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Ivor said, a little disgusted at the sheriff’s ignorance. “A Yeti. He was here, I tell ya. A huge thing, maybe seven or eight feet tall. All white and hairy with yellow eyes like lasers!”
Watershed looked at Grayson. “He refuses a breathalyser.”
“I told ya, I had a few drinks. So what? Nips to keep my blood flowin’ in this effin’ storm. I know what I saw!”
“What were you doing here? On Hubert Long’s property?”
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Ivor opened his mouth, then shut it firmly. Watershed, one very skeptical eyebrow raised, said, “It’s the aliens again. They forced him out in the cold to hike over here.”
“I helped you with that Ito girl, didn’t I?” Ivor snapped, glowering at Watershed as if he were the very embodiment of Satan.
“We’ll talk about this in a minute.” Grayson looked at the deputy. “Call his son, Bill. Tell him to pick up his father at the office.”
“You leave my boy outta this!”
“It’s either that or the drunk tank, Ivor,” Grayson said on a sigh. “You choose.” He and Alvarez walked past a dining room with a twenty-foot ceiling, double chandeliers of deer antlers and lights, and an oval table that could easily seat a dozen people and overlooked a breathtaking view of the backyard. At the table, a man and woman were huddled over a laptop computer and cell phone, examining Brady’s electronics and making notes. On the floor around them were open cases of computer tools.
“No one lives here full-time, right?” Alvarez asked.
“Maybe the housekeeper?” Grayson suggested. Careful not to get in the way of the techs working the scene, they cut through the foyer. Nate Santana was waiting in the vast living room. Rather than sitting on any of the leather couches or reading chairs, he’d chosen to stand at a bank of tall windows that looked onto the front of the house. Outside, instead of pristine snow and wilderness, a carnival of police and emergency vehicles were parked in all directions. Santana’s hands were in the back pockets of his jeans, blood visible at his wrists, his expression hard and set. Another deputy, Jan Spitzer, was with him. 188
Lisa Jackson
She’d separated him from Ivor so that the department could get individual statements and find out if the two mens’ stories gelled. Santana glanced over his shoulder as they passed, and it was obvious he was edgy, nervous, his features drawn.
“Give us a sec and we’ll be right with you,” Alvarez said before following Grayson down a wide hallway that ducked beneath the front stairs on its way to the den.
Double doors opened to a massive room that smelled faintly of cigars and the acrid, metallic scent of blood. Several officers were in the room, busy taking measurements and pictures and dusting the area for finger and shoe prints.
“Here’s our victim.” Virginia Johnson, a crime scene tech, was collecting evidence. She looked up when Grayson entered and motioned to a oncehandsome, and now very dead, man who’d obviously been shot as he sat in his desk chair. His skin was white, his face ashen, his shirt slick and scarlet with blood. “Brady Long.”
“Already had the pleasure. When he was alive.”
The sheriff walked closer to the body and examined the wound—bloody flesh visible through the stained shirt. “He sure as hell pissed someone off.” He glanced up and ran his gaze around the room.
“Robbery gone bad?”
Johnson frowned. “Doesn’t look like it. And no forced entry. No signs of a fight. But we do have something. Take a look at this.” She pressed a hidden button on the desk and the wall near the fireplace, one with a fading zebra hide stretched over it, moved to display a collection of firearms that would impress any member of the NRA. Beside the weapons was a safe.
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“Anyone know the combination for the safe?”
Grayson asked.
She shrugged. “We’re looking for it. The computer geeks are already checking his laptop. They found it here in its case.”
“He didn’t even have time to fire it up?”
“Looks like he hadn’t been here long. His outerwear was still wet and dripping in the mud room. No sign of him going upstairs or helping himself to anything to eat. There were things prepared, looks like for him, in the refrigerator. He didn’t bother with it. Just grabbed a drink from the bar and came straight in here. We’re already looking into any calls of interest to, or from, his cell phone, text messages, and the same with e-mail or notes in his computer.”
Grayson frowned. “It’s a start. Let’s find out the name of his attorney, get a look at his will and figure out who benefits, and then talk to whoever’s close to him. See what they know. And the housekeeper. She must’ve known he’d be showing up, so let’s hear her story, how she knew he’d be back at the ranch, and if anyone else had any idea that Long was flying here. Someone he works with? What about where he keeps his helicopter, that’s how he got here, right?”
