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.

“Mrs. Denny’s avoiding something at home,” I said.

Sophia glanced at the printout, then looked to me to explain. “Why do you say that?”

“Look at all the stuff she’s involved in. She’s either making amends for something that’s going on at home or she’s avoiding having to be at home. Or maybe both.”

Sophia was skeptical. “Why can’t she just be a good person with too much energy?”

I shrugged. “She could be, I suppose. But if I were a betting man, I’d say she’s making good to make up for something bad. The daughters moved out of state. They live close to one another but left Mom and Dad in the dust.”

“Maybe their jobs took them out of state.”

I pulled the laptop over and keyed in the first daughter’s name. Within a few seconds, I had her complete profile. “She’s a restaurant manager. She could do that in Texas.” I pulled up the second daughter’s info. “The youngest one is a graphic artist. There’s plenty of design firms in Texas.”

Sophia gnawed on the inside of her lip, not wanting to admit my theory had a basis. “Maybe they just raised independent daughters.”

“Possibly. But I don’t think so. The oldest daughter is thirty-five, the youngest is thirty-two. Their baby-making clocks are ticking and neither really has the kind of career you’d have to choose between family or work. Why no kids? Why no husbands?”

Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Do you even know how sexist that is?”

I think we were about to have our first real fight. But I wasn’t going to backpedal to soften the truth. “Yes—I know it’s sexist and archaic. But it’s the truth, Sophia. There’s a reason these two women are living where they’re living, aren’t married, and have no children.”

“Yeah, and the reason may be they simply don’t want to be married and don’t want kids. Not every woman dreams of the white picket fence and a dozen snot-nosed kids running around.”

I threw my hands up to calm the storm. “I’m just saying there’s usually a reason why they don’t want it.”

“Yeah—they just don’t want it.” Her voice was raised. I’d not only touched a nerve, I’d severed it. “Wow. I’d never have guessed you to be so blatantly chauvinistic.”

“All I’m saying is, where the Denny sisters are concerned, I’d be willing to bet the reason has something to do with Daddy. There’s a reason people want or don’t want things. Do you have kids? A husband?”

She sprang up off the bed and I actually flinched. I thought for a moment she was either going for the jugular or upside my head. “Whoa,” she said, jamming her hands on her hips. “Ground rule number one, we’re not going there. Have I asked you how long you’ve been screwing Claire Sellars?”

I could hear my heart beating in the silence. We stared at each other for a long while, each trying to grasp what had just happened. Was she trying to make a point that I had treaded into a topic that was off-limits? Or was the investigative journalist in her curious because she had investigated the senator and his wife? Or was she actually a little interested in who I was sleeping with?

I finally looked away from her and pretended to read Denny’s schedule again. “Okay … it looks like he’s got a Rotary Club meeting tonight. So, um, here’s the game plan. We pick up the tail at the Sheriff’s Department, and stay with him until he’s tucked away nice and safe at home.”

She nodded quickly, then casually sat back down on the bed. “And how long do we do this?” I thought I detected a slight quiver in her voice. Miss Cool-as-a-Cucumber was flustered. It was kind of cute. It took every ounce of restraint I could muster to not comment on it.

“We’ll do it a few nights and if nothing happens, we’ll switch gears and go to plan B.”

“And what’s plan B?”

I grinned. “Well, if plan A works, we won’t need plan B, will we?”

She nodded. “You don’t have a plan B, do you?”

I shook my head. We were easing back into our comfort zones and I liked it. Maybe it was going to be a good night after all.