Stranger At My Door (A Murder In Texas) (13 page)

“Damn straight I’d never see you again. The coyotes would find you before you got a mile away.” He hadn’t bothered to disguise his voice this time.

He came closer. “We found the letter. You want to tell me what your daddy meant about the money being under your nose?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I swear.”

“Don’t mess with me, girl.”

He cuffed her ear again. His hand glanced off the side of her face he’d punched earlier. The skin around her eye socket began to throb.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“How do I know you don’t already have the money?”

“That’s stupid. If I had the money, would I still be hanging around El Royo?”

“Maybe. Heard you were sweet on that cop from around here. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” He snickered.

“I am not—” She stopped. What was the point? If he didn’t believe her about the money, why would he believe her about Rafe? And what difference did it make anyway?

She felt his eyes on her. He was thinking, hopefully making up his mind that she was telling the truth.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth, and maybe you’re just being stubborn.”

“I’m telling the truth. I swear on my daddy’s grave.”

“What about all that stuff about moonlight and history. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your daddy said it because he knew you’d figure it out. It’s a code.”

“I haven’t talked to my daddy since he went away to prison. I don’t know what he was trying to say.”

Mr. Gerry sighed. “Well, only one way to be sure. I’m going to have to give you some incentive to think hard on that letter.”

“What are you talking about?” Under the hood, her eyes widened.

The footsteps receded. “Some blood-letting, girl.” The door opened.

“No! Where are you going?”

“I’m going out back to sharpen my knife. You best spend your time thinking on what your daddy meant.”

Every nerve ending in her body began to vibrate. “What about the truth serum? Give me more truth serum. I’m telling the truth! You’ll see.”

“It’s gone.” He almost sounded sad.

Chapter Eighteen

Where the hell is she?

Dinah’s old clunker had disappeared, leaving a sticky circle of grease on the driveway. Where had she gone off to? A better question, where did she get gas money?

He pulled his cell out and pressed her number. After five rings, it went to voicemail.

“It’s Rafe. Call me when you get this.” The words had come out like an order. That would only get her hackles up. “
Por favor
.”

It was a quiet night, not much coming in on the scanner, and Rafe cruised by Dinah’s place every hour as he made his rounds. But the house remained dark, and her car was still missing. On his fourth pass—about nine o’clock—he checked the backyard again, but nothing had changed. The clothes were still hanging, a lawn chair with magazine and tea waited in the semi-darkness for Dinah’s return.

He let the dog out to relieve herself and filled her food and water bowls before taking off. Back in the cruiser, he called Dinah’s cell phone again and got voicemail. “Where are you? Call me.” Then he called dispatch. “Morales requesting assistance.”

“What’s your location?”

“This is a possible missing person. I need to track a cell phone. Is there someone there who can run the GPS on it ASAP?”

“I think there’s an officer in the duty room.”

“I’ll be off in a few hours. Ask him to run it before then.”

By the time Rafe’s shift ended at eleven, all the desks in the duty room were empty except one. At the last, Swope’s big, mud-flapper-sized feet were propped up, arms crossed behind his head, chair tilted back on two legs.

Damn. Why him?

“Hey, Morales. I got the info you wanted.”

“Where is it?”

Swope keyed in a pass code, and a map materialized. A red triangle throbbed over it. “Hard to say exactly. It looks like it’s maybe five miles from Osito. You and the Pittman gal got a love sha— Uh, sorry, I mean, a place out there?”

“No.” Rafe bent closer to the screen. He was familiar with the area. As a kid, he’d ridden horses and ATVs through the unpopulated backcountry. It was rough going, just a few dirt roads crisscrossed the land.

Swope’s pale blue eyes glittered shrewdly. “What’s Miss Dinah doing out there? A band of coyotes come on her, they’d likely eat her as say hello.”

Good point. “Don’t know.”

“You need backup? I can follow you out.”

Right. Just what he needed. Swope egging him on, digging into him about the gun while he tried to find Dinah. No thanks. “I know the area. I’ll be fine.”

Swope’s gaze swept down Rafe’s body and settled on the revolver at his waist. “Don’t forget your piece. If another officer happens on the scene…” Swope shrugged. “Regulations are black and white on this, you know.”

“Like those regulations on sexual misconduct. Sure hope Miss Dinah doesn’t file a complaint.”

In the locker room, he changed into jeans, a T-shirt, heavy work boots, and his “Police” windbreaker. His service revolver and holster dangled on a hook in front of him like a dead animal. Would Swope actually follow him? Hell, yes.

He felt around the top shelf until his fingers closed around his Beretta nine millimeter. A small cloud of dust kicked up as he pulled it out. Not surprising. He’d put the Beretta in his locker on his first day and hadn’t touched it since. Hadn’t wanted to. It was the gun he’d used to shoot Sam’s killer. He’d never cleaned it. Wasn’t even loaded, was it? Dallas Internal Affairs probably removed the clip during the investigation.

He strapped it across his chest with a small holster and pulled his jacket over it. If Swope came onto the scene, he’d see Rafe was carrying. Black and white.

Rafe drove by Dinah’s bungalow one last time. The windows were dark, and when he went around the back, the clothes, the chair, the tea, the magazine remained as before.

Woof, woof, woof.
Daisy was barking up a storm inside the house.

He opened the back door, and she bounded out, ran past him and leapt at the side fence.

“What is it, girl?” Rafe followed her, pulling aside the Indian Hawthorn under the living room window, but nothing lurked there. She’d probably gotten a sniff of a foraging raccoon.

He patted the dog’s shoulder. “Come on, girl. Let’s go find Miss Dinah.”

The night was dark and overcast, and the only visible light was the Jeep’s headlights. Going on memory, Rafe found the dirt road that ran into the triangulated area where the cell phone signals had come from. More path than road, it was a shadowy imprint against the dusty plain. On a crest overlooking the highway and the road, a white farmhouse—abandoned since he was a kid—undulated in the dark. He slowed.

From the back, Daisy barked, then leapt from the Jeep and disappeared into the night.

“Come back here.”

Daisy barked again. Her sharp yips were coming from the house.

Puta madre.
He put the Jeep in park, grabbed his flashlight, and scrambled out. His beam picked up a set of recent tire prints. He bent down for a closer look. Dinah’s? Maybe, but a car had certainly come this way recently. A small car.

To his right, Daisy’s claws scraped against wood.

“Daisy? Daisy Mae. Come, girl.”

The scratching slowed for a second, then quickened again.

Just great. He glanced down the highway, which disappeared into an aura of lights cast by El Royo. No sign of Swope.

“Where are you, dog?” He felt his way over the uneven ground, training his flashlight on the ground so he wouldn’t trip. A dirt path leading up to the house appeared under his beam. He kept his head down and his eyes on the ground, searching for ruts and loose stones.

The beam had picked up a footprint in the powdery dirt. He hunkered down and studied it. It was from a woman’s sandal. The puckered pattern of Dinah’s rubber flip-flops led up to the house.

“Dinah?”

Only Daisy answered, barking furiously, her paws rubbing away at whatever had attracted her attention.

He kept to the edge of the path to preserve the prints. At a thick stand of bushes, the shoe prints stopped. The woman had stood here. He raised his flashlight and shot the beam into the darkness ahead. The footprints stopped, but another pair continued. A set of man-sized athletic shoes had walked to the half-decayed porch. The prints were deep as if he’d carried something—or someone—heavy.

On the top step, Daisy was waiting for him.

He jogged up to the house. “What do you have, Daisy?”

She stopped barking and sniffed at the floorboard. A glass object fired in the flashlight beam. He bent closer. A syringe.

His breath swooshed out of him, and he struggled to fill up his lungs, coughing and heaving, pushing back from the dog and the needle. Not again. The first woman he’d wanted since Sam. The first woman he’d touched or kissed.

“Dinah? Dinah?” He called out her name until his throat hurt. But there was no answer
. Ayudame Dios mio.
God help me.

He gazed out at the vast darkness, stretching from the edge of Osito west for hundreds of miles. She was out there somewhere. He should call it in, but he didn’t want Swope here.

“Come on,” he said to the dog. “Let’s go get Dinah.”

He drove as quickly as he dared over the unkempt track, swinging the flashlight beam wide, searching for Dinah’s car or any other signs she’d come this way. According to the map Swope had shown him, the signals from Dinah’s cell phone came from the area just ahead.

A metal object caught his beam.

Puta madre.
His boot punched the brake. Daisy slid off the back seat and yipped at him.

“Sorry, girl.”

He twisted the wheel, jerking the Jeep off the road and into the rutted plain. His high beam picked up the object, and he headed north, swerving to avoid the dry brush and occasional boulder. He stopped at the wide gulch running west from Osito to Buchanan Lake about a hundred miles west. The flashlight captured the rusted hubcap and worn tire rising from the ditch. Dinah’s car lay on its side, windows cracked, the back axle bent like a broken leg.

“Dinah?”

He scrambled down the slope, Daisy panting at his heels. The driver’s door wouldn’t budge even though he pulled until his palms bruised.

“Dinah, if you’re in there, and you can hear me, close your eyes and cover your head.”

Raising the flashlight, he pounded out the shattered glass and peered inside. Dinah was not in the car, but tumbled against the back window was her backpack. No doubt the source of the pings.

An unreasonable anger tightened inside him. She was supposed to keep her cell
with
her. Then as quickly as his anger arose, it ebbed. Somewhere out there, Dinah was in trouble. He scanned the horizon, but it offered up no clues. The kidnappers came this way with Dinah’s car, and then? They could be a hundred miles from here by now. But he didn’t think so. He’d bet they wouldn’t put much distance between themselves and the money.

He drove for nearly an hour, zig-zagging across the plain, his eyes straining against the dark, praying for a glimpse of light or a shadowy movement against the landscape. When he finally spotted a thread of illumination in the distance, he knew.

“Get your ready on, Daisy. We’re going in.”

He killed the headlights and pressed his foot gently on the gas.

…

Esme’s pickup roared into El Royo, exceeding the speed limit by at least fifteen miles per hour. Jamey fought the urge to crane his neck in the direction of the speedometer.

“Why do you look so grim?” Esme asked.

“No reason.”

She grinned. “You don’t like my driving.”

He wasn’t falling into that trap. “Flirty’s is still open. Let’s stop.” He pointed at the giant ice cream cone just ahead.

The truck seemed to accelerate. “You just had the best burrito in the county. Isn’t that enough?”

“Burritos and ice cream go great together.”

His eyes swung in Esme’s direction. Her face was pale and pinched, and he hated that she was afraid to walk the streets of her hometown. “Come on. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I do. There are a bunch of jerks in this town who get off on humiliating women, especially you. But it’s not going to happen to you anymore.”

The truck slowed for a red light. Esme stared down at her lap. “I meant what I said at dinner. We can be friends, good friends—but that’s it.”

It was the third time she’d asked him out in less than two weeks. “And I meant what
I
said at dinner—I’m aiming higher.”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s impossible.”

A horned blared behind them. The light had turned green. Esme’s attention turned back to the road.

The streetlights illuminated her delicate profile, and he traced the outline of her face with his eyes. Her long, dark hair fell over her cheekbone. She’d worn it down tonight, maybe because he told her he liked it that way on their last date. What would it feel like to bury his face in it? But she could never give herself to him until she faced her past.

“I could really go for some ice cream.”

“Jamey—”

“I told you, no one is going to bother us.”

Her mouth tightened, and a defiant frown creased her brow, but the truck slowed, and Esme turned into Flirty’s.

A small victory. A baby step, really. But he could be a patient man when he wanted something.

Flirty’s patrons were milling around the hut, enjoying the warm summer night. The scent of chocolate hung in the air, mingling with laughter and soft conversation. Jamey eyed the crowd. A gaggle of girls gossiped nearby, and farther back in the parking lot, a knot of boys lounged against an old pickup and watched them. It was the same as when he was young—only he’d never been invited to hang out with the cool boys. On sticky benches and picnic tables, couples with cones gazed at the stars—or each other—as they licked their ice cream.

He helped Esme from the pickup, relishing the moment he held her hand as she stepped out. Her yellow sundress brushed against his calf, igniting a fire inside him and making him grateful for his baggy cargo shorts.

“Next.” A pimple-faced boy peered at them from behind a plastic window.

“What would you like?” he asked Esme.

She studied the menu.

“Pick anything. My treat.”

“Dutch. You agreed.”

She’d had a laundry list of conditions before their first date.
I pick you up and drop you off, we can both suggest places but I have veto power, no touching or kissing good night, no telling anyone in my family about this, and we go Dutch.

“It’s just an ice cream,” he said.

“Ma’am, there’s a line.” The boy at the order window thrummed his fingers on the counter.

“Fine. I’ll have the fudge sundae with pecans.”

They sat on a faded bench with their ice cream, raised their eyes skyward, and joined the other stargazers. It was enough to be side-by-side on a summer night. They didn’t need to talk.

“I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Esme Morales.” The rough male voice was familiar. It had tormented a skinny, stuttering kid throughout high school.
W-w-what’s n-n-new, J-j-j-b-b-bird?

“We’re b-busy here, McHugh,” said Jamey. He managed to bite off his damn fluttering tongue, but McHugh had caught the tremor.

He was a few inches shorter than Jamey, but broad, with the thick neck of a laborer and biceps that bulged beneath a dirt-stained T-shirt. “You c-c-can d-d-do a lot b-b-better than this nerd, Esme.” He grabbed his crotch. “Got a hunk of burning love here that’s sure to make you squeal like a pig, darling.”

Behind him, two men guffawed, which seemed to encourage McHugh.

“Got some friends with me. Heard you liked to do more than one at a time.” His breath reeked of alcohol.

Esme’s body stiffened, and Jamey could hear her scream
I told you so
, even though her lips never moved and no sound came out of her mouth.

Jamey stood, putting himself between McHugh and Esme. “I said we’re b-busy here.”

McHugh’s eyes narrow. They reminded Jamey of a big, ol’ hog’s eyes, small and mean and avaricious. “I-I-I s-s-said w-w-we’re b-b-busy—”