Hunter's Moon Page 3

  The TV with the VCR claiming pride of place on top was impossible to miss. It was placed against the short wall the living room shared with the kitchen. When Molly reluctantly appeared in the living room doorway, the FBI man had already found it, and was in the act of pulling a tape from an inside jacket pocket. Sending a quick glance her way, he continued with what he was doing. He pressed a button on the VCR, popped the tape into the machine, pressed another button and turned on the TV. Then he crooked a finger at her. Molly took a couple of unwilling steps forward, into the room, as the screen, for those first few seconds, showed nothing but gray snow. A moment later, to her horror, the picture appeared in vivid detail. Molly stood transfixed, watching speechlessly as her video self found and made off with a burlap feed sack containing bundles of cash.

  Somehow he’d gotten the whole thing on tape!

  He watched her as she watched the screen, and as soon as he saw he’d made his point he turned it off.

  “Well?” he said again, straightening to look at her.

  Molly clamped her shock-parted lips together, crossed her arms over her chest, and tried to ignore the icy cold that crept along her limbs. Her gaze met his. He had her and they both knew it. How could she deny what was right there on tape? Claim she had an evil twin?

  4

  “Okay,” Molly said at last. “So maybe I did take the money.”

  “I don’t think there’s any maybe about it.”

  Molly said nothing.

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  Without a word Molly turned and walked into the kitchen. Pausing only to remove the tape from the machine—she could hear the funny little noise the VCR made when it ejected a tape—-he followed. Of course he wouldn’t be stupid enough to forget the evidence. Tape in hand, he watched from the living room doorway as Molly retrieved the burlap sack from beneath the sink, and with poor grace plopped it onto the center of the table. Restoring the tape to his coat pocket and joining her at the table, the FBI man untied the sack and glanced inside, as if to make sure the money was still there. Then, apparently satisfied, he twisted the neck into a knot.

  “Why’d you take it?”

  That was such a stupid question that it angered Molly. “For fun,” she said, hugging herself. “For kicks. Why else would a rich girl like me steal a bag full of money?”

  His lips compressed. “I’d cut the sarcasm if I were you, Miss Butler. You’re in big trouble here.”

  “Are you going to make that call and have me arrested now?” The question was pure bravado. As she waited for the answer Molly felt sick with fear.

  “What you did is a felony offense,” he said. “You’re looking at big-time time here. Maybe fifteen, twenty years.”

  Oh, God. Molly felt light-headed. With the best will in the world not to let him see how scared she was, she couldn’t keep her body from reacting. Her knees gave out, and she sank bonelessly down on the bench where she’d been sitting when she had heard him coming. Lips parting, she drew in a great, shuddering breath.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, watching her, “I could get them to go easy on you—if you cooperate. I need to know who sent you to pick up the money.”

  Molly glanced up at him in surprise. He was intent, frowning at her and leaning forward on one strong brown hand that rested on the table. She could see the black strap of a wristwatch peeking from beneath the crisp white cuff of his shirt. His watchband was leather, the watch’s face rimmed in gold. His suit was fine wool. His tie was silk. His clothing, like his whole demeanor, proclaimed that he was part of the privileged establishment. No way would he be able to understand what it was like to be her, to be young and poor and caught up in a daily life-or-death battle just to put food on the table.

  No way would he be able to understand what it was like to be her now, looking up at him, scared to death.

  His eyes burned brightly blue at her. Meeting their gaze, Molly decided that any further attempt at lying about what she had done was a waste of time and energy. With that tape, he had her cold.

  “Nobody sent me,” she said.

  “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth. I took the money because we—I—needed it. Nobody told me to.”

  “What were you doing in that barn at three forty-five in the morning?” He hurled the question at her as if it were a brick.

  “I—I work there, for Wyland Farm. At least I did.”

  “What do you mean, you did?”

  “A few days ago, I got mad about something and quit. I went by the barn this morning to pick up my last check.”

  “What did you get mad at?”

  To Molly’s fury, embarrassed heat crept up her face. “A guy grabbed me, and I didn’t like it.”

  “Who? Don Simpson?”

  “No, not Mr. Simpson. Thornton Wyland. His people own the stable.”

  He took a minute to digest that, then began again on another tack. “So you went to the barn to pick up your last check at three forty-five a.m.?”

  “I always start—started—work at five. Three forty-five is not real early in the horse business.”

  “Who were you supposed to pick up the check from?”

  “Mr. Simpson.”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “He usually gets there around four. He likes to be the first one to arrive. I came a little early because I didn’t want to miss him. I needed—need—that check.”

  “So you arrived early. What time? Who did you see? Who was in the barn?”

  “I guess I got there about three-thirty. I didn’t see anyone. There’s usually a groom on duty all night, but “if he was there I didn’t see him.”

  “So, tell me, Miss Butler, what did you do in a deserted barn between three-thirty and the time you entered that tack room?”

  “I checked on the horses, and talked to Ophelia.” There didn’t seem much point in correcting him about her name again. Besides, she thought it might be a good idea to allow him to retain that small area of ignorance. She didn’t quite see how at the moment, but it was always possible that his misapprehension about her name might be turned to her advantage.

  “Talked to who?”

  “Ophelia. She’s a burro. She was hurt not too long ago and she’s been nervous of people ever since. She trusts me. I wanted to make sure she was all right.” Actually, Ophelia had been the victim of a vicious attack about two months before. While loose in the Wyland Farm fields one night, she had been slashed numerous times across the hindquarters with what, from the size and shape of the wounds, appeared to have been a straight razor. The attacker had not been identified. Security had been stepped up around the farm, though concern was blunted by Ophelia’s lack of value. She was not a Thoroughbred, after all. The burro was only permitted at Keeneland because she had a calming effect on Tabasco Sauce, Wyland Farm’s great bay hope. Ophelia was his best buddy.

  “What do you—did you—do for Wyland Farm?”

  “I’m a groom.”

  “You said Don Simpson is your boss. Is that all? What kind of personal relationship do you have with him?”

  Molly didn’t like the implication of that. She looked him straight in the eye. “We don’t have anything going on, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  He didn’t even have the grace to look abashed. “So you don’t have any kind of personal relationship with Simpson, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  “Are you—dating—anybody else?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business. If you’re thinking about asking me out, the answer’s no.” He wasn’t, and she knew it. She just couldn’t seem to resist the urge to be smart-mouthed.

  “I’m not planning to ask you out, Miss Butler, believe me. I’m merely asking a question: Who do you see socially? Who do you date? Who’s your boyfriend?”

>   “What do you want to know that for?”

  He frowned. “Miss Butler, if you want to stay out of jail, you’re going to answer any questions I ask you. Truthfully. Got that?”

  She scowled right back at him. He apparently took her expression as an affirmative answer to his last question, which in fact it was. “Boyfriends? Dates? Male social acquaintances?”

  “I go out with Jimmy Miller sometimes. His dad owns Miller’s Garage in town. And Tom Atkinson. He’s a neighbor. And some others, when they ask and I’m free.”

  “Do you have any personal involvement with Bernie Caudill?”

  “Bernie Caudill?” The name sounded familiar, but Molly couldn’t quite place it.

  “He identifies the horses running at Keeneland.”

  “Oh, you mean the fat old guy who checks the horses’ mouth tattoos?”

  “That’s him.”

  “No. I barely know him.”

  “Tim Harden? Jason Breen? Howard Lawrence?”

  To each name, local trainers all, Molly responded with a negative shake of the head.

  The FBI man was silent for a minute. “So what you’re telling me is that you were in that barn at three forty-five in the morning for no other reason than because you wanted to pick up your paycheck.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what were you doing in the tack room? Seems a strange place to visit at that time of day.”

  “I was going to get a handful of sweet feed for Ophelia. She loves it.”

  “Ophel—oh, yes, the donkey.”

  “She’s a burro.”

  He dismissed that distinction with an impatient twitch of his mouth. “You had no idea the money was there, who it was for, or anything. You just saw it and took it because you needed it, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So tell me something else: Why did you look in the feed sack?”

  “Because it wasn’t the right brand. We always use Southern Farms. The sack was Bentons’ brand, which is an inferior feed. It wasn’t supposed to be fed to our horses, which means it had no business being in our tack room, because somebody might use it by mistake. The wrong feed upsets the horses’ digestive tracts. With Thoroughbreds, you have to be careful. I was going to get it out of there just to be safe, but when I picked the sack up I knew immediately that it didn’t have feed in it. So I looked inside.”

  “Were you surprised to find money in there?”

  That was the understatement of the decade. “Oh, yeah.”

  He was silent for a moment, his expression pensive. His gaze moved over her face and down as much of her slim, blue jean-clad body as he could see with her sitting down on the opposite side of the table. It was clear to Molly that he was weighing her words, trying to decide if she was telling the truth.

  “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You live here with your brothers and sisters, is that right? You have several of them?”

  “Four. Two brothers, two sisters.”

  “And you’re the oldest.”

  “What did you do, check me out before you came? Of course you did. You’re the FBI, right?” Resentment laced the words. “In that case, you already know I’m the oldest, so why ask?”

  Her bristling clearly had no effect on him. His next question was, “Where are your parents?”

  Molly stiffened. This was going too far, into the realm of the personal, where she never allowed anyone to penetrate. “Look, do you really care? Where my parents are doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I want to know.”

  Well, she wanted a lot of things, like for him to go away. But she wasn’t going to get it, not since he had that tape and she couldn’t order him out of her house. That tape gave him the upper hand—and the right to demand answers, no matter how sensitive the questions. “My mom’s dead. My dad took off into the sunset when I was a baby. Okay?”

  He regarded her without speaking for a moment. Then his mouth twisted wryly. “Today is your lucky day, Miss Butler. I’m going to believe you’re telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’m going to take the money and go away and forget you ever stole it. Unless I find out you lied to me. In that case, I’ll be back.”

  He picked up the bag of money by its knotted neck, inclined his head toward her, and started walking. Unable to believe that she was really about to be let off the hook just like that, Molly swiveled on the bench to watch as he headed out the damaged screen door.

  “Have a nice day, Miss Butler,” he called back over his shoulder, just as if theirs had been the friendliest of casual encounters. Though vaguely peeved at the jauntiness of his farewell, Molly’s overwhelming emotion as she watched him go was a flood of relief. She was not going to go to jail after all.

  Though he still didn’t know about the missing twenty.

  Even as she entertained the thought, the FBI man came to an abrupt halt some two feet shy of the steps. Had he changed his mind? she wondered in a sudden panic. Could he read her mind? Was he coming back?

  Her question was answered as Pork Chop walked stiff-legged into view, neck fur bristling, gleaming white teeth exposed. Apparently the dog had been napping on the porch.

  To his credit, the FBI man stood his ground. He held out a hand and let the huge animal sniff his fingers, saying something that Molly couldn’t quite decipher in a quiet, soothing voice. At the attention, Pork Chop melted like the marshmallow-hearted idiot he was. He wagged his tail—clearly now that the man had let him sniff his fingers he must be a friend—and got his head patted for his pains.

  Finally the FBI man stopped patting her traitorous animal, stepped off the porch, and walked out of sight. And, Molly devoutly hoped, out of her life.

  5

  The news that greeted Will when he called Murphy from a pay phone at the 7-Eleven on Versailles Road was bad: Howard Lawrence was dead. Lawrence was the trainer for Cloverlot Stables, and their stool pigeon. He was the one who had confirmed the details of the scam for Will, who had fingered Don Simpson and the others, and who had left the bag of cash, supposedly a payoff on a ringer run in a previous race, in Barn 15’s tack room. At this point, Howard Lawrence was their case. Thanks to the interference of the sexy little number to whom Will had just, to his own disgust, given a major break, they had not yet managed to secure a shred of evidence against anybody else.

  “What do you mean, dead?” Will demanded, outraged, when Murphy broke the news.

  “You know, as in kicked the bucket, deceased, dearly departed?”

  “He’s dead?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How in the name of all that’s holy did that happen?”

  “He killed himself.”

  “He killed himself?”

  “Yup.” Murphy sounded glum.

  “You were supposed to have him under surveillance!”

  “I did. I was following him, and he pulled in for a burger, went through the drive-in window, then stopped in the parking lot to eat. He looked like he was fixed there for a little bit, so I drove up behind the building and ran inside to use the bathroom. When I pulled around again, he was still in his car. I could see him clear across the parking lot. He was kinda leaning back in the seat with his eyes closed, but I didn’t think anything about it. I thought he was just taking it easy for a minute! How was I supposed to know he’d blown his brains out, right there at Dairy Queen?” Murphy was clearly aggrieved at being blamed.

  “Shit!”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Damn it to hell, Murphy, you shouldn’t have let it happen!”

  “What could I do? There wasn’t anything I could do!”

  “Shit!” Will said again.

  “Man, I’m sorry.”

  Will could almost see Murphy’s apologetic shrug over the phone. He ground his teeth.

  “I suppose the local yokels are on top of it?”

  “Oh, yeah. F
act is, one of the girls who works at the place found him. She was carrying out a special order and when she walked past his car she dropped the food and started screaming. Police were there in under five minutes.”

  “You talk to them?”

  “Naw. Once the girl started screaming, I never got out of the car. When the cops got there, I drove away. Didn’t want to tip them off that we had an interest in Lawrence.”

  “Are you sure—positively sure—he’s dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you never got out of the car after the girl started screaming, how can you be sure?” Will’s patience was being sorely tried. Damn Hallum for saddling him with this bonehead!

  “I saw the whole thing on The News at Noon. It was their big story: local horseman commits suicide at Dairy Queen. Believe me, he’s dead. Funeral arrangements are pending.”

  “It was on TV? Christ!”

  “At least nobody knows he was connected to us.” Murphy sounded as if he was offering comfort. “Anyway, he already told us everything he knew. We still got a case.”

  Will closed his eyes briefly. “You’re wrong, Murphy. We don’t ‘still got a case.’ We had the goods on Lawrence, but he’s dead. Without his testimony, we’ve got nothing on any of the others. Nothing, do you understand that? No witness, no evidence, nothing. Nothing on nobody, except a lot of hearsay.” Which translates to a whole heck of a lot of hard work straight down the drain, he thought savagely.

  “Maybe we can scare one of the others into confessing or something. Bring them in, and tell them that Lawrence told all before he died.”

  “And if they don’t confess, which they won’t if they’ve got the sense God gave a goose, we have nothing. Except egg on our faces, and a big-ass expense account bill with nothing to show for it. Plus we’ll have tipped them off that their little scheme has been found out, which means they will immediately knock it off. Leaving us with nothing again.”

  “At least they won’t be committing any more crimes.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell Hallum that. Maybe he’ll put us up for Citizens of the Year.”