doin’ out here?”
Peter’s pulse kicked. The last thing he needed was an irate farmer with a twitchy trigger finger blasting a hole in his truck—or his head. Palms out in a conciliatory gesture, Peter tried again to calm the man. “If you’ll put the gun down, we’ll talk. I don’t want any trouble.”
The man shifted his weight nervously. “Get out of the truck.”
Hell. If he got himself killed, who’d raise Patrick? His motherless son had already lost too many people in his short life. Peter gritted his teeth. Screwups like this weren’t like him. Proof positive that he needed to get the disarray of his private life in order before he could be effective for his clients.
He nodded his compliance before he reached down to open the driver’s door of his truck. As he stepped down from the cab, he resisted the urge to stretch his stiff muscles. Better not give the jittery farmer any reason to shoot. As he slid out of the truck, he pulled his identification wallet out of the map pocket and flipped it open.
If people didn’t look too closely, his private-investigator license looked pretty intimidating.
“I’m Peter Walsh, and I’m here on official business.” The vague statement usually made people think he meant police business, which won their cooperation.
The farmer looked skeptical. He wouldn’t be bluffed. “What kind of official business?”
Peter wasn’t about to show his hand until he could determine whether the farmer was likely to report to the Rigsbys on Peter’s surveillance operation. If Rigsby had a heads-up that the insurance company was on to his fraud, he could cover his tracks. Peter needed to catch the man who claimed to have a disabling injury in the act—horseback-riding, snowmobiling, shoveling his front sidewalk. Anything that would prove he wasn’t bedridden with a back injury as he claimed.
“Lower the gun, and we’ll talk.”
Farmer tensed. “I’m giving the orders here, buddy. You’ve been sittin’ out here on my property for hours, and I want to know why. Now!”
Technically the road was county property, but Peter didn’t feel quibbling over that point was wise, given the man’s mood. And his weapon.
Peter’s priority was getting the shotgun barrel out of his face. He was already plotting his next move as he asked, “We had reports of some suspicious activity at your neighbors’ house. When was the last time you saw Bill Rigsby?”
“Bill Rigsby? What kind of suspicious—?”
Peter made his move.
While the farmer’s attention was focused on answering the baited question, Peter swept his arm up, knocking the shotgun away from his face, then followed through by grabbing the gun by the barrel and yanking it from the startled farmer’s grip.
“Hey!” the man shouted.
Peter tossed the weapon on the front seat of his truck and slammed the door. “I asked you to lower the gun. You didn’t, so now we’ll do things my way. You’ll get the gun back once you answer my questions.”
The farmer stepped closer, glowering, but his nose only reached Peter’s chin. “You sonofa—”
“Answer the question!” Peter barked, seizing the upper hand. He loomed over the shorter man, squaring his broad shoulders and narrowing a hard stare. “When was the last time you saw Bill Rigsby?”
The farmer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yesterday.”
“What was he doing?”
The farmer shrugged. “Nothing. Just out riding, checking his fence.”
“On horseback?”
The man gave him a no-shit-Sherlock look. “Yeah. Horseback. Why?”
Peter kept his expression blank, although he sensed the farmer could prove a wealth of information. The sooner he finished the Rigsby case for his client, the sooner he could look into the questions surrounding his father’s murder. “Does Rigsby ride often?”
The farmer cocked his head, sending Peter a dubious frown. “He has to. Got a farm to run.”
Peter catalogued the information, then hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “Ever see him shoveling snow?”
The farmer snorted. “There a law against that?”
“No. Does he shovel the front walk or does his wife?”
“He does. Why does that matter? What kind of suspicious activity is he into? “
To keep Rigsby’s neighbor off balance, Peter asked, “You ever see a black van parked in front of Bill’s house?”
The farmer took a step back and squinted at Peter with deep creases in his brow. Lowering his voice, the farmer asked, “Is he dealing drugs? “
Deflecting the question and turning it to his advantage, Peter responded, “Why? Have you seen evidence that Rigsby has acquired a large unexplained sum of money recently? “
The other man folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “Well, he did buy a new four-wheeler a couple of weeks ago. My wife and I were puzzling over how he afforded it, what with the economy being the way it is and all.” He shook his head, his scowl darkening. “Are you telling me Bill Rigsby is a drug dealer?”
Peter raised a palm, keeping his expression neutral. He’d feed the farmer’s paranoia without outright lying if it would get him the information he needed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My investigation isn’t finished.” He glanced meaningfully toward the Rigsby property. “Do you have any idea where I might find Bill Rigsby now?”
The man lifted one shoulder. “Can’t say for sure, but I think I heard him and his son leave by snowmobile at first light this morning. My guess is they headed down to the south pasture for the day.”
Peter blew out a deep breath that clouded in front of him in the chilly November air. “So Bill’s still able to drive a snowmobile since his injury?”
The farmer looked confused. “What injury? Did that good-for-nothing liar tell someone he was laid up again?”
Bingo.
“Again?” Peter eyed the man carefully. “He’s pulled a scam before?”
“And brags about it.” The farmer glared in the direction of the Rigsby farm. “I hate cheaters.”
“If you knew your neighbor was involved in the kind of insurance fraud that means you have to pay higher premiums, would you be willing to testify at a deposition on behalf of the insurance company?”
The man arched an eyebrow. “Testify?”
“That you’ve seen him shoveling snow, horseback-riding and snowmobiling.”
The farmer jerked a nod. “Damn straight.”
Peter turned and took the shotgun out of his truck. He handed it back to the farmer. “Is there a road that will take me to the Rigsbys’ south pasture? I’d like to get a few pictures of Bill Rigsby snowmobiling.”
The farmer gave Peter a gloating grin. “There sure is.”
An hour later, Peter drove toward the hospital in Honey Creek to see Craig Warner. He had a dozen or more incriminating photos of Bill Rigsby and his son riding snowmobiles, chopping wood and loading hay bales in the south pasture. More than enough evidence for his client to prove that Rigsby’s disability claim was false. With that matter behind him, Peter focused his attention on the problems that had kept him awake at night in recent weeks—the attacks on his family.
While he hadn’t been close to his father before Mark had disappeared, believed to be dead, Peter took personally the recent discovery of Mark Walsh’s body and apparent murder. Any ill will he had for his father because of his numerous affairs and