Falcon's Run

“That’s what you do with a dream,” she said softly, then unlocked the bunkhouse door.

Chapter Five

Preston put on a fresh pair of gloves as he stepped inside. “Come in with me, but don’t touch anything,” he told them. “And be careful where you step. If there’s something on the floor, leave it there.”

Preston remained in the doorway a few seconds longer and just looked around. He’d expected a utilitarian place designed to fit the needs of its one resident, and he’d been right on target. The interior held the stamp of the working man who’d lived here.

An easy chair made of blue vinyl and patched with duct tape in several places was backed against one wall. A small table a few feet in front of it held an old TV with rabbit ears and the digital converter box needed to translate the signal.

There were pencil and black ink sketches on the wall and the supplies needed for more—stiff white paper, charcoal sticks, markers and pencils—on the shelf of a nearby empty bookcase.

“He loved to draw,” Bobby said, standing at the doorway with Preston, “but he threw out most of his stuff. If he wasn’t happy with the way it came out, it went straight into the trash.”

Abby nodded. “I tried to salvage a charcoal sketch he’d thrown out once, but he wouldn’t let me keep it. When I gave it back to him, he just tore it up. He made me another one, though, and I hung it in the main house, my home.”

Preston led the way into the room, then saw Bobby staring at the bookshelf. “Something missing?” he asked the boy.

“Yeah, his coffee can is gone,” Bobby said.

“He kept coffee on the bookshelf?” Preston looked around for a coffeemaker but didn’t see one.

“He drank coffee like crazy, but it was all instant,” Bobby said. “The coffee can was his bank—that’s what he called it. It was old, like from twenty years ago, and all dented. He said that he used to buy that brand when he was a lot younger and having it around brought back good memories.” Bobby paused, swallowed hard, then in a heavy voice added, “He told me about it being his bank because we were friends and he trusted me.”

Abby stepped closer to Bobby and said, “How about we wait outside for you, Detective?”

Bobby shook his head. “No, I’m okay. I just miss him, that’s all. Let me stay and help.”

Preston heard Abby sigh and saw her nod.

“Anything else that looks out of place, Bobby? Walk around and take a good look, but remember, don’t touch anything,” Preston said.

Abby stayed right beside Bobby as they took the lead. Preston followed, his gaze on Abby. She was leggy and had a great figure, but what appealed to him most had little to do with her looks.

She was obviously a woman whose feelings ran deep. She cared a lot for Bobby and the rest of the kids who came to the ranch. He made a mental note to find out more about her, and not just because she was part of the case he was working.

They passed through a narrow hall and an open door and entered Carl’s bedroom. Inside they found an unmade bed, one wooden chair, an old oak desk and a small three-drawer chest. On top of the desk were several lottery tickets, two scratchers, tickets from a slot machine and a couple of chips from the casino.

“You sure he didn’t gamble?” Preston asked Bobby.

“I never saw stuff like that here before. There’s no way those were his. He thought gambling was stupid. Someone must have put them there,” Bobby said. Then he pointed to the coffee can on top of the chest of drawers. “He didn’t keep the can there either. It was always out front, on that shelf.”

Preston lifted the lid, but there was no cash inside, only two more lottery tickets.

“Think hard, Bobby. Did you ever see the cash that was supposedly inside the can?”

“I never looked inside it—that would have been rude. But he wouldn’t have lied to me,” Bobby said.

Abby smiled at Bobby, then looked at Preston. “I can tell you this much—Carl was always careful with his money. He had to be. He never wasted a dollar.”

“Yeah, Detective Bowman,” Bobby said. “I’m just a kid, but I know serious gamblers. That’s all they talk about—winning, betting, the odds.”

“Did you learn that from your parents?” Preston asked.

“No, no way. My mom died when I was three or four, and my dad, well, he gave me up ’cause he’s a spy and can’t afford to have a kid hanging around. He travels all over the world,” Bobby said proudly. “I know about gamblers because my last foster dad had the habit. All those guys ever talk about is hitting the big time.”

“Carl wouldn’t even take part in the dollar World Series pool or the weekly football winners the staff had,” Abby said.

“And why would anyone keep losing tickets?” Bobby said, pointing to the desk. “People throw that stuff out once they find out they lost.” He paused, then added quickly, “They are losing tickets, right?”

Preston glanced down. “I’ll have to check the numbers, but the scratchers are no good.” He entered the numbers into his notebook, then put it into his pocket.

“You need to get your lab guys in here and fingerprint this entire place! Like on TV. Especially those tickets. Once you find who put them there, you’ll be able to close the case. Right?” Bobby asked, his voice rising with excitement.

“We’ll need more than that, Bobby, but we’ll start by taking prints,” Preston said. “There’s a uniformed officer outside named Michaels. Can you find him for me?”

“Sure!” Bobby turned around, lost his balance for a second and fell against Preston.

Preston helped steady him.

“Let go. I’m fine,” Bobby muttered.

As Bobby ambled off in a rush to go, his side-to-side gait was barely noticeable.

Preston took a step and instantly noticed that his jacket pocket felt lighter. It didn’t take him long to put things together. Bobby hadn’t accidentally lost his balance at all. He’d had a specific goal in mind.

Preston nearly laughed out loud. He wouldn’t say anything right now, but he’d settle this with the kid later.

“Did you see that? Bobby left with scarcely a trace of a limp,” Abby said. “When he’s excited or distracted, he isn’t so aware of the things that are wrong with his body. I first noticed that when my twin sister got sick, and that’s what eventually led me to open Sitting Tall Ranch. Here kids have something fun to do and think about. We lift their spirits and, believe it or not, that’s a big part of the battle.”

“What happened to your sister?” he asked.

She shook her head and looked away, her eyes misty. “Another time.”

Sensing that she regretted having spoken so freely, he dropped it for now. “I haven’t seen any mail around here anywhere,” he said, focusing back on work. “Did Carl have a post office box?”

“Not that I know of,” Abby said.

“No bank account, no bills…Something’s not right,” he said, thinking out loud.

“I paid his utility bills,” she said. “I know it sounds like a really sweet deal, but Carl could have worked at any ranch in the county for far more than what I could pay him. He was the best animal trainer I’ve ever seen.”

“Exactly what kind of training did he do for you?”

“He made sure the horses were worked daily and that they’d respond to cues without any problems. He also worked with the llamas and made sure they’d be steady and reliable around the kids. We also use the camels for promos and fundraisers. Hank, in particular, can be terribly stubborn, and if he gets mad, he’ll just refuse to cooperate. Away from the ranch that can be a problem, but when Carl went along, they were always on their best behavior.”

As Officer Michaels came into the bunkhouse, Preston went to meet him. “Have the team process this place and collect fingerprints. I have reason to suspect the killer was here.”

“Got it. And in answer to the bike question, there’s an old five-speed in the barn office.”