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  All Beau had was the main number for the department, so it took a couple of re-routes before Beason himself came on the line.

  “Hey Beau, how’s it going? I was just thinking about you, wondering if you’re going to the conference next month.”

  Beau had forgotten all about the Sheriffs’ Association annual gathering. It served as an opportunity for colleagues to meet, to learn and mainly to establish the kinds of connections he hoped would help him today.

  “It’s on my agenda,” Beau said. They exchanged a few pleasantries on the subject before Beau turned to the real reason for the call. “Listen, I had a weird thing happen this morning and just found out it’s somehow tied to a bank in your county.”

  He explained about the black bag and how he’d traced the cash.

  “How much did you say?”

  Beau ran his fingers over the stacks, although he knew the amount perfectly well. “A hundred thousand dollars. Twenty packets of five-thousand each.”

  If he expected surprise or hesitation from Tim, it didn’t come.

  “So, that’s part of it,” the other sheriff said.

  “Part of what? Who deals in this kind of cash nowadays?”

  “Big armored car robbery this morning, early hours. A-1 Armored Car Service picked up a half-mil in cash from the bank and was in the process of taking it up to the mine near Questa. Yeah, I know, in a day and age when almost all money is just numbers on a computer screen somewhere, these guys handle certain of their operations the old-fashioned way. Cash money.”

  “How the hell did they get robbed?”

  “It happened in the canyon west of Cimarron. Lots of curves in the road along there. A gang set up a fake construction zone and stopped all the traffic, halted the armored car out of sight of the rest. Driver made the mistake of rolling down her window to see what the delay was about. They shot her in the face.”

  “God.”

  “She’s alive but in real bad shape.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Beau swallowed hard. “But the money—it would have been in back.”

  “Yeah, well. One of the two men in back opened the door when he heard the shots up front.”

  “Aren’t they trained not—”

  “They are. We’ll be grilling the hell out of the two guards, trying to figure out whether one or both of them were in on this thing.”

  “Someone got away with the cash, though.” Beau felt his mind racing.

  “Yep. According to the guards, three men aimed high-power rifles at them. Disarmed them, grabbed five locked canvas bags and tossed them into a big black pickup truck. One guy was shouting orders the whole time, threatening to shoot anyone who moved an inch. Both of the guards agree—all three men were big and dangerous but the leader, the one doing all the yelling, he seemed crazy.”

  The line went silent for a minute as both men thought through the facts.

  Tim Beason spoke first. “You say the cash you’ve retrieved was in some kind of duffle bag?”

  “Left behind at a local café by someone who couldn’t have been any of the men you described. This one was slight of build and very quiet.”

  “But the serial numbers match.”

  “According to the Federal Reserve Bank.”

  “Dang. How’re we gonna figure this one out?”

  “Can you fax me the statements you’ve taken?” Beau asked. “Now, go over the whole thing with me again.”

  Chapter 5

  Sara Cook stared at the newspaper on the kitchen counter.

  DARING ARMORED CAR HEIST GOES HORRIBLY WRONG screamed the headline. And it wasn’t even the local paper, Taos’s weekly. It said Journal North across the top, so it must be the one out of Albuquerque.

  How had the paper gotten here?

  “Sara? Honey, is that you?” Her mother’s voice was barely audible from the bedroom.

  “Yeah, Mom. Be right there.” Sara caught words in the sub-heading, something about a driver in the Taos hospital in critical condition.

  “Sara?”

  She folded the newspaper and stuffed it between the breadbox and the wall, then hurried to her mother’s side.

  “Hi, Mom. You feeling all right?”

  The withered smile came from a face that looked far older than her forty-five years. Mom’s wispy hair was pure white now, her face drawn. Her thin fingers clawed at the covers.

  “A little cold, hon. Can you bring me another blanket?”

  Sara pulled the comforter from her own bed, the twin to Mom’s, and turned to drape it across her mother’s emaciated frame. Cancer. Such a bitch.

  “How about your meds, Mom? Did you take the pain stuff?”

  Her mother squeezed her eyes shut as she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Did Matthew come back yet?” Mom asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Sara said. The newspaper. “Maybe he stopped by and left again.”

  “Oh, that’s right. He offered to get pizza for you kids’s dinner. He must have gone for that. Don’t know where he would have got the money. My check doesn’t come for another week or so. Does it? Maybe I just lost track.”

  Sara thought of the bag of cash she’d had her hands on this morning. Why had she taken it inside that place, let others see it? She could have nipped one or two of those bills and no one would have ever figured it out. But what if they did? What if she got arrested for having somebody else’s money. They’d claim she stole it. No one would believe she’d just found that bag on the ground. She’d go to jail and Mom would be here, dying and grieving over Sara instead of taking care of herself.

  “Matt probably had some of his own paycheck left, Mom. Nice of him to think of pizza. Maybe you’ll feel like having some with us?”

  “We’ll see.” Mom reached for Sara’s hand and pulled her closer. “You’re such a sweet girl, baby.”

  Sara sat on the edge of the bed and clasped her mother’s birdlike hand, rubbing it to take away the chill. The other hand was freezing cold, too. She took turns with them, warming the skin and tucking them beneath the blankets. When she heard the heavy breaths of her mother’s sleep, Sara rose carefully, pulled the comforter up to her chin and left the room.

  She peered into her brother’s room, on the chance he’d been here all along. Sometimes he locked himself away and hardly talked to her. Moods. What right did a guy of twenty have to indulge his stupid moods and leave his fourteen year old sister to do all the work? The apartment was tiny but it always seemed to need cleaning; the laundry, especially the bedding, should be done more often; cooking was minimal, but there were nights when she’d like something more than a half can of chicken noodle soup.

  Since the start of term she’d tried to keep up with her classes, but already she saw it was a losing proposition. If she could make it to semester break she could at least get half-credit for everything. But, seriously … she didn’t see how she could keep this up another three months. She would think about it this weekend, whether to go back Monday or drop out.

  If only she’d taken some of that money.

  Forget it, she told herself. Paid caregivers cost a lot. Plus, she couldn’t leave Mom with a stranger all day. School could wait. She could always go back. After.

  The sound of a key in the lock interrupted her thoughts. Just as well—they were becoming dark anyway.

  “Hey, Sara. You got home just in time.” Matthew pushed the door open, letting in a rush of cold air and the heavenly scent of pizza. “I brought dinner.”

  “Mom said you were.” She rushed past him to close the door before the heater kicked on. “Thanks.”

  “No prob. Let’s eat this while it’s hot.” He set the box on the counter, right where the newspaper had been. If he noticed it was gone he didn’t say. His mood tonight seemed buoyant. “Mom eating with us?”

  “She’s asleep. I’ll save her a couple slices.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it on one of the barstools; it slid immediately to the floor.

&
nbsp; Sara picked up the coat, a fairly nice black leather one she’d found for him at the thrift shop. He loved it but it wasn’t nearly warm enough for the coming winter weather. Another thing she could have done with the found money—bought them all decent coats. Their old ones would have to do. At this point it would be more important to keep the gas bill paid and the heat on.

  She thought again of the news headline as she bit the gooey tip off her first pizza slice. If the money she’d found was in any way tied to that robbery, it was a good thing she had abandoned the bag.

  Chapter 6

  Half the dining table was covered in paperwork, and Sam couldn’t seem to get her mind in the right place to deal with it. She tamped a group of invoices into a neat stack, thankful they were all paid now. Her checking account balance was looking pretty good, too, since Bookman’s check had arrived to cover his first month’s orders. She stared at the figures in her checkbook, made little sense of them, and decided she was simply hungry.

  Beau’s headlights flared across the wall as he pulled into the driveway and turned his cruiser around, ready for tomorrow morning’s departure. The deli chicken Sam had put in the oven to keep warm was emitting a fantastic aroma. All she had to do was bring out the salad and potatoes and set the table. She glanced at the clutter again. They could eat in the kitchen tonight.

  “Hey,” said Beau, stomping his boots on the rug at the front door, dusting some invisible thing from his Stetson before hanging it on the bentwood rack. Their dogs, a black Lab called Ranger and border collie named Nellie, came in with him.

  “Hey, yourself. Crazy afternoon?” She waited until he’d draped his coat over the rack and then wrapped her arms around him. His chest radiated warmth and his skin smelled of the frosty outdoors.

  He nodded and kissed her. They let the embrace and the kiss linger awhile—then the oven timer went off.

  “Mind if we eat at the small table tonight?” she asked, taking a step back and nodding toward the kitchen. “The dining table is a little—”

  “Messy?” He laughed. “How about if I make us a drink? What would you like?”

  “I’d better not. I still have accounts to finish after dinner, and I’m trying to find inspiration for kitchen designs. I wish I knew exactly what I needed. Darryl can’t very well quote something if I don’t tell him what I want.”

  “Sounds like a problem I’m glad isn’t mine,” he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself.

  While Sam pulled the chicken and potatoes from the oven, he set out flatware and plates, complimenting her on the heavenly scent. The rest of the meal came together quickly and Sam found herself sinking gratefully into her chair. Her energy began to return after a few bites.

  “Well, the bag of money has a crime attached to it,” Beau said.

  “What happened?”

  He filled her in on the origin of the sequentially numbered bills and the armored truck robbery.

  “How did the robbers get away with the money but manage to lose it again?” she asked, passing the salad bowl to him.

  “That’s the thing. What we retrieved was only a portion of what they took. They got away with five locked canvas bags. Somehow, between that stretch of highway and the café this morning, at least part of the money got out of the bank bags and into a cheap travel duffle, a brand they sell at Walmart.”

  “They robbed the truck somewhere along the road?”

  He described the crime scene as Tim Beason had told him earlier.

  “Pretty ingenious, actually, posing as a construction crew and keeping the traffic out of sight while they plundered the vehicle.” He reached for his napkin. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make light of it. The driver was seriously injured. A woman named Tansy Montoya with two kids at home. She’s in critical condition.”

  “Oh, god, Beau, that’s horrible.”

  “It is. Her elderly mother watches the kids while Tansy is at work. It’s gonna be tough if she doesn’t make it.”

  Sam felt her appetite wane. She wondered if there was anything she could do for the poor woman. She envisioned the carved wooden box upstairs and the healing properties it sometimes gave her. She had never attempted to heal anything as serious as a gunshot wound—bruises and sprains were more her speed.

  Beau seemed to read her mind. “Just leave it to the doctors, sweetheart. They’re doing all they can.”

  He was right, of course.

  “Not a word about this, you know. Not even to Rupert—he’s probably going to grill you for details.”

  “I know, honey. I respect my sworn duties as one of your deputies.” Even though she rarely acted in an official capacity, the fact that she’d aided him on several cases did carry legal obligations. Her silence was the only reason he confided in her.

  “Help yourself to a cookie or some ice cream,” she said as she cleared dishes from the table. “I’ve gotta get back to those kitchen ideas.”

  He settled in his favorite chair with a detective show on TV, and Sam went back to the pad of graph paper at the dining table where she’d begun trying to figure out a layout for her dream workspace. Within minutes, the lines blurred and she found herself dozing with her head propped on one hand. Next thing she knew Beau took her by the shoulders and gently led her to the stairs.

  “All that paperwork can wait until tomorrow,” he said gently. “Go on up, enjoy an early night of it.”

  She barely remembered climbing the stairs, brushing her teeth or falling into bed. The next thing she knew her alarm was reminding her it was four-thirty in the morning.

  She stretched and actually felt pretty good. Carefully getting up so as not to disturb Beau, she reveled in a hot shower and shampoo then toweled off and put on her bakery clothes. The carved box sat on the vanity. For months she’d kept it locked away in Beau’s gun safe. Back in June she’d had a scare when someone had tried to steal the box, following Sam and even attacking a woman who had come to tell Sam about its history. The tale of two rival organizations with interests in the box had definitely spooked her. But with the passage of time she’d relaxed her guard. She’d missed having the box at her disposal every day. As a jewelry box it was handy; as a quick energy provider, well, she had to admit she’d used it often in recent weeks.

  She picked it up and cradled it in her arms, feeling the warmth suffuse her hands and body as the dark wood began to glow with a golden hue. The small inset stones brightened. Energy flowed through her and she felt as if she’d slept a week, not merely eight hours. She set it back on the vanity, fluffed her hair into place and made her way quietly downstairs.

  Gathering the files and sketches she’d brought home, she gave each of the dogs a pat on the head and went out to her van. Frost covered the windshield. She tried to remember if there was a scraper in the glovebox, couldn’t recall, ended up placing one warm hand on the icy surface. Immediately the crystals retreated, clearing the window in a rapid-moving fan shape.

  “Ha—thank you!” she said out loud. She allowed herself a grin as she got in and started the van.

  By the time Julio arrived to start the regular breakfast pastries, Sam had already melted enough chocolate, cooking and tempering it, to make her first batch of molded candies. At the final stage of cooking she always added pinches of the special powders—one from the blue pouch, one from the red, one from the green—given to her by a mysterious chocolatier who had shown up at her back door the first Christmas after she opened Sweet’s Sweets. Bobul, the quirky Romanian had taught her much about making chocolate, and he’d left her with a thousand questions about how he imbued his pieces with a certain magical touch.

  Now, as she worked on truffles, she thought again of him and wondered where he was now. With the influx of orders, she’d run through much of her supply of Bobul’s secret ingredients. Within the next few weeks—along with everything else on her mind right now—she would either need to get more or figure out how to make her chocolates just as good without them. She caught Julio giving her a quizz
ical look and turned her thoughts elsewhere.

  She added glitter powder to a small bowl of glaze and began painting decorative effects onto the dark chocolate pumpkin shapes, letting her creative mind take over.

  Before tonight’s dinner with Zoë and Darryl, Sam wanted to have a kitchen wish list to discuss with him. Her ideal place for candy making would include a big spotless kitchen where several workers could move about and each have his or her own work space, separate rooms for storage and for boxing the chocolates. A shipping area would be wonderful.

  Julio edged past her with a hot tray of apple scones just out of the oven. When Sam stepped aside, one foot landed on the wheel of her desk chair sending her skittering backward. The bowl of glaze landed on the file of paid invoices she’d not put away in the drawer. She watched the slow-motion pour as it drizzled across important papers and dripped to the floor.

  “Oh, god,” she shrieked, grabbing for the bowl. She missed and it tipped completely upside down.

  “Sam—so sorry,” Julio said. He’d narrowly avoided dropping his tray into the sticky mess.

  “Not your fault. I’ll get this if you can just take the scones out of harm’s way.”

  He backed toward the curtained doorway into the sales room while Sam made her way to the supply closet and retrieved bucket and mop.

  So, another thing for my wish list—separate office space so my desk isn’t right in the midst of the action. She mopped as she envisioned it. And plenty of helpers so I can quit wearing myself completely ragged.

  By the time Becky arrived and began decorating cakes, most of the sticky evidence was gone. Hours flew by as Sam breezed through six dozen pumpkin cookies, trays of sugar cookie ghosts and more cupcakes than she could count, until she had no choice but to quit if she wanted to make it on time to Zoë’s dinner.

  Chapter 7

  Sam parked in the long driveway beside Zoë’s house. It didn’t appear Beau had arrived yet. She got out of her van and dusted traces of sugar from her black slacks. She’d decided not to take the time to drive all the way home to change clothes. Her friends had seen her in work attire more often than not in recent years. They wouldn’t mind.