“Maybe he believed he’d be let up—that he was just being taught a lesson or...well, people go on hoping while they’re still breathing,” Logan said.
“One more thing. Both of our victims ate not more than two hours before they were killed,” Dr. Madsen said. “Mr. Berman had nachos and beer. Mr. Hough dined on steak, potatoes, spinach and wine. Oh, and Mr. Berman was suffering from liver disease, while Mr. Hough had an artery that was almost completely blocked. I suspect he would’ve suffered a massive heart attack within a week. His killer really needn’t have bothered.”
They left the morgue soon after and spoke on the sidewalk.
“You feel my men are doing well by you in Lily?” Newsome asked Sloan.
“Yes. Other than the murders and the attempted murders, we’ve had remarkably little trouble during Silverfest,” Sloan said. “Thanks, Liam—I needed your help.”
Newsome nodded, looking at Logan. “Are the feds taking over?”
“No. We’re just here to lend assistance,” Logan said.
Newsome smiled. “I’m not resentful, Agent Raintree. If you decide you can better manage the investigation, feel free. This one has me grasping at threads, and I’m sure Sheriff Trent feels the same way. We’ve got nothing on Berman. We can’t get anything other than that he was down here on vacation. He didn’t have a home phone, and we couldn’t find any connection to anyone in Arizona on his cell. What he became involved in—I don’t know.”
“I don’t know anything, either,” Sloan said. “But the angle we’re working is that someone’s after old gold.”
Newsome frowned. “Old gold? You mean from the stagecoach that disappeared over a hundred years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” Newsome said. “By the way, the skull of that old corpse you found in the desert has been brought to your station. Maybe your artist can work with it. If you find out it was one of the old stage robbers, maybe you are on to something.” He sighed. “Except that no one knew who they were.”
“I suspect Red Marston might have been in on it,” Sloan said. “If it proves to be him, we just might be on the right track.”
Newsome removed his glasses and studied Sloan. “So...that would mean one of the citizens of your fair town is involved. What tourist would have the connections and the know-how to research what happened in the past?”
“Yep,” Sloan said. “That’s why I figure I’ve got a local involved. Has to be. Jimmy and Zoe Hough were attacked by people who obviously knew the house, knew the distance from the stables and barns and knew the family. They were familiar with the garage. So, that’s why I’m really grateful for county help.”
Newsome frowned. “You think one of your own deputies—”
“No,” Sloan broke in. “Or, at least, I couldn’t begin to point a finger at any one of them. And it could be a question of talking to the wrong person, of being careless. But don’t—”
“Trust anyone,” Newsome finished. “That’s kind of a given in law enforcement sometimes, isn’t it? Sad, but true,” he said. “Oh, we got DNA off your bottle. The bottle from the mine shaft. But there aren’t any matches in the system.”
“But if we know who to get DNA from, we could have a match, right?”
“Of course. However, that only proves a particular person was in the mine shaft at some time. I don’t think you can prove murder with it.”
“Hell, Liam, I just need a solid suspect!” Sloan told him.
“If you can get me DNA—the right DNA—I can get you a suspect.”
They parted ways. When Newsome was gone, Sloan turned to Logan.
They’d been excellent coworkers from the start. While Logan carried all the traits of his Native American ancestry and Sloan didn’t, they still shared something of that past. They’d also quickly realized that they both worked on instinct.
And heard voices.
Sloan smiled slowly. “Good to see you, old friend,” he said. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not here to take over. I’m here for support. What’s your plan?”
“How do you feel about stealing a few glasses, cups, mugs, tissues—whatever we can find?” he asked.
“Sure. Where are we going?”
“The Gilded Lily.”
“Great. I’ve gotten accustomed to living back east. I’m feeling mighty parched. I could go for a beer,” Logan said.
“Me, too,” Sloan seconded.
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
*