CHAPTER 8

Rhonda called my cell as I was climbing into the van, heading back to her house. “Yeah,” I said as I buckled up.

“Why is there a UPS truck in my driveway?”

“Oh! My clothes are finally here. Sign for it. I’ll be there in a minute.” I ended the call and backed out of Tatum’s driveway with Jasper furiously nipping at the wheels. Dumb dog. He finally gave up once I hit the pavement, standing at the edge of the yard, barking his fool head off.

A few minutes later, I pulled into Rhonda’s driveway. The UPS truck was gone, leaving behind several large boxes and an irritated Rhonda.

I barely got out of the van before she started. “Gypsy—what is all this?”

“It’s my shorts. I couldn’t fit everything into the van.”

“How many pairs do you have?”

I rolled my eyes at her. “It’s my shorts and other worldly possessions.”

She glared at the boxes. “I thought you were just here on vacation?”

“Really, Rhonda, who goes to west Texas in August for vacation? Can you give me a hand?”

I hoisted up a box and carried it inside, carrying it back to the guest bedroom, my room, so she couldn’t blame me for cluttering the living room. She was standing in the same spot when I went back outside, still staring at the boxes. “Gypsy—why is everything you own packed in boxes? And why are those boxes in my front yard?”

“Are you just goin’ to stand there or are you goin’ to help?” I picked up another box and handed it to her. She struggled under the weight, so I took it from her and carried it inside myself.

Seven boxes total were scattered around the bedroom. Rhonda had moved inside and now stood in the doorway staring at the boxes. She peeled back the top of one and peered inside. Of course of all the boxes there for her to look through, she had to open the one with a framed picture of Claire lying on top. She took the picture out, stared at it a moment, then tossed it back inside the box. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Yes!” I found my shorts and other clothes tucked underneath a Navajo blanket.

“Gypsy?”

I spun around and looked at her. God love her. She did look confused. I sighed, then took a deep breath. “Look, Rhonda, it’ll just be a little while. I promise. Maybe a few weeks.”

She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “Gypsy, it’s not that I mind you being here, but why are you here? What is all this?” She swept her arm over the boxes. “This looks like you’ve left Vegas for good.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed wondering how I was going to explain this. The less she knew, the better. For her own sake. “I needed to get out of town for a little while.”

Her shoulders dropped and she blew a deep breath. “Oh God, Gypsy. What did you do?” She plopped down beside me on the bed.

“Nothing illegal. You’re not harboring a fugitive or anything so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“About that? What do I need to worry about?”

I looked at her for a moment, then stared at the boxes that held my life. “I’d never put you in the line of fire. You should know that. I’m the big brother, remember?”

“So, in other words, you can’t tell me why you’re here, who you’re obviously running from, or why they won’t track you down to my house. Great, just freaking great.” She leapt up and started out of the room.

“Rhonda—just trust me on this, okay? I’ll tell you the whole sordid story when the time’s right.”

She stood in the doorway with her back to me and slowly nodded. “You keep way too many secrets, Gypsy.”

She was probably right. But odd as it was, it was the secret I didn’t keep that got me into this mess.

I traded my jeans for a pair of plaid shorts, then threw on a fresh T-shirt and my leather sandals. The new ensemble was so energizing, I felt like I’d just downed one of the high-energy drinks I lived on during a long surveillance. I bounded out to the van to retrieve Ryce’s file, then set up the laptop at the kitchen table.

Gram shuffled into the kitchen, then carried the cookie jar from the counter over to the table. She offered me a cookie as she settled in to watch me work. Within a few minutes, I had access to everything a person would ever want to know about another person. I went for phone numbers and addresses first, did a reverse lookup on the phone number scribbled on the inside of the folder, then sat staring at the name. It didn’t surprise me. Mark Peterson. One of the deputies on the scene when Ryce died. So Peterson had called Ryce about an hour before he died. To tell him what? Details about a case they were working? About a hot girl at the diner? Or to lure him home?

I went to a different program and did a quick background check on Mr. Peterson. He was born in El Paso, thirty-eight years old, married to Susan Peterson, no kids. He’d been with the Winkler County Sheriff’s Department ten years. Prior to that, he spent five years with the Border Patrol. No demerits, not even a speeding ticket.

I switched programs and did a more advanced search, digging deep into his financials. His tax records indicated his net income was $42,000; Susan pulled in $27,000 as an administrative clerk at Kermit Regional Hospital. Not a bad joint income. Their credit history was clean, nothing out of the ordinary. They paid their few bills on time; their credit-to-debt ratio was minimal. There were no bank notes, no car payments, no mortgage payment. Utilities, insurance, home owners’ association dues, and an American Express with a small balance appeared to be their only bills.

The Petersons’ joint income was good, but not that good. Since when did cops live in a neighborhood with dues? The tax value on their home was $335,000. Impressive home on a cop and a secretary’s salaries. Although they had no kids to support, it didn’t explain their high standard of living.

I hooked up the portable printer and printed the Petersons’ financial information, wondering if he could really be that stupid. Cops on the take get busted everyday for living above their taxable means.

Gram looked over the printout. “Isn’t this illegal?”

“What?”

“What you’re doing. That there’s personal information.”

“That’s what I get paid to do, Gram. Find out stuff like this.”

“But they ain’t paying you for this job, are they?”

She had a point. I snatched the paper from her hand, then stuffed it in Ryce’s file. I then did a search on Averitt McCoy, the second deputy on the scene. He was a fifteen-year veteran with Winkler County, and had spent ten years before that—also with the Border Patrol. I went back and compared McCoy’s stint with the patrol to Peterson’s. There was a one-year overlap, so Peterson and McCoy did work for the patrol at the same time. They had left the patrol at different times and migrated to Winkler County.

McCoy’s finances had been pitiful. Poor guy had been in debt up to his eyeballs. An ex-wife collecting alimony and child support for three little McCoys, a mortgage for a house he no longer lived in, and a car payment for a car he no longer drove. Up until two years ago, he ran thirty to sixty days late on rent and credit cards and paid his utilities by cutoff notices. Over the last year, McCoy had cleaned up his act—or come into more money. I checked his tax returns for a noticeable increase, but there was none. Standard cost of living, maybe a merit increase, a little overtime could easily explain the difference. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Could this whole thing really be that simple? Two cops on the take. Two stupid cops. I needed to give these two a serious lesson in covering their asses. I hated to waste the paper for blatant stupidity but printed all the information I had found on Peterson and McCoy and added it to Ryce’s file.

I then logged on to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children Web site, keyed in my password, and did a search of each of the girls in Ryce’s file. Not a single girl was registered. It disappointed me but it didn’t surprise me. Peterson and McCoy had a nice little racket going and I wondered how much Gaylord Denny knew? Did he know and look the other way? Or was he the ringleader? The parents of these girls were terrified to press the issue, to demand an investigation, or to raise hell until they received proof someone was looking for their daughters.

Had Ryce tapped into something others knew about but ignored? If so, it made them just as dirty as Peterson and McCoy, and Gaylord Denny.

Denny had to know. If he didn’t, Peterson and McCoy were a lot smarter than I had originally thought.

Rhonda padded into the kitchen. “Gram—what are you eating? You know your sugar’s going to get out of whack.” She grabbed up the cookie jar and returned it to the counter. Gram looked at me and rolled her eyes, then pretended to pout.

“Do y’all want a sandwich?” Rhonda asked.

“An old woman’s got to eat and since you took my cookies away, I guess I better eat a sandwich.”

I grinned, then drove the balls of my hands deep into my eyes to combat the fatigue. I either needed glasses or a laptop with a larger screen. “I’m good, but thanks anyway.”

Rhonda lifted the lid on the Crock-Pot and stabbed the mystery meat with a fork, then frowned. “Hmm. This thing’s still tough as nails.”

I closed my eyes, wondering if I really wanted to get involved. Then I realized if I wanted something other than the special down at Dunbar’s, I probably needed to investigate. I walked over to the counter, then bit my lip to curtail the laughter. “You’ve got to cook it before you can simmer it.”

“The instructions said to cook it slow,” she said pitifully.

I turned the dial up. “Slow is normally six to eight hours, not three days.”

I reconsidered the sandwich. Whatever was in that pot wouldn’t be done before midnight.

“Maybe we should just order a pizza for dinner tonight,” she said, obviously understanding the situation. “We can save this for tomorrow night.”

I nodded, in full agreement.

I drug out the bread, mayo, and a pack of sliced turkey and was fixing the three of us a sandwich when the phone rang. Rhonda picked the phone up off the charger and stared at the caller ID, frowned, then set her jaw and tossed the phone at me. “I believe it’s for you,” she snipped, then pushed me out of the way to finish the sandwiches.

“Yeah,” I answered on the fifth ring.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were really here,” Claire said, her voice as sweet as a lullaby.

I glanced at Rhonda, then quickly turned away, feeling the heat rise in my face.

“I thought it might have been a dream,” Claire cooed.

“Or a nightmare,” I quipped.

She laughed and I could see her tossing her head back, her eyes sparkling with amusement. After a moment, she asked, “Still want to get together tonight for dinner?”

My head was telling me every reason why I shouldn’t; my heart was telling me every reason why I should. “Uh, sure.” I glanced at Rhonda, then slowly migrated toward the living room. “Where and when?”

“There’s a roadhouse called Grigg’s near Monahans. Around seven good with you?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see you again.”

I stared up at the living room ceiling wondering what in the hell I was doing. “Me too.”

“I’ll see you at seven.”

“Yeah … I’ll see you then.” I clicked the phone off and stood there a minute before going back into the kitchen. I returned the phone to the charger without saying anything to Rhonda.

She slammed my and Gram’s sandwiches on the table, then stuffed the bread back in the bin, shoved the mayo and turkey back in the fridge, and slammed the refrigerator door. “I guess you’re seeing her tonight?”

“Oh hell,” Gram mumbled.

“We’re having dinner. I won’t come home crying, I promise. No tears, see?” I moved in front of her, grinning, pointing at my eyes.

Rhonda wasn’t amused. She turned away and pulled three glasses from the cabinet and slammed them on the counter.

“Rhonda—it’s just dinner, for crying out loud.” I was a grown man—I could handle whatever Claire Kinley dished out.

With her back to me, Rhonda said, “You do know she’s married?”

That I couldn’t handle.

“Oh hell,” Gram said again.

Rhonda spun around and glared at me. “She did tell you that she’s married, didn’t she?”

“Of course she did,” I lied. “As a matter of fact, he’s joining us for dinner.”

She stared at me with a growing fury, then laughed sarcastically. “He’s joining you for dinner. Really? He’s coming all the way from Austin just for dinner?”

I thought it best not to invent anything else at the moment since it was obvious I had no idea what I was talking about. “Rhonda—it’s just dinner.”

She laughed a laugh that was birthed from Satan. “Yeah. Just dinner. Tell me that again in the morning.”