“Copy. Be careful, Carl.”
I broke the connection. The night desert air rushed through the open driver’s window. The cool bite of Fall mixed with the smell of cottonwoods.
Jack Talbott. Richest man in La Sombra, probably in the whole county. He owned a ton of real estate, plus the cattle ranch and one of the car dealerships. I’m sure he had his fingers in a few other pies as well.
I smiled grimly at that last thought. It was probably true in more ways than one.
The city road near Jack’s place was untended gravel, but the quarter mile driveway that was labeled Talbott Lane was paved in smooth asphalt. I cut all my lights and pulled onto what looked like a black stream that led to the house.
I parked short of the house, killing the Explorer’s engine. I grabbed my flashlight and got out, closing the door gently. My boots clacked lightly on the asphalt as I approached the large French doors. A giant ‘T’ boldly adorned both in the center. I knew the artist who carved the letters into the wood. He told me Jack rejected the first two attempts and then docked him for the delay.
There was nowhere to hide on the wide expanse of the porch. I tried to peer through the thickly curtained window next to the door, but the tan curtains were drawn shut. Light seeped around the edges from inside of the house. I listened for movement, but could only hear the faint strain of music and the occasional yelp from Jack’s hunting dog in the kennel around back. I moved to the side of the door and lightly rapped on it.
There was a long silence, then I heard the light sound of approaching footsteps. The footsteps stopped near the door. I rapped again.
“Police,” I said.
No response.
“Mrs. Talbott, it’s Carl Riggins,” I said, this time a little louder. “Open the door, please.”
Another pause.
I was about to speak again when I heard a click and the door opened.
The first thing I saw was Doris Talbott’s small, slender fingers. Long, manicured nails, painted a deep red, caught my eye. The nails on the middle and ring finger were torn and ragged. When the door swung open further, I saw the same red on her lips. The lipstick on her bottom lip was smeared downward toward her chin. A brighter red flared around her left eye.
“Are you all right?” I asked, stepping forward.
Doris held up her hand to stop me. She swallowed. “I’m fine, Carl. Really. Please, just go.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that, ma’am.”
Her lip trembled. “You have to.”
“Did he hit you?”
Her hand rose reflexively to her eye. She shook her head. “No. I, uh…” Her eyes darted away from mine. “I walked into a door.”
“Into the knob?”
She squinted at me, then winced and touched her eye again. “The knob?”
“Did you walk into the knob?” I repeated.
“No. The, uh, frame. The door frame.”
I stared at her without speaking.
She stared back, blinking. “What?”
“You didn’t walk into a door, Mrs. Talbott.”
“Sure I did.”
“No,” I said, “you didn’t. That injury obviously came from a closed fist. Now why did he hit you?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “He didn’t,” she whispered.
“Is he here?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
She cleared her throat and wiped away the tears gingerly. “In his den.”
“Drinking?”
Her composure shifted and a sarcastic tone crept into her words. “Oh, yes. He is having himself a drink.”
I moved forward to enter the house. I thought for a moment that she might refuse to let me in, but her automatic good manners took over and she stepped aside. Once I was inside, she closed the door behind me.
“What are you going to do?”
I ignored her question. “Do you want to go somewhere else tonight, Mrs. Talbott?”
“Go somewhere else?” She shook her head. The motion was tentative at first, then stronger. She squared her shoulders, brushed back a lock of her hair and stared me directly in the eye. “No! I won’t be driven from my own home, Carl.”
“It might be safer for you.”
“I’m perfectly safe here.”
I shrugged. The haughty tone I was used to from her had returned. With that, I knew I’d never get her to go to a shelter or even a friend’s house. “Where’s the den?”
She regarded me for a moment. “It isn’t worth it, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“Going up against Jack. He’ll win. He always does.”
“I’m not going up against anyone,” I lied. “I just want to talk to him about what happened.”
“I told you. I walked into a door.”
“And that’s why you called 911?”
She bit her lip for a moment. “I…was confused.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She didn’t answer me, only regarded me carefully.
“The den,” I said.
She pointed down the hallway to my right.
I turned and strode down the tiled hallway. My boots didn’t click on the tile surface so much as they made a satisfying thud. I took a short flight of stairs up to another hallway. This one opened up into a cavernous, almost museum-like room full of overstuffed furniture. The oil paintings on the wall depicted grand generals, including one of Napoleon on a rearing mount.
Straight ahead, the hallway continued, but my eyes went to the dark mahogany door to my left. Strains of guitar music slipped through the cracked door into the great room.
I gave the door a nudge. The music grew louder as the door swung open. The guitar had a Mexican twang to it, but the tune was classical. Jack Talbott sat in a high-backed leather chair, his eyes closed. He held a glass half-full of amber liquid in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. Were it not for his sagging jowls and round belly, he’d have the look of an athlete just barely past his prime. His gray-white hair was stylishly combed over to disguise how much it had thinned.
I stepped into the room. Talbott must have heard the sound of my boots on the den’s hardwood floor because he opened his eyes. A moment of surprise registered in them before the veil of arrogance fell back into place.
“Officer Carl Riggins,” he rumbled over the sound of the Mexican guitar. “What’s the occasion?”
I pointed at the stereo. “Can you turn that down?”
Talbott regarded me for moment, then reached for the remote on the table next to him. He pushed a button and the music died abruptly. “I’m surprised,” he said.
“Surprised at what?”
“The music. I would’ve figured you to like it, given the obvious Mexican influence.” He smiled coldly. “But I guess where Mexican is considered, you only like what comes out of the gutter.”
Isabella’s image flashed in my head. A small ball of hate for Jack Talbott burned in my chest. I tried to ignore it. “What’s going on here tonight, Jack?”
He raised the drink to his mouth. The ice cubes clinked as he sipped. “Nothing,” he said when he finished swallowing. “I don’t even know why you’re here, unless you’re looking to buy a new Ford or something.”
“Doris called 911.”
“I’m sure it was a mistake.”
“She’s got an injury. Her eye.”
“Really?” He took another drink. “And how did that happen?”
“You hit her,” I told him.
He smiled. “Is that what my lovely wife told you?”
“She didn’t have to tell me. It’s obvious from the injury.”
“Really?” he said again. “You’re an expert on injuries, are you?”
“Enough of an expert to know she didn’t walk into a door.”
Jack took another slug from his glass, draining it.
“I’m going to have to take you in, Jack,” I told him.
He chuckled and set his empty glass on the table beside him. He clamped the unlit cigar between his teeth and shook his head indulgently. “No, Carl, I don’t think so. I think what you’re going to do is turn your ass around and get the hell out of my house.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.” He patted his pockets for a light. “There’s no problem here. If Doris says she walked into a door, then that’s what happened.”