Wink of an Eye (28 page)

His face was beet-red now, his eyes two tiny drills boring straight through me. He turned on his heel and headed down the hallway with the entourage in tow. I was steadily growing a little concerned with the situation. I was surrounded by a small army of pumped-up cops flying high on adrenaline. Their nerves were on edge. They didn't know what the connection was between me and Denny, but they knew there was a connection. And my hands were still handcuffed behind my back. If I were a betting man, I'd bet I was going to come away from here with a few bruises.

 

CHAPTER 25

“You want to tell me again what kind of
investigation
you were running on Sheriff Denny?” Lieutenant Redface said, the anger turning his face the color of a bowl of cherries.

One of the deputies shoved me hard toward the table for emphasis. His uniform bore sergeant stripes. Great. I was locked in an interview room with a fucking sergeant, a lieutenant, and twelve angry cops.

Panic mode was setting in. I could feel my heart throbbing in my temples. I stumbled my way around the table, trying to keep the officers in sight. Not that I could do anything with my hands still cuffed behind my back; it was the psychology of knowing what was coming. “Look, you checked his hand. It was covered with gunshot residue. There wasn't any foul play involved.”

“I didn't ask you if you killed him. I asked you what kind of investigation you were running on him.” He tossed the pictures on the table. The glossy paper skittered easily across the gray metal, each picture separating from the other until the entire table was partially covered with images of Denny pounding some poor kid's ass.

“Looks like blackmail pictures to me,” the sergeant said. His breath was sour and warm in my face.

I had no way of knowing if he or any of them were part of Peterson's little crime circle. My brain was scrambled while remnants of Denny's were still splattered on my arm. I thought of Sophia. She hadn't bargained for all this. All she wanted to do was write her story, a story I goaded her into pursuing.

My cell phone buzzed, stopped, then buzzed again several times. I'm not sure what the deputies were expecting me to do—I couldn't answer the phone with my hands behind my back.

“You're that PI from Vegas, aren't you? The one Mark Peterson nailed the other day on the court.” The deputy speaking had dark curly hair and a scar under his right eye. He was the guy who gave me a bottle of water after Peterson's castration attempt. He didn't look as sympathetic now as he did then.

“Were you blackmailing the sheriff, Mr.…
Moran
?” Redface referred to my ID, which he hadn't bothered to return.

I was beginning to feel like a wounded antelope surrounded by a pack of snarling wolves. “I wasn't blackmailing the sheriff.”

Redface cocked an eyebrow and looked at the sergeant, then at me. “Were these pictures part of your investigation?”

There was only one way out of this that I could see that didn't involve broken bones. “I think it would be in my best interest to not answer any more questions without an attorney present.”

“You're lawyering up.” The sergeant sounded defeated.

There was a collective round of groans from the pack.

I didn't actually think of it as lawyering up, but there wasn't a term for Rangering up. Besides, I didn't think they'd be welcoming to an outside agency right now and saying I'd like for them to call the local Rangers' office would guarantee a broken bone.

Redface's whole demeanor changed. “Moran, look … I just want to know what type of investigation you were working on that includes pornographic pictures of the sheriff. I mean, look at it from our point of view.”

“I am looking at it from your point of view. And that's why I'm requesting an attorney.” I've never claimed to be a genius but I'm not stupid.

Sophia and I were the only two people who knew what happened in Denny's office. I'd offer up the video recording of what transpired before going as far as actually being arrested. But the video would also show the conversation about the safety-deposit box, and I wasn't ready to share that knowledge just yet. I had no idea whom in Denny's department I could trust and who would slit my throat at the first opportunity. Until I figured that part out, I wasn't talking.

Redface bobbed his head toward the door and dismissed the uniforms. “You boys go see if they need any help processing the scene.”

The deputies grumbled as they shuffled out, leaving me, the sergeant, and the lieutenant standing there staring at one another.

“My phone's in my left front pocket,” I said after a long moment.

Redface chewed on the inside of his lip before finally motioning for the sergeant to remove the handcuffs. The sergeant wasn't happy about it and retaliated with a strong twist before releasing my wrists. My shoulders ached at the newfound freedom. I rolled them a couple times, then dug my cell out. Obviously Redface and the sergeant weren't going to give me any privacy.

The display showed five missed calls, one from Rhonda and four from Rodney. I punched in Rodney's number.

He answered on half a ring. “Gypsy? What the hell is going on? Where are you?” There was so much commotion going on around him, it was hard to hear.

“Sheriff's office.”

“The same. With half the town. Were you here when it happened?”

“In the room.” I wiped a fleck of Denny's brain from my shirt. “Look, I'm going to need—”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Yeah, him too. Look, I'm in an interview room on the first floor. Can you get back here?”

A minute later, there was a loud rap at the door as Rodney burst in.

*   *   *

“Rodney Walker's not an attorney,” the sergeant said. I couldn't distinguish if his expression was perplexed or amused.

“Rodney's involved with the investigation.”

“Of this department?” Redface asked. He wasn't impressed.

Rodney held his hands up in his own defense. “Hang on, Jim, we're going to get all this straight. But first you need to get someone out there running crowd control. The public's crowded around the front entrance.”

Redface looked more gloomy than ever. He spoke to the sergeant. “Dale, go see what you can do out there. Until we've established otherwise, the office is a crime scene. Handle it like one, please.”

Sergeant Dale glowered at me before clapping Rodney on the back in a strained show of solidarity. As soon as the door shut behind the sergeant, Redface went over and locked it. I wasn't sure what was going on but I felt a lot better with Rodney there as a witness.

“Can one of you please tell me what the hell's going on?” Redface turned around and looked at us with more confusion than authority. “Rodney?”

Rodney nodded in my direction. “I'm assuming you've met my brother-in-law, Gypsy Moran. Gypsy, meet Lieutenant Jim Oshay.”

Oshay plopped down at the metal table and scratched his bald spot. He stared at the pictures of Denny, then disgustedly shook his head.

“Did you know that was going on?” Rodney sat down across from Oshay. I sat down beside Rodney.

Oshay scrubbed his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. “I'd heard rumors. We'd all heard rumors over the years. I still don't understand what these pictures have to do with your investigation. Looks an awful lot like blackmail, Mr. Moran.”

“I prefer to think of it as leverage. There's some dirty cops in the depart—”

“Dirty cops?” He bowed up like a goose on a rampage. “You got any proof of that?”

I waited on him to finish the question with the word
boy,
saying, of course, in a slow country drawl. When he didn't, I continued. “Ryce McCallen was conducting an investigation into the department when he died. He'd gathered a lot of evidence before he was killed. I was hired to finish the investigation. And to prove Ryce's death wasn't a suicide.”

Oshay studied me for a long while before speaking. “Ryce was a good cop.” He didn't say anything more, or anything less. Everything I needed to know was in the tone of his voice. I could trust him.

“Mark Peterson and Averitt McCoy hung him like a horse thief in his own backyard. His twelve-year-old son found him,” I said, purposely implanting the mental image of Tatum trying to save his father.

“We found the rope in the back of McCoy's truck that they used to hang Ryce with,” Rodney said.

Oshay sighed, sounding like a tire with a slow leak. “And you've got proof?”

Rodney nodded. “DNA proof.”

“But why?” Oshay shook his head.

“Mark Peterson and Averitt McCoy are trafficking teenage girls. Ryce was on to it and had gathered a lot of evidence before he was killed.”

Oshay held a hand up. “Wait a minute. You're saying Peterson and McCoy are involved with human trafficking?”

“Over the last three years, eight girls have gone missing from around the area. All Hispanic. All illegals,” I answered.

“And their parents are too scared to push the police for a report—” Rodney began.

“So there's no paper trail,” Oshay said, finally seeming to understand. “How did Ryce know about this?”

“The younger sister of one of the missing girls told Tatum McCallen she was afraid that what happened to her sister would happen to her. Tatum asked Ryce if he could do anything to help.”

“And you think the sheriff was involved?” Oshay glared at the ugly pictures still spread on the table.

I raised my shoulders in a slight shrug. “I don't know how
involved
the sheriff was—but I believe he did know what was going on. I think Mark Peterson knew about the sheriff's fondness for young boys and used it as a way to control him.”

Rodney cleared his throat. “Jim … we don't know how deep this thing goes. We don't know how many people in the department may be involved. And we don't even know who's in charge out there right now. For that reason, Gypsy's going to turn the evidence over to the Rangers' office. The entire department may be under tight scrutiny for a while.”

Oshay sighed again and the tire had gone flat. At that moment, he had given all he could give. Except my ID.

I held out my hand and smiled sympathetically. “Can I have my ID back now?”

*   *   *

We spent the next four hours in Denny's blood-spattered office with Rick Ramirez from the Rangers' division office. Ramirez had sent Rodney to Fidelity Bank to collect the contents of the lockbox after I handed over the key. The dearly departed Sheriff Denny had been right—everything we needed to prove Mark Peterson was a scumbag was in that metal box. Recorded conversations between Denny and Peterson, some with mentions of Claire accepting money for providing the girls, along with pictures of Peterson and Averitt McCoy handing off black-haired girls to greasy looking thugs, and an obviously forged letter from Burke McCallen to the sheriff requesting no autopsy on Ryce. There was also a small evidence bag with a spent slug in it. I didn't need to test it to know it was the slug they accused Hector Martinez of firing into Burke's back. Rodney had also brought in the rope retrieved from McCoy's truck while I handed over Ryce's files along with the financial records I had accumulated. As far as I was concerned, my job was done. There was enough evidence in Ramirez's hands to reclassify Ryce's death as a homicide, which meant insurance would pay out and Tatum and Burke could stay in the house. The missing girls were a much deeper issue. For Tatum's sake, I figured I might take a closer look at Alana Esconderia's disappearance. Her family, like the others, deserved an answer. Even if it was one they didn't want to hear.

The early signs of a pounding headache were creeping up the back of my neck as Ramirez, Oshay, and Rodney watched the video of Denny blowing his brains out. They watched it over and over and over again as if each new viewing would change the outcome. Each time I heard the
pop,
I saw the white explosion turn crimson red in my mind. Saw the horror on Sophia's face as she came to realize what happened. I blamed her for the oncoming headache. I was worried about her.

Ramirez and Oshay interviewed her briefly but wouldn't let me talk to her, taking the “separate the witnesses” game a little too far for my liking. While Ramirez, Oshay, and Rodney watched the video, I peered at the growing crowd through the side of the blinds covering the windows in Denny's office. The wooden-planked blinds were drawn to deter the photographers and overly curious from seeing parts of Denny's brain embedded in the yellow stucco wall.

I could see my van through the crowd but Sophia's little red Mercedes was gone. I wondered if she went home or if she was at the
Odessa Record
begging the editor for front page above the fold.

I tried her cell for the hundredth time and again it went to voice mail. I'd already left enough messages to classify myself as a stalker, so I ended the call. I finally called the office. The receptionist transferred me to Sophia's desk, then came back and told me the call was going straight to voice mail; did I want to leave a message? No, I didn't want to leave a message. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to see her.

I turned away from the window and looked at Ranger Rick. “Do you need me anymore?”

He scanned over everything we had presented, then slowly shook his head. “I think you're good for tonight. I'll probably bring McCoy in for questioning tomorrow morning.”

McCoy was the weak link and even Ramirez could see it. If he could get McCoy to roll on Peterson, Peterson's fate would be sealed.

“Peterson might try and run. Especially if he thinks he's boxed in.” I didn't want to question Ramirez's ability but I didn't want Peterson vacationing in the south of France, either.

Ramirez smiled. “We've got him. I've got your cell number if I need you. By the way, there's some good work here. Get licensed in Texas and we can use you.”