So Hard To Forget Part 1

So Hard to Forget.

by Evelyn A. Crowe.

CHAPTER ONE.

MAXIM mS WANt stood before the wide expanse of his office window on the sixth floor of Warner and Hart Security and stared down at Central Park. He wondered how spring had come and gone and summer arrived without his noticing.

Max sighed long and deeply, then glanced over his shoulder at the files spread out on his desk. It was time to give up. Time to make the call and deliver the bad news. Instead, he turned and stared blindly out the window again. All he could see was the image of the young woman whose pictures were scattered among the papers on his desk. He didn't need to refresh his memory with photographs, though; her beauty and sweet expression were branded into his brain. He doubted he'd ever forget her.

"You look like c.r.a.p."

"Feel like it too," Max said on another long soulful sigh, then returned to his desk and faced his partner, Douglas Hart. They had one of the top security and private-investigation companies in the country, with branch offices in Los Angeles and Houston and more than a hundred employees. He and Doug figured that after five years they'd pretty much made it. Warner and Hart was so sought after the company didn't have to advertise. Keeping and maintaining a low profile was its primary goal. With some luck and a lot of d.a.m.n hard work, the partners were now able to pick and choose the cases and clients they represented.

"You didn't go home, did you?" Doug scowled at his partner's appearance. He didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Max's dark hair was wildly tousled. There was a bruised look around his eyes that spoke of too many hours reading and rereading. His normally bright blue eyes were dull with fatigue and defeat.

"You going to make the call or am IT" Doug asked. He was more than a little worried about Max. h.e.l.l, they'd been through a lot during their twenty years of friendship. As he waited for his partner's answer, he let his mind wander back over the years. He and Max were from small neighboring Texas towns. School rivalries in football and baseball brought them together, and for some reason they'd become best buddies.

They'd attended college together, shared a dorm room, got drunk together, traded and fought over girls. When Max's family told him they could no longer afford a college education, they both joined the military. There they found they had a talent for the twists and turns of intelligence work and a proficiency in the sometimes boring detail-laden process of an investigation. Later they were accepted into the elite Navy Intelligence. When it was time to re-up, they decided together not to and were discharged on the same day.

They were a team, and by then the FBI was eager for their combined talents. After five years with the government, they resigned and set up their own business. They were so close that most of the time one would start to say something and the other could pick up the thought and finish it.

We've on case eighn months, Max, used more manpower than on any other. It's time to cut our losses."

Max glanced at the spread of papers on his desk. "You know he killed her," he said, and willed himself not to look at the pictures, but his eyes were drawn to them. Sandra Applewhite Gillman, twenty-seven years old. Daughter of Harry and Helen Hudson Applewhite of the Kentucky Applewhites. Old money on both sides, lots of it. A blue-blood family with an impressive stable of Thoroughbreds and a long list of winners. Sandra was the Applewhites" only child, and except for the death of Harry Applewhite ten years ago, they were a picture-perfect rich family.

That was until Sandra met and married John Gill-man. After a shaky year of marriage, they had supposedly been on a second honeymoon, yachting around the Florida Keys, the Bahamas and finally the British Virgin Islands when the so-called accident happened. That was eighteen months ago, and Sandra had died in a yacht explosion off the island of Virgin Gorda.

Sandra's husband, a thirty-seven-year-old playboy, ex-Navy SEAL and con man, was ash.o.r.e when the yacht exploded. Sandra's body was never recovered, and after an island inquest and hearing, Gillman was cleared of any responsibility for the accident and the death of his wife.

But Helen Applewhite thought differently. After a few discreet telephone calls to those in the know, she was referred to Warner and Hart and hired them to investigate her daughter's death. She knew in her heart that her son-in-law was a murderer. So did everyone at Warner and Hart who'd worked on the case. They just couldn't prove it.

Doug glanced at the thick file. "How many times--" he nodded at the papers on the desk "--did you go through those last night?"

"A Couple." Wearily Max rubbed his face.

Doug knew what the problem was, what was eating at Max, but hesitated to voice his opinion. They'd come up against cases they were unable to solve before. Granted, they were few and far between, and the agency always kept those files open just in case a break came somewhere down the line.

Doug braced himself and said, "You've let this get personal." His friend had been staring at the Sandra Applewhite Gillman photograph so intently he didn't think he'd heard him. "Max?"

"d.a.m.n right, it's personal." He felt the heat of anger wash over him but held his tongue, knowing he was exhausted. There was no sense taking his ill temper out on Doug. "You know I don't like to lose or give up."

Doug shook his head. "Goes deeper than merely losing."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Taking a deep breath, Doug plunged on. "You've fallen in love with Sandra."

"Don't be an a.s.s." Max shoved back his chair and stood up. "She's dead."

"Yes, she is."

"Doug, I'm'in no mood for your games. If you've got something in your craw, then spit it out."

"Okay. From the first day we took on this case---as we sat in that mansion listening to Mrs. Applewhite tell us her daughter's life story, her fears that she'd been murdered, all the while dealing out those pictures of Sandra like playing cards--I saw you change. You've become obsessed with getting Gillman."

Doug held up his hand to stop Max from interrupting with some snide remark. "Make no mistake," he went on, "I agree one hundred percent that Gillman murdered his wife. After a year I knew we weren't going to nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's hide to the wall. But you've let it drag on another six months. Deep down I think you know this is one for the dead file, and neither you nor all the manpower we've put into it is going to solve it. But, my friend, you won't admit it because that would mean letting go of Sandra."

"Don't give me any of your armchair psychobabble Dammit she's dead. I know that."

"Do you really? Well, love's a funny thing, Max. It seems to have a mind all its own. When you least expect it--wham! It hits you. You're in love with Sandra." Doug was more worried than he let on. Max had changed over the past six months. He'd dropped all his girlfriends, started staying late at the office or shut up in his apartment. Doug had tried repeatedly to pry Max out of his slump but was always rebuffed for his efforts. h.e.l.l, he and his wife had, on numerous occasions, invited him to dinner or drinks, but Max always said he had other plans. Which was a lie.

Then there was one particular incident that really plagued him. On a Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, while he and Sam were walking in Central Park, they decided to drop in on Max. Of course as soon as Max saw the way he and Sam were eyeing the scattered stack of photographs on his coffee table, he started making excuses about working on the case at home. Doug knew better. Some of those pictures he'd never seen, and he realize his partner had kept them for himself. He also remembered that faraway look in Max's eyes. Like a man lost in his own fantasies. It was d.a.m.n unhealthy and he didn't intend to lose his buddy and partner to a breakdown---or a dead woman.

Doug knew he was treading on thin ice but took the heavy step forward, anyway. "Well, if you're not in love with Sandra, then you have some sort of obsession with her, and before it ruins you and this company, I suggest you come to terms with your problem."

"The only problem I have is a conscience. Something that seems to be lacking around here lately. Oh, h.e.l.l," Max snapped, then attempted a friendly, if tired, smile to take the sting out of his words. "Get this straight, will you? I'm not in love with Sandra." He stared for a long moment, letting the silence between them stretch as he watched Doug's nervous habit of pushing and worrying his gla.s.ses, then running his fingers through his thinning hair. Max realized he was being an a.s.s, had been for months, and was suddenly sorry about his behavior.

"Give me a moment, then I'll call Helen." Doug sat unmoving and Max favored him with a tired smile. "Get out."

"I'll make the call if you want."

"Out."

"It might be easier, you know."

"Doug!"

Douglas Hart stood and headed for the door, but paused before leaving. "When you're free, give me a buzz.. We just got a honey of a case. Exactly what you need to bring the sparkle back to your eyes, roses to your cheeks and the spring in your step." His attempt at humor fell flat, so he quickly left and firmly shut the door behind him.

Max took one last look at the scattered array of photographs on his desk. Her big green eyes, flawless skin, pouty mouth and enchanting smile tore at his heart. Her hair was long and turned under just above the shoulders. He knew it was naturally curly, which she hated, and so worked hard at taming the waves into a smooth swinging style. He could almost feel her bright blond hair slipping softly through his fingers like warm silk.

Sandra was more than beautiful. There was a sweetness in her smile and a gentleness in her eyes that made his heart pound and his throat ache with the pain of loss. He knew she loved children and animals. She was a gentle soul, a woman of great compa.s.sion and an equal capacity for love. She was intelligent, cultured and refined. With all her family's money, she did a lot of charity work, mostly with underprivileged children.

Sandra loved chocolate, but it gave her a headache. Her favorite ice cream was plain vanilla. She had a dark crescent-shaped mole behind her left ear. Cats made her sneeze. Her favorite perfume was Joy, and she loved gardenias and the color yellow. She adored horses and was an accomplished rider. She loved the sea and was an expert sailor and a strong swimmer.

Max tried to breathe around the pain in his chest. He'd interviewed so many of her friends that he probably knew more about Sandra and her life than anyone, even her mother. He knew something else: them was no concrete proof she had been murdered by her husband. John Gillman had already "received more than a million dollars of life-insurance money, and in five more months he would come into the bulk of his wife's five-million-dollar estate.

Gillman, a man addicted to money, women, and kinky s.e.x, and occasionally indulged in recreational drags, was going to slip up one day, and Max intended to be there. Resting his head in his hands, he stared one last time at Sandra's photograph and silently vowed that whatever it took, whatever he had to do, he would make sure John Gillman paid for what he'd done. If justice didn't serve them, he would serve up his own brand of justice.

Gathering together the papers and photographs, Max neatly stacked them in the file folder. For a second he hesitated, then closed the file and reached for the telephone.

DOL1G WAS PERCHED on a corner of Max's secretary's desk. Neither spoke as they stared at her phone and its one lit line. After half an hour the light blinked out. Doug stood and returned to his partner's office. He decided the best approach Was a direct one. "How'd she take it?"

"Like the great lady she is. Sad, disappointed, but resigned. I explained to her about keeping the file open, our policy of reviewing and continuing to work on unsolved cases if new leads come our way." Max leaned back in the big leather executive chair and closed his eyes. "Man, I let this one really get to me, didn't IT" When Doug didn't answer, he opened his eyes and caught his friend reading through a file. Whenever there was an interesting case, Doug liked to play his little games, drag out the facts like a squirrel giving up his h.o.a.rd of nuts one by one. He wanted to smile, but was just too d.a.m.n tired.

"How long has it been since you've gone fly-fishing?" Doug asked.

Max sat up at the mention of his favorite sport. "What was it two, three years ago when you and I took some clients to Colorado?" The idea of getting away, of wading in a fiver so clear he could count the rocks on the bottom, air so clean and fresh it almost hurt to breathe and nothing but the sounds of nature around him was as alluring at that moment as. a naked woman. It peaked more than his interest; it made his pulse race. Then his responsibilities rushed back and he felt as deflated as a p.r.i.c.ked balloon. "Tread carefully, Doug. I'm a little wrung out today."

Doug chuckled, then pitched the file onto Max's desk where it lay unopened. This" was their game; he always filled Max in on the new cases. "Does the name Carl Bernard Bedford ring any bells?"

"Very clearly. Fortune 500 corporation. CEO of a worldwide publishing empire. What does he need us for, and what does this have to do with fly-fishing?"

"I'm glad you asked." Doug casually raked his fingers through his hair, fiddled with his gla.s.ses and grinned, pleased that he'd caught Max's interest. "Bedford's bought up an estimated twenty thousand acres in Montana. Seems he needs a place to get away from all the pressure and a little ranch to play with." Doug's eyebrows arched over the tops of his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. "But he's not satisfied with what he has. There's this plum piece of property with a mountain, spring-fed rivers, a waterfall or two, abundant wildlife and scenery to die for. Bedford wants the propeay really bad. But the owner..." He picked up the file and flipped through a couple of pages "Ah, here it is. Fellow's name is Charles Dawson. He won't sell."

"Good for him," Max grumbled. "Twenty thousand acres ought to be enough for one man."

"Well, it's not," Doug snapped back. "Let me remind you, before you turn into a bleeding-heart liberal environmentalist on me, that this case is money in our pockets and could open a lot more doors for us."

Max shook his head. He hadn't realized just how weary, or maybe bored, he was with the company. Warner and Hart pretty much ran itself. h.e.l.l, he'd been working, holding various jobs, since he was twelve years old. Maybe he ought to give some serious thought to selling his shares. He did a quick calculation of his investments and realized he had more money than he knew what to do with. Retirement at thirty-two was an appealing idea. But could he do it? "Doug, when did we Stop caring about people and let money rule our lives? TM The sarcasm and disgust didn't faze Doug. "When you and I bought apartments on Central Park West and relocated our offices within walking distance of our homes. When we updated our entire computer system, the gadgets and gewgaws, your Lamborghini, my alimony to three ex-wives--no, only two, Babs remarried--and let's not forget Sara." He faked a shiver. "She thinks I print my own money just for her to spend. Don't ever get married again, Max."

Max couldn't help laughing. Doug was a master at the art of placating, constantly juggling his ex-wives" demands and screaming fits with finesse and real style. Secretly he thought Doug loved it--all that female attention. Remembering his own two-year fiasco of a marriage that ended five years ago made Max want to shudder. He couldn't imagine ever marrying again. Then Sandra's face flashed in his mind, and he knew he would have remarried only once, and that would have been for the rest of his life. He had to quit thinking about her.

"Okay, fill me in on all the details of the case. What are we supposed to do? I draw the line at strong-arming this Dawson fellow into selling to Bedford, though."

"Not necessary. Seems Dawson has two weaknesses---drinking and cards. Loves to gamble. The only thing that's keeping the place going is the profitable business--Dawson Outriggers. He takes fly fishermen up to a mountain lodge and treats them to a real sportsmen's holiday. That's the main soume of the money. Then there's the other things, some river rafting and hiking trips. Charges a couple arms and legs, but Bedford says n.o.body's ever come away complaining. h.e.l.l, Bedford even spent a week up there. That's one of the reasons he decided to buy in Montana in the first place."

"Has he made an offer to Dawson?"

"Several. All were turned down flat. The last offer, this Dawson fellow kicked Bedford's men off the place. Told them if they came back, he'd load their b.u.t.ts with buckshot."

Max chuckled, then stood up and stretched. He was bone-tired and wanted Doug to finish. "What're we supposed to do?"

"Go out there. Nose around. Do what we do best, get all the information on Dawson. Treat him and his business like any other company we're investigating for our client's takeover. Find his strengths and weaknesses and zero in on his weak points, the ones that will enable Bedford to bring him down. I figure we should go out there, do some serious fly-fishing and our job at the same time. How's that sound?"

Max thought it sounded d.a.m.n good. He needed the time to clear his head, decide what he wanted to do. Then again, there was the excitement of a new job, the thrill of the investigation. But this time he promised himself he'd carefully weigh the pros and cons of selling up and retiring. Montana, one way or the other, was going to be a turning point in his life.

CHAPTER TWO.

MAX GLANCED briefly out the window of the small cramped airplane, then turned his head and glared at his seatmate. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You did this on purpose, didn't you?" he said between clenched teeth. He was a white-knuckle flier in the best of conditions. The turbulence they were encountering now had tied his stomach in little knots, then forced it to the back of his throat. His forehead was damp with the sweat of fear, and his fingers were numb from the iron grip he had on the arm of his seat.

He watched with a sense of perverse pleasure the way the laughter quickly died in Doug's gaze and he frantically fumbled with the release of his seat belt when he thought he was about to get Max's lunch in his lap. Max closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to think of anything but the way the plane kept rising and falling.

Doug pried Max's fingers off the arm of the seat and shoved a barf bag into his hand. "I didn't tell you about the second leg of the trip because I knew you wouldn't go for it. You'd have rented a car and driven. But this ain't New York or Los Angeles, old pal. You'd be days getting to Dawson's and we'd lose our reservations. h.e.l.l, I had to pay extra just to get us included."

The pilot seemed to have found a calm pocket and Max opened his eyes, but kept his gaze glued to the seat in front of him. "d.a.m.n right I'd have rented a car. I'll get you for this, Doug. I swear I will. Where are we heading?"

Doug bit his lip to keep from laughing, then pushed at his gla.s.ses and finger-combed his hair. From New York he figured they'd changed planes three times, or was it four? He was as tired as Max. "We'll be landing at an airstrip near a town called Bartlet. Someone from Dawson's will pick us up and drive us to the ranch. We'll stay one night at the ranch house, then hike up the mountain to the lodge. Man, I can't wait. Did you remember to bring those flies I bought you? The guy at the store said they were guaranteed to catch anything we went after."

"I don't understand you, Doug. You're the most suspicious person I know. It takes an act of Congress to convince you of something. Yet put you in a sporting-goods store or a tackle shop and you'd believe a two-year-old if he told you their new shipment of pink-winged flies were found only on the moon and were guaranteed to hook the world's biggest trout."

Doug wouldn't dignify his accusations. "Well, I don't understand you. When we were in the service, we flew all the time. h.e.l.l, I saw you parachute out of. planes without blinking an eye."

"I've got a confession, Dougie. I was scared out of my mind then, too, Just too young, proud and plain stupid to admit it." He would have said more, but the steady roar of the engines changed pitch as they began their descent. Max grabbed the arms of the seat, squeezed his eyes shut and didn't open them again until Doug shook his shoulder.

"We're here, Max. Get up." He leaned over and looked out the window. "Car's waiting. Move it. I'm dying to get there." Doug rubbed his hands together like a kid, and, picking up some of his gear, rattled and b.u.mped his way toward the open door.

Max peeled himself out of the narrow seat like pulling a suction cup from a pane of gla.s.s. He had to hunch his shoulders and stoop to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling as he made his way out on legs that felt weak and rubbery. As soon as his feet touched solid ground, he almost choked on the crispness of the clean air. The beauty of the scenery stole his breath and left him awed, light-headed. He could have stood there for hours soaking up everything like a dry sponge in warm water if Doug hadn't yelled at him to get moving.

As the driver of the old Suburban introduced himself as Reed Bartlet, Max gave him a hard look. Interesting--Bartlet was also the name of the town. He was a good-looking kid with a head of thick, coal black hair and solemn blue eyes. Close to six feet, tanned and fit he had that gangly loose-limbed build that bespoke that alien mixture of youth and manual labor. His face was losing its adolescent roundness, beginning to show the angularity of manhood.

Max figured the kid probably had girls trailing him around now, and in a few years he'd have to beat them off. The maturity sat awkwardly on his shoulders, and Max, after a second closer look, would have sworn the kid wasn't much older than thirteen. He was about to ask to see his driver's license, but Doug was too busy pushing and prodding him into the back seat. Once comfortable, he promptly fell asleep.

The ride to the ranch took well over an hour, and Doug had to shake him awake as they bounced over the cattle guard. He sat up just in time to catch the blur of a horse and rider racing parallel with the fence as though trying to outrun the car. He fully expected the kid driving to step on the gas and try to outdistance the rider, but even though temptation made the boy's hands tighten on the steering wheel, their slow pace never increased.

Max smiled, wondering if he'd have had that much willpower when he was that age. Then his vision was filled with wide rolling meadows thickly carpeted in green and dotted with yellow and pink flowers, here and there a tree. The scene was like a mirage, the way it wavered and rolled on the heat waves of the July afternoon. He had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

But no, those black-spotted cattle that reminded him of dalmatians were very real. He smiled, feeling the peace of the place as those big docile animals munched away on the rich gra.s.ses, leisurely lifting their heads to inspect the car as it pa.s.sed. For the first time in months he felt the tension in his neck and shoulders begin to ease a little.

Doug said something from the front seat. Max tore his gaze from the fields and leaned forward, trying to catch what was being said. But Doug had fallen silent, and Max followed the direction of his gaze. His heart stopped beating for an instant as he looked at the sprawling, two-story, gray stone house with the varied roofiines. It reminded him of a fine painting, one he could sit and stare at for hours and never get tired of.

The main portion of the house had a severely steeped slate roof, like an arrow with its tip pointing upward as if showing the way to the mountain that rose mtically: the house. Brushed with hues of green, tinted with shadows of gray and black and topped with snow, it too, was like a fine painting. This was Dawson Mountain, and it was no wonder Carl Bedford wanted to add it to his collection.

Reed carefully brought the Suburban to a stop, sighed audibly, then smiled. He indicated a man standing on the front porch and said, "That's Charlie Dawson. He busted his ankle and it's made him pretty cranky."

Max recognized the nervous relief in the kid's voice and felt for him. He'd obviously been given the responsibility, however illegal, of picking up the late arrivals and was both glad and excited it was over and he hadn't been Stopped by the police. Max remembered the small-town days of his own youth, and how the laws of age and a driver's license were ignored.

As he climbed out of the car, Max slipped the kid ten bucks, nodded and grinned. Then he leaned against the car and watched the old man with the obviously new cast on his leg make a careful but awkward descent down the steep stone steps. The man was hanging on to the railing with one hand and wrestling with the crutch under his other armpit trying to get the rhythm of the crutch-and-leg movements and keep his balance at the same time. This was the subject of his investigation, Max thought, and took precise note of every detail. It was surprising how much one could learn just from a man's appearance.

Charles Dawson "was medium height and looked solid from years of hard work. He was dressed in faded jeans, one new handmade boot and a stylish brown-and-turquoise Western shirt. Max noted that the shirt and boot weren't cheap and tucked away that fact, too. Dawson was a little vain, had expensive tastes and enjoyed being a dandy. It was hard to estimate his age as his face was deeply lined and weathered brown by the sun; his thick hair was more salt than pepper. But Max guessed him to be somewhere in his late sixties or early seventies. Then Dawson lifted his gaze, and Max immediately subtracted five years from his estimate. The old man's eyes were sharp and clear, a startling bright blue in the dark face, and at the moment his gaze was full of frustration at his helplessness.

Charlie cursed and threw the crutch down the remainder of steps, watching it break in two. After a moment of satisfied silence, he smiled at the two city slickers standing by the car as their suitcases were being piled beside them, and he reminded himself they were paying guests. He never understood why all these weekend sportsmen found it necessary to bring half their wardrobes.

"Welcome to Dawson's, gentlemen. Why don't you come on up to the house and join the rest of the guests in the living room for some refreshments? Reed, I see you trying to sneak off. Call Ash to help with the luggage, then come give me a hand." All the while he'd been talking, Charlie was easing himself down the remainder of the steps so that when he finished he was able to shake hands with the two new arrivals. When Reed returned to a.s.sist him, he said, "Ring the bell to get Nick's attention, would you?" He shaded his eyes, apparently noticing something or someone in the distance. "Never mind," he said.

Doug glanced down at the cast, then hack at Charlie's strained face and grinned. "What happened? Fall off a horse? Get thrown by a bull?"

"Nothing so exciting. I stepped in a d.a.m.n critter hole." He tried again to get the city boys moving. "There's ice-cold beer, and lunch is about to be served. You're both a little late, but the rest of the men have voiced a willingness to leave for the mountain lodge after the meal. Are you up to a half-day hike through the most beautiful country in the world, or do you want to wait and fide up with one of the boys early tomorrow morning?"

"We'll leave with the others," Max said as his gaze followed Charlie's. He saw a horse and rider execute a smooth jump over the three-rail fence, then head toward them at a full gallop. Doug automatically moved back, b.u.mping into Max and stepping on his toe as the horse stopped a few feet away.

There was no mistaking the rider's gender, not with the shapely body and long legs encased in tight jeans. As she dismounted, Max admired the firm rounded backside and smiled when he heard her light laughter. Her face was deeply shadowed by the dip of her Stetson. He stared as she removed the cowboy hat and dusted it off with a few thumps against her thigh. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

There was a roaring in his ears like the rush of a waterfall.

Everything around her seemed to fade and then disappear. Her hair, a short curly cap, sparkled like gold in the noon sun. Her eyes, when they swung in his direction, were a bright emerald green. The beauty of her face left him numb. It was an eternity before he felt Doug's viselike grip on his arm, cutting off the circulation. His friend's hoa.r.s.e whisper brought him forcefully back to .