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“What’s that got to do with anything? Was Haskell shot?”
“Since you’re bound to hear it sooner or later, yes. He was shot several times at close range.”
“If I had killed him, which I didn’t, one shot would have been enough. And it wouldn’t have been up close.”
“That remains to be seen. We’ll be testing your hands for gunshot residue of course.”
A curse escaped Beau’s lips. “You’ll find it. I was target shooting with my niece yesterday. Jasper was there—you can ask him if you have to.” Beau was hoping to clear this up without involving anybody else at the ranch, but the way things were looking, that might not be possible. He could sense the wheels turning in Axelrod’s mind—how an explainable shooting event could be used to cover a criminal one.
“What can you tell me?” He steered the conversation away from himself. “Where was Slade? Who found him?”
“A Cessna pilot called it in. He spotted Haskell’s flatbed by the bog, with the body on the ground.”
“Dumped, like the girl?”
“Nope.” Axelrod’s eyes narrowed. “We found blood and casings at the scene. There’s more, but we can cover that in interrogation.”
Interrogation. The word sent a chill along Beau’s nerves. Axelrod, it appeared, had already zeroed in on the most likely suspect. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.
The sheriff shrugged. “You’re a smart man and you know the law. Up to you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Beau was seated in a room with a two-way mirror on one wall. The sheriff faced him across a narrow table. The process was one Beau had taken part in countless times. But he’d been the one asking the questions, not the one answering them. He willed himself to stay calm. He was innocent, he reminded himself. He had nothing to hide.
“Can you account for your whereabouts two nights ago between nine o’clock and midnight?” Axelrod sounded as if he’d memorized a script.
“I decided to go into town around nine. Stopped at the Blue Coyote for a few minutes, but it was crowded and I didn’t stay. There was an NBA game on TV. Lakers, I think. Didn’t pay much attention. After that I drove by Dr. Haskell’s, but she wasn’t there, so I drove home. Got there about ten-fifteen.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I didn’t talk to anybody at the bar, but Will was awake when I came home.”
“Are you intimately involved with Natalie Haskell?”
The question jolted Beau. Despite his best intentions, his temper began to rise. He’d wanted to keep Natalie out of this, but that wasn’t going to happen. “After Slade beat her up, she filed for divorce. He was set to stand trial for assault and would have most likely gone to jail. She’d have been free to remarry. Why would I want to kill him over Natalie?”
“I’ll take that as a yes to my question.” Axelrod scratched the corner of his grizzled mustache. “Did you or did you not threaten to kill Slade Haskell if he bothered his wife again?”
“I did.” A drop of sweat trickled between Beau’s shoulder blades, soaking into the back of his shirt. It was all circumstantial, but the sheriff was building a damned good case against him.
A manila envelope lay on the table. Opening the clasp, Axelrod slid out a sheet of creased, sweat-stained, blood-spattered white paper enclosed in a plastic sleeve. He passed it across the table to Beau. “Do you recognize this?”
Beau stared at the crudely phrased letter. His stomach contracted. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I’ve never seen it before. Where did you find it?”
“Crumpled inside Slade’s shirt pocket. Isn’t that your signature?”
“It’s a damned good imitation. But I never signed anything like this and I sure as hell didn’t write it.” As Beau studied the grammar-school printing, the awkward sentences, realization dawned. He was being framed—by a perfect storm of circumstances and an enemy clever enough to take advantage of them.
But who was it? And why?
“Did you dust this letter for fingerprints?” he asked, knowing his own prints couldn’t possibly be on it.
“We tried. But the paper was too far gone. This isn’t a blasted TV crime show. We do the best we can with what we’ve got, and sometimes it isn’t much.” Axelrod slid the letter back into the envelope and fastened the clasp. “Must’ve been pretty rough over there in Iraq. I hear tell some men who’ve seen a lot of killing come back messed up in the head. They have spells where they think they’re still in combat.” He glanced up, meeting Beau’s eyes. “You ever have trouble that way?”
“It’s called post-traumatic stress, and that’s just one way it can manifest. I had a few issues after I left Iraq, but I was lucky enough to get help. Apart from some bad dreams, I’ve been fine for years.” Beau had answered similar questions openly in the past. He had no problem with answering this time . . . until a horrific thought struck him.
“Why would you ask me that question?” Beau kept his tone calm and neutral, but his pulse was surging.
“Just thinking, that’s all.” Axelrod brushed a stray fly off his wrist. “We haven’t had a murder in this county for y
