Chapter 12
Twelve
Rowan had promises to keep. In other words, he needed to wrap this up and get back to the ranch.
He crouched beside the drainage ditch where they’d found Morrie twelve hours ago, dawn mist rising from the rain-soaked earth around him.
The storm had passed, leaving behind a world washed clean and gleaming.
Water pooled in tire ruts that scarred the muddy ground, and crime-scene tape fluttered in the morning breeze.
The air smelled of wet pine and disturbed earth, tinged with the metallic scent of violence that still lingered despite the rain’s best efforts.
His tactical training kicked into overdrive as he studied the bloodstained rocks where Morrie had fallen.
Rowan stood, mud squelching under his boots as he surveyed the junction where three ranch properties met. The natural ravine carved a deep channel between rocky outcroppings, scattered with pine trees that provided perfect cover for an ambush. “This isn’t exactly on his way home from anywhere.”
“Nope.” Detective Martinelli took pictures as he walked the site. His rumpled suit jacket hung loose over rain gear, and coffee stained his white shirt despite the early hour. “Question is, what was Morrie doing out here in the first place?”
Saxon emerged from behind a cluster of boulders, a new Nikon hanging around his neck and a professional-grade metal detector in his hands. His dark clothing was soaked through, and red-clay mud caked his boots to the ankles. “I found the shell casings.”
Rowan’s chest tightened as he joined Saxon, who pointed to three brass shell casings that lay scattered in the mud nearby, their copper gleam catching the weak sunlight filtering through storm clouds.
“Bottleneck casings. From a .308.”
“Could be a hunting rifle,” said Saxon.
Rowan sighed.
“Everything okay?” Saxon said.
“Sierra called. She thinks her grandfather was murdered.”
“That’s not news,” said Saxon.
“Yeah, but she says she found a file of evidence that Elway tucked away. She’ll meet me at the rodeo and I’ll get the details.”
Saxon set his metal detector on high and continued to scan the area.
“You’re really committing to this PI thing, aren’t you? Next you’ll be carrying a magnifying glass and wearing a deerstalker hat.”
“Mock me all you want, but this equipment is top-notch.” Saxon hefted the metal detector and grinned. “And it’s already paying dividends.”
“Please tell me you actually know how to use that thing and aren’t just waving it around hoping for the best.”
“I’ll have you know I watched three YouTube videos before we got here.” Saxon’s grin stretched wider. “Plus, I read the manual.”
“On audiobook?”
“Funny, Hammer.” He moved away down the ravine as Martinelli walked over with plastic bags. A crime-scene technician followed him.
“Any word from the hospital?” Rowan said to Martinelli.
And he definitely didn’t let himself think about the fact that Martinelli had dated Sierra. Kissed Sierra.
Nope, he needed to let that go.
“Morrie made it through surgery. Still unconscious, but the docs think he’ll pull through.”
“Hey, guys! I found something!” Saxon shouted. “Looks like someone was conducting water analysis out there.”
“Water analysis?” Rowan followed Martinelli down the ravine, toward Saxon.
The equipment Saxon had discovered was sophisticated and expensive—portable testing units, sample collection containers, and what looked like a chemical analysis station partially concealed behind a fallen log.
Everything was scattered as if someone had abandoned it in a hurry, leaving behind thousands of dollars’ worth of scientific equipment.
“This isn’t ranching test gear.” Martinelli pulled on latex gloves to examine one of the testing units. “This is laboratory-grade stuff.”
The crime-scene technician had followed, carrying the shell casings. “Water contamination testing, from the looks of it. Probably checking for mineral content, maybe pollutants.”
“Or maybe checking to see if their pollution was working,” Rowan said, his jaw muscles bunching. “Testing to make sure the lithium levels were high enough to kill livestock.”
Saxon’s metal detector began beeping insistently near a stand of pine trees. He moved toward the sound, sweeping the device in careful arcs across the wet ground.
“Got something here,” he called out, his voice tightening. “Something metallic, fairly large.”
“Probably just a beer can,” Rowan said, but his boots were already carrying him toward Saxon’s position. “Or maybe the crown jewels. Hard to tell with your advanced detection methods.”
“Mock me after I find the smoking gun.” Saxon knelt and began carefully brushing mud and pine needles away from whatever had triggered his detector. “Besides, I’ve been taking this seriously. Read two books on criminal investigation, watched every episode of CSI.”
“Well, that makes you practically an expert.” Rowan crouched beside him, his amusement draining away as Saxon’s digging revealed a metal briefcase. “On second thought, maybe you should stick to the detection part and let the professionals handle the excavation.”
Martinelli approached with the crime-scene tech. “Step back, boys.”
The briefcase that emerged from the mud was expensive and waterproof, designed to protect sensitive equipment. When the tech opened it, they found what looked like a mobile laboratory—testing strips, chemical reagents, digital pH meters, and documentation that made Rowan’s hands clench into fists.
“Water contamination protocols,” the tech read from a laminated instruction sheet. “Lithium introduction methods, dosage calculations for livestock toxicity levels.” She looked up, her face pale. “This is roughly a how-to manual for poisoning water sources.”
Martinelli’s voice dropped to a growl. “This equipment proves they’re not just buying land—they’re actively contaminating it to force sales.”
Rowan stood up, cast a look toward the Jenkins ranch house.
The business card was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the note.
“So what’s our play?” Saxon asked, probably reading the change in his expression.
“We go talk to Ralph Rousseau,” Rowan said. “Find out what he knows about this operation.”
“Hold on.” Martinelli raised a hand. “We don’t have enough for a warrant yet. This is all circumstantial until we can connect him directly to the crimes.”
“How much do we need?” Rowan’s thumb flicked the card.
“More than we’ve got. But we can certainly ask him some questions, see if he’s willing to cooperate.”
Saxon glanced at his watch. “What time does the rodeo start?”
“Noon. Huck’s event is at two.” Rowan did the time math. “If we move fast, we can have a conversation with Rousseau and I can still get there in time to watch him compete.”
“Or,” Saxon said carefully, “you could head to the rodeo now and let Martinelli and me handle the questioning.”
“Not happening.” Rowan’s jaw set. “If Ralph Rousseau killed Sierra’s grandfather and shot Morrie, I want to look him in the eye when we ask him about it.”
The crime-scene tech looked up from packaging evidence. “Detective, this equipment alone suggests a major operation.”
Martinelli nodded. “I’ll call my office and see if we can get backup when we go see Rousseau.” He got on the phone and walked away.
Rowan studied the abandoned equipment scattered across the crime scene. “Professional operation, expensive gear, sophisticated planning. This isn’t the work of some local real-estate developer. This is on a scale that requires serious money and resources.”
Saxon nodded.
Martinelli came back. “Okay. I have the address for his office. We’ll start there.”
“Listen,” Rowan said. “We find Rousseau, we ask our questions, and then I get to the rodeo. Simple.” Rowan turned toward his truck. “Saxon, you and I will coordinate the approach. Martinelli can handle—”
“Whoa there.” Martinelli stepped forward, his badge catching the morning light. “This is my jurisdiction, my case, my call. You’re along as a consultant.”
Rowan’s mouth opened, then closed. Military habits died hard, but this wasn’t the Trouble Boys, and he wasn’t the team lead. This was Colorado, and Detective Michael Martinelli was running point.
“Right. Your show, Detective.”
“Glad we understand each other.” Martinelli’s voice carried no malice, just the quiet authority of someone who knew his job. “Rowan, you ride with me.”
“Don’t trust me, Detective?”
Martinelli’s eyes narrowed, just a little, then he shook his head. “I just don’t want this to go south, get messy. You listen to me, do this by the book, and we’ll get Rousseau and have a nice chat.”
“And if he lawyers up?” Saxon asked.
“Then we back off and build a better case.” Martinelli’s expression hardened. “But maybe he’ll feel like talking once he sees what we found here.”
Rowan was already moving toward Martinelli’s vehicle.
“Keep me updated,” Saxon called after them. “And Hammer?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to strangle him before we get answers.”
“Now you’re the funny man.”
Martinelli’s engine turned over with a rough cough, and they pulled away from the crime scene. The morning sun climbed higher, burning off the mist and revealing the full scope of the abandoned equipment scattered across the ravine.
The terror targeting his family would end today.
This just might be the best day of Sierra’s life. Second best, because of course, the day Huck was born landed number one. But it felt like a rebirth of sorts, the birth of her family, the culmination of her wildest dreams.
Except Rowan was late.
The October afternoon spread across the county fairgrounds like a picture postcard, the kind of Colorado day that made Sierra grateful to call this place home.
Brilliant blue sky stretched endless overhead, painted with wispy white clouds that drifted past snowcapped peaks rising majestically in the distance.
Autumn aspens dotted the mountainsides like scattered coins, their leaves shimmering gold against the dark green of pine forests.