Wink of an Eye (25 page)

She pushed her hand through her hair again, then slowly moved back to the sofa. She poured herself another drink then sat down. “Couple thousand, maybe.”

Closer to a quarter of a million but who was counting? “You said that y'all were always having to bail them out—does that mean Steven knows about it?”

She glanced at me, then took a sip of her drink. She swallowed slowly, then slowly shook her head. “I meant we, as in me and the ranch. I gave him the money from the ranch account.”

“And Steven doesn't know?”

She shook her head again. “He doesn't have a clue what goes on at the ranch and he wouldn't know how to read a ledger sheet if it came with instructions.”

That was worthy of a little concern considering the man was involved with the state's budget. “Why'd you keep paying Peterson? Why not just cut him off?” I sat back down beside her on the sofa.

“He's married to Steven's sister.”

“But Steven doesn't know anything about it.”

She stared at me, her eyes searching mine. “And I'd like to keep it that way.”

Was she protecting her husband … or herself? I fixed myself another drink and took a slow sip, steeling my nerves. “Claire … the undocumented workers you have working for you … how'd you find them?”

She looked confused, like she didn't understand the question. “What do mean, how'd I find them? I needed help. They applied for the job. I don't understand what you're getting at.”

“How'd they know to come here?”

She thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “Word of mouth, I suppose. I don't understand why you're asking these questions.” The hurt in her eyes was real.

I wasn't sure how much to tell her, how much I could trust her with. Or not trust her was more like it. “The men that work for you … do you know anything about them?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I know they're hard workers. It may sound cold, but I try not to get real involved with the employees' lives outside the ranch. I figure what they do after hours is their own business.” Her eyes then narrowed and she turned a sharp gaze at me. “Why? Has one of them done something?”

I shook my head. “Other than come here illegally? No. They haven't done anything wrong, Claire. They're the victims.”

She was taken aback. “Victims? What do you mean?”

“You have at least three illegals working for you whose teenage kids have gone missing.”

Her face twisted with concern. “When? Recently?”

“Pretty recent, yes.”

She got up again and slowly moved around the room, her face etched with concentration. “Do you think they're connected?”

“I don't know yet.” I didn't trust her enough to play all my cards.

“Do you think maybe they ran away?”

“I don't know what to think.”

She stopped in front of the window and gazed out at the ranch she loved more than life itself. “That's terrible. Your daughter disappears and you never know what happened to her. And you can't report it to the police because you run the risk of being deported.”

How did she know they didn't file police reports? How did she know the missing kids were daughters? My heart felt like it had been coiled in a cable and tossed overboard with a cast-iron anchor. No matter how much I tried to convince myself she wasn't involved, this boat was going down and it was taking Claire with it.

 

CHAPTER 22

That evening, Sophia and I followed Sheriff Denny home again, waited while he changed clothes, then tailed him to the Grove Street Methodist Church. He was dressed in the same ill-fitting athletic pants and another golf shirt more wrinkled than the one he had worn last night.

Sophia looked over the printout of Denny's schedule. “It's Tuesday night so that counts out church service. Maybe they have men's Bible study or something?”

I glanced over at the schedule. “Boy Scouts.”

“They meet at churches?”

I slowly nodded, remembering my six months of wearing the uniform. I can't remember if I got kicked out or if Mom was the one they didn't want back. Her one attempt at being involved in her kids' lives ended with her receiving a certified letter and threat of a lawsuit.

We were parked across the street with a clear shot of the church parking lot. Something about Denny being involved with a scout troop made me uncomfortable. The man had two daughters, but no sons. Yet he was an assistant leader for a Boy Scout Troop. He went to a kids' movie by himself with, at least in my opinion, the intention of meeting someone. I wasn't sure I liked the direction my thoughts were going.

Neither did I like the direction my thoughts were going with Claire. She was in too deep for me to pull her out.

“Foot hurting?” Sophia asked.

“Pardon?”

“I asked if your foot was hurting. You're kind of quiet tonight.”

I didn't say anything for a moment, then shook my head. “Nah, the foot's fine. Just a lot on my mind, I guess.” I probably should have let Rodney handle tonight's surveillance; he would have thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Especially with the shorts and tight T-shirt Sophia was wearing tonight.

She nodded, watching me for a moment, then turned her attention back to the parking lot.

Silence settled over us like a comfortable blanket, not too heavy or cumbersome. We were content to leave the other alone in thought. And my thoughts kept going back to Claire. “Why did you investigate Senator Sellars?” I asked.

Sophia turned to me, then shrugged. “Routine campaign stuff. Why?”

“Did you find anything?”

She shook her head. “Not enough to keep him from getting elected. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” It was a lame answer, but it was all I was willing to give up at the moment. I gnawed on my bottom lip wondering how much I should tell Sophia. I didn't want to see Claire's name strewn across a headline. I still needed time to figure out if there was a way to keep her out of it.

“How long do Boy Scout meetings usually last?” Sophia asked, her voice was growing bored senseless.

“I don't remember. About two hours, I guess.”

“Surveillance work sucks.” She went back to watching the parking lot.

“Yeah. Sometimes it does.” I hesitated a moment, then said, “You asked me how long I'd been sleeping with Claire Sellars.”

She turned and glared at me, even lifting her sunglasses to get an unobstructed view. “I don't believe those were the exact words I used.”

I laughed lightly. “Claire and I have history. We go back to when we could do it in a backseat and not worry about a leg cramp.”

She lowered her glasses, then turned back to the parking lot. “And you're telling me this because…”

“You asked. And I have a favor to ask.”

Without taking her attention from the parking lot, she blew a deep breath through her nose. “Isn't a
favor
how I got involved in this in the first place?”

She had a point. And a memory like a freaking elephant. “The K-Bar Ranch may be more involved with this whole thing than I originally thought. Until I know the depth of Claire's involvement, I'd appreciate it if you can keep her out of it.”

Her jaw tightened first, then her whole body followed. I thought I saw a plume of smoke shoot from her nostrils like a raging bull's. “That wasn't part of the deal, Gypsy. I don't tell you how to run your investigation and you don't tell me what to write.
That
was the deal.”

I scratched at the back of my neck. It was hot in the van. And getting hotter. “I'm not telling you what to write,” I said, my voice taking on an unintended whiny tone. “I'm just asking if you can keep Claire out of it. That's all.”

She turned and glared at me hard. Her eyes were so cold they could have caused hypothermia. “You're asking me to keep your girlfriend out of it but you're
not
telling me what to write?”

We stared at each other for a long moment, the reality of my request sinking deep into my steel-encased brain. I slammed my hand hard against the steering wheel. “Dammit!”

She shook her head, then looked away, blowing more air out of her nose. “You know, if she's that involved in this whole thing … why is she someone you would
want
to protect?”

I pushed both hands deep through my hair and sighed. I could remember only a few times in my life that I was truly confused, and each time involved Claire. “I don't know why I want to protect her. If she is involved, then she deserves whatever comes to her.”

Sophia looked at me and her features softened. The rock-hard jaw went slack. “Gypsy—despite what you may think, I don't have some proverbial ax to grind with Claire Sellars. Whatever I write will be fair. That I can promise you.”

I supposed that was all I could really ask.

She turned her attention back to the parking lot. “Finally,” she said with a huff.

A cluster of boys in their khaki-and-green uniforms spilled out of the church, laughing and playfully punching one another while their mothers and fathers hurried them along to their individual cars. They were as anxious as Sophia and I to call this meeting over. A few minutes later, Denny and a short, squat man with calves bigger than my thighs came out of the church. The bulldog turned and locked the door behind, then he and Denny chatted a moment. There was some head nodding, some bobbing from one foot to the other, a clap on the back. They parted ways and Denny climbed into his Caddy. The bulldog climbed into a shiny Ford 350 and drove away. I cranked the van's engine and waited for Denny. He pulled out of the parking lot, and instead of turning back toward home, he turned left.

“Where's he going?” Sophia asked.

“I guess we'll soon find out.” I waited for the few passing cars that constituted Kermit's heavy traffic, then picked up Denny's trail as he turned onto Highway 302.

After twenty minutes of driving, I was fairly certain he was headed to Odessa. “What's he got going on in Odessa?” I asked quietly, more to myself than to my partner.

“Maybe he's got another meeting.”

I threw a glance in Sophia's direction and frowned. “
Really?
It's almost nine-thirty. Why don't you want to believe this
doddering old man
could be up to something?”

“Why does every odd behavior have to be criminal? You're too tainted.”

Tainted?
I'd been called a lot of things in my life but couldn't remember ever being called tainted. Cans of rotten tuna were tainted.

“Bet I can prove you wrong,” I said. “Your doddering old man isn't as nice as you want to believe he is.”

“Yeah? What's the bet?” One corner of her mouth turned upward in a slight grin.

I shrugged. I had a lot of things I could think of but didn't want to risk being slapped while I was driving. “Dinner. And drinks. Lots of drinks.”

She gnawed the inside of her lip. “You're on.”

Oh, I was so going to enjoy this.

We drove for another thirty minutes, straight into Odessa. Denny drove through the heart of downtown, passing the
Odessa Record,
then went two blocks north and hooked a right. He turned into the entrance of the municipal park, the same park Sophia and I had walked to the day I approached her about the case.

“What's he doing?” she asked with honest bewilderment in her voice.

“He's looking for drugs or sex. My guess is sex. Is there another entrance to this park?”

She pointed ahead, then craned her neck to keep an eye on Denny's Caddy. “Next block, take a right. It's the first drive on the right.”

“Do the parking lots connect?”

She nodded excitedly. “I lost him behind the trees. Hurry up.”

The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention and go barreling into the park on two wheels. So I drove her crazy and poked along five miles under the posted speed. I opened the center console and fished out the key to the locked storage bin mounted on the wall behind the driver's seat. “Do me a favor,” I said, handing her the key. “There's a lockbox in the bottom drawer on the left. I need the camera out of that box.”

“Won't you need a flash?” She crawled over the console, her ass momentarily brushing my right cheek. Rodney would have had a freakin' heart attack.

“It's a night-vision camera.” I forced my attention back to Denny. He had parked at a picnic shelter tucked into the far southwest corner of the park. I had a clear-enough view of him without getting any closer so I turned the van off and settled in. Within a matter of seconds, the temperature in the van felt like it was inching upward of 90 degrees or better. I didn't want to roll down the window; any sound, even the most hushed conversation, would carry through the night air. Sweat beaded at my hairline and trickled down the back of my neck.

Sophia climbed back into the passenger seat. She had a frown on her face and my most expensive camera in the palm of her hand. “This is really a camera?” She turned it over, checking out all sides.

“Night vision, baby, Mil-Spec. Cool, huh?” I took it from her and powered it up.

“What's Mil-Spec? Sounds like some kind of mill worm.”

“Military specifications.” I looked at her and grinned. “You know, for a modern-age journalist, I'd have figured you for a gadget geek.”

“Most of these gadgets are nothing more than big boy toys.”

“And your point is?”

She rolled her eyes and tried not to grin but her lips weren't cooperating.

“Okay, so I collect cameras and other gadgets. What do you collect?” I was afraid to offer suggestions. Everything I could think of would classify me as sexist. My sister collected old cookbooks. Rhonda had obviously never used one but liked the way they looked in the kitchen. Kitchen, cookbooks, barefoot and pregnant … Sophia would consider it an insult and we were jammed together in a minivan. Not a good time for me to be stupid. “So, are you a collector? Of anything other than men's hearts?” The speed of light, speed of sound, breaking the sound barrier … nothing was faster than the regret I immediately felt. I only used really horrible, cheesy lines when my blood-alcohol level was floating near double digits.