Cold Case Cowboy

“It’s off the map for you. Lacey—”

“Is remarried and living in Michigan with a man who’s not a cop. Subject dead. Move on.”

His warning tone had no effect on Dana. “You’re a puzzler, Nick. Getting involved with a potential victim. What’s the deal with that?”

“She’s not going to be a victim.”

“Calmly stated, but so far your questions have struck out. And Will’s like a bull in a china shop with his interrogative techniques.” Dana frowned as Nick started out. “Where are you going?”

“Mountain House.” A scan of the second sheet on the clipboard revealed that only a handful of the people staying there had spoken to the sheriff. “I’ve done Annie’s Barn and most of the Hollowback Inn.”

Hauling out his gloves, Dana jogged along behind him. “April said there are climbers heading up the north side of Hollowback. Party of five.”

“When did they leave?”

“The morning after the murder.”

“Does she have names?”

“Names and Visa card numbers. They rented climbing gear.” Dana sucked in a sharp breath as Nick pushed through the door. “Man, it’s cold.”

Clouds scudded across an already gray sky. Nick watched them bunch together. “Snow’s coming.”

“It’s been that kind of year. We’ve had three major slides already. One missed Skye’s lodge by less than five hundred feet.”

Nick’s eyes traveled up the mountain. “Where’s the building site?”

“Five miles west of the lodge. That engineer’s got his work cut out for him. The pass alone’ll confound him for months. All the roads except one snake back to the same spot. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear old George Painter planned it that way.” Dana crunched along beside Nick in silence, but the sideways looks he darted were telling. Out of respect for a friendship that stretched back thirty years, Nick caved.

“There’s something about her that feels familiar to me, Dana. My father’s ranch foreman is a Native American—Blackfoot. You know him. He believes in spirits, transfiguration and old souls reborn. I was fascinated by the idea as a kid. I thought I’d outgrown it as an adult. Guess not.”

“Well that’s unexpected.”

“What, that I’d believe in anything spirit related?”

“That you’d admit it.” He opened the hotel door. “Details to follow, I hope.”

Nick had left his gloves in one of the jail cells—not smart with the thermometer heading toward minus ten. He blew into his hands as April hastened over from the front desk.

“Here’s your updated list, Detective Law.” She stood close enough to press her breasts into his arm. “There are only seven men who were here the night of the murder, plus the five out climbing. Mr. Phlug is ninety-two and traveling north to Montana with his grandson, Dr. Phlug. They’re both really nice. James Peebles is more surly, no idea why. Mr. Rush—well, he’s just plain hunky.”

Nick’s brows went up. “He’s down the hall from Sasha Myer, right?”

She pressed closer. “Don’t you love cowboys?”

“Since I was a kid,” he agreed with a grin. “I’ve already talked to three of these guys,” he told Dana. “You do the Phlugs. I’ll take Peebles and Rush.”

April bumped his arm. “Mr. Rush isn’t here right now, Detective. He’s over at Harvey’s Garage. His truck broke a kingpin. He’s been on Harvey’s case to replace it. I don’t mean in a nasty way. Mr. Rush is very polite and quiet, kind of skittish, but I figure that’s shyness.” She ran her gaze up and down Nick’s body. “It’s totally sexy.”

“Room 23,” Nick read from the sheet.

“Across the hall from Ms. Felgard.” April shuddered. “It’s creepy, isn’t it? One minute alive, the next gone. Poor thing. She was quiet, too. A sweet little mouse.”

“Uh-huh. Look, phone Harvey and tell him to stall this Rush guy.”

“Sure.” She hesitated. “Why? I mean, he’s the nice one. It’s Mr. Peebles who’s—Okay, I’m going. Stall. Shouldn’t be a problem for Harvey.”

Dana peered over Nick’s shoulder. “Anthony Rush. Telluride, Colorado. Do you have a hunch about him?”

Nick skimmed the list again. “Not particularly. I just don’t want him leaving town, and it looks like he’s paid his bill.”

Dana ran a finger across the sheet. “Hasn’t checked out, though.”

“We’ll see.”

Nick felt revved, but then he always did when a cold case came to life. One thing he enjoyed doing was interrogating people. Anticipating the moment, he arched his brows. “Wanna watch?”

“I’ve had breakfast. I can handle it.” Nick heard the sympathy in Dana’s voice as he added, “For his sake, I hope Anthony Rush can, too.”

“I READ ON THE INTERNET that a woman died near Painter’s Bluff.” Barbara overrode a cloud of static to reproach her daughter. “How? Where? And what does Skye Painter have to say about it?”

“Not sure, Painter’s Rock and nothing yet,” Sasha lied. The signposts in Smoking Gun Pass had vanished, if they’d ever been there, forcing her to use the map on the dash to locate the proper access route. With various roads and tons of snow, it was a complex endeavor.

“Sasha…”

“Look, Mother, I’m driving. Now’s not the time.”

Barbara was undaunted. “Is Skye Painter going through with the project or not?”

“I’m sure she is.”

“So I can tell Donald you’re still working for her.”

She wouldn’t ask, she promised herself. Wouldn’t ask. “Who’s Donald?”

“He writes for well-known women’s magazines. I told him about your job and he was so impressed he wants to do an article on you.”

“But you’ll rate a strong mention, I’m sure.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sasha could have pressed, but why bother? It would only spark another argument.

“I’m flattered, Mother.” She traced the road on the map with her finger. Behind her, the rearview mirror showed only snowdrifts and white-tipped trees. How could she have lost both Max and the sheriff?

“I e-mailed you last night,” Barbara said above the static. “You didn’t answer.”

“I was too tired to switch on.”

“Now why is that, I wonder? Did you go out partying? Honestly, Sasha, you and your brother—”

Slapping her phone closed, Sasha tossed it aside. She considered pitching it in a drift when it rang again.

Without looking, she flipped it up. “What now, Mother?”

“Let me guess. You’ve got issues.” Instead of her mother’s annoyed tone, she heard Nick’s humorous greeting.

Sasha tilted her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck. “This day just keeps getting better and better. In case you haven’t noticed, Nick, it’s not dark yet.” Still, the encroaching snow clouds cast a dull gray shadow on the road ahead. Tired of fencing, she asked, “You didn’t call to nag me, did you? Because my mother’s already done that. I’m not in the mood to be polite.”

“So that’s a no to dinner then.”

“You just want to make sure I come back to Painter’s Bluff as promised.”

“You really aren’t in the mood to be polite.”

A laugh slipped out. “Doesn’t anything rile you, Detective?”

“You don’t want to see me riled, Sasha. Seven o’clock?”

It would be well past dark by then.

“Okay, seven’s good. Now, hang up. I want to let my mood simmer for a few more miles.”

“Drive safely.”

“I always do,” she said, and ended the call.

She managed ten, maybe fifteen seconds of broody silence before she noticed headlights approaching through the snow. Not the Sickerbies this time. These lights were higher off the road, and much more powerful.

Whoever was driving, however, had apparently gone to the same school as the Sickerbie boys. The vehicle barreled through the ruts in the middle of an already tight road.

“This has not been my week,” Sasha muttered. And for the second time in two days she yanked the steering wheel hard to the right.

“HARVEY?” Dana pushed through the stuck office door of the town’s oldest service station. “You in here? No? Well, hell, Nick, I don’t know where he can be.”

Nick made a wary circle of the shop. A gray truck—probably the Sickerbies’—sat high on a hoist, with an F250 halfway up beside it. He heard a scraping noise in the corner and motioned for Dana to halt.

Eyes combing the shadows, Nick wove a path through the clutter of mechanic’s tools. A moan emerged from behind an oil drum.

“Harvey?” As a precaution, Dana picked up a tire iron. “Is that you?”

Nick drew the gun from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at the ceiling as he rounded the drum—and reholstered it a moment later when he spied Harvey’s body.

“Over here.” Crouching, he checked the man’s neck for a pulse. It was strong and steady.

Harvey groaned, his eyelids fluttered. Nick spied a rusty wrench and saw a gleam of blood on the end.

“Help him,” he told Dana.

His own eyes were already scanning the garage. With his gun out again, he watched for movement inside the bay. Catching one near the office window, he whipped the gun down.

“Police.” His eyes flicked to the bay door. “Move away from the tires.”

A tense few seconds passed before a young man in a snow hat and heavy coat sidled out. His hands went up and his eyes widened with fright.

Nick regarded him over his gun. “You’re a Sickerbie, aren’t you?”

Dana’s head popped up. “Randy, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for our truck.” The boy’s gaze remained glued to Nick’s hands. “I was in the bathroom when I heard a ruckus. I thought it was my dad come to bust my butt, so I stayed inside.”

Nick lowered his weapon. “Did you see anything?”

“Not much. A guy. He was wearing a cowboy hat, kinda like my dad’s. He was sort of big, but not real heavy. He wanted his truck.”

Nick scoured the remaining shadows as he indicated the Ford on the hoist. “That truck up there?”

“Yes, that truck up there,” a voice behind him growled. Harvey sat up, supported by Dana, and gave his head a rub. “The guy grabbed a wrench, whacked me when I told him it wasn’t ready. Friggin’ jerk.” He glared. “It isn’t like I have a hundred kingpins sitting around my shop waiting to be installed. Had to order one from—”

“What was his name?” Nick interrupted.

“Rush. And that’s what he wanted me to do. Rush, rush, rush. Well, I told him off fast enough. Said my piece, turned my back, and bam, he walloped me.”

Nick motioned the frightened teenager aside. “Where did he go?”

“How should I know?” Harvey grumbled. “I was out cold.”

Randy used one of his raised hands to point. “He took off in a big silver Chevy.”

Harvey snorted. With Dana’s help, he climbed to his feet. “Didn’t make the best choice. I siphoned off most of the fuel out of that truck this morning so’s I could flush out the tank. He won’t be going far.”

Nick reholstered. “It won’t take much fuel to get to Smoking Gun Pass.”

Dana gave Harvey’s arm a squeeze. “Will you be okay if we leave?”

“Hell, I drove monster trucks when I was your age, Dana. I got an iron skull.” He scowled at Nick. “What’s this guy’s problem, anyway? He knock over the liquor store?”

“I doubt it. Come on, Dana.” Nick started for the door. “You can run the plate on the Ford while we chase him down.”

“Chase who down?” the mechanic demanded. “What’s going on?”

Dana jotted the number of the F250’s license plate. “Trust me, Harv, you don’t want to know.”

LUNATICS, SASHA DECIDED as her Land Rover skidded to a halt next to a large drift. Didn’t anyone around here know how to drive in snow?

The vehicle she’d avoided by mere inches had its back end jammed against the rock face. Irritated, she shoved her door open and hopped out.

“Don’t you dare be injured.” She secured her cap, reached inside for her gloves. “Except for snake bites and poison ivy, I’m not up on my first aid.”

She heard the engine rev, saw the huge tires spin, and hesitated before closing the door. She couldn’t see his features, but the body language of the driver suggested that he was extremely upset. He was alternately thumping the steering wheel and grinding the truck’s gears.

As she stood there, the back end jumped a little. The gears ground again. He whacked the wheel with his fists.

“Maybe not,” Sasha murmured, and remained where she was.

The Chevy’s engine roared; the spinning tires threw up fat streams of snow. The man inside reversed, then shoved the truck into Drive. The back end jumped much higher this time.

In her peripheral vision, Sasha spied a vehicle creeping along the road toward the pass. She recognized Max’s rented SUV, and released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The man in the truck reversed and swung the steering wheel in violent bursts from left to right. Without warning, the box end popped up, the tires made contact with rock and suddenly, the vehicle sprang forward.

Sasha didn’t move. If he decided to plow her Land Rover off the road, at least she’d be able to dive away.

The rented SUV crept closer. She saw the sheriff in his 4x4, tight on Max’s bumper. Ahead of her, the Chevy truck whipped around in a spray of ice and rock. Sasha glimpsed the driver’s face as he glowered through the side window. Then he yanked the stick down and roared away.

It wasn’t until he’d disappeared that she realized her heart was pounding. She had to work her fingers from the edge of the door.

Max braked beside her, the sheriff behind him. Both men climbed out. Will Pyle cast Max a scathing look as he clomped past.

“What happened, Sasha? Did you and that truck have a run-in?”

She wrestled her gaze from the road. “Almost, but no. It was just really strange. He seemed so…angry.”

“At you?”

“More at himself and his truck, I think.” Without looking down, she said, “You’re ringing.”

Pyle pulled out his phone, shot Max another chilly look. “Sheriff Pyle,” he snapped. Then frowned. “Dana, is that you? You know what it’s like up at the pass. Dana?” He regarded the screen, made a disgusted sound. “Pointless piece of crap. I lost the call. Let’s do it this way, Sasha.” He turned his back on Max. “I’ll follow you, and the engineer can bring up the rear.”

It felt good to smile after such a freakish interlude. “Was there a problem?” she asked innocently.

“The slicker spun out on a flat patch of road.” The sheriff scowled at his phone before returning it to his pocket. “Next thing I know, he’s kissing the side of the mountain. Almost buried the both of us in the snow and rock he unleashed.”

Max, who’d remained silent to that point, faced him down. “The tires are bad, and the chains don’t fit properly. I didn’t get the vehicle I requested from the rental company. And don’t even get me started on your roads, Sheriff Pyle. If I’d designed them, they’d be passable summer and winter. By locals and slickers.” His expression became apologetic when he caught Sasha’s eye. “I tried to phone you after I spun out, but your line was busy.”

“Worried mother,” Sasha said. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Max. The guy in the Chevy came out of nowhere.”

“Must have got himself turned around. It’s easy to do up here.” Pyle examined the back of her Land Rover. “Doesn’t look like you hit anything. I’d say you’re good to go on, unless you’d rather go back.”

She secured her cap. “I’m not a quitter, Sheriff. Come on, Max. You can lead.”

“I liked my arrangement better,” the sheriff grumbled. “But anything to get up and down before the spring thaw.”

His phone rang again. By the time he dipped his hand in his pocket, it had stopped.

“There must be twenty dead spots between here and town.” He opened Sasha’s door wider. “In you go, missy. Take the right fork, then bear left. Right again and left.” He bared his teeth at Max. “You hearing this, Mr. Engineer?”

“Loud and clear, Sheriff Pyle. I’ll see you at the site, Sasha.”

Sasha supposed this could accurately be described as a smoking convoy. Sliding in, she eased her Land Rover back onto the road. And tried not to think about the fact that the man who’d sideswiped her had taken the same fork.

IT BEGAN TO SNOW before Nick and Dana reached the halfway point to Smoking Gun Pass.

Dana braced a hand on the dash while he used Nick’s laptop and cell. “Okay, I’m in.” He typed the license plate number, winced and waited. “I don’t remember this road being so bumpy. Needs to be properly plowed. I’ll talk to…Hang on, I’ve got it. Anthony James Rush. City of residence—Telluride, Colorado. Forty-seven-year-old white male. Drives an ’88 F250. Everything seems fine here.”

“Yeah, if you don’t include the fact that he whacked Harvey Stubbs with a mechanic’s wrench and stole a 4x4.”

“Well, yes, that. But his driving record’s impeccable.” Dana tapped the keypad. “Signal’s fading, Nick. Anything else you need?”

“A radar tracking device for Rush would be good. We’re coming up to the fork.”

Dana let out a whistle as he closed down. “Man, look at that overhang. It’s enormous. Do you know that in a bad year, this pass can be closed five or six times by slides? We’ve already had to dig out twice since November, and looking at that snow ledge, I say we’re approaching number three. George Painter used to set off slides on purpose, thus the name Smoking Gun Pass. He liked to separate himself from the vermin in town.”

“Sounds like my father.” Nick kept his eye on a large rift developing in the overhang, while Dana watched the other side.

“It’ll hold,” he said, but his anxiety was evident. “Right turn.”

The road twisted and turned, sometimes following the curve of the mountain, sometimes rolling away.

At a hard thump on the roof Dana raised his eyes. “Nick, this isn’t good. We could get trapped.”

“So could Rush.”

“You’re not helping me here, old friend. Remember, I have a wife and three kids in town. Left turn.”

“I know the pass, Dana.”

“Sorry. Nervous.” He pointed east. “Skye’s lodge is that way. I’m not sure about the building site.”

Nick was. He’d drawn the map in his head. Lodge, building site, Sasha, roads. But where was Rush? Would he hide, or try to make it through the pass and into Wyoming?

A clump of ice landed on the windshield. Nick maneuvered around an even larger chunk. “Storm’s getting worse.” He turned right, drove for half a mile and rounded a sharp bend. A moment later, he braked so hard he almost threw Dana into the windshield.

His friend blinked at the wall of snow and rock sitting directly in their path. “My God, when did that happen? Did you hear anything?”

Nick regarded it for a moment, pictured the terrain and reversed. “Must have come down last night.”

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