Wink of an Eye (7 page)

“Because she made you cry,” she said softly.

“What?” I pulled her around, forcing her to look at me.

“She made you cry. More than once. You're my big brother. You aren't supposed to cry.”

I tried but couldn't help the giggle that escaped. “That's why you've hated her all these years? Because she made a lovesick teenage boy cry?”

“Not just any teenage boy—my big brother. Nobody ever made you cry. You didn't even cry when Daddy left.”

“You were ten years old. What do you remember about it?”

“I remember you didn't cry. You said the hell with him. We'd be just fine.”

Guess she didn't hear me cry myself to sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that. Finally, I forced my thoughts back to Claire. “Do me a favor and get over it already. I mean, she's not going to make me cry again, okay? I promise. I won't let her.” All these years I thought Rhonda had just been jealous of the pampered princess.

“Good. Because I'd hate to have to kill her.” She punched me on the arm. She then smiled and stood up. “You need to get up and get going.”

“Going where?”

She jammed her hands on her hips. “Doing whatever private investigators do. You told Tatum you'd start today.”

 

CHAPTER 7

Well, that would certainly teach me to never down another bottle of Jim Beam. I showered, then stumbled into the kitchen, where Rhonda had a fresh pot of coffee waiting. “So, when did I agree to this?” I fixed myself a cup of coffee, straight black, and carried it over to the table.

Rhonda was prepping mystery meat for the Crock-Pot. Bless her heart. “Somewhere near the end of the bottle.”

“What exactly did I agree to? Did we talk fees or anything?” I did, after all, have to make a living.

Rhonda turned around and stared at me. Her hands were covered with a variety of spices. “You really don't remember, do you?”

I remembered mouthwatering ribs and said a quick prayer I hadn't agreed to take this case for food.

“You told them you'd do it pro bono; I mean, considering the insurance angle and all.”

I stared at her. “What insurance angle?”

She sighed, turned back to the sink, and washed her hands, then sat down at the table with me. “As long as Ryce's death is declared a suicide, his life insurance won't pay a dime. Tatum will be able to collect survivors benefits, but … the house, Tatum's medical insurance, all of that still has to be paid.”

“Ryce didn't have mortgage disability insurance?”

She shook her head. “Everything was tied into his life insurance. Tatum's his beneficiary, but it doesn't pay in the event of suicide. The mortgage was in Ryce's name and Burke, in his condition, can't qualify for a loan to assume it.”

I took a long drink of coffee. “His condition shouldn't have anything to do with qualifying for a loan. That would be discriminatory.”

“Not his physical condition … he can't afford it. For what the house and the land would appraise for now, he'd have to put nearly half down to get the payments low enough so they wouldn't have to struggle.”

I scratched at my head, remembering the conversation Burke and I had at the diner. “Burke told me at Dunbar's whatever my fee was, he'd pay it. He said they weren't oil barons, but they weren't hurting, either.”

“He's a proud man, Gypsy. He only told me because he asked me to help him find an affordable medical plan for Tatum.”

“Does Tatum know all this?”

She shook her head. “To Tatum, it's all about restoring his dad's honor. Burke hasn't told him they may have to move. It's the only home Tatum's ever known. He was born there.”

I finished my coffee, got up and poured another cup, then returned to the table. “Maybe moving wouldn't be such a bad idea. Every time he looks out that kitchen window, I can only imagine what he sees.”

She stared at me a moment then sighed heavily. “Gypsy—I'm not telling you how to run your business, but can't you do it for me as a favor?”

I shook my head. Apparently she didn't understand my point. “If I said I'd do it pro bono, even if it was in a drunken stupor, I'll do it pro bono. What I meant was, maybe Burke should ask Tatum what he wants to do. He's a sharp kid. Burke, if anyone, should know that.”

She didn't say anything. Which is what she does when she knows someone is right.

“Tell me about Alvedia Esconderia, and how you got involved in all this.”

“She and Tatum are really good friends. She knew Tatum's dad was a cop so she confided in him and asked for help. Then, after Ryce died, Tatum came to me asking about you.”

Something about the whole thing still didn't make sense. I took another long drink of coffee before I put my finger on it. “Does Rodney know about any of this?” Why did Tatum ask Rhonda about me when Rhonda was married to a cop?

She slowly pushed her hair away from her face and frowned. “He said to leave it alone,” she finally said in a quiet voice.

“He told who to leave it alone? You or Tatum?”

She got up and walked over to the sink, pretending to busy herself with the few dirty dishes.

“He told
you
to leave it alone, didn't he?”

She slammed a dish towel on the counter, then spun around and glared at me. “Teenage girls are being stolen from their families and forced into God knows what. I can't leave that alone, Gypsy.”

“Hey—I'm not the one who told you to leave it alone. Don't take your disappointment with your husband out on me.”

“You sonofabitch.” She hurled a dish towel in my direction, then let loose with a string of profanities. “You have no right to judge Rodney,” she snarled.

“I'm not judging him. I'm just pointing out the obvious.” If I had been within striking distance, she would have gone upside my head. I let it settle a moment, then said, “Either Rodney's scared of Gaylord Denny or he knows more than he's telling.”

She conceded and sat back down at the table, defeated, burying her face in her hands. After a long moment, she straightened up and looked at me. “I don't think he knows what's going on. He's scared of Denny. Everyone's scared of Denny. I mean … look what happened to Ryce.”

“But Rodney doesn't work for Denny. He works for an entirely different department.”

“Don't you understand, Gypsy? Denny's influence stretches way beyond his own department.”

I thought of Sophia Ortez and what she said about the managing editor telling her to drop the story of Burke's injury. I couldn't really fault Rodney. Only a fool would get involved with something that appeared to have this many poisonous tentacles. A bigger fool would do it for free.

“Where does Alvedia live?” I asked, figuring that was as good a place to start as any.

“I'm not sure of the house number. Tatum would know.”

Tatum. My pubescent sidekick.

“Call him and tell him I'll pick him up in twenty minutes. And tell him to let Alvedia know we're coming over.”

*   *   *

“Seriously, shouldn't you be riding junior rodeo or something?” I asked. Tatum was in the passenger seat of the van ogling one of my pricey cameras.

“I don't like horses.”

I cut a glance at him, then smiled. “Isn't that against some ancient law in Texas?”

He laughed. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh. “Probably.”

“I never cared for them, either. I don't care too much for animals that can kill me.”

“Me either. Turn left at the next light.”

“So, tell me about Alvedia. She your girlfriend?”

He snickered as his cheeks flushed. “Noooo. We're just friends.”

I nodded, grinning. Friends, my ass.

I pulled up to one of the three stoplights in Wink, waited for a truck to pass, then turned left as my sidekick had instructed.

“It's the fourth house on the right. It's a trailer with a dirt driveway.”

I counted off the houses, then pulled into the fourth driveway. Dust rose around the van like thick plumes of smoke. The trailer was a single wide with aluminum underpinning. An overworked air conditioner poked through a front window, balanced precariously on twin two-by-fours. The dirt underneath was wet with moisture from a constant drip. A dark-haired young girl peeked around the drapes, then opened the front door. She stepped out onto the small wooden stoop, smiling a toothy smile. “Hey, Tatum.”

“Hey, Alvedia.” He was blushing again. My sidekick had turned shy. “This is Gypsy. The guy I was telling you about.”

“Come on in. My mother's here. I thought you might want to talk to her, too.”

We followed Alvedia into the house and I thought I was going to die. The stifling heat wrapped itself around me like an unwelcome blanket. The poor air conditioner was doing all it could but it wouldn't put a dent in this inferno.

Alvedia's mother was sitting on a yard-sale sofa, the tiredness seeping from her pores like the sweat poring from mine. She gazed at me with empty eyes.

Alvedia sat down beside her.
“Mamá, éste es el investigador privado que Tatum nos habló. El está aquí hacernos algunas preguntas sobre Alana.”

“She told her you were here to ask some questions about Alana,” Tatum whispered.

I nodded, fully understanding what had been said. I did hope, however, we could do this in English. My Spanish wasn't 100 percent and I always worried I was losing something in translation.

“Usted habla inglés?”
I asked.

She nodded, then turned to Alvedia. “Get them a cola, something cold to drink. Please, have a seat.” Her accent was heavy and thick, but understandable.

I sat on the other end of the sofa, leaving a rough-looking recliner for Tatum. “My name is Gypsy. It's a pleasure to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.

She accepted the offer. “I'm Malita Esconderia. Tatum has told you about Alana?”

I nodded. “He's told me what he knows. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

Alvedia returned to the cramped living room and handed me a canned soft drink, then one to Tatum. She then sat on the worn carpet at her mother's feet.

“She disappeared two years ago. She had just turned fourteen,” Malita said.

“How did she disappear?”

“She had stayed late at school and was walking home by herself. The last time anyone saw her was at school.”

“Why'd she stay late?”

“She was helping one of her teachers grade some papers. I believe it was Mrs. Carter, her science teacher. Alana loved science. She wanted to be a veterinarian.”

“Did anyone talk to the teacher?”

Malita slightly shrugged. “I assumed they did. But now, I don't know.”

“When did you report her disappearance to the authorities?”

She glanced at Alvedia. “Alvedia called me when Alana didn't come home. I said maybe she's just running late and told Alvedia not to worry. I told her to keep the doors locked until one of us got home.”

“Alvedia was here by herself?”

She nodded. “The elementary school lets out about forty minutes before the junior high. She was usually here by herself only about an hour.”

“And you were at work?”

“Yes. I'm a housekeeper at the hotel in Kermit. I get off at four so the girls weren't ever here by themselves very long.” Her voice took an apologetic tone. I wondered how many times she had blamed herself for Alana's disappearance.

“And when you got home and Alana still wasn't home, what did you do?”

“I wasn't too worried right then. I thought it was probably taking longer than expected but Alvedia had a soccer game at six o'clock and when she wasn't home by then, I called the police. Alana wouldn't have missed her sister's game. I knew something was wrong.”

“Did you call the Wink police or the sheriff's department?”

She shrugged. “I just called 911—a sheriff's deputy came to the house.”

“And what did they say?”

She rolled her eyes. “They said she had probably run away and not to worry. Said she'd probably be back in a day or two.”

Whether a crime had been committed or not, it was sloppy police work. Sloppy as hell. “And you don't think, even for the slightest minute, that could have been possible?”

She set her jaw firm. “No. Alana was a good girl. She was happy. She made good grades, she had friends.”

I looked to Alvedia for a more honest answer. Sisters know everything. “Was there anything going on she might have been troubled about?”

Wide-eyed, Alvedia shook her head. “No. She never got into trouble.”

“What about a boyfriend? Or maybe a girlfriend she had an argument with?”

Again, Alvedia shook her head. “She didn't have a boyfriend. And all of her friends were really upset when she disappeared.”

“Are her friends mostly Hispanic or white?”

“Both,” Alvedia and Malita answered at the same time.

“Did any of them drive? Would she have gotten in a car with one of them?”

Malita shook her head. “No. Her friends were all in junior high. None of them had their license yet.”

“Would she have gotten into a car with a stranger?”

Wink wasn't the kind of town where a kid was snatched off the main road in broad daylight, or even in the cloak of darkness for that matter.

Again, Malita shook her head. “The school's only four blocks away. She wouldn't have needed a ride.”

I asked Tatum if he would get my notepad from the van, suggesting Alvedia help him. As soon as they were outside, I turned to Malita. “Is your family here legally?”

Her eyes blazed with fear as she seemed to literally sink into herself.

I moved a little closer and spoke in a quiet voice in case curious preteen ears were within range. “Malita, I'm not with INS or any other agency. No one's going to report you. Did Alana know y'all were here illegally?”