Texas Ranger [NOOK Book]

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Chapter One 

Nothing about a crime scene ever got easier, Marc Brannon thought as he knelt beside the body of the shooting victim. The man was young, probably no more than middle twenties, and he was dressed shabbily. One bare arm bore a tattoo of a raven. There were scars on both wrists and ankles, hinting at a stint in prison. There was a pool of blood around his fair hair and his pale eyes were open, staring blankly at the blue sky. Evidence technicians went over the scene like bloodhounds, looking carefully for trace evidence. One of them had a metal detector and had just found a slug, which they hoped would be from the murder weapon. Another technician was videotaping the crime scene from every angle. 

Brannon's big, lean hand smoothed over the neat khaki of his slacks while his keen, deep-set silver-gray eyes narrowed in thought. Maybe local mob boss Jake Marsh had nothing to do with this, but it was curious that a dead body would be found so close to his nightclub. No doubt Marsh would have an ironclad alibi, he thought irritably. He had dozens of cronies who would give him one whenever he needed it. 

Deep in thought, Brannon watched the tone medical examiner investigator work. She was going very slowly and methodically about securing the body. Well, she should. It could turn out to be a very high-profile case, he reminded himself. 

The homicide detective for the central substation, Bud Garcia waved at Brannon before he spoke to the patrol officers who'd apparently found the body. 

Marc swore under his breath and got to his feet gracefully. It was a hot September day and the silvery metal of his Texas Ranger badge caught the sun and glittered. He took off his off-white Stetson and swept the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. His hair, blond-streaked and thick and wavy, was momentarily visible. Then he stuck the hat back on, slanting it across his eyes. 

He went to join the homicide detective. He found Garcia talking to another plainclothes detective, who had a cell phone and a notepad. 

"Well, that sure fits the description," Garcia was agreeing with a satisfied smile. "Right down to the raven tattoo. It's him, all right. What a lucky break! Thank the warden for me." 

The other officer nodded and spoke into the cell phone again, moving away. 

"Brannon, we've got something," Garcia said. "Wayne Correctional Institute down near Floresville is reporting a missing inmate who fits this man's description exactly. He escaped from a work detail early this morning." 

"Have you got a name?" he asked. 

"Yeah." 

"Well?" Brannon pressed. 

"It's Jennings. Dale Jennings." 

It was a name that Brannon had reason to remember. And now the face that seemed so familiar clicked into place. Jennings, a local hoodlum, had been convicted of murdering a wealthy San Antonio businessman two years before. He was also alleged to have strong ties to Jake Marsh and his underworld. His photograph had been in half the newspapers in the country, not to mention the front page of several tabloids. The trial had been scandalous, as well. Josette Langley, the young woman who had been Jennings's date the night of elderly Henry Garner's murder, insinuated publicly that the person who stood to gain most from the death was Bib Webb, Brannon's best friend — and now Texas lieutenant governor — who had been the old man's business partner. 

Josette was positive Bib Webb was involved. But it was just suspicion, against the ironclad alibis of Bib Webb and his wife, who stated that Jennings had a motive — an argument the day before with Garner over his salary. It turned out that Garner had been paying Jennings to be his combination handyman and chauffeur. It was alleged that Jennings was helping himself to the old man's possessions, as well. They found a very expensive pair of gold cuff links, a diamond tiepin and a lot of cash in his apartment, which added to the sensationalism of the trial. Jake Marsh had been pulled in and questioned repeatedly because of some nebulous work Jennings had done for him. But there was no hard evidence, and Marsh walked away without a blemish, to the dismay and fury of Bexar County prosecutors and Simon Hart, the state attorney general. 

Brannon stuck his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks, his heart full of regret. Josette's life had been a hard one. But it wounded him that the woman he'd cared for so deeply could have accused Bib Webb, his best friend, of something as heinous as murdering a helpless old man for money when it was so obvious that Dale Jennings had done it. Jennings even had the murder weapon in his car, blatantly in sight on the front passenger seat, still bearing minute traces of blood and tissue, and hair, from poor old Garner's head. The medical examiner had positively identified the blackjack as the weapon used to stun the old man before he was pushed into the water. 

Returning to the present case, Brannon turned his eyes back to the body on the ground. "This does look like a professional hit," Brannon said, studying Dale Jennings's body, with its hands bagged and its white, still face vanishing under the zip of the dark body bag. "One downward-angled gunshot to the back of the head at point-blank range. His knees were covered in red mud just like this." He moved the dirt caked on the pavement with the toe of his boot. "He was probably kneeling at the time." 

"That was my first thought, too. And it's a pretty big coincidence that Marsh's nightclub is only two doors that way," the detective agreed. 

"If Marsh is involved here, I'll find a way to prove it," Brannon said bitingly. "He's walked away from murder and attempted murder, drug dealing, prostitution and illegal betting on sports for years. It's time we made him pay for the misery he's caused." 

Talking about misery couldn't help but remind Marc of the state of his own life. He hadn't seen Josette Langley in two years, but he could still see her in his mind — blond and sassy and full of dry wit. Despite the hardships of her life, she'd been the brightest, most delightful person he'd ever known. He missed her terribly. She didn't miss him, of course. And why should she? 

He'd shattered her heart . . . .  

Copyright © 2001 Diana Palmer