Wink of an Eye (12 page)

The rec center was an older one-story building with a weight room, full-sized basketball court, and small meeting rooms where different civic groups did whatever they do. Behind the center were three ball fields and two concession stands. I wondered which one Hector Martinez was allegedly breaking into when he supposedly shot Burke.

I tagged along behind Rodney into the gym where a group of stout-looking guys were lacing sneakers, stretching their muscles, or punching one another in mock fights. They greeted Rodney in a fraternal way with lots of fist tapping and high fives.

“This is Rhonda's brother. He's in from Vegas for a while so y'all go easy on the city boy.”

They laughed like a bunch of drunk sailors, some offering their hands to shake along with their first names. My interest perked up when a tall guy with shoulders broader than a doorway introduced himself as Mark. Could I really be that lucky?

Big Mark palmed a ball and headed out onto the court for some practice shots. The name across the back of his jersey said Peterson. I smiled, grabbed a ball, and joined him at the foul line.

I sank a couple, missed a few, and stood back when big Mark dunked one, hanging onto the rim a few seconds for dramatic purposes. All of a sudden I was hearing my Little League coach reminding me baseball games were won by base hits, not by trying to put it over the fence at each bat. Besides, he used to say, you ain't all that big,
boy.

Big Mark divided us into teams, putting me and Rodney on the same team, which, of course, wasn't his. Ten minutes later, I was wishing I had stayed at Rhonda's and taken a nap.

These guys played like scouts from the Lakers were in the stands. They played full court, which left me sucking for breath, and I was in pretty decent shape. Poor Rodney plugged along, his belly flopping with each heart attack–inducing sprint. Somehow, the man-on-man defense pitted me, at a full inch shy of six feet and 180 pounds, against Monster Mark, who I was sure topped out at six five and weighed in well over 220.

To everyone's surprise, and the monster's embarrassment, I managed to weasel in and steal the ball right out from under him in mid-dribble, then sink a three-pointer. The constant squeak of the rubber soles against the wooden floor came to an abrupt halt as everyone froze in place. Seconds later, they erupted in hooting and hollering and juvenile cheers, rewarding me with slaps on the back. Monster Mark sported a fake grin, unimpressed.

The elbows started flying soon after. The first one was to the ribs and I let it go. The second time was to the kidneys and it took me a moment to catch my breath. The third time was to the mouth and drew blood. I used the tail of my shirt to wipe my busted lip, the coppery-tasting blood pooling between my lip and bottom teeth.

“You okay?” Rodney asked in a winded voice. He was beside me, bent over, trying to catch a much-needed breath.

“Yeah.” I spit blood then wiped my mouth again. “I'm fine.”

“He … takes it a little too seriously.”

“So do I.” I wiped my hand across my bloodied lip. I stared at the blood on the back of my hand. I don't tolerate bullies very well. I hurried to rejoin the game.

Peterson was near the foul line preparing for an unguarded jump shot. I leapt just as he let go, slamming the ball back in his face. Blood gushed from his nose from the impact. Rodney grabbed the ball and actually ran it to the other end of the court and scored. He and one of our teammates did the obligatory chest bump, then finished with high fives while Peterson remained at his own foul line, hands on his hips, blood running from his nose, his eyes slicing through me like a sword.

During our next possession, Rodney passed the ball to me. I drove in for a layup, shoving my shoulder square into Peterson's chest, driving him backward. He lost his balance and went down on his ass. With that shot, we were up by a basket.

The next couple of plays were a back-and-forth of missed shots and smack downs but no goals. Since I seemed to be the go-to man of our team, one of my teammates passed me the ball for an easy jumper. I was clear; Peterson was nowhere around. I steadied for the shot and just as I hit midair, Peterson was suddenly there, connecting with a massive knee straight to the crotch.

I dropped with a thud to my knees, then all fours. I fought the urge to curl up in the fetal position and shout to Monster Mark that he had won.

Rodney protectively had his hand on my back. “You okay, man?”

Hell no, I wasn't okay. I would probably feel a hell of a lot better if he'd put a bullet through my head.

“Oh, come on Mark, that was a low blow,” someone said.

“Dude … that was pretty rough, don't you think?” another one said.

My head was spinning and the voices were melding together as tiny stars danced in front of my eyes.

“So Pretty Boy does have balls,” Peterson said. I etched his voice to memory.

One of the guys from the other team brought me a bottled water. Rodney hooked his arm under mine and helped me sit up. I took tiny sips of the water, afraid it would get hung on the testicles lodged in my throat.

Rodney stood beside me like a faithful pup while I sat there on my knees. Finally, with the pain just a little less than unbearable, I managed with Rodney's help to stand up.

“Same time next week,” Peterson said to his cop buddies, slinging a gym bag over his shoulder. There were collective mumbles of confirmation.

“Let's go,” I told Rodney, pushing through the pain just to walk.

He was behind me with his hand on my back, probably afraid I'd go down again any minute. “Come on, Gypsy. Don't start anything,” he said, his voice racked with concern.

“I'm not starting anything.” But I was sure goin' to finish it. I was going to make sure Peterson would have time to play with all the balls he wanted. There were guys in prison just waiting to make someone like Mark Peterson their bitch.

Outside, in the parking lot, I watched him climb into his department-issued burgundy Crown Vic and drive away. It was going to be a pleasure to take him down.

“I think Rhonda's got some frozen peas at home you could use as an ice pack,” Rodney said.

I was not going to put a pack of frozen peas on my crotch. I took a deep breath and held it as I climbed into Rodney's pickup. “I'll be all right.” As long as I didn't move or breathe.

Rodney cranked the engine, then pulled out onto the road, following the procession. “I don't know what got into him today. He's always cocky and likes to throw his weight around, but man, you pushed a button or something.”

“What do you know about this guy?”

“Mark?” He shrugged. “He can be a jerk sometimes.”

“My testicles are proof of that. What else?”

He shrugged again. “I don't really know him personally. I worked a case with him last year and he was all right. I guess.”

There was hesitation between statements, which meant everything might not have been as
all right
as Rodney thought. “What do you mean, you guess?”

“He's pretty stubborn. It's his way or the highway.”

I stared out the passenger window at the barren landscape. Peterson definitely fit the profile of a cop on the take. Living well above his means, he pissed attitude, and he had the grand illusion of being irreproachable.

We passed the sinkholes, Wink's two claims to fame. The second one to form was much larger than the first and now had a dilapidated fence around the massive perimeter. The red
DANGER
signs were visible from the road. As long as Mark Peterson was wearing a badge, the giant, sucking sinkholes weren't the county's only danger.

“What do you know about Ryce McCallen's death?” I asked.

Rodney threw me a sideways glance, his brows knitted with question. “Ryce McCallen?”

“Yeah—the cop that supposedly killed himself a few weeks ago.”

His face turned cherry red as he slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn her. I told her to stay out of that.”

“Told who to stay out of what?”

“Your sister. I told her to leave it alone.”

“Rhonda's not involved. Burke McCallen hired me to look into his son's death.”

He slammed the wheel again, pursing his lips into a tight line. He shook his head slowly. “Leave it alone, Gypsy. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.”

“How much do you know about it?” I prayed to God, for Rhonda's sake, that Rodney wasn't turning his head the other way.

“I know Burke McCallen may not want to know the truth. Sometimes things are better left unsaid.”

“Ryce wasn't on the up-and-up?”

He cut his eyes at me. “More like on the down-low.”

I wasn't expecting that one. “Ryce was gay?”

He pulled into the driveway and parked beside the cruiser. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to head inside. “From what I understand, he had a fondness for teenage boys. He supposedly got caught up in a sting over in Odessa and … I guess the shame of being arrested and exposed, drove him to do what he did. Everybody kind of kept it hush-hush out of respect for the family.”

It would be a believable story if not for the file I had in the spare bedroom.

“I ain't telling you what to do, Gypsy … but if I were you, I'd think twice about digging too deep. That poor kid's been through enough as it is.”

His concern was genuine. At least I knew now Rhonda's husband wasn't turning his head. He was just looking down the wrong road. “I've got something to show you when we get inside,” I said.

He sat there without saying anything, staring at me hard. After a moment of stern silence, we got out and I hobbled up the walkway.

Inside, Rhonda had the table set for dinner. The mystery meat was proudly displayed on a platter beside a bowl of shiny green peas. My ice pack, ready to eat.

“Good Lord,” Rhonda gasped. “What happened?” She flew over to inspect my busted lip.

Gram was at the table, staring at me through her thick glasses. I moved slowly to the table and eased into the chair.

“Rodney?” Rhonda spun around and glared at him. “What happened?”

He slowly shrugged. “Things got a little rough.”

“A little rough? He looks like he's been in a bar fight.” She grabbed a rag and wet it, then attempted to scrub the dried blood from around my mouth, doing more damage than good.

I squealed like a girl, pushing her hand away. It was a good thing she was a great teacher because she would have made a lousy nurse.

“Dinner ready? It sure smells good.” Rodney was either trying to change the subject or my injuries had taken a backseat to his hunger.

“It's ready,” Rhonda said. “Gypsy, take your shirt off and let me get that blood out before it stains.”

“I'm … fine,” I said, but she was already headed back to the spare bedroom to get me another shirt.

“Brad Whitlock used to beat the shit out of you everyday on your way home from school,” Gram said.

I stared at her, wondering why she wasn't in a nursing home.

When Rhonda came back, she helped me pull the T-shirt up over my head then let out another gasp. “Good God—Rodney! What did y'all do to him?”

“I didn't do anything! Holy shit—did he ever nail you.”

I glanced down and on the right side of my rib cage, spreading around to my back, was a dark purple bruise the size of a small island. And I thought having my nuts driven up into my lungs was the reason I couldn't breathe.

Gram poked two arthritic fingers at my ribs. “Hurt?”

“Hell yeah it hurts!”

Rhonda pushed Gram's hand away, then poked at the bruise herself. “You're going to need ice, or something on that. You might have broke ribs.”

“Can we eat now?” Rodney asked.

My ice pack was sitting in a bowl on the table with Rodney and Gram eyeing it. Damn, it hurt to laugh, but I couldn't help it. “Rhonda, I'm fine. Let's eat before Rodney has a stroke.”

Rodney took his cue that he had my blessing to eat and filled his plate. Rhonda frowned. “You sure you don't want me to make up an ice pack?”

“I'll be fine. Now sit. Eat.”

She frowned again then sat down beside Rodney. “Did you actually get in a fight, or did you trip, or what?” she asked as she sawed into the meat on her plate.

“Oh, that's not the worst of it,” Rodney said between mouthfuls. “But I don't think he wants to show you
that
bruise.”

Rhonda stared at me a moment then her eyes widened. “Oh.
There,
too?”

“That sucks,” Gram said.

“Let's just say I had to help him to the truck.” Rodney speared another chunk of meat and plopped it on this plate.

Rhonda grimaced. “So who were these guys? Are they the same guys you play with all the time?” She looked at Rodney.

He shrugged. “The normal guys. I don't know what it was, but something about Gypsy tripped Mark Peterson's trigger.”

Rhonda cut her eyes at me.

“Mark Peterson?” Gram asked. “Isn't he one of the—”

“Gram, could you pass the corn, please,” Rhonda snapped.

Gram looked around the table. “What corn?”

Rodney stared from one to the other like they had both lost their minds. He shrugged it off then went back to eating.

I took a small bite of the mystery meat and to my surprise, it wasn't that bad. Amazing what thirty-six hours in a Crock-Pot can do.

 

CHAPTER 12

After dinner, Gram retired to her room to watch television. I went to the bedroom and got Ryce's file, then carried it back to the kitchen. I set it on the table in front of Rodney. “Take a look at it and then tell me if you still think Ryce McCallen killed himself.”

Rhonda was at the sink rinsing the dishes and spun around, her face etched with fear.

“I told Rodney about Burke McCallen hiring me to look into Ryce's death,” I said. She swallowed hard, then hurriedly turned back to the dishes.