“ Who authorized it?”
“ You did, dummy! That’s the nail in the coffin.”
“ I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I had no signatory powers over the account. I never even knew what bank it was in.”
“ Nice try, Jake, but you filled out a signature card when the account was opened, and the signature on the wire transfer request matched.”
“ Abe, I’m telling you I never signed any card or transfer request or anything. If they match, it’s only because the same forger did them both. I was set up the day the Rocky Mountain Treasures bank account was opened.”
“ Pretty farfetched, Jake.”
“ Who opened the corporate account?”
I heard a rustling of papers at the other end of the line. “Louis X. Baroso, last December nineteenth.”
“ Blinky. Of course, who else would it be?”
“ A week later, he mailed in a signature card signed by Cimarron and you.”
“ No, forged by Blinky.”
“ So you say. Well, we can have a handwriting expert take a look at it.”
I was still chasing the shadow of an idea. “They still needed my bank account number.”
“ What?”
“ Abe, the night Hornback was killed, Kip said someone came up to my bedroom.”
“ Right. That’s where they got your necktie.”
“ They got more than that. There’s a desk in my bedroom by the window. In the middle drawer, along with last year’s Christmas cards, is my checkbook. Abe, I want you to dust for prints. There shouldn’t be any latents, except mine.”
“ You expect to find Blinky’s greasy thumb? Did he kill Hornback, too? As I recall, you’re the one who said he wasn’t capable.”
“ Abe, this is really getting complicated.”
“ You’re trying too hard. Come on in, Jake. You’re just going to make it worse for yourself.”
“ Worse! How?”
There was a faint buzzing on the long-distance line. “I don’t know,” Abe Socolow said, “but I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
The ride down the mountain seemed to take longer, but that’s always the way it is when you’re in a hurry. I had parked the car on Durant Street near the Little Nell Hotel, and I told Kip to hustle. He did, and we both hopped into the rental convertible without opening the doors.
I drove north on Spring Street to Main, turned left, passed the courthouse, the old Hotel Jerome, the Sardy House, and the Christmas Inn, turned right on Third Street and parked just behind the music tent. It hadn’t taken five minutes, one of the joys of small towns.
“ What’s up?” Kip asked.
“ A little culture for you, my boy.”
There were maybe eight hundred people half filling the place. We took seats in the rear, near the main entrance, Kip pausing long enough to fill his pocket with candied throat lozenges thoughtfully provided at the door.
“ What is this?” Kip asked.
I looked toward the stage. “A couple of women playing violins,” I said, providing expert commentary.
“ A violin and a viola,” whispered the man next to me. He had silver hair, a matching mustache, and wore a tweed sports jacket with elbow patches. His eyes were closed, and his head swayed gently to the music.
“ That’s what I meant,” I whispered back. “We miss anything?”
He didn’t speak until the music stopped and people applauded, and the violinists-or is one a violist?-took slight bows. “I should say so,” the man said, eyes open now. “You missed all of Mozart’s K. 423 in G, and quite marvelous it was, filled with contrapuntal ingenuity, enhanced by double stops, a wonderful piece of didactic, etudelike virtuosity.”
“ It’s one of my favorites,” I allowed.
“ Well then, you will appreciate K. 424 in B-flat. It’s next.”
In a few moments, they started playing again, and in my expert opinion, they sounded swell. I walked down the aisle, crossed in front of the stage, and up another aisle. I caught a few stares, but most people seemed entranced. Finally, halfway up on the right-hand side, there she was.
Jo Jo Baroso was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve green cotton blouse covered by a red Mexican serape. She wore no makeup, and her dark hair was pulled straight back. She would have looked about eighteen years old, but there were dark circles under her eyes and her face, even in quiet repose, seemed to convey a profound sadness.
I slid into the seat next to her. “I’m partial to violas, how about you?”
A tremor seemed to go through her body. She reached for my hand, the healing one, and pressed it to her cheek, which was cool to the touch. She just held my hand there, letting it gently caress her face. In a moment, twin tears slid down her granite cheekbones. She lowered my hand, leaned close to me, and softly kissed me on the cheek.
“ Oh, Jake,” she whispered, now grasping my hand with both of hers. “I’m frightened. So much is happening. Simmy has flipped out over all of this. I just don’t know what to do.”
“ Go home with me. Help me prove I didn’t kill anybody.”
“ Is that all?”
“ No. Be with me.”
“ I want to, at least I think I do.”
From behind us, a loud shush.
“ Go now, please,” she whispered. “I’ll call you later and tell you everything.”
“ Call me? Why don’t we meet somewhere?”
“ No, Simmy’s watching me like a hawk. I ride every night before dinner. I’ll call you from the barn just before dark. Please, trust me.”
I told her where we were staying and promised to be in the room for her call. Then I gathered up Kip, who was dozing peacefully just as the violin, or maybe it was the viola, got to one of those parts of didactic, etudelike virtuosity.
I was sitting in the little cottage at the Lazy Q, waiting.
Thinking.
Worrying.
I thought I heard the floorboards creak on the front step. I opened the door and looked outside.
Nothing.
Getting paranoid.
I shouted to Kip, who was across the road in a grassy field with two kids from a neighboring cottage. Kip was fooling around with the video camera, trying to get some shots of the golden eagle. He waved to me, one of those I’m-having-fun, I’m-not-hungry, don’t-bother-me kind of waves.
I went back into the cottage and sat on the sagging bed. Something was nagging at me, something besides the fact I was wanted for Murder One, to say nothing of transporting a juvenile delinquent across state lines. There was an itch I couldn’t scratch, a feeling of dread I couldn’t contain or even describe.
I had made a mistake with Blinky Baroso. I had gotten too close to him, forgetting he was just another client, and let’s face it, a born loser. I had let my guard down because he was Jo Jo’s brother.
Pathetic.
