Wink of an Eye (5 page)

“What do you remember about it?”

She glanced at me, then returned her gaze back to the ballgame.

“I've been asked by the McCallen family to take a look at some different things and I want to know what I'm getting into before I agree to anything.”

“What has Burke told you about it?”

“He doesn't know I'm here. We haven't really discussed it yet. I'm just doing a little background work.”

She nodded, then finally turned her gaze back to me. “How is he?”

“Paralyzed.”

She snapped a twig from a low-hanging branch and slowly picked at the leaves. “They were hoping the paralysis would be temporary.”

“Did you ever do a follow-up story?”

She shook her head. “I tried to. Was told to leave it alone.”

I sat down beside her on the table. “By whom?”

“The managing editor. Said we didn't want to embarrass the family.”

I didn't understand. “Embarrass them how?”

She shrugged. “The editor hinted around that maybe McCallen was up to something he shouldn't have been up to, and there wasn't any need to embarrass the family anymore.”

“They thought McCallen was a dirty cop?”

She looked at me and nodded. “Apparently.”

“But you didn't believe them?”

She took a deep breath, then went back to picking at the leaves. “No. I believe there was a dirty cop involved but I don't think it was McCallen.”

“Is that why there was very limited information in the article you wrote?”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, it was what—two paragraphs? I couldn't get information from the sheriff's department, I couldn't get information from the hospital. No one would talk.”

“What about the family?”

She shrugged again. “I think the son wanted to talk, but, like everyone else, he was pretty tight-lipped. By the time McCallen was well enough to talk himself, the editor had told me to let it go.”

“What about local television? Did any of the local news stations cover it?”

She shook her head. “No more than the paper. When it happened, it was a huge story, but within hours the information pipeline didn't just shut down, it was completely sealed off. In this business, when you can't get the information you need, you move on.”

“But was there never any industry talk about the lack of information? The media usually thrives on conspiracy theories. Why didn't they run with this one?”

She sighed heavily. “I've often thought about that. Why didn't one of the more experienced reporters keep digging and digging? Why didn't they pull a Woodward and Bernstein and expose the corruption for what it was?”

“Why didn't you?”

She chuckled. “Sure, I had my eyes set on a Pulitzer, but I had rent to pay, too. I needed the job.”

We sat there for a moment, neither of us saying anything. Finally, I asked, “Did they ever make an arrest?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I moved on and never heard anything else about it. But I'd be interested to know if they did.”

“What do you know about McCallen running for sheriff?” I asked.

Again, she shrugged. “I do know there was some talk before he filed, but it was mostly campaign talk. He couldn't really say too much bad about Gaylord Denny, considering he still worked for the man.”

*   *   *

I made it back to Wink in time to grab a shower before heading over to the McCallens. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans and fresh T-shirt and was stepping into my sandals when Rhonda knocked on the open bedroom door. “You decent?”

“I've never been decent. But I am dressed.”

She laughed, then stepped in and leaned against the door. She had the phone in her hand but it wasn't on. “There was a number on the caller ID. I think they might have been calling for you.” Her jaw set as anger flared in her eyes. “Claire Kinley. Really, Gypsy?”

“I ran into her at Dunbar's,” I explained. “She said something about maybe meeting for lunch one day. No big deal.” I was seventeen all over again, lying to my mother about where I'd been, who I'd been with, reeking of sex and heartache. My heart was racing as fast as the van had been moving along Highway 302.

In my family's eyes, the Kinleys and Morans might as well have been called the Hatfields and McCoys. I never understood my mother's dislike for the Kinleys or anything to do with the K-Bar Ranch. And I sure didn't understand why the disdain carried over to Rhonda.

Rhonda looked at the phone, then pressed a button. “Oh, oops. I'm sorry. I erased the number.”

I didn't tell her I had it stored in my cell. I'd let her go on believing she was doing her part in keeping me and Claire Kinley apart. Again.

Outside, I helped Gram into the backseat of Rhonda's SUV. Rhonda was forcing her to go; she didn't trust her at home by herself. Something about the cable company's movies on demand and racking up an enormous cable bill.

Gram grumbled about the unfairness of getting old the entire ten minutes it took us to get to the McCallens'.

As Rhonda pulled into the driveway, she asked, “So what did you find out about Burke's accident?” Apparently she was over her little tiff about Claire.

“Not much more than we talked about. There was very little news on the subject.”

“You know, I never really thought about it until you mentioned it. And you were right. For a story that big, it sure didn't get the news coverage you would have expected.”

The McCallens' house was small, vinyl-sided, and set off the road, partially hidden behind overgrown mesquite trees. A wooden handicap ramp led to the front stoop. Rhonda parked behind the pickup truck Tatum had driven earlier. A black-and-white border collie bounded around from the back of the house, barking and snapping at the stationary wheels of Rhonda's SUV. She climbed out then tried to stroke the dog's head. “Jasper, calm down, boy.”

The dog turned circles around her, lapping up the attention.

Tatum came to the front door and called the dog off. “I'm glad y'all came. Supper's almost ready.” He offered me his hand. I'd never known a twelve-year-old to offer such a greeting without being prompted by a stern-faced adult.

I shook his hand, then Rhonda, Gram, and I followed him into the house. It was an older house with faded hardwood floors and years-old furniture strategically placed for wheelchair access. Burke wheeled himself from the kitchen to the living room, stopping at the doorway. Rhonda went to him and wrapped him in a tight hug, then playfully picked at his long hair. “Time for another haircut, old man.”

“I think I'm going to let it grow. Pull it back in one of those ponytails.”

They laughed together easily, then Burke turned to me. “It's good to see you again, Mr. Moran.”

“Please, call me Gypsy.”

“Well, Gypsy … I'm glad you decided to come.”

Tatum excused himself, then scooted around the wheelchair and disappeared into the kitchen. The smell of ribs and roasted corn wafted through the house and I remembered I hadn't eaten all day. My bagged lunch had ended up splattered in the parking lot of Dunbar's. My ten-minute encounter with Claire had already caused problems, extreme hunger being only one of them.

“Would you like a beer?” Burke asked.

“Sure.”

“I'll get it,” Rhonda said. “I'll see if Tatum needs any help. Gram, why don't you come help us in the kitchen?”

Rhonda and Gram in the kitchen “helping.” I wondered if I should warn Tatum neither could boil water.

Burke rolled himself into the living room and motioned me to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

Rhonda came back in and handed both of us a beer. The bottle was cold, almost frosty, and I relished that first sip. As Rhonda disappeared back into the kitchen, I made myself comfortable on the sofa.

“Did you think anymore about my offer?” Burke asked.

So much for comfort and small talk. I leaned forward and spoke quietly, not sure how much Burke wanted Tatum to know. “Well, I do have a couple questions about your injury. You didn't seem real anxious to talk about it at the diner, and I do understand why. Tell me about Gaylord Denny and why you were going to run against him in the election.”

He had started to take a sip of the beer but held the bottle at his mouth, surprise evident in his eyes. After a moment, he took a sip, swallowed hard, then nodded. “You've been doing a little homework, haven't you?”

“Did you think I wouldn't?”

“Not if you're worth your fee.” He winked, then settled his weight in the chair. I grinned and offered the bottle in a mock toast.

“So why were you running against him?”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Why does any candidate decide to run? I thought I could do a better job.”

I wasn't buying it. I glanced toward the kitchen, then leaned closer to Burke. “Cut the bullshit, Burke. If you want me to help you, you've got to help me. How could you have done a better job? What was it with Denny's administration you didn't like? Corruption? Favoritism? Were you overlooked for a promotion? Candidates run for office because they want something changed. What was it you wanted changed?”

He shifted his weight, then glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Look, whatever happened to me, let it go. We're hiring you to look into Ryce's death, not
my
injury.”

I shook my head. “I don't work that way. I want to know what I'm dealing with up front. If Denny's a dirty cop, I want to know it. If
you
were a dirty cop, I want to know it. Your grandson doesn't have to know it, but I do.”

His eyes narrowed with disgust. “You're calling
me
a dirty cop? You're barking up the wrong tree, boy.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

He rubbed his chin hard, then chugged half his beer in one shot. After a long moment, he finally spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. “I served under Gaylord Denny for twelve years. In the beginning he was a good sheriff. But something happened in his last term … I don't know what … but there was a gradual change. People in the county started fearing deputies rather than looking at them as someone who could help them.

“Some of us questioned him on a couple of his decisions, some questionable calls. The ones that questioned him left for one reason or another, some of them quit, some were fired. I had too many years in to just walk away. Got bucked back down to patrol. Everywhere I went in the county, people were talking. They'd heard Denny was doing this or that and they wanted him out.”

“Did anyone have any proof of wrongdoing?”

Burke smiled. It was a sad smile. “Proof? Nothing that would hold up in court. Nothing that could even bring an indictment. I mean, really, how are you going to indict the sheriff?”

“There's ways. It's been done before. It can be done again.”

“Not without proof. And anyone who had proof either disappeared or they were too scared to talk.”

“And you took one in the back.”

He sighed heavily. “Yeah. I took one in the back.”

“Did they ever make an arrest?”

He finished off his beer. “If you want to call it that. They told me a Hispanic kid, Hector Martinez, confessed. Said I walked in on him while he was cleaning out the concession stand at the recreation center and he popped me.”

“In the back…”

Burke smiled. “I spent twelve years in the criminal investigations department. I found the
confession
a little insulting.”

“What happened to the kid?”

He shrugged. “Last I heard, he got shipped off down to Pecos.”

“They sent a kid to Reeves?” I heard the surprise in my own voice. Reeves County Detention Center wasn't for the faint of heart. It wasn't a nice place to raise a kid.

He tilted his head, then shook it back and forth. “If I thought for a minute that kid was the one that put me in this chair, I'd say good riddance. But things being what they are, I almost feel sorry for him.”

“Have you ever talked to him?”

He shook his head. “I spent four weeks in intensive care, then three months in rehab. By the time I came home, Hector Martinez had already confessed, been sentenced, and shipped off. I never really felt the need. What was done was done. Wasn't much I could do about it.”

“But you don't believe—”

“Of course I don't believe it. Whether it was some thug Denny hired or one of his own, I don't know. But I'd bet my last breath Hector Martinez didn't have anything to do with it.”

“And what about your son? Was he with the department back then?”

He nodded. “He took a family leave of absence when it happened, so he was out of the loop for a while.”

“So he wasn't involved in the investigation at all? Not even after hours?”

“You have to understand, Gypsy. Hector Martinez confessed the day after I was shot. Within a matter of days, he was on his way to Reeves.”

“Did you ever discuss it with Ryce?”

He grinned. “Why do you think he transferred to the investigations department?”

I sat back on the sofa and finished off my beer. “Is it your case file he had a copy of?”

He stared at me long and hard, then slowly shook his head. “I was the tip of the iceberg.”

 

CHAPTER 6

Thankfully, Rhonda and Gram had helped only to set the table and hadn't actually helped with the cooking. When it was ready, we sat crowded around a small table in the center of their kitchen. It was obvious they seldom had company. They existed to take care of one another and had little time for anything else. I imagined Ryce had been about my age. I wondered if he ever dated? If he ever went with the guys to a bar to catch a ballgame and drink a few beers? Or if his entire life revolved around work, then caring for his kid and disabled father?