It wouldn’t surprise him. There were three men who would no doubt have a good time doing just that. Clint didn’t think he was paranoid. But those three men had gone through the academy with his stepfather—and they hadn’t been too pleased when Clint had arrested Clive.
Even though Clive had nearly killed Perci Masterson that day.
No doubt they were part of the reason he’d been unable to find Luther Beise. The man hadn’t been hidden all that well. Just over state lines. The searches he’d had run for that information should have turned up the possibilities. That they hadn’t—that concerned him.
Clint was making notes. Taking leads.
His position with the DCI was for that very reason.
There was corruption at the higher levels. It was his job to ferret that out. Without letting anyone know exactly what he was doing.
He’d been with the internal affairs division of the WSP for eight months now. Six months longer than he’d officially been with the DCI. He was there as a joint favor between Weatherby and the head of the DCI. After he found the corruption he’d been assigned to dig out, he didn’t know what the future held for him. He’d probably continue with the WSP.
Maybe.
A part of him was thinking of just selling the ranch, packing up Violet, and moving. Putting as many miles between him and his housekeeper as he could get.
The woman was driving him crazy. Going to be the death of him.
He couldn’t sleep at night, knowing she was just two doors down. Only his baby’s room separated them. Two months. It had been two months since he’d done one of the stupidest things of his life. Blue eyes flashed in his mind. Confused, sad, embarrassed. Filled with infatuation. Hope. Hope he’d destroyed when he’d told her it had been a mistake. Men made stupid mistakes sometimes. But Clint’s had hurt her. And that had been the last thing he’d wanted to do.
Someone said his name from behind him. Clint jerked, then turned.
Joel Masterson stood there. No surprise. It was the man’s precinct, after all. “Masterson.”
“Gunderson, find anything important?”
“Luther Beise gave us a list of aliases his ex-wife may have used. I’m searching for her now.”
“Good.” Masterson wasn’t exactly talkative.
Clint waited for the man to say more. But Masterson didn’t. Clint didn’t blame him. Because of Clive’s actions, it would never be all that easy between him and Masterson. That hadn’t changed since that day six months ago. And it probably wouldn’t. “Why do you think they did it? Left the way they did?”
“Because of Helen, most likely. Chances are good one of them killed her. Or more. We both know that.” Masterson studied him for a long moment. “Why did your investigation turn up no leads?”
The suspicion was hard to miss. No surprise there. Everyone thought he was just as dirty as Clive had been. As his own brother had been. That had been one reason he’d been hired for the job he did.
Because people thought he’d look dirty from afar.
Hell of a thing to recommend a man.
“Because someone’s throwing walls up at me in every investigation I’m involved in.”
“Really?”
“Believe it or not. There’re things going on you don’t know about.”
“This have something to do with what you mentioned before?”
“Something like that.” Clint hadn’t gotten this far with internal affairs by running his mouth. “So…Pauline Beise. Where are we on tracking her down?”
“Talked to Dr. Talley. My deputy found a Paula Smith down in Della that’s a strong possibility. As well as a Paulette Jackson in Colorado that’s also a possible match.” Masterson was still studying him. “And there’s a Pauletta Clark in Buffalo, but the age appears wrong on that one. The feds are running their drivers’ license photos through their software now.”
23
Pauline Caudrell Beise hadn’t changed much. Except for her name, apparently. Now, she went by simply Paula Smith and lived in the southern part of the state near the border. She had one child she had custody of—Ace Meynard. Ace was ten—Luther insisted he wasn’t the father. But just where the father was, Luther hadn’t known.
Luther had confirmed through one of his children what name his ex was using. He’d been far more helpful than Miranda ever would have expected.
Miranda studied Pauline as she approached the counter of the dinky little secondhand shop three counties south of Masterson. The Beises hadn’t gone all that far when they’d disappeared.
Clive Gunderson should have been able to find them.
Miranda suspected he had. He just hadn’t bothered following up on why they’d left town. And why should he? Everyone was accounted for—except for Helen Caudrell, anyway.
She’d been in plenty of such shops before. This one was more junk than treasure. There were actual broken pots on the shelf next to her head. And they were grimy. She checked the tag quickly—sixty-two dollars for a broken, grimy pot. There wasn’t a single customer in the building, and the dusty smell threatened to send Miranda’s long-dormant allergies flaring. Knight walked at her side, silent and brooding as always.
Max waited outside next to the truck. He made great reinforcements—not that she was expecting to need that.
“Hello,” Miranda started, cataloging the woman in front of them and seeing the woman she had once been. But time…time hadn’t been kind to Pauline Beise—at all. “Mrs. Beise?”
The name got a response. Just like Miranda had suspected it would.
Luther’s story about changing the names had been a wee bit too thin for Miranda’s liking. Yet when she’d pressed, he’d been fuzzy on the details. In a way she hadn’t quite understood. But she would. Miranda would find the answers eventually.
Pauline jerked, then her eyes narrowed. “I know you.”
“Yes, you do. I’m Miranda Talley. Flo Talley’s granddaughter. I was good friends with Monica when your family lived in Masterson.”
Pauline shot a deer-in-the-headlights look at Knight. “I don’t know anything about Masterson County. That’s not my life any longer.”
Miranda didn’t have time to play games
