Wink of an Eye (2 page)

“So will you take a look at my Dad's files? He was on to something. I know he was.”

“I thought you wanted me to look into your Dad's suicide?”

“It's all connected. And he didn't kill himself.”

That was number six. Not that I was counting.

 

CHAPTER 2

“So, are you going to help him?” Rhonda asked. The kid had left a little while ago to check on his grandfather. Rhonda poured the last bit of coffee in my cup, then slid the pot in the sink of soapy water.

I slowly shook my head. “It's not something I really want to get involved with.”

I could tell by her silence it wasn't the answer she was hoping for.
“Okay,”
she finally said, dragging the simple word out into exaggerated syllables. “So how long are you planning on staying?”

“I don't know. A few days. I can get a room in Kermit if I'm in the way.”

She popped me on the back of the head. “Don't be silly. Rodney will be back tomorrow and I know he'll want to see you.”

“Where is Rodney?”

“He's at a training seminar in Dallas. The police department installed new software and no one knows how to use it.”

Rhonda's two biggest faults were she couldn't cook worth crap and she married a cop. Rodney was an officer with the Kermit Police Department. He was a good guy. As far as brothers-in-law go, I couldn't complain.

“Why didn't Tatum ask Rodney to look into his dad's death?”

Rhonda took a deep breath and held it longer than was probably comfortable. Then she shrugged and gnawed on her lip, avoiding eye contact. “I don't know.”

I smiled. “Either you're hiding something from him or he told you to stay out of it.”

She wrapped a flaming red curl around her finger and continued gnawing on her bottom lip. She finally huffed then said, “Oh, come on, Gypsy. He's a good kid.”

“Rodney?” I knew whom she was referring to but I liked to see her squirm. As an older brother I had earned that right.

She rolled her eyes. “Tatum.”

“If he's such a good kid, why doesn't Rodney want to get involved?”

She huffed again and stared at the table, avoiding looking me in the eye. “I don't know. He just said there wasn't anything he could do. Maybe because it's two different departments. But the bottom line is Tatum's a good kid and he doesn't deserve the hand he's been dealt.”

Not many people do but it had never been my ambition to save the world. “Maybe someone should look for his mother. Before social services gets involved.”

Rhonda shook her head. “I don't know the whole story but apparently there were some drugs involved, and stuff like leaving Tatum alone in a hot car when he was two years old. Probably best to just leave her out of the picture.” She raised her eyebrows for emphasis.

I'd done my share of tracking down people who didn't want to be found for one reason or another. I wasn't too fond of parents who disappeared. The adults left behind usually place blame on the person who takes off; kids are the opposite. They blame themselves. I should have cleaned my room more, should have eaten my vegetables, done better in school … they carry a list of
should haves
with them the rest of their lives. I know from experience. I'm still carrying my own list of
should haves.

Regardless, my heart wasn't bleeding quite enough yet to get involved in Tatum McCallen's troubles.

“Look … Rhonda, Rodney's a good cop. He's a good man with a heart bigger than the state of Texas. If he said leave it alone, there must be a good reason.”

“What would it hurt just to talk to Tatum? Gypsy, he has a four-inch file Ryce was keeping on the investigation he was doing off the clock. There's eight missing girls involved.”

“Missing how? Runaways, kidnapped, what?”

“They were classified as runaways, but they were
good
girls. Happy. None of the parents believe they ran away.”

We stared at one another for a long moment. I finally asked, “What do they think happened to them?”

Rhonda was quiet for a moment while she picked at a cuticle only she could see. “They were all illegals so there were no paper trails on any of them. Teenagers. Pretty girls.”

“Ah, Jesus.” I pushed my hand through my hair. “A trafficking ring.”

She slowly nodded. “We think so. Will you just take a look at his files? Please?”

I laid my head on the table, gently thumping it against the warm wood. Was there anything in Wink that ever registered under 100 degrees?

“What would it hurt just to talk to him?” she asked.

I could think of a pretty good reason. “I could end up involved in something I don't want to be involved in.”

She huffed. “You can be such an ass sometimes.” She got up and went to her soaking dishes, catching me in the shoulder first with a solid punch.

She was average size but threw a punch like a sailor. I had taught her well. She had always been a scrappy kid with a fierce loyalty fired by an Irish temper. She'd inherited her red hair and unmanageable curls from our mother's side of the family. Many men find redheads extremely sexy. Having grown up in a house full of redheaded women, I avoided them like a disease. I knew the wrath they were capable of.

With Rhonda concentrating on the dishes, I felt safe to change the subject. “I need to tap into your Internet with my laptop.” I was anxious to get my contacts and apps downloaded to my backup phone.

“Sure. It's wireless so you should be able to connect anywhere.”

Wireless in Wink? Who'd have ever thought it? I went back to the spare bedroom and retrieved my laptop, then headed back to the kitchen. Might as well set up shop at the kitchen table. I powered up the iPhone and within minutes had access once again to my contact list and apps. I gave Rhonda my new number.

“What happened to your other phone?” She keyed my new number into her own phone.

“Long story.”

Rhonda raised her brows. “One of those ‘I could tell you but then I'd have to shoot you' things?”

If she only knew. After purposely smashing it with a hammer, then tossing it into the Pecos River, I felt safe that it was history. “Yeah. One of those.” I smiled at her.

She stared at me suspiciously, then finished putting away the morning dishes. “I've got to go to the volunteer center for a little while. Why don't you come with me? It'll be fun.”

I scowled and looked over my shoulder at her. She was kidding, right? I had no idea what she did at the volunteer center but hemorrhoids sounded like more fun. “I'll pass on that one. I think I'll grab a shower and head into town.”

“Suit yourself. Towels are in the cabinet in the bathroom. You ready, Gram?” she yelled down the hallway for our grandmother.

“Coming,” Gram answered. A moment later she shuffled into the kitchen, her old-lady purse hanging in the crook of her arm. “Can't wait to make my macaroni necklace.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

Gram had always been a sassy one and I was glad it was Rhonda taking care of her and not me. Rhonda, Rodney, and Gram lived in the three-bedroom, one-bath house Rhonda and I grew up in. It was a brick ranch with a desert for a yard. The prickly pear cacti grew randomly, adding splashes of sporadic green to the ever-present brown. When we were kids, Mom tried planting grass one year so her kids would have a lush lawn to play on. She gave up, figuring the added expense of a mower and gas to run it wasn't worth the effort.

Mom worked sixty hours a week as a nurse at Kermit Regional Hospital, so after our dad left, Gram moved in and shared a bedroom with Rhonda. She was there to keep us out of trouble, fix us something to eat every now and then, and do the occasional load of laundry. So I learned to do my own laundry at an early age (starch preferred), cook a decent meal (something Rhonda never mastered), and keep a tidy house. Never did learn to stay out of trouble, though.

I waited until I was certain Rhonda and Gram had left for the volunteer center, then opened the public records search app on my laptop. I keyed in “Claire Kinley” but didn't hit enter. Instead, I sat there staring at the screen, debating whether I wanted to go down that road again. I had access to every aspect of her life at my fingertips, but couldn't do it. I couldn't count the times over the years I had typed her name but never actually opened a file. Twenty years was a long time. Maybe some things are better left alone.

I shut down the laptop and headed to the shower.

After I showered, I escaped the suffocating humidity of the tiny bathroom and went into my old bedroom to dress. I dug around in my duffle bag and pulled out a clean pair of jeans, T-shirt, and a fresh pair of boxers. I had enough clothes for three days. Everything I owned of a personal nature was in cardboard boxes heading to Texas via UPS. My client files were in the back of the van; I didn't trust those to the little brown truck.

So when Frank Gilleni sent his henchmen, and I knew he would, the only thing they would find was an empty apartment, no forwarding address, and no cell phone. I had bought a little time, anyway.

I stared at the jeans on the bed and couldn't bear to put them on. Vegas was hot; Wink was unbearable. I went across the hall into Rhonda and Rodney's bedroom. Rodney and I were about the same size. I rummaged through their dresser drawers until I found where Rodney kept his shorts. The only thing I could find was a pair of pull-on net shorts, perfect for a game of hoops. It was either the shorts from another decade or the jeans. I found a matching tank top in another drawer.

After I dressed, I took a quick glance in the mirror. I wasn't used to looking like a geek. All I needed was a pair of tube socks and the ensemble would be complete. My hair, dry from the shower, was now slick with sweat. At least the encroaching gray around my temples blended with the dark brown waves and wasn't easily noticeable. My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. I looked like I'd just waken from a drunken binge, trapped in an NBA player's uniform, circa 1983. There was no way in hell I could be seen in this outfit.

I stripped it off, put it back in the drawer, then went back to my bedroom and pulled on the jeans. I finished dressing, then headed outside. Wink, Texas, in early August and I was wearing jeans. I should probably see a shrink. About many things.

 

CHAPTER 3

The blistering heat grabbed my breath as soon as I stepped out the door, making me remember why I fled Wink not long after graduating high school. I unlocked the van and had the air conditioner on full blast before closing the door. I glanced in the back out of habit, just to make sure the thousands of dollars worth of equipment was where it was supposed to be. When I bought the van, I had a Captain's Chair installed in front of the bank of surveillance equipment. Smartest investment I ever made. It made long surveillance jobs a little more comfortable.

I pulled out of the driveway and headed into downtown Wink. Businesses were sparse; most had packed up and moved to Kermit or closed up shop altogether. Wink, at one time, had been a booming little town with a thriving population and enough business to contribute to a healthy tax base. But by the early seventies, despite a million-dollar urban renewal grant from the Feds, the town was barely clinging to life. By the twenty-first century, the population had dwindled to under a thousand and you could count the businesses on one hand. Most of the people that remained had been born here, like their parents and grandparents before them. Few people moved to Wink by choice. It wasn't a bad little town; hot as hell, but quaint.

One thing that did remain was Dunbar's, a greasy spoon that had been passed down from generation to generation of Dunbars. I figured I might as well stop in and grab a burger and support the local economy. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks of every make and model, old and rusted to shiny and new. Inside, the place hadn't changed much. The tables were still covered with red-and-white plaid vinyl tablecloths, daily specials were still scrawled on a chalkboard propped on the counter. I'd been run out more than once by old man Dunbar for erasing the chicken fried steak dinner combo and adding a sixteen-ounce porterhouse for $1.99. Faded black-and-white photos of Wink's glory days shared wall space with color pictures of pump jacks silhouetted by glorious red-and-orange evening skies. I'd seen the sun set in Marina Del Rey, but it couldn't compare in beauty, or loneliness, to a Texas sunset.

I glanced around the diner and didn't see an empty table or a spot at the counter. The clientele was a mix of Wink's best. Ranchers with their Stetsons, farmers with their John Deere ball caps, oil workers in their dirty blue work shirts. Throw in a few teachers on summer break and that pretty much summed up the lunchtime customers and the general population. I didn't go out of my way to see if I recognized anyone, since keeping a low profile for a while was probably in my best interest. Just as I stepped up to the counter to order, I saw Tatum McCallen in a back booth waving me over. I gave him a tiny wave, acknowledging at least I'd seen him, then ordered a burger all the way, homemade chips, and a cola to go.

“Hey, Grandpa would like to meet you,” Tatum said, suddenly at my side like a fungus no amount of penicillin was going to cure.

“I'd really like to, but I'm on my way over to the volunteer center. Rhonda wanted me to drop by.”

“Oh, it'll only take a minute. It'll take 'em that long to cook your burger.”

This kid was good. I glanced at the back booth. A folded wheelchair was leaning against the wall, out of the way. I sighed, then told the waitress who took my order where I'd be. I followed the kid through the maze of tables to his booth.

“Grandpa, this is Gypsy Moran, the private detective I was telling you about.” The kid was grinning ear to ear.

“Pleasure to meet you. Burke McCallen.” We shook hands. He had a firm grip and a strong hand attached to a muscular forearm, a result of the wheelchair I supposed. Tatum slid into the booth, sliding to the corner to make room for me to sit. Reluctantly, I sat down, sitting on the edge so I could make a quick getaway.