“The man was taking a prescription medication for allergies. The capsules were tampered with. Like to take a guess at what sort of poison was in them?” Carson mused.
“Don’t tell me,” Rourke said. “Malathion.”
“Exactly. He had access to it on the ranch, didn’t he?” Carson asked Tank.
“He was in and out of the barn where we keep it, but it’s in a locked shed room,” Tank replied.
“You keep your keys hanging just inside the back door in the house,” Rourke recalled. “Does one of them fit that storeroom?”
Tank’s eyes closed. “She warned me about those keys the first day she came to the house,” he said. “She said, ‘he’ll find them there.’”
“She’s very perceptive,” Clara remarked gently.
“I wish I’d listened!” Tank groaned.
“He’d have found another way,” Carson said. “Anything can be used to poison someone, even common household items.”
“Like hand grenades?” Rourke said, tongue-in-cheek. “I believe El Ladr?on’s convoy was treated to a few of those...?”
“The convoy of El Ladr?on was accidentally blown up by a few equally accidentally tossed hand grenades.” He looked perfectly innocent.
“Nice aim,” Rourke said, grinning.
Carson grinned back. “I get in some practice from time to time.”
Tank started to ask a question when the jukebox, a holdover from the past, started up. The sounds of rock music filled the restaurant.
“Try talking over that,” Carson groaned.
The song was an old hard rock tune by Joan Jett, called “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” It had a hard, heavy beat and it had been a favorite of the Kirks’ mother when she was still alive. It brought back memories for Tank. He smiled as he listened. And then, quite suddenly, he frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Clara asked.
He caught his breath. “That song,” he said.
“Yes, it’s loud,” Carson muttered.
“No! The man who was, or who was pretending to be, a DEA agent when I was ambushed,” he said, feeling all over again the impact of the bullets. “I heard that song.”
“The mind plays tricks in dangerous situations,” Rourke began.
“It was that song. But it wasn’t sung. It was...I don’t know...like wind chimes,” he faltered as he tried to recall it.
“Wind chimes?” Carson mused.
Rourke frowned. “My...employer,” he said, hesitating before he gave the relationship, and not the real one at that, “has a very expensive Swiss watch that he customized with a tune he was fond of. It plays the opening bars of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.” He lifted his head. “It sounds like wind chimes. Or chapel chimes that used to come out of the steeples at churches.”
Tank sat very still. He closed his eyes, trying, trying to remember the man. “It’s no use,” he groaned. “When I picture him, all I can see is that damned gaudy paisley shirt he was wearing.” He opened his eyes. “But I know I heard chimes. It could have been a watch. I’m not sure he was wearing it. Judging by his suit, he couldn’t have afforded an expensive Swiss watch with customized music,” he added. “His suit was strictly off the rack.”
Carson pulled out his cell phone and opened an internet browser.
“What?” Tank asked.
“It’s a long shot,” he said. “But I’m curious about that tune. It rings a bell somewhere in the back of my mind.”
He tapped in a search string and waited. Then he thumbed through the results, which seemed to go on forever. Finally he paused, tapped the screen and his face grew even more grim.
“Several months ago,” he said, looking up, “about the time Hayes Carson made his bust and you got ambushed, a district attorney was murdered in San Antonio.”
“And?” Tank asked.
“They think it was a theft because of what was stolen. His wife was wealthy. He was wearing a very expensive Swiss watch. They said it had a musical alarm, but not what the tune was. It was never found.”
Tank’s dark eyes twinkled. “A break. Maybe.”
Carson nodded. He was still pulling up websites. He frowned. “There’s a photograph of the prosecutor who was killed. I want you to look at this.” He handed his iPhone to Tank, who took it and his face paled.
“What?” Rourke asked when he saw Tank’s expression.
“The damned shirt. The damned paisley shirt.” He drew in a long breath. “That looks like the shirt the so- called federal agent was wearing.”
“Can you find out if the shirt went missing?” Rourke asked Carson.
“Let me find out for you. I know a homicide detective with San Antonio P.D.,” Rourke said. He pulled out his own phone and put in a call to Lieutenant of Detectives Rick Marquez.
“ROURKE,” RICK MARQUEZ stated when he heard the South African accent.
“That’s me. How are things?”
“Busy,” Rick replied, chuckling. “My wife and I are expecting any day now.”
“Congrats,” Rourke replied.
“Thanks. We’re pretty excited. Big changes coming.”
“You’re telling me. Listen, I’m working for a bloke up here in Wyoming. Tank, excuse me, Dalton Kirk...”
“Hayes Carson told me about that,” Rick interrupted. “Any luck catching the culprit?”
“That’s where we’re hoping you could give us a hand, unofficially,” Rourke replied. “A San Antonio district attorney was murdered some months ago, and some things were stolen from him, yes?”
“Yes,” Rick said. “He was a good guy. Hardworking and honest and relentless. He left behind a wife and two small children. Damned bad luck. He was walking through the car park after hours when somebody jumped him, shot him to death and robbed him.”
“You’ve never caught the perp, yes?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“I understand that a watch was one of the stolen items...specifically an expensive Swiss watch.”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I think so.”
Tank asked for the phone and held it to his ear. “Dalton Kirk here. Lieutenant Marquez. Was your murder victim also wearing a paisley shirt at the time, and was it missing?”
“Let me think. Oh, I remember now. It was one of the more puzzling aspects of the crime. Of course, criminals come in all colors and mental persuasions. The man’s shirt was removed by whoever killed him. Left his suit coat, which was very expensive, lying on the ground. His wallet was taken, the watch and the shirt.”
“Was he shot in the chest?”
“No. In the head. There was some blood, not a lot, on his suit coat. Although there was quite a bit on the pillar behind him...”
“The shirt, was it identified by anyone?”
“His wife said it was a couture paisley shirt she had a famous Paris design house create for him... What is it?” Rick asked when Tank drew in his breath.
“The man who shot me was wearing a shirt like that. Sheriff Hayes Carson remembers the agent who was with him at his drug bust also wearing one. I don’t know if he saw the man’s watch, but you might ask him.”
“This is going in a strange direction,” Rick said.
“Tell me about it! It looks like we may have your prosecutor’s murderer up here in Wyoming trying to kill me,” Tank said. “I didn’t know why. But I think it might have something to do with your unsolved murder down there in Texas.”
“I think you may be right. Tell me everything you remember about the man,” Rick said. “We have one witness who saw the killer running away. He passed right by the window of her bake shop. We pulled in all the
