Roan dragged a hand over his face and let out a breath. Ruger glanced at him, eyebrows raised. Hey, if the victim raped somebody-or tried to-and got shot in the process, that makes it self-defense, maybe. He shrugged and looked doubtful. I dont know if the senator is going to buy that, though.
A vision of that crime scene flashed into Roans head in full living color: Jason Holbrook stretched our flat on his back in his driveway beside his brand new Chevy truck, a third eye, bloody and black, in the middle of his forehead. He shook his head, but didnt say anything. Too soon, he told himself, to be jumping to any conclusions.
He knew one thing, though. Whoever had shot Jason Holbrook, man or woman, it hadnt been self-defense, not in the legal sense, anyway. It had been more like an execution.
Strange, though, Salazar continued in a musing tone, peering interestedly down at the body, she puts her take that shot here, in his heart. Most womenuh, payback for rapeId think theyd aim farther south He pointed delicately at the part of the body modestly concealed beneath the drape and lifted his sharp black eyes to Roan. Know what I mean?
Chapter 2
It was half past eight when Roan walked into Busters Last Stand Saloon, which put it right about the time family dinner hour would be finishing up. Hed learned this was the best time to catch the regular crowd of Friday-night drinkers, just when they were starting to get their tongues loosened up but before theyd quit making any kind of sense at all.
He and the two SCU detectives had agreed Roan should be the one to question the victims last-known associates, since it stood to reason locals were more likely to open up to one of their own. Ruger and Fry had drawn straws to see whod get the honor of driving to the airport in Billings to meet the senators plane. Ruger lost, so that left Fry to accompany the victims clothing and vehicle to the state crime lab in Helena.
The state detectives were nice enough guys, Roan allowed, easy to get along with and willing to let him take the lead in the case. No doubt they did know their stuff. Still, he was just as glad to have them out of his way, even though hed been the one to call them in on the case in the first place. Which, to be honest, hed done mainly because he knew the first thing Clifford Holbrook would want to know when his feet hit the tarmac in Billings was whether Roan had called in the big guns from state yet. Roan didnt take it personally; the senatord most likely be wanting to call in the FBI, the CIA and Homeland Security, too, if he could think of an excuse to do it.
However, Roan figured he was smart enough to know and man enough to admit when he was in over his head, and also confident enough to know when he wasnt. In this case, the victims father might be a national figure, but the crime looked to be down-home local. The fact was, someone in this town-his town-had shot Jason Holbrook, most likely someone Roan knew well, somebody hed spoken to, looked in the eye, maybe even gone to school with, played baseball withor danced with, he thought, remembering that female blood evidence on the vics shirt sleeve.
Why do I keep calling him the vic? His name was Jason. Jason Holbrook. The guy was a bully and a sonofabitch-maybe even a rapist-but he was also my brother.
Buster Dalton, the owner of the Last Stand Saloon, was where he could be found most nights after the dinner hour-behind the bar, riding herd on his regular drinking customers. When there wasnt a rodeo in town, Buster ran a fairly tight ship, and since he topped out at six four and 350 pounds-and looked even bigger because the bar was elevated two steps up from the rest of the room-there werent many that ever got drunk enough or stupid enough to argue with him when he decided theyd had enough for the night. Buster was first and foremost a good businessman who believed in looking out for his customers welfare, his philosophy being one of Live and Let Live-and Come Back to Spend More Money Here Another Night.
He greeted Roan with a cordial Howdy, Sheriff, which was echoed by most of those already occupying stools at the polished antique pine wood bar. The saloon keeper plunked Roans usual-a mug of black coffee-down on a paper napkin on the well-scuffed surface, and after a glance along the bar to see if his regulars were likely to be needing refills any time soon, folded his beefy arms, placed them on the bar and leaned on them.
Figured youd be in tonight, he said in a low, rumbling voice he probably thought passed for a whisper. Helluva thing about ol Jase, aint it?
Roan didnt answer as he laid down a dollar bill for the coffee and slid onto a stool. Buster leaned in closer.
Dont guess I oughta be sayin this, given the circumstances, but hell-cant say Im surprised. Lotta folksd say Jase had been askin for it for years. Sooner or later, somebody was bound to oblige him.
Roan didnt smile. He sipped coffee, then swiveled a casual half turn on the stool, gave the saloon keeper a sideways glance then looked away. You got anybody particular in mind?
Buster gave a snort, the breeze of it stirring his thick gray walrus mustache. You could start with the Hart County phone book.
This time Roan let his mouth tilt sideways in a grin. He drank more coffee. Lets narrow it down a bit. How boutsay, last night? Was he in here?
Oh, hell yeah-like always. Buster shook his head. Man, this place aint gonna seem the same
He get into it with anybody? More than usual, Roan added with another crooked smile, beating Buster to the punch.
Which the barkeeper acknowledged with a grunt, then straightened up, looking uncomfortable. In response to some signal from the other end of the bar Roan hadnt noticed, he busied himself filling a couple of beer glasses with draft, expertly raising the head to just the right level. When hed delivered them to the customers and deposited payment in the huge silver antique cash register that rose like an altar behind the bar, he came back over to Roan, folded his arms and hunkered down again with a heavy sigh.
Well, gosh darn, he muttered, I sure do hate to put anybody on the hot seat
Why dont you let me worry about that? Roan said mildly.
Buster gave him an unhappy look, smoothed down his mustache with a meaty hand, then immediately undid the effects of that by exhaling like a locomotive blowing off steam. Hell. Okay, well, I did notice he was hitting pretty hard on that little ol gal from the beauty shop. The one that bought out Queenie when she retired and moved down to Phoenix last winter, he elaborated, when Roan responded with a slight shake of his head.
Dont know her.
Doesnt surprise me. She hasnt been here long-six monthsmaybe a little more, but definitely an out-of-towner. And, shes kinda quiet-seems like a real nice girl, not the type to show up on your radar screen, if you know what I mean. He frowned as he straightened up once more, looking thoughtful. Funny thing is, you wouldnt think shed show up on Jases radar, either. Kind of a mousy little thing, not bad to look at, you know, justnot exactly a head-turner. Her names Mary, he added almost as an afterthought. Thats kind of what she looks like, too. The way youd expect somebody named Mary to look. Definitely not ol Jases usual type, but for some reason, he was going at her pretty good last night. He shook his head. Not that she was buyin. She made it pretty clear she didnt want any part of what he was sellin.
She got a boyfriend? A husband? Likea very jealous one? Roan thought. Jealous enough to murder.
Buster shook his head. Not that Ive ever seen or heard of. If you saw her, youd understand why-sheslike I said. Quiet. Nice, but kind of shy. Stand-offish.
If shes such a nice, sweet, shy girl, what was she doing in here? Roan half grinned and let his eyes crinkle at the corners to show he hadnt meant any offense by it.
Buster snorted and gave him half a grin back to show he hadnt taken any. Not drinkin, Ill tell you that. Dont think Ive ever seen her order so much as a glass of wine or that weasel whiz they call lite beer. Naw, truth is, she likes ol Pedros cooking. He jerked a nod in the general direction of the kitchen. I guess Queenie told her before she left he was the best cook in town, and the poor thing never had the sense to learn better. He guffawed a little at his own joke; everybody knew The Last Stand did have the best food in town, in spite of its seedy looks and rowdy reputation.
Anyhow, she stops in most nights on her way home from the shop and picks up something to take home for her dinner. Told me she hates to cook. He shrugged. You just missed her, in fact. She left here just a couple minutes before you walked in.
This lady got a last name? Roan asked casually as he slid off the stool. An address?
Shes renting Queenies place over on Custer. Dont know her last name. Buster threw another quick glance at his regular customers, then draped a dishtowel over one massive shoulder and lumbered down the two steps and around the end of the bar. He followed Roan out to the saloons big double-doored entry, which was well-lit by the dozen or so neon beer signs crowded in amongst the Plains Indian paintings and artifacts on its knotty pine walls. The worn wood floor was crowded, too, with a couple of coat and hat racks, an assortment of gumball, candy and toy vending machines, and racks offering a variety of free advertising publications.
Look, Sheriff, the saloon keeper said, nodding at the dove-colored Stetson Roan had just taken from the rack, I know what youre thinkin, but if that gal had anything to do with shootin Jase, Ill eat that hat ayours. Right here and now.
Roan threw him a mild glance as he settled the hat on his head. You know Ive got to ask. He tilted his hat brim toward the door of the saloon, through which he could hear the thumping accompaniment to an old Dwight Yoakum classic somebody had just programmed into the antique jukebox. Chances are looking good you people in here are the last to see Jason alive. And you did say he was hitting on this woman pretty hard.