The Trophy Hunter (7 page)

They made a show of forced laughter. Diana
shuffled her tears out of sight as she replied, “With Jess, her
interest seems to wane when anything approaches stability.”

“That’s part of what makes her Jess.” Winston
gazed across the expanse of tree-studded lawn where the sun was
sending rivulets of water from the snow piles.

When he looked back at her, his expression
was all business. “I understand you’ve taken on Joe Flannigan’s
cause.”

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“Because he’s an alcoholic?”

“Of course not,” she replied a bit more
vehemently than she’d intended. “How well do you know this
man?”

Winston paused as he looked in the direction
of the building, where attendees were now filing back inside,
signaling the end of break time. “I’ve known Joe about four years.
You already know where we met. He’s been in the program over ten
years.”

Diana finished her coffee, crushed the cup
and tossed it into a green metal garbage can. “What do you know
about his character?”

They got up and started back toward the
building. Winston took her arm, guiding her around slick spots of
melting snow. “Joe’s a bit rough around the edges. But if I didn’t
believe there was some moral fiber there, I never would’ve referred
him.” He paused, as if stumbling over his next thought. “Actually,
it may turn out to be one of the worst mistakes of my life,” he
continued in a husky voice. “Referring him to Jess, I mean.”

Diana felt Winston’s hand tighten on her arm
as they paused in front of the door that led back inside the hall.
“That referral led to Jessie’s meeting Darren Rogart.” He paused
again before asking, “Did she tell you?”

Diana shook her head.
Not exactly.

“Jess is seeing the guy. That’s why we split
up.”

“She’s a damn fool.” The words tumbled out
before she could stop them.

Winston shifted uncomfortably, then looked at
his watch. “I’ve got to go. And you still have another speech to
endure.”

He held the door for her, but she couldn’t
make herself walk through it. “Winston, I’m so sorry. She’ll come
to her senses.”

“It may be too late by that time.”

She shook her head, words failing her.

“Better hurry.” He nodded toward the open
door. “I’ll be in touch. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you.” She
could tell he was trying to lighten up the tone of things.

“I’m counting on it,” said Diana. She
remained in the doorway a couple of seconds longer, watching his
retreating form.

Something in the azure sky caught her
attention: the flash of wing as a red-tailed hawk cruised overhead.
Then another wave of attendee-attorneys swept her up in their
midst, and she let herself go with the flow back inside the lecture
hall.

Chapter 11

Something about her brief conversation with
Winston spurred Diana’s resolve to take a better look at Jess’s
file on the Flannigan/Rogart matter.

She drove straight home from the lecture
hall, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen for a Tigger
hug, exhausted after the long wait for her doctor’s appointment
followed by the grueling session of continuing legal education.

God, I hope when I’m fifty I’m not still
rushing home to hug a cat! Sorry, Tig.

“Mau.”

Cat fed and cuddled, and a fresh mug of
peppermint herbal tea steeping on the kitchen island, Diana
retrieved the file from the dining room table.

Three separate but related incidents were
documented: the kidnapping and recovery of Lori Rogart, the
disappearance of Brandi Rogart, mother of Lori, and the murder of
Larry Strickland. Some of the documents were copies of reports from
the Custer County Sheriff’s Department. In these, the victim’s
names had been redacted out. As Diana read on, she saw that the
suspects’ and witnesses’ names had also been redacted in some
places but not in others. Most jurisdictions just removed the names
of minors and victims of sex crimes. Apparently Custer County
wanted to be on the safe side and did a bunch of editing. Without
Jess’s notes, the reports would have been virtually
meaningless.

Jess had also taken notes when she
interviewed the FBI special agent initially assigned to Lori
Rogart’s kidnapping. Most of them were hand-written and nearly
impossible for anyone but Jess to decipher. Having been her college
roommate gave Diana a decided advantage.

An elk hunt the first week in October in the
mountains above Westcliffe had included Joseph Flannigan, resident
of Greenwood Village, Colorado, whose DOB made him fifty-six.

Hmm, I figured him for older.

Darren Rogart, resident of Franktown,
Colorado. Date of birth put him at forty-five.

That’s a surprise. I thought he was much
younger─my age.

Rogart’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Lori;
George Payne, fifty-three, resident of Sedalia; Shane Cutler,
twenty-eight, step-son of Payne, also resident of Sedalia,
completed the surviving members of the group. Here Jess had noted
that Cutler had been charged ten years earlier with sexual assault
on a minor. She further noted that the minor was a fifteen-year-old
girl who claimed the sex was consensual.

Then there was Larry Strickland. Jess’s notes
dubbed him
Frozen Dead Guy found behind the cabin.
Jess’s
notes went on to muse about Westcliffe initiating a
Frozen Dead
Guy Day
, to compete with Nederland’s. Big difference was
Nederland’s dead guy died of natural causes and was frozen by his
family to preserve him.

Jessie, you’re too much.

Back to the particulars on Strickland, Diana
noted he was forty-seven, had been married to his wife, Penelope,
age forty-five, for twenty-two years. The couple had one child,
Patricia, age seventeen. Patricia was reported as a runaway one
week after Strickland’s death.

Persons of interest in Strickland’s murder,
according to Jess, were Brandi Rogart, Darren Rogart, Joseph
Flannigan, Penelope Strickland and Patricia Strickland.

Shuddering, Diana skimmed over the Custer
County report detailing the fatal wound and probable weapon. She
picked up another page of Jess’s notes.

Flannigan, Strickland, and Payne have been
doing this annual hunt thing for at least twenty years,
Jess
wrote.
Cutler joined them after Payne married Cutler’s mom.
Rogart joined the pack last. Somehow he and Flannigan hooked up, he
joined the group, then married Brandi Flannigan. Or maybe it was
the other way around. The feeble FEEBs and the Custer County
cowboys don’t seem to have a handle on that one,
Jess’s notes
concluded.

The account of Lori’s disappearance was
puzzling. The hunters agreed that they returned to camp at dusk.
Camp was a motel in Westcliffe─an accommodation to Lori. Except for
Strickland, who lived in Westcliffe and went home for the
night.

The other hunters reported that Lori went
into town─just two blocks away─for something unknown. When she
didn’t return, they all set out in separate directions. When they
found no trace of her, Flannigan had called in the sheriff. After a
day-long search of the surrounding woods and crags, the feds had
been called in. After a week, the search was called off. There was
no mention in the material of anyone suggesting that the girl was a
runaway.

Flannigan lied. Or did Jess leave that
part out?
And since these were copies of reports Jess must have
given Flannigan, he must have known that his son-in-law was a
person of interest. Did he deflect that discussion because his own
name was on that list?

Diana glanced back to make sure she hadn’t
misread. She double-checked the Custer County reports. These were
Flannigan’s buddies, according to the reports. He’d lied about
that, too. And tomorrow she had an appointment scheduled at his
house.

As Diana bundled up the files for return to
Jess, after scanning significant portions into her computer, it
occurred to her that an essential element was missing. Where was
Jess’s file on Darren Rogart? Hadn’t he been the subject of her
retention by Joe Flannigan? She perused the paper work again.
Nothing. She made a mental note to ask Jess about that when next
they talked.

Chapter 12

A pheasant erupted from the bushes as Diana
parked her white BMW in the driveway of the Flannigans’ Greenwood
Village residence, located a short drive south of Denver. The
house, a rambling ranch with attached garage, was unpretentious. A
silver, meticulously-kept Dodge Ram with a retro ram hood ornament
sat in the driveway. She noted the vanity license plate: HUNTER
1.

That figures.

Glancing around at the fencing that separated
the property from its neighbors, Diana guessed that it probably
comprised several acres. The acreage alone would have cost Joe
Flannigan a bunch of barrels─
all
barrels, that is.

As she exited her car and approached the
house, Diana noticed a couple of outbuildings, both
well-maintained, as was the exterior of the home.
What did you
expect? Beer cans all over the place?

Joe Flannigan, dressed in jeans that fitted
him better, another flannel shirt, and stocking feet, opened the
front door before Diana had a chance to ring the bell. She glanced
down at her watch, confirming that she was on time.

“Come on in,” he invited, stepping aside for
her to enter.

Diana walked into the living room on hardwood
flooring covered with occasional Navajo rugs in muted colors. Her
forced smile faded at the sight of an imposing maple gun case that
contained several rifles. She paused as she took in more of the
room. Animal heads crowded the walls, their glassy eyes peering at
her.

Joe Flannigan was saying something. Her
revulsion at the wall mounts had caused her to tune him out. “What
was that … Joe?”

“My wife, she’s in the kitchen, if you’ll
come this way.”

As she followed him through the dining room,
Diana noticed a picture on an oak side table. An exotically
beautiful young woman cradled an infant in the crook of one arm,
while the other arm embraced a blond toddler. With her long,
straight dark hair and almond eyes, she reminded Diana of a Native
American Madonna.

“That’s my Brandi.”

Diana looked away from the picture, into Joe
Flannigan’s tired blue eyes. “She’s lovely. Those are your
grandchildren?”

“Keith is only a couple of weeks old there.
The girl is three.”

“A handsome family,” replied Diana, noting
the absence of Darren Rogart from the family photo.

As Diana’s glance moved from the side table
to the mantle of a double fireplace that served both living and
dining rooms, she saw a wedding picture. The glowing bride could
have been the same young woman pictured with the children. But the
ruggedly good-looking groom, whose thick head of sandy hair was a
bit on the long side, was definitely not Darren Rogart. This must
be the Flannigans’ wedding picture. Diana’s eyes widened as she
followed the slump-shouldered form of Joe Flannigan into the
kitchen. The room smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon, laced
with fresh coffee.

Mrs. Flannigan was preparing coffee in an
old-fashioned lacquered metal pot as Diana and Joe entered the
wide, sunny country kitchen. She wore an ankle-length denim dress,
topped by an embroidered apron with an interesting display of
forest animals. Diana wondered if it was her own creation.

“This’s my wife Rena,” said Joe. He didn’t
bother saying Diana’s name. She guessed Mrs. Flannigan was well
aware of who she was.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Martin. Coffee’s nearly
done brewin’” Rena’s Oklahoma accent was similar to Joe’s.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Flannigan.”
Diana tried to smile as she did mental math from the stats
contained in Jess’s material. The petite, sad-faced woman looked
much younger than her forty-seven years. Brandi, her daughter, was
thirty when she disappeared. Brandi’s oldest child, thirteen.
Teen-age pregnancies and marriages, in whatever order, seemed to
run in this family.

As Rena turned back toward the coffee on the
stove, Diana noticed her hair in a single long braid down her back,
its few strands of silver the only indicators of the woman’s age.
So strong was Rena’s resemblance to her daughter, Brandi, that she
could have been the high-cheekboned beauty in both of the
pictures.

Still standing, Diana eyed the pretty maple
chairs with their colorful handmade cushions. She looked around the
room, then through the picture window that faced a dormant backyard
garden. A birdbath hosted several robins who’d stayed the winter. A
couple of blue jays fought over a block of suet hung in a
bare-limbed cottonwood.

“Where are the children?” asked Diana,
looking back at Rena as she spoke.

Tension filled the room like a fourth
presence.

Rena had begun to pour coffee into three
mugs. Now she spilled some as she looked toward her husband for an
answer to Diana’s question. Diana’s eyes followed Rena’s hands,
thinking she spotted a slight tremor.

“They’re in school, of course,” barked Joe
Flannigan, reminding Diana of a dog raising its hackles.

Diana stepped back to where she could watch
both Flannigans. “But, I thought I made it clear that I needed to
interview them.”

“There’s nothin’ to be gained by that worth
keepin’ ‘em out o’ school for,” grumbled Flannigan. “You got kids,
Missus Martin?”

“No. But that’s not─”

“Didn’t think so.” He snorted and shook his
head.

His comment opened the wound again. Diana
gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on Mrs. Flannigan. The
woman stood as if paralyzed, her eyes riveted on her husband.

Diana turned a grimace into a smile, looking
directly at Rena. “When will the children be home?”