Dangerous Refuge Page 2

  “I had to go out of town on a Conservancy retreat. The kind with no phones. I didn’t know what happened until I got back and Kimberli’s message was waiting for me. And your message. We need to talk. Please, please, give me a chance to explain. I’ll bring out the right contract and show you. It was just a stupid mistake.”

  Urgency and a hurt the caller didn’t bother to hide.

  Probably real, he decided.

  Probably.

  It would be something to check on. He scribbled her name and a shorthand description of his own reactions to the message on the yellow tablet Lorne always kept by the phone. The phone itself was too old to have a call log, much less caller ID.

  Tanner tapped the pencil on the countertop several times. The local officials obviously were going with a natural death, because any investigator worth the name would have checked the phone to see who had called Lorne lately, and when. But the messages hadn’t been touched until Tanner came. Neither had the house.

  His glance fell on a stack of mail on the worn linoleum countertop. Postmarks were all within the last week or so. Lots of local advertising aimed at the small rancher—feed sales, pump and irrigation sales and repairs, grocery deals, veterinarians. Only one piece of mail had attracted Lorne’s attention. He had ripped it in half and tossed the pieces aside.

  Just like the old days. Piss him off and he let you know it.

  Tanner stirred the torn, creamy paper with the eraser of the pencil. Whatever it had been, his uncle hadn’t even bothered to open it before he tore it apart. Curious, Tanner started to tease out the halves of the letter with the eraser, careful not to contaminate the paper with his fingerprints. Then he realized what he was doing and made a disgusted sound.

  This isn’t a crime scene and you aren’t a homicide detective right now. Get. Over. It.

  But he wanted to be. Babysitting stiffs in the morgue and matching them to active cases had almost been enough to drive him away from the job.

  Almost.

  Yet a deep-down stubborn part of him still believed in leaving the world a better place than he’d found it. Being a cop was the most direct way he knew to do that.

  Cursing softly, he assembled the heavy paper. To his eye, the heavy gold embossing on both envelope and letterhead were overkill.

  The words invited Lorne and a guest of his choice to be honored by the Conservancy at the Crystal Room of the Tahoe Sky Casino in South Lake Tahoe.

  Funny place to throw a local party. But then, the Refuge Grange Hall is as worn out as Lorne’s everyday boots.

  Maybe that’s why he tore up the letter. He hated fancy things.

  The invitation looked like it had cost fifty bucks to print. The embossing had the look and feel of real gold. Showy. Not Lorne at all.

  Just like he wouldn’t have left his hat behind, even if all he was going to do was walk around the yard.

  The metallic printing on the invitation glowed and shimmered, bright as nuggets in a streambed.

  The gold.

  Tanner tossed the pencil back into the cup and walked quickly toward the fireplace in the front room. The chimney and hearth had been built with local cobblestones smoothed by the stream that raced down from the mountains and across the Davis land. Like his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and all the rest of his ancestors, Lorne hadn’t trusted banks. If the family had any extra cash, it went into a homemade safe in the form of gold coins.

  Silently he counted stones upward from the left-hand side, starting where hearth met chimney. As he reached for the fifth cobble, he hesitated.

  Not. A. Crime. Scene.

  He began working the rock free, knowing there was a small hidey-hole behind. When he had turned fourteen, he had been told about it—and the gold coins inside. It was a Davis family coming-of-age rite.

  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.

  Three

  California 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 l
ight 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 se
at 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.

  Four

  At 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.