somehow I set it all up, killed Clint.”
“That doesn’t make sense on any planet.”
“Doesn’t have to. I think Horace Draper’s beginning to see that, but it doesn’t mean they won’t try to strike back. And you’re part of that. Not just because you were here, because you’re with me, but because Clint targeted your place.”
“I’ve already figured that out. Maybe he had some problem with me before. He might’ve been the one who broke into my place.”
Frowning, Zane studied his wine. “It doesn’t seem like his style. Not the break-in, but the fact nothing really valuable was taken, nothing was wrecked. Still … you could connect his whacking off on your doorstep with taking your underwear. He was already pissed at me,” Zane considered, “because I wouldn’t take him on as a client. So … maybe.”
He reached over for her hand. “Either way, you need to be careful.”
“We both do.”
“We both do. Meanwhile, Lee’s already matched his prints to your place, my office, the truck, the paint cans, and so on. The idiot Clint was staying with gave Lee a good timeline, up until said idiot passed out. His truck, his paint supplies. They’ll have cause of death, ballistics, a tox screen pretty quickly. The DNA will take a little longer, but Clint’s was already on file.”
She’d thought of all that during the good, physical work of the day. “But none of that’s going to point to who killed him.”
“No, it’s not.”
Reading his face, she tapped a finger on his hand. “You have theories, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“Maybe.”
Now she circled her hand in the air. “Please proceed.”
“All right then. Clint wasn’t what you call a popular guy, not outside his family and a few idiots like Stu Hubble. He pissed off a lot of people. He’d get drunk, start fights, or get grabby with somebody’s wife, girlfriend, sister. He hounded people like the McConnells, he poached on posted land. There’s a guy who lives farther up in the hills who claimed last year that Clint and his brother Jed poisoned his hunting dogs.”
“Well, God!” In response, Darby rubbed a foot over the snoozing Zod.
“Couldn’t prove it, but—Lee let me read Clint’s file—he was adamant. So a lot of people didn’t think of Clint kindly, you could say.”
“And your theory is one of them saw him sneaking up here, followed him, took the opportunity to pay him back.”
“That’s one of them.”
“You have another that worries you more.”
“Yeah. Graham Bigelow.”
“He’s locked up.” Alarmed, Darby spoke quickly. “Lee checked. Emily said—”
“Graham’s locked up,” Zane confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a part of this. He’s spent nearly two decades in prison. He knows how the culture works inside. There’s a chance he could have made a deal with another con who was up for release, or knows somebody on the outside. Somebody who’d come here, watch the routine, look for an opening—maybe break into your place and know not to leave prints, not to disturb too much.”
That idea, even as a theory, sent a shiver down her spine. “But … why kill Clint?”
“Stretch the theory. He’s right there. Take him out, cause trouble, upheaval. It took smarts, if we go with straight bad guy, not to take the weapon, not to leave prints again, not to break in and go after us. Smart would know cops would come pretty quick. Smart bides its time, looks for the next opening. If something happened to either of us now, who would Lee have to look at first?”
“The Drapers.”
“You got it. And while he is, whoever did it walks away. I put more into the first theory, but we can’t discount the second.”
“The second’s closer to one of Brody’s.”
Surprised, Zane paused in pouring the last of the wine. “Brody has a theory?”
“A couple, and both slide close to both of yours. Mean doesn’t always need a reason, just an opportunity.”
“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.”
She looked toward the western hills, the lowering sun that showered them. “I love this place. I know I haven’t lived here long, but I love it, the look, the feel, the people. I know there’s mean under it, because there’s some mean under anywhere. But the mean’s why the Drapers are the next thing to outcasts here.”
She looked back at Zane, lifted her glass. “We’re going to be all right, Walker. We’ll paint over the mean. We know it’s under there, but we don’t let it win. To prove it, I’m painting my place Tangerine Dream.”
Zane opened his mouth, closed it, cleared