Film at Eleven. Kelsey Roberts
might not be in the very near future.
“Shopping is part of your job description,” Shane countered.
Taylor planted her hands on her slender hips. “I did shop. I just didn’t know you’d be inconsiderate enough to drink the milk meant for the children who live under this roof. Notice I said children,” Taylor continued. “Since you’re the only baby that lives here.” Taylor turned and walked away.
“I want you fired,” Shane yelled at her retreating back as he stomped down the porch steps.
“Well,” Taylor called over her shoulder, “I want you rendered mute, but as my grandma always says, wantin’ ain’t gettin’.”
“Seth’s in the kitchen,” Shane said to Chandler as he passed. “Normally I’d say go on in and help yourself to some coffee, but you’d better run that past Taylor the Tyrant first.”
Chandler was still chuckling as he entered and went to meet Seth. Taylor was nowhere to be seen, so he guessed she had retired to her room for the night.
Seth was seated at the kitchen table, poring over photos Chandler recognized as the crime-scene shots. After grabbing a beer from the fridge, he sat in his chair. No matter how old they got or how long they’d been away, each of the Landrys seemed to automatically fall into the chair assigned them as children.
“Thanks for coming,” Seth said, looking up. “I figured it was closer to have you meet me out here than to drive to my office.”
“No sweat,” Chandler returned easily, twisting the top from the bottle and taking a long swallow. “What’s up?”
“This,” he said, sliding an eight-by-twelve color photograph across the table. It was an enlargement of the mark they’d noticed on the body earlier. “Mean anything?”
Chandler studied the photograph. “A circle with the number thirteen in it. Looks like a burn.”
Seth nodded. “The M.E. says it was branded into the skin post mortem.”
“Well,” Chandler let out a breath as his mind whirled. “It could be from a ranch in the area. Easy enough to check.”
“I did that. Look at the size. Average brand is about three inches. This is smaller than a cattle brand, and there’s no listing in the registries for a thirteen in a circle.”
Chandler took a slug of beer. Unlucky thirteen. Could be anything. But somehow he knew there was a correlation…somewhere. “My station is carried on channel thirteen. Maybe Caller John just doesn’t like WOM-TV 13.” A chill of foreboding made the back of his neck itch. He wondered if Molly was asleep. She might have some insights on the whole thirteen thing. And he wouldn’t exactly mind hearing the sound of her voice. To know she was okay, he reasoned. It had nothing to do with the fact that he found her incredibly attractive and interesting. He glanced at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Too late to call—
Seth frowned as he pulled the photograph over to take another look. He glanced up, and Chandler could read the concern he saw in his brother’s eyes. “Dislike for the station. Maybe. Or this guy was specifically sending a message to you.”
“Unless that message is to convey he likes to dismember women, I’m not real clear on his meaning. Besides, why me? I’m not exactly a hated figure.”
“Yeah, I know, you’re adored by millions,” Seth teased. “The M.E. enhanced the mark enough to discover an interesting detail.”
“What?”
Seth turned the photo so Chandler could look at it again. “Look at this,” he pointed to the inner edge of the circle. “See the tiny dots around the thirteen? Looks like this was a homemade branding iron. Copper most likely. Something someone soldered in their garage. And look at the edges of the brand. Iron was too hot according to the ME. And left on the skin for longer than the couple of seconds required to mark cattle. No rancher did this. At least not a competent one.”
“Great,” Chandler snorted, disgusted. “So we’re looking for a guy who’s good with tools. That narrows the field to pretty much anyone who lives in Montana.”
“I need you to go back through your tapes. Maybe this guy has called you thirteen times before. Maybe you’ve mentioned a story thirteen times. Maybe—”
“Maybe,” Chandler interrupted. “This has nothing to do with me. Have you thought of that?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Seth said flatly. “Maybe this sick jerk just branded thirteen on his mother—or whoever this woman actually is—for kicks. Then again, maybe it does have something to do with you.” He got up to grab the coffeepot and brought it back to the table.
“He could just be a sicko who wanted to capture the moment in living color for posterity. Believe me, Seth, we gets lots of calls from people who are attention junkies. It’s probably about him, I was probably just a randomly selected schmuck who happened to have open calls at the time he decided to kill. And there’s still the big, as-yet-to-be-determined ‘if.’ We still don’t know who Floater Jane is, so—”
“I’m willing to lay odds it’s your caller’s mother. But erring on the side of caution, remember that he called your station, your show. So directly or indirectly there must be some sort of correlation. Find out what you can back at the studio, okay? Coffee?”
Chandler shook his head, preferring to stick with his beer. Seth refilled his mug and set the pot on the table before sitting down again. “Nothing would please me more than knowing there’s no connection to you. But I’m sure as hell not leaving any stones unturned until I know that answer for certain.”
He and his brother shared one of those silent, meaningful moments that were as natural among the Landry brothers as breathing. Sure, they’d battled their way through childhood, fighting over little things as most siblings do. But he knew in his heart—as they all did—that Seth would have his back. “I’ll get the info to you ASAP.”
“Thanks. And I think we should ask—” Seth’s words were cut off by the urgent beeping of his pager. “Speak of the devil.”
“What devil?” Chandler demanded as the hair on the back of his neck rose.
He was halfway out of his chair when his brother said, “Molly. A patrol unit was just dispatched to her house. John made contact.”
Chapter Four
“You’ll be punished for not listening to me. Sleep well, Doc.” It was the unmistakable voice of John, echoing through the house.
Rage surged through Chandler as he listened to the message for the third time. Silently he fought to keep from punching the girlie peach-colored wall above the foyer table. Judging by Molly’s frazzled expression and trembling fingers, Chandler was pretty sure the very last thing she needed was a moment of purely macho idiocy from him.
But it sure would have felt good.
“Mind if we sit for a minute?” Seth asked, giving his brother a calm-down-right-now look.
Nice work if he could do it, Chandler thought.
Molly seemed momentarily confused, then smiled weakly as she raised her hand and ushered them further inside the modest town house.
If he thought the paint was girlie, it couldn’t hold a candle to the combination living and dining rooms. It didn’t take any crack investigative skills to see that a woman was the only occupant. The place was a swirl of peach and pink flowers. He felt like a fool when he took a seat on the sofa—if that’s what it was. He was forced to share the diminutive, floral two-seater with his brother. It was a tight fit, and he wasn’t feeling particularly friendly right now. He and Seth fit snuggly side by side, knees brushing the edge of the brass-and-glass oval coffee table that was just big enough for the china bowl filled with dried flowers. Next to the flowers—which he quickly realized were the cause of the subtle fragrance in the room—a stack of silver