Wink of an Eye (11 page)

“What time is it?” I asked, my throat as parched as the Texas landscape.

“Seven-thirty. I've got the coffee on.” She turned on her heel and stomped back to the house.

I didn't want coffee. I wanted a real bed with a real pillow in a cold room. I forced my legs to carry me inside. Rhonda was stationed at the arch between the kitchen and living room, sipping a cup of coffee through the scowl on her face.

“I'll grab a cup later,” I mumbled. “Right now I'm goin' grab a few hours of sleep. How about waking me up around ten?” I did need to drive back up to Odessa and visit with Sophia Ortez again.

She pursed her lips and nodded, then asked coldly, “How was your
dinner
?”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the coming lecture. “It was nice.”

She nodded again. “I bet. Next time check yourself in the mirror before heading out. Your shirt's on inside out.”

I was so busted.

*   *   *

At 10:15, Rhonda flipped open the blinds and smacked my bare feet. “Up and at 'em.”

I squeezed my eyes closed against the light.

“Tatum called and wanted to know if you needed him today.” She sat a fresh cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

Tatum. My sidekick. I grumbled, then sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I pushed my fingers through my mussed-up hair. It was damp with sweat and sticky with fluids I was too much of a gentleman to identify. “Tell Tatum he has the day off. Tell him I said to take Alvedia swimming, cool off those pubescent hormones.”

Rhonda laughed. “He'd probably like that except he can't swim.”

I glanced at her then took a long drink of coffee. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Seriously. He's terrified of water. One of the kids had an end-of-school pool party and I thought the poor kid was goin' to have a heart attack.”

I thought all kids these days could swim. What'd I know?

“Rodney'll be home this afternoon,” Rhonda said. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, a sure indication there was more to the statement than what was said.

I sighed. “You want me to get a motel room?”

Her eyes flew wide and she quickly shook her head. “No—that's not what I meant.”

Thank God. I didn't know if I could stand another night on a motel bed.

She tugged on her right ear, a habit she'd had since she was a kid when something was weighing on her mind.

“Okay … so Rodney will be home this afternoon. And that means…?”

“Remember I told you he didn't want me to get involved with Ryce's death,” she said in a small voice, still gnawing on her lip.

I recalled the conversation and nodded. “He told you to leave it alone.”

She gazed at me with pitiful eyes. I took another long drink of coffee, considering our options. Did I help her keep a secret from her husband? Between her, Claire, and the recently deceased Gina Gilleni, I wondered if I was wearing a sign on my back saying
TRUST ME, I WON'T TELL YOUR HUSBAND.

I let out a long breath. “He told
you
to leave it alone. He didn't tell me to.”

Her eyes lit up and matched her tentative smile. “You'll cover for me?”

I draped my arm around her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I won't tell your husband your little secret if you won't lecture me about Claire.”

“Uh—Gypsy! That's not fair.” She punched my shoulder. “Someone has to talk some sense into that head of yours about that woman.”

It wasn't my head that needing talking to. “That's the deal, baby. Take it or I spill my guts as soon as he walks through the door.”

She sprung up from the bed and stomped out of the room, mumbling something about me being evil.

I grabbed a quick shower, then powered up the laptop at the kitchen table. Gram was at the table eating some graham crackers with peanut butter. She looked like a dog trying to lick peanut butter from the roof of its mouth. Must be a bitch getting old.

I Googled the phone number for the
Odessa Record,
then punched the number in my cell. I listened to the dial-by-name directory, then pressed Sophia Ortez's extension.

“This is Sophia Ortez,” she said on the second ring.

“Miss Ortez—Gypsy Moran. We met earlier in the week.”

“Ah, Mr. Moran. The private investigator. What can I do for you?”

“Have lunch with me. I have a story you might be interested in.”

She hesitated before saying anything. “Does it involve Sergeant McCallen?”

“Not directly. Remember that Pulitzer you were chasing? This story might get you noticed.”

“You're goin' to have to tell me more than that.”

“Trust me—it'll go national.”

“Trust you? I don't even know you. You're goin' to have to give me a reason to cancel my lunchtime hair appointment.”

I grinned. Miss Ortez was pretty sharp. “Eight missing girls and a human trafficking ring. That enough to pique your interest?”

“Missing from this area? Why haven't we heard anything about it before now?”

“My point exactly.”

She didn't say anything for a moment, then said, “The Rojo Grande, one o'clock.”

“I'll see you there.”

We hung up and I map-searched the address, then keyed it into my phone's GPS. I then searched for Reeves County Detention Center and clicked on the Web site. I did an inmate search for Hector Martinez. There were twelve inmates named Hector Martinez so I narrowed the search by age. There were five between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, but only one pulling time for attempted murder and assault on a law-enforcement officer. Hector Martinez was in gen-pop with no altercations so paying him a visit tomorrow shouldn't be an issue.

I gathered up Ryce's files and the copies I had made of Peterson's and McCoy's finances and personal information, and gave Rhonda a peck on the cheek. “I'm off to Odessa. I'll check in later.”

She glared at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to be here for dinner … or do you have
other plans
? I'm not lecturing. Just asking.”

“Lecturing about what?” Gram asked. “Did he get laid?”

“I'll be here.” I grinned. Although, truthfully, I wasn't looking forward to the Crock-Pot mystery meat that never made it past simmer. Besides, I needed a night to recover. Last night proved I wasn't seventeen anymore.

*   *   *

The Rojo Grande was, as expected, a barn-shaped building the color of ripe tomatoes. The sign out front guaranteed the
BEST TEX-MEX IN TOWN
! Sophia was seated on the leather bench beside the hostess stand and smiled slightly when I entered. She was wearing white capris and a sleeveless black top, the top button strategically unbuttoned. I liked Sophia Ortez. She knew how to play the game. Any other time, I would have considered playing along, but at the moment, I didn't have the energy to even flirt.

The hostess seated us at a back booth, handed us the menus, and said the waitress Tammy would be with us in a minute.

“So, tell me about these eight missing girls,” she said, direct and to the point. No fooling around with this gal. Maybe that top button was unbuttoned because it was 112 freaking degrees outside.

“All between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. All illegals.”

She nodded. “So there's no paper trail or way to identify them.”

“Exactly.”

“And you have proof of this?”

Tammy the waitress hustled over to take our order. Sophia ordered a chicken and black bean special; I ordered the
pollo adobado
and an extra glass of water.

“Do I have proof?” I said after Tammy had left. “Yes and no.”

She glared at me with the eyes of a trained skeptic. “I'm not going to win that Pulitzer with a story I can't prove.”

“It's a complicated situation, Sophia.”

She nodded, unimpressed. “Life in general's complicated.” She glanced at the thin gold watch on her wrist. “You have thirty minutes to un-complicate it.”

I leaned into the booth, speaking quietly. “Remember when you were in Wink and were told to forget about the Burke McCallen story?”

She stared at me, unflinching.

“Why do you think you were told to ignore one of the biggest news stories in the area?”

“My editor wanted to present happy news. The shooting of a cop didn't fit his editorial philosophy.”

“Bullshit. You know the reason he wouldn't run it.”

She huffed and sat back in the booth, pressing her back against the soft leather. “It's like I told you the other day—the information wasn't exactly forthcoming.”

“Exactly. And why do you think that is?”

She looked away and stared at the two teenage girls in the booth across from us. “So you're chasing a conspiracy theory.”

I patted Ryce's files. “It's not a theory. I just need a little help proving it.”

Tammy brought our lunch, laid the ticket at the corner of my plate, then went to refill the two teenagers' drinks.

“Are there claims of UFOs in that folder, too?” She dug into her lunch.

I laughed and shook my head. “No UFOs. Just a crap load of police corruption at its worst.”

I told her everything I had learned so far about Peterson and McCoy, Sheriff Gaylord Denny's long-reaching arms, and Ryce's death. I told her about Hector Martinez and Alvedia, and about the eight missing girls.

She studied the files with interest, then asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Do what you've been trained to do—start digging for the truth.”

She grinned, then pushed her empty plate aside. “No offense, but aren't you a private investigator?”

I returned the smile and laughed softly. “At least that's what it says on my business cards.” I finished off the hot-as-hell chicken concoction and drained my third glass of water. Once my tongue had cooled, I leaned into the booth to explain the situation. “Look, I need help because I'm not licensed in Texas. I haven't checked into the state's reciprocity laws yet, but I need help from someone in an investigative field.”

“And what about any evidence you gather? It won't be admissible in court and could cause charges to be brought against you.”

I scratched my head. “I'm working on all that.”

She nodded slowly, apparently not believing me. She was smart as well as gorgeous. “Why don't you just go to the Rangers' office? Investigating corruption is one of the things they do best.”

“I will. When I've got a nice, neat little package all wrapped up for them.” I motioned for Tammy to refill my water. “Look, whether or not you ever write a story about this is totally up to you. But I want the sheriff and his two henchmen to think someone's digging around for a story. People get sloppy when they get a little nervous. Sooner or later, they mess up. It's human nature.”

“And you want to be there when they mess up.”

I grinned. “Camped out in the van with the cameras rolling.”

 

CHAPTER 11

By the time I got back to Rhonda's, Rodney's police cruiser was parked in the driveway. Although I had promised Rhonda I wouldn't let on that she had played a part in initiating the investigation into Ryce's death, I was anxious to hear what Rodney knew about it. Her secret was safe, but it wasn't going to stop me from picking his brain.

Rodney was a good guy. He was friendly, didn't drink excessively, and adored Rhonda. If he was anything, he was boring. Rhonda had settled for safe.

“Gypsy!” he said, springing up from the sofa as I walked in. He wrapped me in a bear hug. “Good to see you again, man.”

“It's good to see you, too. How was the training?”

“Good. Very informative.” He sat back down on the sofa and continued pulling on a pair of sneakers. “I'm heading over to the gym for a game of hoops. Want to come?”

He had put on some weight since I saw him last and was the proud owner of a bulging belly. He still had a buzz cut, a style leftover from his army days. He was wearing those wretched net shorts and a T-shirt with the Nike logo.

Rhonda bounded into the living room, smiling at me nervously. “Look, Gypsy, Rodney's home.”

I smiled back at her. “Yeah, I see.”

“I invited him to come shoot some hoops with me.” Rodney stared at me, looking me up and down. “You want to change into something more comfortable?”

“Ah … sure. I'll grab my other shoes.” I had about as much interest in a game of basketball as I had in riding a horse. But it would give me a chance to see what he knew about Ryce's death.

Rhonda followed me back to the spare bedroom, staying close to my heels. I dug around in the cardboard boxes until I found my black ankle socks, then sat down on the side of the bed.

“You're not going to say anything, are you?” she whispered.

I slipped the socks on, then pulled on my shoes. “I told you your little secret was safe.”

“Shh!” She glanced over her shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you remembered. You hadn't had a full cup of coffee when you promised.”

I stood up and kissed her on the check. “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, I'll hold up mine. Ahh …
Claire.
Like the smell of jasmine in the air,” I teased.

“Whatever,” she grumbled. She grabbed my elbow as I moved past her. “Gypsy—he's a little out of shape. Don't wipe the court with him.”

“You ready?” Rodney yelled from the living room.

Thirty minutes later, we were pulling into the parking lot of the Kermit Recreation Center, the same center where Burke was shot. I did a quick count of the number of unmarked cars in the parking lot and decided the game just got a lot more interesting.