Page 14 of One in a Million

Sam could feel the irritation crawling along his nerves. He was impatient. He was tired. All he wanted to do was lie down, close his eyes, and drift off. But that wasn’t to be.

“Tell me everything,” he said, pulling himself together. “I can’t help unless I know what’s going on.”

Nick stepped into a nearby Starbucks,motioned Sam to a booth, and ordered two coffees. “Have you watched the Texas news?” he asked.

Sam shook his head. “CNN was on in the airports. But it was all I could do to get here. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”

Nick took the order. Sam sipped his coffee, feeling the caffeine flow into his body while he listened.

“Frank Culhane. Big-time horse breeder. Not like the Four Sixes, but rich enough. You don’t read the Texas papers? You don’t know about Frank Culhane? He had some of the best stock in the state, including One in a Million, one of the biggest moneymakers in the history of reining.”

“Never heard of Frank or the horse.”

“You will. Land, cattle, cars, fancy performance horses, you name it, he’s got it—or at least hehadit all, until two days ago when his daughter found him dead in the stall of his favorite quarter horse, One in a Million, a great stallion, retired to stud.”

“Sounds like it could be suicide or attempted robbery,” Sam observed. “Was the horse all right?”

“Spooked, I assume. But otherwise unharmed. Looked like natural causes at first. But he was injected with fentanyl. Somebody who knew what they were doing wanted him gone.”

“His family?”

“I’ll give you a copy of the file. I get the impression they’re a bunch of jackals and vultures squabbling over the remains. Knives out—and it’s already in the morning tabloids. There’s his widow, who’s his legal heir will be fighting for control. His first wife, who owns half interest is bound to show up. She’ll be battling for her son and daughter’s inheritance. The son’s a lawyer, the daughter an actress. It’s going to be war.”

“So why do you need me? Can’t your office handle this?”

“The county answered the first call, and the FBI took it from there.” Nick finished his coffee. “Come on. I’ll tell you the rest on the way to the car. Sorry about the vehicle. It was the last one available at the rental agency.”

By the time they’d picked up Sam’s suitcase and reached the tiny Subaru, Sam had heard the story. Earlier the night before, two local agents had been hospitalized after their vehicle collided with an empty stock trailer. The accident, serious but not fatal, had left the small Abilene squad badly understaffed and their spare car unusable. A senior agent was needed to investigate the sudden death of a wealthy rancher—a death that, after the autopsy, had been ruled a homicide.

Sam knew better than to grumble. Red eyes, aching feet, and gallons of coffee were part of his job.

“I know you’ve had a long flight, and you’ll be looking at a long drive to the Culhane Ranch,” Nick said. “But we need somebody at the crime scene first thing in the morning, to interview people while memories and evidence are fresh. You know the drill. And of course you’ll be staying around for the funeral, whenever it’s planned, and whatever follow-up is needed. That’s when the gloves will really come off. Originally, I scheduled you here for a job interview. That’s still going to happen, but it’s not just up to me. Handle this and I’d say you’ve got a good chance at my job when I retire this fall. At least, for now, we’re planning to hire you on if you want to stay.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sam took the file and climbed into the ridiculously small car, shoving the seat all the way back to accommodate his long legs. He would save the file for daylight, when he was rested and could think. Right now, all he could do was drive. “You said something about follow-up. So how long do you expect me to stay at the ranch?”

“As long as it takes, even if it means being there for weeks,” Nick said. “This murder is making tabloids all over the country. Leaving it unsolved would be a black eye for the bureau here in Abilene, just when we need to look good. There’s already talk of shutting us down. This case could make all the difference.”

* * *

In the motel parking lot, the wind was still blowing when Sam righted himself in the seat, buckled himself in, and started the Subaru. The engine coughed and caught on the first try—he’d feared being stranded out here. But when he turned out of the motel parking lot, a suspicious creak under the chassis set his senses on alert.

The broken limb lay a stone’s throw away from the car. At least the Subaru hadn’t been crushed. But his escape might have damaged something. After a quick check under the car revealed nothing visible, he climbed back in and headed down the road, hoping for the best.

The wind was dying, the sky beginning to fade, revealing the morning shadows of a rolling landscape dotted with scrub and, where springs remained despite the drought, clumps of willow and cottonwood. Cattle dotted the pastures—mostly black Angus, but now and then a pasture with white-faced Herefords, and even one with a half-dozen Texas longhorns, their racks wider than the span of his outstretched arms. A vast cloud of blackbirds rose from the grass and circled the pastures in a stunning murmuration against the opal sunrise.

This was pretty country—peaceful looking, though Sam knew better. It would be a pleasant change from Chicago if he could make the grade. If he failed this case, Nick’s small bureau could be shut down, and Sam would likely end up back in Chicago with the drugs, the gangs, the guns, and the memory of his young partner, a family man, dying in his arms.

But there was more. The challenge of Frank Culhane’s murder was his, and the mystery was already calling to him—the people, the motives, means, and opportunities. He was good at his job. He was champing at the bit to get started.

But as if fate were conspiring against him, he felt the sudden drop in the car’s right rear tire and the too-familiar thumping sound that signaled a flat.

He pulled the car off the road, popped the trunk latch, climbed out, and rummaged through the trunk’s odd mechanical contents. The rental agency must’ve fetched this one off the back of the lot. He checked his cell phone. No service out here. He had the ranch number, but he couldn’t call them.Damn.

In the trunk there was an undersized spare and a lug wrench, but no jack. After years of messing with old cars as a teen and college student, Sam was no stranger to improvisation. With a sigh, he turned away from the car and began scanning the road’s shoulder for something to shore up the car while he changed the tire.

* * *

When the promised FBI agent failed to appear that morning, Jasmine volunteered to drive down the road to look for him. “Maybe he got lost,” she told her brother, who’d shown up early. “Maybe he had car trouble, or maybe he took a wrong turn and wandered onto that awful game-hunting farm. What if he got shot by mistake or attacked by one of those poor old toothless tigers?”

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