Page 25 of Lie for a Million

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Only as he was driving away, after a few more routine questions, did Sam allow himself to shudder. Was Charlie Grishman mentally ill or just plain evil? Was he dangerous or just a big talker? Something had to be done about him and those poor animals.

After returning to the ranch, Sam wasted an hour making phone calls. The three animal protection groups he called dealt only with domestic pets. The state fish and game department didn’t regulate the hunting of exotic animals on private land. He had slightly better luck with the Department of Agriculture, which oversaw conditions in zoos, among other things. Yes, Charlie’s game ranch had been reported for animal abuse. The place was on their list, but an inspection had yet to be scheduled.

“We’re backlogged for at least three months,” the woman on the phone told him. “I’m sorry, we do all we can, but we’re understaffed and underfunded.”

Sam identified himself as an FBI agent. “Could you tell me who submitted the report on Mr. Grishman?” he asked.

“I’ll check.” There was a silent pause. “Yes, here it is. The report was submitted by Ms. Jasmine Culhane.”

Sam ended the call with a sigh. Now he understood how easily Jasmine had fallen in league with the group that had raided Charlie’s ranch. He shared her frustration.

But there was one thing he’d learned from his futile phone calls. If there was a way to shut down Charlie’s dirty business, it wouldn’t be through government regulators. And, as Jasmine’s misadventure had proved, it wouldn’t be through violent demonstrations either. The only way to stop Charlie’s business and get his animals removed would be to remove Charlie.

He’d come here to solve a murder, Sam reminded himself. But Charlie was a legitimate suspect. Maybe Charlie wasn’t the murderer he was seeking, but if he could link Charlie to any criminal activity—say, drugs, contraband, or even human trafficking—reporting the man to the proper authorities could be enough to get him arrested or at least cause him to lose his business license. That would make it easier to call in a rescue team for the animals.

Thanks to Nick’s help, Sam was set up with warrants to inspect the bank records of the Culhanes, the McKennas, and Charlie. He could bring most of them up on his FBI-LINKED laptop. He would also spend time at the public records office in Willow Bend checking land boundaries, water rights, and ownership histories for any disputes that might have arisen. He might have done this when he was here earlier, but Madeleine’s confession had made the search unnecessary, or so he’d believed. This time everything was different. Now he would inspect every line of data. The process would be tedious but necessary when searching for evidence in a murder case. He would also look for anything that might incriminate Charlie Grishman. Maybe Charlie was being blackmailed by Frank. Or maybe Charlie was hiding other secrets.

Sam suppressed the urge to call Jasmine on her burner phone. Even if it was a business call, she would have her own concerns and responsibilities. It would be selfish to burden her with his. And he certainly wouldn’t tell her about the elephant and the name Charlie had given the poor creature.

He would be going over Jasmine’s bank records along with the others. Not that he expected to find any surprises. If Jasmine had killed her father, which was unlikely, it wouldn’t have been over money.

And there was no way that Frank’s murder would have been an impulsive act. To get the fentanyl and the syringe, and to lure Frank to the right place, would have taken cold, careful planning.Coldandcarefulwere words that would never apply to Jasmine.

But what if he was wrong? What if he didn’t know Jasmine at all?

CHAPTERSEVEN

The sun had peaked in the blazing Austin sky when a tissue-wrapped bouquet of red roses arrived at the door of the condo. Jasmine accepted the flowers, tipped the delivery boy, and carried them into the kitchen to be trimmed and arranged in a crystal vase.

She didn’t waste time looking for a card. Jasmine knew she wouldn’t find one.

She carried the finished arrangement into the living room—an elegantly appointed space with French doors that opened onto a balcony with a view of Lake Travis. Her mother looked up from the bestseller she was reading. Dressed in a flowing Indian caftan, with her abundant curls dyed to their original fiery hue and clipped into a twist, Madeleine Culhane hardly resembled a woman on the verge of death. But this was one of her good days.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, glancing at the flowers. “Put them there, on the coffee table, where we can enjoy the fragrance.”

Jasmine set the vase on the glass-topped table, next to an antique Limoges ashtray. To her daughter’s dismay, Madeleine continued to smoke, arguing that, with time so short, a few cigarettes would make no difference.

Jasmine eyed the bouquet. “They’re fromhim, aren’t they?”

Madeleine smiled. She was a stunning woman in a powerful, almost masculine way. So far, her terminal glioblastoma had done nothing to detract from her looks. “Of course, they’re from him, dear, just like all the others. Louis knows how much I love flowers.”

Jasmine still found it hard to accept that her mother was in a romantic relationship with Louis Divino, the notorious crime boss. They’d supposedly met after Divino had moved his operation from Chicago to Texas. Over time, their friendship had deepened into something more. And that was all Jasmine cared to know.

She’d made it clear to her mother that she disapproved of the man—especially since he’d helped Madeleine arrange the failed hit on Frank. Jasmine had done her best to forgive her mother’s behavior, which was irrational and had likely been caused by the tumor in her head. But for Louis Divino, there could be no such forgiveness.

“Is he coming by today?” Jasmine asked her mother.

“Yes, a little later. He’ll be bringing lunch, some takeout from my favorite Chinese restaurant. There’ll be plenty of food, dear. You’re welcome to join us at the table.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just raid the fridge. Carmela always leaves us something on her day off.” Jasmine had been about to go back to her room but changed her mind. She’d been meaning to have a serious talk with her mother. She’d put it off long enough.

Sinking onto an ottoman to face the couch, she fixed her mother with a stern look. “We need to talk,” she said.

“My goodness. This sounds serious.” Madeleine dog-eared her place in the book and laid it on the coffee table next to the roses. “You look as if you’re about to tell me you’re pregnant—which I wouldn’t mind a bit, as long as the father is that gorgeous, blue-eyed FBI man. Is everything all right? I overheard you talking to him on your phone.”

Jasmine sighed. “No, I’m not pregnant. And you know that Sam and I are keeping our distance until the investigation is over. This is about you.”

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