Tough Enough

  He looked over at Denny. She sat with one hand in her pocket, the same pocket he’d seen her stick the note from Davey in.

  He waited for her to tell him about the note as they started back up the canyon. But when he looked over, she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep. He gently pulled her toward him so that her head rested in his lap. As he studied her angelic face, the first lines of a song came to him, clear and strong, just like they used to. He hummed softly, writing the song in his head as he drove, and Denny slept.

  IT WAS THE SAME DREAM. Denver skipping and singing into the bank. Her parents behind her. The words dying on her lips. Her feet stopping as she saw the people lying facedown on the floor. The silence. Her father calling her name. As she ran back to him, she saw the other policeman on the floor. Her father grabbed her and shoved her down as he reached for his own gun. She hit the floor and slid into the desk leg. The pain made her cry out. Only this time, Denver saw herself crawl under the office desk, felt the cold floor beneath her cheek as she looked out to see the masked man turn, shotgun in his hands. She saw the silver flash, and something flickered in the light as it spun. Her mother screamed. And the room exploded.

  Denver sat up with a scream in her throat, her fingers clenched into fists.

  “It’s all right,” J.D. murmured as he drew her to him. He pulled off the road and held her, rubbing her back, soothing her with whispered words. She nestled against him, fighting off the nightmare, feeling safe in his embrace. “Bad dream?” His voice was soft and gentle, like his touch. She nodded. “About Max?”

  “No. My parents and the day they were killed.” She shuddered and he held her tighter. “I remembered more of it. I saw the bank robber.”

  “The man who killed your parents?” he asked, sounding not altogether convinced.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but ever since Max’s death, I’ve been having the dream again. Each time, I remember a little more. Or maybe I just think I remember. Maybe it’s just my imagination. But this time, the robber turned and I saw him. He wore a ski mask but there was something about him… .”

  J.D. frowned. “I suppose it could be a memory. I can remember things when I was very young.” He seemed to hesitate. “Denny, have you ever thought of trying to remember? I know Max encouraged you to forget, but what if you got someone to help you bring it all back?”

  Her heart pounded; just the idea of reliving it paralyzed her. “Someone?”

  “Maybe a psychologist who uses hypnotism.”

  She stared at the highway ahead, suddenly more afraid than she had ever been. “I’m not sure I could go back to that day, J.D.”

  “I just thought it might make the nightmare end,” he reassured her softly.

  “The nightmare will end when we find Max’s killer,” she said, telling herself she believed it as she snuggled against him. His shirt against her cheek was soft and warm and smelled of J.D., a scent she’d never been able to forget.

  “I’ve always wondered about your parents,” he said, sounding cautious.

  “I can’t remember very much. Max always wanted me to put that part of my life behind me because their deaths had been so violent, and I have so few memories before that. Maybe he was right.”

  He released her just enough to get the pickup going again. Denver found herself studying J.D. out of the corner of her eye. In broad daylight, he looked even more handsome, strong and muscular from his broad shoulders to his thighs. She mentally shook herself. Being attracted to him was one thing; falling for him was another.

  “How are you going to handle our suspicions about Pete?” he asked, back on the road.

  Pete. “The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced of Pete’s innocence,” she said, anticipating J.D.’s reaction.

  He tensed, and she heard him mutter an oath under his breath. With regret, she moved out of the shelter of his arm and slid across the seat to her side of the pickup. She could see West Yellowstone in the distance.

  “You’re going to have to be careful with Pete,” J.D. said. “If you’re wrong and he turns out to be—”

  “I know.” She stuffed her hands deep into her jeans, not wanting to think about Pete. Her fingers hit the note Davey had slipped her. “Could you drop me by Max’s office?” she asked as they entered town.

  He shot her a look as he pulled up in front of Max’s and started to cut the engine.

  “I really need to be alone for a while,” she said, opening the door.

  “Denny—”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, jumping out and not looking back.

  J.D. swore, slamming his fist on the steering wheel. He’d done it again, pushing her away when that was the last thing he wanted to do. He thought about the note he’d seen Davey pass her at the hospital. Damn. Denny hadn’t trusted him enough to even tell him about it.

  “What do you expect?” he demanded out loud. “The woman has no reason to trust you.” No, he thought, instead she trusts Pete. No matter how much evidence piles up against him.

  J.D. headed for Maggie’s, thinking of the Denny who’d slept on his lap on the way home and the music that had come back into his head. The music and the words were gone again; just like Denny, they’d slipped away from him.

  As he climbed Maggie’s steps, he wished he was a detective instead of a musician. A damned good detective could solve this and save Denny from any more sorrow. He knocked, then remembered that Maggie was probably on her way to Missoula. She surprised him by opening the door.

  “I was afraid you’d already left.”

  “Something’s come up,” she said quietly. She motioned him inside. “Oh, J.D., maybe Max was involved in something illegal. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of illegal.”

  THE WORDS WERE WRITTEN in a childlike scrawl. “Gralin Pas. Sunriz. Tommarro. Brng yur karma. And yur skiis.”

  Denver stared at Davey’s note. At first she thought it was in some form of code but soon realized it was just horrendous spelling. “Grayling Pass. Sunrise. Tomorrow. Bring your

  ‘karma’?” Denver moaned. “Bring your camera. And your skis.”

  Not another one of Davey’s secret meeting places! Maybe Cline was right. Davey was just trying to extort money from her. Well, if he thought she was going to meet him at another isolated place, he was wrong. She wadded up the note and threw it into the trash. Davey was in for a surprise. No more games. This time he was going to talk to her.

  “Davey Matthews?” the head nurse repeated over the phone.

  Denver held her breath. Had Davey gotten worse? Surely he hadn’t—

  “Are you a relative?” the nurse asked.

  “No. I’m a friend. His relatives all live out of state. He’s not worse, is he?”

  The nurse seemed to hesitate. “Mr. Matthews has left.”

  “Left? He was released this quickly?”

  Silence. “Not exactly. It appears he’s run away.”

  Denver hung up, her hands shaking. Davey had run away, all right, but not to avoid the law, she thought as she looked around Max’s ransacked office. Davey was running for his life.

  “Oh, Max, what were you working on?” she whispered. The killer was looking for something. But what? Max’s office was in a worse mess after Deputy Cline and his fingerprinting team had come through; everything was covered with gray powder.

  She began picking up the mountain of papers and putting them into stacks. It was probably fruitless, but right now she needed something to occupy her mind—something besides images of J.D. She thought about the man she’d spent the last twenty-four hours with. Something was desperately wrong. The music industry had acknowledged his talent; his fans had made him rich. He had women falling at his feet. What else would it take to make him happy? she wondered.

  Forcing aside the image of J.D. in his snug-fitting jeans, she sat down at the desk and assumed Max’s thinking pose. Max had picked up a hitchhiker. They’d gone to the old dump. Not logical, but possible, she supposed
. Max liked the place. It was all tall pines and grassy slope now, but years ago it had been the city dump. Many nights she and Max had driven to the edge of the embankment and parked in his Olds wagon above the dump, waiting and listening.

  About midnight, Max would snap on the headlights. The beams would shine down the slope, where a handful of black bears scrounged in the day’s pickings of people’s leftovers. But Max’s favorite part was what happened at about two in the morning. The black bears would suddenly get nervous and run off. Then the grizzlies would come out.

  Max never tired of watching the grizzlies at the dump. It was a ritual for him. And Denver guessed it was his fascination with the huge, powerful animals and his concern that ordinary people would never get the chance to see a grizzly out of captivity.

  Max had taken it personally when the city closed the dump. It wasn’t that he wanted the bears munching on tin cans and plastic sandwich bags; he was just sorry to see the grizzlies go when the dump closed. And he missed those late nights, talking, waiting for the grizzlies. So did Denver.

  No, it didn’t seem strange that Max might go out to the old city dump. Maybe even to meet someone he couldn’t meet any other place. That seemed to leave Pete out. Max had no reason to meet Pete secretly as far as she knew. She thought about the hitchhiker. Max would have given him a ride as far as the dump. That was Max. A lover of old city dumps, grizzlies and people in trouble. Maybe when Cline did find the hitchhiker—if he ever did—the man would know something about Max’s death. Maybe that was why he was so hard for Cline to find.

  She stared at the room and all the work that lay ahead of her. Too many questions still plagued her. And thoughts of J.D. kept pushing in. The way his face softened when he smiled, the way his eyes shone silver—She shook herself, bumping her knee against the desk. It gave out a hollow thud. She stared at the desk, suddenly remembering the secret compartment.

  Denver reached under and pushed the worn panel. It swung inward, and there in the hollow space was the last thing she’d expected to find. Max’s gun.

  MAGGIE HANDED J.D. the bank receipt. “Max deposited $150,000 in his account the day before he died,” she said, her voice wavering.

  J.D. looked down at it. “Could he have saved that kind of money?”

  She shook her head. “Every penny he saved, he put in a special account for Denver. Her account hasn’t been touched.” Maggie punched the couch as she plopped down onto it. “Dammit, J.D., you have to find out what’s going on. Max couldn’t have been dirty. Not Max, please.”

  He took a chair across from her. “I’m trying, Maggie, but none of it makes any sense and Denny—”

  Maggie wiped at the tears. “She’s going to have to be told.”

  “It would be better coming from you considering the way she feels about me right now.” His suspicion of Pete had driven a wedge between them. He told Maggie about finding Max’s wallet.

  “It’s strange that the attacker took his wallet and not yours,” Maggie said after a moment. “Obviously there was something in there the attacker didn’t want anyone to find.”

  “Like what?” J.D. tried to remember the contents. “I wanted Denny to take a look. She might have recognized something significant that I wouldn’t.” He rubbed his temples. “I feel like I’m making a mess of this.”

  Maggie smiled at him kindly. “Just think what might have happened if you hadn’t been with Denny last night at Horse Butte.”

  He grimaced. “But she still thinks Pete’s a prince and I’m a first-class jerk.” J.D. picked up the bank-deposit receipt from the table. “When she hears about this, she isn’t going to be happy, Maggie.”

  “That’s why he couldn’t be involved in anything illegal,” she said. “Max would never hurt Denny.”

  J.D. hoped Maggie was right about that.

  SLOWLY, DENVER PULLED the revolver and the box of shells from their hiding place. Then she reached back into the compartment and felt around again. Nothing but dust.

  She stared at the gun, angry with Max. Why had he hidden it? If he’d had it, he might still be alive. She rubbed her hand over her tired eyes. Had he left the gun behind because he’d known the person he was meeting at the city dump and felt safe? He would feel safe meeting Pete. Or Deputy Cline, for that matter. Or just about anyone she could think of.

  Denver continued to put Max’s office back into some kind of order, knowing it was the only way she’d ever be able to make sense of his case files. The files Max had burned nagged at the back of her mind. Had he been trying to protect someone? The same person who’d killed him? She thought about the “Case of the Wandering Husband” Maggie had mentioned and promised herself she’d search for it as soon as she had everything picked up.

  Tired and dirty, she lifted the last batch of papers from the floor and made room for them on a corner of the desk. One sheet floated to the floor and she bent under the desk to retrieve it. A noise made her come up too fast and bang her head on the underside of the desk.

  “Ouch!” She rubbed her head, staring at the open front door. Sheila Walker stood framed in the doorway, that same goofy hat hanging off the side of her head, that same hungry look in her eyes.

  “You and I have to talk, honey,” Sheila said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Chapter Eight

  The reporter strode into the room, shoved papers aside and plopped down on a corner of Max’s desk. “I’ve been doing some digging. Sometimes I get this feeling in my gut. I got that feeling now, honey.”

  Denver didn’t have the foggiest idea what the woman was talking about.

  “I heard you were on Horse Butte last night,” she said. “Deputy Cline says it was an accident. You buying that?” Denver didn’t get a chance to answer. “Me neither.”

  The woman slipped her large handbag off her shoulder and onto the desk. She got up and stalked around the office.

  “What do you think your uncle was hiding?” she asked, poking a finger into one of the holes the burglar had made. When Denver didn’t answer, the reporter turned toward her. “You know, they never caught the bank robber who killed your folks. He got away with over a million bucks—and murder. Did you know that?”

  Denver felt her head swim. The woman jumped around so fast, it was impossible to follow her line of thinking. “No.”

  Sheila cocked her head. “Off the record, did your uncle ever talk about the money?”

  “What money?”

  “I’m on a money trail, honey. And I’m afraid I’m thinking it leads right to your uncle.” She came over to the desk to pick up her purse. “Max’s murder and that boy being run off the road are just the beginning. A caper this size … Who knows where it will end. Or how many more people are going to die.”

  Denver stared at her, dumbstruck. What money trail? Surely she didn’t think Max—

  “Just answer me one question. Did Max leave you a bundle of money?”

  “Max never had a bundle of money.”

  Sheila nodded. “So you’re saying you don’t know where he stashed the money.”

  “There is no money.”

  Sheila Walker smiled. “Take some good advice, honey. Watch your backside. As naive as you are, you’re bound to be next.”

  FOR A LONG TIME AFTER the reporter had left, Denver found herself staring after her. The woman had to be nuts. Did she think Max had something to do with the bank robbery? Max hadn’t even been in Billings. She remembered the wait at the police station and a woman police officer finally taking her home to wait until Max arrived. Sheila Walker had to be looking for a connection between the two cases, but if she thought Max was it, she was dead wrong.

  Max’s pistol lay on the desk beside the box of shells. Sheila’s warning that she’d be next ricocheted around in her head. She picked up the pistol and, trying not to speculate on whom she had to fear, loaded it.

  Then on impulse she called the Stage Coach Inn and asked for J. D. Garrison. When no one answered in his room, she left a messa
ge, then headed home, anxious for the peace of the lake cabin—the healing place Max had given her as a child.

  As she left Max’s office, she noticed another storm had turned the sky to slate gray. Wasn’t spring going to ever come?

  THE MOMENT DENVER OPENED the front door of the cabin, she knew something was terribly wrong. A cold breeze hit her in the face along with the knowledge that someone had been there. She flicked on the overhead light to find the cabin ransacked, but not as badly as Max’s office. She fought between anger and tears; the tears finally won.

  Damn the person who had done this. She stepped farther into the cabin, pushing open the laundry room door. Her photography supplies, detergent powder and dirty clothes were scattered everywhere.

  What in the world was the person looking for? Did he really think Max would hide a case file in the laundry-detergent box? The thought gave her a sudden chill. A hitchhiker would look in obvious places, but someone who knew Max would look in the detergent.

  She strode down the hall to Max’s old office and closed the side door to the cabin, cutting off the cold air. His big old rolltop gaped open, everything pulled out onto the floor.

  The phone rang. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” It hit her that it might be Davey again, but then she heard Taylor’s deep voice. Outside, the storm clouds had dropped over the cabin, a dense, dark cover, as dark as her mood.

  “Denver?” He sounded almost surprised and she thought for a moment he might have dialed the wrong number. “I’m trying to find Maggie. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?”

  “She said she was going to Missoula to help a friend whose mother died, but I’m not sure when she planned to leave.”

  “Oh, right, Maggie did mention she might go,” he said, sounding a little dejected. “I didn’t think she’d already left. I didn’t even get to tell her goodbye.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” They talked a little longer, with Taylor asking about her health, if Max’s will had turned up, if Cline had found any new evidence. He sounded lonely.

  She snapped on a light and began sorting through the mess from Max’s desk.