Look Before You Jump (15 page)

“Don’t talk to me,” I muttered, squinting
behind my sunglasses and ducking beneath the ball cap bill to avoid
the early morning sun.

Might as well call me a vampire ‘cause at
this rate I’d shrivel up the moment the rays touched any part of my
physiology. Early mornings and I have never gone together in any
sphere, universe, or alternate dimension. I’m a mistress of the
night – yeah, we all know by now, in more ways than one, right?
Bite me.

“Good morning to you too,” Zeke offered as I
swept by him and stormed across the parking lot to his extended
cab.

When I tried to open the door, resistance
sent me reeling toward the asphalt until Zeke stopped my backward
progress. Arms I’d once found delightful wrapped around my body.
But not today. Like an inebriated date, I jerked from his embrace
and stumbled against the frame. The click of locks hardly concealed
Zeke’s chuckle as he peeled me aside and opened the truck door.

“Asshole,” I muttered, inspecting a couple of
broken nails.

“Coffee’s on the dash.”

That sent me scrambling up into the truck
faster than you can say
chocolate
. I barely tasted the brew
until I’d drained over half the extra-large cup, and Zeke had us
dodging traffic along I-35 headed south. With my brain beginning
the journey toward semi-consciousness, I checked around the floor
and console.

“What? No breakfast?”

Zeke threw a glance over his shoulder before
nudging between two rigs barreling down in the left lane. It felt
like we were a soft, gooey center about to be smashed between two
hard cookies ala Oreo.

“I wanna get clear of the worst of this mess
first,” Zeke said. “We’ll stop at a café between Hillsboro and
Waco.”

“Oh huh-uh,” I said. “I know what
between
means to you, Zeke Taylor. If you don’t want your
precious truck wearing a revisit of the coffee I’ve already
swallowed, you will not make me wait ‘til Waco.”

“Lean back and take a nap then.”

“After drinking an extra-large Big Z special
blend that’s strong enough to rot a hole through my empty gut?”

“Why’d you drink the damn thing so fast?”
Zeke punctuated his frustration with a sharp mash to the brake to
avoid sliding beneath the leading rig’s undercarriage.

I braced against the dash to keep from
becoming road kill. “Because with the way you drive, it’d end up
wasted on the floorboards otherwise.”

“Before or after the revisit?”

“I need food,” I demanded. “Sooner would be
better than later.”

Mutterings punctuated with a word or two
unfit for feminine ears emanated from the driver’s seat. Taking a
brief opening in traffic, Zeke weaved the Raptor to the right
between a flashy little Lexus and an RV on its last lug nut. A
couple of miles down the road, and he’d successfully maneuvered
into the far right-hand lane to exit near the great metropolis of
Italy, Texas. The truck stop sat at the edge of no-man’s land. The
only thing that stared back at us – besides livestock – was an
enormous sign large enough for the International Space Station to
read Earth’s current gas prices and a great big, yellow M.

“Oh, hell no,” I exclaimed. “You are not
taking me to eat at that Mickey D’s.”

“Well I sure as hell ain’t sittin’ here
waitin’ for the steakhouse to open for lunch,” Zeke responded as he
pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine. “It’s the
golden arches now or you can wait until Waco, princess.”

The loud protestations of my belly cinched
it. Grumblings of frustration joined those of my hollow portions as
I climbed from the truck and punctuated my irritation by slamming
the truck door before stomping into what was loosely referred to as
a restaurant.

See why I don’t get up before ten? I’m
usually a nice human being. Honest. It’s just multiple early
mornings in a row with little more than a couple of hours sleep in
between have left me severely depleted. The bitchy needle was
firmly lodged in the red zone. Then there’s the whole thing with
Bobby in jail for murder hanging over my head. Couple that with
spending an entire day in the presence of my ex-boyfriend – can I
get a little sympathy now?

Two heart attack platters and a couple of
scorching-hot coffees later, Zeke and I launched back onto the
interstate, heading south toward our goal.
Our
goal? Hmm. A
reasonably comfortable tummy and a bloodstream pumping with enough
caffeine to put down a rhino had awakened me enough to ask some
reasonably non-bitchy questions.

“I guess I should’ve inquired earlier, but
why exactly am I going with you to Austin?”

Since traffic had grown a bit more reasonable
so had Zeke, all slouched in the seat with his Stetson pushed back,
one arm resting lazily on the steering wheel and the other on the
seat between us. In the old days, I’d have been in that spot where
his hand sat – or propped on the edge of his lap. My pulse took a
slight uptick at the memory. Maybe it was the caffeine flood. Yeah,
that’ll work.

“Gotta job for you,” Zeke said.

“Better not be a blow job,” I mumbled.

He winked. “We’ll save that for later.”

“Ain’t gonna be a later when I leap from this
cab.”

“Grab what’s between your legs.”

“Excuse me?” My squeak could’ve cracked the
windshield.

“Lord Almighty, woman. Underneath the
seat.”

Who was bitchy now? I reached beneath the
seat and produced a soft-sided brown briefcase. This was
interesting. Zeke Taylor, Mr. Cowboy Extraordinaire, carried a
briefcase?

I chuckled. Then I cracked up. Warm tears
trickled down my cheeks and my abs felt like they’d endured too
many crunches before laughter subsided. Maybe it was the sleepy
sillies. “When did you start getting so important you had to get a
briefcase?”

“Just hand it over.” Zeke pointed to the seat
between us. “I always carry one when I have to travel.”

“It doesn’t match your hat or truck,” I
observed.

“I didn’t want a hard case, and this one only
came in brown.”

With his knee in the driving position and one
eye on the road, Zeke rummaged through the case. A glance through a
couple of folders, then he pulled out a manila envelope from
one.

Zeke has an incredible poker face – it’s what
makes him so good at his job. It also makes him a formidable
opponent in the card game. When we’d dated, he was the Company ‘B’
Ranger Station poker champion. Played for the prestige, folks. No
money changed hands.

But when you get personal and in touch with
every inch of someone – and I mean every inch – you pick up on more
than just physical tells. You can feel it when something’s not
right.

“What’s all that?” I asked, pointing at the
briefcase full of folders.

“
My
job,” Zeke grunted, handing me the
envelope.

“Oka-a-ay, what’s this?”

“
Your
job,” he explained. “While I’m
hammering out some security details about the governor’s visit next
week, you’re gonna have a pow-wow with the vital statistics
office.”

“Vital statistics? You mean like birth and
death certificates? Marriage and divorces?”

“Yup.”

I stared at the envelope in my hands then up
at Zeke. “You’re not getting any weird ideas here, are you?”

“Just look through the damn envelope.
Jeez!”

A signed waiver from Bobby. A court order
authorizing a search of Amy’s records. I shivered.

“Amy’s birth and death records?”

“Stick with the birth record,” Zeke
commanded. “We both know how she died.”

That shut me up tighter than a sinner on
Sunday.

***

I’m not sure how much sleep I got, but when I
peeked through one slit to see a myriad of state government
offices, I knew we’d arrived in Austin – minus my skull. A short
nap when the need was so great left my body begging for more and
amplified the misery. It would’ve been better if I hadn’t succumbed
to Mr. Sandman.

A sweaty bottle of Dr. Pepper clouded my
vision. “Rise and shine, princess. Take this dripping caffeine fix
before I toss it.”

“You always know how to sweet talk a girl,” I
grumbled and took a swig.

“It’s a good thing I know what you want when
you wake. I need you on this side of human for a few hours.”

Under normal circumstances, what I wanted
when I awoke next to a good ol’ hunk of man flesh wasn’t fit to
speak aloud. Or write in print. But considering the man beside me
was my ex-boyfriend and a lying, scum-sucking cheater, I had no
trouble restraining myself.

Plus there was the fact we were in his truck
cab. And it was daylight. I have some standards after all.

As I added caffeine to my bloodstream, I
flipped through the envelope’s contents again. “Okay, tell me again
why I’m here.”

“You need a copy of Amy’s birth certificate
and any accompanying documentation.”

I slid the authorization from the envelope.
“And tell me how you got Bobby’s signature.”

Zeke shrugged. “Went to the jail.”

“Wait,” I exclaimed. “Wait, wait, wait. So
you’re telling me Bobby’s parents still haven’t bonded him
out?”

“They’re not exactly in a position to front a
five hundred thousand dollar bond.”

“But their house…”

“Is mortgaged to the hilt and they’re upside
down,” Zeke said.

“But…” I stopped. “Hold on a sec. How do you
know that?”

“I know.”

“But how?” I prodded.

“Look, I know we aren’t seeing each other
anymore, but can you for once just trust me without having to know
every single detail?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Zeke parked the truck in the ensuing silence,
exited his side, then opened the door for me like a gentleman. The
wave of heat off the pavement sucked the air from my lungs. How was
it possible a mere two hundred miles could vary the temperature so
much?

“I still have a question,” I ventured as Zeke
helped me from the truck.

“What is it then?” he asked, running his hand
through his hair like he wanted to yank handfuls from the
roots.

“You went through the trouble of getting all
of this paperwork for a simple copy of a birth certificate. But
that still doesn’t explain why you need little ol’ me to traipse in
there instead of you. There’s a catch here somewhere, and I’m too
tired to figure it out, so spill.”

“This is a Dallas PD matter, not a Ranger
one. You saw how Duncan acted yesterday about someone showing up at
his crime scene.”

“Like a dog protecting the last morsel on his
bone.”

“Exactly. A random murder isn’t under Ranger
jurisdictional mandate. However, drug smuggling is.”

“Drug smuggling? But Amy wasn’t doing drugs.
Her mother was…” The caffeine hit my brain and jump started it in
time for me to put two-and-two together to get four. “You’re
investigating a drug ring, aren’t you?”

“Prudence and the confidential nature of the
case requires I keep my mouth shut and not say anything.” Instead
Zeke offered a curt nod.

“You suspect there’s a tie-in between your
case and Amy’s death then?” I asked.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Zeke started, “at
minimum a circumstantial link will allow me to join the murder
investigation. At best I can pull rank, but that won’t do anything
to keep me in Duncan’s good graces.”

“I’m beginning to see some method to your
madness. But it still doesn’t explain why you need
me
to
help you.”

Zeke sighed. “As big a pain in my ass as you
can be sometimes, you’ve always possessed good observational
skills. Been able to read people and see between the lines, even
though you have an uncanny ability to misconstrue the obvious.”

“Um, thanks…I think?”

“Start small. Ask to see the birth records.
Get copies. Then see where it takes you.” Zeke tapped the envelope
in my hands. “If you need more, this will give you access to every
record they’ve got.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

I stood in the middle of the oven-like
parking lot getting high on asphalt fumes as Zeke swung up into his
truck and drove away. I’m not sure which shocked me more – the kiss
on the head or the roundabout compliment.

Blame it on the asphalt fumes.

Have you ever noticed something about a lot
of low-level government employees? Most of them are lacking in even
the most basic customer service skills, and they have no hitch in
their giddyup. I wonder if it’s something in the water. Maybe
recruiters look for a certain attitude in their handy-dandy hiring
evaluations. All I know is anytime I’ve ever dealt with one, all I
get is little help and plenty of insolence. It isn’t me – is
it?

Don’t answer that.

Like an obedient and mindless worker ant, I
took a position at the end of the line from hell and shuffled
forward a half inch with each passing minute. After an interminable
wait, I finally bellied up to the counter and secured a copy of
Amy’s birth certificate without fuss. I felt like pressing the easy
button until a quick glance revealed no one referenced as father
and the word
amended
in bold caps at the top. Before the
next constituent reached the counter, I forced my way back in. The
greasy guy bumped into me with his beer gut before conceding the
space.

I hoped my shirt had avoided a skid mark.
“Um, this copy says the birth certificate was amended.”

The squat lady behind the counter didn’t even
look at me. “Means there was a change to the record. I can help the
next person.”

“Okay,” I continued, “but I need a copy of
the original.”

“That is the original. Next!”

Beer Gut jostled me again and tried to do the
bump-n-boogie with my hip. I
accidentally
stepped on his toe
with my boot heel.