Robert Randisi: Bullets & Lies

“Tina,” Roper said, “I want to ask you about the gold.”

Parnell looked shocked at Roper’s bluntness, but the detective didn’t want to beat around the bush. He still had John Sender to find.

She turned to look at him and asked, “What gold?”

“The gold Vince came home with from the war.”

She stared at Roper for a few seconds, then turned back to the stove.

“Siddown,” she said. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

Roper and Parnell sat at the table and waited. Tina came over with three mugs of coffee. She set one carefully in front of each of them, and then sat down across the table.

“Vince came back from the war with gold,” she said. “Ill-gotten gold. And then he got killed.”

“And what happened to the gold?”

“I buried it.”

“Where?” Parnell asked.

“With him,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s in his coffin?” Roper asked.

She nodded.

“Why?”

“I told you,” she said. “It was ill-gotten.”

“Tina, what bought this furniture, and that rifle?” Roper asked.

“Vince bought it all, before he died. After that I never touched any of the money, or the gold.”

“I find that hard to believe, Tina,” Parnell said.

“I don’t,” Roper said. “Look around you.”

“Then what have you been livin’ on, Tina?” Parnell asked. “The twenty thousand?”

Tina looked away.

“Wait a minute,” Roper said. “McCord’s gold was ill-gotten gains, but not the twenty thousand that came from the bank?”

“These people,” she said, “the fine townspeople, my neighbors, they looked down on me for years. Why should I worry about their money?”

“Must be almost gone by now, though,” Roper said. “After all, twenty thousand can’t last forever.”

“I was careful,” she said, “spent no more than a thousand a year. But yeah, it’s gone.”

Parnell sat back in his chair, looked at Roper.

“How much gold is in the coffin, Tina?” Roper asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Most of Vince’s share.”

“And you’ve never dug any of it up?”

“No,” she said, squirming. “I thought about it, but I can’t go into a cemetery and dig up a grave.”

Roper wondered if, given more time, she might have gotten brave enough. But now it was too late.

“Okay, Tina,” Roper said. “Thanks.”

He and Parnell walked outside and headed back to town.

“There’s gold in Vince McCord’s grave,” Parnell said. “Are we just gonna leave it there?”

“No,” Roper said. “We’ll dig it up.”

“And what? Give it back to the government?”

“I think the people of this town deserve the money more than the government does,” Roper said. “And you’ll be a hero for recovering the bank’s money so many years later. Make the local police department look bad.”

“Or,” Parnell said, “we could dig it up and split it.”

“Why do I think,” Roper asked, “that you’re too much of a lawman to be serious?”

While Parnell was making arrangements to have some men dig up the grave, Roper waited outside the sheriff’s office, seated in a straight-backed wooden chair. While he sat, he saw a man come riding down the street on a gray horse. The silver from his pistol reflected the sun.

John Sender.

Roper got up from his chair and said to himself, “Let’s hope the third time is the charm.”

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BULLETS AND LIES

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley edition / September 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.

Cover illustration by Dennis Lyall.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

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