Wink of an Eye (4 page)

She nodded. “They've moved over on Arlington Street, though.”

“Think they would have back issues of the
Winkler Weekly
microfiched or maybe even online?”

“You'd probably have better luck with the microfiche than online. What time are we supposed to be at the McCallens'?”

“Six. I'll see you back at the house.” I gave her a peck on the cheek. As I turned to leave, she grabbed my hand.

“Gypsy, I know you want to know what you're getting yourself into before you agree to anything. But if what you find out is going to hurt Tatum…”

I smiled warmly. “That's why we call it preliminary work.”

*   *   *

The Kermit public library was a two-story brick building with a neatly manicured front lawn. A canopy of ancient cottonwoods draped over a few scattered benches, providing ample shade for quiet reading. I'd seen much larger and more modern libraries, but Kermit's was nice. Whether it had the information I needed remained to be seen.

The information desk was located in the back on the ground level. The attendant was an older Hispanic woman who maybe stood five feet in heels. Her black hair was streaked gray and pulled back into a short ponytail. According to her nametag, her name was Rosa. She was busy matching call slips to various magazines.

“Hi,” I said, startling her from work. “I need some help with newspaper archives. I'm looking for back issues of the
Winkler Weekly.
”

She stared at me over the rims of her purple-framed glasses, then her mouth dropped open. “Gypsy Moran,” she squealed. She hurried out from behind the desk and scurried to me, grabbing me around the waist in a bear hug. Her head barely reached my chest. Then it dawned on me who she was. My junior high librarian.

“My, my … look how you've grown. Such a handsome man.” She pulled away and looked me up and down approvingly.

“It's good to see you again, too, Mrs. Garcia.”

“I saw your sister at a retirement party last year and she told me you were living in Las Vegas. She said you were a
private investigator.
” She whispered the last part, even looking around at who might hear. At least Rhonda had told her the truth and didn't make up some grandiose story that I was an astronaut or in some other heroic field. “I always knew you'd end up on one side of the law. I just wasn't sure which side.” She cackled and hugged me again then quickly jerked away and looked at me with a dead seriousness. “Is that why you need the newspapers? Are you looking into something that happened here in Kermit?”

“Oh, um … not really. I'm just curious about something.”

She removed her glasses, sticking the end of one of the purple arms between her lips. Her dark eyes narrowed into tiny slits as she wagged a finger at me. “You're up to something, Gypsy Moran. You could fool others, but you never could fool me.”

I couldn't help but grin. “I'm just gathering a little background information.”

She bobbed her head up and down, then slipped her glasses back on. “How far back you want to go?”

“Three years.”

“Those would be on microfiche. Do you know how to use the reader?”

“Oh, yeah. You taught me well.” I followed her to the resource room where large cabinets with pull-out drawers lined the walls. Four desks with microfiche readers were in the center of the room.

“The
Winkler Weekly
is in this cabinet. If it was a particularly big story, it may be in this special edition cabinet on a separate file.” She moved down to the next cabinet and removed one of the little boxes as an example. “Is it a big story you're looking for?” She looked at me with devious innocence.

I half shrugged and grinned. “That depends on what the
Winkler Weekly
considers a big story.”

Her lips twisted into a tight smirk. “You're a devil, Gypsy Moran. Call me if you need me.”

“Can I print from these machines?”

She turned her head and glanced out into the main room. “You're not supposed to but since it's you … you can print to the information desk printer. I'll grab them for you.”

She showed me which button to push on the reader to queue a print job. As soon as she disappeared, I went to the special edition cabinet and scanned through the titles handwritten on the boxes. At least Burke's injury was big enough to warrant a special edition. I took the box over to one of the desks, loaded the film, then found the article:
DEPUTY CRITICALLY WOUNDED IN LINE OF DUTY.
The dateline was August 10; Kermit, Texas. The byline: Sophia Ortez.

A deputy with the Winkler County Sheriff's Department was critically wounded Tuesday night. Sergeant Thomas Burke McCallen was answering a call of suspicious activity at the Kermit Recreation Center on Ardmore Drive when he was shot from behind. McCallen was listed in critical condition at Winkler Regional Hospital.

Investigators have not yet been able to question the wounded officer due to his grave condition but authorities believe McCallen may have interrupted a burglary in progress.

I went back to the cabinet and scanned the other titles. Apparently his recovery or the investigation wasn't worthy of a special edition, though. I opened the drawer for the regular editions and pulled out the rest of August and all of September and October.

There were lots of 4-H articles, articles about Back to School, Wildcats football scores, and Halloween safety tips but Sergeant Burke McCallen wasn't mentioned again. A letter to the editor in the October 30 election issue did catch my eye.

Dear Editor:

It's time for Sheriff Gaylord Denny to go. Winkler County deserves better. It's a shame Burke McCallen had to withdraw from the race.

Sincerely,

LeWellan Jacobs

Burke's injury just got a lot more interesting. I dug out the November issues and read through the postelection articles. The school board remained the same, the board of aldermen had two new members, and Gaylord Denny, who ran unopposed, won his fourth term in office. Politics in small towns were more vicious than anything on a national level but taking out your competition with a bullet? It would certainly explain Burke's resentment toward the acting sheriff, but could he honestly blame the entire department?

I printed the article and the Letter to the Editor, then put the films back in their proper place. Mrs. Garcia had the pages ready for me at the information desk.

“Not good, Gypsy Moran,” she said as she handed me the copies. “You need to pick something else to look into.” She made a
tsk-tsk
sound as she glared at me over the top of her glasses.

“This is between me and you, right?”

“Oh, I don't want to be involved with this and I don't think you want to, either. Bad stuff, Gypsy. Bad stuff.” There was honest fear in her expression. I believed her when she said she didn't want to be involved with this one.

I shared her sentiment. But not quite enough to walk away just yet.

 

CHAPTER 5

So Burke had considered a run for sheriff. That made things a little more interesting. Why'd he consider running? What was his political platform? Had Denny done something, or not done something, during his administration to make Burke think he could do a better job? Certainly Gaylord Denny wasn't stupid enough to think he could have his political opponent shot and no one would notice. Some things you could chalk up to coincidence; some things you couldn't.

I sat down on one of the benches outside the library and brought up the Internet on my phone, easily finding Sophia Ortez in the first search. The most recent article she had penned that made it to the Internet was from the
Odessa Record.
I found the phone number and called it.

A tired voice answered on the third ring. “
Odessa Record,
please hold.” After a moment of canned music, they came back on the line. “Thank you for calling the
Odessa Record.
How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, I'm trying to reach Sophia Ortez. Do you know if she's in the office today?”

“Hold one second and I'll find out for you. If she's not, would you like her voice mail?”

“Sure.” Although I had no intention of speaking to her over the phone.

More canned music, then Sophia Ortez answered. “This is Sophia.”

I hung up, climbed in the van, and headed for Odessa. I could make it in less than an hour, meet with Ms. Ortez, and be back in time for dinner at the McCallens.

I plugged the address in the GPS, then picked up Highway 302 and settled in for the ride. An oldies station filtered through the radio, bringing back way too many memories. “The Bluest Eyes in Texas” was playing. Yeah, those blue eyes had haunted me every night since the night I left. No amount of promises could budge her from that damn ranch. And no amount of promises on her end could make me stay. I glanced at the faded number written on my hand. It was almost unreadable now. I turned the radio off, deciding to take in the passing landscape rather than wonder about what could have been.

The good ol' van was up to eighty-five miles per hour and chugging along quite well, the nothingness of the road stretched out before me, whizzing by. Mile after mile of flat, sand-rock covered ground and asphalt met the horizon in a perfect line. Like an artist's canvas split in half, the green cacti and yucca plants ended where the cobalt-colored sky began. Claire had always tried to convince me to see the beauty in the loneliness of the land.
Beauty
and
loneliness
were two words I couldn't quite put together. I pressed the accelerator, watching the needle climb to ninety. The sooner I got off this highway, the better.

Odessa wasn't Vegas but it was a fair shade larger than Kermit. Although economic development had brought a variety of businesses and industry to the town, Odessa was still an oil town and always would be. I found the
Odessa Record
and parked in one of the visitors' spaces. The building was a sprawling, multilevel facility with a tempered-glass entrance. Inside, framed editions of the paper hung on the wall along with photos of Odessa's past and present and also several photos of former President George W. Bush. The receptionist desk was in the shape of a horseshoe. The receptionist looked like she'd rather be riding horses than taking another call.

“The classified forms are on that table over there, the obit forms are—”

“I'm here to see Sophia Ortez,” I said, stopping her before she wasted any more breath.

“Oh. Can I tell her your name?”

“I'm the private investigator involved in one of the stories she's working on.”

Her brows raised with a look of surprise. “Oh. Okay. Just a minute.” She punched a number into the elaborate system, then slightly turned away. She mumbled into her Bluetooth, then nodded and ended the call. “She'll be right with you.”

I had just sat down in one of the soft leather chairs when a sharp-looking lady came into the lobby from the work area. The receptionist nodded in my direction. Sophia Ortez gave me the once-over before approaching. Finally, she walked over and stuck out her hand. “I'm Sophia Ortez. And you are?”

I rose and shook her hand. “Michael Moran. And I am a private investigator.”

“So that part's true.”

I grinned sheepishly.

She was a damn fine looking woman. Early thirties, hair so black it shimmered blue, cut pixie style, and warm bronze colored skin framing strong cheekbones that highlighted her warm, brown eyes. A pair of khaki capris exposed just enough leg to make a man wonder if what wasn't exposed was just as fine.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Moran?” she asked, rudely interrupting my fantasy.

The nosy receptionist was all ears. I turned my back to her to make her work for whatever information she was going to gather. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately? I'd like to ask you a couple questions about an article you wrote for the
Winkler Weekly.
”

Sophia's expression went from sheer confidence to concern.

“No one knows I'm here. No one even knows I'm looking into this,” I said in a quiet voice.

She considered it for a long moment, then finally nodded. “Why don't we walk down to the park.”

I held the door for her, then followed her along the walkway. We had walked an entire block and were stopped at the crosswalk before either of us spoke. “There's only one story from Winkler County I wrote worthy of an investigation,” she said, looking ahead at the cross signal.

“There's only so much you can do with the 4-H,” I said.

She looked up at me, cupping her hand over her eyes against the glare of the sun, and grinned slightly. The light turned green and she hurried across, leaving me a step or two behind. She was just as fine from the back as she was from the front. I figured it would be rude, though, to purposely lag behind. I strode to catch up with her.

The heat in Odessa was almost as suffocating as it was in Wink. Sweat beaded at my hairline and tickled the small of my back. If we didn't get to the park soon, any hope of impressing this Mexican goddess with my boyish good looks were going to end up in a puddle of stinking sweat.

Another block down, she stopped for traffic, then cut across the road and, thank God, into the Odessa Municipal Park. Luckily enough, she stopped at the first picnic table tucked underneath a large cottonwood. The much welcomed shade dropped the temperature a full ten degrees.

Sophia sat down on the table and stared at me. “So, Mr. Moran … what 4-H story are you investigating?”

“You wrote an article about a Winkler County deputy who was shot in the line of duty.”

She grinned and nodded, then looked out into the park, watching a game of hoops on the basketball court. “Sergeant Burke McCallen. He was shot in the back.”