Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (24 page)

I kept walking, but my spirits, already low, plummeted right into my boots. I hated this. All the asphalt and concrete, the buildings and spaces without any beauty or character, the absence of any living things, and the sense that there was no place for them-I hated this world. One of the best points of my job was that it seldom took me to such places, and I was struck anew by the depressing thought that to many people this was the stuff of everyday life.

I could see a door ahead of me now, about halfway down the drafty alley, and I hurried. The bright winter day, so full of promise out at the Hollister Ranch, was a cold, dank affair in this bleak corridor.

The door-plain, metal, unwelcoming-had L stenciled above it. I pulled it open.

The hallway beyond almost made me turn back. A straight hard bowling alley leading off into the depths of the building, it had blank white walls and a concrete floor, illuminated by glaring fluorescent lights. As a place to get shot in a bad spy movie, it was perfect.

Timidly I started down it, feeling nervous as the exterior door closed behind me. God, now I was in the heart of the beast. Gobbled up by the modern world, never to see the sun again.

Shut up, Gail, I urged myself. This is a shopping center for God's sake, not a vision of hell. You couldn't tell it by me, though.

I passed a metal door marked Restrooms, and one that was locked, and finally came to one with a sign that said Offices. It opened when I tried it.

Inside was, sure enough, an office-desks, potted plants, copiers, computers, the usual. Two secretaries were visible, and the nearest one lifted her head at the sound of the door.

"Can I help you?"

By the voice, it was the receptionist who had answered the phone. Now what?

"I'm representing Travis Gunhart and Bronc Pickett of the Hollister Ranch" was what popped out of my mouth.

The secretary's eyes narrowed. "You'll be wanting Mr. Hoskins, then."

"Yes, that's right. Gail McCarthy," I added helpfully.

She got to her feet and stalked off across the office, walking with the stiff-legged gait of a woman in heels, and disappeared through an open door at the other end of the room. I could hear the murmur of voices, male and female, but I couldn't make out any words.

A minute or two passed, then the secretary reemerged. Behind her was a man. For a moment I was aware only that he looked familiar, and then recognition dawned. The beaked nose, the bald dome. Jesus Christ. I'd seen this man in the coffee shop of the Foresta Hotel in Tahoe. The man Jack had called Art.

Judging by the look in his eyes, he'd recognized me, too, and I didn't think he was happy about it. I had a strong desire to turn and run for the second time in one day, but I forced myself to stand my ground. Art, whoever he was, was not going to shoot me in front of two secretaries.

"Ms. McCarthy?" He was holding out his hand, but his expression was neutral, to say the least.

"Mr. Hoskins. I believe we've met. Up in Tahoe."

Art Hoskins's gaze flicked briefly to his secretary and then back to me. "Why don't you come into my office."

I followed him. It didn't look like a rich developer's office to me. Some dark mahogany furniture and maroon upholstery dignified it from the uniform beiges of the outer office, but it was still an unwindowed cell of a room, crowded with computer, printer, filing cabinets, a couple of potted plants, a large desk, and two swivel-type chairs. I sat down without being asked.

Art sat behind his desk and we studied each other. Whatever discomfort or alarm he'd felt at seeing me in his office was completely hidden now behind the quiet poker face of an experienced businessman. I tried to keep my own features equally still.

"So, Ms. McCarthy, what can I do for you?"

"Dr. McCarthy. We met up in Tahoe. In the coffee shop of the Foresta Hotel. I was with Jack Hollister. The night before he was killed." I watched the man carefully.

Art Hoskins shook his head. "That was a terrible thing." He waited.

I plunged on. "It turns out you and Jack were in the middle of making a deal on the Hollister Ranch."

"That's right."

"I hear you were in escrow when he was killed. How's that going to affect your deal?"

Art Hoskins said nothing. I let the silence lie. It seemed to take a full minute, but eventually he spoke. "What do you have to do with this, Dr. McCarthy?"

"My friend's a suspect." Damned if I owed him any further explanations.

More silence. Art Hoskins looked composed, unruffled. For some reason, this was pissing me off. "Do the cops know you were up in Tahoe that night?" I asked him.

That got his attention. He didn't say a word, but his facial muscles tightened everywhere. No, I thought, they don't know, and he doesn't want them to.

The balance in the room had changed. Art still watched me closely; no obvious difference was apparent but I sensed the power lay with me.

"So what were you doing in Tahoe, Mr. Hoskins?"

Predictably, it took him a while to answer this question, and when he did his words were completely unexpected. "I used to be a horse vet."

"You're kidding."

He smiled, and for a second looked almost human. "It's been years since I've practiced. But that's what I used to do. Up in the Bay Area. That's how I first met Jack."

"So why were you at the convention?"

"I'd been to it before. And I knew Jack would be there. We still had some loose ends to work out on the deal."

"So you were up there to see Jack."

"More or less. Ski. Take in a few lectures, maybe."

"Don't tell me. When you heard Jack had been murdered you beat feet for home."

Once again, Art was silent. I was trying to decide what to say, when he finally spoke. "I'd rather not be interviewed by the cops."

I was definitely one up.

"I had nothing to do with Jack's murder," he went on. "I've got a alibi for most of the evening; I was out with a group of old friends."

"But you spent the night alone?"

"Well, no."

"Then you have an alibi for the night."

"Not exactly." Unbelievably, I could see a faint flush on his cheekbones.

"A call girl?" I guessed.

He was quiet just a heartbeat too long. I studied his face. "A call boy?"

Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"So that's why you don't want to talk to the cops."

No response from Art, who looked clearly miserable.

"Could you produce the, uh, boy if you had to?"

"I don't know."

"I see," I said again. "If you'll answer my questions honestly, I’ll
keep my mouth shut about you unless I'm asked." My God. Jeri Ward would throw me in jail for this little bit of chicanery.

"So what do you want to know?" He sounded resigned.

"About this deal. If I have it right, Jack was planning to sell the Hollister Ranch to your company."

"That's right."

"So what were you going to do with the land?"

"Build a convention center. Condos. Some single-family housing."

For a brief second I had a vision of it, the old ranch that I'd seen not an hour ago reduced to a version of this modern hell-wall-to-wall asphalt and concrete, big cinder-block buildings, lots of multistoried gray condos. Yuck. The feeling was so strong I almost said the word out loud.

Instead I asked him, "You know that in Jack's will the ranch is to be left to the state, to be part of the state park."

"So I understand."

"So you're not going to end up with it now."

"That's debatable. We were in escrow. There were no obvious problems. Most of the paperwork is done. We're pursuing it."

We stared at each other. I understood that to Art the whole issue was nuts and bolts, dollars and cents. Any pleas to leave the old ranch be would be dismissed as ridiculous. A man who spent his days in a place like this, when he could obviously afford to be elsewhere, was not a man who would care that the Hollister Ranch was beautiful, and more than that, clothed with tradition.

Another question occurred to me. "Who gets the money, now, if the deal goes through?"

"Jack's estate, I assume."

Tara, Laney, and Karen. Shit. "How much is it, the purchase price, I mean?"

"Five and a half million."

"Oh." Good Lord. I couldn't even imagine having a million dollars in my possession, and Tara, lovely Tara, was going to end up with a good deal more than that. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

As I stood up to go, I asked him, "Just what is Redwoods Inc.?"

“
A development company. We invest in properties we think we can make money on."

"It's your company?"

"I'm the president, and I own the majority of the shares. It's a corporation."

"Who are the other shareholders?" Maybe, I thought, just maybe, one of them would be someone I knew.

"Just some businessmen."

"Who?" I demanded.

Art Hoskins looked reluctant, but he knew I had him. "Carl Walters is one. Don Capelli. Henry Williams." Not names I recognized-not horse people.

"Anyone else?"

He sighed. "Jim Leonard."

"Not the Jim Leonard I work for?" I must have sounded as startled as I felt.

He nodded resignedly. "Did you know Jim was my boss?"

"Jack mentioned it, after I saw you in the coffee shop. I've known both Jim and Jack for years. Since I was in practice."

"Did you know they didn't get along?"

“
It wasn't a problem." Art Hoskins said it easily but I wondered.

"Does Jim know this company he's involved in is trying to buy the Hollister Ranch?"

Art stared at me a minute. “It
was Jim's idea," he said at last.

Good Lord. Jim's idea to buy the Hollister Ranch and make money on it. Some sort of bizarre revenge on Jack? It didn't make sense. Jack was willing to sell-apparently. Or had Jack changed his mind up there in Tahoe, maybe because he found out Jim was involved? Had Art Hoskins and Jim decided to kill Jack so that the deal would go through?

I didn't know what to think, or say. Jim couldn't be involved. Could he? Suddenly I didn't really want to know any more.

Art Hoskins was watching me, his emotionless expression calculated, his eyes steady. Once again the balance of power had shifted. This man doesn't really have an alibi, I told myself. And he might have a reason to have killed Jack.

Without a word, I turned and walked out of the room, making my way through the office and down the bleak hall. Walking around the mammoth building, I got in my truck, maneuvered my way out of the parking lot, through the congested mess on River Street, and onto the highway, all without seeing a thing.

The whole way back to the clinic I chased the same question, persistent as a dog in pursuit of its tail, but by the time I got there I wasn't any closer to the answer. Could Jim be involved in this murder? And if so, what should I do?

TWENTY-THREE

Jim wasn't in evidence when I walked into our office, which was a relief. I didn't think I could have met his eyes. I checked the schedule and headed back out the door as fast as I could. A couple of calls kept me busy for the rest of the afternoon.

Fortunately they were easy ones-another mild colic case and a sole abscess. I couldn't have coped with anything too complicated. My brain was in a lather. What should I do? The words went round and round, as repetitive as the lyrics of a sappy song that sticks unrelentingly.

It was almost dark as I pulled in my driveway. Lifting Blue out of the truck, I trudged toward the front porch, fumbling through my pockets for the door key, paying no attention to my surroundings. I was face to face with the door when I noticed the square of white paper stuck to the wood with a tack. A note.

Someone had left me a note.

It was folded. I pulled the tack out and opened the slip of paper. I almost dropped it.

Printed in hard, slanting capitals were the words
BACK OFF OR DIE, BITCH.
That was it. I stared stupidly, looking for a signature, a clue of some sort to who had done this. There was nothing. Of course there wasn't.

Hatred seemed to leap off the paper and take hold of my throat. The letters were deeply scored, violent. Shaken, I clutched the note as I tried to get the key in the lock. I wanted inside, I wanted the door bolted, I wanted help.

I got the door open. Blue whined demandingly at me; he was already halfway down the steps to the yard. I peered at the deep shadows under the redwoods by the creek. No way did I want to go down there.

"You go," I told the old dog.

Obediently he stumped down the steps. I stood close to the door, waiting, watching him, trying to watch the street and everything else around me at the same time. Whoever had left the note might be hiding, watching, stalking me.

Shit. This was not a good thought. "Come on, Blue," I urged him. "Hurry up."