Agent Colton's Secret Investigation
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Dana Nussio
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HarlequinChapter 1
Deirdre Colton shielded her eyes as the dust her rental car and the wind had kicked up on the ranch’s ridiculously long driveway smacked her in the face. She elbowed the door shut, kicked the dirt with her new cowboy boots and brushed off her mouth with the back of her hand. Great. She’d already seen more of the desolate Wyoming countryside than she’d hoped to in two lifetimes during the drive from the airport in Casper. Now that she’d reached her destination, just outside Laramie, she could taste that parched earth, too.
Shivering, she zipped her jacket up to her throat, convinced that the weather app had skipped a few details when it predicted a high of nearly seventy degrees. That wicked wind made it downright chilly for May.
“Deirdre, you’re not in DC anymore.”
She adjusted both her sunglasses and her attitude. Even if everything she’d seen so far in the Cowboy State made her long for the constant activity around Capitol Hill, for morning jogs through the National Mall and for the black-mud coffee in the DC FBI field office—well, not that—she had a job to do. This time it involved more than just an investigation, even if this lead could help her assist a team of Colton cousins in solving a missing-persons case and allow her to capture an alleged serial killer. It was critical that she be the one to make this arrest. Her future with the bureau might depend on it.
The property that spread before her looked nothing like the location she’d pictured for this career-defining moment. But then, she’d had no reason to expect something like Harmony Fields Ranch, a place that appeared from nothing around it like those occasional crusty peaks that jutted from the miles of flat land along the interstate. The massive log-and-stone house itself could have been the centerfold in one of those snazzy home and garden magazines. It held court above the property with two sparkling walls of windows peering out over the ranch buildings and a raised deck that hugged the whole second floor.
At the trunk, she unlocked her .40-caliber Glock 22, stowed it in her FBI cant holster and positioned her jacket to cover it. Then she carefully scanned as much of her perimeter as she could see without binoculars or a rifle scope. Whether the place appeared deserted or not, she planned to follow at least some of her protocols.
A collection of newer wood outbuildings stood in the distance with letters HF woven into the patterns of their green shingles. Beyond those, fenced fields stretched in all directions, cattle grazing over them looking like black specks on the straw-colored ground. The sign out front even said there was a petting zoo here, too, but someone had to be exaggerating there.
The whole display proclaimed that Maeve O’Leary’s long-lost stepson had found success out West.
Just as Deirdre’s gaze shifted to the open doors of the largest barn, a cowboy stepped away from the building, a stereotype in hat and boots. Her muscles immediately tightened, senses on alert, as she tucked her phone in her pocket and tugged her jacket to cover her weapon. The man observed her for several annoyingly long seconds and then sauntered her way. No, swaggered was more like it, given the slight bow in his legs and his unhurried approach. As though he had nowhere else to be. Only his scuffed boots, well-worn jeans and the flannel shirt—rolled sleeves straining above his elbows—countered any assumption that the guy lazed around all day. And with that wary look beneath the brim of his hat and the handgun holstered at his hip, he appeared anything but relaxed.
Deirdre pressed her left elbow against the holster at her hip, her senses on alert. Though she’d planned for only a witness interview today, like always, she needed to be prepared for situations to change faster than the speed of pistol fire. Especially here in the Wild West, where she worried that her quick-draw skills were a bit rusty.
The cowboy stopped a few feet in front of her, standing taller, his shoulders broader than the impression he’d given from across the lot. With that closely trimmed beard and mustache, he could have ridden out of one of those fifty-year-old Westerns she’d become an expert on during her bouts of insomnia, which were too frequent lately. Good thing she didn’t go for the young-Clint-Eastwood shtick, she decided, as the man squinted back at her, his eyes gray rather than Clint’s blue. That flutter in her belly had to be indigestion from airplane snacks, though she couldn’t explain the Ennio Morricone spaghetti Western score playing in her head.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.”
The music cut, and her stomach settled into a hard lump. Yes, she was supposed to be in her work zone, but who had the guy just called ma’am? At thirty-three, she didn’t look a day over thirty, in her opinion. Could manage twenty-seven if she bothered with powders and creams. Which she didn’t. The cowboy blew right past her affront, anyway, yanking off the hat and giving that sweaty crop of chestnut-brown hair a brisk rub before repositioning it.
“May I help you with something?” As his gaze dropped from her face to her feet, skipping the whole part in the middle, a smile spread on his lips. “Directions to a Western outfitter in Laramie, perhaps?”
Deirdre frowned. Why she’d thought buying those boots would make her look like she fit in on a ranch, she couldn’t say, even if they were the cutest pair, with traditional round toe, cowboy heels and fancy stitching. The jeans and waffle Henley top didn’t seem like good ideas now, either. She didn’t belong on this ranch or in this part of the country, though she could say the same about most places in her life. But after hours in planes, shuttles and automobiles just to reach this destination, she wasn’t in the mood for the man’s pithy comments, either.
“This is the Harmony Fields Ranch, isn’t it?”
The cowboy’s smile disappeared, his eyes narrowing. He shot a glance at the house before looking back to her again.
“That’s what it says on that enormous arch you passed,” he said, his words clipped.
“Good. Then I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Micah Perry.”
His chin lifted slightly. “You’ve found him. I’m at a disadvantage here, though. You know who I am, but I don’t know...”
He gestured to her and then lowered his hand to his side, keeping it relaxed but within easy reach of his firearm. She couldn’t help wondering if everyone in that part of the country greeted visitors with such suspicion.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Deirdre Colton.”
She slowly withdrew her badge from her jacket pocket and held it out to him. He stared at it a few beats and then nodded.
Though he tucked his thumbs through his belt loops in a casual pose, his gaze flicked to the house a second time, and he shifted already-dusty boots in the dirt. “How can I help you, Officer? I mean, Special Agent.”
His unease shouldn’t have struck Deirdre as odd. Guys she met in social situations seldom said things like “that’s cool, so pass the pretzels” when she told them where she worked. Their reactions usually fell more under the category of How to Scare Off a Guy in Sixty Seconds. Her ex, Brandon, would have made his exit in less than thirty, which had only made applying to the bureau more appealing to her after their Big D.
Something about Micah’s response struck her as different than any man she’d met, though. As though he’d been expecting her to show up at Harmony Fields. Had someone at the field office gotten wind of her plan and tipped him off? Had she miscalculated the risk in conducting her cross-country, not-quite-sanctioned investigation?
“Is there someplace we can talk? I’d like to ask you a few questions about—”
“Can’t you just take your report out here?”
He sneaked a third peek at his home, and this time the tiny hairs at Deirdre’s nape stood on end. Who or what was inside that house? She steadied her breathing while calculating her next move, her eyes trained on his hands in case he went for his weapon. Sure, she’d made the rookie mistake of going in without backup, but he was supposed to be a witness. A victim, even. Not a suspect. Her failure to consider that he might be harboring a fugitive could turn out to be only one of her mistakes today, but it would be the biggest. And the deadliest.
“I think it would be better if we spoke inside.”
Deirdre braced herself for him to demand a search warrant, though that would be the least problematic action he could take. She reached for her phone to make the pointless call to 911, since the authorities would never reach her in time to assist, but Micah’s confused look made her hesitate. As she started to demand to know who was inside the building, a strange sound, like a cry, startled her. She clicked her teeth shut. The odd noise seemed to have come from Micah’s belt. He unclipped a little receiver and stared into the even tinier screen.
“Is that a baby monitor?” She pointed to the device, but since he didn’t look up, she lowered her arm.
Without answering, he stomped toward the house, still watching the screen. She had to jog to keep up with him, her left foot smarting from the blister already rubbing at her heel.
“What’s he doing up?” Micah grumbled to himself as he walked. “He should have napped another hour.”
“There’s a baby in there?” Why had she even asked? She pretended not to notice the incredulous look that Micah gave her. The sound of crying. A baby monitor. Napped. Of course there was a baby, the existence of whom hadn’t popped up in any of her research. With investigative skills like hers, no wonder she was on thin ice with the bureau.
He stomped on until he passed one of the six-by-six deck pillars and opened a slider on the ground floor. “Why’d you think I wanted to talk outside?”
Micah had just gestured for her to precede him inside, but now he stepped in front of her to block her entrance.
“How is it that you don’t know about my son? No one told you about him?”
It was Deirdre’s turn to squint. “Your son? And who would have told me? I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“You’ve got that right. A big one. Why would anyone send a federal agent out here? Especially one from the East Coast.”
“How did you know—” she began, but she didn’t bother finishing. Whether or not his words made sense to her, she couldn’t have been a bigger fish out of water on this land, more than a thousand miles from both the Pacific and the Atlantic. Even the cowboy realized that.
“You never said what you were here to ask me about.”
“Your stepmother,” she blurted and then pressed her lips together. What was wrong with her? She could go toe to toe with any of her fellow special agents—male or female—so what was it about this cowboy that unnerved her? Could the fact that she needed his help so badly be crippling her effort to secure it?
The rancher stared back at her as though he’d seen a ghost, his jaw slack. He closed his mouth just as another cry poured from the monitor still in his hand. He held up an index finger. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, he stepped through the open doorway and closed the slider. It wasn’t a bad place to be dismissed, with her choice of chaise lounges and patio dining and conversation arrangements, but she had no way of knowing if he would even return. That was one way of avoiding an FBI interview, she supposed, and a new one to her. On the other hand, she’d done a lousy job of starting this conversation, and now she would have to come up with another plan to get him to speak with her.
Just as she’d started back to her car to regroup, the sound of the door slide brought her back around. Micah stepped outside, and a toddler with sweaty dark hair and a red, tearstained face peered out at her from his dad’s arms.
“This is Derek.” Then he gestured to her. “And this is Special Agent Colton.”
Deirdre pasted on a smile. “Hi, Derek.”
The toddler buried his face in his dad’s chest, another reaction that didn’t particularly surprise her. She’d never had the touch with kids. They probably realized she was more frightened of them than they were of her, so they wisely kept their distance. After a few seconds, though, this particular little boy turned his head and peeked back at her. Automatically, Deirdre covered her face with her hands and opened them like a pair of doors. What made her do that, she couldn’t say, but it worked for others who had success with children, so she gave it a shot. The child’s eyes widened, and a smile disturbingly similar to his father’s spread on his lips.
“I have nothing to say about Ariel Porter.”
Deirdre startled at Micah’s words, and she shifted her attention back to him, missing neither the alias he’d mentioned nor that he’d ground out the words when he spoke it.
“Now, Mr. Perry, I’ve flown all the way from Washington, DC, to speak with you, so please give me a chance to tell you about my investigation.”
“I’m sorry for your wasted trip. As I said, I don’t want to talk about her. I haven’t seen or spoken to old Ariel in the more than fifteen years since Dad died. I can’t help you, so I don’t want to waste your time. Or mine.”
“Just try to answer a few questions. I’m sure you’ll be of more help than you think.”
He shook his head. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Deirdre’s thoughts raced. Her only witness—and possibly her only chance to save a career that dangled by a thread—would be gone in seconds. Her heart thudded as she scrambled for something to say that would, if not stop him, at least slow him down before he returned inside and locked the door.
“Don’t you mean Maeve O’Leary?” Deirdre hated the desperation that had sneaked into her voice and hoped he couldn’t hear it, too.
“Who?” Micah had just opened the door again and stepped across the threshold, but he jerked his head to look back at her.
Her lips pinched. “Maeve—”
“I heard you. I just don’t know who you’re talking about. Look, it sounds like you’ve received some faulty information, but now I know I can’t help you.” He shook his head when she started to interrupt. “We’re not even talking about the same person.”
“Unfortunately...we are.”
The cowboy turned to fully face her and waited for an explanation. If his arms weren’t already filled with a wiggling toddler, she figured he would have crossed them, too.
She began carefully, well aware that her words ripped new holes in his already tattered memories and that a victim would be forced to relive a tragedy made worse with new revelations. “Ariel Porter Perry is an alias of a woman whose real name is Maeve O’Leary. One of several aliases, our investigation is beginning to show.”
“Is your investigation also revealing that she murdered my father?” Micah lifted his chin as though daring her to contradict his claim.
“Yes, we believe that O’Leary was responsible for the death of Leonard ‘Len’ Perry.”
He slowly lowered his chin. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”
Deirdre accepted his criticism with a nod, though she didn’t deserve to be its target. She needed answers from him, and she would do whatever it took to get them. “Yes, we have found some problematic areas in the original investigation.”
“That’s what you call not following up after she drained my father’s accounts, sold the house and vanished? Wonder how anyone could have overlooked something so insignificant.”
At that, she shrugged, though she couldn’t help drawing her shoulders closer to her ears. Sure, someone had made mistakes, but she couldn’t help the temptation to come to the defense of fellow peace officers. The blue wall of silence was a thing for a reason.
“We also believe there is at least one more victim. Another husband. Possibly more.”
Micah opened and closed his mouth twice, his shock obvious in his rapid blinking. She should have delivered those bombshell details in smaller, more digestible bites, but he wasn’t exactly being a cooperative witness, and desperation made her spill the whole story.
“A black widow killer? You’re saying that Ariel—I mean this Maeve...”
“Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “Now would you be willing to answer a few questions?”
The cowboy took two steps backward, as if he wanted to put distance between himself and the woman who’d just set fire to his past.
“I already said I don’t know—”
“Are you unable to help? Or just unwilling?” Her accusation hung heavily between them as she stared up at him in disbelief. After everything she’d just told him, how could he still be reluctant to help her?
“Want juice,” Derek announced, breaking the silence.
The toddler reached up and splayed his pudgy hand over his father’s whiskers.
Micah covered the child’s fingers with his own and slowly slid the hand from his face. “Just a minute, buddy. Let me—”
“Juice!” The word came out as a plaintive whine this time, and the child wiggled, trying to get his father to put him down.
“Looks like someone needs some juice,” Deirdre said. The distraction probably wouldn’t be enough to convince her potential witness to change his mind, but it gave her a moment to scramble for another plan. Only she was running out of ideas. And hope.
When Micah lowered his son to the ground, the child shot off for the stairs and then scrambled up the steps in a hands-and-feet approach.
The cowboy yanked off his hat and then waved with it at the staircase.
“Guess you’d better come inside.”
