Flash Flood by Susan Slater Page B

Life and Casualty occupied the second floor of a refurbished Victorian, resplendent with wine and green trim, shutters to match, the brick recently sandblasted to capture the patina of soft rose. The cornerstone read 1889. Upstairs the offices were high-ceilinged, all with fans and the original embossed tin tiles, their floors gleaming a varnished oak.
    â€œVisitors. I put them in the conference room.”
    Dan smiled his thanks and followed the receptionist’s pointing finger and continued toward the back of the suite.
    The conference room contained a mahogany table so long that it was rumored it had been built right there in the room, a ship in a bottle. Dan was never sure the story was true but it could have been. The two men sitting at the table looked like Mormons, a little old maybe, but still with that crew-cut, clean-shaven good looks. But he knew he’d be wasting his time looking for bicycles. It was funny how agents and missionaries could look alike.
    â€œMr. Mahoney? Roger Jenkins, FBI. We’d like a little of your time.”
    So what was he going to do? Refuse? Dan closed the door behind him and held out his hand.
    â€œTom Atborrough.” The second man rose, leaned across the table and shook hands. Dan pulled out a chair and sat opposite two open briefcases.
    â€œI’ll get right to the point,” Roger said. Must be the dominant one, Dan thought, as he watched Tom lean back in his chair. “We’ve heard the tape, Mr. Eklund and the vet explaining their investment in the bull that died last week. Frankly, we have no reason to suspect that it isn’t on the up and up. The insurance part of this is of no interest to us.” Roger paused, then pushed back from the table and stood, towering over him before he continued. Setting up a psychological advantage, Dan noted; these guys couldn’t put much over on him.
    â€œWe have reason to believe that Mr. Eklund is using the cattle business for a cover-up. Seven years ago we were pretty certain that it was drugs, deals with Colombian drug lords. But then they pulled that little sacrifice, gave us their pilot on a platter and backed off.” Roger paused to pick a folder out of his briefcase. “We have a copy of the report you sent to your home office in Chicago. Apparently, you witnessed the possible drowning of that pilot, Eric Linden? Saw the car he was in being chased by the county sheriff? And later inspected the car and ascertained that the car had, in all probability, been a shooter’s taget?”
    Dan nodded.
    â€œOne of our snitches at Milford Correctional said a bank statement was delivered every month and two million dollars was collecting interest in Midland Savings and Loan in Tatum, New Mexico. The bank was to have been in charge of managing Mr. Linden’s investments. I don’t need to tell you that the money has disappeared or didn’t exist in the first place.”
    Dan didn’t need to ask how they knew that he knew; Junior probably shared their little conversation. Or maybe Judge Cyrus.
    The community was more than a little inbred.
    â€œWe do know that the Lott girl was hired to set Linden up. The plan, obviously, went wrong.”
    â€œWho hired her?” Dan was curious.
    â€œThe sheriff.”
    â€œWe’re betting with Mr. Eklund’s money and endorsement,” Tom chimed in.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œPrisons are funny places. People hear things all the time. Sometimes the information’s worthwhile,” Roger said.
    â€œSeems like Miss Lott was sent to provide a little entertainment for Mr. Linden while certain people looked the other way,” Tom offered.
    â€œI’m not sure I understand.”
    â€œMiss Lott was encouraged to engage Mr. Linden in sexual acts.”
    â€œWhile in prison?” Dan felt a twinge of sympathy for Elaine. The husband was a real winner.
    â€œYes. A guard was bribed to make such encounters easy. They all took