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Where R U? Grounded? Come C me.
Oh, yeah, right, and risk being killed by her father, the damned undersheriff, his mom’s boss. No thanks. Not today. Not with Mom missing. Heidi was hot. Though she was a tease, she was about to put out; he could tell. And Jeremy was always horny. Man, oh, man, could he use that kind of release.
But not now.
CHOSEN TO DIE
169
Not today.
He didn’t text her back, just put his strength into scraping off his damned windshield so he could make tracks.
All of a sudden doing it with Heidi Brewster wasn’t quite so appealing.
From far in the distance Santana heard the wail of sirens. The cavalry was on its way. Not that it would do much good. At least not for Brady. His soul was on its way straight to hell. It wasn’t coming back.
Santana had turned off the music, put the cigar that had fallen to the floor from Brady’s fingers into an ashtray where it still smoldered, and was sure he’d catch hell for disturbing the crime scene. Well, hell, he couldn’t save Brady Long’s life, but he could keep the place from burning down. Holy Mother of Christ, what went on here? His jacket and hands covered in blood, Santana sat on the long leather couch opposite the desk and thought morosely that this was the longest time he’d been in a room with Brady Long where they hadn’t argued. It had taken the man’s death to accomplish that feat. It was a wonder he’d stayed in Brady’s employ.
He eyed the room. No sign of a struggle. But someone had killed him.
Who knew Brady Long would return today? Clementine, obviously.
Her son, Ross, no doubt.
Neither one was capable of murder. Clementine was nothing if not subservient, to the point it almost made Santana sick, and Ross, he was a big, 170
Lisa Jackson
quiet kid who helped out around the ranch, oftentimes cleaning the tack, or mucking out the stalls, or feeding the stock.
Yeah, he was a hunter.
Yeah, he had a rifle with a scope.
But murder?
What if Ross walked into the room while Brady was trying to get Clementine into a compromising position? How would the kid react to his mother being treated like her boss’s mistress?
No, it didn’t wash.
But the kill was too neat.
Almost professional.
Not quite. The bullet went into his chest, not his head. A pro would go for a head shot. As Santana reconstructed the scene, it appeared that Long had been at his desk, rocking out to Guns N’ Roses and whatever else was in the CD changer, having himself a cigar and a drink, when someone got the drop on him.
Who?
Why?
Dozens of people, lots of reasons. Brady Long had made as many enemies as friends in his life. Still . . . murder?
“Who did you piss off so bad?” he asked the dead man as the sirens screamed louder and he heard Nakita barking from his truck.
Long’s drink, ice cubes melting, was still on the desk. But then the man himself, dead and staring sightlessly, was still in his chair.
He heard something else.
