Wink of an Eye (8 page)

She looked away from me and stared at her trembling hands. She slowly nodded.

“Would she have gotten into a patrol car?”

She gnawed on her bottom lip as tears welled in her eyes. “She was scared of the police.”

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

She nodded. “She would have been scared
not
to.”

“When she didn't come home, did you go back to the police?”

She brushed away the tears with the backs of her hands. “Yes. They told us they would list her with that center for missing children. They told us to go home and wait.”

“Did you ever follow up with them?”

After a long moment, she shook her head. “My husband … he was scared.”

Tatum and Alvedia came back in. Tatum handed me the spiral notepad I kept stashed above the visor. I thanked him, then asked Malita what her husband's name was.

“Rogelio.”

“Does he work?”

She nodded proudly. “Yes. He's a wrangler at the K-Bar Ranch.”

I choked on the swallow of cola I had just taken. “He works for Carroll Kinley?”

She rolled her eyes again. “Used to. He works for the daughter now. Ai yai yai.”

So the K-Bar was in the practice of hiring undocumented workers. It wasn't like it was a foreign concept in the area. Still, it bothered me knowing Claire was involved. I pushed the thoughts to the far corners of my mind. My plate was full enough without the added concern of Claire's hiring practices.

I thanked Malita and Alvedia for their time.

“Can I show Alvedia your cameras before we go?” Tatum asked.

“You drop one and you're going to pay. And that's a lot of allowances for a kid your age.”

Tatum grinned, then grabbed Alvedia's hand and the two hurried out to the van. Malita stood up and walked me to the door.

“Thank you for taking an interest,” she said. “She wasn't a runaway. I know that in my heart.”

I smiled softly. I didn't want to tell her that the chances of finding her daughter were slim to nothing. And bringing the people responsible for her disappearance to justice probably wasn't as high on her priority list as having Alana back home where she belonged, safe and sound.

She gazed out the door at Tatum and Alvedia. “She's so scared now. I have to take her to work with me because she's scared to stay by herself.”

“Does she have any friends she can stay with?”

She smiled. “The days I can't take her with me, I take her over to Tatum's. Mr. McCallen doesn't seem to mind, and Tatum … I think he enjoys it.”

I'd say that was a safe bet.

*   *   *

I took little Romeo back home and followed him into the house. Burke was in the kitchen fixing a sandwich for lunch.

“You don't look as bad as I thought you would.” He glanced at me and grinned. “Care for a sandwich?”

“No thanks,” I said, my appetite not yet what it should be for this time of day. “I wanted to go over Ryce's files again. See how far he got so I'm not duplicating efforts.”

Burke nodded, then balanced a tray in his lap as he rolled over to the table. He seemed perfectly capable, so I didn't offer to help. Tatum bounded into the kitchen with the file folder in hand. The kid must sleep with it under his pillow. He handed it to me, then fixed himself a sandwich and joined us.

“When was the last disappearance?” I asked.

“We think about two months ago,” Burke answered. “But it's hard to pinpoint it. They're all listed as runaways, and they're all illegals, so there's no paper trail.”

“But even if they're listed as runaways, they should be documented as a missing person. Right?”

Burke guffawed. “In a perfect world. But this is Gaylord Denny's world.”

I looked through the file, staring at the different pictures, reading the notes Ryce had collected. He'd already interviewed parents, teachers, and friends. There was one girl who caught my attention. Victoria Martinez, kid sister of Hector Martinez—Burke's so-called shooter. She disappeared July 20, three years ago, three weeks before Burke was shot.

I turned the file around and slid it toward Burke. “Did Ryce interview Hector Martinez?”

Burke slowly shook his head. “He was planning to the week he was killed. Visitation at the prison is Thursdays and Sundays. Ryce had Thursday off.”

“And Denny would know that,” I said.

Burke stared at me hard.

“Who's Hector Martinez?” Tatum asked between a mouthful of bologna and bread.

“Someone you don't need to worry about,” Burke said sharply.

“But if he's in the file—”

“Did you feed Jasper this morning?”

Tatum and his grandfather stared at one another for a long moment, then Tatum quickly finished his sandwich, hopped up, and headed outside. Whether the kid had fed the dog didn't seem to be the point. Burke didn't want to talk about Hector Martinez in front of Tatum and the kid understood that.

When we were alone, Burke propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, and looked at me. “There are some things about the case I'd rather him not be involved in.” There was an apologetic tone to his voice.

“I understand. But it's all related, Burke. Ryce's death seems to be the culmination and Hector Martinez is a common thread.”

Burke slowly nodded. “And if I knew Ryce's death was the culmination, I'd say bust it wide open. But I've got a twelve-year-old boy out there to think of. I can't risk anything happening to him, or to me.”

I understood where he was coming from as far as Tatum's safety was concerned, but I didn't understand what he asking of me. “I can't prove Ryce was murdered without proving who did it. You of all people should understand that.”

“I don't want that kid to come home one day and find me hanging from a tree, too.”

I sighed and pushed my hands through my hair. “You're scared of Denny, I can understand that.”

He slammed his hand on the table. “I'm not scared of Denny. What else can he do to me? What I'm scared of is what would happen to Tatum if something
did
happen to me. I'm all that kid's got, Gypsy.”

I thought of Malita Esconderia and the sadness in her eyes when she spoke of her missing daughter; I thought of Alvedia and the fear she lived with every day. And I thought of Tatum and the childhood that was stolen from him, the fire raging in him to prove his father didn't take his own life.

“Tatum's not going to let it go, Burke. Even if I walk away from it, he's going to keep digging. Would you rather have him go at it alone or have a little help?”

Burke sighed heavily, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. After a long moment, he pointed a stern finger at me. “If anything happens to that boy, it's on your head. And if anything happens to me … you inherited yourself a kid.”

 

CHAPTER 8

Rhonda called my cell as I was climbing into the van, heading back to her house. “Yeah,” I said as I buckled up.

“Why is there a UPS truck in my driveway?”

“Oh! My clothes are finally here. Sign for it. I'll be there in a minute.” I ended the call and backed out of Tatum's driveway with Jasper furiously nipping at the wheels. Dumb dog. He finally gave up once I hit the pavement, standing at the edge of the yard, barking his fool head off.

A few minutes later, I pulled into Rhonda's driveway. The UPS truck was gone, leaving behind several large boxes and an irritated Rhonda.

I barely got out of the van before she started. “Gypsy—what is all this?”

“It's my shorts. I couldn't fit everything into the van.”

“How many pairs do you have?”

I rolled my eyes at her. “It's my shorts and other worldly possessions.”

She glared at the boxes. “I thought you were just here on vacation?”

“Really, Rhonda, who goes to west Texas in August for vacation? Can you give me a hand?”

I hoisted up a box and carried it inside, carrying it back to the guest bedroom, my room, so she couldn't blame me for cluttering the living room. She was standing in the same spot when I went back outside, still staring at the boxes. “Gypsy—why is everything you own packed in boxes? And why are those boxes in my front yard?”

“Are you just goin' to stand there or are you goin' to help?” I picked up another box and handed it to her. She struggled under the weight, so I took it from her and carried it inside myself.

Seven boxes total were scattered around the bedroom. Rhonda had moved inside and now stood in the doorway staring at the boxes. She peeled back the top of one and peered inside. Of course of all the boxes there for her to look through, she had to open the one with a framed picture of Claire lying on top. She took the picture out, stared at it a moment, then tossed it back inside the box. “Mind telling me what's going on?”

“Yes!” I found my shorts and other clothes tucked underneath a Navajo blanket.

“Gypsy?”

I spun around and looked at her. God love her. She did look confused. I sighed, then took a deep breath. “Look, Rhonda, it'll just be a little while. I promise. Maybe a few weeks.”

She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “Gypsy, it's not that I mind you being here, but why are you here? What is all this?” She swept her arm over the boxes. “This looks like you've left Vegas for good.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed wondering how I was going to explain this. The less she knew, the better. For her own sake. “I needed to get out of town for a little while.”

Her shoulders dropped and she blew a deep breath. “Oh God, Gypsy. What did you do?” She plopped down beside me on the bed.

“Nothing illegal. You're not harboring a fugitive or anything so you don't have to worry about that.”

“About
that
? What
do
I need to worry about?”

I looked at her for a moment, then stared at the boxes that held my life. “I'd never put you in the line of fire. You should know that. I'm the big brother, remember?”

“So, in other words, you can't tell me why you're here, who you're obviously running from, or why they won't track you down to my house. Great, just freaking great.” She leapt up and started out of the room.

“Rhonda—just trust me on this, okay? I'll tell you the whole sordid story when the time's right.”

She stood in the doorway with her back to me and slowly nodded. “You keep way too many secrets, Gypsy.”

She was probably right. But odd as it was, it was the secret I
didn't
keep that got me into this mess.

I traded my jeans for a pair of plaid shorts, then threw on a fresh T-shirt and my leather sandals. The new ensemble was so energizing, I felt like I'd just downed one of the high-energy drinks I lived on during a long surveillance. I bounded out to the van to retrieve Ryce's file, then set up the laptop at the kitchen table.

Gram shuffled into the kitchen, then carried the cookie jar from the counter over to the table. She offered me a cookie as she settled in to watch me work. Within a few minutes, I had access to everything a person would ever want to know about another person. I went for phone numbers and addresses first, did a reverse lookup on the phone number scribbled on the inside of the folder, then sat staring at the name. It didn't surprise me. Mark Peterson. One of the deputies on the scene when Ryce died. So Peterson had called Ryce about an hour before he died. To tell him what? Details about a case they were working? About a hot girl at the diner? Or to lure him home?

I went to a different program and did a quick background check on Mr. Peterson. He was born in El Paso, thirty-eight years old, married to Susan Peterson, no kids. He'd been with the Winkler County Sheriff's Department ten years. Prior to that, he spent five years with the Border Patrol. No demerits, not even a speeding ticket.

I switched programs and did a more advanced search, digging deep into his financials. His tax records indicated his net income was $42,000; Susan pulled in $27,000 as an administrative clerk at Kermit Regional Hospital. Not a bad joint income. Their credit history was clean, nothing out of the ordinary. They paid their few bills on time; their credit-to-debt ratio was minimal. There were no bank notes, no car payments, no mortgage payment. Utilities, insurance, home owners' association dues, and an American Express with a small balance appeared to be their only bills.

The Petersons' joint income was good, but not that good. Since when did cops live in a neighborhood with dues? The tax value on their home was $335,000. Impressive home on a cop and a secretary's salaries. Although they had no kids to support, it didn't explain their high standard of living.

I hooked up the portable printer and printed the Petersons' financial information, wondering if he could really be that stupid. Cops on the take get busted everyday for living above their taxable means.

Gram looked over the printout. “Isn't this illegal?”

“What?”

“What you're doing. That there's personal information.”

“That's what I get paid to do, Gram. Find out stuff like this.”

“But they ain't paying you for this job, are they?”

She had a point. I snatched the paper from her hand, then stuffed it in Ryce's file. I then did a search on Averitt McCoy, the second deputy on the scene. He was a fifteen-year veteran with Winkler County, and had spent ten years before that—also with the Border Patrol. I went back and compared McCoy's stint with the patrol to Peterson's. There was a one-year overlap, so Peterson and McCoy did work for the patrol at the same time. They had left the patrol at different times and migrated to Winkler County.

McCoy's finances had been pitiful. Poor guy had been in debt up to his eyeballs. An ex-wife collecting alimony and child support for three little McCoys, a mortgage for a house he no longer lived in, and a car payment for a car he no longer drove. Up until two years ago, he ran thirty to sixty days late on rent and credit cards and paid his utilities by cutoff notices. Over the last year, McCoy had cleaned up his act—or come into more money. I checked his tax returns for a noticeable increase, but there was none. Standard cost of living, maybe a merit increase, a little overtime could easily explain the difference. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.