Sinclair Justice (3 page)

L
ater that evening, in his vast den with its vaulted, crossbeamed ceiling, Ross Sinclair moodily swirled his brandy as he stared into the crackling fireplace. It was tall enough for him to stand inside, so he seldom used it because of the enormous amount of wood required. It was spring, anyway, chilly at night but warmer during the day. Normally even when he was alone, except for his single employee, a cook/housekeeper/valet/butler, he kept the chill at bay with pashmina blankets and a brandy, but tonight he felt cold and discouraged.

The new eighty-inch LED TV on an adjacent wall was off. His expensive custom sound system, boasting discreet speakers throughout the five thousand square foot ranch house, played soft, mournful Celtic music. His favorite when he was feeling low.

Somehow arresting that Rothschild girl—woman, really, as he’d been surprised to see when he looked at her license—had revived unwelcome memories of the past and incited fresh doubts about his future. The hot little brunette with the blond streaks in her lush mane of hair, driving that ungodly expensive red sports car, had reminded him too much of Elaine. Wealthy, spoiled, and selfish, heiress of a wealthy family, she’d broken his heart, propelling him to drop out of graduate school at Yale on the medical school track and, on a wild hair, move to Texas with a fellow Yalie who had family in Amarillo.

 

Almost from the moment he’d set foot in West Texas, he’d loved it. Loved the open spaces, the friendly people, the desert climate, the openness to new ideas. While he missed his family, at twenty-three he knew he didn’t want to stay in school. He had his bachelor’s in political science, which was good enough. If he went back to the sprawling mansion in the Hamptons, his parents would push him to return to Yale, and he was sick of school.

So he stayed. And for a long time, at least, he thrived. It took him a good five years to get settled in the Highway Patrol, another five after that to break into the ranks of the Rangers. Along the way, he’d used an inheritance from his great-aunt, one of the few in the family not scandalized by his desertion from New York, and his own stock market skills, to slowly acquire a hundred-acre parcel and add to it over the years until his ranch was now almost a thousand acres. The recent oil strike had been sheer luck.

He understood the irony. The Sinclairs could trace their New England ancestry back to the
Mayflower
and had birthed a long line of successful tycoons and minor but still respected politicians, and Ross was one of the few of them who didn’t give a flip about money. Yet he’d made more on his own than he’d ever inherited. It was his career that truly challenged him and kept him grounded. He’d seen up close and personal the way money, especially inherited money, corrupted. His fortune was purely an accident of birth and geography. Money was little solace for the missing family and passionate love he’d secretly yearned for all his life. Seeing his friend Chad find it in such an unexpected way had proved that it was, after all, possible to combine The Job with the right woman.

But only the right woman. And he wasn’t an easy match . . .

As for the future, the job he’d always loved had, of late, been more chore than pleasure. He had almost twenty-eight years under his belt now, enough to retire early on a full pension if he chose. Now that his best friend on the force had become a lieutenant and accepted a desk job in Lubbock so he could spend more time with his infant son and wife, Jasmine, he seldom saw Chad Foster. Even the upcoming annual Sinclair reunion, when Ross’s home became a world-class dude ranch, didn’t fill him with his usual anticipation.

As he stared into the amber liquid, he finally admitted part of the problem. The fact was, he was getting old. Pushing fifty-two, he could soon retire if he chose, but he still had a long career ahead of him if he wanted it. The question was, did he still want it? He certainly didn’t need the pension. Not to mention the second inheritance his grandmother was insisting on bequeathing to him over his protests. He’d already decided which charitable organizations to bless.

Irritated at the circular nature of his thoughts, he tossed back the last of his brandy and fetched the San Antonio paper. The headline blared up at him: “Texas Rangers lead hunt for human trafficking ring ending in El Paso.” Tilting the specs he hated onto his nose, Ross read the article. How the hell had Tupperman found out all this proprietary information? He picked up his cell phone and dialed the freelance investigative reporter who’d broken the story. He knew he’d get an answering machine this late, but he had to go on record with his concern. Besides, he golfed sometimes with Curt Tupperman; he even liked the guy.

He minced no words in his message. “Curt, dammit, you know better than to go off half-cocked running a story like that with attribution. One of my assets may be in danger with the cartels, now you blabbed so many details. The cartels have very sophisticated information-gathering techniques, including hackers who can breach your security and get into your files. I want a retraction and a written promise from your publisher not to run anything like this again without clearing it with our office, or so help me, I’ll go to Homeland Security and ask them to bring you all up on charges for interfering in our investigation.” He hung up, not identifying himself because he knew Curt would recognize his voice.

He wadded up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace for kindling. Being a Ranger captain just wasn’t fun anymore. It was bureaucracy, paperwork, soothing the big egos of all the VIPs in various federal departments. Every time he turned around, a new task force was being formed. Turf wars had always been rampant, but just keeping abreast of all the frickin’ laws the Texas legislature loved to pass was a challenge.

And technology.

Everywhere, every day, technology was a curse and a blessing. Like all great advancements, it could be used both for good and for evil. Drones, for example. They’d just received their first one, but he wasn’t sure he trusted either the guy operating it—he still had pimples and looked like a kid using a very fancy video game—much less the legality of the data collected.

Bottom line: He couldn’t keep up even working fourteen-hour days and most weekends.

Glad he’d taken this Saturday off, Ross rubbed his temples, wishing for a cigar, but he’d finally managed to quit smoking totally when Jasmine informed him he couldn’t visit the baby very often if he still smoked. Most people didn’t dictate to Ross Sinclair, but he adored Jasmine, saw how happy she made Chad, and the baby was so much fun, he’d accepted her decree. He’d been meaning to quit anyway. Still, he was about to get up and see where he’d left that last Gurkha Centurion he sometimes still gnawed on, an elite Honduran tobacco that was one of his few vanities, when the doorbell rang.

He knew José had retired for the evening, and he didn’t expect him to come all the way from the top floor just to answer a door twenty feet away from his boss. Still, as a precaution, given all the drug lords he’d pissed off, Ross stuck a Glock in the back of his pants before he opened the door.

He seldom got unannounced visitors, especially this late on a weekend, but when he saw his guest, he was shocked literally speechless.

That Rothschild woman stood there, her hair tangled, her makeup long gone, still dressed in the same, now wrinkled, conservative suit. She was biting her lip nervously and held a small box wrapped in blue paper with a bow. She gave him a tentative smile that stretched her sensual mouth and hit him below the belt. That really pissed him off . . .

“How the hell did you get out of jail so soon?” he finally managed. “Judge Trent wasn’t supposed to see you until Monday morning.”

“I know how to pull a few strings, and the Texas attorney general is a friend of my grandfather’s. I’ve paid the fine and pleaded no contest, so they let me keep my license. For now. But I told them I’d personally apologize to you for my reckless behavior.” Her smile widened hopefully. “So here I am. Sorry to show up so late, but I think we’re both people of action.”

He swallowed a groan and still glared at her, leaving her standing on the threshold. “How the hell did you figure out where I live? I know the department wouldn’t divulge that.”

“You told me.”

He blinked.

She elaborated. “Remember, you said I almost ran over you when you were coming out of your driveway. My car was towed from just up the road, and the towing company gave me the GPS location.”

His ire faded a bit, but she still made him feel . . . funny. He didn’t like it; it was a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, so he still stood there, blocking her. Texas hospitality be damned. Neither one of them were of Texas birth anyway. A trace of New York came back into his tone as he snapped, “Fine, what the hell do you want?” She tendered the box she held. “I’d have been here sooner, but I had to have these shipped same day FedEx because I couldn’t find them anywhere in Amarillo.”

He took the wrapped box, and even without removing the paper, he knew instantly what it was from the heft and shape. He stepped aside, waving her in, but he’d get her the hell out as soon as possible without being any ruder than he already had been.

When she stepped inside, he realized she was shivering. The Texas spring was as unpredictable as usual, warm during the day, but now a chilly breeze was howling. “Come inside. I’ll warm you a brandy.”

He swept a hand before him, and when she entered the great hall, he nodded at one of the leather wing chairs by the fire and tossed the package on the adjacent table. He added a bit more kindling to the dried oak wood fire and went to the wet bar in a corner of the room to pour her brandy into an expensive Waterford snifter. He took time to put the Glock out of sight behind the counter, not wanting to scare her. She was from the Northeast and had probably never even seen a pistol.

When he returned with her drink, she was leaning back against the wing chair, holding her hands to the fire, which was just now beginning to roar, her eyes closed, and for the first time he realized she was very tired. All the more puzzled at why she’d tracked him down so late, he poked the fire up a bit and held her snifter close enough to warm the brandy slightly.

He handed it to her. She accepted it gratefully, warming her hands before taking a sip. She coughed slightly, then took a deeper, more appreciative sip. “Is this Courvoisier Reserve?”

He nodded, not surprised she recognized the expensive taste. Her shivering stopped when he put the pashmina coverlet over her legs. Partly so he didn’t have to look at them, but she didn’t need to know that.

Her voice slightly husky, probably both with tiredness and the brandy, she asked, “Aren’t you going to open your present? It’s more than an apology, actually. It’s a peace offering.”

He obliged, seeing what he’d expected: a wooden box filled with his favorite cigars. This time he didn’t bother asking how she knew, because he’d been chewing on one when he arrested her. The fact that she recognized the brand, could afford an entire box shipped the same day, and had gumption enough to approach him to make peace, told him volumes about her character. She had class, she was extremely intelligent, she had her PhD, or so she’d claimed when he arrested her, but she was also courageous and didn’t shirk from making tough decisions. All qualities he admired in a woman, but he wanted to keep disliking her. Had to keep disliking her. She wasn’t the rural Texas type, to put it mildly.

“Thanks,” he said, “but it wasn’t necessary.”

“I promised the judge I’d apologize in person to you, so it was necessary. I’m very sorry I was so difficult. It had been a long trip, but that’s no excuse.”

When he only shrugged, she added more forcefully, “Besides, this is West Texas, right? Land of hospitality? Can’t we smoke a symbolic peace pipe and bury the hatchet?”

At the image she evoked, he finally had to crack a smile. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. “Are you saying you smoke cigars or that you want to bury a hatchet between my shoulder blades?”

She laughed. “A little of both, maybe, but we can start with the smoke.”

She had a sense of humor, too. But since he was refusing to like her, he merely opened the box, took out two cigars, fetched his clip from the bar and a crystal ashtray, and went back to her side. He started to snip the ends of the cigars, but she gently covered his hand. “Let me. I used to do this for my grandfather.”

The touch of her soft hand flowed through him, more warming than the brandy, but he told himself it was the fire, which was roaring now. Still, he put the ashtray on the table between the two chairs and handed her the clipper, the lighter, and two cigars.

She went through the ritual, rolling a cigar between her fingers and then smelling it discreetly, a distance from her nostrils. Finally she clipped the end, rose from her chair, and leaned over him to put the flavorful tube between his lips. With an adept, practiced motion, she lit the clipped end. It fired quickly. He took a deep draw, the warm smoke immediately soothing some of his nerves. He made a mental apology to Jasmine, but this woman had brought him an entire box of the cigars he pined for, and he couldn’t be rude enough to ignore her peace offering, even if she was a law breaker who put every defense he had on high alert. As a man, and even, for some reason, as a lawman. He sensed a second agenda in her she wasn’t admitting to. No matter how she couched it, this extravagant gift was a bit of a ruse.

He caught a whiff of something as she leaned over him. He wasn’t sure what it was; it was too pungent for perfume or moisturizer or any of those other female things. When she straightened, her wrinkled jacket coat, already open, fell off her shoulders, and before she shrugged it back on, he saw the slight sweat stains under the armpits on her silk blouse. They were dry now, but had obviously happened when she was bombing along the road in that convertible under the bright sunshine.