to your little teaser, Ms. Evans, we’ll have to hustle to get a search warrant out there, maybe even tonight.”
“A search warrant?” Jamie’s pulse shifted into high gear. “For what?”
“I’m not inclined to tell you.” Brad’s voice was petulant.
“Now, Brad.” She tried for a conciliatory tone. Even if Brad Alexander did grate on her nerves, big time, how often did a neophyte reporter connect with a powerful source like this? The First Assistant District Attorney. She didn’t exactly understand why he was coming to her, and she even wondered if Brad the Brat, as she and Dave liked to call him behind his back, had the hots for her or something. She scrubbed that very revolting thought. But Brad definitely had some kind of hidden agenda. “Look. I’m sorry I went out there. But the M.E. was my official source on that one, and you should have told me Biddle was a suspect. Now, what are we looking for?”
“Did you get video of Biddle?”
“Nothing useful,” Jamie said. She knew what was coming next. Segments of news video had ended up in courtrooms before. “What are we looking for?” she pressed.
“Probable cause.”
Employing that we bit worked every time. Brad seemed suddenly cooperative now that Jamie had something he wanted.
He went on, “The cops have circumstantial evidence, motive—”
“Motive?”
“Yes. The Biddle marriage was strained. If they split up, she would have taken him for half of everything—the ranch, the mansion, the oil royalties.”
Jamie frowned. Nothing in her investigation had indicated marital problems. How had the police—and Brad—gotten this kind of information? She made a mental note to find out.
Brad was still talking, checking his list off on his fingers, “We have opportunity, witnesses, everything but modus operandi, which, in a crime of passion, wouldn’t apply. Now we need some physical clues. A knife, specifically. The autopsy showed a significant marring, a scrape on the clavicle, which would indicate a slashing or hacking wound.”
Jamie could feel Dave cringing beside her, but she pressed on while Alexander was in the mood to talk. “A cut across the collarbone. Was that the cause of death?”
“Probably not. The M.E. thinks it was a fall—she had a broken neck. But the wound would have been significant, too, possibly from a large hunting knife.”
Dave made a shocked little noise, then said, “There would have been a lot of blood. You know, bloody residue wherever…the, uh, injury took place…” His voice trailed off.
“So then, out at the ranch,” Jamie asked, “they’re probably going to do that test you told me about once? The one where the black light turns old bloodstains blue? Whaddaya call it?”
Suddenly Brad looked worried, and a warning blip crossed Jamie’s radar. “Yes. Luminol,” he said absently. “They’ll spray the walls, the furniture, maybe even rip up the carpet.”
Jamie waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so she scrambled for more questions, anything to keep him talking. “So they’ll test those surfaces for blood residue, for DNA evidence?”
“Yes, DNA,” Alexander said, clearly distracted now.
“What about the Biddle mansion here in Tulsa?” Jamie pumped him. “Are the cops going to spray there, too?”
“Of course.”
Jamie’s source was drying up right before her eyes. He checked his watch. She quickly said, “And what about that neighbor who overheard them having a loud argument the night Susan Biddle disappeared?”
Brad seemed surprised that she knew about that, and the question brought him back into focus. “Old Mrs. Petree has passed on unfortunately.”
“But you guys still have her deposition?”
“Yes.”
“Now what?” Jamie pressed.
“Van Horn will get the Osage County Sheriff to go out and search the Hart Ranch immediately. We can get a search warrant for the Tulsa home from a judge here first thing tomorrow.” Brad’s eyebrows shot up and he checked his watch again. “Listen. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” Jamie said as he backed up. “Will they search the whole ranch? And when will they do this search?”
“Tonight, if possible.”
“You’ll tell me when they go?”
“Yeah, sure. Yes,” he repeated more emphatically, then stopped in his tracks, seeming suddenly intent on that idea. “In fact, I’ll page you. You’re thinking of covering it?”
“Absolutely.” Jamie shot Dave a look, and Dave arched an eyebrow as he tugged on his earring. “Maybe we can even get the chopper,” he muttered.
As Brad watched their exchange, he felt less tense, more in control. The reporter and her skinny shadow would be on that ranch like stink on shit, and a little media ruckus would prove a very useful distraction. He’d make sure Van Horn let him organize the search warrants so he could stall to allow himself enough time. Now if only the tall grasses were very dry and the winds were blowing just right…
THE CUT-CUT-CUT of the Skyranger Six chopper blades always made Jamie jumpy. Somehow, the monotonous beating seemed to intensify her motion sickness. The tiny helicopter rocked in the wind like an empty soda can on a string. She glanced back at Dave, all cozy in the rear seat, surrounded by his equipment, chewing a wad of gum, happy as a clam. The pilot was grinning from behind his aviator sunglasses. Jamie hated them both because they never got airsick.
“Not far!” the pilot hollered over the noise. “Sorry for the bumpy ride!” He pointed. “Over there’s the tallgrass prairie. Largest expanse of native tall grass remaining on this continent.”
Jamie and Dave exchanged smirks. They had nicknamed this pilot Encyclopedia Jones because of his tendency to spout arcane facts.
The sun was just coming up at their backs, casting the rolling Osage Hills in a cool lavender light. To their right, the endless Tallgrass Prairie Preserve reflected the soft peachy hues of dawn. Rising clouds in the distance promised a thunderstorm later in the day. Despite her nausea, Jamie loved this part of her job—these rare moments when she got to see the natural world from the vantage point of the helicopter window. Pure magic.
“I didn’t think old Phil was going to go for this, did you?” Dave bellowed from the back seat.
“Yeah. He’s pretty stingy with this bird,” the pilot agreed.
“I guess nothing else newsworthy is going on at dark-thirty,” Jamie joked. It had been a late night, convincing Phil Hooks that the helicopter was the only way to get out to the Hart Ranch in time to catch the search and possible arrest of Nathan Hart Biddle.
Soon she recognized the river and the landscape of Hart Ranch ahead, then made out the barns and outbuildings—and the three sheriff’s cruisers parked in an open triangle in front of the ranch house.
