Wink of an Eye (22 page)

Jesus. Not him, too. Sophia took the compliment in stride, smiled softly, then shook her head. “No, this was much different. He went from talking coherently to me one minute to not even remembering I was in the room the next.”

“Now
that's
impossible,” Rodney said, and laughed himself silly.

I felt sorry for her. And I wanted to whack my brother-in-law in the head with a crutch.

“Sophia and I are going to put a tail on him tomorrow,” I said, and casually threw a smile in Rodney's direction.

“Oh. What time? Maybe I'll tag along as backup.”

“Oh, I don't know. Sometime tomorrow afternoon. You'll probably still be on duty.”

The look of disappointment on his face made me feel a slight twinge of guilt. It faded quickly.

“Besides, it'll be pretty close quarters in the van,” I added just for spite.

“What are you hoping to find by running surveillance on Denny?” Burke asked.

“Who's pulling the strings and why Denny's letting them.”

“You know who's pulling the strings,” Rodney said. “The guy who shoved his knee in your crotch.” He turned to Sophia and slowly shook his head. “Thought Gypsy was going to be out of commission for months.”

Sophia looked at me with raised brows. Much more and I was going to remind Rodney that his wife,
my
sister, was a few feet away in the kitchen. I didn't want this to turn into an all-out war.

“Mark Peterson,” I said.

She nodded. “The same guy who gave you the busted lip?”

I smiled sarcastically and slowly nodded.

“No wonder you want to take him down.”

Rodney and Burke laughed like they were front row at a comedy show with the poor schmuck sitting next to them the target of some smart-ass comedian. I let them have their moment, then turned the conversation back to business.

“I know Peterson is pulling the strings, but I want to know why Denny's letting him. Peterson's got to have something on the old man. You worked with him, Burke. Is there something in his past Peterson might be using?”

“You said he had an eye for pretty women,” Sophia said. “Maybe an affair?”

I liked that … teamwork. And she was on my team. The ten-year-old in me wanted to stick my tongue out at Rodney.

Burke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully considering her question. “If there was an affair, or affairs, he was discreet. Sure, there were rumors, but he was the sheriff. Everyone just looked the other way.”

“What if Peterson decided he wasn't going to look the other way any longer?” I asked.

Burke scrunched his face and rubbed his chin again. “I don't know, Gypsy. I don't think men play by the same rules as women do when it comes to things like that.”

“Meaning men don't usually rat out one another when it comes to affairs,” Sophia said.

“But Mark Peterson's not most men. He doesn't seem to play by anyone's rules but his own,” I added.

“That's true,” Rodney added. “Most men would never shove his knee into another man's crotch hard enough to take him down to the ground.”

I smiled at him, silently thanking him for the reminder. Silently plotting how I was going to dispose of his body after I killed him.

“Well, I guess Sophia and I'll just have to spend some time in the van until we find out what Denny's hiding.”

I was pleased with myself. Torture was always preferable to killing.

 

CHAPTER 19

I spent the next morning with my foot propped on a pillow in a chair at the kitchen table reviewing the evidence we had, and what we still needed. Rhonda played nursemaid, refilling my coffee before the cup was empty and asking every fifteen minutes if I needed anything for pain.

“Are you sure you're going to feel up to doing this surveillance thingy this afternoon?” she asked for the third time.

“Rhonda, surveillance really isn't hard work. It involves a mind-numbing amount of sitting. I think I can handle that.”

“Leave him alone for crying out loud. He said he'd be fine,” Gram said. She circled a word in her
Word Search
magazine and smiled at her accomplishment.

“Excuse me, Gram, but Gypsy
died
a couple days ago. I'd like to make sure we don't have a repeat performance.”

“We all got to go sometime. Hot damn! Finished another one.” She flipped the page with an arthritic hand, then began a new puzzle.

I wasn't sure if I should thank her for telling Rhonda to stop hovering, or worry about her lack of concern over my flatlining experience.

“Besides, he's probably just using this surveillance
thingy
as an excuse to get in that little Mexican chica's panties. If she wears any.”

Rhonda and I both stared at her for a long moment.

“Isn't it about time for your nap?” I finally asked Gram.

She looked up over her bottle-thick glasses at me. “I ain't been up but an hour.”

It seemed like so much longer.

Rhonda sat down in the empty chair and started tugging on her right ear, a sure sign she was worried about something. “I think Sophia's very … nice. I mean, she seemed … pleasant enough.”

“I thought she was a bitch,” Gram said.

“Gram!” Rhonda's mouth fell open as wide as her eyes. “That's a horrible thing to say.”

“She's not a bitch. She's an … observer,” I said.

“Well, whatever you want to call her, she sure ain't warm and fuzzy,” Gram said.

“Can we stop talking about Sophia?” I asked.

“Well, since we're talking about her,” Rhonda said. “Are you seeing her?”

I sighed heavily. “At the moment, we're business associates.”

“At the moment…” Rhonda tugged on her ear again.

“It means when they're through working together he's hoping to get laid.”

“Gram!”

“Okay—as of right now, my personal life is off-limits. We're not discussing it anymore.”

“It's not that I'm not happy for you, anything to get you away from Claire, it's just—”

“Rhonda! Off-limits—no more discussion. Period.”

“Talk about bitchy,” Gram mumbled.

I jerked up the laptop and the files, shoved the crutch under my arm, and hobbled back to the bedroom where I could half-ass concentrate on what I was doing. I either needed to find an apartment, or Gram needed to break a hip and go to rehab in a nursing home, or school needed to start back so Rhonda would have something else to spend her time on, or one of us was going to disappear.

I propped a pillow against the headboard, then set up shop on the bed. Averitt McCoy wasn't a go-to man; he was a follower. Which meant McCoy was the weak link in Peterson's food chain. So far, I could connect every piece of evidence I had back to McCoy, not Peterson. Something told me Peterson planned it that way. That in itself wasn't a bad thing. If McCoy was as weak as I suspected and was hit with the mounting pile of evidence against him, he might roll over on Peterson with a gentle nudge.

How Sheriff Denny fit into all this was still a mystery. He owed someone something and my bet was on Peterson. I keyed the Kermit County Board of Elections into the laptop and searched candidates' financial records. Denny had quite a coffer of campaign contributions. If Peterson had made a donation to the cause, he kept it low enough they didn't have to attach his name to it. But the K-Bar Ranch had made a sizable donation, along with Mrs. Claire Kinley Sellars herself. It wasn't enough to raise a red flag—unless you had something to tie it back to. I stared at the name for a while, wondering how deep she really was involved.

Maybe Peterson had conned her into hiring the illegals, then threatened her with it? Maybe she had just gotten in over her head and didn't know how to get out?

I logged in to the banking program and keyed in Claire's name, then minimized the screen. I didn't know if I really wanted to see it or not. I sat there for the longest time staring at the screen saver of the Bellagio, afraid to know the truth, ashamed I even suspected it.

Finally, I took a breath and maximized the screen. I found her records of deposits and withdrawals. I pulled out the copies of Peterson's accounts I had printed earlier and started comparing line by line. If I was right, Peterson was paying Claire to hire the illegals. Maybe that was the extent of her involvement? Maybe she didn't know anything about the missing girls? And if I were right again, Claire would be making a sizable deposit days after Peterson made a withdrawal. Sure enough, there was a pattern. My stomach knotted as I highlighted the dates and the amounts. Then I sat staring at the ugly truth, the bitter bile slowly creeping into my throat. I had it backward. Peterson wasn't paying Claire. Claire was paying Peterson. The sonofabitch was blackmailing her.

Mark Peterson was selling teenage girls; he'd taken Tatum's father from him; he'd tried to take me out on a basketball court; and he was putting the pinch on Claire. I was really harboring a strong dislike for this guy. I had to figure out a way to take him down without Claire getting caught in the cross fire. If he was using her husband's career as the bargaining chip, she could shed a few tears for the camera, say how truly sorry she was for her lack of judgment, and come out of it looking like a victim.

I worked through lunch and into the early afternoon charting a timeline and fitting pieces of the puzzle into the bigger picture. I wondered if Ryce had any idea of the scope of what he was uncovering?

Although the bedroom door was open, Rhonda knocked anyway. “Hey … Sophia's here.”

I tried to get up off the bed but a searing heat shot up from my foot, running the length of my leg. I grabbed my thigh and grimaced at the suddenness of the pain.

“You okay?” Rhonda asked, stepping into the room. “When's the last time you had a pain pill?”

“I'm fine,” I lied. “Just a cramp.” I grabbed the crutch and forced myself up but the pain was intense. I laughed, then eased myself back down onto the bed. I was not postponing this tail we had planned on Denny. “Why don't you escort Sophia back to my office?”

“You want me to bring her back here?” She looked around the bedroom disapprovingly.

“Is Gram still living?”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You can be so cruel, Gypsy.” She turned and left, shaking her head as she went.

I took the bottle of pain pills from the nightstand drawer, popped two, then downed them with a swig of leftover morning coffee. A moment later, Sophia, in all her splendor, was standing at the bedroom door. She was wearing a plain white T-shirt and plaid shorts, perfect for a night of sitting in a van. She was carrying the same leather bag she had brought to the hospital.

“Hi,” she said, a small grin dancing across her perfect lips.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Rhonda offered, playing the good hostess.

“I'm fine, but thanks anyway,” Sophia said.

She wasn't a bitch. She was quite pleasant. Quite pleasant indeed.

“Can I get you a chair?” Rhonda asked.

Again, Sophia smiled. “No, really, I'm fine.”

“She can sit on the bed. I promise, we'll keep the door open.” I scooted over and made room for Sophia to sit down.

Rhonda's face turned bright red. She quickly shook her head. “Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that. I mean … I just thought she might be more comfortable … okay, I'm going to go now. If y'all need anything, just yell.” She turned and hurried out of the room.

Sophia's lips were locked tight as she fought hard not to burst out laughing. I patted the side of the bed. She glared at me a moment, those mocha-colored eyes searching my every intention.

“Trust me. I'm harmless.” I grinned.

“For now.” She chuckled, then sat down facing me, keeping one foot on the floor. She sat the leather bag between us, then opened it up and removed a file folder. “I've got Denny's work and civic-related schedule and according to my research assistant, he does attend the board of alderman meetings. He did miss the April meeting and the undersheriff sat in for him.” She handed me a printout of Denny's schedule.

Rotary Club, Lions Club, Jaycees, Winkler County Democratic Committee, and various law-enforcement organizations. If the man's mind was wandering, it was because the poor guy probably couldn't remember where he was supposed to be and when.

Sophia handed me another printout. “I went ahead and pulled some basic background info. I'm sure it's not as detailed as what you can gather, but hey, I'm not getting paid for this.” She smiled.

I chuckled. “Neither am I.”

She stared at me for a long moment. “You're kidding?”

I laughed again. “It's a long story.”

She offered a wicked smile. “You're a crusader for justice?”

“I wish I was that noble. I felt sorry for Tatum. He deserves to know what happened to his dad. No kid should have to go through life wondering.”

Her smile vanished as she studied me. I felt the heat of her thoughts boring into my soul, going places I wasn't comfortable with her seeing. “So, Denny's married,” I said, quickly turning my attention to the background information. “Wife's name is Martha. She's more civic-minded than he is. President of the Junior League, chairwoman of the Safe Haven for Domestic Violence Victims…”

“She also volunteers twice a week at the elementary school as a reading buddy.”

I read further. The Dennys had two daughters, neither was married and both lived in Tulsa. Why would both daughters live out of state? They both graduated from Texas universities, so an out-of-state college wasn't the reason. Neither was married so there weren't husbands to consider. Sons moved away; daughters usually stayed closer to home unless careers, school, or significant others took them away. It was pretty sexist in theory, but it was the truth.