Dead Man's Rules (19 page)

“Something like that.”

Another thought struck her. “If it was suicide, don’t you wonder who the woman was?”

Rafe drew back as though she had slapped him. “What?”

“Even if he wasn’t murdered, we should find out why he died.”

He stood back, placing his hands on his hips. “You mean like maybe that’s why the ghost is haunting you? He wants you to find out who killed him or who he killed himself for?” His bitter laugh rang out in the empty room.

She stifled the word she wanted to call him.

Rafe watched her agitation grow. He shouldn’t have left her alone. Of course she would not stay still. The damn woman had to keep investigating. Naturally he would find her in the room where the bloody mark stained the wall.

He stared down at Cere. She tugged at her lower lip, small face set. Somehow he knew she was looking for an angle since she must now realize the hand was going to be tough to photograph. And without the dramatic picture of it, she might not have a story.

He’d been ten when he first saw the print, and it had been a big disappointment, his introduction to false advertising. Perhaps that was why he had become the ghost guide, ready to trick others as he had been tricked.

Rafe turned away in disgust. He could almost see her story now. Despite her protests, he knew how TV worked. She would embellish or enhance the print and the story. Damn, he didn’t have time for this and he’d lost interest in her appeal. “Can we look for your watch? You said you weren’t in here.”

With one final glance at the hand print, she straightened. Without warning, she tripped, pitching forward. He caught her as she collapsed against him.

The feel of her firm breasts against his chest sent a surge of awareness through him. Rafe caught her wrist and wrapped his other arm around her, as though they were dancing.

For an instant he held her, aware of warm breath on his chest, and her thudding heart. The sweet smell of her perfume drifted up to him. He doubted he’d ever forget that scent.

She lifted her face to him, and Rafe had the wild urge to kiss her. To lean down and taste those very pink, plump lips. To see if he couldn’t erase from her brain all thoughts of that damn hand print.

Her eyes rested on his lips. Was she thinking the same thing? No. She jerked away, pulling free. “You tripped me!”

He grunted. “Nope. I’m beginning to think you’re a natural born klutz.”

“Am not,” she cried in a childish tone.

He doubted that Cere Medina was off balance very often, but he liked seeing it when it happened. Then again he wasn’t usually so off balance himself. Maybe he had been without a woman too long. Carmen had been gone for three years.

“Your watch,” he repeated, walking toward the other room.

“That door is locked.”

He wrenched the knob. It stuck but after a few jerks, it turned and the door swung open. He turned to her and flashed what he hoped was a triumphant smile. “Locked? Really?”

Her face fell, and even in the dim light he could see color shoot up into it. He played his flashlight over the dusty floor, hoping to prove to her that only her footprints marked the floor, but his smile froze. Boot prints mingled with hers, boot prints with a worn heel. Someone had been here.

“What the hell?” Her hushed, shaky voice came from behind him, and she touched his side as she moved around him. It was a soft touch, but it set his nerves to tingling. “The piano’s back in place.”

“What?”

“The room is dark, but it should have been light because I moved the piano and knocked out the boards. Someone put the piano back.”

He stepped toward the hulking instrument, the narrow beam of light playing on the dusty floor. Near the piano, a triangle of dust prints streaked the floor.

“Oh, look at those dust marks. It looks like it had been moved in front of the window recently.” Her voice was insistent.

Rafe leaned against the piano and attempted to push it away from the wall. It was difficult to move, even for him. Whoever had moved it was strong. He shoved again. The room flooded with light as he inched it away from the wall.

“This is weird,” she said. “Why would someone move it and then move it back?”

“Who the hell knows?” He started to turn away, and stopped. The back was dusty except a portion in the middle where she must have rubbed against it, but what caught his eye was the corner panel, which looked loose.

He tugged at the panel, and it fell away, clattering to the floor. Cere jumped and squealed. Rafe might have teased her, except his breath caught at what he saw. He reached in and removed a black box. He could barely breathe as he examined the familiar outline of a white bucking stallion. He had never touched the box before, but he knew it well. Naldo’s box!

“What is that?” Cere’s voice was a breathless whisper.

Rafe untied the worn clasp and opened it. He wasn’t surprised to see packets of bills held together with rubber bands. Below the cash were thin stacks of yellow envelopes, tied with string. She reached for it, but he caught her hand.

“Is that... the stolen money? Marco’s treasure?” she asked, eyes flying to him, wide and hopeful.

He shook his head, mouth dry, throat tight. “Naldo’s.”

Cere paused for a second. “Naldo? The man who was killed? Why would that be here?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

She again reached for the box, but he held out an elbow. He could understand her curiosity, but he couldn’t allow her zeal to get in the way of a murder investigation.

“Don’t touch it. This could be evidence. I doubt Naldo hid it here, so it could have fingerprints from the killer. It needs to go to the crime lab.”

“You touched it,” she pointed out in an accusing tone.

“A mistake,” he admitted, cringing at making such an amateurish blunder in front of her. He knew better—his only defense was shock and curiosity. Gingerly, he placed the box on top of the piano so it didn’t become more contaminated.

“I wanted to see if it had the money. Will you do me a favor?” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and held them out. “Go to my Jeep and get some evidence bags and plastic gloves out of the back. They’re in a blue case. I’ll check to see if there might be any other evidence around.”

“Evidence?” Her voice grew breathless, and he could see the sparkle in her eyes even in the gloomy room. “Do you think there’s a connection between the hand and this current murder?”

Rafe could sense her growing excitement. He held out a calming hand. “Don’t run to the bank with that. This could be nothing more than coincidence.”

“This makes everything better!” she said in a high, excited voice. “The hand print, and now we’ve found money stolen in the new murder.” The words tumbled out as though ideas were taking form.

“Let it go,” he ordered.

“I needed more substance. That hand print is not as obvious as I thought it would be. This could be just perfect.”

Rafe’s stomach tightened. The sad sight of Naldo’s box and her enthusiasm at what its discovery meant ate at him like acid. “Will you stop with your damn story and go get those bags? This is serious.”

Her dark eyes flashed at him. “And my job isn’t?”

“I’m chasing a killer right now. You chase frightened boys.”

She drew back as though he hit her. “What the hell gives you the right to be so self-righteous? Have you ever faced ethical questions in this podunk town?”

Her angry queries were like tossing down a gauntlet and he faced her, speaking through gritted teeth. “I faced plenty of ethical questions when I worked in Los Angeles for seventeen years. But you know what? The five thousand people in this podunk county are every bit as important. They deserve my protection and dedication and I intend to see they get it. All those people in your exciting city didn’t give a damn when some teen punk gunned down my wife. They drove by her, while she was bleeding in the street because they didn’t want to get involved. People here care about each other. They wouldn’t do that.”

Cere drew up, face pale. Compassion bloomed in her eyes. For an instant he feared she would touch him, and he moved behind the piano. He didn’t want sympathy from her.

“Rafe, I had no idea,” she said in a soft tone.

“I know you didn’t.” He needed to get space between them and she seemed to sense that. It only upset him more. “You have no idea about this place. These people care about Naldo’s death for more than gossip. They cared about Marco too. That’s why they won’t give you the titillating story you want.”

She stiffened as the words seemed to sink in. “I’ll get the bags.”

Rafe grimaced as he watched her walk stiffly out the door. He shouldn’t have allowed anger to get the better of him, but his feelings were sincere. His wife had been caught in the crossfire in a gang shootout as she waited in a fast food drive through.

A thick pain nearly choked Rafe. Thoughts of her death still hurt. To think he’d been ogling Cere’s legs. That self-centered woman would never understand sacrifice. Carmen had chosen to work as a teacher in that blighted neighborhood because she wanted to help underprivileged teens. And she’d been killed because of it.

Rafe drew a deep breath and shook away thoughts of Carmen. He focused back on Naldo’s box. Had it been placed here after Cere left? Had someone been placing it when she showed up and interrupted him? That didn’t make sense.

If he killed once for the box, he would have killed again. And why flatten her tire and keep her there? Or perhaps he had been leaving and wanted to make certain she couldn’t follow.

At least finding the box on county land provided an excuse to get involved in Naldo’s murder investigation. It was no longer only a city case.

A sharp retort, like the popping of a firecracker, startled him. It came from outside, and he heard a cry of alarm.

His hand dropped to his Colt 45 Cobra. For an instant he was back on the streets of Los Angeles. He bolted down the steps, ignoring their creaking.

He paused just inside the door when he heard Cere’s labored breathing. She huddled by the porch rail.

“Are you okay?”

“Someone’s shooting at me,” she cried as he inched onto the porch in a crouch.

“Where’s it coming from?” He squatted beside her. A pinpoint of blood dotted her cheek and he brushed it. “You’re hit.”

“No, I’m fine. Wood chip.” Her gaze stayed on the mesa across the valley. “It’s coming from over there.”

For a minute, stillness filled the valley, then a thin cloud of smoke rose from behind a piñon tree on the hill. Rafe yanked Cere flat as wood splintered above them and another pop rang out.

“Shoot back. He’s going to kill us!”

Rafe took aim at the tree. His shot made the dirt dance in front of it. He fired again, then a third time. He waited for a minute and when no shot was returned, he told Cere to stay down.

Using boulders and trees as shields he raced from one to the other, moving steadily toward the hillside. No more shots came at them, and by the time he reached the tree, the gunman was gone.

Behind the bushy piñon, a flat outcropping of rocks led to the top of the hill like a golden sandstone staircase. He climbed the rocks to the crest, but found no sign of anyone along the ridge or on the other side. The gunman had disappeared.

He turned and hopped back toward the bottom of the hill. Cere was searching the ground near the tree where the gunman had been hiding.

“Find anything?” Rafe asked

Silently she pointed down and a glint from the sun caught his eye. Using his pen, he lifted an empty shell casing. “Thirty-thirty,” he said quietly.

“Was it Naldo’s killer?”

“I have no idea. Naldo was killed with a handgun, which was found. This is from a rifle. Did you see anything when you came out of the building?”

“No. I heard the shot hit. He’s not much of a marksman.”

Rafe said nothing. The shot had been well above his head on the porch. He had not aimed to kill the gunman because he had a hunch that the person didn’t mean to hurt them. This rang of scare tactic.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small paper bag. Carrying them had become a habit when he worked homicide. Now they served mainly as receptacles for Ginny’s uneaten candy bars. He dropped the shell casing in the bag, aware of Cere watching him.

Her auburn hair glinted in the sunlight, and despite his earlier anger, a river of warmth ran through his blood. He had to give her credit for tenacity. She was actively looking around instead of cowering. He walked toward her.

“Stop!” She held up her hand. “There are footprints in the dirt.”

Rafe started to tell her she had to be wrong. He had checked the area. Maybe she was mistaking his boot prints. “Now you’re playing detective?”

He moved forward, ready to tease her and point out they were his, but he stopped as he looked down at where she pointed. He could see faint imprints, bigger than his size tens.

“What do you think?” she asked. “They look like the ones we saw before.”

Rafe kneeled for a closer view. These were more defined than the prints at the Palladium, but unless he was wrong, they were close to the same size. The same person?

“Stop playing Nancy Drew, and stop hopping around. You’re going to screw up the crime scene for the lab guys.” He tried to be gruff, but was not able to pull it off. “Intrepid reporter solves her own crime. Is that your angle now?”

Her face was tight, her coffee-colored eyes serious as she looked up at him. “For your information, I’ve been to crime scenes. Did you notice there’s a mark on that boot heel? And do you see the way the left heel is worn down on the side?”

Rafe examined the prints again. She was right about the mark. And while she appeared unfazed by his criticism, she took his warning to heart. As they walked down the hill, she followed his steps, careful to stick to the rocks so they didn’t leave extra footprints.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I have to call BJ, and the state investigators. Maybe you should take the Jeep and head back to town. I’m going to be out here for a while.”

“I can wait with you.”