Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) by Eddie Jones Page A

you drive?”
    “Wow. That came out of nowhere. Dodge Charger. Why?”
    “Where were you yesterday evening between five and six?”
    “Well, let’s see. Yesterday afternoon I was on my way back from Denver. Left the courthouse a little before noon, grabbed a bite to eat, and drove back. Got here sometime after five. I remember because I had to hurry to get ready for the shootout scene in Sally’s.”
    “And you parked where?”
    “In the employee parking lot like always.”
    “Not in the barn?”
    For a moment I saw a fracture in that buddy-buddy facade, but he recovered quickly. “Hey, you know what? You’re right. I stopped off at the barn to get something. Just left my car there because it’s closer than the lot.”
    “Wyatt Earp said you called and asked to borrow his gun.”
    “Oh, I think I see where you’re going with this. Sure, I asked to borrow his Schofield, but he must’ve forgotten. Does that a lot. The old man can barely remember to put in his teeth.”
    “But you were at Lazy Jack’s? For a short while at least?”
    “Only long enough to check for Earp’s revolver. When I saw it wasn’t there, I left. Then a few minutes later, when I dropped off my laundry, I found my piece in a gym bag of dirty socks. How much longer is this going to take? Those mustangs aren’t going to break themselves.”
    “I guess that’s it for now. Okay if I stop by later if I have other questions?”
    “Sure, Caden. Happy to help.”
    He gave me a quick smile—just like he’d probably done hundreds of times before when posing for a photo shoot, holding it just long enough for those dark eyes to harden into an icy stare. “Good luck with your investigation, Deputy. Wish I could’ve been more help.”
    But he had been. In more ways than he could imagine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
BANCO DE LOS BANDIDOS
    I found James’s car parked behind the laundry building in a gravel lot marked IMPLOYEASE ONLY—just like Wyatt Earp said I would. Second row. Two doors over from a mud-splattered pickup tagged with a sheriff’s sticker in the back windshield. Given Earp’s suggestion that James often let others park his car for him, it made sense I’d find the Charger in the lot. Question was, what happened to Earp’s Schofield?
    Popping the lock took all of thirty seconds. I’d picked up a rubber wedge, the type used for propping open a door, from the general store and a flat, two-foot long piece of metal from the blacksmith shop. Shoving the wedge between the driver’s doorjamb and door, I’d opened a quarter-inch gap just wideenough for the rod. I’d seen this done once when Mom had locked her keys in the car. We’d tried everything to get her car unlocked. Coat hanger slipped through the window, paper clip in the lock. All we ended up doing was scratching the paint.
    Thirty minutes after the call, a tow truck driver arrived. He examined the make of the car and returned from his truck with a rubber wedge and long, straight rod. Took him thirty seconds to pop the lock.
    The shaft slipped easily through the gap. I tapped the unlock button and heard the lock disengage.
    I opened the door, climbed in, and sat in the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut. The interior of the bright yellow Charger smelled of leather and sour clothes. I kept looking out the windshield to make sure no one was watching. The last thing I needed was someone accusing me of trying to boost a late-model muscle car.
    Fast-food bags, stray fries, and a crumpled parking receipt from a Denver parking garage lay on the passenger’s floor mat. I thumbed open the glove box and found a registration card for Dallas Joshua James of Golden, Colorado. Beneath the owner’s manual I found a summons for James to appear in court. The date and time matched his account of the previous day. One charge of assault.
    I remembered Earp telling me James was a brawler.
Is he the type to hit a young woman? Or gun down a coworker?
I tucked the court summons back in the glove