Rough Rider. B.J. Daniels
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if he’d kept anything in writing, she hadn’t found it. Yet.
“I’m going to the police station in the morning to find out more about Hank’s death,” Boone said.
“Good luck with that.” She hung up and rolled over, too tired to get undressed. And yet her thoughts refused to let her sleep.
Was there more information Hank had hidden somewhere? Why wasn’t the information in the file? Because he knew enough to know he was in danger?
If this was about the McGraw kidnapping, had Hank gotten too close to the truth? But wouldn’t that mean that he had inside knowledge? Wasn’t the fear that Hank had inside information and that was what had her running scared now?
She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing. Had Hank already known about the pink ribbon? Or had the attorney told him? Either way, Hank had written it down. He’d also told the attorney that he had to go out of town. But he hadn’t. Or had he?
She thought of Boone McGraw. He’d seen the words pink grosgrain ribbon in Hank’s scrawl. He’d known then that Hank knew more than he had told the lawyer. Why hadn’t the cowboy said something then?
Because he was holding out on her. Just like she was on him.
She felt a shiver and pulled the quilt over her. If Hank had known where to find Jesse Rose, then he would have told the McGraw lawyer, she told herself. Unless...unless he had something to hide.
Her eyes felt as if someone had kicked sand into them. She closed them and dropped like a stone into a bottomless well of dark, troubled sleep.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Boone stopped by the police station and after waiting twenty minutes, was led to a Detective Branson’s desk. The man sitting behind it could have been a banker. He wore a suit, tie and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked nothing like a cop, let alone a detective.
As Boone took a seat, he said, “I’m Boone—”
“McGraw. Son of Travers McGraw. I know. You told my desk clerk. That’s why you’re sitting where you are when I’m so busy.”
He was used to his father’s name opening doors. “I’m inquiring about a private investigator by the name of—”
“Hank Knight. He’s dead.” He looked back at the stack of papers on his desk, then up again. He seemed surprised Boone was still sitting there.
“Can you tell me under what circumstance—”
“Hit-and-run. Given the time of night, not that surprising, and in front of a bar.” The cop shrugged as if it happened all the time.
Boone could see why C.J. hadn’t been happy after talking to the cops. “So you think it was an accident?”
Branson leaned back in his chair, his expression one of tired impatience even this early in the morning. “What else?”
“Murder.”
The detective laughed. “Obviously you didn’t know Hank or you wouldn’t even ask that question. Hit-and-run accident. Case closed.”
“Surely you’re investigating it.”
“Of course,” Branson said. “Right along with all the other crimes that go on in this city. Why the interest?”
Boone could see that the hit-and-run was low priority. He thought about mentioning the kidnapping case. For twenty-five years anyone who heard the name would instantly tie it to the kidnapping. It had been a noose around his neck from the age of five.
“His partner believes it was murder.”
“C.J. West?” He sneered as if that also answered his earlier question. The detective thought this was about him and the private eye?
“She has reason to believe it wasn’t an accident,” he said.
“PIs,” Branson said and shook his head. “They just want to be cops. Trust me, it was an accident. So unless you know different, I have to be in court in twenty minutes...”
The detective went back to his paperwork. Boone rose. On his way out the door, he called C.J. on the number she’d called him from last night. “You were right about the cops.”
“You doubted me?”
“My mistake.” He could hear traffic sounds in the background on her end of the line.
“Think you can find the Greasy Spoon Café around the corner from the cop shop?” she asked.
“You call this breakfast?” Boone McGraw said as he looked down at his plate thirty minutes later.
He’d had no trouble finding the small hole-in-the-wall café. This part of uptown Butte hung onto the side of a mountain with steep streets and over hundred-year-old brick buildings, many of them empty. The town’s heyday had been in the early 1920s when it was the largest city west of the Mississippi. It had rivaled New York and Chicago. But those days were only a distant memory except for the ornate architecture.
“They’re pasties,” C.J. said of the meat turnover smothered with gravy congealing on his plate. “Butte is famous for them.” She took another bite, chewing with obvious enjoyment. “Back when Butte mining was booming, workers came from around the world. Immigrants from Cornwall needed something easy to eat in the mines.” She pointed at the pasty with her fork. “The other delicacy Butte takes credit for is the boneless deep-fat-fried pork chop sandwich.”
“Butte residents don’t live long, I would imagine,” he quipped. “When in Butte, Montana...” He poked at the pasty lying under the gravy. It appeared to have meat and small pieces of potato inside. He took a tentative bite. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t what he considered breakfast.
He watched her put away hers. The woman had a good appetite, not that it showed on her figure. She was slightly built and slim but nicely rounded in all the right places, he couldn’t help but notice. She ate with enthusiasm, something he found refreshing.
As he took another bite of his pasty, he studied her, trying to get a handle on who he was dealing with. There was something completely unpretentious about her, from her lack of makeup to the simple jean skirt, leggings, sweater and calf-high boots she wore. Her copper-red hair was pulled back in a loose braid that trailed down her back.
She looked more like an elementary school teacher than a private investigator. Because she was so slight in stature it was almost deceiving. But her confidence and determination would have made any man think twice before taking her on. Not to mention the gun he suspected was weighing down the shoulder bag she had on the chair next to her.
“What does the ‘C.J.’ stand for?” he asked between bites.
She wrinkled her nose and, for a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to tell him. “Calamity Jane,” she said with a sigh. “My father was a huge fan of Western history apparently.”
“You never knew him?”
With a shake of her head, she said, “He died when I was two.”
“Is your mother still...?”
“She passed away years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hank was my family.” Her voice broke. Eyes shiny with tears, she looked away for a moment before returning to her breakfast. He did the same.
A few minutes later, she scraped the last bite of gravy and crust up, ate it and pushed her plate away. Elbows on the table, she leaned toward him and dropped her voice, even though the café was so noisy, he doubted anyone could hear their conversation where they sat near the doorway.
Her brown eyes,