Saxon’s metal detector began beeping insistently near a stand of pine trees. He moved toward the sound, sweeping the device in careful arcs across the wet ground.
“Got something here,” he called out, his voice tightening. “Something metallic, fairly large.”
“Probably just a beer can,” Rowan said, but his boots were already carrying him toward Saxon’s position. “Or maybe the crown jewels. Hard to tell with your advanced detection methods.”
“Mock me after I find the smoking gun.” Saxon knelt and began carefully brushing mud and pine needles away from whatever had triggered his detector. “Besides, I’ve been taking this seriously. Read two books on criminal investigation, watched every episode of CSI.”
“Well, that makes you practically an expert.” Rowan crouched beside him, his amusement draining away as Saxon’s digging revealed a metal briefcase. “On second thought, maybe you should stick to the detection part and let the professionals handle the excavation.”
Martinelli approached with the crime-scene tech. “Step back, boys.”
The briefcase that emerged from the mud was expensive and waterproof, designed to protect sensitive equipment. When the tech opened it, they found what looked like a mobile laboratory—testing strips, chemical reagents, digital pH meters, and documentation that made Rowan’s hands clench into fists.
“Water contamination protocols,” the tech read from a laminated instruction sheet. “Lithium introduction methods, dosage calculations for livestock toxicity levels.” She looked up, her face pale. “This is roughly a how-to manual for poisoning water sources.”
Martinelli’s voice dropped to a growl. “This equipment proves they’re not just buying land—they’re actively contaminating it to force sales.”
Rowan stood up, cast a look toward the Jenkins ranch house.
The business card was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the note.
“So what’s our play?” Saxon asked, probably reading the change in his expression.
“We go talk to Ralph Rousseau,” Rowan said. “Find out what he knows about this operation.”
“Hold on.” Martinelli raised a hand. “We don’t have enough for a warrant yet. This is all circumstantial until we can connect him directly to the crimes.”
“How much do we need?” Rowan’s thumb flicked the card.
“More than we’ve got. But we can certainly ask him some questions, see if he’s willing to cooperate.”
Saxon glanced at his watch. “What time does the rodeo start?”
“Noon. Huck’s event is at two.” Rowan did the time math. “If we move fast, we can have a conversation with Rousseau and I can still get there in time to watch him compete.”
“Or,” Saxon said carefully, “you could head to the rodeo now and let Martinelli and me handle the questioning.”
“Not happening.” Rowan’s jaw set. “If Ralph Rousseau killed Sierra’s grandfather and shot Morrie, I want to look him in the eye when we ask him about it.”
The crime-scene tech looked up from packaging evidence. “Detective, this equipment alone suggests a major operation.”
Martinelli nodded. “I’ll call my office and see if we can get backup when we go see Rousseau.” He got on the phone and walked away.
Rowan studied the abandoned equipment scattered across the crime scene. “Professional operation, expensive gear, sophisticated planning. This isn’t the work of some local real-estate developer. This is on a scale that requires serious money and resources.”
Saxon nodded.
Martinelli came back. “Okay. I have the address for his office. We’ll start there.”
“Listen,” Rowan said. “We find Rousseau, we ask our questions, and then I get to the rodeo. Simple.” Rowan turned toward his truck. “Saxon, you and I will coordinate the approach. Martinelli can handle?—”
“Whoa there.” Martinelli stepped forward, his badge catching the morning light. “This is my jurisdiction, my case, my call. You’re along as a consultant.”
Rowan’s mouth opened, then closed. Military habits died hard, but this wasn’t the Trouble Boys, and he wasn’t the team lead. This was Colorado, and Detective Michael Martinelli was running point.
“Right. Your show, Detective.”
“Glad we understand each other.” Martinelli’s voice carried no malice, just the quiet authority of someone who knew his job. “Rowan, you ride with me.”
