Straight Flush To Murder

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Book excerpt

Chapter One 

A windy night. The long line of elms and hackberries by the roadside roared like a snow-melt torrent. There was no traffic, which was typical for the lateness of the hour and only a few pinpoints of light at the large ranch on the rising land a half mile to the north. The waxing moon appeared and quickly vanished again as a vast shoal of alto-cumulus drifted east across the wide high plains sky.

            The lights of a vehicle appeared suddenly a mile down the road to the west. There was no sound at first because of the noise of the wind in the trees. The lights dipped and rose on the undulating road, drawing closer, as thirty seconds passed before the sound of the vehicle's engine kicked in. The dark-colored Porsche Carrera slowed, then swooped to a stop in a pull-in, a hundred yards short of the gateway of the large ranch to the north and on the opposite side of the road. The vehicle's headlamps were switched off, but its engine was left running.

            The lights of a second vehicle appeared, coming from the opposite direction. This vehicle too began to slow down, then a ghost-pale SUV made the right turn on to the ranch driveway. As it did so its lights picked out the sign at the drive entrance: Golden Square and, underneath, G & L Swales.

            The single male figure in the Porshe was talking on his phone with his elbow on the open driver's window. As the approaching vehicle turned on to the ranch driveway he became more animated, lurching forward and staring intently through his window, as if trying to identify the driver. After another half minute he finished his phonecall, flicked on his headlamps and drove off, creeping slowly past the ranch gateway then heading on quickly down the road…

            The SUV crept up the driveway. The moonlight was blotted out by a large patch of alto-cumulus and it became too dark to make out the driver's features. As the vehicle approached a right turn that led to a large block of farm buildings its headlights were doused just as the moon reappeared. The SUV nosed slowly forward on a road between the buildings and stopped in deep moon-shadow. The driver's window was lowered and the sole occupant of the vehicle glanced out into the night. The driver's features were indistinct in the darkness but, whether male or female, the occupant seemed to be waiting, or listening. After a full minute the driver's door silently opened and closed and a dark figure moved away among the buildings. The wind howled through the metal pens of the adjacent stockyard and whipped the surrounding dust into whirling spirals.

            As the moon finally broke clear from the clouds what appeared to be the shadow of a second figure flitted across the walls of buildings near the ranch house. The figure glided past the farm truck parked by the barn and moved on towards the garages. Nothing moved for a full minute except the windblown dust. Then a gloved hand silently removed a key from a hook inside the garage doorway. A Ford Mustang briefly caught a flash of moonlight through the open door. There was no sign of the owner of the gloved hand.

            A big pickup stood by the back door of Golden Square ranch house, along the vehicle's side were the words Wood's Vehicle Repairs and a local phone number. The pickup was unoccupied. Silence again and trickles of blown dust. Then the gloved hand quietly turned the key in the lock of the back door. The figure, indistinguishable in the fractured moonlight, entered the house, leaving the door wide open.

            In the ranch house kitchen gloved hands opened the glass-fronted door of a gun cabinet, which contained a shotgun and three hunting rifles. The gloved hands silently removed the shotgun, leaving the cabinet door ajar…

            In the main first-floor bedroom the curtains were open wide. A pink glow radiated from twin bedside lamps. A man's check shirt and denims were cast over the back of a small upholstered chair. A woman's blush-pink satin robe was tossed on the floor at the foot of the bed. Glen Campbell's Wichita Lineman played in the background.

            In the king-size bed, between gold-colored satin sheets, Lorna Swales, the thirty-one-year-old co-owner of Golden Square ranch, her dark hair lying in undulating waves on the pillow and forty-two-year-old Vince Wood's tanned and muscular frame were engaged in intense love-making, unaware of the gloved hand that turned up the volume on the CD player.

            Lorna and Vince sprang apart as the waves of sound bounced off the bedroom walls. Vince's surprise turned immediately to anger, Lorna's to terror.

            He tried to rise as the shotgun blast ripped through the room, but fell back dead against the headboard.

            Lorna lurched forward. "No! No! No!"

            A second shotgun blast sent her sprawling backwards against her crumpled lover.

            Blood-spatter covered the gold satin sheets, the plump pillows and the wall behind the bed. Gloved hands released the shotgun, which fell to the floor on top of the blush-pink satin robe. Wichita Lineman played loudly in the stunned and bloody room.

* * *

An hour after dawn thirty-nine-year-old Greg Swales drove his F-150 pickup into the backyard of High Breaks, a medium-sized cattle ranch in the hills to the west of Golden Square. Greg was the owner of the ranch, which he had inherited from Hedley, his father. He sat for a minute, surveying his buildings that were empty now, the cattle all healthy and out on the range.

            He should feel good about his life: he had land, a reasonable amount of money, a close-knit family, loyal friends and employees. But, as so often before, he wondered if happiness and fulfillment would ever be his – and did he even deserve them? He hauled his lean, six-foot-two-inch frame out of the pickup and strode to the back door.

            In the large dining kitchen, to Greg's relief, his family was finishing breakfast. He had no desire for small talk, or ranch talk, or conversation of any kind. Four upturned faces were looking at him: Rita, his mother, Becky Gates, his middle sister, Chuck Gates, his brother-in-law and farm manager and young Luke Gates, his nephew by marriage. Bill Johnson, the local sheriff and husband of Tammy, Greg's eldest sister, sat at the end of the table looking down, his empty coffee cup grasped between two large sweaty hands.

            Greg noted the somber expressions, heard only the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of six-year-old Janey, Chuck's and Becky's daughter, initiating imaginary conversations with her toys in the window seat. It was ominous. He hung his cowboy hat and jacket on the coat rack and kicked off his boots, trying to hide his tension.

            He smiled around the room. "Howdy, folks."

            The faces turned towards him remained mute. Their owners shifted uncomfortably.

            Bill broke the adults' silence. He looked up. "Greg, we gotta talk."

            Five minutes later Greg sat at his office desk, while Bill looked out the window into the yard. Words had already been spoken that had caused both men to plunge into deep introspection.

            "It was damn near bound to happen," Greg said at last.

            "Damn near," Bill echoed, "given the circumstances."

            "Lorna and Vince?"

            "Dead as dirt, the both of 'em. Ethan Ward found 'em round eleven. I got a coupla deputies there, waiting for the DCI guys. State's gonna take this off of me, Greg. I'm your brother-in-law for Chrissakes."

            "No witnesses?" Greg added after a pause: "So far?"

            Bill shook his head. "They'll wanna talk to you first. You were wed to her. Golden Square's all yours now. They'll give you a whippin'."

            The two men looked at each other as the implication hit home.

            "You better have a good alibi, Greg."

            "Mom can vouch for me."

            "Rita might not be enough."

            Greg shrugged. "I can't help that."

            "Can't you rope in Becky and Chuck?"

            Greg shook his head. "They'd have to lie."

            "Nothing wrong with that if it gets you off. You oft times sit round the stove of a night drinkin' and jawin' with Chuck." He paused, frowning. "Anyways, we've talked about it and it's up to you." He stepped to the door. "I gotta get back. Sit tight. They'll send a cruiser."

            When the sheriff had gone Greg remained at his desk, his face in his hands, his thoughts whirling. A recent scene bubbled up, replaying itself in his mind…

            He was sitting at the table in the large kitchen at Golden Square, entering recent sales and purchase figures on his laptop from a pile of receipts at his elbow. His shotgun and hunting rifles stood in their cabinet against the wall to his left. The notion came to him that he should take the rifles up to High Breaks. There were deer coming through the stretch of badland between there and Golden Square. A spot of hunting with Chuck and Luke would be a welcome change from the ranching routine.

            As he was mulling over the idea Lorna burst in from the yard. She seemed more excited and flushed than usual. Before he could speak she tossed a handful of photographs on the table. There was something decidedly threatening in her action. He got to his feet and glanced down at them.

            The photos showed himself with another woman and a teenage girl. Above their heads was a sign: Shaw's Nurseries.

            "Hell took these?" He was unable to hide his dismay.

            "A friend." She pulled a handgun, pointed it at him. "You snake!"

            Greg lurched back from his office desk at High Breaks, his eyes open wide, as if he had received a blow, one that had been a long time coming. But now, at last, it had been delivered – smack on the jaw.

* * *

The sheriff's office lay at the midpoint of the dusty main street in Hunters Creek. Ironwoods lined the sidewalk at intervals of a hundred feet, providing shallow pools of shade in the early morning sun. Two police cruisers were parked out front. A dozen media people with cameras and mics crowded the sidewalk, barred from entry by Bill Johnson Junior ('BJ' to everyone) a brawny young deputy.

            "You're wastin' your time," BJ told them angrily, "and what's worse you're wastin' mine. The sheriff will be makin' a statement when he's good and ready!"

            In the sheriff's back office Ethan Ward, the thirty-seven-year-old head wrangler at Golden Square, sat opposite Pete Teague ('PT') Sheriff Johnson's most trusted deputy. Greg had appointed Ethan to the position over the heads of older men because he had worked at Golden Square longer than anyone and knew the rolling landscape almost as well as the native Lakota. Seth Hall had been too fond of hiring and firing at Golden Square, but Greg was a believer in longevity. Ethan had survived from Seth's time because he was a shrewd judge of people and because he was a natural with the livestock.

            PT felt Ethan watching him as he typed up his witness statement on his laptop. There was something in Ethan's eyes that revealed his character to those who knew him well. Eyes are difficult to hide unless you spend your life in shades, which Ethan did not. His eyes never moved, seeming to require no sideways shift to take in peripheral activity. They were eyes that stripped back the layers of a person's defenses, searching for their weaknesses, to be used, if required, as future weapons.

            "I parked up by the old barn," Ethan began, "and went in to check the cows. Had a delivery coupla days back and I was looking 'em over before we put 'em out. Never heard no vehicle, 'cause the cattle they was rowdy, the way they oft times can be on windy nights. Damn near through when I heard the shots."

            PT leaned back in his chair, studiously avoiding Ethan's eyes. "You never saw anyone?"

            Ethan stared steadily at the deputy. Reptilean eyes, PT thought for the hundredth time, that watched and waited, weighing up their prey, before their owner opened his mouth and took from you whatever he wished: your prowess, your self-confidence, your hopes.

Ethan shook his head. "Only the pair of 'em, dead as the bed they was laid in."

            "You were on your own?" PT asked. "No other witness?"

            Ethan offered a chilling smile. "Most alone guy as ever was born. Leastwise it felt like that seeing them two laid there."

            PT printed off Ethan's statement, which Ethan duly signed in a scrawling spidery hand.

            "Better go out the back." PT advised. "All hell out front."

            Ethan turned at the door. "My regards to the sheriff. Tell him he's got at least one good friend up at Golden Square."

            As Ethan left by the back door Sheriff Johnson was parking up at the front in his black SUV with his sheriff's logo emblazoned on the door. The number of media people on the sidewalk had doubled. Cameras and microphones were thrust towards him as he tried to reach his office door, BJ doing his best to keep them back.

            "Sheriff Johnson," a TV reporter yelled, "can you confirm you've a double murder?"

            "Hell gave you that idea?" the sheriff retorted, without turning his head.

            The lead feature writer on the local paper slipped past BJ and tried to wedge himself across the doorway. "Is it true Lorna Swales has been shot?" he shouted. "Who was she in bed with?"

            "No comment," the sheriff growled as he fought his way into his office and disappeared from view.

            The media folk looked lost for a moment, then one of them noticed the lead feature writer sprinting for his car and accelerating away down the main street. Everyone ran for their vehicles and followed.

* * *

Two troopers manned the entrance to Golden Square driveway. They had blocked the entrance with their cruisers to prevent vehicular access. Special Agent Al Bruce stopped in the middle of the road and flicked on the hazard lights of his unmarked Chevy SUV. He lowered his window and flashed his ID. Special Agent Gary Mason, twelve years Al's junior, reached across with his own ID from the passenger's seat. The troopers waved them in. Al snaked past the cruisers, stopped and got out.

            "Forensics here yet?" he asked brusquely.

            "Half hour back," one of the troopers replied.

            "Coupla sheriff's deputies on the door," the second trooper informed them.

            Not for much longer, Al thought.

            The special agents moved slowly up the driveway towards Golden Square ranch house. They glanced at the fenced-off grassland through lowered windows. Dust from the rough ground at the side of the metaled driveway blew into the vehicle.

            Gary pulled a face. "That wind! Does it never stop?"

            "Only to draw a deeper breath and blow even harder," Al replied drily.

            Gary studied the buildings ahead of them. "It's a helluva spread."

            "Big money and high stakes, amigo."

            "You think so?"

            "One little ripple from here can run all the way to Canada," Al replied enigmatically.

            A fenced shrubbery lay to the front of the ranch house. Between the fence and the porch steps a dozen bushes had been planted: dogwood, elder and cranberry. The bushes had been allowed to spread, creating a screen of privacy, at least for the ground floor. They created a pleasing effect in the otherwise desiccated landscape.

            Where the driveway turned right towards the farm buildings a deputy stood, waving them round to the back.

            Al pulled past the side of the big ranch house and parked alongside the forensics team's vehicle, got out and glanced around. Grassland rolled away into the distance, dotted with low scrub and grazing Herefords.

            "Lonely spot, eh?" Al commented.

            Gary had a different take. "Loneliness is good for us. I can't get enough of these landscapes. After LA it looks like paradise!"

            "Wasn't always like this," Al replied with a strong hint of disapproval. "There were Indian peoples and buffaloes here once. The West was won by murder and treachery!"

            "You don't care for cattlemen?"

            "I do not. Too often I've found they think themselves above the law."

            They walked towards the ranch house. A second deputy stood by the back door. Al and Gary showed their ID.

            Al noted the key in the outside of the back door lock. "Anyone touched that?" he asked tersely.

            "No one's touched a thing since we've been here," the deputy assured him.

            "And when was that?" Al asked.

            "A quarter after midnight, I guess." The deputy added, with a calculated pause: "We don't sleep that much round here."

            There was undisguised hostility in the deputy's voice. The sheriff's office had already assumed they were going to be very much junior partners in the case and resented the fact. Al allowed himself a small private smile. He had a surprise for them.

            "I take it the deceased were well known?" Al counted to five before the deputy condescended to reply.

            "Lorna Swales. She owned the place. And Vince Wood. He had a garage business in Hunters Creek."

            "Not married?" Gary asked.

            The deputy shook his head. "Only to other folk."

            "The husband?" Al enquired.

            "Greg Swales. Up at High Breaks."

            Al turned to Gary, whispering into his ear so the deputy would not overhear him: "Send a trooper up there pronto. Bring this Swales guy to the Rosewood Hotel."

            Gary walked away across the yard talking on his phone. Al called after him:

            "And I need two more up here at the house. Join me when you're done." He turned to the disgruntled deputy. "Wait here till a trooper relieves you."

            He entered the house. Hank Zwick and his forensics team were taking photos of the bodies, the blood-spatter and the shotgun when Al, in protective clothing, stepped into the main bedroom. Al raised a hand to Hank in greeting.

            "Hey, old buddy, what can you tell me?"

            "What took you so long?" Hank asked with a grin. "The Director said you were on your way."

            "I was on my way to bed in my hotel when he called me, four hours drive away over in Colorado. We got a big drugs case we're in the process of busting," he explained. "I've had to leave half my team back there." He looked at the bodies. "How long have these two been dead?"

            "I'd say around eight hours. Shot once apiece from about three yards away. One shot each to the head from a point pretty much where you see the fallen shotgun. We'll get that bagged and sent to the lab."

            Hank's phone rang. He answered, listened, then turned to Al.

            "They're here for the bodies. I'll get the photos and whatever else over to you soon as I can. Where you based?"

            "The Rosewood Hotel. I'll send you an email soon as we're settled in."

            The two men exchanged mobile numbers as Gary entered the room and looked at the bodies.

            "Troopers?" Al asked.

            "They'll be here any time," Gary informed him.

            Al seemed relieved. "Let's go meet them. Get rid of these sourpuss deputies."

            The two special agents drove slowly back towards the road.

            "Ten dollars says it's the husband," Gary opined. "We'll be out of here in a coupla days."

            Al laughed, an involuntary guffaw.

            Gary was surprised. "You don't think so?"

            Al smiled at the younger man. "I sincerely hope it's that simple. Maybe in LA it would usually be the case. But here things are invariably different."

* * *

Greg was putting on his boots and hat in the back porch at High Breaks when Rita stepped from the kitchen looking worried.

            "Got an alibi, Greg?"

            He replied with a reassuring smile. "Sure I have. You. I got in around ten. We drank coffee and talked till one. I showered and went to bed."

            She shook her head. "I don't like it, Greg. I've lied for you enough already."

            "Well, say I was out half the night after rustlers. That is true. The farm records show we're losing stock. Rustlers, mom. No one can disprove it."

            "But you can't prove it either."

            "Look, mom, Bill will back me up. I'll be okay."

            "Bill's gonna be off the case. You know that. You don't know who you'll be up against."

            "Don't worry, mom, please. I'll deal with it."

            He was still smiling. For some reason, quite irrationally, she began to hate his smile. She grabbed his hand, her voice filled with sudden urgency. "Where were you last night, Greg?"

            She stared up at him, her features strained with anxiety. All at once he seemed to relent.

            "Okay, mom, I'll tell you the truth."

            Before he could say another word a Highway Patrol cruiser pulled into the backyard.