “That’s
a new one.” She shook her head, further puzzling Jess.

“You never discussed such a theory with
Darren?” Jess continued, softening her tone.

“There wasn’t no exchange. I should tell this
nice man his precious daughter’s a little hussy? He’d never─” She
cut off the comment abruptly.

Jess watched a blush creep up the woman’s
neck again.
He’d never pay you any more attention, would he?
This was never about finding Patty.
She smiled sweetly as she
asked, “You and Darren…” She trailed off, giving Penelope the
chance to frame the rest of the question.

A new blush. “He’s been so helpful. Nobody in
this town gives a rat’s ass. He’s the only one who cares.”

He always is.
“I know what you mean.”
Jess couldn’t resist. Penelope’s eyes bugged for a second, then
receded beneath the hooded brows.

Jess had one more question, the one she’d
come about in the first place. “How’d Larry and Joe end up with
matching trucks?”

“Huh?”

“You know. Hunter one and Hunter two.”

“Oh, the Rams.” Penelope shook her head.

Duh.

“They all had ‘em. Larry, Joe and George. The
three of ‘em drew ram tags back in 1991. Then, they all got
theirs.” She nodded at the ram mount on the wall. “Larry was so
proud. Then they all went out and bought new Dodge Rams and vanity
plates. They weren’t satisfied till they went and got their hood
ornaments on eBay.” She smiled as if remembering better days.

Jess moved toward the door. “Anything you
want me to tell your daughter if I see her?”

Penelope shook her head, pursed her lips and
said, “Tell Dare I appreciate what he’s tryin’ t’ do, but like I
said, she’s made her bed.”

“But you can’t blame him for trying. He’s a
real sweetie,” Jess baited.

Blush and nod. “That’s Dare.”

Her brain must be on dial-up.

As she started down the steps, Jess looked
again for a silver Dodge Ram … or a garage, even. Perhaps someone
else was already filling Larry’s slot. And driving his truck.

Penelope followed her as far as the top step,
puffing on a new cigarette.

“What happened to your husband’s truck?”

“Sold it. Like I said, Larry didn’t leave
much. Dare’s gonna pick me up somethin’ cheap I can get around in.
He’s a sweetie, all right.”

Jess grinned back at her from the bottom of
the stairs. “You fill out a change of registration for the
truck?”

“How could I? Didn’t own the truck. Larry
did. I got me a check. Truck’s gone. So shoot me.”

Don’t tempt me.

“Do you remember the name on the check?”

“I remember it cleared the bank. Don’t care
whose name was on it.”

Why did I even ask.

“You wanna know who really took the Rogart
girl?” Penelope’s voice rasped down at Jess’s retreating back.

Jess turned back slowly, not really expecting
anything insightful.

“Last July. We all got together at Darren’s
for the fourth. She was only twelve then, but that little Lori sure
knew how to flirt. His wife didn’t like it one little bit.”

“Whose wife?”

“Shane Cutler’s. He’s George’s stepson. You
go talk to Shane about Lori Rogart.”

Chapter 33

Jess made her second stop of the day at the
Custer County Sheriff’s Station, armed with a new set of questions.
First, she had answers ready.

“Hey, Troy, I gave you one of my old cards by
mistake.”

Troy wasn’t smiling this time. “Yeah, I
know.”

“You know?” Jess fingered the business card
in her hand. The one with the correct set of phone numbers on
it.

“When I tried to call you and got somebody
else on the cell number.”

“Why would you try to call me? I’d just
left.” Jess felt a frown coming on. She relaxed into what she hoped
was a pleasant smile.

“I remembered something, so I dug into the
file for you,” Troy said coldly. “I was still going to give it to
you─until I dialed the other number and got the old guy. His voice
mail, not him.” Troy turned his back on her and pretended to bury
himself in paper work.

“Oh, damn!” Jess plopped herself in the
forehead with the heel of her palm. “You got my dad!”

“What?” Troy wheeled, his expression
softening.

“Yeah. After I got my own apartment, I had
new cards printed. Here.” She handed him one, relieved that he took
it.
How’s that for unburning a bridge?
The series of lies
that flowed so glibly from her mouth rattled something deep inside,
but she quickly covered that voice with more inane chatter. “When I
pulled out a card at my next stop, I discovered my mistake. The new
cards were still in the console of my car.”

“Oh, well, I guess it’s okay if I call you?”
He looked like a star-struck teenager.

Jess felt a sly smile creeping onto her face.
The prospect of being taken for someone Troy’s age was a love-pat
for her tottering ego.

Troy was writing something on a yellow sticky
note, looking at the note as he continued, “You seem … ah … a tad
mature to be just going out on your own. But I guess you must have
your … reasons.”

Goddamn little pissant! Get somebody your own
age.

Troy handed her the yellow sticky note on
which he’d printed a name.

Jess threw a splint on her fractured pride
and eyed the name. “Arlette Cruz-Ramos?”

“Shh ….” Troy glanced around as the sound of
chairs scraping in an adjacent room announced that they might soon
have company.

A door at the rear of the room opened, and a
portly, middle-aged deputy in a tan uniform like Troy’s emerged.
“Late lunch,” he announced to Troy as he ambled by. Jess saw him
snap an ogle just before he exited through the front door.

Only when they’d heard the clatter of
receding footsteps and the hum of a vehicle starting did Troy
explain. “You wanted to know why Darren Rogart had been dropped
from the short list.”

Was I really that transparent?
The
idea alarmed Jess. She remembered only a quick reference to Rogart.
“So, who is this person?”

“Rogart’s alibi.”

Jess flashed an indulgent smile at Troy and
asked what she’d come to ask: “Did the Rogart girl ever confirm
that she was raped by Larry Strickland?”

“Why do you ask?” Troy was guarded in tone
again.

What the hell. A little truth won’t
hurt.
“Because the widow says she thinks it was somebody else.
At least she implies that it was another member of the hunting
party.”

Troy gave a little disgusted snort. “Well,
she’s his widow. What do you expect?”

“Troy, you’re evading,” purred Jess. “Did
little Lori ‘fess up she was really having a lovers’ tryst in that
cabin?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” Troy smiled,
but something in his expression showed Jess she’d gone too far.
“Sex crimes and minors are off limits. You know that.”

Jess looked back at the note in her hand.
“This name? Should it be ringing any bells?”

“If I were you, I’d Google it first chance I
got.”

* * * * *

After leaving Troy with a wink and a nod,
Jess retraced her route, headed east on Highway 96, then north on
Interstate 25 to Colorado Springs where she stopped for a late
lunch at a Chile’s. She ordered the biggest, artery-clogging
hamburger they had, with everything on it. “Rare,” she told the
waitress. “No, make that
raw
,” she corrected.

The waitress frowned. “We have to cook ‘em
till they’re not red. It’s a regulation.”

Oh, just bring the goddamn burger
already.
Jess smiled through gritted teeth. “Whatever.”

Later, as she ate her well-done hamburger,
she revisited the sheriff’s report she’d scanned into her laptop.
Why had they so quickly discounted Shane Cutler’s prior? Oh, right.
The girl said it was consensual. But he’d been convicted of
statutory rape.

As she finished the hamburger, Jess
considered Googling the name Troy had given her. But daylight hours
were fleeting. She was more focused on Shane Cutler. She could
check out Arlette-With-the-Double-Name later.

The drive to Sedalia, where Cutler lived,
took her back up I-25 North, then northwest on Highway 85. It
seemed to take longer than the trip south had taken. If she didn’t
make better time, she’d be caught in the evening rush. The sun had
already begun its descent behind the frosted purple mountains that
marked the horizon to her left.

A Chinook wind had swept the area dry, but
now the cold was creeping back. Still a California girl at heart,
Jess longed for the warmth of spring.

After consulting her trusty GPS, she was able
to scope out the Cutler residence without much lost time. Sedalia
was smaller than Westcliffe, the outskirts stippled with mini-horse
ranches. It was definitely not a one-horse town. First pass through
told her that equines might even outnumber people. And the
demographics gleaned from her mapping service told her that she was
going to stand out like a proverbial sore thumb─the town was even
whiter than Westcliffe.

The Cutler home was a cute little
yellow-and-white two-story, attached garage-with-room-over. It was
on a corner. Jess drove around the block once and saw a swing set
in the chain link-fenced back yard.

When she parked and got out of the car, she
was still thinking up her spiel on the fly.
Better stick to as
much truth as you can make up.
Chuckling to herself, Jess laid
on the doorbell.

The girl who answered─a strawberry blonde
with freckles─looked about twelve. A toddler that could have been
boy or girl clung to her legs, while advanced pregnancy ballooned
out under a flowered smock. Her pale feet, in Crocs, looked
swollen.

“Mrs. Cutler?” Jess took a stab at the
obvious.