Odd Man Out. B.J. Daniels

hired other men to do his dirty work while he hid on a phone line, behind a synthesizer. Why so much secrecy? All he could figure was that Midnight had to be someone he knew; it made him nervous not knowing with whom he was in business. “I tried to get Denver to stay at my place tonight so I could search the cabin, but she’s determined—”

      “She’s determined?” Midnight let out a string of oaths. “I’m determined. No more excuses. I want that cabin searched tonight.”

      “And how do you expect me to do that with Denver there?” Pete asked in frustration.

      “I’ve left a prescription in your name at the drugstore.”

      “Pills?” Pete gasped. “You don’t want me to—”

      “Kill her?” Midnight groaned. “No. A couple of tablets and she’ll sleep like the dead, though. Make sure you don’t overdo it or you could kill her.” His voice seemed to vibrate with an evil that chilled Pete even in the hot room. “Hit the cabin tonight. And you’d better find that file.”

      “I told you how Max was. He didn’t think like other people. Who knows where he’s hidden it, if it even exists?”

      “It exists.” Midnight sighed. “You realize if Denver finds the file first, we’ll have to kill her.”

      And if anyone could find the file, it would be Denver, Pete thought. She already had her suspicions; it was just a matter of time before she figured it out. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

      “If you don’t—” Midnight paused “—I’ll find someone who can.”

      Pete started to hang up, but Midnight stopped him.

      “We have another problem that needs to be taken care of,” he said. “It’s that kid, Davey Matthews. You know the one who was always hanging around Max’s office? I’m afraid he knows too much.”

      “Just what we need, another murder.”

      “I’ll call you later at the cabin and we can discuss what to do about Davey. He’s young and foolish. Young and foolish men have accidents. Put the bozo back on,” Midnight said. “Then you’d better get to the drugstore before it closes.”

      * * *

      MAX MCCALLAHAN’S detective agency filled the bottom floor of a small two-story log house on Geyser Street; he had lived in a tiny efficiency apartment upstairs. Denver could never understand why he hadn’t married Maggie. He’d spent most of his time over at her place, but refused to give up the apartment because he didn’t want people to talk. Well, people were talking now, Denver thought bitterly.

      A snow-filled silence hung over the street as she walked past Max’s old blue-and-white Oldsmobile station wagon parked out front. She’d forgotten the police had left it there. Like everything else, the car reminded her of her loss. She headed up the unshoveled walk, steeling herself for the memories she knew waited inside, but stopped abruptly. Someone else had already climbed these same steps tonight. There were fresh boot prints in the newly fallen snow—coming and going.

      Shadows came to life as the large pines flanking the house swayed and creaked in the wind. Water dripped from the eaves and the old house sighed forlornly under the weight of the wet snowfall.

      Denver stopped, fighting to shake off the spooked feeling in her stomach. She suddenly thought of a dozen good reasons why she should come back in the morning. She cursed her lack of courage. After her parents died, Max had brought her to West Yellowstone, offering her a safe place to live so she’d never have to be afraid again. For Max—and for herself—she had to find his murderer or she’d never feel that kind of security here again.

      With renewed determination, she ascended the steps, her boot heels thudding across the wooden porch. On the window in the old oak front door a sign was painted in gold letters: McCallahan Investigations. Behind the letters, the drapes were drawn. Nothing moved. She dug for her key, then reached to unlock the door.

      But it was already open. The hinges gave a sigh as the door swung into the dark room. With fingers cold and shaking, Denver flipped on the light. She feared what she’d find, but nothing prepared her for this.

      File cabinets lay over on their sides, folders sprawled everywhere, their contents crumpled and strewn across the floor. All the drawers on Max’s big oak desk were upside down. Even the photographs she’d given him had been pulled from the walls and thrown into the pile of debris.

      Denver clung to the doorjamb fighting for breath. Why would anyone do this? For several moments, she just stared. What had the burglar been looking for? No doubt the same thing she was. That was some consolation. Maybe there was something to find. Or had been, anyway.

      She glanced around the office, wondering if it could still be here. If Max was on a hot case, something explosive, what would he have done with the evidence he’d collected? Good question.

      Max had no concept of organization. His files were always a disaster with some filed by first names, others by nicknames, even a few by last names. He had once hired a part-time secretary to straighten them, but when she had gone to lunch, he couldn’t find a thing and made such a mess of the file cabinet that she finally gave up and quit.

      Denver bent to retrieve a handful of folders from the floor. It would take hours to make any sense out of this mess. And she had to face the probability that any clues Max might have left had already been stolen. Not only that, she might be destroying evidence that could lead Deputy Cline to the culprit who did this, she realized, dropping the files on the edge of Max’s desk.

      She righted the huge oak office chair and sat down, more certain than ever that Max had left something behind to help her solve his murder. Think like Max, she told herself. She put her feet up on the desk and leaned back with her hands behind her head, imitating Max’s favorite pose when he was pondering a case.

      Where, Max? Where would you put something that would incriminate the person you were after? She surveyed the ceiling lights. Max jotted down everything; that was how he worked through his cases. Usually it was just a lot of scribbles. Sometimes it might be only a few words. Then he filed the notes until he solved the case. If Max was working on a job, there’d be scribbles and there’d be a case file.

      And that was what the burglar had been looking for. That had to be it. And the same person was probably spreading those rumors about Max. Muddying the waters. But why bother, with Cline convinced that Max was killed by a hitchhiker for no other reason than robbery?

      Denver was so preoccupied that at first she thought she’d imagined the sound. Then it happened again—a floorboard creaked overhead, followed by the scraping sound of wood. It was coming from upstairs in Max’s apartment. She froze. Why hadn’t it crossed her mind that the burglar could still be in the house?

      Carefully she slid her feet off Max’s desk and, slipping off her boots, tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. No sounds, except the thunder of her pulse in her ears. She picked up the nearest object from the floor—the telephone—and unhooked the cord, then, carrying it as a weapon, started up the stairs.

      Halfway up, one of the steps creaked under her weight and she stopped, afraid to move. Reason invaded her brain. What was she doing?

      Why didn’t you think to call Deputy Cline before you unplugged the phone, the rational little voice in her head asked.

      Nice that you should suggest that now, Denver retorted silently as she looked from the disconnected phone in her hand to the creaky steps behind her. And Max used to think she was a little too impetuous. If he could see her now.

      She stood on the step, listening. Silence so strong it seemed alive answered her back. She shifted the phone to her right hand and continued up the stairs, willing herself to remain calm, knowing she wouldn’t.

      At the top of the steps, she cautiously pushed open the door to the apartment, phone ready. When nothing jumped out, she reached in hesitantly and switched on the lights. She expected the apartment to resemble Max’s