“THANKS FOR COMING, Rory.”
I walk into the office of Captain David Kane, the boss I’ve been answering to while my lieutenant’s position has been vacant. The Texas Ranger division headquarters in Austin is about ninety minutes from the Waco office, where I work, and another twenty from Redbud, where I live. But I woke up early and made the drive comfortably, listening to the radio and hoping to hear a song from my ex-girlfriend Willow Dawes. We’re still friends, and I get a kick every time I hear her songs on the radio.
This morning I heard two.
“Congratulations,” David says, pumping my fist in a vigorous handshake. “It’s nice to see the Rangers on the leaderboard from the charity event.”
He gestures for me to sit across from him, and he eases behind his desk into his cushioned leather chair. His office is spotless, the oak desk adorned with only a computer monitor, keyboard, and telephone. Shelves on the wall hold pictures of the captain with various Texas dignitaries: Governor George W. Bush, Matthew McConaughey. Behind his chair is a large window, and on each side of it is an upright flagpole—the American flag hanging on one side, Texas on the other.
David is in his late fifties with the big frame of a once muscular man. Even though Father Time has caught up with him, you still wouldn’t want to mess with him. He used to intimidate me when I first joined the Rangers, but I’ve come to see him as a mentor. He asked me to make the drive to Austin today so he could go over what would happen at the Medal of Valor ceremony, but after a few minutes it becomes clear that’s not the real reason.
“Have you ever thought about moving up within the Rangers?” David asks, his gray eyes boring into me. “Why haven’t you taken the lieutenant’s exam?”
“I’ve thought about it,” I say, “but the timing never feels right.”
He nods. “I think the timing is right now.”
There are only 166 Rangers in the whole Texas Ranger Division, spread out over the 268,000 square miles within the state boundaries—an area slightly bigger than France. Most of us are simply Rangers: top-notch investigators who help Texas’s small municipalities and big cities solve crimes. Three lieutenants lead each of the state’s six companies. At headquarters in Austin, we also have a few majors and captains, as well as the chief.
David tells me that he thinks the sky is the limit for my career. They’ve recently filled Kyle Hendricks’s lieutenant position, but he wants me to be ready for the next opening so I can start my ascension as soon as possible.
“You’ll be sitting in this office one day,” he says, tapping the polished surface of his desk. “Hell, maybe you’ll be chief.”
I’m filled with both apprehension and pride. A promotion would be an honor, of course, but I don’t know if it’s right for me. I’m a detective, not a supervisor of detectives. Would becoming lieutenant—and maybe captain someday—really be the best way for me to serve Texas?
I tell him I’ll give what he’s saying some thought, and before I leave, he asks if there’s anything I want to talk to him about.
“Actually, sir, there is,” I say, clearing my throat. “At the competition over the weekend, I met a detective from the Tigua Indian reservation. Apparently they’ve got an active missing person case at the Ysleta del Sur Pueblo. Is there anything we can do to help?”
David sits back in his chair, filling his cheeks and exhaling loudly.
“Did she go missing from the reservation?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He seems relieved. “There ain’t much we can do if it’s on Indian land. And frankly I wouldn’t want to get involved even if there was. Cases on reservations get bogged down in a quagmire of agencies: tribal police, FBI, BIA, maybe the sheriff’s department in adjoining counties. If it’s drugs or guns, you’ve got the DEA and ATF to deal with. Lots of red tape. Lots of fighting over who’s got jurisdiction. When a case gets solved, everybody wants to take credit. When a crime goes unsolved, everybody’s to blame. It’s a goddamn mess—I don’t think throwing the Rangers into the mix would help much.”
He goes on to explain what I already know—that Congress has recently created a task force to focus on cases involving missing Native American women.
“My advice is don’t get involved.”
As I leave his office, I feel disappointed. I don’t know the details of this missing person case. And there is no shortage of cases throughout Texas where the Rangers can be a big help—where I’m wanted and can be of some use. But the truth is part of me wants to prove Ava Cruz wrong. I’d like to show her that the Rangers can be her ally.
I walk out into the parking lot. The sun is already hot, the air thick with humidity. I stop at my truck, reluctant to climb aboard.
My captain told me to leave this alone, but I haven’t always been the best at following orders. And right now I’m the golden boy of the Texas Rangers—he said so himself that the sky is the limit for my career—so if there’s a time when I can get away with disregarding my mentor’s advice, now is probably it.
But do I really want to jeopardize all the goodwill my supervisors are throwing my way? This is just like me—get a step ahead only to sabotage myself and take two steps back.
But I can’t help myself.
I turn around and walk back into the building.
I stalk around the offices, looking for one person in particular. Finally, I find the office with CARLOS CASTILLO on the nameplate. I knock and crack the door open.
“Hey, Carlos, you got a minute?”
The man behind the desk is thin with a rangy build, skinny but scrappy-looking. He is in his early forties, but his unlined face could pass for a decade younger, and his ink-black hair is trimmed close to his scalp, without a single gray hair in sight.
He looks up from a file and says, “Sure, Yates. What can I do for you?”
“Can I buy you lunch?”
He checks his watch. “It’s nine thirty in the morning.”
“Cup of coffee?”
He gives me a discerning look, no doubt wondering what I’ve got on my mind. He had already been a Ranger for a few years when I was hired, and our paths have only crossed a handful of times since then.
He nods and picks up his Stetson. He wears a Colt 1911 on his hip. Rangers are issued SIG Sauers, like the one I wear, but we’re given the latitude to choose another pistol to carry if we want.
“How about a beer?” he says. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Then his stone face cracks, and a big smile appears.
“Just kidding,” he says, and lets out a laugh. “I’ll drive.”