Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

her—on the street, outside his house. Stalking him.
    She was turning to the laptop when her cell phone chirped. She flipped it open. China Bayles.
    “What’s up, China?” she asked.
    “Brace yourself, Chief,” China said. “I just got a call from JessicaNelson, at the
Enterprise
. Somebody tipped her that George Timms is about to be arrested for breaking into Larry Kirk’s computing business. Jessica is planning to break the story, and she wanted my opinion as to whether there was any connection between Timms and Kirk.”
    “Aw, crap,” Sheila muttered.
    “Yeah.” China sighed. “My sentiment exactly.” She paused. “Has the arrest happened yet?”
    “No,” Sheila said shortly. Then she remembered that China had given her the lead on the stalking and helped her get information from Dana Kirk that would otherwise have been slow in coming. China was plugged into the Pecan Springs newswire—the gossip channel that was on and open pretty much twenty-four-seven. She softened her tone.
    “Timms was a no-show, China. We’ve got an APB out on him. Lipman is livid, naturally. Accused us of holding his client incommunicado.”
    “Yeah, I’ll bet he did,” China said dryly. She was silent for a moment. “I hope I’m not jumping to conclusions, but I keep wondering if there’s a connection between Timms and Kirk.”
    “Yeah,” Sheila said. “I wonder, too. Thanks for the tip on Nelson.”
    She folded the phone and turned to the laptop that was open on the table. The computer was still on but the screen was blank, the monitor asleep. The keyboard hadn’t been dusted for prints.
Why not?
she wondered.
Just overlooked?
She used the tip of her pen to wake the computer. After a few seconds, the screen came to life and displayed Kirk’s email program, the last thing he had been viewing before he died. The most recent was from a client asking about a project, and had arrived about two hours before. The one above it was from China Bayles. Both were unread.
    She glanced through China’s message quickly and the original message from Kirk embedded within it. Then she used her pen to scrollupward through the inbox. Most of the emails appeared to be business-related, from clients or employees, with a scattering of casual notes from guys in a rock-climbing club. None from women, and none that looked ominous or suspicious, at least at a glance. And if there was anything from someone with the initials
JH
, she didn’t immediately see it.
    She opened the “sent” folder and immediately spotted it. An email to Dana Kirk, from her husband. It was time-stamped at 2:04 p.m. It read like a suicide note.
    Dana—I’m sorry. You can stop worrying about me. I’m tired and I just can’t go through with the divorce. It’s all yours, the house, the business, everything. Have a good life. Love, Larry
    Sheila read it again, frowning, then copied the sentences into her notebook. Was this what it sounded like? Or was it something else?
    She used her pen to scroll up to the next message, which had been sent at 1:42.
    Colin, your printer will be ready tomorrow. Stop by the shop about 2 to pick it up. No charge—it’s under warranty. Glad I could help.—Larry
    The skin prickled on the back of her neck. This message didn’t sound to her like it came from the same guy who—some twenty minutes later—wrote what purported to be a suicide note and then blew his brains out. She looked briefly at the other five emails that had been sent that day from this computer. They were all business-related, in the same tone as the email to Colin. One of them mentioned a lunch the following week.
    She brought up the final message again, then raised her voice. “Hey, Jack. You got a second?”
    Bartlett came back into the kitchen, pocketing a small tape recorder that he’d been using to take scene notes. “Yeah. Found something?”
    She pointed to the computer. He bent over and read the message, then straightened, glancing at her. “What do you think?”
    “Look at this one, too,” she said, and brought up the earlier message. “Written twenty minutes earlier.”
    “Huh.” Bartlett grunted. “Doesn’t match, if you ask me.” He glanced down at the keyboard. “Looks like the tech didn’t dust this. In too much of a hurry, maybe. I’ll get an evidence bag. Let’s take the laptop to the station and get Butch to print it.”
    Butch Bedford was PSPD’s in-house fingerprint technician, a young black officer who had recently