CHAPTER 10

It was approaching 5:00 A.M. when I pulled into Rhonda’s driveway. All I wanted to do was crawl into a decent bed and catch a couple hours’ sleep. Claire and I had made love the rest of the night, never mentioning what’s his name or how wrong it was for us to be there, or how right it was.

I climbed out of the van and stumbled up the walk, then quietly opened the door. Or tried to. I tried it again as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake Rhonda or Gram. I finally jiggled the knob—it was locked. She had locked me out!

I thought of going around to her bedroom and banging on the window but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture so I stumbled back to the van, laid the seat back as far as it would go, and tried to get an hour in before the dawn broke. Damn her. Damn Claire. And damn Gina Gilleni. Damn women in general. If Gina hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed I wouldn’t have had to leave Vegas, I wouldn’t have run into Claire and slept with a married woman, and I wouldn’t be sleeping in a van in my sister’s driveway because she was pissed and locked the door.

It was miserable hot even with the windows down and I was hungry to boot. We never did eat dinner and my stomach was protesting. I didn’t want to crank the engine and run the air out of fear of some freak leak somewhere that would pump the van full of carbon monoxide.

I was totally drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. Either I dozed off or passed out from hunger and heat exhaustion because the last thing I remembered before my eyes closed was cussing Rhonda for everything she was worth. And now here she was in a tank top and pajama shorts standing beside the van, arms folded across her chest, jaw set firm. I batted my eyes against the painful sunshine and struggled to sit up, reminding myself of an old man trying to get out of a recliner.

“What time is it?” I asked, my throat as parched as the Texas landscape.

“Seven-thirty. I’ve got the coffee on.” She turned on her heel and stomped back to the house.

I didn’t want coffee. I wanted a real bed with a real pillow in a cold room. I forced my legs to carry me inside. Rhonda was stationed at the arch between the kitchen and living room, sipping a cup of coffee through the scowl on her face.

“I’ll grab a cup later,” I mumbled. “Right now I’m goin’ grab a few hours of sleep. How about waking me up around ten?” I did need to drive back up to Odessa and visit with Sophia Ortez again.

She pursed her lips and nodded, then asked coldly, “How was your dinner?”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the coming lecture. “It was nice.”

She nodded again. “I bet. Next time check yourself in the mirror before heading out. Your shirt’s on inside out.”

I was so busted.

*   *   *

At 10:15, Rhonda flipped open the blinds and smacked my bare feet. “Up and at ’em.”

I squeezed my eyes closed against the light.

“Tatum called and wanted to know if you needed him today.” She sat a fresh cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

Tatum. My sidekick. I grumbled, then sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I pushed my fingers through my mussed-up hair. It was damp with sweat and sticky with fluids I was too much of a gentleman to identify. “Tell Tatum he has the day off. Tell him I said to take Alvedia swimming, cool off those pubescent hormones.”

Rhonda laughed. “He’d probably like that except he can’t swim.”

I glanced at her then took a long drink of coffee. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Seriously. He’s terrified of water. One of the kids had an end-of-school pool party and I thought the poor kid was goin’ to have a heart attack.”

I thought all kids these days could swim. What’d I know?

“Rodney’ll be home this afternoon,” Rhonda said. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, a sure indication there was more to the statement than what was said.

I sighed. “You want me to get a motel room?”

Her eyes flew wide and she quickly shook her head. “No—that’s not what I meant.”

Thank God. I didn’t know if I could stand another night on a motel bed.

She tugged on her right ear, a habit she’d had since she was a kid when something was weighing on her mind.

“Okay … so Rodney will be home this afternoon. And that means…?”

“Remember I told you he didn’t want me to get involved with Ryce’s death,” she said in a small voice, still gnawing on her lip.

I recalled the conversation and nodded. “He told you to leave it alone.”

She gazed at me with pitiful eyes. I took another long drink of coffee, considering our options. Did I help her keep a secret from her husband? Between her, Claire, and the recently deceased Gina Gilleni, I wondered if I was wearing a sign on my back saying TRUST ME, I WON’T TELL YOUR HUSBAND.

I let out a long breath. “He told you to leave it alone. He didn’t tell me to.”

Her eyes lit up and matched her tentative smile. “You’ll cover for me?”

I draped my arm around her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I won’t tell your husband your little secret if you won’t lecture me about Claire.”

“Uh—Gypsy! That’s not fair.” She punched my shoulder. “Someone has to talk some sense into that head of yours about that woman.”

It wasn’t my head that needing talking to. “That’s the deal, baby. Take it or I spill my guts as soon as he walks through the door.”

She sprung up from the bed and stomped out of the room, mumbling something about me being evil.

I grabbed a quick shower, then powered up the laptop at the kitchen table. Gram was at the table eating some graham crackers with peanut butter. She looked like a dog trying to lick peanut butter from the roof of its mouth. Must be a bitch getting old.

I Googled the phone number for the Odessa Record, then punched the number in my cell. I listened to the dial-by-name directory, then pressed Sophia Ortez’s extension.

“This is Sophia Ortez,” she said on the second ring.

“Miss Ortez—Gypsy Moran. We met earlier in the week.”

“Ah, Mr. Moran. The private investigator. What can I do for you?”

“Have lunch with me. I have a story you might be interested in.”

She hesitated before saying anything. “Does it involve Sergeant McCallen?”

“Not directly. Remember that Pulitzer you were chasing? This story might get you noticed.”

“You’re goin’ to have to tell me more than that.”

“Trust me—it’ll go national.”

“Trust you? I don’t even know you. You’re goin’ to have to give me a reason to cancel my lunchtime hair appointment.”

I grinned. Miss Ortez was pretty sharp. “Eight missing girls and a human trafficking ring. That enough to pique your interest?”

“Missing from this area? Why haven’t we heard anything about it before now?”

“My point exactly.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “The Rojo Grande, one o’clock.”

“I’ll see you there.”

We hung up and I map-searched the address, then keyed it into my phone’s GPS. I then searched for Reeves County Detention Center and clicked on the Web site. I did an inmate search for Hector Martinez. There were twelve inmates named Hector Martinez so I narrowed the search by age. There were five between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, but only one pulling time for attempted murder and assault on a law-enforcement officer. Hector Martinez was in gen-pop with no altercations so paying him a visit tomorrow shouldn’t be an issue.

I gathered up Ryce’s files and the copies I had made of Peterson’s and McCoy’s finances and personal information, and gave Rhonda a peck on the cheek. “I’m off to Odessa. I’ll check in later.”

She glared at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to be here for dinner … or do you have other plans? I’m not lecturing. Just asking.”

“Lecturing about what?” Gram asked. “Did he get laid?”

“I’ll be here.” I grinned. Although, truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to the Crock-Pot mystery meat that never made it past simmer. Besides, I needed a night to recover. Last night proved I wasn’t seventeen anymore.

*   *   *

The Rojo Grande was, as expected, a barn-shaped building the color of ripe tomatoes. The sign out front guaranteed the BEST TEX-MEX IN TOWN! Sophia was seated on the leather bench beside the hostess stand and smiled slightly when I entered. She was wearing white capris and a sleeveless black top, the top button strategically unbuttoned. I liked Sophia Ortez. She knew how to play the game. Any other time, I would have considered playing along, but at the moment, I didn’t have the energy to even flirt.

The hostess seated us at a back booth, handed us the menus, and said the waitress Tammy would be with us in a minute.

“So, tell me about these eight missing girls,” she said, direct and to the point. No fooling around with this gal. Maybe that top button was unbuttoned because it was 112 freaking degrees outside.

“All between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. All illegals.”

She nodded. “So there’s no paper trail or way to identify them.”

“Exactly.”

“And you have proof of this?”

Tammy the waitress hustled over to take our order. Sophia ordered a chicken and black bean special; I ordered the pollo adobado and an extra glass of water.

“Do I have proof?” I said after Tammy had left. “Yes and no.”

She glared at me with the eyes of a trained skeptic. “I’m not going to win that Pulitzer with a story I can’t prove.”

“It’s a complicated situation, Sophia.”

She nodded, unimpressed. “Life in general’s complicated.” She glanced at the thin gold watch on her wrist. “You have thirty minutes to un-complicate it.”

I leaned into the booth, speaking quietly. “Remember when you were in Wink and were told to forget about the Burke McCallen story?”

She stared at me, unflinching.

“Why do you think you were told to ignore one of the biggest news stories in the area?”

“My editor wanted to present happy news. The shooting of a cop didn’t fit his editorial philosophy.”

“Bullshit. You know the reason he wouldn’t run it.”

She huffed and sat back in the booth, pressing her back against the soft leather. “It’s like I told you the other day—the information wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“Exactly. And why do you think that is?”

She looked away and stared at the two teenage girls in the booth across from us. “So you’re chasing a conspiracy theory.”

I patted Ryce’s files. “It’s not a theory. I just need a little help proving it.”

Tammy brought our lunch, laid the ticket at the corner of my plate, then went to refill the two teenagers’ drinks.

“Are there claims of UFOs in that folder, too?” She dug into her lunch.

I laughed and shook my head. “No UFOs. Just a crap load of police corruption at its worst.”

I told her everything I had learned so far about Peterson and McCoy, Sheriff Gaylord Denny’s long-reaching arms, and Ryce’s death. I told her about Hector Martinez and Alvedia, and about the eight missing girls.

She studied the files with interest, then asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Do what you’ve been trained to do—start digging for the truth.”

She grinned, then pushed her empty plate aside. “No offense, but aren’t you a private investigator?”

I returned the smile and laughed softly. “At least that’s what it says on my business cards.” I finished off the hot-as-hell chicken concoction and drained my third glass of water. Once my tongue had cooled, I leaned into the booth to explain the situation. “Look, I need help because I’m not licensed in Texas. I haven’t checked into the state’s reciprocity laws yet, but I need help from someone in an investigative field.”

“And what about any evidence you gather? It won’t be admissible in court and could cause charges to be brought against you.”

I scratched my head. “I’m working on all that.”

She nodded slowly, apparently not believing me. She was smart as well as gorgeous. “Why don’t you just go to the Rangers’ office? Investigating corruption is one of the things they do best.”

“I will. When I’ve got a nice, neat little package all wrapped up for them.” I motioned for Tammy to refill my water. “Look, whether or not you ever write a story about this is totally up to you. But I want the sheriff and his two henchmen to think someone’s digging around for a story. People get sloppy when they get a little nervous. Sooner or later, they mess up. It’s human nature.”

“And you want to be there when they mess up.”

I grinned. “Camped out in the van with the cameras rolling.”