“That’s right.” The younger cop was on the radio calling it in, giving the location of what appeared to be a break-in that had ended in murder.
“Look, I walked in just a few minutes before you got here.” Beau’s pulse raced, throbbed in his head. “Someone called my cell and told me to come to this address. They said they had information about the man who killed my father, Senator Reese.”
The cop walked toward him. “So I guess it’s just another coincidence, same as before.” He jerked Beau to his feet and shoved him toward the door. “You just happen to be around when somebody ends up dead.”
Beau closed his eyes. He hated to think what Cassidy was going to say when she found out he was involved in a second murder. He hated for her to think he’d been stupid. Which clearly he had been.
He looked up at the older cop. “I’m not saying any more till I talk to my lawyer.” From the way the guy looked at him, it was the first smart thing he’d said since he’d left the guest house.
* * *
Beau had been sitting in a holding cell for two hours when Tom Briscoe arrived. Tom let him make a phone call. He called Linc, told him what had happened, and asked him to hire an attorney.
“I’ll call Nate Temple,” Linc said. “He’s the best criminal defense lawyer around. He’ll have you out of there as fast as humanly possible.”
“It was a setup, Linc. I can’t believe I got sucked in. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
“You had no idea this was coming. You wanted information. You went after it. What about the lady detective? Why didn’t you call her, take her with you?”
“She was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.” There must have been something in his voice.
“Asleep? Where, in your bed?”
He didn’t deny it. Linc was his best friend. “Not exactly. Look, this wasn’t her fault. I made a bad decision; now I need to fix it.”
“Take it easy, all right? I’ll call Temple. Just stay cool until he gets there.” The line went dead.
Linc was there for him, the way he had been since highschool. Beau, the spoiled rich kid ignored by his parents, and Linc, who lived with his mother and drunken, abusive father in a seedy apartment down near the railroad tracks.
Linc had been the official town bad boy, tough as nails and loyal to a fault. He was a Texas multimillionaire now, but he hadn’t really changed.
At sixteen, Beau had been tall but still gangly. He was being bullied by a couple of varsity football jocks till Lincoln Cain, the biggest, strongest kid in class, had befriended him. He’d taught Beau how to defend himself, which led to boxing lessons his father had gladly paid for—anything to keep him busy and out of the house—martial arts lessons after that.
Beau had grown into his tall, lanky body, which was now hard-muscled and well-defined; if it came to it, he had no trouble defending himself.
Which might be useful if murders kept happening wherever he went.
He looked up as a police officer walked toward him. The cop returned him to the same bare-walled interrogation room he had been in before. Tom Briscoe was waiting, looking sleepy-eyed, ticked-off, and disappointed all at once.
“What the hell happened, Beau?”
Beau shook his head. “I should probably wait for my attorney.”
“It would look better if you cooperated—assuming you’re innocent.”
“I’m innocent. For chrissake, I didn’t kill him. I don’t even know his name. Who was he, by the way?”
“Guy named Jess Milford. Ring any bells?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek, which Briscoe must have noticed.
“I can see that it does. Milford worked for Alamo, one of your father’s companies. He lost his job a little over two months ago. Did you know that?”
He knew it. Milford was one of the names his father had hired Cassidy to check out. “I’m not answering any more questions, Tom. Not until my attorney arrives. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what I told those two cops.” Beau recapped the events of the night, starting with the phone call he had received and ending with the police showing up exactly in time to catch him at the murder scene.
“Someone had to have called 9-1-1. The cops arrived right on time. It was a setup, Tom. I’ve been digging around, asking questions about my father’s murder, and somebody doesn’t like it. That call is bound to show up in the dispatcher’s log. Maybe they can track the number, see who made it. The call alone ought to be enough to convince you it was a setup.”
“Look, Beau, it’s not that simple. The call came in as an anonymous tip, a possible burglary at 516 Brookdale Road. When the police arrived, they found you and a dead guy. That makes two dead guys, Beau, both connected to you.”
