Dead Wrong. Janice Johnson Kay
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have.”
“Can you recall what time that was?”
Mrs. Bailey’s lips folded near out of sight, as if it pained her to give a straight answer. Finally she sniffed. “Two-thirty-five. On a Thursday night. Then the fool turned around and went back to town. Bars shouldn’t be open that late.”
Despite her surge of excitement, Trina pointed out, “Someone might have been giving a friend a ride home.”
Silence, followed by a grudging, “Might have been.”
“Are you certain you heard the same vehicle coming and going?”
“Course I am! Wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it.”
Maybe it was perversity that had her suggesting, “One pickup truck sounds an awful lot like another.”
The woman didn’t like explaining herself. After crimping her lips and thinking about it, she said, “This one sounded like my Rufus out there. Don’t bark often, but when he does, you best jump.”
“A deep, powerful engine.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Her own lips were going numb. “Did you notice when the truck came back?”
“Didn’t look at the clock.” She chewed it over. “Twenty minutes. Half hour.”
The timing was just right.
“Mrs. Bailey, do you think you’ve heard this particular engine before?”
“Can’t say.”
“Would you recognize it again?”
“Might.”
Trina gave her most winning smile, which considering she couldn’t feel most of her face might look more like a death mask. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs. Bailey. We may need to speak to you again. In the meantime, I appreciate your cooperation.”
With no “You’re welcome,” or even a “Mind you don’t slip on the steps,” the old lady slammed the door shut in Trina’s face. A dead bolt lock thudded home.
If she wasn’t so darn cold, Trina would have laughed. She hurried to the Explorer she was driving, started it and cranked up the heat. Intermittent shivers wracked her. But at least she’d learned something that might be useful, she thought with a small glow of triumph. Useful enough, maybe, that Lieutenant Patton would let her keep working the case.
She couldn’t believe her luck to have been singled out today, and by Lieutenant Patton, of all people. Trina had become a cop because she wanted to be just like Meg Patton and her two sisters, the one Elk Springs police chief, the other an arson investigator. From the time she was eleven or twelve she’d read about their exploits in the newspaper, and since Will went to the high school people had talked, too. Lieutenant Patton had been the county Youth Officer back when Trina was in high school, so she’d talked at assemblies or in Trina’s classes a couple of times a year. Trina thought she was amazing—beautiful and brave and smart. Everything Trina wanted to be.
In her interview for the promotion to detective Trina had almost blurted out something about how much she’d always admired the lieutenant. Thank goodness she’d been able to stop herself. Even if it was true, it would have sounded like the worst brown-nosing.
Now here she was, hardly a month later, partnered with her. Despite her shivers, Trina still marveled. Junior partner, of course. The lieutenant had gone back to the station to find out whether the killer from six years ago had somehow gotten out of prison and also to try to discover whether other jurisdictions had had murders with this same M.O. Lucky Trina had been assigned one patrol officer to help her canvass the houses along Butte Road.
But it had to be done, and she was pretty excited to have actually learned something. Maybe. Unless the deep-throated pickup or SUV had just been dropping some drunk ranch hand back at the Triple B or the Running Y. Except she’d stopped at the Triple B herself and no ranch hands had admitted to being out late last night. She’d find out from Officer Buttram whether the same was true at the Running Y. Those were the only two working ranches past the Bailey’s place.
An hour and a half later, she hadn’t learned a thing. Buttram and she agreed to meet back at the station.
There, he shook his head. His ruddy face glowed. “Bitch of a night.”
“I would have traded my right arm for a thermos of coffee.”
“With a dash of whiskey.” He took off his sheepskin-lined gloves. “Nobody heard nothing.”
“I found somebody who did. A Mrs. Bailey.”
Her sense of triumph dimmed at the sight of his face.
“There’s a nasty one.”
“She calls in complaints?”
“Once a month or so.” He shook his head. “Hates the neighbors, hates teenagers, doesn’t much like cows. You believe her, somebody is always being noisy or trespassing.”
Noisy? “I don’t remember a house near hers.”
“She has damn fine hearing.”
Trina quizzed him about who he’d talked to at the Running Y, then went to Lieutenant Patton’s office.
Through the glass inset, she saw the lieutenant lift her head at the sound of the knock. She waved Trina in.
“You look cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her superior scowled. “Quit ma’aming me.”
“Sir…”
“That isn’t any better. You make me feel old.”
“Lieutenant.”
“A slight improvement.” She sighed. “I suppose that was an exercise in futility?”
“Actually, I did get one report of unusual traffic.”
Brows rose. “Really?”
Trina repeated what Mrs. Bailey said. “I understand she’s something of a crank….”
“She?”
“Mrs. Bailey?”
“Not Luella Bailey! She’s a thorn in the side of anyone who has dealings with her. Daniel—my brother-in-law—counts his blessings daily that his place isn’t beside hers. Pete Hardesty of the Running Y gets hell every time a steer finds a fence break.”
Crushed and trying to hide it, Trina asked, “Does that mean she’s not reliable?”
“Hmm.” Meg Patton rubbed her chin as she thought. “Well, she’s not delusional. When she says a steer is eating her dahlias, by God there it is. Kids do drag race out on Butte Road. So…no. She might actually be a good witness. Most folks out there wouldn’t pay any mind to a passing vehicle. Luella, though, lives to find grievances.” Her gaze sharpened. “Tell me again what she said.”
Trina did.
“Twenty minutes to half an hour. That would be about right.”
Trina nodded at the phone. “Did you learn anything?”
“Ricky Mendoza is right where he should be. That lets him out. No sign of Amy’s Kia. I sent someone to check her apartment complex and the lots outside the brewhouses and restaurants that seem like the most obvious choices. Otherwise, I’ve put out calls. Any kind of match through VICAP will take time.” The federal database was a godsend to local law enforcement. Unfortunately, it had limitations; many small jurisdictions didn’t input crimes.
Trina nodded.
“I’ve already talked to Amy Owen’s parents. They still live here, only a few blocks from where I grew up in the old town.”
“She