Chapter Eleven #3
Sam rode the elevator back to the lobby.
Rachel’s story matched Roper’s version to the letter.
If it was true, and it was at least plausible, then Roper had to be innocent.
But what about motive? What about the murder weapon, found in the creek by two young boys with traces of fentanyl but no prints or DNA?
Without solid evidence, one way or another, how could he clear a man based on two matching stories that could easily have been rehearsed?
There was no simple answer to that question. Either he could arrest Roper and leave the final outcome to the jury. Or, if Roper was truly innocent, he could find the real killer.
Lost in thought, he passed through the hotel lobby and wandered back to the practice arena, where some of the reining contestants were drilling for tomorrow’s big event.
Watchers were scattered among the seats.
Slipping onto a bench seat along the side, he let his mind work while his eyes watched some of the most magnificent horses and riders in the world.
Roper was at the far end of the arena with One in a Million. Sam made no effort to catch his eye. He’d resolved to leave him alone until the competition was over. Roper deserved that much respect, at least. And the man was innocent until proven guilty.
The stallion was in top form, head alert, muscles rippling beneath his silvery bay roan coat. His moves were flawless, beautifully done. One in a Million had earned the right to be here—but at such a tragic price.
Earlier, Sam had watched Buck Tolson and his friend maneuver Fire Dance into a trailer that was fitted with a supporting rack for medical transport. The fiery young stallion had looked utterly beaten. But at least he was alive and not lying cold on a concrete slab.
One in a Million had experienced a tragedy of his own. As the single eyewitness to Frank’s murder, the big roan’s memory held the answer to Sam’s most vital question. What a shame the horse couldn’t communicate.
For a few minutes, he watched Roper take the stallion through his paces. The connection between horse and rider was smooth and subtle, almost poetic. He could imagine the pair winning the million-dollar prize.
And then what?
At first, Sam hadn’t paid much attention to the lanky cowboy seated at the far end of the row, his black hat shading his face. Only when the man turned at an unexpected sound did Sam realize he’d hit the jackpot. He was looking at Hayden Barr.
Putting his phone on silent, Sam moved down the row to sit beside him, showed his ID, and introduced himself.
Hayden stirred as if to get up, then appeared to think the better of it.
“I know who you are,” he said. “And I know you’re investigating Frank Culhane’s murder.
But I didn’t have anything to do with it.
I didn’t even know him. And I sure as hell didn’t kill him. ”
“But you knew he was your father,” Sam said.
In the silence that followed, cheers could be heard from the Shootout in the main arena. “You’ve been talking to Cheyenne, haven’t you?” Hayden said at last. “Never trust a woman.”
“Who else knew?” Sam asked.
“My father, and my mother, of course—both of them gone now—Cheyenne, and now you. That’s about the size of it.”
“And did Frank Culhane know about you?”
“My mother said she told him, but he was married and so was she, so he never came around. What’s this all about? I told you I didn’t kill the man. I never met him.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the night Frank was murdered?”
“Hell, I don’t even remember what night it was or what I was doing. But I know that I was nowhere near Frank’s place.”
“Have you ever telephoned Darrin Culhane?”
“That’s Frank’s son, isn’t it? I don’t even know him. But I know how he died. A story like that gets around fast.”
“Somebody called him late last night, claiming to be his brother and wanting to meet by the horse stalls. Was that you?”
“No way. If I’d wanted to meet him, I’d have invited him to lunch in broad daylight. Check my phone. I never called him.”
“Records indicate that the calls to his number came from a burner,” Sam said.
“Well, it wasn’t me. None of this has anything to do with Frank’s death. Don’t I have rights or something?” Hayden was getting defensive. Time to back off.
“Just a couple more questions,” Sam said. “Have you had any contact with Simone Culhane, Darrin’s wife, or with Jasmine Culhane, his sister?”
When Hayden hesitated, Sam felt his heart drop.
Could there be some connection between Jasmine and this attractive but highly suspect young man?
Could they have been scheming together to take Darrin out of the picture?
But what was he thinking? He loved Jasmine.
He trusted her. But then again, she was her mother’s daughter.
“Oh, yeah, Jasmine Culhane. It took me a minute to place her,” Hayden said.
“A few years ago, she was with a movie company that came to shoot a TV western on our ranch. Hottest woman on the set. I had a crush on her, but I was just a horny teenage kid. Even with her name, how was I to know she was my half sister?”
Sam began to breathe again. “One final question for the record. Did you kill Frank Culhane?”
“Hell no. I’d always wanted to connect with Frank. Darrin was nothing but a little wuss—a lawyer, for Pete’s sake. I was the son Frank would have wanted—a champion cowboy. And I proved it last night. But by then it was too late. When Frank died, it broke my heart.”
Walking back to the hotel, Sam mulled over what he’d learned from the interview.
Hayden’s words about wanting to meet Frank had the ring of truth.
He’d wanted Frank to recognize and accept him.
He’d had no reason to wish the man dead.
But the late-night phone call to Darrin was another matter.
That sounded like something Hayden might do.
He could have planned to extort Darrin or even to kill him.
But the ghastly accident in the stall had put an end to any intention he might’ve had.
Since no crime had been committed, there was no case.
Sam planned to follow up on Hayden’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.
If he had an alibi, Sam would forget him and focus on his remaining mental list, with Roper at the top, then Darrin, then Lila, Jasmine, and Mariah as wild cards, and, finally, his latest entry—an unknown, unnamed stranger.
He checked his phone. The sheriff in Wichita Falls had left a voice message. Sam found a quiet corner and returned the call. Maybe the sheriff had learned something about Hayden’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.
“I’m afraid we weren’t much help,” the sheriff said.
“We did some asking. But nobody around the ranch or in town remembers seeing Hayden that night. He could’ve been home or out of town.
His dad would’ve known. But now …” His voice trailed off.
Sam could hear the sound of a police radio in the background.
“Do you happen to know what time he’s heading home?
Folks ’round here thought a lot of Chet and want to show their support at his funeral.
But they don’t even know when to order flowers or bring food around to the house. ”
“The Run for a Million will be over Saturday night,” Sam said. “After that, there’ll be no more reason for Hayden to be here. Sorry, but that’s all I know. Can’t you call him?”
“We’ve tried. He’s not picking up. I know his father’s death was a shock.
Maybe he’s just in denial.” The sheriff paused, as if weighing what he was about to say.
“We’re still not sure why Chet’s plane went down in clear weather.
There was no sign of a collision with, say, a drone or even a bird.
The plane was new, and Chet wouldn’t go anywhere without filling the tank and checking the oil.
The FAA is going over the wreckage now. They’ll let us know what they find. ”
“Would it be an imposition for you to keep me in the loop?” Sam asked.
“No problem, if you’ll do us the same favor,” the sheriff said. “I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions. But I figure that since Hayden’s already on your radar, you’ll want to know.”