please don’t.”
“He doesn’t have a bad voice,” Cash argued.
“For a carp, no.”
Cash burst out laughing. “Suit yourself, Kilraven.” He frowned. “Don’t you have a first name?”
“Yes, I do, but I don’t use it, and I’m not telling it to you.”
“I’ll bet payroll knows what it is,” Cash mused. “And the bank.”
“They won’t tell,” he promised. “I have a gun.”
“So do I, and mine’s bigger,” Cash returned smartly.
“Listen, I have to do concealed carry in my real job,” he reminded the older man, “and it’s hard to fit a 1911 Colt.45 ACP in my waistband so that it doesn’t show.”
Cash held up both hands. “I know, I know. I used to do concealed carry, too. But now I don’t have to, and I can carry a big gun if I want to.”
“At least you don’t carry a wheel gun, like Dunn does.” He sighed, indicating Assistant Chief Judd Dunn, who was perched on the edge of his desk talking to a fellow officer, with a.45 Ruger Vaquero in a fancy leather holster on his hip.
“He belongs to the Single Action Shooting Society,” Cash reminded him, “and they’re having a competition this afternoon. He’s our best shot.”
“After me,” Kilraven said smugly.
“He’s our best resident shot,” came the reply. “You’re our best migrating shot.”
“I won’t migrate far. Just to San Antonio.” Kilraven’s silver eyes grew somber. “I’ve enjoyed my time here. Less pressure.”
Cash imagined part of the reduced pressure was the absence of the bad memories Kilraven still hadn’t faced, the death of his family seven years ago in a bloody shooting. Which brought to mind a more recent case, a murder that was still being investigated by the sheriffs department with some help from Alice Mayfield Jones, the forensic expert from San Antonio who was engaged to resident rancher Harley Fowler.
“Have you told Winnie Sinclair about her uncle?” Cash asked in a hushed tone, so that they wouldn’t be overheard.
Kilraven shook his head. “I’m not sure that I should at this stage of the investigation. Her uncle is dead. Nobody is going to threaten Winnie or Boone or Clark Sinclair because of him. I’m not even sure what his connection to the murder victim is. No use upsetting her until I have to.”
“Has anyone followed up on his live-in girlfriend?”
“Not with any more luck than they had on the first interview,” Kilraven replied. “She’s so stoned on coke that she doesn’t know the time of day. She can’t remember anything that’s of any use to us. Meanwhile, the police are going door to door around that strip mall near the apartment where the murder victim lived, trying to find anybody who knew the guy. Messy murder. Very messy.”
“There was another case, that young girl who was found in a similar condition seven years ago,” Cash recalled.
Kilraven nodded. “Yes. Just before I … lost my family,” he said hesitantly. “The circumstances are similar, but there’s no connection that we can find. She went to a party and disappeared. In fact, witnesses said she never showed up at the party, and her date turned out to be fictional.”
Cash studied the younger man quietly. “Kilraven, you’re never going to heal until you’re able to talk about what happened.”
Kilraven’s silver eyes flashed. “What use is talk? I want the perp.”
He wanted vengeance. It was in his eyes, in the hard set of his jaw, in his very posture. “I know how that feels,” Cash began.
“The hell you do,” Kilraven bit off. “The hell you do!” He got up and walked off without another word.
Cash, who’d seen the autopsy photos, didn’t take offense. He was sorry for the other man. But there was nothing anybody could do for him.
KILRAVEN DID GO TO the party. He stood next to Cash without looking at him. “Sorry I lost my temper like that,” he said gruffly.
Cash only smiled. “Oh, I don’t get ruffled by bad temper anymore.” He chuckled. “I’ve mellowed.”
Kilraven turned to face him with wide eyes. “You have?”
Cash glared at him. “It was an accident.”
“What was, the pail of soapy water, or the sponge in his mouth?”
Cash grimaced. “He shouldn’t have called me a bad name when I was washing my car. I wasn’t even the arresting officer, it was one of the new patrol officers.”
“He figured you were the top of the food chain, and he didn’t like people seeing him carried off from the dentist’s office in a squad car,” Kilraven said gleefully.
“Obviously, since he was the dentist. He put one of his prettier patients under with laughing gas and was having a good time with her when the nurse walked in and caught him.”
“It does explain why he moved here in the first place, and settled into a small-town practice, when he’d been working in a major city,” Cash mused. “He’d only been in practice here for a month when it happened, back in the summer.”
“Big mistake, to start raging at you in your own yard.”
“I’m sure he noticed,” Cash replied.
“Didn’t you have to replace his suit …?”
“I bought him a very nice replacement,” Cash argued. “The judge said I had to make it equal in price to the one I ruined with soap and water.” He smiled angelically. “She never said it had to be the same color.”
Kilraven grimaced. “Where in hell did you even find a yellow and green plaid suit?”
Cash leaned closer. “I have connections in the clothing industry.”
Kilraven chuckled. “The dentist left town the same day. Think it was the suit?”
“I very much doubt it. I think it was the priors I pulled up on him,” Cash replied. “I did just mention that I’d contacted two of his former victims.”
“And gave them the name of a very determined detective out of Houston, I heard.”
“Detectives are useful.”
Kilraven was still staring at him.
He shrugged.
“Well, I’m never talking to you when you’re washing your car, and you can bet money on that,” Kilraven concluded.
Cash just grinned.
The 911 operations center was full. The nine-foot-tall Christmas tree had lights that were courtesy
